Faramir Fiction Archive

For at Night He Comes (NC-17)

Written by Liz

04 November 2005 | 2401 words

Title: For at Night He Comes
Author: Liz
Pairing: Denethor/Faramir
Rating: NC17
Type: Slash, rape
Warnings: Incest
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Tolkien, not me.
Feedback: Yes please: Elisabeth_Larsen@yahoo.ca

Archivist's Note: This is the first part of a trilogy; see also Thief in the Night and When Night Falls.

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The king of Gondor smiled as he looked over the vast array of books that were perched on dusty shelves. This was Faramir's old room, the one he had grown up in when he had been a child. He could picture his young steward sitting on one of the chairs near the fireplace lost in one of these books. He had wanted to know what Faramir was like as a child, and since the young man wasn't forthcoming about his past he decided to take it upon himself to find out. Going through the books, he ran his thumb through the pages of five or six, not really reading any of them just glancing at a page here and there. The seventh though came to be a surprise. A piece of paper yellowed with age came fluttering out and landed next to his shoe. Curious as to what it could be, he unfolded the little note and began to read.

For at night he comes into my bed and whispers words of love to a dead woman in my ears. He touches me where no man ever has. He sees a wife where there is a son, he is a husband to his timid bride. There are no words between us only the shouting of my thoughts and his murmurs in the shadows. My body is as cold as his fingers when he trails them down my spine. I feel like my mother did, like she must have, as he sinks himself into me. It is our secret, one that Boromir will never know or guess. One that I keep inside myself next to my father. It's with a word though, that he has bought my silence. A word in a string of words like a pearl on a string of beads. One he murmurs throughout the night while he has me. "Finduilas, I love you."

Sweat broke out on Aragorn's forehead. Surely this was not what he thought it was, or written by whom he feared it had been. This could not be. The lord Denethor was a honourable man; one who ruled justly - Aragorn let the paper slip from his fingers. The words had been written with an unsteady hand, like the writer had been trembling or… very young. Picking it up and looking at it again he could see that the writer, he refused to think of whom, must have been just out of childhood. One who must have been very afraid, and had nowhere to turn. Aragorn calmly put the paper down on the table and went over to the washroom where he was quite thoroughly sick. He wished, as he knelt over the porcelain basin, that he had never decided to come into Faramir's old room. Some secrets he thought, as a broken laugh came out of his mouth, should be kept in the family.

Later, as he sat in his study with a decanter of brandy he reflected that it was better to have known. He'd rather have found out another way, but this wasn't the worst. He looked on the desk where the paper lay next to the amber bottle and the glass. There were so many questions that he wanted to ask, but the possible answers frightened him. Or would there be any answers at all? Was it even true, could it have been something else he had been writing about, something that he hadn't understood? Downing another glass, he knew that it was exactly what he thought it was. Obviously he had been - Aragorn's mind skittered away from the word, just like it did when the writer's name came up. The words made it true and he didn't want, wished to his soul that it wasn't, to be true. But there was only one way to find out and he was reluctant to put himself on that path.

His steward, Faramir his name is Faramir, had never been forthcoming about his childhood. Had never talked about his father or his mother and always steered the conversation away from Boromir. Out of respect, everyone had abided by his wishes but now he wondered why it was that he avoided his past. Was it because of this…Aragorn could not find words for it. Blankly he stared at the paper folded on the table. Dusty secrets that had suddenly come to light, to be read by the most unexpected of people. Surely he had not meant for it to be found, or to be read; had he? More questions without answers came into his mind, spinning in his brain, adding complexities where there had been none that morning. He reached out to pick up the paper, but hesitated. He couldn't leave it there for anyone else to see, he was sure that it wasn't something Faramir wanted discussed. However he couldn't carry it around with him, he was already carrying the secret he couldn't carry the proof as well. Sweeping it into an open drawer, he locked the desk and pocketed the key.

It was two hours later that they sat face to face, King Elessar having summoned his Steward into an emergency conference. The minutes passed as Aragorn worked up the nerve to tell his friend and he finally decided to start at the beginning. "I decided to clean your room, the old one that you had when you were growing up. You had talked about it a few weeks ago and I just felt like going there to see for myself."

Faramir looked up from his lap. "My old room? I haven't been there in ages, it must have been dusty."

Aragorn tried to smile but it didn't reach his eyes. "I was going through all your old books, the ones on your shelves."

Looking carefully at Faramir he noticed no change in the pleasant demeanor of the young man. Biting his lip he continued. "When I was going through one of them I found a note."

He took the paper out and handed it to Faramir, letting the note speak for him as Aragorn found he no longer could. He watched as his friend's face froze as he read the note and became perfectly blank. Not a single emotion flickered across his face as he carefully refolded the paper and put it on the table between them. There it stayed as a silent testament to the now awkward situation they were both in.

"Faramir," Aragorn said slowly, "did you ever tell Boromir? Did he ever find out?"

Faramir looked at the table and frowned. "No." He said shortly. "I could never tell him. I didn't want to. I didn't want him to find out. He held father in such high regard, I didn't want to ruin that. Aragorn, you don't understand what it was like in those days, father was so lonely and he didn't have anyone to turn to. He needed comfort and someone to be with. He chose me since I was the closest thing to his wife. It was the only way he could love me." Faramir's voice had started taking on a pleading note to it, almost begging Aragorn to understand.

He knew that it was none of Faramir's fault but he had not expected him to defend Denethor. Certainly didn't expect him to ask for understanding. Aragorn tried to keep the outrage out of his voice, but it was still there when he spoke aloud, "So he decided to sleep with you? Because he was lonely? Faramir, how old were you when you wrote this?"

The man just shook his head, as if trying to ignore Aragorn. "It wasn't like that, you just don't understand. You have to let me explain. There's more to it than that, it wasn't just-."

"Wasn't just what?" Aragorn asked softly, knowing that he was treading on very dangerous ground. "Faramir, what your father did to you; it was wrong."

"No. You just don't understand, you didn't know him like I did."

Apparently not, Aragorn thought wryly. He doubted anyone short of Finduilas knew Denethor the way Faramir did. The thought of that made the brandy in his stomach begin to churn. Things were rapidly going downhill. He needed to make Faramir see what had happened, see what had been done to him. For some reason this had become very important, more important than when he had started out to confront him.

"I know that he was a grown man and what he did to his son was wrong."

"How do you know that it's wrong? You weren't there! You don't know what it's like to be completely alone and he's there, he's always there! You don't! You just....you have no right to judge me."

Faramir collapsed in on himself, exhausted by his emotions. He hadn't thought of this in so long, hadn't wanted to. It was so long ago, and it had been over when Mithrandir...without meaning to, Faramir began to remember that night. The last night they had been together when everything had gone wrong.

Heavy and wet, the darkness had taken on the form of his father. Always on top and putting weight on his chest, to the point where he couldn't breathe in anything but the man's skin. His body was all over him like a thick sheet of moving flesh. Faramir could feel the movements now, the fingers going into his mouth a signal of other things soon to come. Salty and wet, everything was coated with sweat and saliva. He could hear the low voice muttering words into his neck as he felt teeth bite down on his collarbone. Gasping, he hugged the slick body closer, wanting reassurance that it would be all right. After two years, he had become used to the nightly visits and after the discovery of orgasm, had come to expect them.

Boromir had left again, being sent away to Osgiliath to bolster the men's confidence in Gondor's strength. He squeezed his eyes tightly as he remembered watching his brother ride off to the city of rubble, leaving him alone again with his father. A quick thrust drove the thought away and he responded by licking the chest above him. Despite his age, Faramir's father still was well built, something that didn't show when he was dressed in the large black robes of his office. It was another secret between the two, one that wasn't shared with anyone else.

The thought of sharing something special with his father without Boromir made him smile and he gave an encouraging thrust back. A nip on the ear reminded him of his place beneath his father, a position that never changed. Relaxing back into the bed, he allowed hot shocks of pleasure to race through his veins. The pain seldom bothered him now and it was hardly important compared to the pleasure that the nights brought to him.

Suddenly the door swung open and the light from the hallway blinded what little sight he had left. A figure appeared in the door, moving into the room so fast he wondered if he had imagined it. His father pulled sharply away, turning toward the figure demanding what he thought he was doing here.

"One could ask the same question of you Denethor, father of Faramir." Mithrandir's voice sounded like dark grey thunder in the hot room, making him tremble. The wizard had come to Minas Tirith only three days ago and had spent most of that in council with the Steward. How he had known to come here was beyond Faramir's grasp.

"Get out of this room before I have you arrested!" The large naked figure stood up to the intruder unashamedly, defiant of the Istari.

"I will," Mithrandir replied grimly, "and I shall take you with me. You and I have a great amount of discussing to do." Grabbing the man by the back of the neck he marched out of the room, dragging the Steward with him. The door slammed shut leaving Faramir alone.

For the first time since it had begun, Faramir sat alone in the hot confined room without the smell of spent passion in the night air. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he began to rock. The only thought that ran through his mind was that of what would happen if Boromir found out.

Pressing his forehead to his knees, Faramir found that he was again in that same position. A weight was on his head, and he slowly registered that it was Aragorn's hand stroking his hair while whispering something in Elvish. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pulled his hands into fists ignoring the fine trembling of his muscles. Breathing in short pants, he curled up in a ball. He hated feeling like this. That the Steward of Gondor, a grown man, was acting like a scared little boy. Shaking off the hand, he uncurled himself and walked to the door. He put his hand on the knob and looked back at Aragorn.

"I don't think I have to tell you that I don't want you telling anyone. That also means your wife, Aragorn."

"You never answered my questions." Aragorn's voice was full of compassion and pity, making Faramir hate him for just a moment before thinking about what he had said.

"What questions were those, your majesty?"

"How old were you and did Boromir ever find out?"

Faramir looked at the floor, the words so soft that Aragorn had to strain to hear them. "He never found out. No one ever found out, and I was eighteen. It only happened once." With that he left shutting the door firmly behind him making it clear he did not wish to be followed. Aragorn stared after him, sure that Faramir had lied but not daring to confront him on it. After all, it was his Steward's secret not his. Turning to the table he stared at the note that lay on it. The last thought he had before tossing it into the fireplace was that some secrets would never be revealed.

Continue to A Thief in the Night

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