For Ithiliana - Faramir/Frodo, PG
Dec. 21st, 2006 06:10 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
aprilkat.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
lotr_sesaTitle: Pity and Honour
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ithiliana
Pairing: Faramir/Frodo
Rating: PG
Warning: Movieverse, slightly slashy
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. Tolkien and New Line Cinema do.
Summary: Faramir hears a voice in his head. Missing scenes from the movie.
Faramir pushed his way through the brush, gesturing for the rest of his men to follow. They had taken full advantage of the element of surprise, and he was pleased to realize that he could account for all of his men. The guerilla attack had practically turned into a massacre of the enemy; now if they could make their way back to Henneth Annûn untracked, their mission would be complete and successful.
They walked to the place where their rearguard was stationed, but paused as they heard scuffling and a bitten-off cry. Drawing swords, they silently ran toward the glade, then paused in surprise.
Faramir was shocked to see Mablung and Damrod grappling with two young children. He furrowed his brow as Damrod placed a blade to the neck of the lad lying on the ground, while Mablung forcefully yanked the other boy to his feet, twisting his arm savagely and almost gloatingly. The faces of both soldiers were twisted with strange ferocity.
Every instinct in Faramir rose to put a stop to this. Never had he felt shame for his men before; never had he seen them raise their hands against weaker and younger beings. The battle must have raised a bloodlust in them that had not been slaked. Could they not see that these were neither Southron warriors nor misshapen orcs?
He strode forward, then halted as he took in more truly the scene before him. Though quite small, these were not little children. They were young men in miniature, except for their disproportionately large, bare, and hairy feet. What strange creatures could they be? Were they perhaps servants of the Dark Lord after all, using their tiny stature and stealth to spy on the lands of Ithilien?
Faramir glanced at the shaggy-haired one on the ground and decided he was effectively neutralized. Turning his gaze to the one twisting and writhing in Mablung’s grip, he noted the lean muscles, the traveling clothes that had started out costly but were shabby from rough wear, the curly black hair, the flashing blue eyes, the red full lips. This one had the look of quality and a startling beauty that caught Faramir’s attention. Faramir’s gut instinct also told him that this little creature was a danger far beyond his deceptively innocuous appearance. “Beware,” a voice in his head whispered. “Use all your cunning with this one. He may be used as a weapon against the enemy.”
____________________________________________
Faramir sat himself heavily on the box in the cave adjoining the main cavern. He had kept himself stiff and stern throughout the interrogation of Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, but the aftereffect of discussing Boromir’s fate had left him feeling weak and worn. “You are weak,” hissed the now familiar voice in his head – his father’s voice. “If you weren’t, you’d have had the truth out of those cursed halflings already, by any means necessary, and your brother’s death would not have been in vain.”
No, thought Faramir. Boromir would not have agreed with that, even had his father ordered it. Sighing, he reached inside his cloak and pulled out the cloven Horn of Gondor. Running his fingers over the silver inlay, he thought over his unsatisfactory interaction with the halflings. Frodo had lied to him, he could tell it. When he had asked about the strange gangle creature, he could see the little hesitation before Frodo had denied it, as well as the involuntary flicker of Samwise’s eyes toward Frodo. The fact that they claimed to have been the traveling companions of his brother from Rivendell seemed to be true. But something in Frodo’s bearing rang an alarum to Faramir, something that made him feel rage.
“If he was so close to your brother, why is there no grief, no mourning,” crooned his father. “Do not trust this one. Use him to find the weapon Gondor needs. Make him pay for Boromir.”
Dropping his head, Faramir remembered that last heady day in Osgiliath, when they had retaken the city and Boromir had toasted that “good day.” That day he had overheard his father ask Boromir to go to Rivendell and bring back “a mighty gift.”
“Yes, yes,” his father whispered now. “Be my worthy son, and bring back that gift to me.”
______________________________________________
Flushed with triumph, Faramir strode toward the cave where the two halflings lay captive. Think they could fool him, the Son of the Steward, with their pitiful half-truths and deflections? He cast his mind back: Gollum splashing about in the Forbidden Pool; Frodo, eyes luminous in the moonlight, pleading with Faramir for the creature’s life; himself magnanimously and yet coldly assenting.
When the creature emerged from the water, fish dangling from its mouth, Faramir suddenly burned with outrage to see the adulation, nay, the idolatry of his gaze upon his little “master.” When his men seized the thing roughly, Faramir felt a thrill of power go through him at the look of hopeless despair and impotence on Frodo’s face.
“How dare that oversized frog lift his eyes to him?” thought Faramir.
“Teach him a lesson,” his father calmly said. “You know the beast carries the key. Make him tell you.”
And Faramir had. As his men had fallen in a frenzy on the pathetic figure, kicking and punching, Faramir had held himself apart, his back to the action. Finally, uneasily, he had felt things had gone far enough; somehow he could not see Boromir allowing such extreme actions even against an enemy.
The victory of wresting that vital information from the creature could not erase the feeling of unease Faramir had felt as he watched the thing transform from the simple Smeagol to a raving feral fiend. No more would Frodo have an adoring guide; there was only hatred now.
But Faramir was on his way to collect his “mighty gift,” urged on by the murmurs of his approving father.
_______________________________________________
During the day’s quick march to Osgiliath, Faramir found himself conflicted no matter how he looked at the situation. He had pulled a sword on the Ringbearer; he had considered cutting the Ring away from the chain, slicing across that enticing white neck. In the back of his mind, he had also pictured running his fingers over that alabaster throat, bearing the halfling down to the ground just to feel him struggle beneath him. How his father had jeered at that image. Once Frodo had saved himself by metamorphosing into a sort of wee Nazgul and Sam had gallantly thrown himself between them, Faramir had returned to a sort of sanity he’d been lacking since he’d first come across them. He shuddered as he recalled that look on Frodo’s face, the very one Faramir had induced from Smeagol after he’d tortured him into informing.
“Boromir,” Faramir mourned, “how have I fallen so far from the honour of our House? My brother, how will Gondor survive with such as myself to protect it?”
“How, indeed?” sneered his father. “For once you did a wise and politic thing, and now you are backsliding into your milksop ways. Buck up and I will reward you greatly, for you are bringing me the weapon of the enemy which will save Gondor from the Dark Lord himself.”
Faramir watched Frodo stumble as his guard impatiently pushed him to go faster. The halfling looked back at Faramir, imploring him silently with those expressive eyes to do what was right, not what was expedient. Faramir had come to admire a certain nobility of spirit that Frodo bore. Ever since Samwise had divulged that Frodo was trying to take the Ring to Mordor to destroy it, Faramir had been observing the effects that carrying such a burden must entail. Frodo seemed to be engaged in a constant internal battle; often his small shoulders would slump and then restraighten with an effort, his eyes glazing over as if seeing another reality. But he never complained or asked for forbearance, only kept that speaking gaze on Faramir’s face.
Meanwhile, the fettered Gollum kept his unflinching stare on Frodo (or the Ring), and Faramir shuddered to think what plans of revenge or malice were roiling in that fevered brutish brain. That was another mistake that Faramir could add to his credit. However, spilt milk was past saving; all he could think to do was get his troop to Osgiliath and deliver the weapon into his father’s hands.
____________________________________________
Faramir bowed Frodo into the Steward’s (his own!) private chambers, helping him sit on the low-legged chair and allowing the servants to flutter around the Ringbearer with tea and biscuits before dismissing them. Alone at last, they sat in silence for a time, Frodo restlessly playing with the bandage on his hand.
Finally, Frodo said, “I never had a chance to thank you for releasing Sam and me. Letting us go went against everything you wanted.”
Faramir said somberly, “No, it went against everything my father wanted. It was realizing that both my father and the Ring wanted the same thing that convinced me I must let you go on your quest unhindered. Indeed, I feared that the damage I had done had made your mission an impossible one by that time.”
Frodo persisted. “But how did you come to that realization?”
Faramir hesitated, then decided that Frodo deserved honesty at the very least.
“I had been trusting your sincerity, the fact that you believed in the absolute rightness of your quest. But I felt that I knew better as a soldier and a realist what should be done for practicality’s sake. Then Samwise knocked my belief in myself into flinders.”
Frodo’s eyebrows shot up. “How did he do that?”
“He told me that Boromir had fallen to the Ring. And I knew it to be true. In my life, I have always looked up to and respected my brother above all others as an honourable man, a great man.” He held up a hand to stop Frodo’s exclamation. “Knowing what happened did not change my opinion of Boromir. It made me realize that even the most honourable and great man could be tempted by the Ring to his corruption and death. At that moment I knew that the very worst thing would be for my father to get his hands on it. In his fervor to save Gondor, he would fall just as Boromir had, and all would be lost. Only with the Ring in your hands would there be a chance to save Middle-earth.”
“Your father…”
“I would rather not talk about that now, Frodo. I have much grief to discharge for both my father and my brother, and I will do that in the proper time. I asked you here today so that I could make a full and formal apology for my actions at that time. If you could find it in your heart to forgive me, you would grant me a great boon.”
Frodo’s eyes rounded and glistened with unshed tears. He slid off his seat and approached Faramir’s chair. Standing before Faramir and tentatively reaching out, he placed his unmaimed hand on Faramir’s arm. Huskily, he whispered, “I am living with the guilt of a failure which you cannot comprehend, Faramir. Far be it from me to withhold from you something so easy to grant. You owe me no apology, but I freely grant forgiveness to you for whatever you feel you did.”
Faramir bowed his head in acceptance and thanks. Then he placed the hand of his free arm upon Frodo’s shoulder, and they stayed in place for some time looking into each other’s eyes. Faramir began to feel flushed and warm; he found his breath quickening and noticed that Frodo seemed to be similarly affected. Frodo gradually leaned until their faces nearly touched; then, with a sigh, he touched his lips to Faramir’s, his eyes sliding shut.
Faramir felt as though a bright white radiance burned throughout his body, searing away the last dregs of his self-disgust. He pulled Frodo into his arms with great tenderness. Tears prickled at the edges of his eyelids at last as he realized the only voice he heard in his head was his own.
~fin~
Recipient:
ithilianaPairing: Faramir/Frodo
Rating: PG
Warning: Movieverse, slightly slashy
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. Tolkien and New Line Cinema do.
Summary: Faramir hears a voice in his head. Missing scenes from the movie.
Faramir pushed his way through the brush, gesturing for the rest of his men to follow. They had taken full advantage of the element of surprise, and he was pleased to realize that he could account for all of his men. The guerilla attack had practically turned into a massacre of the enemy; now if they could make their way back to Henneth Annûn untracked, their mission would be complete and successful.
They walked to the place where their rearguard was stationed, but paused as they heard scuffling and a bitten-off cry. Drawing swords, they silently ran toward the glade, then paused in surprise.
Faramir was shocked to see Mablung and Damrod grappling with two young children. He furrowed his brow as Damrod placed a blade to the neck of the lad lying on the ground, while Mablung forcefully yanked the other boy to his feet, twisting his arm savagely and almost gloatingly. The faces of both soldiers were twisted with strange ferocity.
Every instinct in Faramir rose to put a stop to this. Never had he felt shame for his men before; never had he seen them raise their hands against weaker and younger beings. The battle must have raised a bloodlust in them that had not been slaked. Could they not see that these were neither Southron warriors nor misshapen orcs?
He strode forward, then halted as he took in more truly the scene before him. Though quite small, these were not little children. They were young men in miniature, except for their disproportionately large, bare, and hairy feet. What strange creatures could they be? Were they perhaps servants of the Dark Lord after all, using their tiny stature and stealth to spy on the lands of Ithilien?
Faramir glanced at the shaggy-haired one on the ground and decided he was effectively neutralized. Turning his gaze to the one twisting and writhing in Mablung’s grip, he noted the lean muscles, the traveling clothes that had started out costly but were shabby from rough wear, the curly black hair, the flashing blue eyes, the red full lips. This one had the look of quality and a startling beauty that caught Faramir’s attention. Faramir’s gut instinct also told him that this little creature was a danger far beyond his deceptively innocuous appearance. “Beware,” a voice in his head whispered. “Use all your cunning with this one. He may be used as a weapon against the enemy.”
____________________________________________
Faramir sat himself heavily on the box in the cave adjoining the main cavern. He had kept himself stiff and stern throughout the interrogation of Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, but the aftereffect of discussing Boromir’s fate had left him feeling weak and worn. “You are weak,” hissed the now familiar voice in his head – his father’s voice. “If you weren’t, you’d have had the truth out of those cursed halflings already, by any means necessary, and your brother’s death would not have been in vain.”
No, thought Faramir. Boromir would not have agreed with that, even had his father ordered it. Sighing, he reached inside his cloak and pulled out the cloven Horn of Gondor. Running his fingers over the silver inlay, he thought over his unsatisfactory interaction with the halflings. Frodo had lied to him, he could tell it. When he had asked about the strange gangle creature, he could see the little hesitation before Frodo had denied it, as well as the involuntary flicker of Samwise’s eyes toward Frodo. The fact that they claimed to have been the traveling companions of his brother from Rivendell seemed to be true. But something in Frodo’s bearing rang an alarum to Faramir, something that made him feel rage.
“If he was so close to your brother, why is there no grief, no mourning,” crooned his father. “Do not trust this one. Use him to find the weapon Gondor needs. Make him pay for Boromir.”
Dropping his head, Faramir remembered that last heady day in Osgiliath, when they had retaken the city and Boromir had toasted that “good day.” That day he had overheard his father ask Boromir to go to Rivendell and bring back “a mighty gift.”
“Yes, yes,” his father whispered now. “Be my worthy son, and bring back that gift to me.”
______________________________________________
Flushed with triumph, Faramir strode toward the cave where the two halflings lay captive. Think they could fool him, the Son of the Steward, with their pitiful half-truths and deflections? He cast his mind back: Gollum splashing about in the Forbidden Pool; Frodo, eyes luminous in the moonlight, pleading with Faramir for the creature’s life; himself magnanimously and yet coldly assenting.
When the creature emerged from the water, fish dangling from its mouth, Faramir suddenly burned with outrage to see the adulation, nay, the idolatry of his gaze upon his little “master.” When his men seized the thing roughly, Faramir felt a thrill of power go through him at the look of hopeless despair and impotence on Frodo’s face.
“How dare that oversized frog lift his eyes to him?” thought Faramir.
“Teach him a lesson,” his father calmly said. “You know the beast carries the key. Make him tell you.”
And Faramir had. As his men had fallen in a frenzy on the pathetic figure, kicking and punching, Faramir had held himself apart, his back to the action. Finally, uneasily, he had felt things had gone far enough; somehow he could not see Boromir allowing such extreme actions even against an enemy.
The victory of wresting that vital information from the creature could not erase the feeling of unease Faramir had felt as he watched the thing transform from the simple Smeagol to a raving feral fiend. No more would Frodo have an adoring guide; there was only hatred now.
But Faramir was on his way to collect his “mighty gift,” urged on by the murmurs of his approving father.
_______________________________________________
During the day’s quick march to Osgiliath, Faramir found himself conflicted no matter how he looked at the situation. He had pulled a sword on the Ringbearer; he had considered cutting the Ring away from the chain, slicing across that enticing white neck. In the back of his mind, he had also pictured running his fingers over that alabaster throat, bearing the halfling down to the ground just to feel him struggle beneath him. How his father had jeered at that image. Once Frodo had saved himself by metamorphosing into a sort of wee Nazgul and Sam had gallantly thrown himself between them, Faramir had returned to a sort of sanity he’d been lacking since he’d first come across them. He shuddered as he recalled that look on Frodo’s face, the very one Faramir had induced from Smeagol after he’d tortured him into informing.
“Boromir,” Faramir mourned, “how have I fallen so far from the honour of our House? My brother, how will Gondor survive with such as myself to protect it?”
“How, indeed?” sneered his father. “For once you did a wise and politic thing, and now you are backsliding into your milksop ways. Buck up and I will reward you greatly, for you are bringing me the weapon of the enemy which will save Gondor from the Dark Lord himself.”
Faramir watched Frodo stumble as his guard impatiently pushed him to go faster. The halfling looked back at Faramir, imploring him silently with those expressive eyes to do what was right, not what was expedient. Faramir had come to admire a certain nobility of spirit that Frodo bore. Ever since Samwise had divulged that Frodo was trying to take the Ring to Mordor to destroy it, Faramir had been observing the effects that carrying such a burden must entail. Frodo seemed to be engaged in a constant internal battle; often his small shoulders would slump and then restraighten with an effort, his eyes glazing over as if seeing another reality. But he never complained or asked for forbearance, only kept that speaking gaze on Faramir’s face.
Meanwhile, the fettered Gollum kept his unflinching stare on Frodo (or the Ring), and Faramir shuddered to think what plans of revenge or malice were roiling in that fevered brutish brain. That was another mistake that Faramir could add to his credit. However, spilt milk was past saving; all he could think to do was get his troop to Osgiliath and deliver the weapon into his father’s hands.
____________________________________________
Faramir bowed Frodo into the Steward’s (his own!) private chambers, helping him sit on the low-legged chair and allowing the servants to flutter around the Ringbearer with tea and biscuits before dismissing them. Alone at last, they sat in silence for a time, Frodo restlessly playing with the bandage on his hand.
Finally, Frodo said, “I never had a chance to thank you for releasing Sam and me. Letting us go went against everything you wanted.”
Faramir said somberly, “No, it went against everything my father wanted. It was realizing that both my father and the Ring wanted the same thing that convinced me I must let you go on your quest unhindered. Indeed, I feared that the damage I had done had made your mission an impossible one by that time.”
Frodo persisted. “But how did you come to that realization?”
Faramir hesitated, then decided that Frodo deserved honesty at the very least.
“I had been trusting your sincerity, the fact that you believed in the absolute rightness of your quest. But I felt that I knew better as a soldier and a realist what should be done for practicality’s sake. Then Samwise knocked my belief in myself into flinders.”
Frodo’s eyebrows shot up. “How did he do that?”
“He told me that Boromir had fallen to the Ring. And I knew it to be true. In my life, I have always looked up to and respected my brother above all others as an honourable man, a great man.” He held up a hand to stop Frodo’s exclamation. “Knowing what happened did not change my opinion of Boromir. It made me realize that even the most honourable and great man could be tempted by the Ring to his corruption and death. At that moment I knew that the very worst thing would be for my father to get his hands on it. In his fervor to save Gondor, he would fall just as Boromir had, and all would be lost. Only with the Ring in your hands would there be a chance to save Middle-earth.”
“Your father…”
“I would rather not talk about that now, Frodo. I have much grief to discharge for both my father and my brother, and I will do that in the proper time. I asked you here today so that I could make a full and formal apology for my actions at that time. If you could find it in your heart to forgive me, you would grant me a great boon.”
Frodo’s eyes rounded and glistened with unshed tears. He slid off his seat and approached Faramir’s chair. Standing before Faramir and tentatively reaching out, he placed his unmaimed hand on Faramir’s arm. Huskily, he whispered, “I am living with the guilt of a failure which you cannot comprehend, Faramir. Far be it from me to withhold from you something so easy to grant. You owe me no apology, but I freely grant forgiveness to you for whatever you feel you did.”
Faramir bowed his head in acceptance and thanks. Then he placed the hand of his free arm upon Frodo’s shoulder, and they stayed in place for some time looking into each other’s eyes. Faramir began to feel flushed and warm; he found his breath quickening and noticed that Frodo seemed to be similarly affected. Frodo gradually leaned until their faces nearly touched; then, with a sigh, he touched his lips to Faramir’s, his eyes sliding shut.
Faramir felt as though a bright white radiance burned throughout his body, searing away the last dregs of his self-disgust. He pulled Frodo into his arms with great tenderness. Tears prickled at the edges of his eyelids at last as he realized the only voice he heard in his head was his own.
~fin~
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-12-24 08:49 pm (UTC)For some reason I thought these stories were to start out anon, and I had wondered if you would be able to identify me as the author. Do you think you would have? I did try to not write in the same vein as my previous fics.
It was such a joy to be able to write for you, knowing that this way of seeing the story would be good in your eyes. I was sorry not to be able to move their relationship to a
hotterdeeper level, but the story itself insisted on ending when it did.no subject
Date: 2006-12-27 06:40 pm (UTC)Knowing what happened did not change my opinion of Boromir. It made me realize that even the most honourable and great man could be tempted by the Ring to his corruption and death.
Ooooh, I always love the insights that you work into your fic. It's really good to read your F/F again, hope we'll see more soon.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-27 08:33 pm (UTC)Thank you my dear! Hope to see you in the near future...
no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 04:52 pm (UTC)The ending is so perfect and sweet.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 05:01 pm (UTC)I always felt bad for Faramir too - what better reward than Frodo? :)