Faramir Fiction Archive

Nightmare (R)

Written by bloodybouffoon

01 September 2010 | 1444 words

Title: Nightmare
Author: bloodybouffoon
Pairing: Faramir/Denethor
Rating: R
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J. R. R. Tolkien.
Summary: Faramir tries to console his grieving father.
Warning: incestuous implications

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Pale moonlight, bathing everything in otherworldly glow, is the sole source of illumination in his father’s bedroom. The hour is late; the night chill raises goosebumps on Faramir’s bare arms. He stands uncertain on the threshold, clad only in his hastily donned breeches, torn between the desire to enter the chamber and the impulse to flee back to his own room. For witnessing the scene unfolding before him is akin to a sacrilege.

On the large four-poster bed, dark coverlets tangled around pale limbs, the most powerful man in Gondor lies asleep. Yet Denethor is stripped of all the trappings of his elevated station. The lord Steward’s flesh is freed from the confines of finely woven clothes, the straining muscles covered instead with naught but the sheen of sweat. His face, so proud and harsh during the day, is marked with silvery trails of tears. A ragged moan once more breaks the silence.

Finduilas!

The Princess of Dol Amroth, the only woman to have captured Denethor’s heart, held more dear than all the riches in the treasury of Minas Tirith. Faramir’s throat constricts painfully as he remembers the caress of the delicate hands, the lullabies sang in a soft voice, the echo of a melodious laughter…

Eleven years have passed since Finduilas, beloved wife of the Steward, died. Eleven years during which Faramir could witness the ever increasing burden of responsibility his father is constantly forced to bear. However, in spite of numerous duties that come with ruling the state and keeping a watchful eye on the Shadow in the East, Denethor is a caring, if stern, parent to his sons. For Boromir and Faramir, the head of the House of Húrin represents the epitome of strength, no less solid and reliable than the walls of Minas Tirith.

Now, hidden in his chamber and the darkness of the night, the Steward allows his control to slip. The whole situation seems unreal to Faramir — he is only sixteen years old and never has he seen his father so frail and human. Faramir watches as convulsive sobs wrack Denethor’s frame, shame at intruding upon such an intimate moment merging with the growing urge to offer comfort. Finally, his mind made, the younger son of the Steward enters the room.

Walking slowly, as if in a dream, the boy stops at the foot of the bed to study the prone form before him. Despite his age, Denethor is still an exceptionally handsome man, the legacy of Númenor strong in his blood. Black hair frame the face that to many an observer’s mind has brought associations with the splendour of the kings of old. In the soft moonlight, the Steward’s stern beauty is even more pronounced; Faramir silently compares it to the magnificence of an exquisitely forged blade, deadly and unyielding. Yet even the mightiest sword will break, if tested past its endurance. Faramir sits beside his father and tentatively smooths tousled locks, hoping for his touch to ease Denethor’s torment.

A weary sigh, filled with relief, indicates his actions are not unwelcome. Emboldened, Faramir lies his head against the Steward’s chest and listens as the frantic heartbeat gradually slows down. Strong arms encircle Faramir, hugging him closer. A contented smile lightens the boy’s fair face. His presence is desired, this awe-inspiring man needs him by his side to banish the nightmares! For a few precious moments Faramir is granted the opportunity to bask in the newly found aura of peace and love, the strange nocturnal interlude offering him a closeness with his sire that he has never experienced before.

The body Faramir is snuggling against suddenly tenses, the pulse once more picking up speed. Certain his father is about to awaken, Faramir makes to rise, but fingers dig into his flesh, preventing his escape. In another instant he finds himself on his back, pinned to the bed, dark silhouette looming menacingly over him. The inner peace vanishes, replaced with the increasing awareness that he has played with, and finally roused, a wild wolf.

Eyes straining in the oppressive darkness, Faramir manages a weak whimper, “Father ?” before hard lips claim his, effectively cutting out his plea. The sensation renders Faramir numb with shock; the sheer carnality of the kiss overwhelms his senses and fills his heart with dread. It is my Father! My Father! Valar, no! He pushes at Denethor’s shoulders trying to break free, but his strength is no match for that of the grown man. This futile struggle drains his remaining energy and soon he is left lying limp and near to losing consciousness.

Drifting between reality and the blessed oblivion, Faramir discovers, to his everlasting shame and horror, that his body is no longer subject to his will, responding instead to his father’s advances. The kiss is sensual, true, but in no way can be described as brutal; each brush of lips is filled with love and heartbreaking tenderness. Faramir can taste the saltness of tears on Denethor’s mouth, recognize the strength of passion that remains leashed so as not to frighten the bashful lover. The hands stroking his sides are firm, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Twisting, trying to catch his breath, Faramir feels as if he were drunk on a dark and potent liquor, drowning in the sea of sinful delights.

His helplessness soon becomes an excuse to endure more of this gentle torture. In his innocence Faramir has always envisioned love as an ethereal communion of souls, a source of inspiration for artists and poets. However, the lofty stanzas found in the dusty old tomes have nothing in common with the scalding heat suffusing his flesh with every clever touch of his father’s long fingers. Love, as it turns out, is very much entwined with physical pleasure, so intense that it borders on pain at times.

Abruptly, the hands mapping Faramir’s body stop in their slow exploration. The strange stillness penetrates the haze clouding Faramir’s mind; he looks up to see Denethor frozen above him. Then, understanding dawns — his father has finally awoken.

“Faramir? What…” Denethor’s voice is rough with sleep, his grey eyes still dark with arousal. Yet, as he takes in their compromising position, all the traces of ardour evaporate to be replaced with mounting remorse and self-disgust.

“Eru, help me! What have I done?” As if burned, Denethor jumps out of bed and crosses to the window, his nudity apparently forgotten in the face of transgression committed against his child. Faramir watches his father’s sculpted torso and lean hips illuminated by faint moonlight, swallows with difficulty and averts his gaze.

“Forgive me, son. I… have sullied your purity, even if I was not fully aware of my actions.” Denethor sounds tired and unbearably sad. Head bowed in defeat, the Steward’s posture radiates distress.

Faramir remains silent, his thoughts a chaotic whirl. He cannot give an accurate description of his feelings: there is anger at his father — for doing this to him, for shattering his naive vision of love, for kindling the unquenchable thirst for more of these forbidden touches. Another part of himself argues that he must not allow Denethor to shoulder the blame for what has just happened, that the whole encounter was a cruel jest of fate, distorting their relationship into something alien, terrifying and… tempting.

Gathering up his courage, he goes after his father. How to console the Steward, dispel the tension and restore normalcy between them? Each word seems inadequate, each catches in Faramir’s throat.

When he tries to lay a hand on Denethor’s arm, his father flinches.

“No, my son.”

In a flash, Faramir understands the reason behind his father’s reserve, the ancient blood flowing in his veins giving him an uncanny insight into the hearts of others.

The lord Steward has taken refuge in a fortress of icy formality; his honour is tarnished, the sin his alone to bear. The coldness of manner becomes a means of shielding his youngest child from further depravity. The Steward no longer trusts himself.

However, this revelation brings Faramir nothing but the bitter taste of failure. For he knows that, once made, the Steward’s mind will not be swayed: Faramir’s attempts to lessen the burden of guilt will be rejected, Denethor’s integrity not allowing him to seek respite from self-inflicted punishment. Forsaking the love of his son — an apt penalty for a moment of madness.

“Please, Faramir. Leave me.”

Faramir obeys. The door closes behind him with a dull thud.

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