A/N: Please note that this is a collaborative work, slightly edited from a RP, with multiple contributors, each of whom wrote the actions, thoughts and dialogue of either one, or several characters as follows (in this chapter): Wynja2007 - Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir. FireflyOfTheShadowWolves - Boromir, Pippin, Legolas, Lilliya. Rain Day - Faramir. Horseyyay - Oddberry, Merry. 7doom - Elrond. Scribe Of Heroes - Sam.
Thanks to Wynja2007, who came up with the summary, and Scribe Of Heroes for the title.
Chapter 1
Glorfindel, former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, was not in the happiest of moods.
He stared out through the casement, chewing the end of his quill, his hyper-blue eyes sweeping the valley, and turned to his journal once more.
'Dear Diary,' he wrote. 'Something is in the air; we can all feel it. The lads are off playing Rangers almost every week now and always come back with tales of orcs and wargs where there should be none. I am constrained to the valley and my other duties when to go further afield might be of use.
But no. It is, do this, Seneschal, do that, Seneschal, ride the bounds, Glorfindel, what happened to that other flask of Miruvor, Glorfindel, I am sure it was there last night... and about those bells, Glorfindel, are they really appropriate for a stealth attack?
Stealth attack? I? Never! I will face my enemies head-on; no need for stealth. After all, I acquiesced about the plumes, although my poor Asfaloth was most upset when he saw his denuded headstall... I am not taking his bells away, too.
He likes the jingle.
But I digress. There is most definitely something in the air; we are all as edgy and jittery as Queen Berúthiel's cats in a rocking-horse factory.
Elrond has called a council, and we are in daily expectation of arrivals from across the land. There is no doubt that something is coming.
I doubt it is good.
Glorfindel set down his quill with a sigh. Time would tell, of course. It usually did.
Meanwhile, Elrond paced in his study, face in his hands. He sighed, stressed. He had guests arriving from all over, not to mention his sons continued to come back with news of Orcs, Wargs, & even Trolls for Iluvatar's sake, where there used to be none. He could feel something foreboding in the air- he twisted the ring on his finger. Something to do with Sauron. He could feel it.
But, he had guest-related things to attend to. Not to mention, he could swear he heard the screams of an elleth, no doubt a victim of a prank. Taking a swig of water from the cup on his desk, Elrond swept out of his office, calm and dignified once more.
The four hobbits sat in the Prancing Pony blending in. Blending in meaning drinking. Their group didn't draw much attention, Oddberry was a fairly common visitor to Bree, and it was only natural that she would bring some of her own friends at some point.
Being strangers, they were the centre of attention, other hobbits crowding round them and chattering excitedly. None of them noticed the shadowy stranger in the corner watching them.
Merry was too busy marvelling at the pints. "I have never seen a mug so big before!"
Oddberry's eyes sparkled. "Though the ale is not as good as at the Golden Perch!"
That ale had delayed them at least two days on their journey. It had always been a favourite of Merry and Pippin's. All of them but Sam had drunk copious amounts of it, Sam drinking a more reasonable amount. The hangover had kept them all in bed an extra day.
"What do you think Pip? As good as the perch?" Merry elbowed him with a grin.
"I'm not sure Merry, but ale is ale so I think I can live with drinking it anywhere." Pippin stated.
"Anywhere! Anywhere he says!" Merry slurred. "We should visit here more often, after our great journey!"
Oddberry raised her eyebrows. "The Shire and back is not so great a journey Merry." They weren't going to mention going to Rivendell. That was a journey that would grab the attention of everyone, and Gandalf had specifically mentioned stealth.
Merry wasn't really taking the hint. "I think we should have a song!"
"Time for bed then!" A little wobbly herself, and a little concerned someone might start saying things they shouldn't, Oddberry began to drag Merry towards the four-hobbit room they had rented for the night, Sam and Pippin trailing behind.
Oddberry woke them all up the next morning by banging her axe on her shield. "Rise and shine! Time for breakfast!"
This caused much groaning among her fellows. They were much happier after a hearty breakfast, gathering their now very full packs and setting off once more.
"How long will it take us Oddberry?" Merry was trying to work out whether they had enough food for a second breakfast everyday. Not to mention all the other meals.
"I don't know... We go past the Midgewater Marshes and follow the road through the Lone Lands to the Last Bridge. I've never seen a map further than that. I've only been further than the Forsaken Inn once, which is one day away."
"Inn?" Merry asked hopefully.
"We aren't staying."
"Why?" Pippin moaned. "Why wouldn't we stay in an Inn if we are going past one?" Pippin asked dramatically.
"It's dirty, cold, has a hole in the roof and most the inhabitants will eat you alive." Oddberry grinned mischievously, a bounce in her step as they proceeded towards the house of horrors.
Pippin gulped, what sort of inn would be like that? He wondered, horrified. "Merry, do you really think that there is an Inn like that? With people that would eat you?" Pippin asked.
"Of course not Pip! People don't eat other people." Merry hoped they didn't.
"I never said they were people..." Oddberry's eyes glinted ominously. "They are demons, shadows from the depths of the world. They come in the night and suck out your soul." Her eyes lingered for a moment before she turned round, grinning, holding in the laughter at Pippin's expression.
Sam raised his chin. His eyes and tone took on a touch of sternness. "Now Miss Oddberry, there's no reason for you to go a'frightening Mr. Pippin like that."
Oddberry's laugh tinkled in the autumn air. "Sorry Pip! I couldn't resist."
Merry's dreams of a warm bed and a cool mug of ale resumed. "So we can stay?"
"No. They might not eat you, but they will slit your throat in the night and steal your valuables. Or so people say... It has a bad reputation. We'll camp at the edge of the Marshes before the inn and leave a lot of ground between us and it in the morning."
The rest of the day passed without incident and as the sky darkened for nightfall the hobbits got a nice little fire going. So naturally, they started cooking. It was probably a feast by normal travelling standards, but they were hobbits, so it was little more than a snack when compared to their usual meals.
Oddberry's stomach grumbled loudly as she returned from setting snares. "I need food," she groaned dramatically, flopping backwards onto the ground. "Is it cooked yet?"
Merry opened his mouth to answer but Oddberry sat up and shushed him, scanning the dusk. "Look! A fellow traveller." All other heads swivelled round to face where Oddberry was staring. "We should invite him to share our camp."
Boromir wondered why the Hobbits were so far for home, as far as he knew Hobbits kept to themselves and didn't often leave their homes. He walked slowly towards their camp, leading his horse behind him, deciding that he would see where these Hobbits were going and if they minded some company for the night. It was better than being alone.
Sam frowned at Oddberry. His voice came out hissed and much lower than hers. "You sure that would be a good idea, Miss Oddberry? What if he's one of those scoundrels you told us about? Oughtn't we to be careful on an excursion like this?" Sam stared into the hobbitess' face attempting to remind her of their mission without speaking of it aloud.
Oddberry shrugged lightly. "I'll keep it safe. Anyway, normally the scoundrels go into the inn, not past it. And if he does try anything, one prick from this and he won't be getting up again." Oddberry patted her poisoned axe fondly, a vicious little smile crossing her face.
Oddberry's grip on her axe tightened as the man suddenly loomed over Merry's head, a huge (by hobbit standards) horse towering behind him. "Greetings." She mustered a bright smile and managed to stop her voice from quavering. Men were a lot bigger when she was sitting down.
"Hello," Boromir said.
Merry suddenly realised that someone was behind him and nearly had a heart attack, scurrying sideways into Pippin.
Oddberry attempted not to giggle hysterically; it was a nervous reaction. "Would you like to share our camp?"
Her fellow hobbits looked vaguely horrified at the notion.
"If your companions don't mind I would be honoured, I am Boromir of Gondor. And who would you four be?" Boromir said.
Oddberry smiled at Boromir. "They don't mind." They probably did but Gondor was far away and the man sounded respectable, so if they were lucky he might provide some (hopefully unnecessary) muscle to their group. "I am Oddberry and my companions are Merry, Pippin and Sam. We hail from the Shire." She pointed to each hobbit in turn being suitably vague about their origins. Just in case.
"Good to make your acquaintance," Boromir said. He wondered again why the Hobbits were out here, "Where are you four heading? I am headed for Rivendell, to go to Lord Elrond's council." Boromir explained.
Oddberry smirked at Sam slightly, suppressing the urge to say 'I told you so'. She then gave Boromir her sweetest smile. "Oh good! We are also headed towards Rivendell, although we aren't entirely sure where we are going. I would ask you, but as Rivendell is that way," Oddberry pointed in the direction that Boromir had come, "I'm guessing you are a little lost."
Oddberry woke the next morning to find Boromir already awake, the other hobbits stirring sleepily. She was fairly disappointed that she didn't get to wake him up with her shield and axe alarm. "Good morning," she yawned as she trundled out of camp to check the snares. Most were empty but she let out a quiet cheer when she saw that two rabbits had been snared. She bore her trophies aloft as she returned to camp, much to the delight of her fellows. More food was good food.
Breakfast was quickly consumed and they were soon ready to go, continuing along the long road to Rivendell. Once they were past the unnerving Forsaken Inn Oddberry began to hum-sing tunelessly. "The road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began..."
Sam stepped along after Miss Oddberry. That was a proper breakfast of coneys she had snared for them. He felt in better spirits for it. He still was not sure if they could trust this Mr. Boromir, but he man had not done anything to them in the night. Besides, with the eight eyes they had between them open, they could disappear into this here undergrowth along the road should the stranger try something. Then Miss Oddberry could use that axe-weapon of hers to fell the big fellow.
What was that she was humming, now? Oh yes, Mr. Bilbo's traveling song. Now that was a proper tune to travel to. Sam began to hum it himself. He sure hoped the old fellow was still alive and waiting for them in Rivendell. He and the elves would know what to do about "it" if anyone would.
Sam's gaze riveted suspiciously on the big man's back again. The stranger seemed polite enough, but if he turned out to be a villain he looked like a tall order for even Oddberry to take down, and poison could take time to work. Besides, if he came from Gondor he was probably a soldier and used to fighting. And that was assuming he was being honest with them.
Still, if he was being honest, Gondor was supposed to be a place filled with decent folk who fought against The Dark Lord. And the big man seemed to be behaving proper. Maybe Miss Oddberry had been right to invite him over. Sam sighed. He wished he was a bit more cunning like Mr. Bilbo or braver like Miss Oddberry. What was a Gamgee to do?
Faramir pulled his tunic back over the rather crudely bandaged wound on his side. He had only just found the time to patch himself up and likely wouldn't have, had he not had to stop and take care of a minor injury on his horse's knee.
His supplies were limited, but it would have to do.
With a sigh he leaned back against the tree he had temporarily settled down underneath.
He traveled light, more as a consequence of his hasty departure than actual choice. While he usually didn't pack much, he would have taken a few more things with him this time, had he had the time.
As things stood he had not and his ranger attire would have to suffice for a meeting with elves.
He only hoped it wouldn't be seen as disrespectful.
It probably would, much like his whole presence.
Denethor had sent messengers ahead. Boromir was expected in Imladris, not some Ithilien ranger who unexpectedly came in his stead.
Yet, Faramir had yet to regret his decision.
The only thing that he did regret was that he had not found the time to explain everything to his brother and to say goodbye properly.
Boromir was needed in Gondor. His men needed him.
Their father, too, had known that he had not wanted to leave and he had also known that the decision to send him was based on his unwarranted distrust towards elves and Mithrandir and Faramir in particular rather than anything else. In short: It had been wrong.
Usually Faramir wasn't one to disobey the steward.
Usually the steward's choices were right.
Maybe him leaving right after the battle and before his brother could, in hopes of this way forcing their father to accept what he could not change and let Boromir stay in Gondor, had been a little selfish, too. The vision calling them to Imladris had been his. And Faramir had always wanted to meet elves.
Another reason had been that he had been afraid. A diffuse fear that letting Boromir undertake this journey would bring him to harm. And he could not let that happen. Despite being the younger Faramir had always been fiercely protective of his brother.
Remains to hope that father sees reason and keeps him where he is needed.
Hopefully he wouldn't be taken for a lost traveler or worse: an intruder. In that case he would never reach Imladris. Faramir knew as much about elves.
"Not a bad morning's work, 'Roh…"
"...even if we do say so ourselves, 'Dan…"
"Adar will be pleased the low trail is clear again."
"Yes. We could head for home now, be there in time for the day meal."
"Well... we could…" Elladan rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "But then we'd have to play nicely with the Dwarf contingent and, really, unless they've been arrived long enough to wash…"
Elrohir laughed. "In pretty much need of washing ourselves, 'Dan!"
The two had been riding for several days, making the rounds of the low trails and the near borders and their clothing - Ranger-style, for they often rode out with the Dunedain - were muddied and crumpled. They'd run into a couple of orc scouts a few hours ago, on the trail of several of horses, which hadn't added to the glamour of their appearance. Those scouts now would never be reporting back to their pack leader of unshod hooves ridden by light riders - suggestive of elves. The twins having decided that whomever had been followed was now safe, they had pressed on, and had now reached the point where it was as easy to head for home as it was to continue on along the trail.
Elladan reined in, listening and his brother, equally attuned, followed suit. From ahead, off beyond a side-trail came the slight sounds of a horse, snuffling, and on the breeze, detectable by enhanced elven senses, the tang of blood.
"Has to be another guest run into trouble of some sort," Elrohir said.
Elladan shrugged.
"Come on then."
They rode on with caution until they could see, amongst the trees, the hidden outline of a horse, the shape of a figure resting against a tree trunk. The horse bore the signs of injury and the figure, too, for their arrival was not silent and the individual's lethargy spoke of exhaustion or pain.
"Hello," Elladan called out, "Are you lost?"
"Hurt?" Elrohir added. "In need of…"
"...Assistance? We're heading back to Rivendell…"
"...Or Imladris, as it's also known. I'm Elrohir, and this is…"
"...Elladan. Can we help?"
The twins had continued their approach as they called and talked, circling wide so they wouldn't alarm the figure. Elladan's hand wasn't far from his sword hilt, though, and Elrohir had one of his throwing knives tucked neatly ready in his hand.
The figure - a Man - was leaning against a tree, exhausted by the looks of things, blood darkening a makeshift dressing on his side. His pallor was not good, and sweat beaded his forehead. He raised the energy to open his eyes - just - and Elrohir dismounted and came to his side.
"You certainly look as if you need help, my friend. Come, we will take you to our father. He is a healer, and accounted very wise. He'll be able to help."
Faramir had just gathered enough strength to continue their journey when those two voices surprised him. The fact that they surprised him and that he only noticed them once they stood almost right in front of him told him that he might have misjudged how bad a state he was really in.
I'm a ranger! That is not supposed to happen!
The idea of drawing the hunting knife on his belt crossed his mind and his hand might briefly have reached in that direction, but luckily his instincts were still sharp enough to remind him of how bad an idea that was. He was in no condition to fight two well armed and obviously well trained men.
That aside, they offered help and Faramir's hand sank down definitively.
He opened his mouth to explain and, admittedly, to talk the two of them into leaving him alone, but no sound came out.
Realization momentarily rendered him speechless.
Granted, they were as muddy and ragged as he was, even wearing similar clothing, but they were clearly not human. The grace with which they moved, the way they spoke and the light in their eyes gave it away.
That aside they looked strikingly similar. Even dirt and orc blood could not hide this similarity. And even if it had, their way of finishing each other's sentences was something Faramir had witnessed before. The hunter's sons, mirror images of each other, had occasionally done the same. They had been... a menace, lightly put.
So when Faramir finally managed to say something it was the most obvious of observations in a hushed whisper, a little overwhelmed, almost a little scared: "...twins..."
He heard his own voice, had to laugh and shook his head. "I apologize." He said quickly. "Thank you."
Confronted with the elf's -Elrohir, was it?- worried gaze Faramir tensed and hid his bandaged side from view.
Showing such weakness in front of strangers embarrassed him. It generally did. It always had. Boromir fussing over him whenever he got wounded and Denethor's open disdain had not particularly helped it.
"'Tis nothing. I shall be fine. My horse is wounded, though... I took care of it as best I could but..." He took a deep breath. "Imladris." They had said it, hadn't they? "If you could show us the way... would be appreciated."
Giddyup – the name the innkeeper where Faramir had swapped horses had so lovingly bestowed upon the headstrong little chestnut mare—snorted softly and nuzzled the arm of one of the elves before nudging at his pockets in search for treats.
Faramir smiled weakly, then remembered his own manners: "Faramir." He introduced himself. Of Gondor. He wanted to say. Son of Denethor. But instead said: "I am... a ranger of Ithilien... Imladris is where we are headed."
"I'm Elladan, and this rude and staring fellow is Elrohir, my brother. Twins, yes, don't worry, you're not seeing double. That's a nasty wound you have there, we could smell it a mile off…"
"Quarter of a mile," Elrohir corrected.
"Half," Elladan said. "And of course you will be fine. Right up until the moment when you fall over and are suddenly not fine. You can have my horse, I'll double with my brother and we'll lead your mare. If that's all right, Master Faramir?"
"Say 'Yes'," Elrohir suggested. "Otherwise we'll have no excuse to turn for home. Can I help you up?"
They were... fascinating. Confusing. Straight forward. Wild, somehow. Slightly scary. And definitely not what Faramir would have expected.
"Half a mile." He said, almost as if to himself, fighting off a sudden wave of tiredness that would not have threatened to overcome him had he not, somehow, inexplicably, felt safe in the twins' presence. "I shall... remember that... should I ever try to waylay elves."
He grimaced and knowing when a fight was lost before it had begun he accepted Elrohir help without another word of protest. "Thank you." He said again.
Their help, so readily offered, relieved him in more than one way.
Strangers were seldom welcomed these days and lonely travelers were easy prey to most. Help was generally expensive.
For a moment Faramir was confident that he could take his brother's place in this mission. Maybe the elves would accept him after all, even if they expected Boromir.
His confidence, however, fled at the first sight of the hidden valley.
In his wildest dreams it had not looked as inviting and magnificent. Mithrandir's stories, while surprisingly accurate, did not do it justice, Faramir thought.
While he was glad to finally reach his destination and overjoyed to lay eyes on the place he had longed to see since he had first heard mention of it, his heart sank at the realization that he was what he had most feared to be taken for: an intruder.
He was not the guest they were expecting and hardly a worthy representative of Gondor's might.
Feeling slightly dizzy he closed his eyes, trusting that the elven horse would find its way on its own.
Elrond was working. Again. This time he was having to organise a sort of time-table for when people should be arriving, which rooms to put them in, when everybody had arrived and so forth. He scratched a few characters into the last box, before moving onto the next column and sighing. He, Lord Elrond, the Lord Elrond was stressed. His sons were off scouting again and would no doubt come back with news of more Orcs. He had to create a council for a reason he did not yet know and had only foreseen. How was he meant to explain that to the dwarves? I have every reason to be stressed, he reasoned to himself, no-one else in Imladris runs the place.
Elrond sighed and put his head in his hands. Let Vudiamas deal with the Ereborin, he would come up with some story. Heck, he was probably the best liar in Imladris; which was not always a comforting thought, although this time round it was. Elrond needed a break. And he was hungry. Maybe he should go to the kitchens? But not before finishing the blasted time-table, which he was about to screw up and throw away. No Elrond he told himself what if somebody walks in? Which then of course led to the footsteps he could hear coming up the hallway.
"Master Faramir? We're here. I think you must have been…"
"...resting your eyes, but…"
"...time to get you off that horse. And into the house."
Were they mocking him? Friendly teasing, perhaps, or trying to lighten to mood. Faramir honestly couldn't tell. Usually he saw through others easily. Elves, however, proved a whole different matter.
They intimidated him, just for being who they were. On the other hand their behavior made it easy to forget how ancient they had to be, how much they knew, how much they had seen and lived through, how dangerous they could be. They made it easy to trust them. To like them, even. And Faramir dared to lean on them when not so gracefully sliding off the horse.
"I should see to my horse, first." He heard himself say automatically.
Though, his protest became futile when a smiling elf took Giddy's reins and led her off. The twins left Faramir in one of the hallways, on a bench conveniently placed there, and rushed off to find their father.
He was left alone for the moment. His pride was to blame, Faramir knew. Well, at least partly.
When the twins had offered to carry him or drag him along between them he had declined. As long as he could walk, he had said, he would walk. Only that he couldn't walk anymore. So he sat. Abandoned on a bench in a, thankfully, empty hallway, leaning his head back against the wall behind him and closing his eyes for a moment.
When he heard steps, however, he slowly pushed himself up and leaning against the wall he let the shadows cloak him a little. This way he at least wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb - or a wounded man in an otherwise empty elven corridor.
Liliya and Legolas had been greeted as they came into Rivendell and a couple of elves had taken their horses to be settled in the stables. They were now going in search of Lord Elrond to inform him of the orc attack.
As they came along a corridor towards Lord Elrond's study, Legolas was surprised to see a man sitting on a bench in the shadows of the hall. He looked to his sister wondering if she had seen him too.
It seemed that she had. "It's okay you can come out of the shadows, we won't hurt you, I'm Liliya and this is my brother Legolas." Liliya said.
Of course they would notice him. They were elves and not nearly busy enough to just rush past him.
Faramir stepped forward, bowing as he did and regretting it when it strained his wound.
"I never thought you would. And I do hope I did not startle you." He replied in Sindarin. "My lady." And with a nod towards the elf he added: "My lord."
Automatically folding his arm over his injured side Faramir forced a weak, though honest, smile. While he felt as uncomfortable being the center of their attention as he had expected, he sensed little hostility coming from the two elves. Considering that they had just caught him lurking in the shadows that was something unexpected, though comforting.
"Faramir." He introduced himself. "Alone for now, since my companions have abandoned me in search of a healer. I do have a brother, though. At home, in Gondor..." He hesitated, pushing the rising sense of foreboding back into the dark corner of his mind where it belonged. Dear Valar, let him have stayed there. Let him be safe! "You seemed in a hurry. Please don't let me keep you."
They were siblings she had said. Looking at them a little more closely the resemblance was obvious. And they both looked very different from the twins. Though, not that much cleaner.
Orc blood... Just like the twins. But here? This far from Mordor? There shouldn't be...
This didn't bode well at all.
"You speak Sindarin? It is not everyday that we meet a ranger that can speak our language." Legolas said, grudgingly giving the ranger his respect.
I had a good teacher. Faramir thought and inclined his head in thanks. "I am a ranger in Ithilien." He said. "It is swarming with orc and wild men these days. A reminder of your people, be it just a word, drives some of the darkness away."
While Faramir's admiration was not solely based on the reactions of the dark lord's followers to anything elvish, it had impressed him immensely when he had first witnessed it and he understood it well. As much as the orcs were repelled by anything elvish, for a man their memory, even more so their presence, was as soothing as moonlight in a calm night.
As for Faramir himself, it made him feel hopeful to know that something so pure and beautiful yet existed. And hope had become a rare gift. "They do not fear you without reason." He added with a nod towards the dark blood on Liliya's sleeve.
He had heard many stories about elven warriors, male and female alike. It didn't surprise him that an elf would fight side by side with his sister. Though, the idea horrified him. It was bad enough to fear for his brother's life and rely on him to cover his back. Faramir, while attributing it to not being used to the idea, imagined he would be even more worried about a sister.
Liliya looked the ranger who had introduced himself as Faramir, of Gondor. She felt that she had heard of him before... If only she could remember where... oh that was it. He was the younger son of the Steward of Gondor. It seemed that he had been in the wars.
"Have you seen a healer yet? You look like you need to be patched up." Liliya said.
"Not yet." Faramir replied. "But I made it from Gondor with this wound. It is not serious." The pain was bearable, that much was no lie. It was the blood loss that bothered Faramir at the moment.
He had tried to staunch the bleeding several times on the way, had burned the wound close with a blade heated in his campfire and even sewn it shut with needle and thread meant to mend his clothes. All the while he had been grateful for the abundance of a certain weed with numbing qualities. It grew wild almost anywhere and without it he would not have dared to do what he had done.
It hadn't helped though, the wound had reopened each time. He had not been careful enough and there hadn't been time to rest and lie still.
Elrond had heard only one set of footsteps. So when he heard three voices just outside his door- two of which he recognised- he was a little startled. This hallway was usually empty. That's why he had his study here. Is that Legolas and Liliya? He thought to himself. I didn't think they would arrive until tomorrow. Why didn't anyone tell me so I could greet them? Then he heard another voice; a man's this time. And who is he? Possibly the ambassador of Gondor, but his name was Boromir wasn't it? He said he was Faramir.
Then he heard the conversation floating under the thick door, probably one of the only thick doors in Imladris. The man needed a healer- that enough was discernable from the faint tang of blood floating along with the sound- & the Woodland ambassadors were looking for him too. Apparently Vudiamas hadn't greeted them; probably still fussing over dwarves, poor elf. So gracefully standing up in the elvish way, he swept to the door and opened it. Three startled faces looked back at him. "You wished to see me?" He said in the calm manner he was known for, all the while successfully holding back a laugh.
Faramir flinched when the door opened and a regal looking elf appeared in front of them. It didn't take much to realize who he was and Faramir, silently cursing himself for his manners, bowed and realized that the pain from his injury wasn't as bearable as he had imagined. "Lord Elrond." He said in greeting.
Legolas glared a little at Elrond for making him jump, before turning to greet him in the traditional elvish fashion. He knew that he must look a right state to Elrond, knowing that he had orc blood on his clothes for the attack.
"Lord Elrond, we were hoping to speak with you. Father informed us if the council here and asked that we come to represent the woodland realm, also I wanted to give you an update on your borders- " Legolas was cut off by his sister.
"My Lord would you be kind enough to ask the servant to escort Faramir to the healers, I believe that he is here the represent Gondor. If I am right, then I think that he is the Steward's second son." Liliya informed him.
Elrond had raised an eyebrow very slightly at Legolas, then bit back a laugh again as Liliya cut right through his speaking. "Legolas, I am quite aware of our border situation, but you can update me later." Elrond said. Then his eyes fell upon Faramir. The young man was in a bad way, hand discretely pressed to his side. "As for you Faramir, please follow me, you are in need of direct attention. Liliya, Legolas, I trust you remember where your rooms are? I will come and speak to you in but a moment."
"Please, do not bother yourself. Surely the news that Legolas and Liliya bring..." Faramir tried to protest.
"Lord Faramir, if my prior knowledge of the Orc attacks does not sway you then this should - I cannot have a guest dying in my care from a simple infection. I can tell that one is about to hit sooner rather than later & burning a wound does not cut it." Elrond said crisply.
"I did not mean to sound ungrateful." Faramir tried carefully. "Nor to inconvenience you, my lord. Your hospitality is known throughout Arda. I would not doubt it. I just...thought..." He sighed, remembering who his rescuers had been and that he had not exactly treated them with the respect they deserved as children of such an important ruler. "I arrived with your sons. We chanced upon each other on the way... They appeared unharmed to me and rather cheerful for someone who returns from fighting orc...I was... I am... worried... There should not be so many of them this far from Mordor...not with us fighting legions of them at Osgiliath... nor should they be this bold... if this is any indication of their true might... we have not seen half of it and Gondor..."
Gondor cannot withstand the onslaught of such force... We believed Osgiliath a victory, minor and hard fought for but...
Faramir felt light headed. He could almost see Denethor sneering at him.
You should praise Gondor's strength! Not put her to shame by babbling out her weaknesses to anyone who but listens! He could almost hear him say.
"Please accept my apology." Faramir himself wasn't certain whom he meant. Liliya, her brother, a clearly displeased lord Elrond, his father or even Boromir. It would have been a fitting thing to say to all of them.
He swayed a little. "Your sons bid me to wait." He told Elrond. "But if you indicate the way I shall find your healers on my own. While I appreciate the offer... I do not think there is any need for you...yourself..."
"We can discuss this later," said Lord Elrond growing worried. The infection was taking hold very fast, he could tell it had not been present much before that morn. "when rested & able to think straight. I understand you are worried, but the high blood pressure that comes along with worry will only make the infection spread through the wound faster & poison the bloodstream..." Elrond cut himself off. "At any rate, you need immediate attention & I'm the chief healer present." Faramir swayed again. At this rate he will be comatose in a matter of hours, Elrond thought, and if he falls due to all that swaying it won't help matters either. He may be correct, but now is not the time. Elrond propped Faramir up. "We should go."
Later. Faramir understood.
He had not expected to be met with such grave news upon arriving in Imladris.
The hand of the dark lord reaches that far. How can we ever hope to avoid his crushing blow once his fist comes down?
This was not meant to be a war council. Yet, according to Mithrandir, Elrond was very wise, both a scholar and a seasoned warrior. Maybe he knew of a way to better defend themselves against Mordor's foul creatures. Maybe there was hope yet to be found among the elves.
Chief healer. And on top of that there have to be more guests arriving soon. As a lord of this house he will be needed… "My lord, you needn't..." He tried to protest one last time, then nodded meekly. "Thank you."
He could see where the twins had learned their ways of persuasion and, despite everything, he was grateful. It just didn't seem right to him. He wasn't even the right guest!
On the other hand the promise of pain relief and rest after the long journey were too tempting to resist any longer.
Besides, collapsing in front of Liliya and her brother didn't seem like much of an alternative if he wanted to keep his dignity.
Like Denethor Faramir was proud. It seldom showed and most of their pride was based on Gondor and her people, rather than on their own person, but it could not be denied completely, either. To Faramir's surprise he had been told he resembled Denethor in his younger years more than once. Neither he, nor his father recognized much of that resemblance. That, at least, they truly had in common.
Faramir, despite recognizing that Elrond, too, was a warrior and as an elf anything but frail, tried not to lean too much on Imladris' lord. It would have been too much of a breach of protocol. Faramir, who didn't mind his own men doing so, didn't even call his own brother by his name when Boromir acted as his captain. Nor did he address their father with anything but 'lord Steward' when others were present.
Leaning onto an ancient elven lord as important and wise as lord Elrond... He couldn't bring himself to do it more than strictly necessary.
With each step walking became more difficult. He didn't really pay attention where Elrond led him, just followed his gentle lead. His feet seemed heavier and he knew that the slight fever he had been running since the twins had found him had increased considerably. He felt frustratingly weak, drained, hot and cold at the same time and so very, very exhausted. It cost him to not show it too much, his father's lessons ingrained too deeply to let go of them now. He grit his teeth and walked on, following the instinct that told him to trust Elrond and letting the elf decide where to.
Boromir had always hated being sick or wounded. Faramir, while usually infinitely more patient, for the first time understood why. "It is laughable, really." He whispered, talking to stay awake.
The old healer in Minas Tirith had always mocked him for it. 'When you talk that much, young lord, I know you're bad' She had said. 'But when you stop talking I really worry.'
"We ran, retreating across the river." Faramir continued. "I slipped, cut myself on an axe on the ground, orc-made, though no orc wielding it... no real battle wound, my brother would say..."
Elrond was beginning to get quite worried with young Faramir's condition. He was deteriorating at a fast pace, his words becoming mumbled garbage of what must have been an old memory. Elrond would be stressed when he stopped speaking altogether; he would be slipping into a coma then, if only a brief one. A good thing for the body, but better if avoided...one could only guess how long a coma would go for, and Elrond still hadn't checked out the wound properly. He helped Faramir onto the bed. He was still muttering something… about an Orc blade. No wonder it had caused infection if it had been from that filth, they were never clean. With a little anticipation Elrond peeled back the dressings and bit the inside of his cheek. Not good; the herb that had been put on the wound had died and was at the start of decaying. Definitely an infection then, probably caused by the low blood supply to the upper layer of skin on the lower torso. Along with the drowsiness, a slight fever and jelly-like muscles, a minor skin infection had been caused too. Despite the long list though, Elrond had seen far far worse. Things that many wouldn't even believe. "Stay still" Elrond told Faramir whilst propping up his feet to improve blood flow, "and keep your feet up. I'll be back in a moment." Elrond went off to fetch new dressings and poultices. And Athelas- the best herb for anything Orc related.
Faramir grimaced. He didn't really feel like moving about too much. "I'll try." He whispered when Elrond had already left.
The absence of the elf left room for a nameless fear that so far had lurked in the shadows in the back of his mind. It came creeping out slowly, stretching out, reaching out from the corners of his eyes, obscuring his vision and whispering words of defeat.
His eyelids grew heavy, as did his breath, while his eyes remained wide open and his heart beat too fast.
For the blink of an eye Faramir saw orcs and the flash of an axe, small people, like children, fighting, the white tree of Gondor on a warrior's chest and a crest he didn't recognize, a white horse. He couldn't tell if what he saw was but the remnants of a memory long past or a glimpse into the future, maybe a hint at something that happened presently, just far away. Probably it was but a fever dream.
Be safe... Boromir. Please. Be safe.
A/N: We'd love to know what you think (reviews are treasured) and if you are interested in joining the fun, you can find us at fanfiction forum/Lord-of-the-Rings-RP/180999/
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