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Family Games (NC-17) 
Written by December19 December 2010 | 65301 words
Chapter 2. Sweetness in the Dark
And so Faramir’s story begins.
He rode out to Ithilien before sunrise the following morning, together with Eldir and Belegorn, the two Rangers he had met in the Steward’s hall.
In other circumstances the young lord would have been glad for the opportunity to spend time with such men, the sort of men he liked to have as friends. They had the familiar reassuring air of rugged, careless manliness, of inborn trustworthiness and dependability that he had always associated with his older brother. Their stern, neatly chiseled features, the keen hard eyes, the relaxed confidence of seasoned, battle-hardened warriors all served to imply a grave no-nonsense personality – yet Faramir was not of the chatty frolicking kind himself, and had nothing against long stretches of good-natured companionable silence.
Were he in a better mood, he would have no doubt found Eldir’s and Belegorn’s presence greatly refreshing after the several days he had spent at Minas Tirith getting to know his father’s court. These two apparently cared very little for refinement, decorum, and fancy talk – they were all about what made up the genuine worth of a man: valour, strength, reliability and loyalty, they were about doing much and talking little, and knowing how to do it well.
Yet as the small party passed through the tall gate and followed the wide empty road through the Pelennor, Faramir’s heart grew increasingly heavy, and he felt neither glad nor refreshed. He understood the way he was going to be received by the rest of the company greatly depended on what these soldiers would make of him, and he saw his chances were low – little wonder, though, given the scene they had been witness to.
The young man wanted to scream with frustration. For his part he may have well understood what agenda had driven his father to speak in such diminishing terms of the Rangers’ trouble and consequent attempts to solve it, as well as to so easily replace his older son, reputedly very popular among the men, with an inexperienced boy of twenty whom nobody had even heard of for the past ten years. Faramir hoped that Boromir – given the sentiments that had passed unconcealed across his face when Denethor would not even allow him embrace his younger brother – also knew that their lord’s decisions had little to do with either Faramir’s or his own capabilities as warrior and captain.
But the men Faramir was assigned to take charge over – how were they to know of the Steward’s purposes? In fact, it was part of the scheme that they did not know.
Hopefully, Boromir was clever enough not to take this replacement as personal offense, as an insult to his previous accomplishments and his ambitions for the future. Boromir may have been rash and self-assured, yet he was no fool, especially when he had direct personal experience to base his judgement on.
But the Rangers had nothing else to found their opinion of Faramir on but the odd exchange they had beheld – and the immediate impression his looks and conduct were to provide.
Yes, his chances were low.
Back in Dol Amroth his appearance had always been on his side – at times even too much on his side. But in Dol Amroth expectations had been different.
He had arrived there as a skinny boy, wearing the label of a high lord’s second son, already so deficient even to his own father’s eyes as to be considered a futureless burden and thus be dumped on the other side of the family to take care of. Yes, Faramir had no elusions regarding the popular explanation of Denethor’s decision to part with him – part so suddenly and so completely.
And before a few seasons had passed and Faramir had grown old enough to understand certain things, he had even entertained the notion himself.
On his first night in the Southern castle – and it had been a dark windy night, chilly and damp – he had been unable to find sleep, unaccustomed to having a bedchamber all to himself. So the boy descended to the common floor to see if anyone else was still up. He heard voices coming from one of the drawing rooms, and saw the friendly warm glow of a blazing hearth, and turned his quiet footsteps that way. Yet before he had made himself seen, he was able to discern that the men speaking were his grandfather and uncle, and they were speaking about him. Not wishing to cause embarrassment he stopped in his tracks – yet curiosity and anxiety prevented him from leaving immediately either, and he overheard part of the conversation.
“I still do not understand this: young Faramir seems fine to me,” Uncle Imrahil said thoughtfully, and from his tone it was clear he had a puzzled frown on his brow.
“Perhaps it is too early to tell – after all, Denethor is no fool, his decisions are usually well justified, and he certainly does not have one child too many,” Grandfather replied just as thoughtfully. “Although I agree, I am also quite perplexed. Had we both not heaved a long sigh when this request came that we accommodate the boy – indefinitely? Had we not speculated at length as to what kind of nuisance we would have to deal with? Perhaps an insufferable arrogant brat, lazy and shallow? A weak spineless coward, pathetic and soppy? Or a talentless unambitious dimwit, mediocre and dull? Maybe someone his father could not trust, a skillful little liar, calculating and cold-hearted?”
The younger man snorted unkindly. “Yes, Father, the latter outcome would have surely left me unsurprised – given his parentage…”
“Imrahil, please! I know you are still sore about your sister, and I am well aware of where you allocate the responsibility – and this is not the time to discuss any of it. In fact, now that we have the boy in the house, I would rather you kept your grievance to yourself altogether. Faramir has been effectively exiled from his home, I am sure he has enough bitterness of his own.”
There was a long moment of silence, and Faramir chewed on his lower lip and clenched his hands, knowing he should go, yet unable to resist the temptation to stay and perhaps shed some light on the matters that so haunted both his dreams and waking hours.
At last Adrahil exhaled heavily and went on, “The point is, your nephew matches none of our guesses – for that matter, I see no fault with him at all. He comes across as a perfectly normal boy, perhaps a little shy and on guard, but that is only natural given the circumstances. But apart from that… He is hale and comely, modest and complaisant but not without some healthy confidence, and from what I’ve heard of him talk, I’d say he’s sensible, and sharp, and unusually mature for his years.”
“Do you know, my father,” Imrahil mused softly, “I would go even further than that, and say that he is outright charming. We had all sorts of prejudices against him, and already we like him – and not only we. The young maids, I have heard, are waging a war over the right to clean his room – that is certainly telling, isn’t it? My brother’s-in-law argumentation notwithstanding, I believe we might come to actually enjoy Faramir’s stay with us.”
At that point Faramir’s prudence got the better of him, and he headed back to his room.
Although the boy did feel relieved to hear the men speak kindly of him, on the whole his little expedition proved to render him sleepless not only on that particular night, but for many more to come – and shame of eavesdropping on his elders was by far not the main cause. He would lie on his back staring into the darkness, listening to the nervous sound of his own breathing, trying to understand. He had suspected as much, and now that he had heard others voice his thoughts, he knew it to be true: he had done something to direly displease his father – or else his father had discovered some fundamental unfixable fault with him.
Much as Faramir raked his mind for a recollection of some outrageous offence on his behalf, he could find nothing. His behaviour was not perfect, of course, but hardly any more ‘not perfect’ than that of any other boy his age – if anything, he was actually far less troublesome than the average pre-adolescent lad. Yet far from bringing him comfort this thought filled him with innermost blind dread, for if he had done no misdeed, it could only mean there was something gravely, hideously wrong with him, with his very self – so very wrong that he had no idea what it could possibly be.
Yet even though he could not come up with as much as a half-plausible guess at the nature of this accursed flaw, the boy knew there must be something indeed: he had proof.
He had been unable not to overhear another exchange, back in Minas Tirith, earlier that very day when without any warning he would be told to take supper in his room and prepare to depart on the morrow. Many heated words had passed between his father and sixteen-year-old brother, yet Denethor had been the only one talking loud enough for Faramir to catch something. Most of it had seemed meaningless to the boy, yet one particular bit he had comprehended well enough.
Boromir muttered something spiteful, and then for the first time in Faramir’s memory dared raise his voice at the Steward – but his cry was hoarse and clouded with tears of powerless anger, and entirely incoherent for that.
“Unfair?” Denethor retorted sarcastically, apparently reiterating a part of Boromir’s last line. “Damn sure it is. But seeing as I am now forced to part with one of you, I would rather it be him.”
Ten years later Faramir understood everything his father had said to Boromir back then – and could well imagine what Boromir had replied. But that was of little relevance at this particular hour, when the task at hand was to start on the right foot with the Rangers.
What was relevant was that he was no longer in Dol Amroth, where being amiable, polite and unassuming had often been more than sufficient to keep people happy. They had prepared themselves for a bother, and instead received a boy who took very little of their time and did not add to the lists of their worries. That on top of it he was pleasing to look at had only been seen as a plus.
But with these men now his fairness was hardly a strength – if anything, they were likely to take him for a spoilt self-assured fool used to getting everything on the sheer grounds of having a pretty face. He also suspected that most of the soldiers, if only they were not much younger than his two current companions, could have daughters of marriageable age – and with such folk young attractive men were hardly particularly popular.
Faramir, being unpresumptuous of character, would have never come to actually define himself as attractive, had he not been given countless and mostly uncalled-for testimony of the allure he exerted over the gentler sex. Said testimony ranged from the subdued little expressions of interest like the long wistful glances, the veiled artful compliments and incessant giggling – most of which he preferred to attribute to the inborn female propensity to coquetry – to the more prominent ones. Among the latter was the collection of anonymous letters he had accumulated over the recent years, some romantic and innocent, others quite educational in the explicitness with which they denoted to what use the author would like to put the endurance the young lord had acquired in his military training. Other examples were the caring solicitous inquiries as to whether he was feeling lonely so far away from home – inquiries that always happened to take place in some private secluded location, and also happened to be accompanied by serious meaningful looks and confidential pats and caresses planted on his forearm.
Faramir had never encouraged any of this attention, even when he did find the other party engaging and lovely – for reasons of his own he had long since developed a wariness of the sensual side of life, and to merely consider the subject brought about unease and a vague sensation of indecency and shame. Thus he had come to prefer and even seek the society of women who did not envision him as their husband or lover, for with them he could enjoy himself and be a man without feeling threatened or growing uncomfortable and ill-at-ease.
Yet again, the Rangers knew nothing of this, and he was certainly not going to tell them. That aside, all their other assumptions about him, unlike those of his grandfather and uncle, unfortunately happened to be correct.
He was exactly what they saw him as, namely unworthy of the role he had been given: he was young, without any experience whatsoever either as a fighter or an officer, and very little like his brother apart from the features of his face and the colour of his hair. Word of Boromir’s uncontainable prowess, of his love for battle, of his passion for risk, of the fact that his body simply lacked the organ responsible for generating fear, of how easily and naturally he established unquestionable authority over his men and gained their devotion – word had long since spread throughout all of Gondor, and had well reached Dol Amroth, so that even there instances had occurred of Faramir being referred to as ‘Lord Boromir’s brother”.
Faramir, on the other hand…The last anyone in Minas Tirith had heard of him was that upon turning eleven he had been sent to reside in far South with his mother’s side of the family – presumably for educational purposes. But everyone in Gondor knew that for a proper upbringing, including military training, men sent their sons to the capital, not away from it. The swan-knights of Prince Adrahil may have been esteemed for their finesse and stamina, and their school enjoyed a fine reputation, yet for the past few decades they had ever only displayed their skill at pompous festive tournaments…
The Rangers of Ithilien were the elite, the best of the best, handpicked by the Steward himself – even to join their ranks as a cadet was an honour to be hard earned. And here he was, a beardless boy of twenty, all of a sudden given command over them, handed this position on a plate – this same position that his brother had paid for with sweat, blood and an immeasurable amount of work. Truly, Faramir could not blame the Rangers for being less than thrilled.
And thrilled they were not, and did not try to pretend otherwise.
Faramir needed to talk to them, if not to establish a personal connection, which he had little hope of succeeding at, then at least to learn all the matters that he, as the new captain, could not afford not to know. Eldir and Belegorn, however, seemed intent on staying several feet behind, as though in order to keeping a respectful distance from their superior – needless to say, this did little to facilitate the conversation. Faramir either had to raise his voice, or keep talking over his shoulder, neither of which he enjoyed.
What was most annoying about this seemingly puny inconvenience was that it was a sign of a worrying tendency. Faramir could live without these people’s understanding, without their affection or approval. He could stand them to think he spent all his free hours seducing naïve gullible girls, that he wanted to rival with his much worthier brother for their father’s favour – even that he despised them all and considered himself infinitely above them. But he could not manage without their cooperation – in fact, it was in their self-interest to help him be a better captain, for, ultimately, their survival depended on the wisdom of his decisions.
Yet he saw clear as day that at least these two Rangers were closed to him. The young man asked many questions regarding the work ahead, and they made their answers as short and undetailed as they only could without actually refusing to reply – so that he was forced to ask yet more questions, and the whole talk was growing rather awkward and strained. What rendered him even more awkward was that he was beginning to get the unpleasant impression both Eldir and Belegorn were deliberately presenting themselves as men duller than they actually were, as though playing along with what they reckoned a haughty young lord would take them to be: dense narrow-minded commoners.
Faramir’s candid nature nudged him to be sincere with these men and say, “Look, I know you are unhappy with me being here, and so am I, for I know this is not my place. I understand you are wary, and distrust me, and resent me for having played however unintentional a part in humiliating your beloved captain and your entire unit, which to me all seems fairly justified. Truly, I regret this is what things have come to – yet it is not in my or your power to change this arrangement, so wouldn’t it be more beneficial for all of us to try and make this work somehow?”
The young man may not have been to war, yet he knew a little about the workings of a man’s heart – knew enough to understand that all his good intentions would be entirely misinterpreted, and at least for the present such a speech would serve only to turn things for the worst.
And so he said nothing, and did not ask his two companions to ride abreast with him.
Only once did Faramir’s spirits lift throughout the whole trip: when they crossed the bridge at Osgiliath and finally entered the woods. Even at this time of year, when the ground was brown with last season’s withered grass, and the trees stood stripped of their emerald vestures, he could feel the intense flow of life in this place. The air itself seemed fresher and more fragrant, as though spring were already approaching.
At this point the young captain held his mount back to let Eldir overtake him and lead the way. Faramir was dismayed to note that now that they were embarking on the final part of the journey, his heart took a leap and began to pound in earnest – he still hoped the men he was soon about to meet would miraculously take to him, and this whole venture would be saved from turning into a complete disaster.
The party turned north-eastwards and for more than two hours followed some unseen path, the older Ranger confidently finding his way through the thickets, around gullies and across smaller brooks so that they had not once had to dismount. Faramir said nothing, yet to him the place felt distantly familiar, too, at least it had until they moved out of hearing distance of the River: after all, in his childhood years he had been on the Eastern bank of Anduin many a time, and the deeper layers of his memory carried some recognition. He wondered how long it would take him to learn the terrain like Eldir did, and whether he would be given the time…
Faramir had grown thoughtful and was startled when Belegorn who rode behind made a whistle akin to how a bird would, at once ringing and soft, long and intricate. Even though the trees were bare and visibility was good in the clear morning air, the answering whistle that came almost immediately sounded unnervingly close. A few seconds later arrived yet another one, about two or three hundred yards ahead, and then again, still further away.
Yet the men did not actually meet or even see anyone until they practically entered the Rangers’ camp itself. They passed around the bend of a steep rocky mound, rode out of the dense thicket, and suddenly in sight came a neat clearing with people busy about.
At once they were spotted by one of them, a tall middle-aged man with silver in his hair, all clad in brown and grey. He straightened up, wiping his hands on the front of his jerkin.
“You are back already!” he exclaimed with a pleased grin, heading towards them.
Reining in his mount, Eldir turned to Faramir and said loud enough for the approaching Ranger to hear, “This here would be Dearmad. He was in charge of the company in the captain’s absence.”
Before Faramir could say anything in return, Dearmad gave Eldir a good-natured thud on the thigh. “Begging your pardon, my good sir – ‘was’? I still am, unless a toothless cub like yourself would like to put that to a challenge. In case you’ve forgotten, ‘twas our Captain Boromir himself who assigned me this post, and it shall stay mine until he returns – and, much as it pains me to say so, I don’t see you bringing him with you now.” There was a faint questioning note in his voice, as though he hoped Eldir would say that no, in fact Captain Boromir was due to arrive any moment now. The Ranger even craned his neck to throw a searching glance behind the company. “Well then,” he concluded with an air of finality and a resigned sigh.
Then his eyes turned to Faramir. Taking in at a glance the young man’s brand new ranger garb and his alert anxious expression, Dearmad smiled warmly. “So, a new arrival, I take it? ‘Tis not usual for us to get cadets at this time of the year, but oh well, we could stand to use some extra help around here. Get down, son, I’ll find someone to show you around the camp. I see you’re very young, but don’t count on getting any special treatment: we’ve got a lot on our hands these days as is.”
Faramir took a deep breath, meaning to finally get a word in edgewise, but just as he opened his mouth, Eldir, who had already dismounted, said, “Actually, my good sir, this is our new Captain. Young or not, you might want to reconsider calling him ‘son’.”
Dearmad gave the other man a look of unconcealed annoyance. “Darling, I don’t mean to be brutal, but ‘tis time someone finally told you humour is not your strongest trait. One lame tease a day is more than enough. Alright?”
“Don’t fret, I’m well aware of that. That’s why I am being kind and not teasing you right now,” Eldir gave him a tight smile and patted the older man sympathetically on the shoulder. “And Lord Boromir isn’t coming back, by the way.”
“Oh,” Dearmad looked up at Faramir, and the change in the older man’s expression as the truth sank in confirmed to the young lord that his stay would be something to remember.
That first day had passed in a blur, although on the surface it had been quite uneventful: no attacks, not even a sight of the enemy.
As time for sleep had at last arrived and Faramir settled down by the fire, his starkest recollection of the day was the desperate, burning shame that consumed him as was receiving Dearmad’s apology for the disrespectful conduct the man had allowed himself on the grounds of misunderstanding, for which he apologised also.
Faramir had hurried to jump off his horse, so at least he would not be physically above the man. He saw it made no difference, though: Dearmad was completely lost to him already, buttoned up to the very chin. It was almost as though it were a different man before Faramir: all his patronising friendliness, his good-natured grumpiness, his pleasant familiarity were gone without a trace.
To his utter horror, Faramir had realised that their arrival had not passed unnoticed, and the strange hold-back was attracting even more attention. The other members of the camp were quickly gathering around them, looking on in wonder…
Lying down and shutting his eyes, the young captain did his best to rid his mind of the images, and soon drifted off into troubled dreamless blackness.
Faramir’s eyes flew open.
The morning was still far, far away, too far to even seem plausible.
The young man was lying on his side, and behind himself he could sense the slow deep warmth of the dying campfire – not a fire as such, only the dimly crackling embers. What light they might have been yielding was securely blocked by his back, and ahead of himself he saw only the thick, impenetrable darkness of a cloudy night.
But he knew there was someone in the darkness. He had known it before he awoke, and it was why he had awoken. It was looking at him, and he had registered as much with his very skin.
He could see nothing, absolutely nothing, not even the overall shape of it, yet he knew beyond reasonable doubt that this was no other but the source of Boromir’s frustration and anger, come to pay Faramir a visit on his first night with the Rangers.
Strangely, he was unafraid. Although it was not strange, but only rational: there was no point in fearing, death was inevitable. Faramir knew the stranger had him nailed: no matter how fast Faramir’s reactions may be, it would still require him at least a moment to reach for his blade and draw it out, certainly enough for his observer to end his life with one precise stab of a dagger, or whatever weapon it used. And even if Faramir managed to get that far – what next? Would he blindly throw himself forth relying on luck to guide his strike? Or would he roll back and scramble away in hope of making a swift escape? Would he simply shout at the top of his lungs to alarm the guards and scare the visitor away? In whichever scenario, the unseen creature would have enough time to finish him off before safely disappearing into the night.
Faramir also understood, of course, that the most appropriate thing would be to raise the alarm. He would die, yes, but at least the others would have a chance of catching the intruder.
And yet…
He lay still and silent.
He did not feel ashamed of his inaction, though, for he knew it was caused by neither reluctance to part with his life, nor by stupefied indecision. He sensed very clearly, although he could not come anywhere near being able to explain it to himself, that doing nothing at all was the one proper course to take.
So he lay on his side, looking where he was certain – although why? – was the creature’s face, or snout, or wherever it had its eyes. He knew he was being studied in return, studied with keen, highly intelligent attentiveness. He could sense no malevolence behind it, only a shade of apprehension – and the whole notion did not unsettle him. For some reason, it only intrigued and amused him, and he felt himself getting progressively excited by the situation, to the point of his cock twitching in his trousers.
Had he known mortal danger could be this fun, he would have understood his older brother a little better.
Faramir strained his senses, striving to catch the stranger’s smell, to make out the sound of its breathing. Yet there was nothing besides the usual scents and noises of a sleeping forest.
And then, exactly where he was gazing, about two feet from the ground, Faramir saw a momentary gleam, the dim symmetrical reflection of light on a pair of eyes. The young man gasped sharply – and then, amid the general blackness, he saw a vague shape only a shade lighter than the rest of the night swiftly fall away to the side, swerve around and disappear. It had not made a sound – he had only felt a gentle wave of air on his face.
Faramir sat bolt upright, breathing heavily, as though he had just come back from a blood-curdling nightmare.
The warrior sleeping next to him stirred.
“Som’thin’ amiss?” he murmured hoarsely.
“No, no,” Faramir whispered hurriedly, settling back down.
It did not take him too long to steady his breathing, yet even trying to close his eyes was out of question.
And then, as he looked up at the starless sky through the net of naked branches above, Faramir’s mind registered two rather unnerving things.
First, he did at last catch an unusual scent, one that was rapidly fading away now that the visitor was gone. A trace of the sweet redolence of melliferous herbs. Nothing out of the ordinary about it in the heart of the woods, of course – except that it was the middle of January, and not a single flower was yet in bloom.
And second, Faramir was having a stunningly powerful, throbbing erection.
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Wow, December, I did hope that my request would go to you, I know you write so well… but I never expected to get an eighteen-chapter story! And how will I find the time to read it all, now?
Well, thank you so much, I’m sure I’ll love it, and I’ll start reading at once; but you might have to wait a bit for a full commentary…
— Nerey Camille Sunday 19 December 2010, 13:50 #