Faramir Fiction Archive

Borne Upon a Dark Wind (NC-17)

Written by Ithiliana

18 December 2005 | 25334 words | Work in Progress

Their shadows grew as the sun fell behind them. They were moving north and east, traveling quickly along one of the old roads that ran from the grasslands near the River up into the wooded hills. The road led into a gorge. Ahead Faramir could see the beginning of the woods.

The whisper of sound brought his head up, mouth dry. The man marching next to him dropped to the ground, an arrow buried in his throat.

“Down!”

Rhisiart’s voice.

Faramir dropped as the men around him began to react, reaching for weapons, moving for cover, shouting. But they were caught in the open, as Faramir’s men had been, and died quickly under the deadly rain. The reek of blood wiped out the green smell of grass and woods as Faramir lay pressed to the ground, half expecting a blow.

The hard hands that pulled him up off the ground belonged to a Ranger of Ithilien. Faramir hardly had time to see the bodies that sprawled around him before he was pulled away, running as fast as he could toward the woods, ducking his head as branches whipped his face.

Angry at how weak he was, Faramir forced himself on until they broke into a clearing where Rhisiart and others stood, two holding the reins of half a dozen horses.

Panting, pain stitching through his side and feet, Faramir could not speak, could only stand, swaying but upright.

Rhisiart nodded at him, then looked at the man by his side. “His hands?”

“Chained.”

“Get him on a horse.” Rhisiart unclasped his cloak pin, pulled the cloak off. “And put this on him.”

Another man came to help, and, half-pushing, half-pulling, they got Faramir on one of the horses then swung the cloak around his shoulders, pulling the hood low over his face. Rhisiart swung up behind him, gathering the reins in one hand, an arm around Faramir.

“All of you, scatter and get across the River. Tell the others.”

Mounted men closed around them as Rhisiart urged the horse into a trot. Faramir wondered if the pace was safe over such rough ground but said nothing until they had gone some way.

He felt hollow inside, unable to believe what had happened, wondering if this was some dream.

“How?”

He felt Rhisiart’s chuckle against his back. “Boromir. He ordered horses for us, sent us ahead, when your father refused to allow the Rangers from Ithilien to march to Osgiliath. We were supposed to take Aragorn to exchange for you.”

The flush of anger made Faramir forget his pain. “Refused to allow you to fight?”

“Because we lost Ithilien.”

Faramir bit back the words he wanted to say. His father was the Steward.

“I just hope Lord Boromir will understand,” Rhisiart said, voice shifting in a way Faramir did not comprehend at first..

“Understand?”

“Our failure to take Aragorn.” The mock solemnity of Rhisiart’s voice surprised Faramir who could not help laughing, feeling his anger wash away.

“I think my brother will forgive you,” he said.

“Good.”

They rode more slowly now, making a wide circuit first to the north then coming about to ride west. The half dozen riders spoke little as dusk shadowed the fair glades of Ithilien. Faramir was content to sit, wrapped in the warmth of cloak and arm which seemed to keep weariness and hunger at bay.

He could see the first stars as they came out of the woods onto grasslands. Rhisiart kneed the horse to a canter, and Faramir did his best to relax into the motion. He was almost asleep when he realized they’d stopped and were talking in low voices. Shocked, Faramir blinked, sat up, forced himself to listen.

“We still hold the bridges,” Rhisiart said. “And the peace was set for a day and night.”

“But will we be able to pass? The enemy is on this side of the River.”

“Stay close together, ride slowly,” Rhisiart said. “Until we’re to the bridges, then gallop. It’s dark.”

“They’ll fire on us.”

“Better them than the enemy. If we live, they’ll let us live. Stop as soon as you can and surrender.”

Faramir tensed as they began to move down the hill, at a walk, going diagonally toward one of the bridges that still stood, linking Osgiliath to Ithilien. Aragorn’s forces were spread out on ground and hills of the east bank of Anduin. Faramir looked away from the camp where he had been held, forcing the memory of last night away, searching for the bridge that crossed the River.

More torches flared, marking the bridge. Peering out from under the hood that still shadowed his face, Faramir could see armed men on the bank and on the bridge. It was close, so close.

“Keep down,” Rhisiart said briefly, and Faramir bent forward as much as he could, feeling Rhisiart’s weight over him in the moment before he kicked the horse into a gallop. The jolting run awoke all Faramir’s injuries. He set his teeth and endured, not trying to see what was happening around them.

He could hear though, shouts, screams, the clang of metal.

Behind him, Rhisiart cursed, then shouted, “For Gondor! Faramir for Gondor!”

Hooves clattered against stone, and the horse danced about as Rhisiart pulled back on the reins.

Farmir strained to make sense of the jumble of movement around them. As his vision cleared, he could see a circle of men around some with bows ready, others with swords. Torchlight flickered on grim faces.

Rhisiart pulled the hood of his cloak, yanking Faramir upright. He could hear his name being muttered, then shouts for more light came on the heels of orders to fetch the commanders

Held upright only by Rhisiart’s arm, Faramir waited. Finally he heard Boromir’s voice.

Holding a torch, Boromir shouldered through the men. He was wearing a red tunic and chain mail, not the full armour of earlier, under a black cloak. The moment he saw Faramir, he smiled, tossed the torch to another, and ordered the armed men back, striding forward.

“Rhisiart! You’ve suceeded better than I dared hope!”

“Call a blacksmith,” Rhisiart said briefly, steadying Faramir as he swung a leg up and over to slide off the horse into his brother’s arms.

Knees buckling, Faramir leaned against Boroimr, feeling the metal of mail and buckles through the thin cloth he wore, held easily upright, smelling the mingled scents of soap, wine, and Boromir’s own fragrance as Boromir hugged him, then swung around, starting to walk Faramir away.

“Get Healers too.”

Some note in Rhisiart’s voice brought Faramir back around to see the large man sliding off the horse in turn, back to them, holding onto the saddle. He did not move, and Faramir frowned, not understanding, until he saw the blood glistening on his leg.

Rhisiart turned to face Boromir and took one step forward before collapsing. Without thinking, Faramir tugged free of his brother’s hands, forgetting his own hands were chained, leaping forward to catch the falling body but falling into darkness under Rhisiart’s weight.

Darkness.

Faramir’s shoulder burned.

Weight pressed on arms and legs.

He twisted, sweating, and strained against the hands holding him down. He was caught, could not move, could not see, could not hear.

You will learn.

He tried to speak but his voice was strangled in his throat.

Burning.

Faramir twisted, voice suddenly free, shouting wordless denial, thrashing against the hands that held him down.

“Let him go, fool!”

“But he’ll hurt himself.”

“Worse if you hold him down.”

Suddenly free, Faramir rolled onto his stomach, panting. He lifted a hand to rub his eyes, sore and swollen, and blinked.

White stone walls. He was lying in a narrow bed. Cautious, he turned his head to see Rhisiart gripping a Healer by the shoulder.

“What? Where?” Faramir tried to push himself up but gave up when the room seemed to spin around him.

Releasing the Healer who stepped back, rubbing his shoulder, Rhisiart said, “We’re in Osgiliath.”

“Osgiliath.”

Faramir rested his head on his arms, shutting his eyes against tears. The darkness this time was safe, welcoming.

When he woke again, he remembered where he was and what had happened.

He opened his eyes to dimness. The small room was lit with one lamp, ceiling low, no window in any wall. An open arch lacked a door, and the floor was cracked, worn. A low bed was shoved against the wall across the room, empty.

Rhisiart sat slumped in a chair by Faramir’s bed, legs stretched out, wearing green leggings and a stained shirt, gaping at the throat. Faramir could see the bulk of bandages that wrapped around one leg. A sword was propped against the wall beside him, within arm’s reach.

Feeling stronger, Faramir sat, swallowing dryness in his throat.

At the sound of his movement, Rhisiart woke, reaching for the sword, then relaxed as he saw Faramir and nodded. “You’re awake. Do you remember where we are?”

“Osgiliath.” Faramir realized he was naked except for bandages wrapped around his shoulder and leg, pulled the bedding around him. “How long?”

“Two nights since we rode in. Are you hungry?”

Faramir nodded, lying back as Rhisiart rose and went to the door. He limped as he walked, and Faramir pulled the bedding higher. He could think of nothing to say when Rhisiart returned, lowering himself into the chair slowly, sighing. He did not seem concerned at the silence, sitting until the Healer entered. It was another man, younger than the first, carrying a bowl.

Pulling a stool next to the bed with one foot, the Healer sat down. He smiled at Faramir, scooped the thin liquid into a spoon, and held it out.

Faramir shook his head, pulling away. “No,” he said, his voice harsh in his ears.

“You need to eat.”

“I can feed myself.”

Shaking, Faramir pushed himself up, not caring that the bedding slipped down, and held out his hand.

“Let me help, you’re weak.”

Clenching his fist, Faramir struggled not to strike the smirking face. He could feel anger hot within, the pounding of his heart echoing in his body.

“Let him do it himself.”

The anger drained away at the sound of Rhisiart’s voice, cool in the dim room.

“But—”

“Give him the bowl.”

The Healer held it out, frowning, and Faramir grasped it in both hands. He knew he was shaking, but gripped firmly, dipping the spoon and raising it slowly to his mouth. The bland warmth was soothing, and he concentrated on emptying the bowl without spilling, then held it out to the Healer.

“My thanks,” he said, trying to smile.

The Healer ducked his head, took the bowl, and left.

Faramir lay back, suddenly weary.

Leaning over, Rhisiart picked up a goblet from the floor which he offered Faramir. He took it, sipping then drinking the cool water greedily. Rhisiart took it from his hand when he was done.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“You were hurt that night?”

Rhisiart shrugged, rubbing his leg. “A cut. They put me in here because I can still use a sword.”

“Why does that matter?” Faramir yawned, feeling sleepy and warm.

“Because your brother thinks Aragorn will try to get you back. So do I.”

Chilled, Faramir shifted under the bedding. It made a terrible kind of sense.

“In fact, we fought.” Rhisiart set the goblet down on the floor.

“About what?”

“He wanted to send you back to Minas Tirith that night, as soon as the Healers looked you over. I told him he’d be making the same mistake Aragorn did.”

Even through his fear, Faramir wondered what Boromir’s response to that had been.

“The moment the peace was over, they attacked again, stronger than ever. We’ve thrown them back, for now.”

“For now.”

Rhisiart nodded. He watched Faramir who was stuggling to control his breathing for a moment, then stood, limping over to his bed. He reached under the pillow, then turned, coming to stand next to Faramir.

“Here. Don’t tell the Healers.” He was holding out a small flask.

Confused, Faramir took it, uncorked it, sniffed. The smell was sweet, so he shrugged, lifted it to his lips and tilted his head back, swallowing. The thick liquid ran gold down his throat.

Faramir licked his lips and gave the flask back to Rhisiart who took and corked it.

“What is it?” Sweet warmth seemed to spread through Faramir who relaxed.

“Apples, mostly. It’s a drink we brew at home. There’s only one Inn that sells it in Minas Tirith.”

Faramir felt his eyes closing. The last thing he saw before sleep took him was Rhisiart settling back into the chair, sword at hand.

Faramir walked as slowly as he dared, looking down at the white flagstones over which he walked, avoiding the faces on either side of him. He was unable to shut out the sound of whispers, laughter. When he came to the flight of stairs that led to the throne, he stopped. He forced himself to look up.

In dark velvets, Aragorn sat at his ease, one leg extended, hands at rest on the carved arms of Gondor’s throne. He smiled at Faramir.

Unable to stop himself, Faramir unlaced his tunic, pulled it over his head, dropping it to the floor. He had to stand first on one foot, then the other, awkward, to pull off his boots. The sound as each hit the floor was loud, echoing in the hushed silence. Hands shaking, feeling the heat of his shame even in the cool air of the Hall, Faramir fumbled at the ties of his leggings.

He tried to pull free of the compulsion and failed. He could not resist.

Pushing his leggings down, he stepped out of them, moving forward to kneel, head bowed.

“What do you wish, son of Denethor?”

“To be yours, lord.”

Horrified at the words he heard himself saying, Faramir bit down, tasting blood. No!

Faramir heard the echo of his shout, flinched as hard hands closed on his shoulders, struck wildly. His hand hit leather and slid off. He was too weak.

“Faramir!”

Boromir’s voice.

Gasping, Faramir blinked, eyes watering in the candlelight.

Boromir was sitting on the bed next to him, hands resting on Faramir’s shoulders. He relaxed, feeling the smooth bedding under him, and managed to smile.

“You were dreaming,” Boromir stood, looking for the chair, then pulling it forward to sit. He was armed and attired for battle, a leather jerkin and rich red tunic over his mail shirt.

Faramir nodded, pushing himself up, leaning back against the pillows.

Boromir watched him, legs spread, resting his arms on his thighs, eyes intent.

The silence in the room grew.

Rubbing his shoulder, Faramir looked away. The brand ached less, but it itched. He tried to scratch, but the bandages frustrated his efforts and the itching seemed to spread under his skin.

“What happened to your shoulder?”

Faramir pulled his hand away. “A burn,” he said. He forced himself to look back at Boromir.

“How did it happen?”

“Aragorn.”

Faramir was relieved when Boromir nodded, sitting back in the chair, asking no further questions.

“Rhisiart said that Aragorn was attacking again, stronger than before.”

“He’s gotten more forces from Minas Morgul. That’s what we think happened, that they were massing there for some time where none of the scouts dared go. The first force came down from the north, then were joined by orcs and Southrons. We’re holding them, for now.” Boromir paused, then went on. “I want you to stay out of sight in case he sends a force here to search for you.”

“Here?”

“Rhisiart made it clear they had access to the stores at Henneth Annûn. The northern Rangers could pass as men of Gondor. We cast down the last bridge, but they have boats.”

A voice from outside broke the silence. “Lord Boromir! They’re attacking again!”

Boromir stood, adjusting his sword, smiled the smile he wore into battle. “Rhisiart thought the danger was greater in open country, that you were more likely to be re-taken if I sent you back to Minas Tirith. If he’s wrong, he’ll be dead. So keep your head down.”

Mouth dry, Faramir nodded.

Before he turned and left, Boromir said, “Send for me at any time if you wish to talk.”

Faramir slid down, pulling the covers higher, nodding at Rhisiart who came back into the room, showing no sign he had heard what Boromir had said.

Eyes closed, not sleeping for fear of another dream, Faramir tried not to think of what Boromir might say or do if told all that Aragorn had done.

Three weeks later

Boromir made himself walk slowly through the streets and courtyards of Osgiliath. He knew many eyes watched him, that many rumours were flying. Denethor had come this morning.

They had fought within the first hour. Boromir had lost.

This defeat after the last weeks of stalemate burned within Boromir, but he dared not show his anger to his men.

Turning from the wide street into a narrow alley, choked with fallen stones and slippery with moss that grew in shadowed corners, Boromir walked carefully into the courtyard outside the half-ruined building where Faramir and Rhisiart stayed.

Through the archway, Boromir heard laughter and his heart lightened. It had been too long since Faramir had laughed, and his smile when Boromir visited him had been clearly forced. And he had not spoken of what he’d endured while Aragorn’s prisoner, no matter what encouragement Boromir had given.

Even the Healer had refused to give Boromir any details. It would be easier to admit that in Aragorn he may have met his equal as a warleader if Boromir’s own family did not also oppose him. Pushing that thought from his mind, Boromir ducked inside.

Rhisiart rose to his feet, sword gleaming in his hand, then relaxed when he saw who it was. His movement had scattered the pieces in front of him, but Boromir recognized the game. A children’s one, easily played with a a handful of stones.

Faramir smiled up, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and gestured at the interrupted game. “You come at a good time, brother, to save me from defeat!”

Boromir nodded at Rhisiart who sheathed his blade and left the room.

Faramir looked pale but stronger, his smile familiar again. Boromir wished he had better news.

He dropped the bundle he carried on the bed.

“Our father is here.”

Smile fading, Faramir scrambled to his feet, moving easily.

“Why?”

“Aragorn sent heralds to him, with an offer of peace, and Denethor has come to meet with him.”

Faramir frowned. “The same offer he made before?”

“No. He’s given up on demanding tribute, asking only that we cede Ithilien to him and withdraw from Osgiliath.”

“Only! Has father agreed?”

“Not yet.” Here, with Faramir, Boromir allowed himself the luxury of a frown, rubbed his head where the ache that had begun earlier was growing. “But he insists on meeting with him.”

“And?”

Boromir sighed. “And he wants us both with him.”

“Ah.” Faramir turned, fumbling at the bundle. When he opened it, rich cloth, dark blue with silver stars, spilled across the grey blankets. He picked up the tunic, shaking it free of the fine-woven leggings.

“When?”

“Soon. You need to dress. We’re to meet him at the River.”

A silence, then Faramir said, “I’ll join you outside as soon as I’m ready.” His voice was even, cool, and Boromir could only nod and leave.

Rhisiart was leaning against the wall to the right of the door, only a few paces away.

“You heard?”

Rhisiart folded his arms. He said nothing, but the quirk of his lips, a lifted brow, was eloquent.

“Will you wait here, until we return?” Boromir wasn’t sure why he asked and refused to admit his relief when Rhisiart nodded, once.

They waited in silence until Faramir stepped out, the westering sun bright on his hair and the embroidered stars of his tunic. He bore no weapon, and Boromir cursed, having forgotten to bring one.

“Here.” Rhisiart unbuckled the leather sword belt and held the weapon out to Faramir who took it, nodding his thanks, and buckled it on.

Boromir walked beside Denethor, Faramir on his other side, across the uneven ground which was torn from the weeks of fighting. Gondor’s banner, white and gold, flew high over the tent, matched by Aragorn’s silver tree and seven stars flashing against blackness. As before, half the guards were Boromir’s men, half Aragorn’s. The men stared ahead, ignoring each other, as one of each company held the flaps open for the Steward of Gondor to enter followed by his sons.

Inside, the air was warm and still, spiced with the scents of candles and wine. Aragorn, flanked by two others, was standing at one end of the table. He looked up as they entered, eyes moving past Denethor, tall and lordly in black trimmed with rich fur, over Boromir, to linger on Faramir who was standing still, back to the entrance.

Boromir mistrusted the look in Faramir’s eyes and moved to stand in front of him, shielding him from view, standing close enough to the table to accept a goblet of wine from the man across him with a nod of thanks. After a moment of stillness, Aragorn moved in turn, nodding to Denethor, coming to sit across the table from him.

Sitting at Denethor’s right hand, pretending to sip, Boromir left the chair furthest away from Aragorn for Faramir. Knowing what Aragorn was going to say, Boromir focused on his father.

Or rather, on the Steward who had been so angry when Boromir had fought to keep Faramir away from this meeting that he had not told the commander of Gondor’s army what reply he would make to Aragorn.

Denethor leaned back, dark eyes on Aragorn, and spoke. “You have sent messages that you and your master will cease fighting if granted undisputed rule over Ithilien and the withdrawal of Gondor’s forces from Osgiliath. Is that all?”

Aragorn nodded.

“Earlier, you asked for much more. Why this sudden change?”

“My lord had hopes of achieving much more,” Aragorn spoke easily. “He did not expect the failing might of Gondor to stand against the forces brought under his banner.” He raised his goblet to Boromir. “He miscalculated. I have told him that we cannot win this war.”

Denethor snorted, folding his hands on the polished wood. “The forces of Mordor are vast. Do you expect me to believe he could not bring another army against us?”

“Perhaps he could, but his forces have many duties. I have no desire to spend months sitting on the bank of Anduin and know that you have not yet lit the beacons to call Rohan.”

Boromir stopped listening as they continued to speak. He felt their words were empty. After an uncounted time, as the tent darkened, Denethor pushed his empty goblet away.

“If I accept your offer, what surety can you make that the next season will not bring another attack against my City?”

Aragorn smiled, teeth gleaming against the short dark beard. “My blood kin,” he said. He laid a hand on the arm of the dark-haired man sitting on his right. “Halbarad. My cousin. He will return with you to Minas Tirith. And you, my lord, may choose one of your blood who will be my guest as well. That way, if either of us breaks our word, we do so knowing our kinsman will be the first to die.”

The jaws of the trap were closing. “No.” Boromir stood.

In the silence of the pause, the only sound Boromir could hear was the rasp of Faramir’s breath.

“Such a thing is not uncommon,” Denethor said mildly. He stood as well, nodding to Aragorn, grasping Boromir’s arm. “I will take one night to consider your offer and will send a herald to you at the third hour after sunrise with my answer.”

Aragorn stood in turn, gesturing to the entrance of the tent, nodding. “I will await your messenger, my lord Steward.”

Boromir tried to pull free and was surprised at the strength of his father’s grip as he left. Unwilling to actually fight his father in front of the enemy, Boromir followed as slowly as he could. Halbarad fell in behind them, and it was not until they were a dozen paces or more from the tent that Boromir realized Faramir did not follow.

“Such a thing is not uncommon,” Denethor said. “I will take one night to consider your offer and will send a herald to you at the third hour after sunrise with my answer.”

“I will await your messenger, my lord Steward.”

Faramir tried to stand when the others did, but he was shaking so hard he could not. He closed his eyes, tried to breathe. Cold sweat ran down his back and sides, but he gripped the solid wood of the table, pushing himself back and up. He made it onto his feet and turned to go.

Aragorn was standing there, within arm’s reach. Behind him was the only way out.

Faramir stumbled back, trapped against the hard wood of the table. Only his grip on the edge kept him standing.

“Are you ill, Captain?”

Shaking his head, Faramir could see no way to reach the entrance without passing close enough for Aragorn to touch him. Even now, he could smell the familiar scent, leather and salt and smoke, that seemed to wind through every fiber of Faramir’s body. He recognized the rich green tunic, remembered the rasp of it over his skin.

“I regret my failure then.”

Faramir swallowed, hard, before he could speak. “Your failure?”

“I must have failed in courtesy else you would not be so fearful to be my guest.”

“I recall no courtesy. And I was a prisoner, not a guest.”

Aragorn stepped closer. Faramir leaned back but could not elude the hand that settled on his shoulder. The brand blazed, pain striking through his body, heat burning down his spine.

Dizzy, Faramir shut his eyes.

“You are mine, captain. You bear my mark. It will never leave you.” Aragorn’s voice was soft, breath brushing against Faramir’s skin. He could feel the stroke down his throat, the grip on the back of his neck.

“And it will bring you back to me.”

“No.”

Even as Faramir tried to shout his denial, his voice failed. Aragorn slid forward, mouth settling on Faramir’s, tongue sliding through his open lips. The hard wood cut into Faramir’s thighs, and he felt himself leaning back further. Aragorn’s body moved against his, hardness pressing against his leg, and to his horror Faramir felt his own body respond.

“Faramir!”

Boromir’s voice cut through the thick air like a sharp blade through smoke.

Gasping, Faramir found himself standing next to the table, hands clenched at his sides. He opened his eyes to see Aragorn standing several paces away, smiling.

The tent flaps were pulled back to reveal Boromir, frowning.

“What are you doing?”

Aragorn turned, hands spread wide. “I was speaking to your brother, my lord. About those beauties hidden in Ithilen which he knows well and which he might show me whilst he is my guest.”

Hand curling around his sword hilt, Boromir stared at Aragorn a long moment in silence, then turned back to Faramir.

“The boat is waiting.”

Numb, Faramir walked forward, not believing he would be allowed to go, not even as he walked beside Boromir down to the River where their father waited, dark robes fading into the darkening night.

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