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Houseless  by PSW

He allowed them no rest, despite his burning legs and aching lungs.  Too much was at stake, and Legolas now teetered on the precipice of disaster.  Every moment was precious.

“Come.”  Faramir grasped the Elf’s arm.  Legolas flinched away but Faramir tightened his grip, dragging Legolas along as he staggered to his feet.  “We are very near.  See, we are on the edge of the outer pastures.  We need only …”

His eyes fell on a small group of riders but a short distance off, and Faramir’s heart leaped into his throat.  Who was this, out so far into their pasture land?  He had not expected to meet any of his folk until they drew in much closer to the inner pastures and outbuildings—perhaps even nearing onto the house itself.  He had as yet finalized no plans for how they would proceed once they arrived in any inhabited area.  Much thought had he given this dilemma as they traveled across the long miles of Ithilien, but he had found no satisfactory answer.  Legolas could not be left alone—even if he did not finally succumb to the dark spirit with none to aid him, there was no guarantee that he would be in the same place still when Faramir returned.  Confusion or a sense of duty might drive him forth on his own.  He could not, however, be taken into populated areas, not where he might become a danger to others should the worst occur.  Neither Man nor Elf would quickly forgive himself if some innocent should be harmed in this struggle.  Drawing near to their destination and almost out of time, Faramir had been formulating some thought of securing Legolas in one of the outbuildings while he went for the King (please, let the King be there).  It was not perfect, but the best that he had been able to devise.  Riders this far out, however, added another level of complexity to his already …

He had allowed his attention to stray for too long from his companion.  The blow, when it came, was utterly unexpected, and Faramir dropped hard to his knees, head swimming.  Instinct saved him, as it had so often in the past—he threw his arm up in time to deflect another, but the Elf drove him back onto the turf.  Long flingers clawed for his throat.

“Legolas!”

Faramir seized the slender wrist, fighting for breath.  He managed to get one foot beneath him and shoved off, flipping them both.

Legolas!  Stop!”

He retained the upper ground for only a moment—the Elf was light and quick, and slipped away before Faramir’s full weight could bear him down.  A knee to the gut expelled Faramir’s breath in a rush, but he was moving already and his momentum carried him away from Legolas’s next attempt.  The reprieve was brief but enough.  He braced against the next rush, and managed to turn them as they fell, landing beside the Elf rather than beneath him.  Faramir seized one slender shoulder and pushed with his knee, attempting to force Legolas back.  Legolas’s free arm shot through his defenses, and fingers closed again around his throat.

“Legolas, look at me!”

Legolas was beyond words, though, beyond pleading or rational thought.  Faramir gasped for breath and drove his knee upward.  Wherever it hit—abdomen, groin, he did not particularly care—was enough to loosen Legolas’s grip.  Faramir sucked in a frantic breath, and—

Of a sudden, his opponent’s weight was gone.  For a moment Faramir lay gasping, only dimly aware of the crashing struggle to his right, and then urgency reasserted itself.  He scrambled to his knees in time to see Legolas roll smoothly over and then halt, panting.  Rage radiated from the glistening eyes, fixed now on the shining blade at his throat.

“Stay down, or your life is forfeit.”

The familiar voice washed over him like a wave, and Faramir sat back onto his heels with a gasp, shuddering with reaction and drawing in deep, rasping breaths.  His throat was on fire, and his arm was deeply bruised at best.  His knee pounded in time with his pulse.

“My Lord?”

He pulled in another long breath.  “Beregond, has the King yet arrived?”

“He has, my Lord.”  The captain of the White Company stood firm, his attention fixed and his sword arm steady, though his voice held a host of unasked questions.  “Are you injured?”

Faramir would have sagged with relief, if not for the dark loathing that played across the Elven prince’s usually merry face.  After everything, were they to be too late?  “Legolas?”

The dark eyes flickered toward him, and Faramir thought for an instant that he saw regret and terror in their depths.  He might have imagined it—before he could draw another breath, nothing but shadow and fey presence remained.

“My Lord, are you injured?”

Beregond’s voice pressed at him.  “No.”  Faramir shuddered.  “No, I … Beregond, why are you here?  What are you—”

“Faramir!”

No!

His heart pounded anew at that beloved voice.  “No, stay back!”  Faramir pivoted, injured knee grinding into rock and turf, and threw up a frantic hand, halting Éowyn’s headlong flight. 

She stumbled to a halt near Beregond’s mount, wide eyes darting between her husband and the Elf with Beregond’s sword at his throat.  “Faramir?”  Her tone was bewildered and urgent.  Wisps of blonde hair fell about her flushed face, and her lithe body was coiled even in stillness, poised and ready. 

“Éowyn, we need the King!”  His wife was efficient and practical as well as beautiful, for which he thanked the Valar now as he had done so often before.  Éowyn would act immediately on his word and urgency, leaving explanations for a more suitable time.  Indeed, she was already backing toward her mount, reluctance shining from her eyes and every movement.

“What is amiss?”  Her eyes moved again between Faramir and Legolas.  “Faramir, what shall I—”

“Tell Elessar that a houseless spirit of the dead attempts possession of the son of Thranduil.”  The melodic tones drew Faramir’s gaze.  His eyes fixed on the figure rounding the small bunch of horses, removing her riding gloves with slow, deliberate tugs, and he sucked in a breath.

Queen Arwen.

No, no ….

“My Lady, do not approach!” he panted, holding up one hand.  Arwen continued forward, and frustration and fear boiled to the surface.  The Queen recognized their danger—somehow, she knew what they faced—and yet still she advanced.  “You must not—”

“Éowyn, wait.”  Arwen took Éowyn’s reins in her hand as the other woman swung smoothly into her saddle.  Éowyn paused, and Faramir’s mind screamed a desperate denial.  They could not wait, their time had already fled …  Arwen looked to the final member of the party.  “Faolán.”  The Rohirric horse master attended the Queen immediately, eyes still flickering toward the strange scene.  “You know where my husband and Hefin went to look at the colts?”  Faolán nodded.  “Find them, tell the King my words and send him to us with all haste.”

“At once, my Lady.”  Faolán pulled his mount around and urged the mare into a gallop across the pasture.  Arwen looked to Éowyn.

“We will need athelas and water, warm as can be found—but you must not wait to heat it.”

Éowyn nodded, cast one last longing glance toward her husband, then wheeled her horse and raced for the house.  Arwen dropped her gloves to the ground and drew slowly closer, eyes fixed on Legolas.  The prince’s attention had shifted from the sword to the Queen, and he viewed the approaching Elf with a palpable hatred.  Faramir’s gut clenched, and he struggled to his feet.

“My Lady, you must not!  I—”

“Back away please, Faramir.  Beregond.”  Her voice was lovely and smooth, as chimes in a summer breeze, but Faramir sensed a core as of steel beneath.  Still, he could not.  He would not place his Queen, his King’s beloved, in such danger.

“My Lady …”

“Move to safety, my Lord Steward!”  Her voice snapped out, a command to be obeyed, and yet Faramir balked.  Surely he could not …  “Captain Beregond!”  The captain of the White Company glanced between their Queen and his Lord, who stood swaying with exhaustion and pain, and then complied with sudden alacrity, retreating in a rush and hauling a protesting Faramir with him.

“No!”  Faramir struggled against Beregond’s iron grip, horror rushing upon him as his captain’s actions freed Legolas’s attention.  “Beregond, no!  Release me!”

Before he could loose himself, however, before Beregond’s first lunge slowed and before the spirit within Legolas could respond, Arwen Undómiel lifted her voice in song.

Such beauty and power Faramir had never heard.  It was as a tangible thing, the Queen’s song—cleansing as the spring rain, comforting as the summer sun, vivid as the autumn sky, pure and bracing as a stiff winter breeze.  Straight and tall Arwen stood, focused and yet utterly unafraid.  Her eyes shone with an inner fire—light to the darkness before her, still to its turbulence.  Legolas snarled and started forward, but the melody rose—higher, faster—and he sank back.  Rage and loathing rippling across his fair features, but he seemed pinned in place, unable to mount a counterattack or even any manner of defense.  Faramir sank to his knees, barely aware of Beregond’s supporting grip, and watched in awe the scene unfolding before him.

How long he crouched there, viewing the strange battle in mingled wonder and fear, he did not know.  Melody and fatigue stretched and twisted time until it might have been moments or hours.  All else was faded, secondary, and he jerked when a strong hand gripped his shoulder and a warm body settled beside him.  The fingers tightened for an instant, steadying, and a glance revealed his King at his side.  Relief spun his brain and turned his joints to water.  Warm grey eyes surveyed him with practiced speed, and Faramir jerked a nod to the unspoken question—he was well, or as well as could be.  The King need spend no immediate attention on him.  Aragorn squeezed his shoulder and returned his focus to Arwen and Legolas.  He asked no questions, and Faramir assumed that the Queen’s message, brief as it had been, must be sufficient for the time.

Faramir knew not what to expect, but for the moment Aragorn seemed inclined to wait in tense readiness by his Steward’s side.  Arwen’s voice grew in intensity, if not volume.  Legolas’s body twisted as if in pain, the slim frame taut and jaw clenched.  The King’s fingers dug painfully into Faramir’s shoulder, but Faramir was too focused to spare it much notice.

Hoofbeats pounded, a background echo which might not have even registered had Éowyn not flung herself suddenly beside them.  “My Lord!”  A tremor shook her voice and her eyes flitted anxiously toward the combatants, but her hands were steady.  “Athelas, my Lord.”  She gave into Aragorn’s hands a flat, damp cloth through which Faramir could see outline of leaf and root.  “And warm water—it was boiling in the kitchens, but it has surely cooled by now.”  She thrust a waterskin toward him, and followed with a clay mixing bowl.  Aragorn nodded and pressed her wrist.

“Thank you, my Lady.”

The King poured the water into the bowl and then uncovered the athelas leaves, less than an hour removed from Emyn Arnen’s gardens.  As he crushed them in his hand, Faramir caught the first hint of pure, clean scent.  Then Aragorn dropped them into the warm water and a light, heady fragrance washed over them.  Faramir closed his eyes as dizziness took him, the soothing scent of athelas and the Queen’s cleansing song swirling in wild tandem.  Aragorn moved away and immediately Éowyn took his place, ducking beneath her husband’s arm and pulling him close.  Faramir leaned against her, resting his cheek on the crown of her head.  A wordless snarl sounded beneath the song, and Faramir opened his eyes to see Legolas—no, the spirit within him—back away from the approaching King, impotence and blind fury in the black gaze.

Arwen’s song changed then, growing harder and louder and more commanding.  Aragorn inched nearer, the warm, fragrant water held before him as a shield, and suddenly Legolas screamed.  It was a feral cry, full of rage and pain and … grief, and only when Legolas collapsed limply, eyes and mouth both firmly closed, did Faramir realized the scream was not aloud.  Aragorn lunged forward, throwing himself over the body of his friend.  Both the scream and the song rose, until the shriek bore into Faramir’s ears and pounded within his head … and then, suddenly, nothing.

For an instant silence rang loud around them.  Slowly Faramir came back to himself, realizing as he opened his eyes that his hands were pressed uselessly over his ears.  A glance at Éowyn showed the same, and Beregond as well.  He squeezed his wife’s shoulders and then pushed himself to trembling knees, looking across the short space toward Legolas.

The King and Queen knelt beside the fallen Elf.  As Faramir moved closer, he saw that Aragorn had dipped his hands into the steaming bowl of athelas water and was brushing Legolas’s face and hands, calling his name gently.  “Legolas.”  No response.  Aragorn sprinkled more water over the Elf’s face, then laid one hand on Legolas’s forehead and gripped the Elf’s hand with his other.  “Legolas.”  His voice was gentle, coaxing, and Faramir was taken abruptly back to that day in the Houses of Healing, when he had followed his King’s voice back to the light.  Aragorn would succeed, then—surely none could resist such a call from this Man.  “Legolas …”  Aragorn’s voice dropped, and his eyes closed, and he was silent.

Queen Arwen knelt silently, gripping Legolas’s other hand.  As Faramir sank beside her, she offered a glance of strength and hope.  Faramir could not help but stare as he laid a hand on his friend’s leg, offering what comfort he was able.  Arwen seemed to him as she had always been—wise and gentle and welcoming—and yet the power and command he had seen from her …  To look at her now, he would not have imagined it.  Truly, the Queen was amazing, and Gondor was blessed by Ilúvatar Himself that she had chosen to live within its borders.

“Legolas.”

Aragorn’s faint voice rose again, and the Elf’s eyes blinked open.  Faramir sat back with a sigh of relief at the sight of clear blue, untainted by any darkness or shadow.  They darted frantically from one face to the next, landing finally on Aragorn.  The King nodded, reassuring.

“You are well, my friend, and safe.  Sleep now.”

He cupped a hand briefly across Legolas’s eyes, and after a moment the slim body relaxed, sinking bonelessly against the warm turf.  Aragorn sat back on his heels and blew out a deep, slow breath, meeting the anxious gazes around him.

“His body and fëa have been under much strain, but he will recover.  He had retreated far at the last, in an attempt to save something of himself from the spirit’s assault, and required reassurance and guidance to emerge again.”  Aragorn’s eyes rested on his Queen, and the love and respect within shone for all to see.  “You put forth much of yourself, vanimelda.  Do you require aught from me?”

Arwen smiled faintly and reached across Legolas to grip her husband’s hand.  “I require rest only.  I will return to the house and spend some time in sleep.”

Aragorn lifted her fingers to his lips, kissing them gently.  Faramir rose, attempting a discreet retreat from the scene now that he was assured Legolas would recover.  The King would wish a report soon, but for the moment Faramir had duties to attend.  He nearly tripped over Éowyn, who had crowded close behind him.  Wrapping an arm around her and dropping a kiss on her head, he guided them both toward Beregond, praying that he remained on his feet long enough to give the necessary orders.  The sudden relief after days of exhaustion and terror left him lightheaded and trembling, but Éowyn’s strong presence beside him was enough as he approached his captain.

“Beregond.”

“My Lord.”  Beregond had risen, but remained a respectful distance from Legolas’s prone form.  “Are you well?”

“For now.”  Faramir shook his head.  He, too, would require sleep—and much of it—but that time had not yet arrived.  “Prince Legolas and I discovered a … nest of houseless spirits along the southeastern ridge on the border of the Outer Fence.”  Éowyn gasped softly, covering her mouth.  Beregond’s eyes widened, and flickered briefly beyond Faramir toward the fallen Elf.  “We were fortunate to take no more harm from them than we did.”

“A nest, my Lord?”  Beregond shuffled uneasily.  “What can we do against such as this?”

“I know not.”  Faramir shook his head.  It was yet another unanswered quandary of the past days, but he had no time or energy to discuss the matter now.  “For the moment, contact the Ranger messenger on duty and send to Mablung that I wish a blockade set up along the lower curve of the number eight trail.  I leave it to him to enforce, but no one is to go east of that section of the trail until further notice.”  It would not solve their problem (what did one do to eradicate a group of houseless spirits?  Could it even be done?), but it would at least keep any unsuspecting Ranger or Elf or traveler from tempting a worse fate than Legolas had found.

“Yes, my Lord.”  Beregond retrieved his sword from the grass at his feet and skirted around Faramir, nodding and murmuring, “My King,” as he disappeared from view.  Faramir turned quickly to find Aragorn at his shoulder.  The King’s face was dark.

“A nest?  How do you know?  How many, do you think?”

Faramir shook his head and fell in beside Aragorn.  As they made their way back toward Legolas, he saw a group of his people who must have returned with Éowyn gathered around the prince.  They were gently rolling Legolas onto a makeshift pallet in preparation for the return to the house.  Éowyn squeezed Faramir’s hand.  “I must aid them, and see to the Queen.”  She looked to Aragorn.  “My Lord, please ensure that he arrives safely home.”

Aragorn nodded.  “I shall, my Lady.”

“My thanks.”  She kissed the corner of Faramir’s mouth and then was gone, leaving him bereft of her warm support.  Faramir wrapped his arms tightly around himself, casting back for the threads of their conversation.

“How many?  I do not know.  Legolas might—he  seemed to be able to sense the others, once …”  Faramir trailed off, remembering that night, and Aragorn shook his head.

“Now is not the time.  We will discuss it once you are home and tended.  The barricade was well-thought, and likely all we can do without further study.”

Faramir nodded, eyes drifting back to the busy scene.  Éowyn was occupied with directing the securing of Legolas’s pallet behind one of the horses.  Arwen had mounted already, awaiting the others.  Faramir shook his head, wonder returning.  A soft chuckle sounded beside him.

“You have questions?”

“No, my Lord!  Or, rather … ”  Faramir pivoted, bringing his eyes back to the King.  “I do, if it is permitted.”

Aragorn smiled faintly.  “Ask.”

“I …”  He cast another glance at Arwen.  The Queen’s weariness was obvious even from this distance, but still she was kind and gracious, speaking softly with a young guard of the White Company who had been stationed to attend her.  Faramir shook his head.  “I do not even know what to ask, my Lord.  Such a display is far from any that I ever expected to see from the Queen.  From any.  How … ”  He winced at the clumsy words, but the King’s eyes lit with understanding.

“Such battles as these are far beyond mortal experience, are they not?”

Faramir nodded, grateful that he would not be forced to flounder further.

“The time of the Elves nears its close, but those among us still are what they are.  My Lady is the granddaughter of Galadriel, and the very image of her foremother Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of the Maia Melian.  There is much power in her blood.”

He had known her lineage, of course, but to truly think of what it meant …  Faramir shook his head, awed.  “We are blessed to have her among us.”

The King smiled again, his own eyes finding the figure of his wife, who was now falling into the line of horses turning for Emyn Arnen.  “We are indeed.”  Aragorn stirred then, and clapped Faramir’s shoulder.  “But I promised your own Lady I would see you safely home, and so I shall.  Legolas needs further tending, and I doubt not that you do as well.  I am certain that Éowyn saw to it a horse was provided for you.  Ride with me and tell me all, so that I may know what we face.”

Faramir sagged limply, relief coursing through him.  “Indeed, my Lord.  I will be most glad to reach home.”


A/N: Epilogue to follow!




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