Winds Over Eriador, part 6
Dec. 12th, 2004 01:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
claudia603Title: Winds Over Eriador
Author: Claudia
Pairing: various (main: Frodo/Faramir, Frodo/Aragorn, Pippin/Faramir(unrequited), Merry/Pippin...)
Rating: series varies
Summary: note. This is a crossover fic (sort of, since it all takes place in Middle Earth with Tolkien characters) between LOTR and Gone with the Wind. This is such complete crack -- but I'm having a blast writing it! (I love all you enablers, by the way!)
Warnings in this chapter: AU
This chapter has both Frodo's and Pippin's POV.
Frodohealers who don't mind mild slash will probably find something fun in here ;-)
Previous parts:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Pippin’s youthful heart soared with joy as he leaned over the booth in downtown Bree filled with scrumptious hobbity treats. He sniffed in the curling steam from the mushroom pies. He was among people again, actually somewhere other than Frodo and Bilbo’s sedate home or the healing cottage. He was actually somewhere where he didn’t need to be serious or worry about doing something wrong. This was the biggest party that Bree had ever seen.
The Rangers of the North were set to march into battle to meet Gondor’s armies at daybreak. Faramir had returned from his scouting mission, if only for one maddening night, only to have to be ripped from them again at daybreak. Pippin’s heart had crushed at the sight of him dropping to both knees to smother Frodo in frenzied kisses. Then the couple had retired to their bedroom until it was time for them all to come to the party, which was not really a party but rather an affair to raise enough money to buy herbs and supplies for the healing cottage. Pippin could see all over Frodo’s face just how it pained him to leave Faramir for even a moment of the time he was in Bree, but every hobbit hand was needed and now that he was helping Pippin, he made sure not to show any sign of discontent.
Pippin sank down on the little stool behind the booth and looked up and down the street, which until this afternoon had been nearly empty. The hobbits of Bree had worked furiously to bring it to its present beauty. Paper lanterns were strung up and down the streets. Pots of flowers were placed along it. Decorated booths with mostly scrumptious foods, as well as other items, such as fireworks that Gandalf had provided, toys from Dale, and mathoms of every imaginable kind. Pippin took from his pocket a pair of cuff links. Merry had given them to him, to remember him by. Pippin stared at the cuff links and tried to evoke his cousin’s face – his eager and earnest eyes, his low, determined voice. He could picture him perfectly clearly, but he could not seem to make himself care. Merry and the rest of the archers had remained in the Shire, just in case an invasion should occur.
He peered behind the booth and saw Captain Halbarad mounting the platform that the hobbits had decorated for the purpose of music. Those who played instruments had not yet arrived, which made Pippin itch for music all the more. Halbarad shouted orders, and the Men of Bree, who had trained for months, fell into line. An awed hush fell over the folk of Bree who watched. They went through a brisk drill that brought perspiration to the brows of the men and caused applause from those watching. Pippin clapped vehemently, determined not to reveal how bored he really was by all this talk of battle.
Pippin turned to Frodo. “They looked good, didn’t they?”
Frodo’s cheeks were flushed, and his blue eyes almost black with ire. “Most of them would look a lot better in armor and ready to march into the wilderness with the Rangers.”
Several hobbits and old men close by overheard the remark and turned to stare. Pippin was aghast that such words had sprung from Frodo’s lips, of all hobbits. He had rarely seen Frodo so irked.
“Frodo!”
“You know it’s true, Pippin. I don’t mean the little boys and the old men. But these men are well trained now, perfectly able to use a sword in battle -- and that’s what they ought to be doing.”
“But—but—“ began Pippin who had never considered the matter. “Someone’s got to stay here and protect—“
“Nobody’s invading Bree, and they won’t,” Frodo said. “And the best way to keep out invaders is to fight now. I’ll bet we could beat Gondor in a month if all these Bree men in arms went to fight at daybreak.”
“Frodo,” Pippin said again, not sure how to answer.
Frodo’s blue eyes flashed angrily. “Faramir is not afraid to go, and nor is Merry, and I’d rather they both be dead than here at home—Oh, Pippin.” Frodo’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”
He stroked Pippin’s arm soothingly, his head bowed in quiet shame, and Pippin stared at him. Frodo sincerely believed that Pippin was worried about Merry, but it was not Merry that he was thinking of. It was Faramir. Suppose he was to die in battle? He could not consider it. Now, even with Faramir belonging to Frodo, there was always hope that someday things might change. Or even if not, he could still spend hours staring at Faramir in the soft lantern light of Bilbo and Frodo’s sitting room, taking in every detail of his golden handsome face, his soft gray eyes, his broad shoulders.
***
Frodo watched the Rangers as they rode their horses down Bree’s main road from his bedroom. He could not bear to join the crowds outside who cheered and threw flowers.
Faramir had just bid him tearful farewell, and now Frodo’s chest felt sunken and aching, as if he had been punched in the belly again and again.
“Do not fear, sweetheart,” Faramir had said, cradling Frodo close to his chest, breathing in his scent as if there might never be another chance. “I promise you, I shall return.” He kissed Frodo.
The cold lump in Frodo’s throat prevented him from swallowing. If he did not return…Frodo could not even conceive of such a matter. He could not allow his mind to wrap itself around it.
Faramir pushed something cold and hard into Frodo’s hand and folded Frodo’s fingers over it. “Keep this as token of my love,” Faramir said.
Frodo looked inside his hand and then looked up. “Your mother’s broach!”
Faramir swallowed. “Keep it safe for me. I do not want it on the dark road before me.”
“I shall treasure it each day,” Frodo said, his eyes filling with tears. “But do not speak as though you might not return.” He ran to his bureau where he grabbed a pair of scissors. He cut a thick curl from his head and brought it back to Faramir. “Here. Take this with you. It will bring you luck.”
“I shall keep it close always,” Faramir said, fingering the curl as if it were the finest silk. He put it inside a small leather pouch that hung from his belt.
So now Frodo sat at the window, watching the Rangers ride out of Bree on tall horses, fingering Faramir’s broach, clutching it so tightly that the sharp edges cut into his fingers.
***
Frodo crumbled athelas into a bowl of heated water. As the leaves hit the water, a refreshing aroma wafted upward, clearing Frodo’s nostrils and bringing him much needed peace. He smiled, despite an uncomfortable queasiness in his stomach. He would have preferred to remain in bed, but Aragorn had told him that some injured Rangers were expected as soon as this evening and that they needed all the help they could get. Frodo’s stomach rolled again, and his hands began to shake. Perhaps he might beg Aragorn to let him go home to rest for a time and then he could return when the Rangers arrived.
Please – let it not be Faramir.
But then again, they were injured, not dead. And if Faramir were injured, then he could not be in battle with risk to his life. So Frodo changed his mind and hoped for Faramir to be injured, even maimed for life. Frodo would cheerfully care for him the rest of his days.
A harsh voice tore him out of his thoughts. “What are you doing, hobbit?”
Frodo startled, glancing up in shock as large, impatient hands grabbed the remaining athelas out of his hands. Halbarad held the remaining leaves, breathing hard as he examined them, his lean face flushed with anger. Frodo’s brow beaded with clammy sweat, and ice filled his stomach. Such harsh voices often came before violence, as far as Frodo’s limited experience with Men had been.
It’s that little rat that has it!
Huge, thudding – all of Bag End shook – steps and then three hulking figures bore down on him – right in the sitting room. He did not feel them lift him but he was suddenly slammed on the floor and a heavy foot slammed down on his chest. He cried out.
Where is it?
Frodo could not breathe. I … I don’t have…
Another boot slammed into his side, causing sheer pain, and he heard something cracked. The voices of the Men boomed in and out of his consciousness as blow after blow rained on him and only vaguely did he hear Bilbo’s strangled cry, I’ve got it – I’ve got it. Take it – only stop hurting him!
And now here was this other Man, this Ranger that everyone revered because of how well he had trained the Bree men for battle, hulking above him speaking in a harsh voice.
“How much of that leaf did you put in that bowl already?” Halbarad demanded. Frodo swayed, consumed by dizziness and a nausea that surged up his throat. He swallowed frantically, and he still could not speak.
“Half of the leaf?” Halbarad sighed impatiently. “We do not have the men to go into the wilderness to seek for more, and it will be dangerous in the coming weeks to send anyone out. You are not to use more than one-quarter of a leaf. Do I make myself clear?”
Frodo jumped past him, stumbling to the door, covering his mouth with his sleeve. He was going to vomit and he was not certain he would make it outside of the cottage.
Aragorn stepped inside the cottage at that moment, and Frodo brushed past him. Now both men would be angry with him. “What has happened?” Aragorn asked, as Frodo pushed out the door. Frodo fell to his knees on the front stoop of the healing cottage and vomited several times, gasping for breath, and he could vaguely hear Halbarad’s voice, “I did not mean to frighten him, but the hobbit used a whole leaf in one bowl. Aragorn, we cannot have this kind of waste.”
Aragorn pushed his way outside and Frodo felt strong hands grasp his shoulders.
“I am sorry,” Frodo managed, retching again. “I did not realize…” He lifted his face, and the chilly winter air only made him feel slightly better. He shivered violently.
“Frodo?” Aragorn’s voice was low and soothing. “I shall take you home. You should have told me you were ill.”
“You need me,” Frodo murmured. “The Rangers…”
“I need you when you are well. I’ve no use for you if you are seriously ill.”
“Faramir…”
“Fear not. I do not think Faramir is in this group. We would have heard by now.”
Frodo was too weak to protest. Aragorn lifted him, and he sagged limply against Aragorn’s chest, unable to keep his eyes open. He wanted nothing more than to lie under the covers in his cozy cottage. His head throbbed so badly now that he yearned for a cool wet cloth on his brow as well.
“I am sorry about the athelas,” Frodo managed.
“Hush, you had no way to know. I am sorry about Halbarad. He is a dear friend and a good Man, but years of wandering the wild has made him less gentle than he could be. No harm is done.”
When Aragorn reached Frodo and Bilbo’s cottage, Bilbo flung open the door. Bilbo paled when he saw how ill Frodo was. “Oh, Strider, it’s not the old injuries, is it? Oh, dear, what has happened? Bring him in, quickly…”
“He grew ill at the hospital. I doubt it was the old injuries. It seemed to come on suddenly. No doubt he is exhausted and it has made him susceptible to illness.”
“I knew it,” Bilbo said, leading Aragorn to Frodo and Faramir’s bedroom. “I’ve told him he must eat, he must not let his health slide just because Captain Faramir is gone.”
“Has he been ill like this awhile?” Aragorn asked sharply.
“He’s not been himself since Faramir left.”
“You need not speak about me as if I can’t hear,” Frodo said. “I am all right. I just…I just must have eaten something disagreeable.”
“Eaten?” Bilbo snorted. “You’ve not touched a thing on your plate in three days. I fear Captain Faramir may be taking all your hobbit sense away.”
Aragorn settled Frodo in his bed, plumping the pillows before sliding them under Frodo’s head and putting the blanket over him. Bilbo brought a wet towel for his head, and Aragorn took it from him, setting it on Frodo’s brow.
He spoke sternly. “You must take care of yourself. We need you in the healing cottage, but it is not worth your health. It would be a cruel stroke of fate if Faramir survived the battle and you did not. You must stay in bed for three days before I will allow you back to the cottage. Understood?”
Frodo nodded weakly. “But all the injured…”
“Pippin is there, as is Nob and Tom Pickthorn and plenty of other hobbits.”
“I feel better knowing that Pippin is there,” Frodo said with a gentle smile. As he began to drowse, his eyelids fluttered closed. “He is so fond of Faramir…he will take good care of him if he is in that group of injured Rangers.”
Aragorn stooped over Frodo and kissed his brow. “Now rest.”
Go on to next part
Author: Claudia
Pairing: various (main: Frodo/Faramir, Frodo/Aragorn, Pippin/Faramir(unrequited), Merry/Pippin...)
Rating: series varies
Summary: note. This is a crossover fic (sort of, since it all takes place in Middle Earth with Tolkien characters) between LOTR and Gone with the Wind. This is such complete crack -- but I'm having a blast writing it! (I love all you enablers, by the way!)
Warnings in this chapter: AU
This chapter has both Frodo's and Pippin's POV.
Frodohealers who don't mind mild slash will probably find something fun in here ;-)
Previous parts:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Pippin’s youthful heart soared with joy as he leaned over the booth in downtown Bree filled with scrumptious hobbity treats. He sniffed in the curling steam from the mushroom pies. He was among people again, actually somewhere other than Frodo and Bilbo’s sedate home or the healing cottage. He was actually somewhere where he didn’t need to be serious or worry about doing something wrong. This was the biggest party that Bree had ever seen.
The Rangers of the North were set to march into battle to meet Gondor’s armies at daybreak. Faramir had returned from his scouting mission, if only for one maddening night, only to have to be ripped from them again at daybreak. Pippin’s heart had crushed at the sight of him dropping to both knees to smother Frodo in frenzied kisses. Then the couple had retired to their bedroom until it was time for them all to come to the party, which was not really a party but rather an affair to raise enough money to buy herbs and supplies for the healing cottage. Pippin could see all over Frodo’s face just how it pained him to leave Faramir for even a moment of the time he was in Bree, but every hobbit hand was needed and now that he was helping Pippin, he made sure not to show any sign of discontent.
Pippin sank down on the little stool behind the booth and looked up and down the street, which until this afternoon had been nearly empty. The hobbits of Bree had worked furiously to bring it to its present beauty. Paper lanterns were strung up and down the streets. Pots of flowers were placed along it. Decorated booths with mostly scrumptious foods, as well as other items, such as fireworks that Gandalf had provided, toys from Dale, and mathoms of every imaginable kind. Pippin took from his pocket a pair of cuff links. Merry had given them to him, to remember him by. Pippin stared at the cuff links and tried to evoke his cousin’s face – his eager and earnest eyes, his low, determined voice. He could picture him perfectly clearly, but he could not seem to make himself care. Merry and the rest of the archers had remained in the Shire, just in case an invasion should occur.
He peered behind the booth and saw Captain Halbarad mounting the platform that the hobbits had decorated for the purpose of music. Those who played instruments had not yet arrived, which made Pippin itch for music all the more. Halbarad shouted orders, and the Men of Bree, who had trained for months, fell into line. An awed hush fell over the folk of Bree who watched. They went through a brisk drill that brought perspiration to the brows of the men and caused applause from those watching. Pippin clapped vehemently, determined not to reveal how bored he really was by all this talk of battle.
Pippin turned to Frodo. “They looked good, didn’t they?”
Frodo’s cheeks were flushed, and his blue eyes almost black with ire. “Most of them would look a lot better in armor and ready to march into the wilderness with the Rangers.”
Several hobbits and old men close by overheard the remark and turned to stare. Pippin was aghast that such words had sprung from Frodo’s lips, of all hobbits. He had rarely seen Frodo so irked.
“Frodo!”
“You know it’s true, Pippin. I don’t mean the little boys and the old men. But these men are well trained now, perfectly able to use a sword in battle -- and that’s what they ought to be doing.”
“But—but—“ began Pippin who had never considered the matter. “Someone’s got to stay here and protect—“
“Nobody’s invading Bree, and they won’t,” Frodo said. “And the best way to keep out invaders is to fight now. I’ll bet we could beat Gondor in a month if all these Bree men in arms went to fight at daybreak.”
“Frodo,” Pippin said again, not sure how to answer.
Frodo’s blue eyes flashed angrily. “Faramir is not afraid to go, and nor is Merry, and I’d rather they both be dead than here at home—Oh, Pippin.” Frodo’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”
He stroked Pippin’s arm soothingly, his head bowed in quiet shame, and Pippin stared at him. Frodo sincerely believed that Pippin was worried about Merry, but it was not Merry that he was thinking of. It was Faramir. Suppose he was to die in battle? He could not consider it. Now, even with Faramir belonging to Frodo, there was always hope that someday things might change. Or even if not, he could still spend hours staring at Faramir in the soft lantern light of Bilbo and Frodo’s sitting room, taking in every detail of his golden handsome face, his soft gray eyes, his broad shoulders.
***
Frodo watched the Rangers as they rode their horses down Bree’s main road from his bedroom. He could not bear to join the crowds outside who cheered and threw flowers.
Faramir had just bid him tearful farewell, and now Frodo’s chest felt sunken and aching, as if he had been punched in the belly again and again.
“Do not fear, sweetheart,” Faramir had said, cradling Frodo close to his chest, breathing in his scent as if there might never be another chance. “I promise you, I shall return.” He kissed Frodo.
The cold lump in Frodo’s throat prevented him from swallowing. If he did not return…Frodo could not even conceive of such a matter. He could not allow his mind to wrap itself around it.
Faramir pushed something cold and hard into Frodo’s hand and folded Frodo’s fingers over it. “Keep this as token of my love,” Faramir said.
Frodo looked inside his hand and then looked up. “Your mother’s broach!”
Faramir swallowed. “Keep it safe for me. I do not want it on the dark road before me.”
“I shall treasure it each day,” Frodo said, his eyes filling with tears. “But do not speak as though you might not return.” He ran to his bureau where he grabbed a pair of scissors. He cut a thick curl from his head and brought it back to Faramir. “Here. Take this with you. It will bring you luck.”
“I shall keep it close always,” Faramir said, fingering the curl as if it were the finest silk. He put it inside a small leather pouch that hung from his belt.
So now Frodo sat at the window, watching the Rangers ride out of Bree on tall horses, fingering Faramir’s broach, clutching it so tightly that the sharp edges cut into his fingers.
***
Frodo crumbled athelas into a bowl of heated water. As the leaves hit the water, a refreshing aroma wafted upward, clearing Frodo’s nostrils and bringing him much needed peace. He smiled, despite an uncomfortable queasiness in his stomach. He would have preferred to remain in bed, but Aragorn had told him that some injured Rangers were expected as soon as this evening and that they needed all the help they could get. Frodo’s stomach rolled again, and his hands began to shake. Perhaps he might beg Aragorn to let him go home to rest for a time and then he could return when the Rangers arrived.
Please – let it not be Faramir.
But then again, they were injured, not dead. And if Faramir were injured, then he could not be in battle with risk to his life. So Frodo changed his mind and hoped for Faramir to be injured, even maimed for life. Frodo would cheerfully care for him the rest of his days.
A harsh voice tore him out of his thoughts. “What are you doing, hobbit?”
Frodo startled, glancing up in shock as large, impatient hands grabbed the remaining athelas out of his hands. Halbarad held the remaining leaves, breathing hard as he examined them, his lean face flushed with anger. Frodo’s brow beaded with clammy sweat, and ice filled his stomach. Such harsh voices often came before violence, as far as Frodo’s limited experience with Men had been.
It’s that little rat that has it!
Huge, thudding – all of Bag End shook – steps and then three hulking figures bore down on him – right in the sitting room. He did not feel them lift him but he was suddenly slammed on the floor and a heavy foot slammed down on his chest. He cried out.
Where is it?
Frodo could not breathe. I … I don’t have…
Another boot slammed into his side, causing sheer pain, and he heard something cracked. The voices of the Men boomed in and out of his consciousness as blow after blow rained on him and only vaguely did he hear Bilbo’s strangled cry, I’ve got it – I’ve got it. Take it – only stop hurting him!
And now here was this other Man, this Ranger that everyone revered because of how well he had trained the Bree men for battle, hulking above him speaking in a harsh voice.
“How much of that leaf did you put in that bowl already?” Halbarad demanded. Frodo swayed, consumed by dizziness and a nausea that surged up his throat. He swallowed frantically, and he still could not speak.
“Half of the leaf?” Halbarad sighed impatiently. “We do not have the men to go into the wilderness to seek for more, and it will be dangerous in the coming weeks to send anyone out. You are not to use more than one-quarter of a leaf. Do I make myself clear?”
Frodo jumped past him, stumbling to the door, covering his mouth with his sleeve. He was going to vomit and he was not certain he would make it outside of the cottage.
Aragorn stepped inside the cottage at that moment, and Frodo brushed past him. Now both men would be angry with him. “What has happened?” Aragorn asked, as Frodo pushed out the door. Frodo fell to his knees on the front stoop of the healing cottage and vomited several times, gasping for breath, and he could vaguely hear Halbarad’s voice, “I did not mean to frighten him, but the hobbit used a whole leaf in one bowl. Aragorn, we cannot have this kind of waste.”
Aragorn pushed his way outside and Frodo felt strong hands grasp his shoulders.
“I am sorry,” Frodo managed, retching again. “I did not realize…” He lifted his face, and the chilly winter air only made him feel slightly better. He shivered violently.
“Frodo?” Aragorn’s voice was low and soothing. “I shall take you home. You should have told me you were ill.”
“You need me,” Frodo murmured. “The Rangers…”
“I need you when you are well. I’ve no use for you if you are seriously ill.”
“Faramir…”
“Fear not. I do not think Faramir is in this group. We would have heard by now.”
Frodo was too weak to protest. Aragorn lifted him, and he sagged limply against Aragorn’s chest, unable to keep his eyes open. He wanted nothing more than to lie under the covers in his cozy cottage. His head throbbed so badly now that he yearned for a cool wet cloth on his brow as well.
“I am sorry about the athelas,” Frodo managed.
“Hush, you had no way to know. I am sorry about Halbarad. He is a dear friend and a good Man, but years of wandering the wild has made him less gentle than he could be. No harm is done.”
When Aragorn reached Frodo and Bilbo’s cottage, Bilbo flung open the door. Bilbo paled when he saw how ill Frodo was. “Oh, Strider, it’s not the old injuries, is it? Oh, dear, what has happened? Bring him in, quickly…”
“He grew ill at the hospital. I doubt it was the old injuries. It seemed to come on suddenly. No doubt he is exhausted and it has made him susceptible to illness.”
“I knew it,” Bilbo said, leading Aragorn to Frodo and Faramir’s bedroom. “I’ve told him he must eat, he must not let his health slide just because Captain Faramir is gone.”
“Has he been ill like this awhile?” Aragorn asked sharply.
“He’s not been himself since Faramir left.”
“You need not speak about me as if I can’t hear,” Frodo said. “I am all right. I just…I just must have eaten something disagreeable.”
“Eaten?” Bilbo snorted. “You’ve not touched a thing on your plate in three days. I fear Captain Faramir may be taking all your hobbit sense away.”
Aragorn settled Frodo in his bed, plumping the pillows before sliding them under Frodo’s head and putting the blanket over him. Bilbo brought a wet towel for his head, and Aragorn took it from him, setting it on Frodo’s brow.
He spoke sternly. “You must take care of yourself. We need you in the healing cottage, but it is not worth your health. It would be a cruel stroke of fate if Faramir survived the battle and you did not. You must stay in bed for three days before I will allow you back to the cottage. Understood?”
Frodo nodded weakly. “But all the injured…”
“Pippin is there, as is Nob and Tom Pickthorn and plenty of other hobbits.”
“I feel better knowing that Pippin is there,” Frodo said with a gentle smile. As he began to drowse, his eyelids fluttered closed. “He is so fond of Faramir…he will take good care of him if he is in that group of injured Rangers.”
Aragorn stooped over Frodo and kissed his brow. “Now rest.”
Go on to next part