Faramir Fiction Archive

Lórien Interlude (R)

Written by Iris

21 January 2004 | 5098 words | Work in Progress

Pairings: Will be mainly Faramir/Haldir, also Faramir/various others. Nothing yet though.
Rating: NC-17 over all, PG-13/R for now
Warnings: Implicit incestuous thoughts and implied violence
Disclaimer: Characters and locations aren’t mine. One or two slight hints towards quotes – those aren’t mine either.
Summary: Things are not going well between Denethor and Faramir. It’s so bad even that Gandalf and Boromir decide it’s better for Faramir to spend some time away from home.

Autor’s Notes: I’d be rude to just call Minx my beta for this one; ‘brainstorming partner’ or something of the sort would be more accurate. Funny, always thought I hated brainstorming – guess it just depends on the subject at hand.
Thanks darling, couldn’t have done it without you!

Work In Progress

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(Gondor, 2998, just off the Great West Road near Minrimmon)

“Mithrandir! I thought that was you! Are you travelling to Minas Tirith?”

“Boromir! Yes, indeed I am. I look forward to speaking with your brother again, and there are some scrolls in the Citadel library I would like to study.”

“Can you wait here a while? Please, take my place by the fire and have some breakfast – I’d like to go ask the commander for some days off so I can join you. If you don’t mind a travelling companion, that is.”

“I’d be delighted! And so would Faramir, I’m sure.”

As soon as they were back on the road and out of earshot of the camp, Gandalf turned to his companion with what could only be described as a naughty grin on his ancient features. “So this is a comparatively peaceful post, isn’t it? Denethor won’t risk his heir? And you get to leave when you want to?” he teased.

The answer he got however was in a quite different tone. “I’ve been stationed at more dangerous posts before. We guard the road from Minrimmon to Erelas. We get some orcs here at times, but the real danger is further west, in the Ferien Woods, as well as on the Anórien plains to the north, not here. But don’t get any special treatment, every soldier gets one day per fortnight leave, most of them spend their days off in the town’s taverns. I fit in well enough at the camp amongst the soldiers, but there I’m always the Steward’s son and heir. I prefer to save up my days and take a longer leave to visit Faramir. I’m worried about him.”

“Worried about what?”

“He is so quiet, so introvert. He seems to shy away from everyone and just hides away in his books and stories.”

The wizard frowned in surprise: surely Boromir hadn’t started believing his father’s unwarranted opinion of his little brother?

“But he has always done that. He is different from you. That needn’t be something to worry about – Faramir is extremely intelligent, the fact that he is drawn to books should be a quality to be admired. All this knowledge he is gathering, and the ability to get into the stories, to put himself in someone else’s shoes, that will make him a outstanding diplomat one day.”

“Yes, but he makes such a sad impression, almost like mother towards the end. I feel he tries to hide it around me. I’ve tried talking to him, but he refuses to tell me what’s bothering him.”

“He’s not a child anymore, he’s 15 now. Sure, he’s not a man yet but he won’t appreciate if you, or anyone, treat him as a little boy. I understand he’ll always be your little brother but that doesn’t mean you should belittle him. If there’s a problem, all we can do is be there for him. If we push too much, we’ll only push him away, and then whom will he turn to? You can’t force him to tell you something he isn’t ready to share.”

“I guess you’re right. But still, I worry.”

(The next evening, in the Citadel library)

“You useless boy! Can’t you do anything but read and sit around sulking?”
Denethor snatched the book out of his son’s hands and dragged him up by his hair from the cosy place he had made for himself in a quiet corner of the library, using a small rug to shield him from the cold stone floor and a couple of old cushions propped up against the shelves.

“But please father, I’ve done all my duties for today. If there is anything else you want me to do, just tell me and I’d be happy to-”

—SMACK—

“You’d be happy to? All you ever do is pout and look like someone died. Be a man for god’s sake! You’re withering away like some heartbroken female!”

At that comment Faramir’s look changed from desperation and fear to questioning: ‘he couldn’t mean-’

Denethor spotted the doubts hit right away. Yes, he did mean Finduilas. The boy was too much like her. But he had loved her so much it had pained him endlessly when she had been overtaken by shadow while there was nothing he could do for her. Yet now the boy acted so much like her, it just made him angry.
He had always been weaker than Boromir, but now – could he be even more useless? Did he have to remind him of his grief too? And there he stood, daring to look up at him, with that glare!

‘Oh, I bet he thinks he’s got me all figured out now, that he understands. Thinks he’s so smart! I reckon he even pities me.’
He felt the rage building up inside him, his heart pumping, his blood thundering through his veins – he was ready to explode!

Oh, he was at it again. The walls and doors were thick, but still he could hear. These hallways were quiet, with only the Steward’s study, his library and his private quarters in this part of the citadel. There were no other noises here. He couldn’t bear to listen but then he couldn’t leave his post. He would love to put his fingers in his ears, but what use would he be as a guard like that?
His boy was the same age as Faramir, born but three days earlier. He remembered how nervous Denethor had been the weeks before the boys were born, just had he had been himself. He had felt such closeness to his lord then, having just been appointed to his personal guard and finding himself in a similar situation. He had even hoped the boys would become playmates, with so few children being around in the upper most levels.
But he had been so wrong. His son was so cheerful and outgoing while Faramir shied away from everyone except his brother, and looked sad all the time. But who wouldn’t, with such a father?

He had often heard Denethor raise his voice against his son, and had shivered envisioning what the stern man must look like when he did. But even worse were the times when Denethor spoke not out of rage but with his voice calm, calculated and oh so cold. There had often been tears in his eyes and at times even rolling down his cheeks while he stood there with nothing else to do than to listen to his lord say things no son should ever have to hear from his father.
Many times when the boy had emerged from his father’s rooms he had had the urge to hug him, tell him there would be plenty of people who’d love him if only he’d let them. He knew it wasn’t his place to interfere, so he fought the urge to protect the boy. Now he wished he hadn’t – if only once.

For during the last two years things had got worse and worse. Now he didn’t only have to listen to those scolding words but also to the sounds of beatings. The sound of an open hand, the sound of a fist. He knew there had been a cane; he thought he had also heard a whip at some point, and maybe a belt. He knew he hadn’t imagined the sickening sound of breaking bones that one time, for he had seen Faramir with his arm in a sling for weeks after that night. Fallen off a horse, right!

Then the door just a few yards away from to him swung open and Faramir was literally thrown out into the hall, his head hitting the opposite wall before he slumped down, completely limp. As soon as he saw Denethor step out into the hallway, the guardsman diverted his gaze and tried very hard to stare at the wall in front of him, keep a straight face and not show any emotions. It would not do the boy any good if he would be found showing any signs of criticism towards the steward. There was nothing that stopped him from thinking it though: ‘Oh, do you have to kick him while he is down? Gods, I think I just heard a rib crack!’
Denethor mumbled something to himself, turned on his heals and strode back into his rooms, slamming the door shut behind him.

The guard didn’t waste a second and squatted down next to the battered body, carefully lifting the badly bruised boy. “Come on lad, we need to get you off this cold floor. Now where to take you? Shall I take you straight to the healers or rather to your room?”
At that point Faramir’s eyes rolled back in their sockets and his head swung to the side like his neck was made of string. “Guess we best take you to your room then, that being closer and all. Hang in there lad, don’t go to sleep! The healer told me I shouldn’t let you go to sleep – stay with me now!”

He sent the first guard they passed off to fetch the healer. They passed three more guards on their way to Faramir’s room – all three look at them shocked, but didn’t dare to speak. They had seen this all before though, as this was the fourth time now that he had had to carry to boy back to his room. And prior to that they had seen him stagger down the hallways on his own, unable to walk straight but still apologizing for the trail of blood he left on the floor, knowing that the guards would have to clean it up before someone could slip on it. They had been shocked then, just as they had been further back still, when bruises had first started to appear in the boy’s his face, his first split lip, the first black eye. They had been shocked, but they never said anything.

He could somehow understand. The other guards were all younger men; they didn’t have children of their own. And they also hadn’t heard the things he’d heard. It’s not like he’d ever have the courage to stand up to Denethor either; that wouldn’t solve anything anyway. But he had always tried to help Faramir, alerting the healers or simply by bringing some food to his room when he know he hadn’t been out of there in days.

“Are you still with me lad? We’re almost there now. Watch it! – need to open the door” Faramir made a slight sound of discomfort as the guard bend down to an awkward angle and used the hand under Faramir’s knees to open the door. “Shhh… it’ll will be all right now… will lay you down on your side like the healer said.”
But as soon as he did Faramir gave out a loud moan. “Oh gods, of course, your ribs! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking! Let’s try your other side instead.”

“Just put him on his back if he’s not injured there. I’m here to watch him now.” The healer’s calm voice came from the doorway.

“Ah, good, you’re here already. It’s really bad this time; I think some of his ribs might be broken. And he’s not very awake. I’ve tried talking to him but he hasn’t said anything so far.”

“All right, thank you. You’ve done very well. I’ll take it from here.”

(Meanwhile, back in Denethor’s private chambers)

Oh, that stupid useless boy! Couldn’t even put his hands up to defend himself, just whining all the time: ‘Please father, stop’ – useless. He needs to grow some balls!
Denethor sighed. That was just the trouble wasn’t it? He had them. If only he had been a girl, there wouldn’t have been a problem. A good strong son and heir like Boromir and a nice gentle girl like Faramir to marry off to Harad or so to form an alliance with them. It would have been so perfect. Faramir would indeed make a daughter proud of – gentle, caring, clever, and more pretty every day.

He felt himself grow hard again – damn, he did not need this right now!

‘It’s because he reminds you of Finduilas’, Denethor kept telling himself, knowing perfectly well that was only part of the truth. The power of having his son completely at his mercy was a potent aphrodisiac; seeing Faramir utterly helpless for him to do with as he pleased aroused him as much as it aggravated him.

Now what? He could just sit here, wait it out, and get even more frustrated. Or quickly deal with it at the risk of being confronted with thoughts he didn’t want to think.

Damn boy!

His pondering was interrupted by a sharp knock on his door.
“I do not wish to be disturbed tonight!” he yelled towards the door.

There were two new knocks though, in quick succession and softer than before – shy almost. Denethor got up out of his armchair, angry, and took a few steps towards the door.

“I WISH TO BE ALONE FOR THE REST OF THE EVENING!”

When more persistent knocking followed, Denethor forcefully pushed the door open, startling the already trembling man on the other side.
“I said I do not wish to be disturbed any more tonight!” he spit in his face.

“But my lord-”

“What? Are we under attack?”

“No, my lord…”

“Then it can wait till the morning!” And the door was once again shut, leaving the messenger to rush down and greet the unexpected visitors alone.

“My lord Boromir, Mithrandir, welcome!” he said bowing to both in turn.

“My lord, I’m afraid your father will not be able to welcome you tonight. He is uhm… fatigued and has retired to his rooms for the night.”

“That’s fine, let him rest. We’ll just go see Faramir then.”

“Oh gods, Faramir!” Boromir cried and immediately ran over to the bed to kneel besides it, cradling his brother’s head in his arms; startling the healer who was carefully examining the boy’s injuries.

“What happened?”

“Your father, my lord, he gets uhm… agitated.”

“Father did this?” Boromir stammered, staring down at Faramir’s battered features.

“I’m afraid so, my lord. For the last two years now, ever since you left really, the lord Steward has been rather aggressive towards Faramir. Not like this though; I mean: not from the start. It’s been getting progressively worse.”

The healer spoke while he washed away the blood from what had clearly been a nosebleed, cleaned up a few minor cuts in Faramir’s face, and gently dabbed over a split lip, and then carefully spread a healing balm on the many bruises all over his body.

“Could you please help me get him into a sitting position and then hold him so I can bandage the ribs?”

Eager to be able to do something to help, Boromir kicked off his boots, climbed on the bed to sit on Faramir’s opposite side, and together they shifted Faramir’s limp body, taking care not to hurt him any more that he already was.

“Oh gods, what’s all this!” Boromir shrieked as soon as he saw his brother’s back.

“Hmm, yes. That’s from over two weeks ago now. It’s healing slower that I would have liked.” The healer said while he studied the welts, many of them still red and angry around the dark scabs.

“What did this? Father used a cane to discipline us sometimes, but surely a cane couldn’t do such damage. Are these… whip marks?”

“Yes, like I said, progressively worse. See, it started with scolding words; I’m sure you’ve heard your father put Faramir down even when it was entirely uncalled for. But about two years ago he would add a smack or two to his reprimands, then open hands became fists, the cane became a belt and more recently even a whip.”

“How does Faramir deal with this?” Gandalf cut in, speaking for the first time since entering the room. ‘Boromir does not need to hear any more of this right now, or we’ll have more injured to treat this evening’ he had decided, studying Boromir’s reaction closely whilst the healer spoke.

“I never heard one word of complaint out of him. But then he doesn’t speak of it at all. I’ve often asked him what happened of course; from a healer’s point of view it’s important to verify that he remembers everything, to see if he’s been out at any time. But he never tells me anything. Also the healing process itself can be rather painful: changing bandages, setting broken bones; he never complains about that either.”

Boromir immediately looked up from stroking his brother’s hair: “Setting broken bones?” he repeated with a shaky voice.

“It has happened, my lord”, the healer answered, continuing his work.

Gandalf interrupted again, unwilling to let Boromir get overwhelmed by too much shocking information in too short a time: “But how is Faramir generally? Have you seen any change in his day to day behaviour?”

“Oh, he is very withdrawn, sir. Keeps to himself even more than before. He does as he is told but that is all the interaction you’ll get out of him. He spends all his free time reading. Not that there is anything wrong with that per se, but he hardly talks to people, not unless he has to, and even then he keeps it to a minimum and very impersonal. He’s polite, that’s not the problem, but he shuts everyone out.”

Gandalf nodded; ‘so that’s what had Boromir worried; and quite rightly so’, he reflected.

Meanwhile the healer had finished bandaging Faramir, and eased him over to lie on his good side.

“He looks so skinny, is he even getting enough food?” Boromir asked concerned, still seated on the bed next to his brother, stroking stay stands of hair out of his face.

“Oh, but that’s normal for a boy his age. You haven’t seen him for a few months, and he’s grown a lot in that time. His body just has trouble keeping up. Remember when you were his age: you shot up almost a foot in a year’s time, without hardy putting any weight on. That is typical: the height comes first, then they get bulkier.”

“But he’s so thin and bony…”

“You were much the same at fifteen my lord, you really were. He will always be more slender than you I reckon, that’s just his build. But this is truly nothing to worry about, all growing boys look like that for a while.”

“I have done all I can do for him now. I’ll leave this with you: it’s a sleeping draught that will keep him relaxed and drowsy so he doesn’t feel the pain and heal more quickly. If he should wake up, give him a spoonful of this. I gave him some of this earlier, but he was barely conscious then and I don’t know if he has swallowed much of it. He seems peaceful enough now but I don’t know whether that is because of the herbs or because he took some rather nasty knocks to the head.”

Gandalf closed his eyes for a moment and simply shook his head – he didn’t even dare to watch Boromir’s reaction to that.

“Furthermore, keep him as he is, lying on his side. It makes it easiest for him to breath, and also should he have to vomit — which I don’t expect he will, but if — that won’t cause any additional problems either. I trust at least one of you will watch him over night?”

“We’ll both stay.” Gandalf answered.

“Good, then I’ll be back early in the morning to check on him. If anything should happen during the night, just tell the guard to come fetch me, and I’ll be here in minutes.”

“Right. Thank you.”

As soon as the healer closed the door behind him, Boromir jumped up. “He can’t stay here. I’ll take him back with me; he can serve in my unit. I’ll take care of him, he’ll be all right there.”

“No Boromir, he’s too young. He’ll end up being little more than the unit’s errand boy or your squire, and there will be no opportunity there for him to get proper training. As the Steward’s younger son, and in the future as the Steward’s brother, he will always have to live in your shadow, even without that. If your now rob him of the opportunity of finishing his education, he will never be his own man; it’ll ruin his self-esteem.”

He knew Faramir was exceptionally clever and serious for his age but being a soldier requires different qualities on top of that. Especially if he had been withdrawn lately he’d have a very difficult time fitting in. ‘If only I can get Boromir to understand that, and not do anything rash’, the wizard hoped.

“But he can’t stay here, he can’t!” Boromir practically squeaked, “Have you seen what father has done to him – have you seen what his back looks like? I’m not leaving Faramir here alone with him!”

“Yes, I understand that. But he’s too young and too unprepared now to join the army. He still has almost two and a half years to go before he’s eighteen, and he will need that time to get ready for army life.” Gandalf countered, trying to sound as calm and dignified as his concern would allow him.

“Then what do you propose?”

‘Good, he has let go of that foolish idea. Now think!’ Gandalf told himself, and soon his worried expression sported the slightest hint of a smile.

“What if he were to finish his training elsewhere?” he suggested, “I’ve often mentioned Faramir to my friend Celeborn as I travelled through Lothlórien on my way back from Gondor. I’m sure he would welcome Faramir in his realm, and take good care of him there. A Galadhrim’s warrior training would complement the training he’s had thus far perfectly. And Lord Celeborn has an exquisite library – Faramir likes reading about the Elves, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but…” Boromir tried to interrupt, but the wizard was on to something now.

“He’ll love it there! From what I’ve heard from him he has every book from the Citadel collection even remotely dealing with Elves practically memorized by now, and there he’ll have the whole of Celeborn’s library at his disposal. Not to mention he’ll be surrounded by Elves constantly! Oh, and Celeborn will be delighted, I’m sure. Your brother really is a pleasure to talk with; he’s so clever and witty.”

“But it’s so far away!” Boromir exclaimed before Gandalf could get too carried away in his enthusiasm.

“Hmm, yes, that is a problem. But how often do you get to see him now?”

“Two or three times a year.”

“Surely you could manage a visit to Lórien once or twice a year too? Then there wouldn’t be that much difference?”

Boromir nodded, but then his face darkened again as he thought of another obstacle: “Do you think father will object?”

Gandalf sat back and contemplated this for a moment before he spoke. “Well, Denethor is a complicated man. Highly intelligent but very complicated at the same time. But I don’t think he’d be pleased at all with the situation as it is – something must be troubling him for him to treat Faramir like he does. It wouldn’t surprise me if he would actually be relieved by this solution. And Faramir will return at 18 to join the army – until then I doubt if Denethor would miss him much.”

Boromir sighed regretfully, but indeed had to agree with that.

Gandalf continued: “Still, I would rather not ask his permission first. I plan to ride out at dawn, and I hoped you could explain the situation to Denethor over breakfast or so.”

Boromir shuddered at the idea, but again agreed: “I’ll do my best.”

“We both better get some rest now. It’s been a hard day and tomorrow won’t be any easier, not for either of us. I’ll take the armchair; will you be all right sharing the bed with Faramir?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine. When he was small, he often came to sleep next to me after he’d had a nightmare. I know I’ll wake up if he stirs – I always did before. If I’ll be able to sleep at all that is.”

Gandalf gave him a understanding smile, “Well, try anyway. I’ll be alert too.”

He smiled again, endeared this time, at the sight of Boromir curling up against his brother’s back, looking for a place to wrap an arm around him without causing pain.

“Oh my precious little jewel, why have you never said anything?” he only barely heard Boromir whisper.

(the next morning, still in Faramir’s room)

“Good morning sirs; how did our patient make it though the night?” the healer enquired as he set his bag down on the desk.

“He woke up a bit about an hour ago. I gave him a spoonful of that sleeping draught like you said. That’s all that happened.” Boromir answered.

“How awake was he? Did he speak at all? Did he look at you?”

“He didn’t speak, just moaned like he was in pain. And his eyes were open slightly, but I didn’t have the idea he was really looking at anything at all.”

“But he swallowed the draught? Are you sure of that?”

“Yes, I saw him swallow it. I also gave him some water and he drunk a bit of that too.”

“Ah, that’s a good sign then. I’m well pleased with that.”

“We’ve decided it would be best for him to leave for a while.” Gandalf informed the healer. ”I’ll take him to Lothlórien so he can finish his education there, and return to take his place in the army as soon as he turns eightteen.”

“Good,” he nodded pensively, “With the way this has been progressing over the last two years, I’d dread to see how this situation would have developed further.”

“Will he be able to travel?”

“If you want to move him now, it will be best to keep him sedated. I don’t think he would be ready to wake up completely yet anyway, but if he would, his muscles would cramp up as a reflex because of the pain, and riding in that condition would only aggravate things.”

“The trip will take at least six days, even with the fastest of horses. Surely I can’t keep him sedated all that time?” Gandalf enquired worried.
“Well, he’ll have to eat, otherwise he’ll get far too weak. Soft, easily digestible food: light bread, fruits, that sort of thing. Make sure he’ll get some salt as well, and enough fluids. Keep in mind that the drug will last for up to six hours and needs about half an hour to take full effect. So plan it so that he’ll be more or less alert as you set up camp for the night, get him something to eat then, but make sure he’s fully relaxed when you’re ready to ride out again.”

“Yes, I can do that.”

The healer peered into his bag and after some rummaging pulled out a flask. “You should also know that the marks on his back that need treatment. I hope they won’t turn into permanent scars, but some might very well be unavoidable, even with the best of care. For now, it is important to keep the skin soft and supple. Where the skin is trying to recover, it gets dry easily and looses its elasticity. It hinders his movement. I’ve brought this oil, it is all I have, but the Elves will have no trouble supplying you – it is just almond oil mixed with any other oil to make it a bit thinner and easier to apply. It should be rubbed into the skin daily, or whoever often Faramir thinks it’s necessary – he will feel it soon enough when he needs more. There should be another flask of the same oil around here somewhere. He’s been using it for some months now, so he knows how to do it himself, but with the broken ribs he’ll probably need help.”

(Denethor’s study)

“You’ve come to explain to me why I just saw Faramir ride out with that wizard?” Denethor demanded rather than asked, still staring out of the window without turning to face his son.

“Faramir hardly ‘rode out’, father! He is still barely conscious. He couldn’t stay here, this situation was getting too dangerous, for both of you.”

Denethor looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow, “Are you threatening me?” he said in a mocking tone.

Boromir had to take a couple of deep breaths to control himself. Getting angry now would not help the situation. “I meant that things got out of hand. Surely you didn’t want for all this to happen. He’ll be back to join the army when he turns 18. Until then, he will stay with Lord Celeborn in Lothlórien where he’ll be trained as a warrior.”

Denethor snorted but still didn’t turn around. “Oh it had to be the Elves, hadn’t it? Couldn’t be Rohan?”

“The Elves are fine warriors, and lord Celeborn a close friend of Mithrandir. He will be well taken care of there.” Boromir insisted while trying his utmost to stay calm – not even noticing the marks his fingernails were etching in his palms.

“Wizard’s pupil and now this.” Denethor murmured to himself, but loud enough to reach Boromir’s ears.

“Very well then, as long as he comes back to do his duty. And doesn’t cause me any further embarrassment.”

To be continued…

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