Faramir Fiction Archive

Chronicle of Scars: Cuts (R)

Written by Dernhelm

29 March 2004 | 29961 words

Chapter 5: Shattered

‘Why did you do that to me!’ Faramir screamed, watching himself walk with deliberate steps back to his bedchamber. This had never happened to him before, the absolute loss of himself as the voice took over his thoughts and actions. He felt like he was in a dream, drifting through his thoughts, his soul disconnected from his body. ‘why did you lie to him like that!’

“Hush, little one,” the wicked voice spoke using Faramir’s own mouth, but the words sounded distorted, tainted and hollow. “I did not lie. You do love him. And you leave for his own good.”

Faramir turned the corner, and the voice fell silent as he nodded at the two guards that straightened to attention as he passed them at their watch. Faramir wanted to call out to them, ask them to speak to him, pull him out of this madness. But the voice kept Faramir’s lips pressed firmly shut until he had climbed the stairs, away from everyone, and back into the isolation of his sparse bedchamber.

“I do this for you, Faramir,” he found himself saying to himself, “I do this to protect your sniveling, broken soul!”

Faramir shrank even deeper into the darkness to hear the carefully crafted malice coming from his own lips. This was so much worse than usual; he was used to hearing the voice as a echo to his own thoughts, a constant reminder of his true quality. But to hear it speak using his own mouth, to bring each painful word in brutal reality…

“Do you forget everything we’ve done together, everything we’ve weathered?” the voice said as it calmly poured them a tall glass of brandy from the decanter on the mantle of the fireplace. He took a long slow drink, almost emptying the glass, and the alcohol warmed his stomach as the fire beside him warmed his skin, soothing him a little.

“I came to help you, my Faramir,” the voice was gentler, coaxing, “do not ever doubt that. I am the only one who stays with you. If I were to leave, you would have no one left.”

‘But Aragorn would still be with me,’ Faramir thought wistfully, a new defiance growing within him against the voice. He did not like feeling so disjointed, so out of control, and just thinking of the blue tranquility of his King’s eyes brought Faramir a new strength.

“You still don’t understand, do you,” the voice sighed before finishing off the glass of amber liquor, “he is trying to lure you to his bed, nothing more!”

‘There are three words true men of Gondor do not use for deception and lies,’ Faramir told himself firmly, reciting one of the few lessons his father had taught him that he felt in his heart of hearts was true, ‘honor, loyalty, and love. And Aragorn—no, Elessar, is indeed a true man of Gondor.’

“The words of a romantic, my boy. Times have changed since your father upheld such ideals.” The voice sighed as it downed a second glass of brandy, and Faramir began to feel as if he was blurring, the little barriers within him being washed away by the warm liquid glow, leaving him surprisingly complacent. Maybe it wasn’t so bad letting the voice speak for him after all.

‘Faramir, you are hurting. Would you not feel better if you let your arms weep a little? It has been a long night for us both.’ the voice purred inside him again, and though Faramir still had no mastery of his own vocal chords it was comforting to hear the voice back where it belonged, here inside, next to him…

Faramir was moving involuntarily to his dresser, seduced by brandy and the familiar promise of comfort. He felt as if he were floating, the voice whispering lovingly as he opened the top drawer and carefully pulled out a bundle wrapped in velvet so old it appeared silken. Unrolling the fabric slowly across the dresser top, Faramir’s breath came with a shudder of near-pleasure as sharp silver glinted from the dark cloth, a beacon light through the darkness.

With sure hands, he rolled up the sleeves of his fine linen shirt, just high enough to avoid the coming blood, but not so high to cut the circulation to his arms. From the drawer he also pulled a roll of white muslin strips, already sized for quick bandaging, and a whetting stone upon which to sharpen the blade, his old friend.

It was almost rote, something he didn’t need to think of, as he picked up the gritty whetting stone, his eyes searching the room for the glass of water he needed to moisten it so he could sharpen the knife. When it was razor clean, it could cut through his flesh like butter, leaving nothing but a spider-thread of a scar behind on his arm.

Faramir found the glass next to his bed, half full with two day old water, but he was not thinking as he reached down to grab it. The brandy had dulled his fingers, and before he knew what was happening, the glass tipped over and spilled it’s contents across the small table, dribbling onto the floor, wetting the pages of the red-leather bound book that had rested next to the small oil lantern…

The book!

Quick as thought, Faramir snatched his birthday present from the spreading puddle, dropping the whetting stone as he wiped fiercely at the water that coated the book’s fine cover with the hem of his shirt. He was in a state of near panic trying to dry the ancient pages. How could he be so clumsy with such a rare treasure? Forgetting his original intent, he went to the crackling hearth, hoping the warmth of the fire would help dry the pages.

‘You poor little fool. You’ve ruined your gift,’ the voice said sadly, ‘how could Aragorn trust you with his heart when you so wantonly destroy the other gifts he gives you?’

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Faramir’s inner voice was small, rattled already by the damage done to his most prized possession, ‘my hand slipped.’

‘Nothing is ever your fault, is it Faramir?’ the voice sighed, its sympathy laced with a cruelty as familiar as a lover’s touch, ‘It wasn’t your fault your mother died, though it was your birth that weakened her. It wasn’t your fault your father didn’t love you, although you never tried hard enough to make him happy. It wasn’t your fault Osgiliath fell, though you did not ask for reinforcements until it was too late. It wasn’t your fault Boromir never came home, though—’

“Stop it!” Faramir finally found control over his throat, and his own voice rang bitterly through his room, ending in a dry sob.

‘Cut yourself free, Faramir. Burn the book. You do not deserve it.’ The voice was soothing in Faramir’s mind, as if it were trying to make amends, ‘You have ruined it already. How do you think your King will feel to know you have destroyed his generous gift, his elven family heirloom? Spare yourself the shame and give it the end it deserves.’

Faramir’s hands shook as he held the book over the fire, the normally silver words on the spine churning orange, as if they were melting into the red leather. All he had to do was let go, and it would all be over, his love burning to ashes like the tales and poems upon the dry parchment…

Dry…

‘That is where the true beauty of Elven craftwork lays,’ the memory of Aragorn’s pleased voice rang through the darkness in Faramir’s mind, as the prince’s fingers searched upon the side of the book for evidence of his spill. The paper was as dry as his throat.

The book wad fine, testament to the strong magic woven into its pages.

“NO!” Faramir cried out, pulling his hands out of the increasing heat of the flames, cradling the book to his chest, “this is MINE, and you will not claim any part of it! I am tired of you and your lies!”

‘Do what I say, little one,’ the voice snarled, ‘or you will know what real pain is again! Burn it! Burn him from your mind!’

“I will not!” Faramir yelled into the empty room, not caring who heard save the shadow shrinking within him, the darkness that was suddenly receding…

No, it had been coiling, and it sprang upon Faramir anew, shrieking and clawing from within, tearing at his freshly exposed tenderness.

‘Elessar will destroy you! He will devour you whole!’ it cried, and Faramir doubled over, as if in physical pain, the precious book falling from his hands onto the floor.

“I would rather be destroyed by him,” Faramir growled, panting against each word as he forced himself to stand erect, swaying under the weight of the attack, “than be a slave to you for the rest of my life!”

The voice screamed in Faramir’s mind as it jabbed at him again with a wordless lance of pain, and Faramir screamed in return, trying to drown out the sound. His arms flailed involuntarily, sweeping across the mantle before him, knocking all it’s contents to the hard, stone ground.

The sound of breaking glass seemed only to fuel the grip of the darkness, and his hands itched for more to destroy, to shatter, as his soul was shattering into fragments within him…

As he hurled the remainder of the decanter of brandy across the room, he heard himself laugh, a bitter, frightening sound almost as chilling as the cry of a Nazgûl, and Faramir knew in that moment that he was losing this battle…as he had lost everything else in his life.

Arwen smiled as she plucked a bite of sweetmeat from the tart in her hand, half-hiding the little plate in her nighttime robe as she made her way stealthily back to her bedchamber. Despite her daytime fatigue, her nights of late had been plagued with a sleeplessness fueled by odd culinary cravings she could not explain. This was not the first time she had ventured to the kitchens in her bedclothes in search of midnight snacks. In fact, she was coming to know the late-night bakers well as they toiled tirelessly to make the morning bread for the nobles of the citadel, and the warm pastry she nestled against her had been a special gift from the apprentice chef, who had come to expect her late-night visits.

Aragorn had still not returned to bed, despite the late hour, and Arwen’s heart was light as she thought of the reason for his absence, remembering his heartfelt confession to her earlier that day. It had been long since she had seen him so unsure, so unused was he to feelings of deep love. It had reminded her much of their courtship, his shy bravado, and truly, she did not begrudge her husband his feelings for his Steward. She was secure in Aragorn’s love for her, for she knew he would not have walked through fire and death to have her by his side had he not truly wanted to spend the rest of his days with her.

There was room enough in Aragorn’s heart for both of them, and Arwen was more than willing to share him if it meant her love was following his true desire. Too often he had been waylaid and denied, forced to fulfill his duties rather than follow his dreams, and if allowing him the freedom to pursue Faramir’s love truly made him happy, than it was what Arwen wanted for him. Faramir was a good man, and he was indeed a fine match for her Estel. Truthfully, few other men would have met her approval the way the sad, gentle Steward had, and she hoped Aragorn would be able to bring Faramir the joy he truly deserved in turn.

“I will not!” an anguished voice rang though the hall, breaking the serenity of her thoughts. Arwen stopped in her steps, a fresh bite of tart halfway to her lips, and listened for the source of the cry.

A series of muffled words led her feet slowly down the hall, until a heartbreaking shriek followed by the crash of breaking glass forced them into a rapid, cautious trot down the empty hallway. To her alarm, the sounds seemed to be coming from Faramir’s bedchamber, and she stopped before his door, her breath coming quick and shallow as she listened to the broken moans that came from within.

Someone was assailing Faramir! Without hesitation, she silently placed her plate on the floor beside her so she could have both hands free to grip the long, elven dagger she always carried under her robe. If there was indeed someone hurting her friend, then they would find swift justice at the end of the Queen’s blade…

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the unlocked door open, drawing her knife as she burst into the room, ready to fight for her Steward’s life.

Something clear and jagged was flying at her the second she entered the room, and Arwen’s inborn reflexes saved her from catching the broken decanter square in her face. She ducked just in time to let the vessel smash onto the door behind her, the sound of the glass splintering mingled with the soul-cutting sound of cruel laughter.

The terrible sound stopped almost as suddenly as it had begun, and Arwen realized with an awestruck horror that the twisted cackle had come from Faramir, who now stood pale and trembling in the middle of the room, his eyes locked on her taut form in the doorway.

“Your Highness,” Faramir choked, his wide eyes flickering between Arwen’s puzzled face and the glass shards laying at her feet, “Your Highness…”

“Faramir, are you alright?” Arwen asked sternly, her eyes darting around the room for the attacker she was sure the prince had been fending off, “what is going on in here?”

But Faramir did not respond, though his mouth opened and closed as if forming words for which he had not the strength to utter. He staggered to his Queen, as if in a trance, and before she could stop him, he dropped to his knees before her, onto the remains of the broken decanter.

The shattered glass embedded itself deep into the flesh of his knees, but Faramir seemed not to notice as he grasped at Arwen’s summer robe, clinging desperately to the gauzy fabric as strangled sounds came from his throat. Arwen was unsure what to do, so shocked was she by this odd behavior in Faramir, that she could only stand there, brandishing her knife uselessly as the prince’s head came to rest at her bare feet.

“Forgive me, my Queen,” Faramir’s words were so breathlessly quiet Arwen could barely hear them, though she did not miss the utter despair and remorse in his voice, “by the Valar, my Lady, execute me for my treason against you, for hurting you!”

It was only then she felt the cool trickle of slow blood upon her cheek, as the single drop from the tiny cut on her forehead made it’s way down to her chin. She had suffered worse wounds when wrestling with her brothers as a babe, and yet here was Faramir trying to stifle his cries of pain as he ground his forehead deeper into the broken glass, in penitence for inflicting an accidental wound on her.

“Faramir,” the Queen’s voice was soft but insistent as she carefully hunkered down to be closer to the wounded man, avoiding the carpet of glass. She placed a delicate hand on the back of the Steward’s head, surprised to find the normally soft curls damp and ragged to the touch, “are you alright? What happened in here?”

Her repeated words fell on deaf ears, as she pulled Faramir’s tortured face to meet hers. Arwen bit back a gasp to look at him: his eyes wild and fragmented, his face coated with fresh blood as it flowed freely from the multiple small lacerations decorating his brow. Little pieces of broken glass glimmered like jewels in the wounds…a crown of pain for a shattered soul.

“Help me,” Faramir whispered, his voice a ghost, and he reached a red-streaked hand out to her as he trembled, looking through Arwen as if calling to her from a deep blackness, “please, help me…”

It was only then that Arwen saw the scars on his forearms, the careful cuts in their methodical lines exposed by the rolled up shirt, and her heart constricted as she realized Faramir’s blackest secret. She had seen this before.

“I will help you, Faramir,” she said, calling upon all the light within her she could muster as she grasped his blood-stained hand in hers, “but you must tell me how.”

Faramir was shaking so badly he was making Arwen tremble in return, and she realized as she looked into his eyes that he was trapped within himself, desperately fighting again his own psyche. She could help him, yes, but there was another would could aide him better.

“Faramir, can you understand me?” Arwen asked calmly, squeezing the trembling hand reassuringly. She was relieved as the prince nodded his fair head, meeting her gaze again briefly before dropping his head to rest on her knee. She watched in horrid fascination as his blood spread like wildfire through the sheer fabric, and she knew she had to be quick.

“Do you want to talk to someone, Faramir?”

Another sharp, silent nod.

“Do you want to speak with me?”

A shake this time, vigorous and painful.

“Do you want to speak with Aragorn?”

Hesitation. Finally, a nod so small it was almost unperceivable.

Arwen nodded in return, though Faramir could not see it. The queen’s voice rang through the halls, calling urgently to the guards.

Within seconds a pair were at her side, their hands upon the hilts of their swords. Their jaws went slack to see their Steward in such a state, wounded and trembling at the queen’s feet, and they looked at her blankly for guidance, unsure what to do.

“You,” Arwen said, pointing at the younger solider, “find the King. He is most likely in his library. Be quiet about it, but bring him here as quick as you can. This is a matter of life and death.”

The young guard’s face drained of color, but he nodded nonetheless, turning and running down the hall as fast as he’s come.

“And you,” Arwen pointed to the guard that remained, her voice low and calm, keeping her own fear under tight control, “help me get him to the bed. Mind the glass.”

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