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 4.

He wonders, sometimes, if Faramir is not, in fact, sleeping.

Never had his brother been one to play tricks and deceive, least of all him.

But neither is Faramir a man who enjoys pointless confrontation, and when feigning unconsciousness is such an easy, harmless way out, why not use it?

He wonders, sometimes, if he is going mad.

They made it through, they are among the fortunate few.

But it does not feel over. It does not feel any different from when they hung trapped in the belly of the smoke-belching mountain. The decorations have been changed, his costume has been changed, but he is firmly stuck in the previous act.

He wonders if he should stop coming. Has his poor brother not been made to suffer enough? Just leave him in peace.

Faramir’s breath catches, his eyelids flutter.

Boromir rises, on quiet feet makes for the exit.

As his fingers wrap around the door handle, a voice husky from slumber catches him from behind.

“You do not have to leave when I awaken.”

Boromir lowers his face, inhales slowly, shuts his eyes.

“All right. I shall stay… next time.”

“You will have to forgive me my doubts as to your ability to fully appreciate what I have prepared here,” Sauron pointed to the table and various equipment. “It would be a shame to have you go in unprepared, so I have enlisted an assistant to demonstrate.”

On cue, the Orcs slipped out and returned dragging in one of the rangers from the brothers’ Ithilien company.

His leather gear looked tattered and faded, useless and unimpressive next to all the tools of torment.

“Damrod!” Boromir cried when the man looked up.

Damrod’s cheeks were sunken, his eyes deeper than Boromir remembered. And he had a beard now, like the rest of them, the only proper indication of how many days had lapsed since the ambush.

It took the man a moment to focus his gaze.

“My lords! Woe take us, it is true, you are here!”

“You were not brought in to talk,” Sauron spat.

As he whipped around to face the ranger, Damrod’s eyes went so wide the whites were visible all around. He screamed and thrashed uncontrollably in the Orcs’ hold, but could not look away.

Sauron stood over him until the man’s knees gave out from under him and he sank to the floor. “At least this one knows the etiquette for greeting the King of Kings, unlike his dumb masters. Perhaps we should reward that with a faster death.” He waved to the Orcs, “Go on then, tie him up before he passes out.”

Boromir gritted his teeth.

“Save this spectacle, we require no demonstration!”

Sauron looked over at him, with what appeared like satisfaction, but said nothing.

Boromir could not tell whether the next stage took hours, a day, or the better part of a week.

When Damrod lost consciousness from the pain, the first time they splashed a pail of dirty water in his face. After that no one could be bothered to go fetch more water, so the Orcs took turns rousing him with pissing.

Boromir’s ears were sore and ringing from Damrod’s prolonged screams, which went progressively more shrill as more and more sophisticated methods were showcased on him.

Father tried not to watch, his brow furrowed and face turned away. Faramir watched quietly, intently, his expression unreadable, only tears flowing freely down his face. Boromir knew his brother loved Damrod very much.

Eventually they unchained him, or what was left of him, and he slipped to the floor softly as though there were no bones in his body.

Sauron nodded to the Orcs, and they hoisted the man up, holding him by the armpits. His head lolled, he blinked groggily.

In no apparent hurry, Sauron walked over to him.

Damrod shuddered and wheezed under his gaze, but could no longer make a louder noise.

Boromir saw Sauron lift his hands, unclip his helmet in the back.

The Orcs whimpered and cowered, turning as far away as possible without dropping their charge.

Sauron pulled the helmet off.

Boromir did not even get a look at the back of his head, for his eyes could not leave the ranger’s face. After everything the man had been made to endure, still Boromir had not yet seen a distortion of such absolute horror on his features.

Damrod gaped to inhale but it would not come as though an invisible force were throttling him. His eyes bulged. Slowly his face turned red, then purple. Still he could not break the eye contact. Suddenly his body arched taut. His head whipped back with a sharp crunch, and his corpse went limp.

Sauron adjusted his helmet back in place, gave it a little twist this way and that.

“This session would have been quite educational for the lot of you, I should imagine,” he observed as the warrior’s remains were carried out.

He said nothing more for a while, so as not to distract his captives from the commotion behind the door, which sounded most unambiguously like a body being ripped to pieces and hastily consumed. It would appear the two Orcs who had held Damrod expected exclusive rights to the spoils, while some others who had waited in the corridor disagreed.

“Now, where were we? Ah, yes.” The yellow eyes focussed on Denethor. “I shall give you the honour, for old times’ sake. Which one shall we use for our fun first?”

Boromir suppressed a growl. This pretense had to be worse than the actual torment.

“You cannot seriously expect my father to nominate one us for torture!”

A strange noise came from behind the visor, as though a snort. “You underestimate your father, boy. Now, old man, no need to be coy, you are not a fair maiden watching over your virginity. We both know your mind, so speak it – don’t be discourteous to those who need ears to hear.”

But Denethor only averted his gaze, visibly drained by the weight of that burning stare on him. He exhaled heavily and shuddered as Sauron turned away from him at last.

“His grace will not oblige, so what are we to do. Take them both down.”

“No!”

“Oh?” Sauron leant in with mocking attentiveness. “Which is it then?”

Denethor swallowed, took a breath.

Boromir saw Faramir lift his face.

“Leave my father be. I shall be the one.”

Sauron nodded to the old steward. “I can see how you’d grow tired of him. Must be bothersome, to be read better than you like to show. But isn’t he right?”

“Father!” Boromir cried. “Father, don’t do this!”

Denethor would not meet his eyes as he said: “Yes, it is so.”

Sauron regarded the two young men some more.

“Ah, well. Take them both down anyway.”

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