Disclaimer: I don't own the Lord of the Rings or the Hobbit!
A/N: Good morning!
I tried writing last night but I was too tired after work. I ended up skimming through Netflix and watching Dollhouse. Ah well, here's your chapter for the day. I have homework to do tonight, but I have the next few days off. Then we go back to school.
Enjoy! Please review!
Bedroom Plans
December 24th 5091, The Arkenstone, Outside Rivendell Airspace
Thorin made sure Gwaihir was settled in nicely before leaving the cargo bay. Gandalf's Eagle was notorious for being fidgety when its pilot wasn't nearby. The ship had once blasted its way through hanger doors just to return to Gandalf when it was bored. That hadn't ended nicely with Thranduil. The Elf-King had been a bit more than disgruntled about his ruined doors.
Marching up the stairs, Thorin stepped into the living area of the second level. Dwalin and Nori were bent over the dining table. The warrior's shoulders were tense, as though he wasn't happy about something.
"What do we have?" Thorin asked. Dwalin leapt is surprise at his arrival but Nori acted as though he'd been expecting it. Moving around the table, Thorin examined the contents. There were several stun guns, varying syringes, and more than one tranquilizer dart.
"This is what we could find," Dwlain said, waving his hand over the table. "Most the Tasers can do is knock a Dwarf off his feet."
"Should be strong enough for Bilbo," Nori commented drily. Dwalin glared at him. "What? I'm not happy about shooting our little friend either."
"Bilbo has escaped us at every turn," Thorin said, crossing his arms. "I am starting to get desperate. What else did you find?"
"Tranquilizer darts," Nori said as he grabbed one of the small darts. "I have no idea why Gloin had them, but he did."
"You stole them," Dwlain said bluntly.
"Thorin requested all things to knock a Hobbit out. I figured that gave me complete reign of the ship."
"We're tryin' to catch Bilbo not kill him."
"I'm not trying to kill him."
"Dwalin, Nori," Thorin barked, and the two old enemies ceased their bickering almost immediately. "What about the syringes?"
"Oin had some general anesthesia for surgery and doxacurium," Dwalin said. "Why he's got a paralytic drug is beyond me. We'd have to get close enough to inject him with either of these. He doesn't let us in a three foot radius of himself."
"You're sure we have to do this?" Nori asked Thorin softly. "Bilbo's in a fragile state right now. If we do this, he may not forgive us."
"We have no other choice," Thorin said, dropping his arms to his side. "Nori, you and Kili are our best marksmen. You two take a few tranquilizer darts. Dwalin and Gloin will carry the syringes."
"What about you?" Dwalin asked.
"I will have the Taser," Thorin told him. "If Bilbo is going to hate anyone for electrocuting him, it should be me."
"This isn't eight decades of grudging revenge, is it?" Nori asked with a snort. Thorin glared at him. "Didn't think so. Fine, we're armed. Now what?"
"We find our prey. I told Kili to set a course for Archet."
"We're goin' to see P.J.?" Dwalin asked in surprise. Thorin nodded once for his answer. "But all that guys does is drink tea all day. How's he supposed to help us find Bilbo?"
"P.J. sees everything," Thorin said. "Bilbo may have slipped up and walked under a camera somewhere in Harad for all we know. P.J. can tell us." Dwalin groaned. He hated Archet. It was nearly as bad as Bree with the amount of Men living there.
"Cheer up," Nori said, nudging Dwalin in the arm. "Free ale. P.J. only has the best for the Dirty Baker's Dozen."
"I told you not to call us that!"
O.o.O
December 24th 5091, Minas Tirith Moon, Gondor System
Being the son of the Steward of the Gondor System was exhausting. In the absence of his older brother, their father expected more out of Faramir. To be honest, Faramir didn't know how much more he could give. He'd spent hours on the outer Osgiliath moon fighting back the forces of attacking Orcs. What precious time he had back on Minas Tirith was spent either in the company of his father, the Steward Denethor, or on the training grounds with Beregond. It was exhausting.
Faramir took the most direct route through the palace halls. He didn't want to stop for conversation with any guards today or greet any servants. Today was his single day off. The one day where his father allowed him a moment's peace. Faramir wanted to cherish it, spend it wisely. In his books, at least.
A short ride in an elevator and a few minutes later, Faramir strode down the hall of the royal quarters. Originally they were meant for the kings and their families. There were no more kings. There hadn't been for generations. Now Denethor, Faramir, and Boromir lived there. Their mother had passed away several years before. Faramir bypassed his older brother's room and made a beeline for his own. Pressing his thumb against the pad beside his door, he spoke clearly for the computer to hear.
"Faramir son of Denethor," he said. The pad flickered to life and beeped at his voice. "Ithilien, fifty-fifty-six." A green bar scanned the length of his thumb then back up. The computer processed the information then flickered once more.
"Access denied."
Faramir frowned and tried again. The computer denied him the access to his own bedroom. His brow furrowed even more. No one had access to his bedroom except himself, his father, and his brother. No one in the entire universe . . . Faramir's eyes flicked down to the crack of the door where he spotted the black chess piece. The knight had been wedged into the corner. Smiling to himself, Faramir turned back to the computer.
"Faramir son of Denethor. Ithilien, fifty-fifty-one." The computer processed the information. The screen flickered green.
"Access granted."
The door slid open with hardly a hiss. Stooping down, he swiped the black chess piece from the floor. The piece was cool to the touch. It had been sitting there for quite a while. Faramir straightened up and prepared to berate his friend for such foolishness. What he saw made him drop the chess piece. It thudded quietly on the carpeted floor. Behind him, the door hissed shut.
Underhill – harmless, sweet Underhill – laid on his bed. The windows had been opened, the sashes blowing in the afternoon breeze. All the lights of the bedroom had been turned to their brightest. It wasn't the breeze or the lights that bothered Faramir, though. It was the blood on Underhill's shirt. The Perian pressed a stained hand against his abdomen, a pained look on his face. He leapt in surprise at the arrival of Faramir but laid back on the bed groaning.
"Underhill," Faramir breathed. Crossing the room in quick steps, he knelt beside the bed. Underhill stiffened slightly. "What happened?" Faramir asked as he gently tugged the Perian's hand away from his stomach. The nasty nub of an Orc arrow poked out of the hole in the shirt.
"Tried to get into Moria," Underhill said through gritted teeth. "Blasted Orcs caught me by surprise."
"You should know better," Faramir scolded softly. Underhill chuckled, his breathing come out in a pained wheeze. "Was it poisoned?"
"Hurts. Does that tell you anything?"
"Not as much as I need." Faramir glanced over his shoulder toward the door. "You wait here. I'll go get some medicine."
"Can't go anywhere else," Underhill muttered.
Grinning, Faramir patted the Perian on the knee before hurrying from the room. He hurried from the royal halls, down the elevator, and through the halls of the medical wing. A few servants paused to ask after him but Faramir waved them away. He didn't have time to stop for chitchat. Underhill needed him. Getting the supplies he needed only took a few minutes and a bit of coaxing. Promises made, Faramir hurried back the way he had come. His path led him straight back to his bedroom where he found Underhill still lying on his bed.
"Remove your shirt," Faramir ordered as the door hissed shut behind him.
"Child telling me what to do," Underhill muttered to himself, but he shrugged painfully out of his long coat. The buttons of the shirt popped out easily enough and the shirt pooled around his waist. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Faramir examined the damage.
"How long ago did you get this injury?" he asked the Perian.
"Couple weeks ago, give or take a day," Underhill said, shrugging. He winced at the movement, one hand drifting toward his waist. Faramir grabbed the small hand in his own.
"Don't touch it," he warned. Underhill scowled at him but obeyed. Fingers dancing gingerly around the wound, Faramir examined the arrow carefully. Eventually he had a diagnosis. "I'll have to remove the arrowhead." Underhill paled. "There's no other choice."
"I-I know," Underhill said in a soft voice. "I just . . . don't have a good history with arrows and bullets."
"No one does," Faramir muttered. Underhill kicked him for that then groaned. "Knock that off, you'll hurt yourself more."
"Child."
"Halfling."
"Baby."
"Immature." Underhill grinned at the insult. Ever since they'd met the two friends had been throwing insults at one another. Faramir smiled softly at the Perian.
"Just don't rip my stomach out or anything." The smile dropped. Trust Underhill to ruin the moment with a joke. The Perian laid back on the bed, his fingers twisting in the sheets. "Ready when you are."
Removing the Orc arrow took longer than Faramir had hoped it would. Whoever had made the arrow had purposefully hooked the end like porcupine quills. Faramir tried his best to remove the arrowhead without causing too much pain. At Underhill's Khuzdul shout, he ripped the arrow out in surprise. Underhill gave a sharp wail of pain, arching off the bed.
"Sorry, sorry," Faramir said, his hands hovering over Underhill's stomach. "I wasn't expecting you to shout like that."
"Not your fault," Underhill said through gritted teeth. "Give me a moment." Faramir obliged, watching the Perian writhe on the bed in pain until he fell still. For a moment Faramir thought his friend had passed out. Then Underhill gritted his teeth.
"Better fix it fast," he muttered. "Medical mites are working."
Faramir's hands flew into action. He'd seen the medical mites in action before. They were unbiased bits of technology that fixed something whether it was ready or not. Underhill had once told him of a time when he'd been shot in the stomach with a bullet. His friend Graham had been yelled at their medic for not removing his hand from the injury. Once the damage had been assessed he'd apologized to Graham. Had Graham removed his hand then the injury would have been sealed around the bullet and the damaged tissue healed incorrectly.
The liquid athelas bubbled in the injury. Underhill hissed at the pain, his hips wiggling in suppressed agony. Faramir waited for the medicine to clean the injury before moving any further. He swallowed hard when the liquid began to run black. The athelas was nullifying the poison from Orc arrow. He didn't even want to think what could have happened if Underhill hadn't come to him. Once the athelas had done its work, Faramir pressed a pad of cotton to Underhill's stomach wound and taped it down. The final move was a swift injection of painkillers. Underhill visibly relaxed, a sigh escaping his lips.
"You should stay here," Faramir told the Perian, wiping his hands off on a cloth. Underhill's head snapped toward him. "Just for a few days. I understand the dangers of you staying in one place for too long."
"I have plans, actually," Underhill said. "I have to get over to the Rohan System."
"Eomer?" Faramir asked, and Underhill shook his head. "Then who? I didn't know you had anyone else over there."
"Théodred works with me," Underhill told him. "He has been for a few months now. I have a new job for him."
"What about me?" Faramir asked. Underhill frowned at him in confusion. "I've been fighting on Osgiliath and sitting in the palace for nearly six months now. When does my time come?"
"Your time comes soon," Underhill said. Faramir opened his mouth to argue but the Perian raised a hand. "I have a job for you now but you can't start it for a few months. Not until I send out the call." Faramir sat back on the bed, his hands resting in his lap. "Your brother arrived on Rivendell before I could stop him. Tauriel is following him."
"Tauriel?"
"An exiled Elf from the Woodland Realm. She has promised to ensure Boromir's safety."
"I don't understand," Faramir said, and Underhill hummed. "If you wanted Boromir to join your team then why didn't you ask him while he was here? You visited several times before."
"Your father would have found out," Underhill said with a sigh. "He knows more than you give him credit for. You're immune to his sneaking eyes but Boromir isn't. Denethor would have captured me and handed me over to the Government."
"And what about Boromir?" Faramir asked. "Is he all right?"
"Boromir's traveling with the Fellowship," Underhill answered. "I need him to leave it soon, though. He's an important part of my plans. Will you be willing to help me when I finally have your brother separated from the Fellowship?"
"Of course."
"Now, about you," Underhill said, leaning back on the pile of pillows. Faramir straightened up hopefully. "Your father's disappointed in you. You know he doesn't like you as much as Boromir." Faramir nodded once, swallowing hard. "Use that to your advantage. I need you to leave Osgiliath soon. Head for the Ithilien air space and head the Rangers there as their captain."
"What's my purpose?" Faramir asked. Underhill scratched his neck.
"This can go one of two ways: one, the Fellowship is forced to come your way and they need defense. I need you to help sneak them under your father's nose. Two, something goes wrong and I need you to defend part of the Fellowship, whoever it may be."
"When do I leave for Ithilien?"
"When I give you the signal," Underhill said. Relaxing, he closed his eyes. "You won't be sitting around here for too long." The Perian sighed, his body falling limp with almost immediate sleep. Faramir smiled at the small creature. Underhill had always amazed him, from the moment they'd met thirteen years ago. He'd guided Faramir through rocky points in his life and only asked for bits of help in exchange. Now he'd come to Faramir with a role to play on the board. Faramir would see it through.
O.o.O
December 24th 5091, The Fellowship of the Ring
"Caradhras is an unreliable path," Boromir's voice drifted up through the hole in the floor. Merry glanced around at the other Hobbits with a raised eyebrow. Sam fisted his hair, gritting his teeth. Frodo didn't look up from where he laid face-first on the floor.
"Minas Tirith would be a fool's move," Gandalf shouted, and Sam groaned. Aragorn, Boromir, and Gandalf had been arguing for the past three hours. At least on Rivendell they were able to storm away from one another. Now they were trapped on ship together with nowhere to go. Somebody was going to get hurt.
"My father would give us protection," Boromir argued. "He'd see us straight through to the Mordor System."
"And in the meantime take the Ring while's he at it," Gandalf said, speaking the words on everyone's mind. "No, we'll take the path of Caradhras."
"Aragorn, who are you going to side with?" Boromir demanded. "Surely you don't think we should take the path that's most likely to kill us?" Frodo drummed his fingers against the floor.
"You're not going to argue with them?" Merry asked softly.
"No," Frodo said, his voice muffled by the floor. "I'm too short and quiet. They don't hear me."
"If they don't shut up soon, I'm going to get some stones," Sam growled, clapping his hands over his ears. "They've been at this for hours."
"I wonder what Gimli and Legolas are up to," Merry said. Turning back to the console, he sighed. "Pip's been awful quiet for the past few hours."
.o.
Pippin had tucked himself under the workbench in the engine room. It was just small enough for him to fit comfortably. Just what he needed.
"Come on," Pippin muttered to himself. His cheeks were wet with tears, his breathing hitched with the sobs. "Stop it." He smacked himself on the side of the head but it did nothing to stop the voices.
"Fool would see the Ring taken by his father – shouldn't trust him – King, don't make me laugh – Wish they'd stop."
"Just stop," Pippin begged himself quietly. "Just make it stop. He'll get mad at me again."
.o.
"I brought you dinner." Pippin slid out from under the engine to see Boromir towering over him. The Man held a tin plate in his hand. Pippin could smell cold meat and oranges wafting down from it.
"Thanks," he said, taking the plate from Boromir. "Anything interesting happening down there?" Boromir shrugged noncommittally, leaning against the wall.
"Father didn't listen." Pippin glanced up from his food at the thought from Boromir. "Should have sent Faramir, not me." Boromir didn't look down at Pippin with the thought.
"Who's Faramir?" Pippin asked curiously. Boromir's eyes flashed down at him. "Sorry, I was just curious."
"Don't," Boromir growled. Stooping down, he grabbed fistfuls of Pippin's shirt. The two were nearly touching noses. Pippin swallowed hard as the sensation of fury and hatred washed over him. "Don't you ever read my mind. It's not your plaything, so stay out."
"I-I can't control it," Pippin whispered.
"Then learn to," Boromir snarled. Giving Pippin a final shake, he shoved him down to the floor and stormed from the room. "Or you'll regret it." Pippin flinched at the images Boromir sent at him. The Man hated him for being Frodo's friend, even more for being a Reader. The tears came before Pippin could stop them. Crawling behind the engine, he sobbed quietly into his arms.
.o.
"Can't take the path of Caradhras. Too dangerous." Pippin hit his head against the wall behind him. Boromir's voice was the most prominent of the eight other crew members. He couldn't stop himself from hearing it.
"Stop," Pippin begged himself. "Please."
A/N: What did you think?
Bit of an awkward chapter title, but I couldn't think of anything else. Underhill's at it again! He's got evil plans and mysterious enemies.