Faramir Fiction Archive

Shadows (R)

Written by Minx

12 December 2012 | 29219 words

Chapter 7

Boromir lowered the loosened trousers, removing them gently. The marks covered Faramir’s bottom and upper thighs. The thin pale lines criss-crossed the rounded buttocks. Aragorn stared, sickened by the sight. It would have hurt so badly. Boromir placed a hand over one buttock, feeling the skin roughened by the scars, and made a small, whimpering sound.

“S-so many,”’ he whispered, “I – didn’t know…,” he continued, tears filling his grey eyes.

“Let’s get him settled in first,” Aragorn said worriedly.

They turned Faramir onto his back gently. The younger man stayed sleeping. His bare body was visibly thinned, the bones protruding under the pale, fevered, skin.

His bony chest and flat stomach glistened from the paste rubbed over him. Aragorn looked closely at the scars over his belly and lower abdomen.

“He’s marked here too,” Boromir said flatly, echoing his thoughts.

The marks went all the way down to the dark clump of hair between Faramir’s legs – thin, long lines left by repeated and deliberate beatings. The burn scar stood out starkly, just above his protruding hip, the skin still reddened and ugly.

Aragorn placed a hand on the soft, flat belly. Warmth radiated off it.

Boromir stared down at the younger man’s naked frame, and then gently laid a hand on the bony shoulder, just above the scar left by the Haradrim arrow.

“H-he’s been hurt so much,” he said softly, his voice full of anguish.

Aragorn made to answer but was interrupted by a sound at the door. Legolas and Gimli stood there, curious and concerned.

They’d come looking for their friends and had heard from an annoyed Inglor that Boromir was still awake and worrying unnecessarily over Faramir’s bit of cold.

“Though he looks really unwell to me,” Legolas said, as he removed his cloak, and stared curiously down at the younger man.

“He looks very tired too,” Gimli said, “Poor lad. Is he very ill?”

A cold draught blew in through the open door, causing Faramir in his naked state to shiver. He let out a soft moan, and shifted.

Aragorn hurriedly pulled up the blankets.

“Boromir, get him a thick nightshirt, and Legolas, he needs something to eat. Something warm and nourishing. Ask the kitchens to make his favourite foods will you? He really needs to eat a lot. He’s so thin!”

He and Boromir got Faramir into the nightshirt, and covered him with two thick blankets, while Gimli stoked the fire. Aragorn then kept Boromir busy preparing an herbal tea for his brother, while he and Gimli set about bringing more rugs and pillows into the room. He could see the steward was getting distressed at the thought of what they’d seen. He wanted to soothe him, but first he needed to help Faramir.

Legolas returned with a steaming hot bowl of broth. He had an odd expression on his face.

“They don’t know what he likes,” he said, “The cook said they usually send some bread and cheese if he sups this late. But they had some leftover vegetable broth, so I had them warm it and add a few other things.”

“He likes mushroom soup,” Boromir said quietly.

They woke Faramir, gently rousing him from his fitful sleep. He let out a moan of protest but sat up nevertheless, leaning into Boromir’s chest.

“B-Boromir,” he murmured, and then as he came awake and realised he was in an unfamiliar room, he sat unblinking, “Wh -?” He stared at the others in confusion as they greeted him quietly. His head hurt and his throat felt rough. But Boromir’s arms around him made him feel a lot better.

“You’ve caught a cold,” Boromir told him, “Aragorn thought it was better for you to spend the night here. Now, you need to have this broth, and some of this tea. You’ll feel much better.”

He coaxed a part of the broth and most of the tea into a protesting but tired Faramir, with help from Legolas. Then they tucked the exhausted younger man back under the blankets and watched as he fell back into sleep.

Inglor came bustling in then, with more firewood, and trays of food and hot spiced wine for everyone.

“Whatever are all of you doing, staying up so late,” he scolded them.

“Faramir is unwell,” Boromir said.

Inglor snorted scornfully and left.

The four friends ate quietly, sitting by the fire, keeping an eye on the bed.

Faramir’s sleep was still fitful though, and he moved restlessly, murmuring and crying softly as the fever set in. It pained the others just listening to his garbled words.

“Boromir,” he mumbled miserably.

“I’m here, little one,” Boromir moved to sit by Faramir, gently running his hands over the clammy face.

“Let me go in Boromir’s stead… he must not be hurt…” he whimpered.

“I’m here… Ssh…. “

“Forgive me… please…. Boromir…please send me in his stead….”

“Sshh…”

“Noo… I’m useless here… unworthy… lost Osgiliath…”

Boromir turned to Aragorn, an anguished look on his face. Aragorn squeezed his shoulder gently. He looked so torn and confused and upset.

Faramir slept quietly later as the herbs took effect. But they stayed there that night, on the rugs by the fire, Boromir curled into Aragorn’s embrace.

Faramir looked a little better the next morning, although the fever had set in. He would need a few days rest at least, Aragorn decided as he examined the still sleeping man, and perhaps be moved into the houses of healing.

“I’m not very hungry,” Boromir said, unhappily. They were at breakfast, and Inglor had just brought in more bread and fried tomatoes and fish.

“Nor am I. But you must eat,” Aragorn said.

Inglor pursed his lips, “Well, it’s no wonder, sleeping so late. You’re tired, that’s what it is. You should sleep properly, my lords. The winter is early too this year. You need to be careful.”

“You know Faramir was unwell,” Boromir said mildly. He was beginning to get a little annoyed with Inglor’s attitude towards his brother. He was very fond of the old man, but this was upsetting.

“Aye, ever he was weak. And always such a bother to you. As if you don’t have enough to do with your own injury, which he caused, now he’s troubling you again. You indulge him too much. Master Denethor would have taken care of it… “

Boromir glanced up annoyed and made to speak but Aragorn cut in.

“How?” He asked suddenly, his tone cold.

“A good hiding. Although Eru knows, Faramir never improved. For lazing so in bed under pretense of illness, he would have given him fifteen on his bare buttocks, so he wouldn’t be able to sit on his behind for a day or two at the least.”

Boromir paled at that, but Aragorn continued.

“Did Denethor discipline Faramir often?” he asked quietly, trying to control his tone. It was difficult though as he remembered the marks on Faramir’s body.

“Oh yes, for each transgression,” Inglor said sagely, “Lord Denethor would personally discipline him. In the study. Over the large table.”

“How often?” Boromir asked suddenly.

Inglor shrugged, “You know how terribly rude and disobedient your brother was. Master Denethor even asked me to keep a record, so Faramir would know how disgracefully he behaved. I suppose, when he was here, every few weeks at the least. And it was worse this last year; he would not listen, and your father was so worried over you. Faramir was of no help to him.”

“And Faramir said nothing?” Aragorn asked curiously, wondering how Faramir had tolerated this.

“I should think not! He couldn’t very well disobey his steward and father could he? And he deserved all of those punishments! He did the first few times though… kept arguing… wouldn’t remove his shirt and pants for the beating or get into position. I had to help Lord Denethor hold him down, and get his clothes off him. Lord Denethor did not want his fine clothes ruined.”

Boromir rose and left, his breakfast uneaten. Aragorn sighed, even as Inglor stared after his young master, and shook his head.

“I didn’t know,” Boromir said flatly, when Aragorn came looking for him in his chambers. He was sitting by Faramir, and staring at the sleeping man. He reached out for the bindings on the thin nightshirt and then pulled away his hand.

“Father used to scold him so often. And Faramir would just listen. And I would tell him to try not to provoke father further. I should have realised. But Faramir’s so quiet… “

Faramir had been moved to the houses of healing later that day. He woke briefly while being shifted and had something to eat, and more tea, and then returned to sleep after that. The master healer, looking rather surprised to be called for a mere illness, thought it would take him close to a week to recover.

“Faramir’s always taken a long time to recover from any injury or illness,” he told Aragorn and Boromir, “Unlike you, Lord Boromir. But he has always been far weaker than you.”

Later that afternoon, Aragorn and Boromir sat with the treasury council over some new taxes. Boromir sat through it, largely distracted and worried. Once they were done, Aragorn decided to call the meeting to an end. There were still some matters to discuss, but those could wait.

“We still have to discuss the Ithilien reconstruction estimates,” Lord Merdil said.

“I would have Faramir present for that. He is unwell, and so has not joined us today,” Aragorn said.

One of the older councillors, Lord Elring snorted, “His presence should hardly make any difference.”

Lord Dervorin, another councillor nodded, “He is not present in so many other council meetings.”

“He has the most experience of Ithilien,” Boromir said, “His inputs are needed for this.”

“Yes, but as your lord father said, he was not the most reliable source. He always preferred to ask you.”

“And I always asked Faramir for his opinion.”

Lord Elring sniffed, but agreed for to reschedule the discussion.

As he was leaving the council room, he told Merdil, “Lord Denethor said Faramir’s opinions were not worth much. It is no wonder he is hardly needed in council.”

Aragorn placed a hand on Boromir’s shoulders to calm him. The steward glared at the men as they left the chambers.

But it was true, he told Aragorn later. There were times, and so many in the recent months, when council meetings had diverted into a councillor pouring scorn on Faramir for a view, and the younger man standing firm to his views.

There were even times Boromir had turned his irritation on Faramir for letting the discussions digress so.

“Stop provoking them” he’d shouted once, “You know they’re old-fashioned. I expected more tact and diplomacy from you.”

He huddled miserably into Aragorn’s comforting arms.

Later, that evening, as Boromir sat in his study, unsuccessfully trying to read an agriculture report, Inglor entered with a large ledger in hand. He placed it expectantly in front of Boromir, who stared at it with distaste. Surely, not more reports, he groaned to himself.

“What is this?” he asked with a sinking heart. He wanted to finish his work quickly and sit by Faramir. Aragorn had said he might wake in the evening.

“This has a record of all of Faramir’s insubordination and misbehaviour, and the details of the punishment he was ordered. If only you would take him in hand like Lord Denethor did, he would not be behaving so,” Inglor said placidly, “You could use this now. You’ll know what Faramir is expecting.”

“Punishments?” Boromir gasped wildly.

“Aye,” Inglor said, and left.

When Aragorn entered the study a little later, Boromir was sitting hunched over something at the table. He looked up as the king entered. His face was extremely pale, and his grey eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“Dearest!” Aragorn darted over top his lover worriedly, “What happened?”

He got a choking sound in response. He stared worriedly at the object Boromir leaned over.

It was a ledger similar to the ones used to keep record of purchases. A long list of entries was filled in it.

“F- Faramir…. father kept… records … Inglor…,” Boromir’s voice was leaden with misery, as his voice broke into a harsh sob.

Aragorn stared at him in surprise; Boromir rarely got so worked up over anything. He looked curiously at the neat, large handwriting – there was a long list of dates. He stared at the first entry.

Insubordination and disrespect towards superior officer – fifteen lashes with small whip on back.

He stared blankly for a few seconds before realising these were the records Inglor had spoken of earlier. He turned the pages, rapidly… there were so many of them!

They began as long as twenty years ago! He read the first one – Faramir had received thirty strokes with a belt for causing Boromir an injury. Thirty, he thought to himself in shock. Faramir would have been about fifteen…

Boromir sniffed unhappily, and turning a few pages pointed at one dated about ten years prior.

Consorting with tavern wenches – five strokes on groin with riding crop. And immediately below that, Laziness – reached council late – ten strokes on buttocks with cane.

“Th-that was Faramir’s twenty-fifth birthday. I remember – it was my idea. I’d dragged him out to a… rather special tavern with our friends. He was tired but he came along nevertheless. And we sent him off for a while to … be with one of the tavern girls. That’s why he was late for council the next day! I – I didn’t know he was punished for this! He behaved as usual the next few days, a little quieter…but he was always quiet in front of father.”

He turned a few more pages, his lips pursed tight.

“And this one – the last one… the count is unknown, perhaps forty…for treachery…. It is the night before he rode out and was struck at the Pelennor…”

“He rode out after a beating?” Aragorn queried, shocked. He’d once been belted as a child, for slipping away from a camp and into an orc infested forest. And he hadn’t been able to move for an entire day, “I – I didn’t look at his other injuries…they seemed tended to….”

“He used a whip…. a kine hide one. I-I’ve seen it… it’s so huge. It would have hurt him so badly. I don’t know how he managed, but it’s not the first time he would have done that. He’s been punished al-almost every time he came home from Ithilien. For the smallest of slights,” Boromir continued. He rose and walked over to the windows, staring out at the view below.

“Father treated him…so differently… so horribly even…and I never even knew. I didn’t guess. I knew he was angered with him often. He has slapped Faramir in front of me. I tried to stop him once but Faramir told me not to. He said it would anger father more if I were to defend him… I thought that was all. But it wasn’t was it? He’s been punished so often. And his rooms were so cold. Faramir was never able to tolerate the cold very well. He used to feel cold just from the autumn winds. I don’t know how he managed without a fire.”

“And – and everyone seems to behave as Father did. Inglor barely cares if Faramir is ill. All the other servants are just as callous, the healers call him weak, do you notice even the councillors disregard his views…”

Boromir stopped. He looked completely distraught. Aragorn rose and walked up to him. Boromir swayed slightly.

“I never realised,” he wept, and collapsed into Aragorn outstretched arms, “Not even now… so late…”

Aragorn sighed as Boromir’s breathing evened out. His younger lover had wept long and miserably, until he’d finally exhausted himself into a restless slumber.

He had been equally callous towards Faramir, he thought bleakly. In all these months, he had pretty much disregarded the younger man, noticing him or talking to him only when he needed him for some work. Why, he’d even dismissed him on a few occasions when the lad had intruded into his time with Boromir. He could barely even remember the last occasion when Faramir had eaten with them. Why he hadn’t even know where his chambers were! And, he remembered painfully, he too had hurt Faramir.

He thought back to that awful moment when he’d lost control and lashed out at Faramir. No wonder the lad had been so done in, and so scared of him.

He stared furiously at the ledger. Inglor’s records had been meticulous and detailed, listing the transgression – insubordination and disrespect towards either Denethor or in many cases, Boromir and laziness. The implied transgressions against Boromir bewildered him. Faramir adored his brother too much for that surely. There were mentions of requests for additional rations, disagreements on tactics, all events that any commander would have considered normal from a senior officer. And the punishments themselves were in equally horrific detail – the number of strikes and the implements, even so far as to where Faramir was struck – largely his back, in some cases his buttocks or stomach, and a few cases his chest or groin. The implements ranged from a cane to riding crops to multiple types of whips.

He thought of how shy Faramir was, and how it might have felt for him to be hauled over the table clad in merely his underpants.

It was unsurprising that the younger man’s body was so scarred, and that he yet seemed unhealed from all he had endured.

He stared worriedly down at Boromir’s face, the strained countenance still troubled even in sleep, the fingers wound tightly around his nightshirt. It seemed to him Boromir would need to be seen to too.

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