The Best Laid Plans of Orcs and Hobbits
Between Ûnran and I, with a little help from Pippin and even a few interjections from Boromir, we brought Faramir up to speed on all the exciting things that had happened since we struck out from Rivendell. No sense telling him about the pre-Boromir leg of the trip. At least, in my opinion.
As the conversation wandered down other paths, I began to notice something. Boromir and Faramir were acting like the little scene with dad hadn't even happened. Just pretty much went on benignly, which I thought was odd. Granted, the relaxed atmosphere left behind by the cantankerous old bastard's departure was far preferable, but wow... It was like the embarrassing family member had just been shuffled off to the attic, and if we didn't mention him again, everyone would forget it even happened.
Eventually, the big shots of Gondor's City Defense Unit excused themselves and headed off to start plotting and planning for a siege, leaving me, Ûnran, and Pippin to find something interesting to do on the gloomy seventh tier. About the only thing we could do was take a walk.
As we headed out of the feast hall trying to ignore Pippin's grousing about how we were sitting there long enough for 'second breakfast' and nobody saw fit to supply any, what's up with that, who should come skittering up to us but Iffy.
The whole incident at the breakfast table came roaring back when I saw her pinched little forehead and wringing hands. That sense of betrayal returned as well, and I scowled at her. Were I as dark as Ûnran, we'd probably look like twins. Crossing my arms over my chest, I tilted my head and set my feet in that universal 'just try to talk your way out of it, bitch, I dare you' pose that usually precedes the cat fight. I really had a hankering for ripping out some hair right about now.
What made it even worse, now that I saw her, was the realization that the 'help' talks. That wonderful, blissful, sweet, loving experience was likely being discussed in speculatively lurid detail all the way down on the first tier, spreading like wildfire all over Minas Tirith because shit, who fucks an Orc? That sort of thing doesn't happen every day. Bound to be a hot topic of conversation for years to come.
Oh, and you know what else? Now whenever Ûnran and I go off alone together, even just to talk in private, everyone will assume we're humping the living crap out of each other. Great. Middle Earth is like one big high school.
"Oh look, it's Judas," I snarled as she sort of cringed her way closer, unable to look me in the face. You're damn right, I thought. Grovel some more; maybe I won't kick your ass right off the balcony.
"Please, mi'lady," she stammered, and I was taken aback by the fact that she was actually in tears. "Please. I tried to stop them, but they feared Master Denethor's wrath if they did not report such... things. I beg of you. It was not my doing. I am so sorry."
About all I could do was blink with surprise.
"Didn't try hard enough," Ûnran growled. "Coulda got us fuckin' killed."
Iffy's eyes shot open even wider and she put her hand to her mouth in shock; whether from the statement, the speaker, or the f-bomb was unclear. "Please understand," she breathed, looking from him to me, "I thought only to spare you... the... embarrassment. I did not imagine your lives... Please forgive me!" She sank to her knees and clutched my skirt with both hands, sobbing up a storm.
Well. That, uh... changed things a bit. "Hey," I said awkwardly, "it's... it's all right. Nobody's dead. We're... we're fine. Thank you for trying to stop them, anyway."
Looking up at me through tear-filled eyes, she asked, "Do you wish to know who betrayed you?"
I could tell she was loathe to name names and point fingers, but felt the need to prove herself to me. At this point, though, it hardly mattered. The damage was done. Beating the hell out of teenage girls wouldn't make the rumor mill grind to a halt.
"No," I said, shaking my head. Ûnran growled his protest, and I elbowed him in the gut, making him grunt. "They... well, you said they did their... job, I guess. What that wingnut Steward wanted them to do." Shrugging, I sighed. "I suppose it's... not their fault. Or something."
Iffy slowly stood and fished a handkerchief from her skirt pocket. Wiping herself down, she met my eyes finally. "My lady, I cannot thank you enough for understanding. I regret that my words were ignored and you suffered for it. I will speak of your generosity and kindness." Cheeks turning bright red, she looked down and lowered her voice. "I am afraid there is much... talk... of... By those who have not met you." She glanced nervously at Ûnran. "They do not see you as anything but an Enemy. What was revealed... angers them."
That gave me pause. Once the shit started flying, would a mob storm the seventh tier to take him out?
"Can you do me a favor?" I asked, and Iffy nodded vigorously. "Keep your ears open. Listen to what people are saying. I don't want... Look, the Dark Lord's army is going to lay siege to the city. You know that, right?"
A look of terror took up residence on her face and I realized I'd gone and whoopsed again. Son of a bitch. Well, fuck it. "All right, not exactly common knowledge. Anyway, I don't want people thinking that throwing Ûnran over the wall is going to stop the siege or in any way make the city safer. If you hear anything that sounds like a plot to hurt him, please tell us."
"I will, my lady," she said, putting on a brave face. She even turned to Ûnran and said, "My lord." That made his growly breathing go quiet for a second. "Master Peregrin," she added, curtseying to Pippin. Then she scurried off.
"Well, how do you like that?" Pippin groused. "He's a 'my lord' and I'm a 'Master Peregrin'!"
"You didn't get your bed linens thrown on the table," I retorted. "Get over yourself."
"Don't wanna be a 'my lord'," Ûnran growled. "Why you ain't gettin' their names, eh?"
"If you were in the dungeon, I'd be taking names and kicking ass," I assured him with a pat on the arm. It still floored me, and I had to laugh. "Wow. Who would've thought Boromir would be the one to get his dad to back off the name-calling and finger-pointing, huh?" Ûnran grunted in agreement, which jogged another thought. "You saved him?"
Ûnran shrugged rather modestly. I could just see a tiny smile on his face. Very tiny. "Yeah. He ain't so bad."
"So what happens now?" Pippin asked, his brow furrowing a bit. At my blank, prompting look, he added, "With the war."
"Ah. Um... I guess we wait," I said lamely. "If you want to know how long, I don't know. Everything's just sort of been... different."
Pippin shook his head. "I cannot believe Boromir was fated to die. That is... surprising."
"You were surprised," I snorted. "Imagine my shock. And that sort of... throws a wrench in, too. In the history I know, he's dead. I don't know what it'll mean that he isn't. What will happen because he didn't die. Things are already unfamiliar. I mean, I thought Denethor flipped out because his son was dead, but now it looks like he was going to go apeshit no matter what happened."
"Excuse me...," Pippin interrupted hesitantly. "Ape... shit?"
Rolling my eyes, I clarified, "You know, nutty as ape shit. Crazy."
"Oh, yes," the Hobbit said, nodding uncertainly. "Was he?"
"Yeah. Historically, he didn't take it too well. I still don't know why you're his...," I said, sort of gesturing at Pippin's livery, "lackey or whatever. I mean, you're supposed to be, but only because you felt you owed him since Boromir died saving you."
Pippin's shoulders slumped a little with the additional shock of that revelation, and I found myself rolling my eyes again. "Jesus, Pip."
He shook himself and said, "Sorry, just... I offered my service because I didn't know what else to do. I wanted to be of use, and... well..."
Smirking, I said, "Nothing like waiting hand and foot on a guy who's three bricks shy of a full load, huh?"
"You can't possibly imagine," the normally jovial Hobbit whimpered.
"Odd, though," I said thoughtfully, and looked at Ûnran as if there was something about him that might tell me what was odd about the whole situation.
Which, if one were to really address it, the fact that an Uruk from Isengard was standing on the seventh tier of Minas Tirith could most definitely be categorized as 'odd,' as could my own presence there. Add a splash of not-quite-dead-yet Boromir not only not being dead but taking over the city's defenses from his crazy batshit father...
Okay, I'll give him the Orc on the battlements thing. That's pretty weird. But not Boromir being alive. From his perspective, there ain't no other condition for the boy to be in. So scratch that. Why would Denethor still be a spit-spraying old codger with a bloody linen fetish? Is the Orc enough? Are my... activities with said Orc enough to send him over the edge? Crap, if everyone else at the breakfast table was pretty much fine with it...
Nope. Not adding up.
"Pippin," I said, turning to him. "Has he... has he been like this since you got here?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I picked up Ûnran shifting uncomfortably. Holding up a hand to stop Pippin from answering, I looked at Ûnran. "What is it?"
Some day, I would love to see Ûnran not cringe under direct questioning. "Didn't wanna say," he replied in a low voice, unable to meet my eyes.
"Say what?" I pressed.
Ûnran swallowed uncomfortably. "He's... been... touched." He shrugged a little, as if that wasn't quite the word he would have used but didn't know another.
"Touched?" I repeated, bewildered. "By what?"
"Don't think I seen it enough?" Ûnran said stiffly.
"Seen what?" I hissed impatiently.
"He's been touched by the Shadow," Ûnran snarled.
It's quite possible my brain shut down production for a second, because all that had the ability to exit my mouth was a breathless, "Whuh?" Couldn't even manage the whole word.
Embarrassed now, Ûnran shrugged. "Just a gut feel. Seen it before. Somethin' in the eyes. Don't notice with Orcs, cause... ain't nothin' to compare to. We all got it. But Men... not all of'em I seen have it. Dunlendings do. You lot don't." Shaking his head sharply, he seemed to retreat some more. "That's all I got. Probably wrong."
Good god. If he was right, and I had no reason to think he wasn't, then was Denethor 'touched' before or after we arrived? Was this my fault? Would he have been 'normal' if I hadn't shown up? Now I needed Pippin's answer.
"Okay. Has he been like this since you got here?" I said slowly and pointedly to Pippin.
"He... sort of," Pippin replied uncertainly. "When we got here, he had Boromir's horn. I tried to tell him his son was alive, but Gandalf said to let it go for now, wait until you came. Things could happen on the road, he said. Best not to give the Steward a false hope."
"Well, that's just stupid," I snapped. "What could possibly..." My words got stuck in my throat, but I refused to let Grunt have her way. I didn't need that memory right now. Regrouping, I had a moment to think it through. Why would Gandalf not want Denethor to know? Then it hit me.
"Oh my," I breathed. "He was worried fate would catch up to Boromir before he made it here. That's why." Okay, that mystery was probably solved, but not important at the moment. "Okay, never mind." Pointing at Ûnran, I said, "You think Denethor's been 'touched.'" Turning to point at Pippin, I continued, "And you say he's been a nutjob since you got here." I rubbed my chin, because it always helps the hero think. "Can I assume, then, that this is somehow not my fault?" I wondered half to myself.
"I ain't sure 'bout nothin'," Ûnran pointed out. "Just... I dunno. Somethin' goin' on there. Somethin' familiar."
"Yeah, well, when it comes to the Shadow, I consider you an expert," I said. "If it looks like shit and smells like shit, it probably is shit."
"Uh," Ûnran ventured uncertainly, "we talkin' 'bout shit or the Shadow?"
"Like there's a difference?" This was getting rather heavy. If we went and spouted off to Gandalf with absolutely no evidence to support an accusation of this magnitude, there'd be hell to pay, and I really wasn't interested in having my lover locked up because he thought the Steward 'looked funny.'
Pippin, however, didn't seem to mind endangering Ûnran's freedom. "Do you think we should tell Gandalf?"
Ûnran shrugged. "You can tell anyone yuh want. Ain't nobody gonna believe it. Not comin' from me."
"That sucks, but it's probably true," I commented. "I mean, he just insulted you in public... both of us. That might reduce our credibility even more."
Ûnran looked hard at me. "I ain't insulted," he growled. "He accused me of matin' with you. That ain't an insult."
"Oh, well, right," I stammered awkwardly. "I guess that's... relative. But... the fact remains that he believed he was insulting me... anyway, regardless... I think somebody ought to... check it out."
I felt less than two feet tall. Good god, did I just imply in the world's clumsiest manner that what we shared was something embarrassing to me? Something I could be insulted about? Holy crap.
Shaking that off, and taking a mental note to address the expression on his face, which brought back memories of Helm's Deep, I turned to the Hobbit. "Pippin, you're small."
"What?"
"You're... well, duh, you're small," I repeated. "I don't care what you snuck out of Treebeard's liquor cabinet, you're still smaller than I am. You're a Hobbit." I grinned as the seeds of a plan took root. "And Hobbits are sneaky. Why don't you poke around a bit?"
"Poke around?"
"Yeah," I nodded, feeling more confident. "Follow that crazy bastard and see what he's up to. You're supposed to be his right hand ma-, er Hobbit."
"You want me to watch him," Pippin translated for his own edification, I guess.
"Yeah. If he's chatting up the Dark Lord, he's gonna need his ass kicked."
"Can't afford no traitors," Ûnran pointed out.
"No, we can't," I agreed.
Shrugging resignedly, Pippin said, "All right. I'll do it."
I could tell things had changed between us when we ditched Pippin – I mean, sent him off on his mission – and talked about the whole 'insult' thing. He wasn't quite as angry about the slight, and listened to me clumsily stagger my way through an explanation as we sat on a bench in the spindly shadow of the dead tree in the courtyard.
"From his point of view, what we shared... was... something to be ashamed of," I said awkwardly. He wasn't looking at me, seemingly content to stare at the ground as if it offended him. "I'm not ashamed. I'm not even... okay, yes, it was embarrassing to have the whole thing... the sheet and the whore business... in front of everybody... That part was humiliating in the extreme." Prodding his foot with a toe, I said, "What about you? How did you feel when Denethor came after us?"
Ûnran blinked a few times, but otherwise kept his gaze intently focused on that patch of earth. "Thought he was gonna kill me. Or kill you. And I couldn't do nothin'." He finally looked at me, and his eyes told me how really awful that moment was. "They took my weapons. If he tried to kill us, he'd have all the others on his side and I wouldn't... I wouldn't be able to protect you." He bowed his head again. "In Rohan, I had to kill to keep you safe. On the way here, I killed to protect you. Almost didn't make it in time, but I did it. I killed for you. Do it again if there's a need. There was a need, and I didn't think I'd be able to do it this time." He clenched his fists angrily. "Couldn't do nothin'. Had to just... sit there and take it. Or we'd both die."
"I... doubt it would have gotten to that point," I said, though not very convincingly. "They know you. If they were going to kill you, they've all had plenty of chances. God, if Boromir's defending you, you've got nothing to worry about." I tried to smile and nudge him playfully, but it felt forced. The fact of the matter was, he operated from a position of having everything he cherished taken away from him based on someone else's whims. He didn't think he had any options but to kill the one trying to take it, because that'll pretty much stop the theft cold, won't it? To have his ability to defend himself as well as me removed, and then face an attack from someone with the power to kill him, either directly or by commanding someone else to do it, must have made him feel pretty damn helpless.
He'd killed for me. He'd told Boromir he'd die for me. And I implied that what we were accused of doing was an 'insult'. Oh Jesus.
"Okay, Ûnran, look at me," I said firmly, taking his hands. He reluctantly raised his eyes to mine. "I love you. I love... everything about you. I love what we share. I love what we do together. I love it so much, I think I'd like some more of it right now, while everyone else is still fat and lazy from breakfast. I might even want to do it after lunch. Hell, instead of lunch. And you know something else?" I asked, my own grin broadening as a leering grin – complete with dimples – curved across his face. "I don't give a god damn if everyone in Minas Tirith knows we're doing it."
Standing, I pulled him to his feet. "Let's go get naked, shall we?"
Contrary to popular belief likely raging through the tiers of Minas Tirith, Ûnran and I didn't spend every waking moment sheathing and resheathing, in quick succession, his sword in my scabbard. That isn't to say we didn't try, but even an Uruk needs a nap some time. Granted, I had no comparison, but I was pretty convinced that, as lovers went, there couldn't possibly be a more generous one drawing breath than Ûnran. But I was probably biased.
I had to trust that the walls of our little love nest were thick enough to spare our neighbors a fright. I didn't make much noise, but a full-throated Uruk roar of triumph can shake the rafters.
It took a couple of days for Pippin to get any worthwhile leads on Denethor's doings. Most of what he reported were war council shenanigans and insane mutterings in the Steward's private quarters. The wigged out old loon was trying to stay 'involved' in the planning and barged in frequently. Because Pippin was practically on a short leash, unable to attend to any other tasks than those Denethor gave him, he had loads of juicy gossip to share.
"No way," I breathed in disbelief the afternoon following Pippin's commencement of sleuthing activities. "He didn't."
The Hobbit nodded vigorously. We were in the sitting room of my quarters, draped on the couches comfortably. Pippin was in there about as much as we were these days, trying to get away from the wingnut. And I think he appreciated that I at least understood the necessity of second breakfast and elevensies. At least, I let him think that. Iffy kept a snack table laid out for us all the time. Cause, you know, great sex is like pot. Makes you hungry.
"He walked up to Boromir and told him, right in front of Prince Imrahil, that we should surrender," Pippin repeated.
Ûnran chuckled. "Ain't gonna do no good. Orcs'll still destroy the whole fuckin' city. Don't matter if yuh surrender or not."
"That's what Boromir said," Pippin said, exasperated. "So Denethor told him... well, meaning no offense, but he said you'd probably be the one to open the gates and let them in."
Snorting with disgust, Ûnran turned away and scowled. I patted his knee. "I hope Boromir told him to blow it out his ass."
"Well, he did defend Ûnran once more," Pippin said loyally. "As did his brother. And Denethor... well, he went slightly... a bit more mad, and made several... unrepeatable references to... various... debaucheries... once the Orcs enter the city."
My head sort of fell back and I stared at the ceiling, letting out one of those 'dear god, why is this guy not in a home' sort of weary sighs. "Lovely. I hate to tell him, but one should not urge surrender in the same breath as descriptions of mass rape. It's not a very good marketing ploy. Ask anyone."
Pippin blushed and bowed his head. "He... didn't imply such a thing. What he actually said was more like... by your example, such acts... would be... welcomed."
Naturally, Ûnran found this amusing. "Yer a shaper, all right," he chuckled.
Giving him a withering glare, I snapped, "Shape this, yuh bastard." Ûnran snapped at the air with his teeth in a gesture I'd come to find out was a prelude to some mighty intimate nibbling in very naughty places. Just thinking about the veiled 'threat' made me shiver and wish the short guy would get the hell out and play with his own friends for once. Sighing, I shook my head. "Do I dare ask what happened next?"
"Oh, just what you'd imagine," Pippin said smoothly, helping himself to the fruit basket. "Boromir... what is it you call it? He 'blew a gasket'? Anyway, there was a lot of yelling, some name-calling, guards were mustered, and Denethor got hauled off to his quarters. I confess I was too distraught by the whole incident to see to his errands for the rest of the day, and begged leave to recover, which he graciously allowed. Quite uncharacteristically," he added, popping a grape into his far-from-distraught mouth.
"You're holding up amazingly well after such a shock," I commented wryly.
"Runs in the family," the Hobbit chirped happily as he lounged back into the overstuffed chair.
"So...," I began hesitantly, watching my fingers worry themselves in a tangled mess on my lap, "what's... what's everyone saying, lower down? About us. Any, uh... comments? Muttered threats? Pitchforks being sharpened? Stuff like that?"
Pippin sobered and frowned. "I do not wish to sadden or upset you."
"I know, I know," I said hastily. "I shouldn't even ask, but... I mean, I don't need anyone's approval, but..." I glanced at Ûnran, but he refused to look at me. His eyes seemed to like the floor level when questions like this were brought up. "I guess I don't really expect the whole world to... accept... but I don't want to spend all my life explaining and justifying and on and on and on..." I let out an exasperated breath, begging silently for these guys to get it.
Thankfully, Pippin recognized the seriousness of my worry and tread carefully as well as truthfully. "It is not... widely accepted. But there are a few. Mostly those in Boromir and Faramir's inner circle. Their officers. A few of the guardsmen of the city with whom I have spent time. Of course, Ephedilrind is on your side as well."
"Who?"
"Iffy."
"Oh. Right."
Pippin chuckled. "You know, I have heard Faramir say he'd like to coax an Orc of Mordor into surrendering so he might learn another Orc's point of view on the world. He said the Isengarders are too young and isolated." Scowling, Ûnran snorted, and Pippin waved him down. "I'm certain he still finds you interesting enough," he teased.
"Well, I'll offer to drag his butt back to Helm's Deep, then," I said. "When all this crap blows over, I want to go back and see for myself that everyone who surrendered is being taken care of. I'm still kicking myself for not making sure of it before we left."
"They're Orcs," Ûnran shrugged. "If Men don't kill them, they'll survive."
Thank you, Mr. Obvious.
One more day of Denethor's Wild West Show put his ass in the slammer, figuratively speaking. Boromir, according to Pippin's detailed account later in our favorite hang-out, my sitting room, decided enough was enough and banned his father from attending any more war councils. Having failed utterly in his attempts to promote a surrender, Denethor decided that reminding everyone what the lovely ladies of Gondor had in store for them when the Orcs overran the city would make them see his point of view. All it got them to see was an hysterically screaming Steward arguing about ladies' underwear with Gandalf before being unceremoniously gagged, bound, and escorted to a cell two tiers down.
How the mighty have fallen.
But here's the weird-as-hell part. Denethor spent all of one night in that cell, locked up without outside contact, and by morning he was calmer. His head seemed clearer, by Pippin's reckoning. Like he was more aware of his surroundings. He even apologized to Boromir for disrupting the council meetings. Since he seemed like less of a dick, his son let him out.
It took less than a day for him to revert back to bug-eyed dipwad. The plot was thickening.
Poor Pippin, though. Every chance he got, he was diving into our quarters to hide from his insane master, stuffing comfort foods in his face and lamenting loudly about how hard it was to smile silently and act attentive when the old bastard got going.
"I'm trying," Pippin wailed after Denethor's backslide really took hold. "I'm really trying to smile and nod and not say anything, but he's driving me up a wall! Always muttering to himself things I can't possibly repeat in mixed company. Seeing Orcs in every corner. He's certain you are not the only one harboring one in her quarters. There must be a whole army of them, just waiting for the rest to arrive, at which point they will spring out of hiding and slit all the men's throats before carrying the women off..." He threw his hands up in defeat. "There is no reasoning with him, no countering his statements with logic or truth or anything..."
"Hey, easy," I said, patting his shoulder. "You'll give yourself a heart attack. Chill, dude. Have a biscuit."
You can always calm a Hobbit down with food. Remember that.
"Okay, when he's not being the world's biggest paranoid schizophrenic, what does he get up to? What's he doing?"
Working his way through the dry cookie, Pippin didn't answer for a moment. Ûnran gave him a mug of water to wash it down with. I thought that was rather polite of him, and smiled. Because our day time togetherness was on high alert while Pippin dealt with the Steward, we were lucky to get nookie after dark, so it wasn't particularly shocking to me that a little smile would prompt a lip-curling leer and tongue flick over the teeth.
Ûnran is such a whore.
"He's got this little stone building he goes in a lot," Pippin reported. "He doesn't want me going in there with him, and keeps it locked when he's away."
"Break in," I said automatically. "If he's hiding anything, I'll bet my favorite jammies it's in that building."
"Do you have any idea what kind of trouble I'd get into if I stole his key, made a copy rather like this one," he said indignantly, brandishing an ornate bronze key, "and snuck in there after dark tonight with you and Ûnran keeping watch?"
"I don't know, Pip," I said with a smirk. "What kind of trouble?"
"Very big, nasty trouble," he said seriously. "Especially if we do it two hours after the old nutter goes to bed."