Faramir Fiction Archive

Grief and Hope (NC-17)

Written by Minx

21 April 2013 | 40330 words | Work in Progress

Chapter 4

Faramir rose slowly, stumbling as pain assailed him. His entire body felt on fire, and he felt tears spring to his eyes as he moved towards the door. He clutched at the heavy wood and stood still a few seconds, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the hard surface. Sharp twinges of pain laced through his entire body. He bit his lip and moved again, using the walls as a support as he made his way to his chambers slowly. Once there, he let himself fall upon the bed. He should rise and look at the cuts, he knew but he couldn’t. He still felt a little shocked at Denethor’s words and the ferocity of his actions. Denethor had always had a quick temper, especially where Faramir was concerned, but it had been many years since Denethor had let his anger out physically, usually preferring words instead. The slap to his face the earlier day had been startling but the vehemence with which Denethor had beaten him now with a riding crop left Faramir confused, and he realised bleakly, scared. He found himself breathing heavily and rapidly unable to forget the sight of the riding crop descending on his unprotected body. He flushed from the humiliation of the thought of lying there helpless, as the crop had struck repeatedly. He had done nothing to defend himself save curl up so as to protect his body, not that that had worked, for he realised he had been struck on his back, stomach and legs.

He lay there for a while, trying to ignore the pain but unable to. Age had not lessened Denethor’s strength. He had been liberal with the crop, striking Faramir at least one score times. He finally rose very slowly and removed his tunic, dismayed to note that it stuck a little to his back. He tugged at the cloth and hissed as it pulled painfully at his broken skin, and then lowered his pants, aware that his lower body had been struck too. He examined his naked body in the dim light of the lantern. The marks had begun to show up, deep and dark, for the crop had struck hard. A thin line of dark red marked out the deepest one that had cut through skin. His back, stomach, abdomen and the tops of his thighs were all covered with the ugly red marks crisscrossing over his paled skin.

He found some shrivelled up healing herbs in his cupboard and soaked them in a bowl of water. Dipping a soft cloth in it, he slowly ran it over each cut, hissing a little as the herbs stung the open skin. He mopped up the thin beads of blood that glistened on some of the cuts. He managed to take care of his stomach and parts of his back and flushed as he contorted himself a little to try and reach for his buttocks. When he’d managed to run the cloth over most of his cuts, Faramir lay down on the bed again, trying to find a comfortable position. The night air felt cool against his bare skin but the coarse blankets on his bed only added to his discomfort so he finally curled up on his side, wincing with each movement as the skin was pulled.

He tried not to think of the beating or the shame he felt, yet those were the last thoughts on his mind as he fell asleep.

He woke later than usual the next morning, unwilling at first to even rise at all. But then he remembered that the memorial service was the same day and found himself rising hurriedly, almost crying out as pain laced through his aching body. In the bright sunlight that flooded through his windows, the marks on his body looked particularly ugly, and he found himself wincing at the sight of the purpling marks. The fainter marks were beginning to show up as well, thin lines of deep red. He rose, swaying a little as his stiff limbs protested and hurried through his preparations, even though he still hurt all over. After washing up, he pulled out a set of clothes from his wardrobe quickly. The clothes he’d worn the previous day were completely ruined, littered as they were with cuts, and he had to wear on an older tunic and trousers, the cloth having softened enough over time to not further his hurts.

Once ready, he ran through the hallways and out onto the small courtyard towards the podium where the memorial service was being held. The affair was not meant to be a public one but there were still many of Boromir’s friends and men in arms invited so that there were quite some people crowded into the small space. Most of them stared at him in surprise and some in anger or disgust as he rushed in, clearly late and he flushed unhappily, cursing himself for having risen so late. All of them wore their uniforms or ceremonial attire and he felt extremely shabby in his old tunic and trousers and almost unconsciously tucked the slightly frayed sleeve end into his fist.

He had reached in time to hear Denethor start to speak. The older man glared at him in anger as he arrived and Faramir found himself shrinking back a little and breathing rapidly. He forced himself to calm down telling himself that there could be no repeat now of the previous night’s beating, and he shouldn’t be scared of that. Surely it was just the one time. His father had been angered and unhappy, that was all.

Denethor spoke only briefly, expressing pride in his son, brave and much loved. His voice was dry but Faramir accustomed to it, could make out the deep unhappiness that laced each word. Denethor then spoke of having Boromir’s legacy in Andreth, and at that bestowed a smile of such warmth and tenderness towards the boy that Faramir found himself feeling almost jealous. It would have been difficult at that moment to see in this Denethor the same man who had beaten him so badly the last night. He stiffened as he remembered the wrathful expression on Denethor’s face as the crop had fallen on him, and clenched his fists tight to force himself to forget the image.

Elessar spoke after that, soft, beautiful words about a friend and a soldier, who had always stood up for those in need. Faramir found tears prickling his eyes, as the king spoke of how Boromir had taught the hobbits to fight and had helped them walk through the more difficult stretches of terrain. Boromir had taught him to fight too, and he could well picture his larger brother, showing the small hobbits how to grip the sword or how to move.

Andreth spoke next, of a loving, kind father who had taught him to ride, hunt, fight, even sing. Faramir felt a fresh wave of tears at his words, as he stared at the young man standing up and speaking in such a quietly moving voice.

A few others spoke after that – Boromir’s friends in arms, and with each one Faramir felt his heart grow heavier. He truly missed Boromir and the support he’d given him. Boromir had defended him countless times to their father, countering Denethor’s wrath with a calm, even-tempered voice, often refuting Denethor’s allegations of Faramir’s incompetence with clear facts. And although Boromir had not been able to prevent his being beaten in his younger days he had always been there to comfort him. There had even been a time when Boromir had clearly overridden their father’s instructions and ridden out to Ithilien to bring a fevered and unconscious Faramir back to Minas Tirith to recuperate from injuries after a skirmish with Orcs. Boromir had even stayed back after that for nearly a week, as Faramir’s health had worsened before improving due to the movement from Ithilien to Minas Tirith. Had Boromir been here, Faramir would not spend each day being openly put down by his father or hence scorned by the other councillors. Or even if he did, he would have had his brother to restore some of his confidence.

Nor would he be sitting here, in pain and miserable.

By the time the service ended, Faramir was feeling miserable. The lack of food all morning, combined with the heaviness of heart left him with a pounding headache.

It was only as they dispersed that Faramir realised they would be having some of the guests here over for an early luncheon. He lingered back a little wondering if he should lunch alone as he often did, but then his father might not like that, he thought and made for the great hall instead. His movements were slow and sluggish and so the table was filled and they were ready to start serving by the time he reached his place. There were some fifteen guests on the long table, most of them other lords or captains.

At their own side of the table, he realised in dismay, sat the king and the queen, and the queen’s elven brothers. He tugged self-consciously at the collar of the old tunic he wore. The queen glanced up at him, a little coldly he thought, as he slipped into his chair.

“You were late,” Denethor said coldly, without preamble.

“Forgive me, I-”

Denethor waved a hand dismissively and nodded to the servants to start serving the food.

Faramir flushed uncomfortably and sat quickly on his chair, wincing a little as the still raw wounds on his buttocks came in contact with the hard surface. He squirmed a little and immediately tried to stop himself as he noticed the queen give him a curious glance.

“If you can’t eat without fidgeting like a child, perhaps you should have your meals in the nursery.” Denethor said coldly.

Faramir felt his face go hot as he flushed even deeper. Somewhere down the table someone smirked. He felt his appetite begin to slip away as a sickness settled in his stomach. He found himself wondering what else Denethor might say; aware that his father would have few qualms about belittling him in public. What if he spoke of beating Faramir, and told the others of how he had thrashed his grown son as one would perhaps a slave. As though on cue, his back flared again, as if in reminder of the beating he’d received.

Dimly through a fog of pain, he realised the queen was speaking of a supper she planned to hold on the morrow to welcome the Khandrim envoy.

“It need not be on as large a scale as what we will need for the Haradric envoy,” she saw saying, “But it can be sizeable nevertheless, I feel. I’ve asked for the kitchens to prepare a small feast, and maybe we can have a little entertainment, some dancing perhaps.”

“All the councillors will be present of course and their ladies,” she said and as her gaze fell on Faramir, she continued in a slightly frigid tone, “And I think it is only correct we wear ceremonial attire, and not everyday clothes which are not meant for special occasions.”

Faramir looked away dully.

Denethor’s call after the meal was not unexpected. He walked into his father’s study with trepidation and stood unmoving some distance away from the table. His eyes moved towards the wall where Denethor’s riding whips hung.

“You were late for the service,” Denethor raged almost as soon as he entered the room, “And not just that, you chose to dress inappropriately! How could you walk in there in these awful clothes?”

“Father, I-,” he’d meant to apologise for being late but the mention of the clothes threw him back. They were his everyday clothes true and a little old, but …

“Quiet! You are well aware that one cannot attend such occasions dressed in rags like these. Do you care so little for the memory of your brother that you cannot be bothered to wear your ceremonial attire?”

“I have no ceremonial attire,” he managed to slip in, unable to keep a slight tremor out of his voice.

Denethor stepped forward suddenly, and he found himself stepping back, swiftly, far too swiftly for his body’s liking. Pain laced through his back, but he ignored it as his father’s angered eyes bore down on him.

“I have told you before that I will not stand for your speaking to me like this while you stay under my roof,” Denethor said through gritted teeth, “If you have no ceremonial attire, get some! And you were ridiculously late for the ceremony. The servants tell me you overslept! On such an important occasion! Must you have the whole world know how little you care for Boromir’s memory?”

“I don’t –,”

“Silence! Your behaviour is inexcusable!”

Faramir stared away, down at the floor, feeling even more miserable. He wanted desperately to sit down a while and rest his aching body, but Denethor was only getting angrier and he found his eyes edging nervously towards the whips that hung on the wall.

“And on top of all this, there are errors in your work,” Denethor said, his voice full of anger now. He walked over to his desk and picking up the sheaf of papers Faramir had left on his table, threw them at his younger son’s face. Faramir rocked back on his heels as the papers floated to the floor around him, causing more pain to lace through his body. He bit back the whimper that arose in his throat and stared at Denethor in surprise. He had checked his work before leaving it on the table. It was what had taken him so long yesterday.

“You have overestimated the figures greatly,” Denethor said, “I have had to have two scribes work on it all morning to undo what you have done because you were too lazy to rise by then! Do you know how much time has been wasted by your incompetence?”

He had overestimated the figures a little and left a note explaining why he did so. Until the work in Minas Tirith was completed there was no telling how much of the raw material supplies would be available to start a reconstruction in Ithilien. They might need to buy materials from their neighbours.

He tried nervously to explain, “I left a -,”

Denethor leaned forward and slammed his palms on the table, “That’s quite enough from you. I suggest you get back to work on the Haradrim treaties. I hope at least there you will make fewer errors. There is little thinking required!”

“I don’t know what to do with you!” Denethor fumed, a look of frustration on his face, “You are incapable of soldiering and now you prove yourself incapable as a councillor too! You truly are useless! You may leave now. I am sick of the sight of you.” He sat back down at his desk and began going through his papers.

Faramir bit his lip unhappily, unsure what to defend himself against. It seemed no matter what he did, his father was never going to be satisfied, nor would he give him a chance to defend himself

“What are you waiting for?” Denethor asked

“I-,” he started, wishing to put some sort of defence forward, only to be interrupted again.

“I asked you to leave, and I expect you to do as I ask you if you wish to live under my roof. I disciplined you yesterday hoping it would have some effect,” Denethor said coldly, “If it has not I will not hesitate to discipline you again. If you do not wish to be beaten again, leave me and get back to your work.”

Faramir walked out slowly, a leaden feeling settling in his stomach at Denethor’s words.

He returned to his chambers and sat down heavily on his bed. The papers and books on the Haradrim treaties lay on his table but he made no move towards them. He removed his boots and lay exhaustedly on his bed. He lay there a while trying not to think of anything. He tried to sleep but his mind was too full of thoughts. He tried not to think of his father any more, and tried to think of what he might need from the archives instead. The thought of working on the treaties though began to give him a headache as he fretted over his father’s remarks on his work. He should get back to work, he thought worriedly, the day was nearly at an end and he’d done nothing.

He sighed heavily and rose, a little unsteadily, wincing as the movement pulled at his cuts. He picked up the papers on his desk and sat gingerly on the chair, after pacing a pillow on it. He shuffled through the papers, staring blankly at the words for a while. Shifting a little to alleviate his discomfort he got down to his work. He found himself working slowly, sometimes having to read over a passage twice to understand it. His back and stomach continued to pain him a little so that he had to keep shifting his position.

The dinner gong brought him out of his thoughts with a start and he sat up surprised at how much time had passed. He’d done very little in all this while, he realised desperately. He bit his lip and stared out of his window. He didn’t think he could face Denethor again today. His father would realise he hadn’t accomplished much all day. He would berate him again he was sure of that. His hand trembled slightly at the thought, and he placed his quill down. He wouldn’t dine with his father tonight, he decided.

Instead, he decided to take a stroll in the gardens before getting back to work. Just the thought of supper with his father was making him tense.

He walked around the gardens a bit and then looked for a place where he could sit and rest his back awhile. The cool, mildly scented air of the gardens did help him feel better, but he knew he needed to get back to work shortly. There was the dinner for the Khandrim envoy too, on the morrow… he remembered about the clothes and stopped worriedly.

He shook his head mirthlessly. Of all the things he needed to worry over now, he had clothes to add to the list. As a ranger, that had been his least concern. He’d invariably been in uniform, and even for any occasion he had had his dress uniform. Of course, he couldn’t wear that now that he was no longer a captain. He sat back wondering what to do.

Denethor wouldn’t stand for him not being attired properly now. He wondered if he could avoid the dinner but decided not to risk his father’s anger again. He bit his lip and looked for a place where he could sit and rest his back awhile.

Ceremonial clothes were expensive, and especially now after the war for the trade of richer fabrics and threads from the Khand and Rhun was yet to return to normalcy. He didn’t think he could afford them right now. With all the family assets in Andreth’s name, he had little by way of finances and the thought of delving into those limited funds to buy clothes, made him feel all the more fretful. He needed that money so he could move to Ithilien, away from his father’s house.

His financial constraints were another worry he’d prefer to avoid thinking of and yet another fact that Denethor kept taunting him with. There was little he could do. As the Steward’s son he had not even drawn the pay that the other officers or soldiers would have, nor did he get the pension the other wounded had received. The land his mother had left him in Dol Amroth was all he had which yielded him a small income, that he had estimated would be just about enough for him to rebuild the house in Ithilien and live there reasonably.

Denethor had repeatedly made it abundantly clear that all assets were Andreth’s, and that he would provide nothing for Faramir save basic necessities. It had become clearest when Faramir had ordered for a new sword a few weeks after he’d restarted his arms practise. He had still been weak then from his wound for the Haradrim dart, although not poisoned, had contained potions that had induced fevers and weakness for weeks, and the recovery had taken a great deal out of him. When he had resumed his practice with his usual sword, the wound as well as his ill-health had made it difficult for him to handle the sword. Even in his healthier days, it had felt a little heavy but he’d tolerated it, since he used the bow more.

After a few weeks of his struggling with the heavy sword, the arms master had suggested he get a lighter weapon, at least until he recovered. He’d agreed with the assessment and had ordered a newer, lighter sword from the armourers. Faramir had been puzzled at the hard note in his father’s voice when he’d asked him to meet him in his study that evening. Once there, Denethor had handed him the note from the armourers.

“What is this?” he asked coldly.

Faramir glanced at the note and on reading it, had explained, “I wished to order a new sword,” he said simply, “They have some new lighter ones, with the lighter handles like the elves use and Master –,”

“Is your old sword damaged?” Denethor interrupted.

“No, it is quite well,” Faramir said, “But -,”

“Then why do you wish to purchase a new one?” Denethor interrupted again, his voice hard as stone now, “You are as good as no longer a soldier and you wish instead for pretty weapons?”

Faramir stared back at him in puzzlement, suddenly wary of his father’s tone and words.

“Father, I-,” he started.

“Quiet! You may purchase all you like as long as you do so from your finances. What made you ask the armourers to send this note to me?”

Faramir stared at him in surprise, unsure why the talk of finances had come up now.

“Don’t look so surprised!” Denethor fumed, “I have already declared Andreth my heir and by all rights, this entire inheritance is his. I will not have you throw Andreth’s inheritance away on such frivolities as a new weapon for you! That you live here under this roof and are fed and clothed should be enough for you!”

The words still hurt even after all these weeks, and ever since then Faramir had decided to leave for Ithilien as soon as could. Unfortunately though, for now he was still in Minas Tirith.

Aragorn was taking his customary evening stroll through the gardens when he came across Faramir sitting quietly by a dried fountain. The younger man was sitting on a small bench and leaning his head against the trunk of a large tree.

He stared curiously at the younger man. Boromir had spoken of Faramir nearly as much as of Andreth, with as much love and pride. He’d told them of a friendly, kind, sensible young man who was scholar as well as warrior. Aragorn wasn’t entirely sure he could see that man in Faramir though.

When Aragorn had first seen him, in the houses of healing struck by a Haradrim dart and ailing under the influence of the Black Breath, he had wondered at how the brothers looked similar yet dissimilar. Then, the fine features of the younger son were marked with much despair and unhappiness. Watching Faramir now, he realised they still were and found himself wondering why. True he had faced loss but hadn’t they all? And yet while others were working hard to regain some measure of happiness in their lives, Faramir only ever seemed to even more morose. Even one as young as Andreth was learning to live his life without his father.

Faramir looked up then and noticed him. He sat up, biting his lip as he did so.

“Sire,” he said, standing up slowly.

“Faramir,” Aragorn responded, nodding at him.

They stood there a few seconds, and then Faramir spoke, fumbling awkwardly through the words.

“I – I was just out for some air – some fresh air… it gets stuffy inside,” he said aware that he was beginning to ramble.

“It’s a fine evening,” Aragorn said smiling, “I was going to walk along this path. Would you like to join me?”

“Of – of course,” Faramir said, hesitating only the slightest bit. He didn’t feel much up to taking another stroll. His back and legs had been screaming for rest after the round he’d taken of the garden earlier, and foregoing dinner left him with a mild headache. But he couldn’t refuse his king could he. He already felt a fool for rambling on unnecessarily. He had never been so awkward in his speech, words had in fact been his one area of comfort, enough for even Denethor who had at times let him accompany their envoys in diplomatic meetings. Of late though, he though morosely as he fell into step with the king, he seemed to be becoming incompetent at everything just as his father had said.

Aragorn found himself wondering about the Steward’s sons, as he watched Faramir walk dully and slowly by his side.

Boromir had been an energetic, intelligent man, charming, passionate, and at times recklessly so. When he spoke his voice carried his passion for his beliefs. Aragorn could still remember the intense, confident voice that would carry across the halls of Imladris when they first met. He remembered too the strong, well-built, young man who helped the hobbits climb and the feel of those strong, firm muscles under his arm as they had thrust against each other. He’d grown to love Boromir.

Faramir on the other hand was slender, almost to the point of thinness. He looked weary now as he often did, his young face creased in worry, dark circles ringing his dull eyes, and strands of silver already beginning to show up in his raven hair. He was nothing like Boromir, Aragorn decided. When he spoke, his voice was always soft and his tone at most times seemed diffident and at other times almost too anxious to please.

Where Boromir would have inspired another, Faramir barely even attracted anyone’s attention. Aragorn shook his head at the stark differences.

They had walked along quietly all this while, so Aragorn racked his brain for something he could discuss with the younger man. He knew nothing of his interests he realised. He did know he was something of a scholar and liked to read but he knew nothing of what he liked to read.

“How does your shoulder fare now?” he asked finally, after realising there was nothing else he knew about the other man.

“Quite well, Sire. Thank you for asking.” Faramir replied in a rather woodenly formal tone, Aragorn thought. He had been rather distraught at having to resign his captaincy, he recollected now. And Denethor had been unrepentant about making him do so, even going so far as to make some extremely pointed remarks about the younger man’s abilities on the field. He suddenly remembered the stricken look on the young man’s face when he’d been informed of the decision.

“You are continuing your weapons training, I believe,” he said, trying to continue the conversation.

“I – I have been practising with the sword,” Faramir said, “The master says I am improving a little.” The master had said he was improving far too slowly. He would need to go tomorrow, and he wondered how he would fight when he hurt so much everywhere. The master would surely get back to Denethor about that he realised worriedly. He hoped his father wouldn’t choose to complain on that as well, and stared unhappily at the stones in their path as he continued walking.

“Oh, that’s good,’ Aragorn said, for want of anything else. He didn’t see that it made much difference, when Faramir’s commission had been withdrawn.

He glanced sideways at the morose profile of the younger man, at the hunched shoulders and the bowed head, and almost found himself wondering how this insipid young man could ever have captained the rangers with their need for quick thinking, swiftness and agility. Had he changed so much in the war that he could no longer see a captain of men, in him?

Perhaps he was being unfair; Faramir might have had a tiring day. And yet, the younger man, he decided was clearly unhappy enough for it to affect his entire disposition. Perhaps it was the memorial service.

Faramir was beginning to feel tense in the silence that ensued. He would normally have been happy to walk along quietly, just revelling in the king’s company, but today the silence felt unnerving. He could sense he should say something that his behaviour did not meet with the king’s approval. He wondered uncomfortably if he should talk of something and realised he had no idea what to speak of. Had he become so incapable of being around others, he wondered bitterly.

“Well,” the king said heavily as they ended their circuit of the gardens, “We’ll see you at the dinner then.”

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