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May. 26th, 2007 | 11:23 pm
posted by: smaugs_mommy in frolijah_angst

Summary: In Ithilien, Frodo is taken captive by the Haradrim and rescued by Faramir.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone. Wish I did ;).
Rated: Pg 13
AN:This very short last chapter is for i_o_r_h_a_e_l - as is the rest of the story, because without her drabble this story would not have been written.
Thank you niphrandl for donating a title when I could not think of one.

Warning: unbeta-ed. Will read through the whole of the story for continuity and coherence one day soon. It would be great if somebody could have a look at it for spelling and grammar issues when I have done so.

Links to previous chapters:
Chapter one – by Iorhael
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six, part one,
Chapter six, part two
Chapter seven, part one
Chapter seven, part two
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven

In Rohan, fires spread in the gloom of a sunrise darkened by the rising evil in the East. Like fireflies, burning the brightest in the last moments of their life, sparks flew across the dark landscape, igniting gems of fiery destruction wherever they landed: on thatched roofs and hay carts, dry grass, wooden interiors. The fires turned corners, entered through bashed-in doors, feasted on laundry lines and wooden window frames, swept over rugs and blankets. It climbed in through windows and chimneys, inexorably filling the air with the smell of things not meant to burn: birds and rats, cribs and duvets, hair and skin.

There was no fire in the cavern, and the torches of Henneth Annun had been extinguished to conceal any evidence of humans hiding in the rock. Only a few candles guttering in a niche threw dim circles of light on Frodo’s dark hair, on his lashes quivering with uneasy dreams, on Sam’s hands around his hips, on Sam’s forehead, half-hidden by blankets and furs and on the ring that cast its own eerie glimmer.
There was no fire, and yet Frodo seemed to be burning up, and Faramir feared that in allowing the hobbit to journey on, he had made a terrible mistake.

Light began to seep in through the cave door, and then the veil of water itself emerged from the grey shadows, growing clearer as the hours of the early morning passed by. It murmured and whispered, aloof, indifferent, cold. Still, with the light came the trembling breath of early spring, filling the cavern with the fresh scents of earth, wet bark and herbs rippled tenderly by the wind.
Faramir remained bent over Frodo, one hand on the warm brow, the other resting on the halfling’s heart that was beating too fast, but regularly at last. He knew he would have to wake the halflings soon, rip them out of the sweet darkness they needed so badly, and he dreaded the moment. Whatever the time; it would be too early, especially for Frodo, who had been wounded gravely in soul and body. The steward’s son had seen brave and good men receive lesser wounds, had seen them struggle for recovering, had seen most of them fail.

It was time Frodo needed more than anything else now. Time to heal and understand, but this he could not be granted. He needed a healer, too, and a real bed to sleep in. Faramir would have liked to bring the hobbits into the white city, but Minas Tirith and even the houses of healing were no safe place for the hobbits, not with the thing Frodo carried, and Denethor, the once beloved father, no longer being the man he used to be.
He had to let them go. He remembered their last conversation all too clearly.

In the silence of the recess, Frodo wrapped securely in his blankets, they had talked about Gollum first, the wretched creature that was hissing and hollering in a different part of the caves now, and then about the path Frodo had chosen to take. They had spoken in hushed voices, so as not to wake Sam who had finally given in to his exhaustion, but when Frodo would not be convinced to stay at Henneth Annun until his wounds had healed, insisting on leaving in the morning, Faramir had cried out, loudly, almost pain-stricken. Bewildered by his own reaction, Faramir had reached for Frodo’s hand and pressed it gently.
“If you set out on your journey now,” he had whispered, “you would perish, Frodo.”

Eyes large and dark in his tired face, the hobbit had nodded, struggling into a sitting position, and bringing his small, swollen mouth to the captain’s ear. He had whispered a sentence that had left Faramir astonished, deeply moved, sad. No more words were needed then.

Yes, Frodo had chosen to go, his will was set, and it was not for Faramir, not even for Sam to judge this decision. He would have to let him go, knowing this dear hobbit, who had so much love for everything alive, might not return.


They parted on a clearing, and after the manner of his people, Faramir stooped and kissed both hobbits on their foreheads. Stepping back, he watched Frodo, those serious eyes, ankles and wrists in bandages, one arm in a sling; the tired face pale as snow on the White Mountains. The halfling did not smile but he raised the unharmed arm in fare-well and then both he and his friend, those precious creatures from a country only known from tales of old, vanished between the brown and green of the nearby trees in the twinkling of an eye, moving silently and swiftly, like dreams.


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