Series Masterpost: Belfalas Rim
Monday, July 25th, 2016 07:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
terresdebrume
✗ BELFALAS RIM
CHRONOLOGICAL POSITION: First
RATING: General Audiences
WORDCOUNT: 589
PAIRING(S): -
CHARACTER(S): Faramir, Boromir, Eomer, Eowyn, Hama, Gandalf
GENRE: Fusion
TRIGGER WARNING(S): -
SUMMARY: It’s high time they got someone who could smile again.
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“And who are those guys?”
Eowyn follows her brother’s gaze to the railing near the ceiling and gives the two newcomers a quick once over.
They have the same strong jaw, the same shade of hair, and more or less the same eye color, but one of them definitely looks older and bulkier than the other. Maybe they’re siblings, too. It would be kind of nice, as sibling copilots aren’t that common in the ranks anymore -they were, at the start of the Jaeger project, but the higher authorities discouraged them when families started protesting losing two children at the same time when a Jaeger went down was too much.
Now Eowyn and her brother are among the last siblings pilots, aside from the two Dwarves who pilot the Arkenstone up in the Gulf of Lhûn, and those elven twins in the Ice bay of Forochel with theirPeredhil.
Other than their three teams, piloting amongst kin isn’t really done anymore, which makes the newbies’ appearance even more surprising.
“New recruits,” Hama tells them, “Gondor’s new president decided it would be a good idea to relaunch White Tree.”
“And to give it a good polish, too,” Eomer says with a nod to the two men’s brand new pilot suits, “I didn’t know they had that kind of money left after their war against Mordor.”
“They made peace with them,” Hama shrugs, “Apparently sending Jaeger pilots is a joint effort… Boromir and Faramir are from Gondor though, born and bred in Minas Tirith. They both served in the war,” he adds when he sees Eomer’s mouth open, “They’re not rookies.”
Eowyn nods just as the Gondorian pilots reach the last of the stairs, then walks to the younger of them with her hand extended:
“Welcome to Dol Amroth,” she tells him, “I’m Eowyn, and this is my brother Eomer. We’re the Eorlingas pilots.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the other answers with a smile, “I’m Faramir, and he’s Boromir. I guess I don’t have to tell you which Jaeger we’re here for,” he concludes with a gesture to the white tree on his breastplate.
Boromir only nods at her, then goes on looking around like a hawk -she wonders if he was like this before serving in Mordor, or his apparent mistrust is a product of the war… perhaps it’s a bit of both. Still, his lack of response makes Eowyn fidget in her own suit, play with her helmet for a second while she searches for something to say, until Eomer’s rings cling against the shoulder of her suit:
“Hama says Gandalf and Radagast have something new for us. Might want to come down and see this.”
“Of course,” she nods, then turns back to Faramir: “I’ll… see you around, then.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Faramir answers with a grin.
Eowyn hears the sound of a slap and Faramir’s pained ‘ow’ but can’t quite make out the words in his brother’s voice as she lets Eomer drag her toward the research labs, muttering something about how he hopes they haven’t managed to turn their lab into a bloody smoking lounge this time around.
They hear crew members taking bets on whether or not the Gondorian siblings are going to catch up with Eorlingas’ count and smiles.
Competition has been lacking since Legolas and Gimli pulled back to Forochel, and she’s glad there’s someone she’ll be able to joke with again soon.
(Eomer looks at her like she’s grown a second head when she tells him Faramir sounds nice enough.)
✗ BROKEN BRANCHES
CHRONOLOGICAL POSITION: Second
RATING: General Audiences
WORDCOUNT: 790
PAIRING(S): -
CHARACTER(S): Faramir, Boromir, Eomer
GENRE: Fusion
TRIGGER WARNING(S): Discussions of PTSD
SUMMARY: Since he came back from Mordor, Boromir notices almost everything.
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“He’s starting to suspect something.”
Faramir’s attention snaps from Eomer’s frowning face in and back to Boromir, hunched around his Bolognese as his gaze darts around the room, trying to take everything in at the same time.
His cheeks feel hotter than they should as he asks:
“Suspect what about what?”
“The hearts in your eyes,” Boromir says, pausing to narrow his eyes at two mechanics engaged in a playful fake fight, “and your grin when she’s here.”
Faramir throws a glance toward the door Eowyn exited from, feels sweat beading on his forehead until he remembers Boromir doesn’t look at him anymore.
Boromir hasn’t looked at him since he came back from the war –at first, Faramir thought he’d become like their father, until he started paying attention and realized the only other person Boromir didn’t bother watching was President Elessar, the only other surviving member of Boromir’s unit.
These days, Faramir would actually feel worried and vaguely hurt if his brother started paying too much attention to him.
“I’m not that obvious,” he protests with more petulance than he’d like creeping into his voice. “I’m a grown man and I can have discreet crushes, thank you very much.”
Boromir’s cursory glance and raised eyebrow clearly beg to differ –if Faramir is asked, he will swear up and down that someone pushed the heating up, but he still hides his face in his hands, just in case. His voice is muffled when he speaks, peaking at his brother through his fingers:
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not hallucinating,” Boromir answers as he finishes shoveling pasta into his mouth and chugs down the last of his sparkling water.
Faramir hears a grunt that might mean ‘not this’ or ‘not yet’, he can’t tell for certain, before Boromir concludes:
“He wouldn’t have noticed you if she hadn’t.”
Boromir was never a big talker.
Of course, you can hardly be the son of a man who got elected president three times in a row –and more or less cheated his way into a fourth run- without having some training in public speaking and whatnot, especially not when your father is president of Gondor and refusing to give decent explanation as to why he’s cutting down the Jaeger program… but, well, it was never in Boromir’s nature to talk a lot.
Before the war, he would joke, and sing, he would slap people on the back and laugh with them, share grimaces and little gestures to convey his meaning… serious conversations with him were entirely possible, and always interesting, but never his preferred area. Boromir’s battles were always fought on the field.
Only, that was before Boromir took four bullets to the chest and was thought dead for fourteen months, before coming back home to his best friend sitting in the government room of the palace because his father had set himself on fire and jumped from the heights of Minas Tirith.
He speaks even less now than before, regardless of the tone. He barely smiles, and almost never laughs, and there’s something restless and tired in him that wasn’t there before –something that goes beyond the nightmares and terrible memories that he can’t help sharing and caused them to be assigned mandatory therapy before they could be allowed to touch White Tree.
These days, Faramir does most of the talking.
And joking, and laughing, when he can. Boromir watches –everything, everyone. That makes him a valuable partner because it means he’s often aware of danger or problems before anyone else is, but it’s still a quality many of those who love him would like to see him lose, if he could.
Some day.
“Big brother complex,” Faramir mutters instead of voicing his concern, pushing his pasta around on his plate. “Why do I always get the ones with overprotective big brothers?”
Boromir, who was watching the rafters, shrugs, then sets his fork down and downs his yoghurt in one large gulp before tapping Faramir’s shoulder.
“It’s for us,” he says, and sure enough, immediately after, Hama’s voice rings in the dining hall:
“White Tree! This one’s small, you’re going out for a test run!”
Faramir takes a deep breath and finishes the last of his ale before he rises to dispose of his tray.
Boromir, already done with the mundane part of his day, waits for him at the foot of the stairs, intently looking at him for once, with a deep frown on his forehead. Faramir pauses, raises a questioning eyebrow at him… Boromir looks like there are several things he wants to say, but in the end all that comes out is:
“Remember today, little brother.”
Faramir swallows the panic down and answers Boromir’s thin smile with one of his own.
✗ STRONGER TEETH THAN ORCS
CHRONOLOGICAL POSITION: Third
RATING: General Audiences
WORDCOUNT: 918
PAIRING(S): -
CHARACTER(S): Legolas, Gimli, Elladan, Saruman
GENRE: Fusion
TRIGGER WARNING(S): -
SUMMARY: The elves of Mirkwood are a lot more resilient than Saruman might think.
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There’s an air of gloom to the lab, a smoky atmosphere heavy with ill intents and lungs filled with the fumes of countless machines destined to bring the world to its knees.
Saruman sits on a high stool as other men would on a throne, still managing a disturbingly regal pose even with an arm missing and sweat glistening off his skin; the red glow of an antique fireplace casting ever-changing shadows across the hollow of his cheeks, the dips of his collarbones, the tower tattooed on his forearm.
The heat doesn’t bother Gimli –he grew up kilometers underground and knows better than to expect the air to ever feel cool down there, so a mere house fire won’t be enough to make him uncomfortable- but the elf sitting cross-legged on the countertop looks like he could swallow a lake, and his dark brown shirt sticks to his ribs as he wipes sweat off his brow with a dirty rag. It’s one of the twins who pilot Peredhil, probably the one who keeps drifting back to Legolas… And as for the princeling, the twin’s presence, and the clinging noise coming from under Last Alliance’s gauntlet, indicates without a doubt that Gimli has found the place he was looking for.
Yet, before he can talk to his copilot, he has to stop and ask:
“What kind of sick horror happened to make you laugh, old man?”
Saruman’s throaty laugh echoes in the workshop again, the sick sound of someone whose lungs have been taken by soot –a sound Gimli knows well after spending so many years in mines and around heavy smokers. The old man keep laughing, coughing and cursing for a long time until at last, he turns to gesture toward the elf on the countertop and spits:
“Your three-hugging friend here, still thinks there’s a chance you’ll be able to beat the Witch-King and his Kaijus now that Sauron joined him overseas!”
“Sauron didn’t join anyone,” Legolas interjects from where he is workingat the same time Gimli denies all friendship with elves, “Gondor drove him out of his tower… and it didn’t take long for the Haradrim to realize their fate would be far more enviable if we won than if we lost.”
“As if they betrayal mattered,” Saruman sneers, bending over a basin to spit a heavy blob of blackened saliva, “when the Witch King learns about you….”
It seems the workshop darkens, shrinks around them and Gimli shifts from foot to foot, waits for the storm to pass and the spell to end –Gandalf bound Saruman himself, so there shouldn’t be any risk of him breaking his chains… still, an angry wizard is never a pleasant company, especially not when you are kilometers under frozen ground and the heaviest snow-storm you’ve ever seen.
The twin –it must be Elladan- has jumped down from his countertop and his hand is resting against his hip, ready to take his dagger out, but the sound of Legolas sliding out from under his work seems to nip the fight in the bud.
“Do you pretend to frighten me with this?” Legolas asks Saruman as he sits up, “You must be mistaking me for a child! I was born and grew up under the Witch King’s tricks –my people has not seen the sun in a very long time, and a simple light show won’t be enough to send me cowering back.”
Legolas chuckles –a dry, fake sound, devoid of any joy or humor, or at least none that Gimli can hear. He watches the princeling get off his wheel plank and walk to the basin of solvent they keep around for cleaning purposes, methodically wiping engine grease off his forearm –Gimli can’t quite take his eyes away from where dark green runes emerge on both sides, starting from the wrists and climbing up almost to Legolas’ elbows… a prayer and a list of names, Gimli knows, even though he can’t understand the runes themselves.
“Kaïjus are far larger than spiders, it is true, but Jaegers are also much bigger than we are, and my elves are used to defend places that offer a lot less protection than Forochel. Worry not, Saruman, the Witch King won’t be eradicating us for a long time yet, if ever.”
“Not to mention,” Elladan interjects from where he still stands, “You have been a great help in understanding the way these monsters work.”
“It pains me to admit it,” Gimli snorts, relief flooding his chest, “but the elf is right. How will Sauron react when he learns you betrayed him uh?”
Colors drain from Saruman’s face, his sunken eyes darting around as if already hearing orcs and goblins come for him -Gimli never liked Saruman’s face half so well as he does just now. In fact, he would probably snap a picture if he were allowed to -but the elves are silent and, where Gimli doesn’t mind mocking Legolas, he will not put himself in a position to be seen as anything less than professional where another pointy-eared bastard can hear.
“You may think we deserve to lose,” Legolas concludes with a grim tone, “but we are your only chance of survival, and you know this. If I were you, I would be thankful that the elves of Mirkwood have stronger teeth than orcs.”
Legolas turns on his heels and Gimli follows him out of the door.
He came here with a purpose but, for now, intimidating Saruman sounds a lot more satisfying.
