Clear Shot 5

[claudia603]

Title: The Clear Shot
Author: Claudia
Rating: PG13
Summary: Faramir and Boromir are on a hunting trip just inside the Shire. Boromir accidentally shoots a hobbit…
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Story Notes: Yikes! Another young!injured!Frodo! What’s wrong with me? :-)

And for purpose of story, Frodo and Faramir and Boromir are about the same age, in their early twenties…



The Clear Shot 5


Faramir shook himself out of his icy shock. No…not shock. It had been a miracle the halfling had survived as long as he had with such a grievous wound. But Faramir had mistakenly taken it as a good omen that they had made it to Bree with Frodo still alive. His limbs trembled, but he felt detached, as if were watching himself from afar. He broke out of his paralysis. The healer was still in sight…had just reached the end of the corridor.

“Healer!” Faramir shouted hoarsely, running after him. “Healer!”

The weary older man turned to face Faramir, his hand still on the knob of the door at the end of the corridor, his bloodshot eyes barely open. “What is it?”

“The halfling…” Faramir’s voice cracked, and he bit the insides of his cheeks, striving desperately to keep his impending tears in check. He hadn’t openly cried since he was a lad of nine or ten summers and the only time he had seen Boromir cry was when their mother died. “I wish to see him.”

“Sir, your hobbit friend is dead, and when anyone, Man or hobbit, in Bree dies under such violent circumstances, I am only allowed by law to release him to his family…” He smiled grimly. “And I can safely say that you’re not family.”

Faramir shook his head, unable to believe what he had just heard. He had left the frightened, hurt halfling under the care of these healers, who had allowed him to die alone, with no familiar faces surrounding him. Now this same healer would deny Faramir a moment alone with him?

“But his family’s in the Shire, and it will be days before they can come.” Faramir’s voice cracked as he pleaded. “He’s alone in there…didn’t want to come here…Please allow me to sit beside him…give me just a moment…it’s the least I can do.” A cold, iron ball filled his stomach. His breath caught as he freshly grasped that the charming dark-haired halfling would never again open his elven blue eyes, would never again laugh or read a book. “Please allow me to bid him farewell. He is my friend.”

The healer shook his head firmly. “I cannot. But if you’d truly like to help him, send a message to his family to fetch him. Go to the Prancing Pony. Old Butterbur there will know of a hobbit willing to go to the Shire this morning. When his family arrives, they can grant you permission to see him. Believe me, he’s not going anywhere and he isn’t going to know whether or not you’re sitting beside him. As for me, I am weary beyond measure and I still have others to treat, other men and hobbits, several more of whom may die before the night’s finished.” He shook his head and a bitter frown took his features. “Damn those savage ruffians…stirring up this kind of bad trouble in our village and hurting innocents. I am sorry about your friend, but you must excuse me now, sir.”

Before Faramir could say anything more, the healer went through the door, gently letting it close on Faramir’s face. Faramir stood for several black moments, his throat strangled with fresh grief, his jaw stiff. His grief did not stem from guilt alone. Faramir was an excellent judge of men…or hobbits in this case, always had been, and in the short time he had spent with Frodo, he had come to recognize in him a kindred spirit. Faramir had enjoyed few close friends in his life, due to his position in life. Being a son of the Steward, even the less favored son, did not lend many opportunities to meet a variety of people. If he had met Frodo under different circumstances, he was certain that they would have forged a deep friendship. He closed his eyes, bitterly regretting the events that had led to Frodo’s death. If only Frodo had chosen a different route for his walk…if only Faramir and Boromir had not wandered into the Shire…if only Faramir had grabbed Boromir’s arm before he had shot the arrow…

Faramir walked with heavy steps to where his brother was still soundly sleeping. He paused, reluctant to give him the news. This would be a sore blow for him. Faramir shook him awake. “Boromir.”

Boromir’s eyes opened, and he looked wildly around his surroundings, trying to orient himself. Finally he looked questioningly at his brother. “What is it?”

“We must go.”

“But the halfling?…”

“He did not survive.”

Boromir’s face crumpled, and he held his hands over his face. “Oh, no. Oh, no.” He looked up, his face pale and haggard. “But…we…we brought him…he was alive.”

“We did all we could,” Faramir said through clenched teeth, placing his hand on Boromir’s shoulder. “We did all we could to save him.”

Faramir was shocked to see Boromir weeping. “I shall never…never shoot again unless an orc stands right before me. I’d do anything to have that moment to relive again.”

Faramir spoke in a soft voice, trying to keep it steady for his brother’s benefit. “Now we must go to the local inn and send a message to the Shire, to Bilbo Baggins.”

Boromir stood, and Faramir had never seen his face so pale. “Where is Frodo? I wish to see him.”

“The healer will only allow his family to see him. It is a law in Bree.”

Boromir flushed, and Faramir saw the stubborn warrior coming back. “They will allow the son of Gondor in.”

“No, Boromir,” Faramir said softly. “Let us not be careless. It breaks me, as well, inside that I can’t bid him farewell—“

Boromir turned to his brother, his voice suddenly harsh. “You know nothing of what I will have to live with the rest of my life…It is I who shot him…I killed him…it’s like killing an innocent child…I must see him…at least he is in peace…no longer in pain…” Boromir turned away, and Faramir knew his brother would rather wish himself dead than show weakness, even in front of his own brother.

“Come, Boromir,” Faramir said softly. “We must quickly send a message to Bilbo, to at least spare him the pain of uncertainty. After that, there is little point to us remaining.”

***


Dear Bilbo Baggins:

It is with great regret and sorrow that we bring tidings of the death of Frodo Baggins.

We traveled far from the city of Minas Tirith. While in your country, regretfully, my brother mistook Frodo for a deer and shot him, injuring him gravely. We did all we could to spare him pain and we brought him swiftly to Bree to a healer. The healer tried to save him, but his injury was too grave.

In the short time I spent with Frodo, he touched my heart deeply, and I shall never forget him. Having to be the bearer of such news grieves me more than I can express. My brother and I cannot express our remorse and shame enough. Perhaps if you saw with your own eyes the weeping of two warrior men, you might believe us.

While we not know too much about the ways of hobbits, we wish to send you a generous gift when we reach our home. It is not our intention to insult you or to add salt to the wound. We are all too aware that there is nothing we can do to bring Frodo back.

Again, we express all of our sorrow and regret.

Faramir



***

Bilbo had not slept in days. The sun rose every day, bringing with it the continuation of the nightmare. Gandalf had combed much of the Shire, following his intuition in seeking signs of where the young hobbit could have gone. Almost every evening he reported back with no news. While Gandalf was gone, Bilbo had gone from neighbor to neighbor. He had sent one of the Gamgee lads to Buckland to inquire whether Frodo had decided to spend time with his cousins, though Bilbo had no hope in that. Frodo was far too considerate to disappear without leaving word.

That evening, Gandalf came back after a day’s search, his face grave. “I want you to sit down, Bilbo. I’ve found something quite disturbing.”

“What is it?” Bilbo asked, rubbing his hands together but not sitting down. A loud buzzing had filled his ears. “Is it Frodo?”

“Perhaps.” Gandalf gently pushed Bilbo’s shoulders, forcing him to sit down. Bilbo looked up at the wizard, shaking so badly he thought he might vomit. “I have found his pack and a book…” Bilbo started to grab it, but Gandalf held it out of reach, staring at Bilbo with his eyebrows bent in warning. “One moment! You should know first that there is blood on the book…quite a bit of it.”

Bilbo cried out in hoarse grief as Gandalf allowed him to hold the book that Frodo had taken with him that morning. The old hobbit began to weep, covering his eyes. The tears slipped through his fingers and landed on the book, wetting the dried blood on the cover. Bilbo absentmindedly rubbed his finger over the blood…Frodo’s blood. The thought took his breath away, causing his heart to hammer in cold fear.

He looked up. “He’s injured somewhere, Gandalf, and I’m not there to take care of him. This is the worst news possible! I must do something…but what?”

“Not necessarily the worst,” Gandalf said, staring thoughtfully out the round window. “Frodo was not there, which means that he may have injured himself but was able to find help. He may be at a nearby home or village, perhaps unconscious and unable to send word to you.”

“Gandalf, do you think he’s alive? Is there hope?”

“Yes,” Gandalf nodded and managed a smile at Bilbo. “Yes, there is always hope.”

***

Breathing took more effort than ever before. There was pressure on his chest and stomach, and he could barely open his eyes. He had lost track of the time since he had been placed on the bed in Bree’s only healing house. Through half opened eyes, he saw the blurry visage of two concerned faces, one older and one younger, and felt their nimble fingers tugging, cutting at his already raw, burning stomach. He groaned, but when he tried to shift position, he found that he was too weak.

“…give him more…he’s waking…”

“…will kill him…”

“He’s still…miracle…bleeding, though, or he will…”

“…other hobbit…sad way to die.”

“…listen carefully…you to give…hold him…the bleeding will be heavy.”

“Bilbo!” Frodo cried. A flare of new pain streaked across his stomach, rendering him breathless. Tears sprang to his eyes.

“He’s certainly waking…” The voices were clear now. “…hold his shoulders, make certain he does not move.”

“Where…” Frodo began. “Where are the men…” He could finally open his eyes all the way. He was first aware that the arrow no longer protruded from his stomach, though there was blood everywhere, soaked onto several towels, his white shirt, the sheets in which he lay. He was so weak that he could not move without bringing a shocking wave of dizziness over him. All that blood…all his, when it did not seem he could spare any of it. “Men…they…brought me here…said they’d take me…home…”

The older man blanched, nearly dropping the fresh towels he had brought to press over Frodo’s wound. He turned to his younger assistant. “Oh, no,” he whispered and closed his eyes. “I’ve made a dreadful mistake. How could I have…How could I have forgotten that those men carried this hobbit in, not poor little Sam Thornapple?” The older healer shook his head. “Everything’s been such a blur.” He opened his eyes slowly before turning to his assistant again. “Run quickly and see if you can find those two young men still! I wish I could spare you to run to old Butterbur’s, but I can’t…we’ve too much to take care of here still…well, even if a message gets sent to this fellow’s relatives by accident, we’ll soon straighten it out, and at least they’ll be given a pleasant surprise instead of the other way around.”

“Where are the men?” Frodo asked. “Did they leave me?”

“Don’t you fret,” the healer said. “This is all my fault. Mr. Thornapple’d just died and I was taking it hard…I find it very difficult to lose a hobbit…you fellows are so merry and peaceful…anyway, I’d forgotten who brought in whom, and I told those men you were dead.”

“Told them…you told them I was dead?”

“Now, don’t strain yourself, little one. You’re not out of danger yourself. I just got that arrow out of you and you’re…oh, look at you. Blood’s soaked through this whole towel.”

A wave of dizziness hit Frodo, and he closed his eyes. He was too weak to fully contemplate how bad the grave young man must feel thinking the hobbit he had carried for almost two days and had tried so valiantly to save had not survived. So much talking and questioning had exhausted him, and the pain inched over his abdomen, throbbing and pinching, bringing fresh tears to his eyes. Each time he took in a breath, he felt blood seep into the towels covering his wound. At least the arrow was out. He longed for Bilbo. He was tired of seeing so many humans towering over him, with their booming voices and clumsy, loud feet. He would give anything to hear the barely discernible padding of Bilbo’s feet and his soothing voice.

TBC

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