Faramir Fiction Archive

Devoid of Love (R)

Written by Minx

29 March 2004 | 11953 words

Chapter 4

Legolas stood rooted in shock, still seeing in his mind the myriad scars that had coated the steward’s back, old scars but still visible enough to indicate the harshness of the wounds they must have once caused.

*Who could have - ?*

He suddenly realised that he should find Faramir and pulling on his clothes, raced out of the door trying to decipher where the steward might have taken off.

Faramir just ran, stumbling over every now and then, as the robe was long and certainly not meant for running in. But to him none of that mattered, he just wanted to get away. He stumbled through long winding corridors, dodging the sudden turns, as he wandered through the parts of the citadel that were no longer in use. His room was in one of the older wings away from the hustle and bustle of the wing where the others stayed. It suited him, for he knew he would be leaving for Ithilien soon. He ignored the pain coursing through his body and kept moving.

He panted as he reached the room, which had always been his refuge. After each beating, this was where he came to recover. The beatings – he shuddered as old memories came flooding back, the terrible ones that he’d tried to repress, to shut out. Now Legolas would guess, and that would be one more thing for him to humiliate him with.

For in his terrible state he had heard none of the concern in the elf’s voice. All he had heard was horror, and something else, revulsion?

Legolas walked through the corridors, silently for the day was yet to break, and all seemed asleep, save a few servants who were up early. He could hear them in the corridor to the left.

“The king is indeed a good man, the wedding was beautiful,” one, a woman was sighing.

“Aye,” grunted a male voice, “For the council did fear for the city after the death of Lord Denethor.”

“Why?” came a piping voice, “Lord Faramir is here isn’t he?”

A series of derisive grunts came in response.

“You know what the council says of Lord Faramir? He is no warrior, he is just a weakling!”

“Aye, look how tired he looks all the while, Lord Boromir was always energetic and getting things done, and a good soldier. Lord Faramir lost us the Pelennor, do not forget!”

Legolas gritted his teeth angrily, and strode down the hallway. He had seen the attitude of the White City’s council towards their new steward, a reflection, he had been told, of the old days when Faramir’s advice was never heeded by his father.

The servants scattered from their huddle at his sight, and went on with their duties. He ignored them, knowing they would only repeat what they heard from others, but it angered him to hear the rumors. While he himself would have agreed that Faramir was not like Boromir in terms of physical strength, especially after his injury, there was no doubting his tactical brilliance and intelligence.

Denethor! Legolas suddenly felt a sickening wrench in his gut. He knew somehow how those scars came to be. He remembered hearing someone say that Boromir had been the favoured son.

He stopped suddenly outside one of the small doors leading into the vast libraries housed in the citadel. It stood slightly ajar, a sign that someone had used it. His surmise was proven right at the sight of the steward huddled between two shelves, his knees pulled up to his chest, head resting on them.

He knelt in front of the figure, “Faramir,” his voice was soft as though speaking to a child.

The head jerked up suddenly, fear lining those beautiful grey eyes. Tears spilled over, and the frightened young man tried to inch away from the elf, but found he had nowhere to go. He whimpered unhappily.

Legolas reached out, his heart wrenching at the sight of the look on a face so young, eyes so soulful, and with so much pain apparent in them. He pulled the man into his arms, and lightly brushed the top of the dark head with his lips.

“It is all right, young one, I am here,” he muttered softly in elvish.

He could feel the tears soaking into his clothes, and he tightened his hold on the now trembling man in his arms.

Faramir ached all over, physically and mentally. He was sore from rough handling and he had not yet forgotten that while he had realised how deep his desire for Legolas ran, the elf himself had revealed *his* deepest desire – and it hadn’t been him. And on top of it all, he kept remembering the beatings.

The time his father had lashed him for accidentally scaring Boromir’s horse, and causing him to take a fall. Boromir had hurt his wrist, but it was a very light injury. Denethor’s hand that day had not been. Faramir had barely been able to stand when he’d finished. Boromir had never learnt since he’d been recovering from his own injury.

The time he had barged accidentally into his father in the hallway, and Denethor having just received news that his elder son and his men were besieged by orcs near Osgiliath and needed reinforcements, had taken out his frustration on him. He had dragged his younger son into his study, and had slapped him so hard that he had fallen to the floor. He remembered being dragged up by his hair and slapped over and over again till he was too dizzy to care.

What had followed remained a blur, the biggest whip Denethor owned had fallen innumerable times till his back was streaked with blood, and even then it had not stopped. His father had actually kicked him like he was kicking a dog.

“Get out of my sight, you worthless boy!” Denethor had cursed, with each kick to his ribs. Faramir had dragged himself over to his room, where he’d lain for many hours, insensible. When he awoke, he ministered to his injuries as best as he could with a salve that he kept a permanent store of, having no desire to go to the healer. Faramir had been fifteen then, a gangly youth, all skin and bones, and none of the good looks his brother possessed, and was often the butt of many a joke among the healer’s young assistants all of whom were in great awe of his brother. The rudimentary healing ensured that scars had remained for many years. Even now, though many scars had disappeared there were still enough to cause concern.

The beatings had stopped after that, probably because he also had taken up soldiering duties and stayed away from the city as much as possible, but the damage had been done. Whenever he came back, he spent most of his time in the library away from his father’s sight.

He heard his name being called out faintly and stared up, half scared, into blue eyes. In his half dazed state he tried to move away, but could not. He felt his cheeks turn wet, and then arms reached for him, and he fell into them brokenly, his head pounding non-stop, his body screaming for comfort.

He was shivering now, and his arms were wrapped around the back of the elf, taking comfort in the feel of the well-toned body, as his own hands felt limp as a sock.

Even when Legolas pulled away slowly, he kept his hands around him, shivering all the while, tears streaming down his face, clouding his vision. He felt strong hands pull him into their loving embrace, and a soft voice in his ear.

“What is it, love? Why do you cry so?” came the worried query.

He sobbed harder, leaning against the elf’s chest, holding onto him, desperately grabbing at him, as he felt an overwhelming blackness descend upon him.

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

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/devoid-of-love. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!