Faramir Fiction Archive

Unholy Light (NC-17)

Written by December

05 January 2020 | 6480 words | Work in Progress

Title: Unholy Light
Author: December
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Faramir
Warnings: Non-con, torture, psychological torture, AU canon divergence, dark!fic
Author's note.,Alright everybody,I am sorry about this. It's my first (and quite unplanned) dabble into the dark fic realm. I blame it all on watching too many compilations of the GOT most brutal scenes in one go. This may never live up to that standard

Things go pear-shaped towards the end of the quest to destroy the One Ring, and Boromir is left with impossible choices on his hands as his darkest hopes are dragged to the light.
Added: Chapter 5

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Part 3.

Steward Boromir has no map to navigate this surreal terrain.

This, in the austere hospital bed, is a man he has known nigh all his conscious life. His beloved younger brother. His closest companion. With whom he had always been as honest and unguarded as only the circumstances permitted.

But that, too, had long ago become habit, the unthinking norm. Something that was under no threat of change.

To now have to lose his wits over every single thing. How to sit. Where to sit. By his bed, by the wall? Maybe not sit at all, maybe he has not earned that? Whether to look at him, if so, how.

What to say.

When nothing he could say can possibly make anything any better. Although can easily make things a lot worse – somehow. He is not certain as to exactly how. Which does nothing to assuage the black dread firmly rooted into the pit of his stomach.

Without quite meaning to, he falls into an evasive pattern. He comes when Faramir is resting – which naturally is most of the time. He perches himself on the small stool at the head of the cot, watches the rhythm of his brother’s sleeping breath.

The burn scars setting above his ear, somewhere under the layers of bandages, are pulling the skin a little tight over Faramir’s cheekbone; lifting and lengthening the edge of his eyebrow, which is just beginning to grow back. But all this is easy enough to almost not notice, as he lies relaxed in his slumber.

When he begins to stir, the rise and fall of his chest quickening, breaking into an uneven mess, Boromir quietly excuses himself.

Faramir was the first to feel it, long before there was anything to be perceived with the bodily senses.

He lifted his head, all of a sudden completely alert, listening intently.

He glanced over to Boromir, quickly, urgently. It seemed he wanted to speak, but would not, ever remembering the ears in the walls.

Boromir stifled a sigh, pursed his lips in grim confirmation.

His hairline began to itch as beads of sweat started to form.

One broke and trickled down, right into his eye. He tried to blink out the sting, shook his head, willed himself against the futile clenching of fists in their iron cuffs.

The heat continued to rise, and soon their lungs were labouring to pull in enough air. Father was wheezing, but Boromir knew not to acknowledge this.

Then, descending from far above, that grating sound.

Armoured footsteps.

If those could be referred to as feet. None of them knew what was inside that suit of warped black plate that looked as though it had melted and reset several times over. He would be happy to leave it that way.

The monolith door flew open like a screen of parchment, and a hot, parching wind swept into their cell. It grew dark at once, and yet not so, as though the darkness was inside his very mind.

The glare of that dreadful gaze blazed like liquid gold, yet only sucked in what little light was there to begin with.

Boromir tried to swallow away the scratchy dryness in his throat, but there was no spit left.

Unhurriedly, Sauron surveyed them one by one, before stopping at Denethor.

“So filthy, just look at them. Have you taught your litter no self-respect? Worse than animals, the lot of you.”

Boromir’s nostrils flared.

“We shall tell you nothing!”

Slowly, Sauron turned to stare at him.

It seemed he was about to ask something, when with a scrape of his helmet he threw back his head, and a strange booming, abrasive noise flew from his gaping mouth in a fountain of sparks.

It took Boromir a long moment of dragging pain in his ears to realise their captor was laughing.

“You poor idiot, you actually think you hold in your possession anything of use to me. Isn’t it tragic, that this is what your father prides himself on so much, a sack of sinew and bone, and no brain at all. What a waste of flesh.” He pointed at Denethor. “You, remind me not to let my boys eat him afterwards. Stupidity of such degree could be contagious.”

Strolling back over to Faramir, “This one, on the other hand, I might just keep for myself. Not much meat left on him, but he’ll make for a decent pudding.”

He tilted his head to the side, studying the young man with obvious curiosity. “Aw, come now, nothing? You have a sharp mind, you do, though hell help me if I know where you got it from.”

Faramir looked ahead with calm resignation.

Sauron’s eyes blackened in agitation. “Give us something, you know you want to. While you still have a tongue to speak with.”

Faramir considered, and seemed to decide against antagonising him further without necessity. “Only that one has to doubt you truly expect to find me agreeable in the form of pudding – being unlikely as you are to own the bodily structures which to digest it with.”

The pupils collapsed back to slits.

“Hm. Poking fun at an elder for his carnal limitations, how unimaginative. Your father is right, you hardly live up to your potential.”

Sauron turned away and ordered something to his Orcs, who scurried out of the room.

As he watched them go, he spoke to no one in particular: “Soon enough, my strength shall be returned to me in full. You wandered upon something of mine, and you think your flimsy mortal design holds enough power to wield it against me. Little do you comprehend your spirit can withstand its pull no more than your skin can hold when molten rock is poured over it. Your little friend, he will bring it to me, right here to my door step. We must make haste, for it is not long now until he does, and when I am whole again, I could not come within ten feet of a mortal thing and not burn its shell to dust.”

Denethor scoffed.

“That did not hinder Isildur when he chopped you down.”

“Ah, another unoriginal tactic, waving an old ghost around. I will give you that, losing a body can be an inconvenient setback. But that is all behind us now, here you are, guests at my house. And what of Isildur? The river eels feasted on him way back when, and the last of his inbred progeny was brought to me not seven nights past. You must understand, I could not pay you lords a visit before I was done with your would-be kingling.”

Boromir strained at his chains. “You lie!”

Sauron did not answer, as the Orcs returned, carrying in a large table and an assortment of well-used equipment, bits of clothing and decomposing flesh still hanging off the protruding parts.

“How long, do you reckon, before you all envy me the gift to escape my skin?”

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