Faramir Fiction Archive

Silent Struggle (PG-13)

Written by Kissa

18 October 2006 | 1333 words

Title: Silent Struggle
Author: Kissa
Beta by the wonderfully sweet Laurёloté
Pairing: Denethor/Faramir (sort of)
Rating: PG-13 for incestuous thoughts
Warnings: chan, fluff.
Author’s notes: I thought I’d bring a bit of humanity in the Steward’s persona. It would be too easy to think of Denethor as only the abusive beast… but much about the nature of the Steward’s relationship with his second son was obscured in the movies. It made me wonder why Denethor would be so bitter against his grown up son. And I cannot believe he could remain stoned against a small, cute Faramir. This is a tale of misused protective feelings and it depicts a father’s struggle to always do the right thing, torn between love for his progeny and duty to his realm.
Summary: Faramir has a will of his own and refuses the pre-assigned role of default political princess. He will NOT wed for Gondor!

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Silent Struggle

1

“Father, why can’t princesses go to war too?” the child asked, shifting on his father’s knees and shaking his head, adorned with plump auburn curls.

The older man looked at his youngest child with something between pity and exasperation.

“Because, Faramir dearest, princesses stay at home and watch over the kingdom while the princes are away fighting to defend the realm.”

The little one pouted and made a “pffff” sound.

“But I don’t want to marry some stranger! Why can’t I be like Boromir?”

“Because Boromir is older, stronger, and fit to be a warrior. You’re small and pretty and not cut out to wield a sword and sleep in stinky stables. But you can still do a great difference for Gondor, as many will offer their allegiance for the chance of marrying you.”

The child sniffled at first and Denethor clumsily pulled him to his chest, but little Faramir protested and broke away, sliding off his father’s lap.

The lace lining on the small pink tunic tore off when Faramir jerked himself away from his father.

“You don’t love me!” He cried, the accusation biting into the Steward’s heart like a whip.

“I do love you, Faramir! But it is decided. You will not do what you wish, you will do what is best for Gondor. We all know where our allegiance lies. Why can’t you be more like Boromir? He knows what his duty is!”

“But I don’t want to be a girl! I want to go to war and fight!” Faramir pressed further, the pout reigning supreme on his little face.

“Faramir… I’m warning you. You’re being an insufferable little brat and no son of mine will be a brat, understand?” Denethor scowled.

With a light swat to the little one’s butt, he sent him off to the maids, to have his damaged outfit replaced.

“Have them fix your tunic and until they do, tell them to give you a new one!” He raised his voice as the child had already stepped outside, into the corridor.

Seeing the five-year old leave, Denethor let himself slump back into the chair. He loved his little Faramir so much! Maybe more than would have been appropriate, since the little one was such a beautiful reminder of his late beloved wife. He knew he was probably wrong to want to protect Faramir like the precious egg of an extinct bird, but he could not afford losing him. It was why he had decided that Faramir would be raised away from all that might harm him.

And he had to admit it, his youngest son’s ethereal and frail beauty was most fortunately highlighted by the velvet and silks he was dressed in.

2

“I am joining the Rangers in Ithilien and there’s nothing you can do or say to stop me!” Faramir said calmly, expecting a storm of cries and angry roars from his father, along with a lecture about duty and allegiance.

Denethor sighed. It wasn’t the best solution ever, but at least Faramir would be kept safe by the older Rangers and well away from him. He would not get any rest thinking his son was wielding weapons and fighting orcs, but at least his unfatherly urges would not have an opportunity to thrive.

For Faramir, now aged 15, had grown into a beautiful being. Denethor would often watch him change clothes or go swimming, amazed at how well the young one’s elven heritage had mixed with the mortal blood, making him the best of both worlds. Smooth, shimmering skin over long, elegant and delicately muscled limbs, eyes that could indeed read into men’s hearts and hair richer and more scintillating than any woman’s, it all came together into a picture which never failed to enrapture the Steward.

He loved both his sons, but Boromir was more like him, whereas Faramir was more like Finduilas. He did not fear for Boromir, who had proven more than once he could very well fend for himself. He liked his oldest son’s aggressive nature, which made him fearless in battle, and his all-encompassing raw energy. Boromir was manly and strong, every woman in Gondor sighing in secret to wrap her legs around those narrow hips… He reminded his father of his own youthful adventures, and Denethor often fell asleep grinning, hearing the roars and screams inherent to his first son’s trysts coming from the rooms beneath his.

Faramir had spent all his life amongst women, and he had had tutors brought in to teach him everything. Only recently had Denethor found out Faramir had hired the archery master to teach him… and his elven heritage had helped him catch on very quickly. Denethor had had to admit Faramir was a better archer than Boromir, and even than himself. But he had never said it, not wanting to encourage Faramir too much… He had known all along his youngest son would not accept the girl’s role without question, and archery wasn’t a whim, so Denethor had come to terms with it. Things could have been worse, he had thought.

He was happy that the young boy, although at an awkward age, was controlling himself very well, and none of the embarrassing occurences that came along with one’s passage towards adulthood had managed to put Faramir in delicate situations.

It hadn’t been long before Denethor had realized his youngest son was ever present in his thoughts. Recently though, he would stroke his son’s hair and let his hand linger a while, buried in the silky curtain, touching the warm skin beneath. He would come to Faramir’s rooms in the evening and help him remove the layers of luxurious fabric, feasting his eyes on the flawless ivory flesh which was bared before him. He did not like the nature of the feelings rising from the depths of his bitter heart.

But Faramir did not even pay attention to people around him who were explicitly ogling and drooling at him. He did not even seem aware of the fact that he had a sexuality and did not have his attention on it at all… which pleased the Steward very much. He liked knowing his son sheltered from the world’s corruption.

3

On the morning when Faramir rode out to Ithilien, Denethor watched him go, a feeling of loss mingling with relief in his heart. Faramir had shed the silks and lace in favor of the rough Ranger garb, but he still shone, even in the green uniform. Faramir made the shabby outfit look appealing.

“I shall prove to you that you have two sons to be proud of, not only one… and that there is not just one use to me.” Faramir had said before leaving.

Denethor had struggled to keep his composure and not cry in front of his son. He’d realized that, despite their arguments and underneath Faramir’s opposition to his long-term plans, his son loved and esteemed him.

Little did the Steward know that the shadow rising from Mordor would taint everything it touched, and Faramir would be forever lost to him.

END!

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