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Jan. 2nd, 2003 08:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
claudia603Sooo.....
Had a dream that I was watching a long clip from ROTK. Frodo and Sam were in some modern backdrop, only it was clearly Mordor because there were orcs and nasty things though some of the orcs were dressed like biker dudes. So, it showed the scene where Frodo and Sam encounter Shelob. Shelob looked rather cartoonish, like kind of the Rankin Bass spiders in The Hobbit. And after being bit, Frodo did not seem to have been affected at all. Then later, he and Sam were chatting and laughing (yep, so sure Frodo's going to have a lot to laugh about in Mordor) about something or other, and he just suddenly seemed to be in terrible pain, and he just collapsed, and the clip ended with Sam yelling in grief. Hmm....
Blame Lora for getting me started on thinking about my dreams, LOL.
Anyway, here is the first part of that angsty fic. I think it will be in two parts. Yep.
There is NO slash in this; just h/c.
Title: Faramir’s Choice 1/2
Author: Claudia
Rating: PG
Summary: Frodo has been hurt by his rough treatment by Faramir’s men.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Faramir’s Choice 1
I saw the glimmer of tears in the unnaturally large blue eyes of the fair, willowy halfling as his hands were yanked roughly behind him and bound. He did not plead or struggle now, though he had put up a fight with Damrod until the man had stilled him by flinging him to the ground like a doll. Now the halfling looked dazed and disoriented. The watery blue eyes disappeared as the blindfold was pushed roughly over his face.
“Let us start at once,” I said. “It is a several hour march to Henneth Annun.”
I heard neither squeak nor grunt from our prisoners, though I could not stop thinking about them.
“Who do you suppose they are?” I asked Mablung quietly. “They do not look ill-favored to me, though that skulking creature does, and he has given us the slip yet again.”
Mablung kept his voice low. “I have heard tales of halflings who live in holes in the north, but these prisoners we have taken are far from home. They have no doubt been bought by the Enemy and are working for orcs, spying for them.”
“Orc spies?” I said, not believing it. Something has brought these halflings so far from home, into the woods of Ithilien, so near the dark land.
A swift movement caught my eye and I turned to see Damrod sling the delicate halfling over his shoulder like a sack of onions.
“He has collapsed, Captain Faramir.”
“Our pace may be too swift for them. Let us slow it down for the other one.”
The rounder hobbit frantically twisted his blindfolded head behind him.
“Mr. Frodo?” he called in a frightened voice. “Mr. Frodo, are you all right?”
“Stay still!” His guide said, gripping his shoulders more firmly and pushing him forward.
“Please,” the halfling said. “He’s already so weary. Please don’t hurt him!”
I wanted to say something -- the concerned agony in his voice was painful to listen to -- but I could not, not in front of my men. At least not until I had satisfied my curiosity as to why these halflings were in this land. If they were spies of the Enemy, then they deserved to suffer, and they could rot in the dungeons of Minas Tirith for all I cared.
We reached Henneth Annun, and my men set the two halflings on the ground before me, yanking off their blindfolds and unbinding their hands. The delicate one, now conscious but clearly unwell, sagged against his stocky friend who put his arm around him in a protective manner.
“Please help him,” he said, his cheeks flushed. There was sharp suspicion in his eyes, but his concern for his friend gave him the courage to confront his captor.
“My men tell me you are orc spies,” I said, ignoring his plea. In times of war, one had to be particularly vigilant. The Enemy might know that my heart was easily moved by pity. I would not disappoint my father in this matter. I had already gone against orders by not bidding these prisoners slain. That I could not do. My heart told me there was more to their presence in Ithilien than met the eye.
“Now wait just a moment,” the stocky halfling said, his brow furrowing in anger. How open these halflings were with their every emotion!
“If you are not spies, then who are you? What are you doing in our land?”
The ailing halfling pulled away from his friend, trying to stand tall and bravely before me. He was breathing rapidly, and his face had a clammy sheen to it. He was truly ill and would need to be looked to. Having made the decision not to slay him, I would not have him die in our camp.
“We are hobbits of the Shire,” he said in an elegant voice that reminded me of the elves. “Frodo Baggins is my name, and this is Samwise Gamgee.”
Sam had run at us with his small sword drawn as if he thought he had a chance against a band of soldiers all twice his height. I had to admit that I admired his selfless courage.
“Your bodyguard?” I asked with a grim smile.
“His gardener,” Sam said, looking at me in open scorn. Frodo was no longer listening. His eyes had taken on a faraway look, one that I recognized from watching soldiers who had just been dealt a deadly blow in battle but were in too much shock to realize it. Frodo staggered, and then sagged to his knees. He held his lower back with trembling hands. Sam was immediately on his knees beside him, holding him, looking at me with eyes bright with accusation.
“Please, Captain Faramir, he’s sick. He wasn’t sick before you came upon us, just tired…weary beyond hope…not eating or sleeping, he’s not, but this is different. I think he’s really sick.”
“Follow me,” I said. Perhaps after the halflings rested and had something to eat, I could question them more.
Sam helped Frodo move into the back of a cave where I bid them wait. Frodo lay on his back and stared at the ceiling in a pained gaze.
“I will bring food and drink for you,” I said “There are guards posted outside both for your safety and mine.”
“Do you have anything for pain?” Sam asked, his voice soft with pleading. His hand was on Frodo’s brow, and Frodo let out a small whimper, gasping for breath.
“What ails him?” I asked, my heart sinking. We had very few healing herbs. “Do you know?”
“He wasn’t sick before you came along,” Sam repeated, again turning accusing eyes to me.
“It’s my back,” Frodo said, opening his eyes. Such eyes were unheard of among mortals. So blue, filled with purity and fragile weariness.
I shook myself out of my thoughts and knelt beside him. “Let us have a look.” Sam tensed as I gently rolled Frodo onto his stomach. Frodo clutched the stone ground until his knuckles turned pale, gasping in new pain. I moved his cloak out of the way and gently lifted his shirt and vest so that I could see his bare back. I gasped at the sight of the angry black bruise that covered half his lower back.
“Was he injured?” I asked.
“One of your men threw him down hard,” Sam said, his eyes hardening at the sight of Frodo’s injury. “I saw it.”
“I think I hit a stone when I fell—“ Frodo managed.
“You didn’t fall, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said hoarsely. “That man lifted you and flung you down like you was nothing.”
I felt a surge of anger at Damrod, who thought nothing of using his massive strength to fling one so delicate to the ground. He could have easily subdued Frodo with much less force.
I sighed in dismay. These halflings should be sent immediately to Gondor to answer to my father, but I would not have Frodo die on the way. I would need to treat him myself.
TBC
Had a dream that I was watching a long clip from ROTK. Frodo and Sam were in some modern backdrop, only it was clearly Mordor because there were orcs and nasty things though some of the orcs were dressed like biker dudes. So, it showed the scene where Frodo and Sam encounter Shelob. Shelob looked rather cartoonish, like kind of the Rankin Bass spiders in The Hobbit. And after being bit, Frodo did not seem to have been affected at all. Then later, he and Sam were chatting and laughing (yep, so sure Frodo's going to have a lot to laugh about in Mordor) about something or other, and he just suddenly seemed to be in terrible pain, and he just collapsed, and the clip ended with Sam yelling in grief. Hmm....
Blame Lora for getting me started on thinking about my dreams, LOL.
Anyway, here is the first part of that angsty fic. I think it will be in two parts. Yep.
There is NO slash in this; just h/c.
Title: Faramir’s Choice 1/2
Author: Claudia
Rating: PG
Summary: Frodo has been hurt by his rough treatment by Faramir’s men.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Faramir’s Choice 1
I saw the glimmer of tears in the unnaturally large blue eyes of the fair, willowy halfling as his hands were yanked roughly behind him and bound. He did not plead or struggle now, though he had put up a fight with Damrod until the man had stilled him by flinging him to the ground like a doll. Now the halfling looked dazed and disoriented. The watery blue eyes disappeared as the blindfold was pushed roughly over his face.
“Let us start at once,” I said. “It is a several hour march to Henneth Annun.”
I heard neither squeak nor grunt from our prisoners, though I could not stop thinking about them.
“Who do you suppose they are?” I asked Mablung quietly. “They do not look ill-favored to me, though that skulking creature does, and he has given us the slip yet again.”
Mablung kept his voice low. “I have heard tales of halflings who live in holes in the north, but these prisoners we have taken are far from home. They have no doubt been bought by the Enemy and are working for orcs, spying for them.”
“Orc spies?” I said, not believing it. Something has brought these halflings so far from home, into the woods of Ithilien, so near the dark land.
A swift movement caught my eye and I turned to see Damrod sling the delicate halfling over his shoulder like a sack of onions.
“He has collapsed, Captain Faramir.”
“Our pace may be too swift for them. Let us slow it down for the other one.”
The rounder hobbit frantically twisted his blindfolded head behind him.
“Mr. Frodo?” he called in a frightened voice. “Mr. Frodo, are you all right?”
“Stay still!” His guide said, gripping his shoulders more firmly and pushing him forward.
“Please,” the halfling said. “He’s already so weary. Please don’t hurt him!”
I wanted to say something -- the concerned agony in his voice was painful to listen to -- but I could not, not in front of my men. At least not until I had satisfied my curiosity as to why these halflings were in this land. If they were spies of the Enemy, then they deserved to suffer, and they could rot in the dungeons of Minas Tirith for all I cared.
We reached Henneth Annun, and my men set the two halflings on the ground before me, yanking off their blindfolds and unbinding their hands. The delicate one, now conscious but clearly unwell, sagged against his stocky friend who put his arm around him in a protective manner.
“Please help him,” he said, his cheeks flushed. There was sharp suspicion in his eyes, but his concern for his friend gave him the courage to confront his captor.
“My men tell me you are orc spies,” I said, ignoring his plea. In times of war, one had to be particularly vigilant. The Enemy might know that my heart was easily moved by pity. I would not disappoint my father in this matter. I had already gone against orders by not bidding these prisoners slain. That I could not do. My heart told me there was more to their presence in Ithilien than met the eye.
“Now wait just a moment,” the stocky halfling said, his brow furrowing in anger. How open these halflings were with their every emotion!
“If you are not spies, then who are you? What are you doing in our land?”
The ailing halfling pulled away from his friend, trying to stand tall and bravely before me. He was breathing rapidly, and his face had a clammy sheen to it. He was truly ill and would need to be looked to. Having made the decision not to slay him, I would not have him die in our camp.
“We are hobbits of the Shire,” he said in an elegant voice that reminded me of the elves. “Frodo Baggins is my name, and this is Samwise Gamgee.”
Sam had run at us with his small sword drawn as if he thought he had a chance against a band of soldiers all twice his height. I had to admit that I admired his selfless courage.
“Your bodyguard?” I asked with a grim smile.
“His gardener,” Sam said, looking at me in open scorn. Frodo was no longer listening. His eyes had taken on a faraway look, one that I recognized from watching soldiers who had just been dealt a deadly blow in battle but were in too much shock to realize it. Frodo staggered, and then sagged to his knees. He held his lower back with trembling hands. Sam was immediately on his knees beside him, holding him, looking at me with eyes bright with accusation.
“Please, Captain Faramir, he’s sick. He wasn’t sick before you came upon us, just tired…weary beyond hope…not eating or sleeping, he’s not, but this is different. I think he’s really sick.”
“Follow me,” I said. Perhaps after the halflings rested and had something to eat, I could question them more.
Sam helped Frodo move into the back of a cave where I bid them wait. Frodo lay on his back and stared at the ceiling in a pained gaze.
“I will bring food and drink for you,” I said “There are guards posted outside both for your safety and mine.”
“Do you have anything for pain?” Sam asked, his voice soft with pleading. His hand was on Frodo’s brow, and Frodo let out a small whimper, gasping for breath.
“What ails him?” I asked, my heart sinking. We had very few healing herbs. “Do you know?”
“He wasn’t sick before you came along,” Sam repeated, again turning accusing eyes to me.
“It’s my back,” Frodo said, opening his eyes. Such eyes were unheard of among mortals. So blue, filled with purity and fragile weariness.
I shook myself out of my thoughts and knelt beside him. “Let us have a look.” Sam tensed as I gently rolled Frodo onto his stomach. Frodo clutched the stone ground until his knuckles turned pale, gasping in new pain. I moved his cloak out of the way and gently lifted his shirt and vest so that I could see his bare back. I gasped at the sight of the angry black bruise that covered half his lower back.
“Was he injured?” I asked.
“One of your men threw him down hard,” Sam said, his eyes hardening at the sight of Frodo’s injury. “I saw it.”
“I think I hit a stone when I fell—“ Frodo managed.
“You didn’t fall, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said hoarsely. “That man lifted you and flung you down like you was nothing.”
I felt a surge of anger at Damrod, who thought nothing of using his massive strength to fling one so delicate to the ground. He could have easily subdued Frodo with much less force.
I sighed in dismay. These halflings should be sent immediately to Gondor to answer to my father, but I would not have Frodo die on the way. I would need to treat him myself.
TBC
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Re:
Date: 2003-01-02 06:20 pm (UTC)