Fic: Tolkien - Good Intentions - Teen
Aug. 27th, 2009 11:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tanaquiljallTitle: Good Intentions
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Bad drug trip
Words: 1450
Summary: Not for the first time, Aragorn wishes he could exchange a tedious council in Minas Tirith for the Prancing Pony. Until the council takes a decidedly unexpected turn. Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
cliche_bingo prompt "Drugs".
Author's Note: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
scribblesinink for the beta.
oOo
Aragorn pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to head off a looming headache. Not for the first time, he wished he was back in the Prancing Pony as plain old Strider. At least then, when people banged on the table, it was generally to call for more ale, or another story. Not in an attempt to yet again carry a point that had already been made—and politely but firmly rejected—three times. He supposed all of Lord Brandir's huffing and puffing was at least keeping him awake after the midday meal.
He wondered a little that his normally sharp steward did not have the matter in better hand: smoothly promising the matter would be investigated further—with reports made, presented for consideration, and otherwise buried in the slow-turning machinery of Gondor's bureaucracy—and then moving them on to the next supplicant.
Glancing to his side Aragorn saw that Faramir was gazing at Lord Brandir with a kind of bemused fascination, his eyes not quite focused.
Then he pointed at Lord Brandir and giggled.
Aragorn stared at him in amazement for a moment while, on the far side of the table, Lord Brandir drew himself up in offended dignity. "My Lord Steward. I am most heartily grieved to learn that the troubles of distant provinces are a matter of amusement for this Council. Your father, the noble Lord Denethor, would not have—."
He stopped abruptly as Faramir shot to his feet, pushing his chair back with a screech, and backed away, a look of such horror on his face that it made Aragorn's flesh creep.
Mastering his shock, Aragorn stood himself, forcing the rest of the Lords to do likewise. "My Lord Brandir. My Lords." Aragorn swept a stern gaze around the table that defied the assembled company to so much as breathe, let alone make further comment. "I believe the Lord Steward is unwell. The day's business is at a close."
There was a moment of silence, and then the Lords allowed the pages to usher them out of the room. Aragorn noticed that Prince Imrahil had the presence of mind, after casting a worried glance at his nephew, to hurry down the table and attempt to soothe Lord Brandir's ruffled feathers.
Aragorn turned back to his steward, who had backed himself up against the wall and now stood looking trapped. "Faramir?" He kept his voice quiet as he carefully took a pace towards the other man.
"So many dead...," Faramir murmured to himself, raising his hands as if to ward off something that approached.
"Aye." Aragorn took another step closer, his gaze roving over his steward. "But they rest at peace. They are not come to trouble us now."
"Do you not see?" Faramir was staring wildly around him, panting heavily. "We are so few, and the enemy so great, and their arrows came like winter rain, and we must stand or Gondor falls..."
"Gondor is safe," Aragorn told him patiently, while his mind raced, wondering if this was some last workings of the Enemy, some lingering remnant of the Black Breath reawakened.
Even as the thought came to him, there was a harsh mewing somewhere outside: a fight for scraps amongst the gulls that frequented the ramparts and rooftops even so far inland. Faramir dropped to his knees, crouched against the wall, and put his hands over his head. "Fell Riders," he hissed.
Aragorn closed the distance and knelt beside him. Faramir flinched when he put a hand on his shoulder. "'Tis but the gulls, Faramir. They will not harm you."
Gently pulling Faramir's arms away from his head so he could look into his face, Aragorn saw the steward's skin was clammy and beaded with sweat, and his eyes were almost black: though the room was still well-lit, the dark part had grown and the grey shrunk. Faramir licked his lips, as if his mouth was dry, and Aragorn noticed that the tip of his tongue was a little discoloured.
He sucked in a harsh breath. Perhaps this was no malady of the Enemy come to touch one who had defied him, but something simpler—though no less troubling.
Letting go of Faramir's wrists, Aragorn looked up and past Imrahil, who hovered a few paces away, concern for his nephew writ large on his face. "One of you," Aragorn waved to the huddle of pages clustered wide-eyed by the door, "run you to the Houses of Healing and fetch me charcoal for the stomach. The healers will know what I mean"
"Sire!" A tall boy at the back of the group turned and whisked out of the door.
Turning back to Faramir, Aragorn motioned to Imrahil. The Prince squatted on Faramir's other side and asked in a low voice, looking with distress at his nephew, "You think he has been poisoned, sire?"
"I think it possible." Aragorn sat back on his haunches, observing Faramir, who had covered his head with her arms again and started quietly rocking backwards and forwards. "Though I saw him take naught but water since the midday meal." He raised his head and glanced back at the pages. "Another of you fetch me the chamberlain and the mastercook from the Steward's House."
"But who—?" Imhrahil looked sickened by the thought. "Faramir is well-loved by the people."
"But perhaps not by all the Lords who seek advantage." Aragorn could not keep the grim note from his voice; how easily, it seemed, someone could reach into the middle of the Kingdom to strike at one dear to his heart and his plans for this land. "And Gondor has enemies still, though we have made peace these weeks past with the Easterlings and Southrons...."
Faramir was now muttering to himself, too low even for the two men crouched beside him to hear the words. When Imrahil reached out and touched his arm and called his name, Faramir flinched away, and increased the pace at which he mumbled whatever words he spoke. Undeterred, Imrahil kept his hand on Faramir's arm, but Aragorn found himself overwhelmed by frustration and impatience. Rising to his feet, he took two steps towards the door: where was the cursèd page?
But nay, the boy had left but a few minutes before. Trying to quell his rising anxiety, Aragorn began to pace, casting glances at where Imrahil continued to comfort Faramir. At one point, the younger man began to weep silently; a few minutes later, he plucked fiercely at his clothes and skin, until Imrahil took his hands between his own so that he could not harm himself.
It seemed an age of the world before the page returned, bearing the simple from the Houses of Healing. Aragorn seized the bag and quickly mixed the black powder into a goblet of water. Faramir was persuaded to drink a little, and then a little more, until Aragorn was satisfied he had taken enough it might have some effect.
Soon after, Faramir's servants presented themselves, their eyes round as they saw their Lord's distress. Putting aside the unfinished draught, Aragorn questioned them, trying to suppress the thought that it could be these men—.
"Lord Faramir spent the morning in the exchequer, sire." Faramir's chamberlain's voice wavered as he spoke. "He broke fast alone, but dined with the younger hobbits, Meriadoc and Peregrin, ere he attended the council."
"Was aught strange in their fare?" Turning to the cook, Aragorn saw the man was twisting his hands unhappily.
He met Aragorn's gaze and swallowed. "Mushrooms, sire. The hobbits brought—."
"Mushrooms." Aragorn closed his eyes for a brief instant, before looking at Faramir and sighing. He suspected his Lord Steward would be himself in a few hours, if somewhat embarrassed, but he needed to be sure.
This time, the pages were dispatched to fetch Merry and Pippin.
oOo
The next day, much chastened by the King's ire, though relieved that Faramir seemed to have made a full recovery, Merry and Pippin trooped over to the Steward's House to tender their apologies.
"They always make us happy, and you're always so serious," Pippin pointed out.
"And we only gave you a couple," Merry added miserably. "We didn't think that would have much effect on one of the Big People."
"Perhaps our hearts and our constitutions are not so stout as yours, Master Merry," Faramir suggested gravely. He turned to Pippin. "As for you, Peregrin Took, I commend your concern for my humour—if not your manner of rectifying it. Perhaps together we might find a better remedy for my failings?"
Looking up at Faramir, Pippin caught the amused glint in his eye. Perhaps the mushrooms hadn't been such a complete disaster after all.
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Bad drug trip
Words: 1450
Summary: Not for the first time, Aragorn wishes he could exchange a tedious council in Minas Tirith for the Prancing Pony. Until the council takes a decidedly unexpected turn. Written for the
cliche_bingo prompt "Drugs".Author's Note: Thanks to
scribblesinink for the beta.Aragorn pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to head off a looming headache. Not for the first time, he wished he was back in the Prancing Pony as plain old Strider. At least then, when people banged on the table, it was generally to call for more ale, or another story. Not in an attempt to yet again carry a point that had already been made—and politely but firmly rejected—three times. He supposed all of Lord Brandir's huffing and puffing was at least keeping him awake after the midday meal.
He wondered a little that his normally sharp steward did not have the matter in better hand: smoothly promising the matter would be investigated further—with reports made, presented for consideration, and otherwise buried in the slow-turning machinery of Gondor's bureaucracy—and then moving them on to the next supplicant.
Glancing to his side Aragorn saw that Faramir was gazing at Lord Brandir with a kind of bemused fascination, his eyes not quite focused.
Then he pointed at Lord Brandir and giggled.
Aragorn stared at him in amazement for a moment while, on the far side of the table, Lord Brandir drew himself up in offended dignity. "My Lord Steward. I am most heartily grieved to learn that the troubles of distant provinces are a matter of amusement for this Council. Your father, the noble Lord Denethor, would not have—."
He stopped abruptly as Faramir shot to his feet, pushing his chair back with a screech, and backed away, a look of such horror on his face that it made Aragorn's flesh creep.
Mastering his shock, Aragorn stood himself, forcing the rest of the Lords to do likewise. "My Lord Brandir. My Lords." Aragorn swept a stern gaze around the table that defied the assembled company to so much as breathe, let alone make further comment. "I believe the Lord Steward is unwell. The day's business is at a close."
There was a moment of silence, and then the Lords allowed the pages to usher them out of the room. Aragorn noticed that Prince Imrahil had the presence of mind, after casting a worried glance at his nephew, to hurry down the table and attempt to soothe Lord Brandir's ruffled feathers.
Aragorn turned back to his steward, who had backed himself up against the wall and now stood looking trapped. "Faramir?" He kept his voice quiet as he carefully took a pace towards the other man.
"So many dead...," Faramir murmured to himself, raising his hands as if to ward off something that approached.
"Aye." Aragorn took another step closer, his gaze roving over his steward. "But they rest at peace. They are not come to trouble us now."
"Do you not see?" Faramir was staring wildly around him, panting heavily. "We are so few, and the enemy so great, and their arrows came like winter rain, and we must stand or Gondor falls..."
"Gondor is safe," Aragorn told him patiently, while his mind raced, wondering if this was some last workings of the Enemy, some lingering remnant of the Black Breath reawakened.
Even as the thought came to him, there was a harsh mewing somewhere outside: a fight for scraps amongst the gulls that frequented the ramparts and rooftops even so far inland. Faramir dropped to his knees, crouched against the wall, and put his hands over his head. "Fell Riders," he hissed.
Aragorn closed the distance and knelt beside him. Faramir flinched when he put a hand on his shoulder. "'Tis but the gulls, Faramir. They will not harm you."
Gently pulling Faramir's arms away from his head so he could look into his face, Aragorn saw the steward's skin was clammy and beaded with sweat, and his eyes were almost black: though the room was still well-lit, the dark part had grown and the grey shrunk. Faramir licked his lips, as if his mouth was dry, and Aragorn noticed that the tip of his tongue was a little discoloured.
He sucked in a harsh breath. Perhaps this was no malady of the Enemy come to touch one who had defied him, but something simpler—though no less troubling.
Letting go of Faramir's wrists, Aragorn looked up and past Imrahil, who hovered a few paces away, concern for his nephew writ large on his face. "One of you," Aragorn waved to the huddle of pages clustered wide-eyed by the door, "run you to the Houses of Healing and fetch me charcoal for the stomach. The healers will know what I mean"
"Sire!" A tall boy at the back of the group turned and whisked out of the door.
Turning back to Faramir, Aragorn motioned to Imrahil. The Prince squatted on Faramir's other side and asked in a low voice, looking with distress at his nephew, "You think he has been poisoned, sire?"
"I think it possible." Aragorn sat back on his haunches, observing Faramir, who had covered his head with her arms again and started quietly rocking backwards and forwards. "Though I saw him take naught but water since the midday meal." He raised his head and glanced back at the pages. "Another of you fetch me the chamberlain and the mastercook from the Steward's House."
"But who—?" Imhrahil looked sickened by the thought. "Faramir is well-loved by the people."
"But perhaps not by all the Lords who seek advantage." Aragorn could not keep the grim note from his voice; how easily, it seemed, someone could reach into the middle of the Kingdom to strike at one dear to his heart and his plans for this land. "And Gondor has enemies still, though we have made peace these weeks past with the Easterlings and Southrons...."
Faramir was now muttering to himself, too low even for the two men crouched beside him to hear the words. When Imrahil reached out and touched his arm and called his name, Faramir flinched away, and increased the pace at which he mumbled whatever words he spoke. Undeterred, Imrahil kept his hand on Faramir's arm, but Aragorn found himself overwhelmed by frustration and impatience. Rising to his feet, he took two steps towards the door: where was the cursèd page?
But nay, the boy had left but a few minutes before. Trying to quell his rising anxiety, Aragorn began to pace, casting glances at where Imrahil continued to comfort Faramir. At one point, the younger man began to weep silently; a few minutes later, he plucked fiercely at his clothes and skin, until Imrahil took his hands between his own so that he could not harm himself.
It seemed an age of the world before the page returned, bearing the simple from the Houses of Healing. Aragorn seized the bag and quickly mixed the black powder into a goblet of water. Faramir was persuaded to drink a little, and then a little more, until Aragorn was satisfied he had taken enough it might have some effect.
Soon after, Faramir's servants presented themselves, their eyes round as they saw their Lord's distress. Putting aside the unfinished draught, Aragorn questioned them, trying to suppress the thought that it could be these men—.
"Lord Faramir spent the morning in the exchequer, sire." Faramir's chamberlain's voice wavered as he spoke. "He broke fast alone, but dined with the younger hobbits, Meriadoc and Peregrin, ere he attended the council."
"Was aught strange in their fare?" Turning to the cook, Aragorn saw the man was twisting his hands unhappily.
He met Aragorn's gaze and swallowed. "Mushrooms, sire. The hobbits brought—."
"Mushrooms." Aragorn closed his eyes for a brief instant, before looking at Faramir and sighing. He suspected his Lord Steward would be himself in a few hours, if somewhat embarrassed, but he needed to be sure.
This time, the pages were dispatched to fetch Merry and Pippin.
The next day, much chastened by the King's ire, though relieved that Faramir seemed to have made a full recovery, Merry and Pippin trooped over to the Steward's House to tender their apologies.
"They always make us happy, and you're always so serious," Pippin pointed out.
"And we only gave you a couple," Merry added miserably. "We didn't think that would have much effect on one of the Big People."
"Perhaps our hearts and our constitutions are not so stout as yours, Master Merry," Faramir suggested gravely. He turned to Pippin. "As for you, Peregrin Took, I commend your concern for my humour—if not your manner of rectifying it. Perhaps together we might find a better remedy for my failings?"
Looking up at Faramir, Pippin caught the amused glint in his eye. Perhaps the mushrooms hadn't been such a complete disaster after all.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-08-27 07:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-29 03:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-27 08:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-29 03:56 pm (UTC)I did try hard initially to give Faramir a fun "trip" but the poor man has so many demons in his psyche....
no subject
Date: 2009-08-30 10:00 am (UTC)