Where The Shadows Lie

Where The Shadows Lie
by Elven Demagogue, Keeper of Dark Legolas

Middle-earth is in chaos after Sauron has regained the Ring. A year has passed since the failure at Pelennor Fields, leaving Aragorn in charge of a failing country after sending Legolas to unknown dangers to bear the body of Arwen to Elrond at Rivendell. Little did anyone know of the darkness he would find.

*

Rain poured upon the grounds, slicking the earth and causing the runners to slip as they made haste towards the citadel of Minas Tirith. Not that it mattered. The King of Gondor knew the message they bore. He knew it was time. The choice weighed upon him, though. All he had worked for was in ruins. All that he had planned, had strove to build. It was laid to waste. Aragorn looked down from the window at the boy running up towards the entrance to the upper levels. A lot of things had been laid to waste. All his dreams had disappeared as if a veil of smoke had whisked them away.

“You brood so,” observed an all too familiar voice and Aragorn counted it strange that Boromir should live while Arwen had perished. They had lost him on the hill of Amon Hen and assumed him dead, but contrary to Faramir’s nightmares portending his brother’s death he had been found by Haldir and taken to Lothlórien for healing. The Fwshiwship had been very surprised when Boromir appeared at Minas Tirith after the battle that had lost them King Théoden. Boromir was supposed to be dead.

Arwen sup supposed to be alive and well with her mother in Valinor, but instead she was in a grave at Rivendell. Trusting no other the King had sent his friend and advisor Legolas bearing her body to her home to be buried there by her father after a Wraith had slain her. There was where he sent his heart to rest until the time his body could join. And how he longed for that day, but he would not leave his people before the time. Arwen’s memory would be shamed by such a selfish act. Tracing the windowsill with his fingers, Aragorn said softly, “And do I not have a right?”

Boromir came to stand beside him, his stormy eyes watching the rainfall. This would be on his shoulders now, had Aragorn denied his own destiny. Perhaps Boromir would have been the better choice as well, the King thought secretly. The Steward sighed. “I do not deny you have much on your shoulders, Aragorn. We all do. Do you not think I despair at what we are against? But I fear your past will lead you. This is no country of Elves.”

The inevitable reminder. The adjustment Boromir had made to the fact of Aragorn’s kingship had been a difficult one, but the Steward bore it well. He accepted the remainder of power he was given in Stewardship over the lands, to make the choices Aragorn could not be bothered with and to lead where the King could not for the weight on his shoulders. But the change did not stop Boromir from putting in his own thoughts concerning how Aragorn ruled. He feared Aragorn’s life of peace and safety in the realm of the Elves would blind him during these rough times. “What would you have me do, Boromir?” he asked low.

Boromir fiddled with the bracer at his wrist. “I know what you are thinking and you are wrong. For many thousands of years has this city been held against the darkness and so shall it remain.”

Aragorn glared out the window, trying to divine wisdom from the elements. His attitude was such that a quick reply was on his tongue, but he held it with patience. As it was, the door to the small study banged open and offered a distraction. The boy that had run long and hard came in, nearly collapsing on the floor in his weariness. “Sire, we have lost the South Gate,” he panted, holding a paper. The seal upon its face was Faramir’s.

It was Boromir that took the letter, snatching it away and ripping it open. The King waited patiently, his expression grim as the Steward read over his brother’s words. When he looked up, he appeared troubled. “He has retreated, making for Rohan, for there was no path to return to Minas Tirith. He is leading the refugees south of the mountains and plans to leave them at Helm’s Deep, then ride on to Edoras and alert King Éomer that…Gondor has fallen.” He crumpled the paper and hurled it at the floor. Crossing his arms, he paced across the room and his voice bitter, hissed, “He suggests we take the north path to Rohan. Abandon our country, the fool!”

Minas Tirith was empty of its general population. They had taken refuge in the south and would now be taken to Rohan, it seemed. Outside the explosions could be heard even now. They had known for hours that the South Gate had been taken. Aragorn had been making the choice of Faramir already in his own heart, but somehow he had never thought it would be real. “Clear the city of our troops. Tell them we make for Edoras.”

Boromir whipped around as the boy left. “You would abandon our home?”

Aragorn turned back to the window and stared out in sorrow. “Did I not declare my want to unite Men? I have no choice in this.”

“You bastard,” the Steward breathed in low, furious tones. “You may abandon this place easily, for your heart lies with Rivendell, but our people will grieve this more than you realize.”

“Yes, Boromir, they will grieve, but they will live,” the King rted.ted.

But the Steward would not let up. “They will despise the life they live, second to the Rohirrim with no place to call their own. This city is their heart.”

Aragorn’s fists tightened, for the words Boromir spoke were true. They stung, but he had no other choice. “This city is dead. It is changed from a dream to a nightmare. If their hearts remain here alone,thenthen shall their hearts be dead. We make for Edoras. Prepare the men or remain and die. I will not command any to follow me in this, but I will say that any that do not will surely die. Support me, follow me to Rohan and you will have a people, not just a fading memory. Now go, Boromir.” He could not afford to remain soft with his words. Not n
G
Giving his King a glare hotter than the depths of Mount Doom, Boromir huffed out of the small room, slamming the door behind him. When he was alone Aragorn sank down onto a small couch, brushing his hands through his hair and closing his eyes, feeling torn. It was like when Arwen had died. It was like he was dying. “I have failed.”

*

All was quiet at the Hall of Meduseld. There was no storm, no endless onslaught of Orcs, no midnight cries piercing the air. But it was not the calm of peace that kept the tongues of Men silent. It was the unease of the rabbit trapped in a hole as it listens to the growling of a wolf preying upon it. War was coming to the Horse-country, there could be no doubt. Gondor was falling fast and King Éomer of Rohan feared the dusk of man was upon Middle-earth. If Gondor could be defeated how could his country stay the tide?

He had received word from Helm’s Deep that Faramir had brought his people there. People of Gondor taking shelter in Rohan. Part of him sneered at that; the mighty steed had fallen to the mare for protection. Yet he was not so foolish as to fail to understand what it would mean for all Men if Gondor could fall. It had been a year in the making, but somehow he had not thought it would come to pass that there would be such dire need. Éomer leaned back into the throne of his passed uncle. He blessed Théoden that he would not be here to see the fall of his people.

Éomer’s eyes fell upon two forms sitting at a table across the way. They spoke to each other quietly, Éowyn and Alisceon. For a moment he could imagine them as they had been before this war had begun, before the time of Grima Wormtongue and the Orcs of Saruman.

With a sigh he abandoned his childhood fantasies as the great doors were parted. Looking down the Hall he waited as two figures came in from the shadows. Éowyn and Alisceon became silent, watching as well for any news these days was worth forgetting all common conversation to hear. One of the forms walkedteadteadily, held up by the Rohirrim guard that aided him to a table near the throne. The guest dropped his hood and Éowyn was on her feet, retreating down the hall towards the kitchens. Her prudence was a great asset. “Lord Faramir, so you have come here at last,” he greeted, sitting higher. “I trust you were welcomed well at Helm’s Deep?”

Peeling his filthy cloak ohandhanding it to Lady Alisceon who had come to retrieve it for him, he nodded gravely. “You have my sincere thanks, Éomer. I realize I disregarded the niceties in asking permission, but the Orcs were so numerous I did not even wait for word from my king. Lives are more important than politics.”

Éowyn placed a bowl before him that he refused. “You are injured,” she observed, looking to Alisceon.

“A scratch,” Faramir replied, though any in the Hall could see there was a large gash across his shoulder.

“I’ll see to it,” Alisceon suggested, motioning Éowyn back to the table. His sister did not deny her, would not in matters of healing.

Lady Alisceon came to him, but Éomer saw him take her hand and hold it back. “A moment, please,” he said gently, then turned his attention on the King of Rohan. His eyes made the young king tense up inside. “Éomer, things are grim. I have counseled King Aragorn to bring the remainder of our people here. I believe he will listen and act accordingly.”

Éomer widened his eyes slightly. “The remainder of your people? You mean abandoning Gondor? Is it truly so hopeless?”

The Lord of Gondor did not appear so pleased to admit that, but did not lie even to his own heart. “It is beyond hopeless. It is sheer madness there. If we do not get help from somewhere, I fear the world of Men will fail.”

Éomer knew well what “somewhere” meant. They all knew, the Lords of Men. But Aragorn was reluctant. The King of Rohan made a and and leaned his head back, looking at a wooden carving of a horse hanging up on a column above his guest. “Faramir, if Aragorn will not go to Rivendell then I will order it. He may be a king over all Men in name, but I will not bow down to his coddling of the Elves.” Absently, his eyes traveled over Alisceon again as she waited for her patient to finish his ill news. She looked up, meeting his gaze head-on as if expecting it. “What do you say of that?” he asked, addressing the Gondorian again.

Rubbing his pained shoulder, Faramir considered it. “He will not like it I fear.”

The King shrugged. “There are things I do not like, but know must be done.” Sighing, he rubbed his temples. “See to your shoulder, Faramir. I’ll not have an able man wasting away from infection if the last stand comes to Rohan. Next time I trust you will enter my court fit to be seen.” A small hint of a grin played against his features.

Likely in pain enough to not decline this time around, Faramir nodded with that same smile and stood up, immediately falling into the assistance Alisceon offered. “My thanks again, Éomer-King. I trust you will keep me informed?”

The King nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. As the Gondorian Lord was led off he sank down in his chair again, wearied by his responsibilities.

*

He was quiet as he backback against the bed, eyes fixed on her face. They were soft and gentle, as if the Hell he had come through to get here was long forgotten. In the dim of the room he appeared very relaxed, something she never failed to notice during his visits to Rohan. Faramir seemed able to keep calm during any storm. Even mirthful when the world was falling apart. A glint of humor sparkled in those eyes as he said, “My thigh took a dagger as well.”

Opening his shirt, Alisceon gave him a mild look before touching his skin near the cut on his shoulder. “So I see by the blood on your pants. A few inches higher and…”

His hand closed over hers, giving a little squeeze. “Let us not get into that, Lady Alisceon. I would not like to have to report your familiarity with my person to the King.”

Alisceon couldn’t help but laugh, feeling her mood lighten with his. “Éomer would only laugh and then you would feel stupid.”

Faramir let go of her hand andded,ded, taking a deep breath. “Yes, I can believe that. No doubt you are as familiar with his person as you are with mine.”

He groaned when she pressed the towel she had just wet with wine hard against his shoulder. “Is that what you think of me, Lord Faramir? Because I take comfort in you, I must take comfort in others?”

Faramir sighed and looked away from her face. “No, that is not what I think,” he replied low. “I did not think before I spoke.”

“I told you firsfirst time it would not be for love,” she reminded him, frowning at the blood on his skin. He had probably ridden all the way from Gondor with just a simple rag against his wound. “Is that what this is about?”

“Honestly, no,” was his answer, though it did not come with certainty. “I only wonder sometimes how you have managed to remain out of love for so long. I imagine many have wanted to claim you as their own and only their own.”

Alisceon stopped her work, rubbing his arm with a soft expression. “Is that what you want? To claim me?”

Licking his lips, not hiding a lusty little look, Faramir reached for her hand and kissed it. “Oh, I would love to claim you right now, right here upon this bed. But in the way you speak, no. I know you are not one to be claimed, but one to do the claiming.” When she declined to comment, he continued on with his previous playfulness. “I lay before you now, injured and unable. You could have your way with me and I could not stop it from happening.”

His suggestive leer brought a smile back to her face. She tied off a bandage around his shoulder, then as she looked down to his injured thigh, she said, “Do you offer yourself to me freely?”

He nodded most seriously, but the humor was not completely gone from his eyes. “Such an offer kept me in my saddle from Minas Tirith to your door, my lady. I much look forward to celebrating the terrible aim of the Orc that stabbed my leg. Will you take comfort in me again, or have you tired of me?”

Playing it for what it was worth, feeling he had been unfair with his jest earlier, Alisceon bit her lip in consideration as she opened his pants very clinically and examined his wound. “I’ll think about it, but I’ve had you a few times before and while it was pleasant, I am sure you hold little promise of doing anything I have not experienced. And as well, your injuries must be taken into considera. W. What do you think you can do to please me?”

Faramir grinned openly, sitting up. Snaking his good arm around her waist he jerked her against him. “You little tease,” he hissed hotly, forcing his mouth over hers as he held her. Alisceon remained still beneath his heated search, feeling her senses heighten. “We shall see,” he murmured into her mouth before plunging his tongue in again, “what I can do,” his fingers tugged the strings at her breast, “to please you.”

When his hand stripped away the cloth covering her breasts and began caressing her flesh, Alisceon eyed his wounded shoulder with a playful threat written in her expression. Faramir seemed eager to meet the challenge and robbed her of her advantage, groaning in pain as he whipped her around. Her back hit his chest, his strong arm tight around her as he continued touching her. Involuntarily Alisceon gasped in pleasure when he pinched her sensitive flesh.

She pressed herself against him, trying to cause him pain, without repentance or regard in this instance. His fortitude was greater than her attempt and he bore the pressure with a few ragged groans. “You play roughly,” he observed darkly, his hot breath against her ear. “I like that.”

Without another word Faramir shoved her against the bed chest-first and held her down. Alisceon braced her palms against the mattress to shove herself up and when she did, he lost control of her for a moment, falling back and groaning loudly. Concerned, Alisceon stopped fighting him and looked to help him. She should have seen the game for what it was. He took full advantage of her care and maneuvered her back down, jerking her dress up her legs.

“You jackass,” she hissed, trying again to get up. Faramir was dauntless now, fully spurred on by the challenge. When his warm hand yanked her underwear down, Alisceon reached for his shoulder.

He gasped lightly when she brushed against it, causing him pain. Faramir knit his brow and darted for her wrist, catching it and shoving it into the small of her back roughly. Holding her down as he discarded her panties, he caressed her behind, stroking her until she was flushed in want. His fingers made a path down and up, inserting into her warm wetness and she squirmed against a sudden thrust into her. “Ready for me, I see. That’s my girl. Now lie still, love. This won’t take long.”

It hurt him, but he lay over her despite the pain and braced himself up, wrapping his arm around her waist. Alisceon was beyond the foreplay of fighting, eager to have him inside her. He did not keep her waiting, either, entering her swift and hard, causing her to moan hard in the back of her throat. Her words had been nothing but a tease, as he had accused, for Faramir was always fiery, always pleasing to her whenever they met. In these dark times he was one of her few bright areas and she one of his.

The young Captain of Gondor pressed his mouth against the back of her shoulder, his beard scratching against her silken skin in match with his teeth marring her white flesh. Faramir did not hold back, tasting her as if she were some fine wine he could not help but devour as quickly as she met his lips. Alisceon swallowed hard as he bit into her hard enough to mark her. “So delicate to look upon, Alisceon, but you enjoy it when I have no mercy,” heatheathed hotly, surging forward into her.

Alisceon, bracing on her arms, fell against the mattress and shivered beneath his movements, losing herself fast. Long has she been without him and it was so very good to have him back. Unable to breathe, she fumbled for the headboard, hardly able to control her weakening legs as she leaned against it. Faramir was quick to equal himself with her higher position, his hands shoving up into the folds of her skirt and resting on her hips to hold the fabric up. Squeezing her hip and then freeing one hand, he slid it around her to cup her breast. As he smoothed over her delicate center repeatedly, Alisceon felt herself beginning to fall away down the path of bliss. “Faramir,” she whispered, pillowing her face in her arms against the headboard.

Groaning against her, he jerked her back against a hard upward thrust, winning her pleasure. She did not register when he met his own, but knew by the time she awakened back into the hard reality they faced that he had slaked his lusts. Faramir leaned against her back, absently petting her hip. “Do you remember when we first met?” he panted, pulling himself from her.

Quietly, she replied, “I remember.” It had been nearly a year ago on his first trip here. He had been sent by King Aragorn to warn Éomer that the battle had returned to Men once more. That day she had learned Sauron had reclaimed his Ring, that the mission of the Hobbits had failed. Faramir had stumbled into Edoras then, having been waylaid by Orcs on the path here. She had treated him and that very night they had fallen into each other’s arms beneath the weight of what would happen now that Sauron had taken what was his. Afterwards Faramir had passed out from exhaustion.

Widening her eyes in realization, Alisceon turned herself just in time to watch him fall to the bed. His hair was wet with the sweat of his heated labor, matted gently to his moist forehead. Settling beside him, Alisceon brushed her hand against his brow and watched his face for a moment. Suddenly she felt very alone.

*

“Merry, do you have any more of that dried meat?”

Meriadoc Brandybuck was seated on a log, holding his pack covetously on his lap. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping and across the way he could see one of the Men relieving himself against a tree. That did nothing to help his sour disposition. The Hobbit glared at the nonchalant figure that had no idea anyone could see him. Merry was annoyed this morning. Men weren’t the greatest of his troubles, either.

A tiny pebble sailed through the air and smacked the elder’s head. When Merry turned and fixed his cousin with a scathing gaze, Pippin seemed not to notice, rummaging through his own pack. “Did you hear me?” he asked all to innocently. Dissatisfied with the bag he held, Pippin looked up and frowned at the expression boring into him. “What?”

Merry quite nobly bit his tongue and resisted the urge to revile his cousin. “No,” he reported matter-of-factly, tying the drawstring of his bag. “I don’t have any more of that or any more of the cheese either, thanks to your stomach.”

Despite his off-putting tone, Pippin did not heed the warning signs, eyeing the pack his cousin was putting suspicious amounts of effort into protecting. “Then what do you have?” he asked semi-testily.

Tightening his grasp on his property instinctively, Merry gave a stern look to the other Hobbit. He knew what Pippin was thinking, looking at his backpack with a certain hunger usually reserved for those especially good turnouts of the Gaffer’s brew. Well, Merry was good and prepared. “What’s it to you?” he said very hard, twining his fingers around a shoulder strap for better security.

His cousin was altogether too easy seeming as he shrugged. “Just asking.” Those eyes of his were fixed in a sidelong leer that warned this was not over. “So, what do you have?”

Merry went straight to the punch. “A fist to clobber you with if you don’t mind your own business,” he huffed, shaking his finger.

The game was up. Pippin was through being coy. Like a predator he was up and pouncing, landing on Merry hard. The older Hobbit gave an enraged cry, then balled his hands and started struggling to protect his pack. It was too little, too late, th. h. Pippin’s fingers were tight around the strap Merry hadn’t had the foresight to take into hand. “Get offa me,” the elder groused, shoving his hand against Pip’s cheek to hold his hot breath off.

“Come on, Merry,” the younger said, oozing suggestiveness like he had an open wound somewhere. “Mmmff!”

Suddenly Brandybuck jerked his hand back to his chest with a decidedly dirty expression. “You licked me, you little weasel! Here!” Ruffled, Merry shoved his bag into his cousin wi for force that sent the Hobbit into the dirt.

Pippin shamelessly opened the pack and started his pursuit, only to toss an empty cloth at his cousin’s head in dejection. “Nothing,” he said, tossing the bag at Merry’s feet.

“What did I tell you?” Merry hissed, but the sound of laughter nearby kept the fight from continuing. Jerking the string shut, he looked up at Boromir, who had wandered in sometime during the scuffle and leaned against a tree to observe. “Fat lot of a help you were!”

Still grinning, Boromir approached and helped pick up a few stray items Pippin had let loose from the bag. The three of them had formed a bond of friendship during the Fellowship, one that Faramir had not quite understood, knowing his brother. Merry supposed it was because he could be himself in the company of Hobbits while he was an icon to his men. “Who am I to come between the problems of Hobbits?” he replied, handing the stuff over. With a exhale, Boromir sat down on the log beside Merry, stretching his long legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. “War comes and yet you cease to change. You will need that fortitude in the days to come.”

Grunting, Merry shouldered hick wck with a pointed look at Pippin, who had replaced his cunning with innocence again. “Not only are you a source of help, but of good cheer as well,” he said dryly.

The Lord of Gondor gazed ahead at the trees as they moved with the breeze. “My apologies, Master Hobbit, if I am grave. My heart troubles me.”

“Yeah,” Brandybuck tried to sneer, but his mood was descending down from his initial aggravation. “Things aren’t so smooth between you and Aragorn, are they?”

“Aye,” was all Boromir would say.

Pippin looked up at them. “But just because you fight with someone, doesn’t mean you stop caring,” he said a little too sunnily, aiming his comment square at his cousin.

Merry gave him a dirty look, but resisted the urge contradict his little statement and burst Pippin’s bubble. “I respect Aragorn,” Boromir replied, his easy expression changed into a glare.

Pippin nodded mock-seriously. “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”

That got the Gondorian grinning again. Crossing his arms and smirking, Boromir glanced at the dirt and secretly Merry thought he looked a little too fond of that suggestion. Still, he sighed, “No,” and seemed to dismiss it within as well as without. “I will settle for my brother I think.”

“Your brother seems really nice,” the Hobbit on the ground commented, looking up. Well known was the fact that Pippin had saved Faramir from death at the hands of the Steward Denethor. Boromir had offered his own thanks apart from Faramir’s, but neither of the brothers would speak any more of it. When Merry had heard about how their father had acted, he understood why.

The human nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Aye, he is.” Despite that grudging concession, Bor dir did not pursue conversation on it. He stood up and looked down at the Hobbits. “Edoras is close. We may arrive there by tomorrow if the weather holds. Then we can all be at ease for a time. I came to tell you to be ready to depart within the hour.”

“Understood,” Merry replied, leaning back against the log on his palms. When Boromir had disappeared he looked at Pippin, squinting in the sunlight. “Another long march ahead of us.”

His cousin sighed, rubbing his stomach. “Yeah.”

*

I'll be continuing "In Darkness and In Doubt" but as I have more of this done, I elected to start posting while writing more. Thanks to the usual suspects, and anyone else that leaves a lovely review!! :D