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Betrayed (PG-13) Print

Written by Alcardilmë

17 August 2009 | 750 words

By Alcardilmë
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Denethor, Boromir
Warning: Implied incest, implied adult/minor contact

Archivist’s Notes: There is a Russian translation of this story: Предательство.
December has drawn a illustration: I Trusted You.

Still, Denethor did not leave the House of the Stewards. Faramir had been hiding for almost an hour, and for almost an hour, Denethor had stalked him. Faramir could hear him walking slowly from crypt to crypt; he shoved his fist in his mouth to keep from screaming. The gentle footsteps moved closer, but no other sound accompanied them. Faramir held still until his muscles began to cramp. His left leg betrayed him, left the safety of his arms, and slid out, pushing his foot forward. The slightest of sounds, but Faramir knew Denethor heard it. The footsteps stopped.

Faramir shivered uncontrollably, then berated himself. Why had he not obeyed Denethor’s order when first it had come? ‘Twas a simple enough order, routine, yet something in it caused Faramir to panic and run. Did his father know? It was the only logical explanation for the cryptic order. How had he discovered their secret? The shivering grew exponentially as Faramir remembered their last tryst. It had been beautiful, beyond words, but his screams, he must have betrayed them with his screams. Boromir had told him not to worry, but Faramir had, and now, he deemed, rightly so.

“I know you are here, Faramir.” The familiar, once-loved voice echoed through the halls of the House. “I can order a detail to comb the place, but I think you would prefer not to be shamed in such a way. I am saddened that you disobeyed a direct order, but that can be remedied. Come out now and all is forgiven.” Moments that seemed like a lifetime passed. The gentle voice spoke again. “I am hurt that you would react to an order in this fashion. Hurt because it seems to portray fear. Are you afraid of me, Faramir?”

Such a simple question. Faramir’s eyes grew misty; tears fell. Once he had not been afraid of his father, once he had loved him with all his heart, once he had thought him the greatest man in all Middle-earth. But then his mother died. Denethor changed immediately into a cold, hard, grim man. The days of warm hugs and ruffled hair ceased. He had been moved from his own chambers, the ones he shared with Boromir, and put into cold, damp chambers on a floor well above the family’s old quarters, ostensibly because of his age.

“I am losing patience, Faramir. Come forward now, else your punishment be heavier than it ought.” The footsteps, so very close now, stopped. Faramir held his breath. Denethor must only be a crypt or two from him. “I only want the best for you, my son. And for me.” The innuendo in the voice sent Faramir’s body into paroxysms of fear. Again, his body betrayed him. He heard Denethor move forward, knew he had been found. He sobbed hysterically as his father turned the corner and stared down at him, his grey eyes held an emotion Faramir could not discern.

“My son,” the voice said calmly, a hand held out to him, “do not be afraid. I am your father, not your master. Stand, as an esquire of Gondor. I know you should be punished, but I will preclude that. I see now that fear was your undoing. There is naught to fear, my son. You will come back with me, to my own chambers, and we will talk, as should have been done in the first place. Your age saves you, you know; fourteen is too young for the prescribed punishment, flogging. Had you been but a little older and disobeyed such an order, I would not be allowed leeway to forgive you.”

Faramir watched as Denethor’s eyes turned to steel. He knew he should take the proffered hand and stand. He knew he should follow his father to his chambers, but he was beyond coherent thought. He watched as Denethor lowered himself to his knees, placing the hand upon his thigh. He jerked backwards; Denethor held firm. Faramir wanted to scream and run, but his traitorous body would not move. He watched the hand move up his leg. Violent shaking assailed him. His father smiled. As Faramir’s spasms lessened, his father’s hand moved up further and settled between his legs, barely touching Faramir’s…

“Hush, Faramir. I will be as gentle as your brother.”

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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3 Comment(s)

Such eloquence in so few words, practically a tale of a whole life. So concise, yet so very powerful – quite overwhelming, actually. Beautiful and haunting. So many things you leave unsaid, and yet it all reads perfectly well between the lines. It is all seemingly soft and gentle, but what horrors are actually hiding below the surface…!
To the very end I wanted to take Denethor’s words at face value, but then… And apparently his last line is a lie, too, along with everything else. Good Valar, it simply makes me shudder to think what course Faramir’s life will take from then on…
Thank you for sharing this work. It has definitely left me with a lingering impression.

December    Thursday 29 July 2010, 18:13    #

There are sometimes when horror just accosts you and you can’t do anything but write about it. I felt the same way as you when I wrote this. The horror lingered and I had to complete it. That’s one thing I love about your writing… but your gentleness is a true gentleness… whereas mine seems to be touched by the macabre. Yikes! Bless you for your comments! MOST appreciated!

Alcardilmë    Friday 30 July 2010, 5:33    #

Oh, I believe every colour in the palette has its appropriate uses – and for this story the ‘macabre gentleness’ is just the shade to apply, I think. And I also think that your ‘colour scheme’ in this work is exceptionally consistent. At first I had wondered why it was that Faramir actually having a consensual relationship with someone had only added to the sadness and eeriness of the tale. I suppose that is because it brings into contrast how truly unprotected he is before Denethor, that even though another man loves him, nothing can ensure him against this sort of peril.
So, as you see, the impression has lingered on me indeed…

December    Friday 6 August 2010, 4:00    #

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