Faramir Fiction Archive

In My Arms (PG)

Written by brie

04 November 2008 | 2432 words

Title: In My Arms
Featuring: Faramir, Finduilas, Denethor and Boromir
Type: Hurt/Comfort/Family
Rating: PG
Sypnosis: It is love at first sight for Finduilas, but in Denethor, a seed of scorn is inevitably sewn. As Finduilas’ love for her little Faramir grows stronger, the seed blooms into that of disdain for the youngest son of the Steward, and the lives that are scathed by Denethor’s contempt will never be the same again. Based off the song In My Arms by Plumb.
Starring: Saffron Burrows as Finduilas

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The pain, pure anguish wrapped in the folds of irate spasms which rocked and crushed her insides to near dust. Oh, how she hated him! She hated him for doing this to her, for inflicting such agony upon her as he had… didn’t he love her? How could such torment be allowed to thrive in the world of men?

Her forehead. It glistened and swam before the midwife’s eyes in a tumult of salty perspiration, creased into lines of sheer concentration as her face contorted into that of a poisonous mixture, rage and unbridled suffering. Her lungs were dry, her throat constricted with undulated distress, her body aching and trembling so violently she thought she would be catapulted from her own skins. She wailed, a fading siren in the midst of her encroaching death, her screams echoing throughout the laconic halls of the citadel.

The city bowed its head, hands crumpled into that of a sympathetic form of prayer. Torchlight sashayed across the walls of the chamber room, almost as if to her pulse, so maddeningly quick and jolting that it would leave a man breathless by merely lending his ear to the mournful sound. Her dark hair, tumbles of black water flourishing upon her pillow as if her veins had begun to pour out its warm vitality, sacrificing the life of her flesh if only the ripples of this pure, unholy anguish would leave the mangled body.

One more push, they told her, and the infant would free her of this torture. She clenched her hands until they faltered into a chalky, milk-white, her jaw set firm, braced against the pain, lips pulled back to bare her gritted teeth. Anything for sweet release, the fresh downpour of slumber which would soon follow the raging storm.

Her entire body tensed one last time, and with all that lasted of her dwindling strength, vanquished the bellowing child from her womb.

Tranquility was restored to the halls of the citadel, and the hands of the city of Minas Tirith unclasped, last mutterings of prayers withering into the night with the last candle lit for the tormented queen sputtered out with the first breath of relief she took rushed out to mingle with the crisp wind of the night.

She was handed that stubborn mule who had tickled her insides for so many a month, and stolen half of what could have been a hearty meal from the privileged queen, and wove over her many a spell of nausea that crippled her to her bed.

But as she took her quiet son into her arms, the little bundle that gazed up at her with large, pale blue eyes the color of fresh fallen rain, she instantly relinquished her heart to the ethereal little creature there, gathered into her arms, enveloped in silken cloth. Marbles, his eyes were. Clear and translucent, but forged with many a swirl of characteristic hue there, little emotions tarnishing the seemingly perfected illusion of untouched color. Long flaxen lashes, like spun gold against his gossamer skin, brushed against his rose-flushed cheek as he blinked softly, staring up at her with the most quizzical look instilled within those pale, sea-glass eyes.

Fair little one, she said, I shall call you Faramir.

There it was again, she remarked, that ostentatious little smile set in the countenance of a cherub’s cheeks, brushstrokes of garnet so lovely against the pale milk texture of his skin. Eyes like the sea, lulling and peaceful in their constant waves, glittered and swayed with laughter, a little giggling emitting from rosebud parted lips, flaxen curls like whorls of buttery sunshine escaped from the sky to bestow its glittering hue upon the beautiful child in her arms. His hands, little plump folds of infant skin, reached for her dark tendrils of hair, mischievous fingers wrapping around a strand and tugging softly on the ebony locks.

Oh, how her heart purred when she had him near to him, warmed and contented when little Faramir was in her arms. Her own little glimpse of starlight, here in her grasp, eyes and cheeks and mouth dabbed with generous amounts of mirth and jubilance. How quickly, she noticed, that her hatred for such a nuisance that could cause her immense pain, could turn to irrevocable love, a love that would never falter like the spring giving way to winter, a love that would never wash out like the changing tides of the sea.

Little Faramir, the cherished prince, sovereign of the kingdom of her heart, alongside his ambitious, impish, beloved brother Boromir; little Boromir, who gazed upon his kin with gleaming eyes of wonder and adoration. Oh how easily Faramir would weave a spell over all who saw him, how those inextinguishable, incandescent orbs of light would gaze up with unblinking allure out of the folds of his blanket, tiny mouth slowly melting from its wonderful gaping astonishment into a smile and a merry, musical laugh that would melt any heart, no matter how cold as ice or hard and unfeeling as iron.

She told him stories, she did… spent the rosy hours of morning bent over her sweet little treasure telling stories, kings and queens of old painting her fantastic tales, blue sky over emerald-hued meadows and tall, twisted, gnarled oak trees who shaded the brave knight from a smoldering sun. Butterflies as delicate as spun glass flickered over flowers that laughed and swayed beneath the freshly painted heavens, wispy fingers of the balmy zephyrs stealing over the grasses and knotting their wistful hands into the deep brown recesses of the earth.

Of the great love story of the quiet, benevolent moon and the fervent, spirited sun, their children the stars, twinkling little offspring that helped their hushed father light the way for weary travelers when the fiery blaze of the sun’s passionate reign over the day at last wavered with the coming of dusk.

Of disfigured monsters falling in love with radiant young beauties, of the chivalrous princes who, on their brilliant white stallions, would rescue the damsel from her oppressor and mend her wounded heart.

But with the advent of the night, she would cradle her cherished Faramir in her voracious arms, her rocking chair gliding to and fro over the gray stone of the floor, the mild groans of the wooden chair lulling her cherub into his sleep. But it was his mother’s lovely croon, lullabies and hymns that would lull infant Faramir into the tenderest cocoon of dream-filled slumber, fashioned with her able hands so that her little angel would sleep underneath a cloud of pleasant dreams. And pleasant they were, with the temperate warmth of his mother close by and her heartrendingly beautiful voice flowing through his petite ears like silken smoke.

Oh Faramir, you little devil! Gone off again you have with Boromir, following as fast as your little cherub’s legs may carry you. Adventure you seek, as she told him so many a story filled with the quests of shining knights, of crooked wizards and villainous princes seeking the fraudulent reign of their king brother’s throne. Forget that gaunt, mangy beast who trotted the corridors of the city… little Faramir wanted to fight dragons!

But she knew now… if there ever was a dragon or fiend to impinge the boundaries of the great white city of Minas Tirith, it would not be Faramir entrusted solely with the task of annihilating such evil. He had grown to hate his son, it seemed, and Boromir lavished with the gifts of a father’s unconditional love. Boromir knew no wrong, Boromir knew not the fury or disregard of his father.

It was Faramir who faced the cold aloofness of his father’s heart. Darling little Faramir with eyes of fresh fallen rain, little Faramir with ringlets glowing within the light of the sunlit heavens, little Faramir with a voice of music and bubbling joy that would melt any man’s frozen soul.

He hated little Faramir. He hated the glimmer of her cherub son’s fair brow, and when the little toddler would endeavor hurtle across the distance which separated father from son, he would further the leagues between them more, away from the enchantments of his son’s watery forget-me-not eyes, away from Faramir’s little reaching, searching hands. With the approach of charming little Faramir his face would twist into that of remarkable disdain and hatred for those harmonious little beams and jovial, polished sea glass eyes.

Faramir’s disappointment would be quick to die, an observation she bore with a comforted heart, and he would wear that heartrending face for only a moment before enlightened by something far more attractive to his attentions than the unfamiliar hatred of his father’s face.

But someday, she knew, Faramir’s heart would not bear the knowledge of his father’s abhorrence so lightly.

Someday, she knew, Faramir would slowly crumble, and the beautiful little angel she knew would cease to exist, broken beneath the burden of his father’s unprecedented loathing.

And when that day came, she knew her heart would fracture, the lustrous surface of her unmarked soul blotched and soiled by the sight of Faramir’s bleary little eyes brimmed with tears, the glowing flush of his cheeks extinguished by the shrouds of his encumbering sorrows.

She prayed for immortal youth; she prayed for eternal naivety.

Anything to ward off the day little charismatic, precious Faramir realized his father’s detestation.

Years betrayed her.

The months submitted to the aggression of decimating time.

Little darling Faramir grew, shielded beneath the wing of his fretful mother.

But it was not enough.

Eight winters passed, and Faramir’s dazzling, blissful forget-me-not eyes receded into a miserable veil of gray gloom. Their multi-faceted clear color, so full of life and splendor, became slowly besmirched with impassive gray.

Little Faramir knew now.

She would never recover.

With the passing of Faramir’s happiness came the downward spiral of her good health.

He could not understand it, as the darkness and decay of death began to descend over the once shining beacon of the citadel. Far and wide he dispatched riders to collect the most dexterous magicians that he could find, desperate in his attempts to cure the crippling infirmity which consumed his exquisite wife. But his attempts were vain; nothing he did would chase away the gray veil of despair which stripped away her soft, radiant visage.

Faramir was to blame… Faramir was always to blame. Detestable Faramir, with eyes of aquamarine stone.

And as a result of his misery, Faramir was more insufferable than ever, a despicable little demon who brought this gray sickness upon his mother; such lacking gratitude infuriated him, filled him with such imperishable rage and wanton madness that he alienated Faramir, thrust him violently from his loving embrace. He hated him, oh how he reviled that wistful little face, constant gray eyes flecked with shattered beads of lush raindrops. How could he have fathered such an abomination? There was nothing Faramir could do to redeem himself in the cold, cruel eyes of his father, those eyes which narrowed with such contempt when his repulsive son was near to him.

She began to turn gaunt and listless, her once lovely face worn by the constant shedding of futile tears when she pulled Faramir’s empty little shell to her in the absence of his monstrous father.

All that remained of her cherub was breath and blood and bone. No animation flickered in the once flourishing, thriving rain-washed blue eyes she had come to adore so much, reduced to that of a faded, blanched gray, translucent and comatose in their matchless desolation. And his face, once alive and bursting with soft laughter and delight, had become a fragile reflection of sheer glass – nothing but the lifeless reflection of superficial glass.

Into his golden waves she’d weep, holding close her empty child, the flaxen sheets of hair surrounding her in a little shelter of console. But it was useless, for when she averted her eyes to his shrunken face, she would sink further into the depths of her bereavement.

Faramir, little Faramir, she’d wail.

Come back to me!

Death was a slow visitor, a sluggish assassin in the house of the stewards. Cruel it was in torturing him, strangling his heart until it would burst from the pain. Day by day, hour by hour, she grew fainter with the setting of the winter sun and the rising of a bleak prosaic moon.

For long months, she suffered the pain of her child’s cruel abuses at the hand of his detached father.

She suffered the dull bruises, the gashes which lay beneath the surface.

She suffered no longer.

It was a vague rain that fell from a turbulent sky, like the gray pallor of Faramir’s deadened eyes. Two white roses he clutched in his languid hands, and they were draped in the sheets of the stolid droplets of rain. Salt tears merged with the tumbling dowpour, plunging deeper into the dreary tedium of his thoughts, praying for numbness, praying for nothingness, for death…

Anything to escape the wounding blade of reality.

He stood before the sepulcher, drenched in sheets of white rain, Boromir at his side, who stared across the stone tomb with a haze of mist devouring his eyes in a sorrowful gleam. Boromir wanted to reach across her grave, just graze the surface of elusive Faramir, knowing if only he could stretch far enough, he could resurrect his mother’s precious little angel again, revive the wide-eyed infant who spent his days wrapped in the comfort of his maternal love and adoration, the console of his mother’s crooning voice.

But Boromir’s outstretched hand was restrained, and the ghost of his brother remained a watery image before him, soft, ancient eyes downcast, rosebud lips trembling, golden tendrils sodden and trickling like thin rivers of winter sunlight down his ashen countenance.

He drifted away from the sepulcher, beckoning Boromir to follow, leaving the withered sensation of Faramir’s otherworldly presence behind him.

And Faramir began to fade into the dismal gray haze of the falling rain.

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