Faramir Fiction Archive

Tales of the Late Third Age (R)

Written by Susana

03 September 2011 | 7677 words

Title: The Malaise
Series: DH AU/Tales of the Late Third Age
Author: Susana
Feedback: Please use the form below.
Warning: AU; Very Dark themes. Please don’t read if implied cruelty towards a child will offend you.
Disclaimer: All characters and everything else belong to Tolkien.
Summary: A little bit of background on Faramir’s best friend in the DH AU, Dervorin, son of Morvirin, an heir of the Ringlo Vale.
Beta: None, but many thanks to Minnie, Emma, and Kaylee for reading over when I asked.
A/N: Takes place between T.A. 2985, Dervorin and Faramir’s birth year in the DH AU, and some years after the Ring War.

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The Malaise

“I am old enough to know that victory is often a thing deferred, and rarely at the summit of courage. What is at the summit of courage, I think, is freedom. The freedom that comes with the knowledge that no earthly thing can break you.” – Paula Giddings

He never knew what caused it. Never. He would be fine for weeks, months, years, and then…something would happen, and he would feel frozen inside. Couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t eat, couldn’t drink. He did move and speak, because he had to. But he wasn’t really present, not all the way. As a young page, he would move like a ghost through the Citadel, delivering messages as directed, but taking hours sometimes. He would feel tired, and sit down, and hours would pass before he moved, even though he did not sleep. He couldn’t care enough to do his homework, even though he normally had a number of different games he played with Faramir, that made even the most boring assignments for their most snobbish tutors tolerable. They were still doing their assigned work to a high standard…and most of their tutors were not clever enough to pick up on the fact that every third letter in every tenth line spelled out an insulting commentary on the tutor’s personal hygiene. But when he felt frozen, he didn’t do his homework, or only did it part way, and didn’t play any games. The Castellan and their tutors would get angry, but Lord Denethor wouldn’t let them punish Dervorin. The Steward’s stern, strong features would become reluctantly sympathetic, and he would send for his Treasurer, and tell Morvirin that his son was sick.

Then Dev’s father would report to his tutors and armsmasters and the Castellan that his son was sick, and take him home for a few days, or weeks, or even months. Until the malaise passed. Sometimes his father was kind, but Lord Morvirin was not a well man, had not been since his right leg was crippled at the Battle to win back Osgiliath, not long after Lord Denethor first became Steward. Lord Morvirin would drink, and consume odd drugs purchased from those few traders who still dealt with the Haradrim. When Morvirin drank, he would curse at Dev, call him weak and ungrateful. And when he took drugs, he would beat his son. Sometimes Dev pretended to get better, and went back with the malaise still making him frozen inside, just trying to play at being better until he was better. Faramir would help then, kind gray eyes alert and sympathetic. He would charm the cooks into making Dervorin’s favorite foods, wheedle their tutors into discussing subjects he knew particularly interested Dev, and help Dev with his page duties, making everything into a game. Faramir would show him hidden parts of the Citadel, and sometimes the two of them would spend hours, even days, hiding in the abandoned royal wing. Faramir knew how to get in, and he said the old Kings wouldn’t mind that two boys hid there, until life seemed a bit more bearable. The old, abandoned royal rooms were dusty, but somehow still seemed welcoming. It was a pleasant respite.

Faramir would stand between Dev and their overly harsh armsmasters in those days, when Dev wasn’t feeling well, until Boromir found out about how little the armsmasters Denethor had hired cared about hurting their students. Then Boromir arranged for one of his Academy commanders to come to the Citadel for lunch with his father the Steward. Boromir had timed that visit so that he and his commander were just in time to see one of Dervorin and Faramir’s “lessons.” Captain the Lord Tyorvond had immediately admitted his slender nephew and the Steward’s second son into the academy as day students. The old campaigner, much trusted by the Lord Steward, had figured that the academy would be safer for them than being trained by idiots who thought nothing of flying at hesitating eight year olds with unblunted broad swords. And it was safer.

The academy was better, and after Dev’s father was banished was better still. No one beat Dev, or cursed at him anymore. Anyone who tried, Uncle Tyorvond, cousin Gendarion, or Boromir dealt with, quickly. But Dev sometimes still had times where he would feel frozen inside, sick to his stomach and bad, without knowing why. Faramir’s creativity was tested, when they were at the academy together. But Dev’s best friend managed to come up with plausible illnesses for Dev to have come down with, every time. Plausible enough to fool even his Uncle Ty. The Lords of the Ringlo Vale and the Ciril Vale, Dev’s family lines, were both known to be impure. They were Númenorean, yes, but they were also related to the darker-skinned native peoples of Gondor, and the pale-skinned foreigners who had followed King Valacar’s wife Vidumavi from her northern country. And so far as Tyorvond could remember, his only nephew Dervorin had been a sickly lad. Tyorvond was by and large pleased that the boy managed to keep up in his lessons and training, despite his many illnesses. And grateful, that Faramir and Boromir and their friends helped Dev, to stay caught up.

But Faramir couldn’t fool everyone. One of the veterans at the academy who taught strategy, looked at Dev on one of his bad days, and pulled Faramir aside. “Eleven years old, and he suffers from battle sickness already?” The old soldier had asked the Steward’s younger son, sympathetic but worried. Battle-sick soldiers could make mistakes, at the worst times. Not a good person to have at Denethor’s younger boy’s back, even if the Steward wasn’t fond of the child. Faramir was still their ruler’s spare heir.

Faramir had shrugged, “Dev’s always been like this, since I’ve known him.” The young cadet had explained, “but he holds it together, when he needs to. He’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

And so Dervorin was, Trainee Soldier, then Ranger, then Lieutenant and spy. He even saved Faramir’s life a number of times, though the one that stood out was the first time that they were captured. Alone, Faramir said he would have broken. Dev doubted that, but there was no doubt that he had been able to help. Despite the pain of the torture, he’d made jokes…one that made Faramir remember an Easterling who owed the Steward’s son a favor. The torture was horrible, but…some part of Dev remembered that he’d once survive something worse. And it protected him. Though he would fall apart just as bad as Fara, after.

The Malaise would creep up on him, sometimes, at Henneth Annûn, but mostly he was too busy to be distracted by it, and that helped. He never let it take him when he was spying, though there was once he came very close. They had been meeting with two merchants from Umbar, and one of them smelled strange. A sickly sweet smell that turned Dev’s stomach, and made him terribly afraid, though he could not think why. An unnamed horror loomed out of the hidden recesses of his mind, but Dev couldn’t see the shape of the fear, this overwhelming terror that was the root of the malaise. But Faramir was there that day, thank Eru. Faramir kept the flow of the meeting going when Dev faltered, made up an excuse about questionable fish at lunch, and got them out of there alive, with the information they’d come for, and two new contacts in the form of the merchants. Then Faramir got Dev very, very drunk, and left him at Sayyida’s. When Dev awoke, he thought he’d dreamt of Faramir and Sayyida, having an in-depth conversation about him and the malaise, and Sayyida weeping on his best friend’s shoulder. But Faramir said that all was well, and Sayyida was as inscrutable as an elf when she didn’t want to explain something. Then Faramir sent Dev on leave to Dol Amroth, and Prince Imrahil took him to the apprentice of an old Healer friend of Prince Adrahil’s, who taught Dev meditation, and other tricks, that helped. Ways to turn away the malaise, when it came upon him unawares.

Years later, talking with Sayyida, after he’d stopped even looking for the cause, Dervorin found the reason for the malaise. It was a bad night, and day, and on and off there were a few bad weeks. But the malaise never hit him as hard, again. He knew what it was, its name and cause. He might never have a face. Sayyida told him that was normal, not to see the face. Knowing what it was, speaking its name to Faramir, and its cause to Fara and Sayyida, gave Dev power over the malaise, or perhaps just reduced the malaise from an unfightable nightmare, into what it was. Something very, very bad, that had happened to Dev, long, long ago.

When he met Ethiron, it had been years since he’d had a real attack of the malaise. Then Dev had a few, in the year after the Ring War. So many kinsmen and friends dead, and gone, and so much sorrow, and stress, in the wake of the Ring War, and in consolidating Gondor’s security, with their human enemies weakened but not defeated. Ethiron made Dev see a mind-healer, the new King’s foster-brother Elladan. Dev didn’t bother to tell Ethiron he’d already seen one – it wasn’t any of his bossy new commander’s business, curse it. But Elladan helped Dev, even more. And Elladan was helping Faramir, as well, even though Faramir didn’t seem aware of it. That was the first time Dev ever kept a secret from Faramir, but Faramir, once he’d figured Elladan out, was grateful for the help, and did not resent Dev, for his discretion. Faramir was fair, like that.

Dervorin would still go speak with Elladan, from time to time, in the years that followed. Not regularly, but when he smelled the sickly sweet smell of the exotic spice ilhen, the scent his fear had worn. He hardly ever had an attack of the malaise, although when its pale, weak shade darkened his eyes with remembered sorrow, in those later years, he was still prone to be reckless, or lash out. During those times, his father of the heart would wait to spank him, no matter what kind of fear or insult Dev had given Ethiron, acting out of pain. Ethiron would tempt Dev’s reluctant appetite with his favorite foods, and keep him warm, and gently amuse him, until Dev felt better. After a few days of better, and depending on how much Dev had worried his mentor (Ethiron hardly ever cared about having been insulted, if Dev had had that kind of a bad day), Dev would find himself over Ethiron’s knee, for a stern but not cruel reminder to say “I’m having a bad day, perhaps we should send a lieutenant,” rather than going out on duty himself, without mentioning how he was feeling.

Early on in their working relationship, Dev had shocked himself by just telling Ethiron, about the malaise. What it was, and why. Not the first time it came after the war, but…when he realized that he trusted the older man. Almost more than he trusted anyone but Fara.

And it was Fara, who was even more shocked that Dervorin had trusted Ethiron. Shocked, and worried and protective enough that he and Dev got into a fight about it. Not a major fight, but enough to disrupt a hunting trip and get both of them in hot water. That was when Dev realized, again, that Faramir was at least as protective of him, as he was of Faramir.

Dervorin didn’t know that the King knew of it, not until many years later. Or that the King would care. But Aragorn just gave him that gentle look of affectionate exasperation, the one that was so often reserved for Faramir or one of his younger children, and said, “You are the heart-brother of my son. Of course I care, you foolish youth.” And Aragorn said those words in the sunny long gallery of the King’s House, where once, many years ago, Dervorin and Faramir had hidden for a few hours stolen play time. And Dervorin knew, then, that the old Kings truly would not have begrudged two young boys a refuge. More, that this King wished very dearly that he had been able to do even more. But Faramir and Dervorin both had been born in a desperate hour, when the King had been far away, fighting his own battles in the North, and in stranger lands.

Title: Messages from the Wizard’s Apprentice
Series: Tales of the Late Third Age
Author: Susana
Feedback: Please use the form below.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: None. Just a brief conversation between a Captain General and a Wizard.
Disclaimer: All characters and everything else belong to Tolkien. Summary: If you befriend one of the brothers Hurin, in time you end up the friend of the other as well. And it wasn’t always Faramir running Boromir’s errands.
Beta: None, but thanks to KC and FC for reviewing earlier drafts.

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Messages from the Wizard’s Apprentice

Gandalf the Gray sighed as his sleeve became adhered yet again to the dried mead on the bar. At least the ale was decent.

“Sorry for the wait, Mithrandir.” Lord Boromir, the relatively new Captain-General of Gondor’s Armies, apologized sincerely, if not profusely. The sullen bartender perked up at the sight of Denethor’s heir, who apparently frequented this establishment. Boromir took a seat beside the Wizard and grinned at the Barkeep, who brought him his usual drink without prompting.

“I usually meet your brother in the archives, son of Denethor.” The Wizard observed dryly. “There I can spend my time waiting profitably at least.”

Boromir shook his head. “My adar Lord Denethor has several men who report to him on the chief archivist’s staff, and I cannot afford the breach between him and I that Faramir willingly courts for you.”

“Ah.” The Wizard observed. “It is true that no one would think to look for me here. Where is your brother? He sent a message through Radagast that he had something for me.”

“Faramir couldn’t be here, he’s been made Captain of the Rangers in Ithilien.” Boromir explained, drinking thirstily. The young Lord looked to have just arrived from patrol, having taken the time to shed his armor but not to change clothes.

“Faramir? A captain already, so young?” The wizard commented, somewhat surprised.

His brother shrugged, “Fara is very clever, and quite good at being sneaky as well, for someone who prefers honesty. The effectiveness of the Ithilien rangers, and their rate of survival, has increased nearly two fold since the officers began implementing his suggestions. And that is despite increasing pressure on the borders from Mordor and Sauron’s allies. Father would do Faramir no special favors, but when both of the older captains next up for promotion with Ithilien experience, and Ithilien’s senior lieutenants, recommended Fara be promoted above them, so as to formalize the authority the senior Ithilien lieutenants had already granted him in fact, even Father ran out of objections.”

“Hmm.” The wizard commented, noting how Boromir, while clearly disapproving of Denethor’s attitude toward his younger brother, was careful not to openly criticize the Steward.

“Fara asked me to give you the information the Rangers have gained about several of the routes into and out of Mordor, and about the status of Sauron’s allegiances with the Haradrim and Easterlings.” Boromir said, handing the Wizard a leather satchel with about a thumb’s worth of papers inside.

Gandalf looked quickly over the coded notes in his old pupil’s handwriting, eyes widening. “How are they learning of dissension between the Haradrim and Sauron’s agents?”

Boromir grimaced, appearing a strange combination of proud and nauseated. “Fara and a friend of his have set up an informal network of informants.”

Gandalf, mentally reviewing the information contained in the notes, and how specific that information was as to the motivations, fears, and desires of some of those Haradrim commanders, and agents of Sauron, blanched. “Faramir is going among them, isn’t he? Does your stubborn fool of a brother have any idea how dangerous that is, should he be discovered?”

Boromir sighed deeply, and motioned the bar keep for another round of drinks.

“He does, Wizard.” Boromir explained grimly. “He was captured by them when a young lieutenant, and, though tortured, managed to convince them that he was a merchant in the service of an Easterling Lord, one whose loyalty he had won by speaking up for the man’s innocence when that merchant was accused of a crime whilst visitng Dol Amroth when we were children.” Boromir quickly drank his beer, hoping to banish the memory of his little brother at the mercy of Haradrim soldiers.

The Wizard snorted, and took a fortifying sip of the Gondorian ale Boromir had orderd for him. “I see, and this being Faramir, decided that since his story and bona fides had been established, it would be a waste not to continue using the identity.”

Boromir nodded regretfully. “Bought and paid for, said Faramir. Might as well not waste the gift, my manipulative baby brother insisted.”

Gandalf remarked mildly “Your brother’s antics, now that he has been set loose on the world, remind of an old elven saying about genius, that it means, first, a transcendent capacity for making trouble.”¹ Gandalf had always wondered if the elven seer who had coined that particular saying had done so after experiencing a premonition about the later existence of the Lord Elrond’s twin sons.

The older son of Denethor laughed loud and long. “In faith, Wizard, I think I may come to like you. You are one of the only people in the world who truly understands my troublesome, wonderful brother, and I thank you.”

Before they parted, Boromir gave to Gandalf the address of a mistress Nessanie on the third level of the city, explaining “Nessa can reach me, if you need to get in touch. She can reach Faramir, as well, and its best my Father doesn’t know we are still your friends.”

Though pleased to have the once-distant Boromir refer to them as friends, Gandalf still felt it his responsibility to chide the young human Lord. “Boromir,” the Wizard said sternly, “You are your father’s heir, meant to rule as Steward after him someday. You need a wife, not a mistress.”

Boromir’s face darkened. He glared at the Wizard for a moment, before his eyes softened as he explained. “She would be my wife if my father would agree. I’ll change his mind, given time, I think.”

As he rode away from Minas Tirith, Gandalf reflected sadly that Faramir perhaps knew their father better than Boromir, for all that the greater affection lay between the father and the eldest son.

¹ Paraphrased from Thomas Carlyle, Life of Fredrick the Great, Bk. IV, ch. 3 (1858–1865)

Title: The Ithilien Ranger on Leave
Series: Tales of the Late Third Age
Author: Susana
Feedback: Please use the form below.
Rating: PG-13 to be safe
Warning: None, really.
Disclaimer: All characters and everything else recognizable belong to Tolkien.
Summary: Young Captain Boromir was wounded in a skirmish, and the Lord Steward Denethor has summoned his second son home from Ithlilien, to keep his brother company as he heals.
Beta: None, but thanks to KC and FC for reviewing earlier drafts.
A/N: Faramir has just turned 17, and Boromir is 22. Times are changing…

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The Ithilien Ranger on Leave

“He is your mirror, shining back at you with a world of possibilities. He is your witness, who sees you at your worst and best, and loves you anyway. He is your partner in crime, your midnight companion, someone who knows when you are smiling, even in the dark. He is your teacher, your defense attorney, your personal press agent, even your shrink. Some days, he’s the reason you wish you were an only child.” – [paraphrased from a quote by Barbara Alper]

“If you push your recovery, you donkey, you may not regain full use of your knee.” Faramir reprimanded his brother, quiet for all he was concerned and frustrated.

Faramir almost never raised his voice. Boromir would rage at great volume when overset, but not his kit. No, when Boromir’s baby brother, newly minted a ranger only last spring, became frustrated and intense, his voice went even softer. But it had a new seriousness to it, as well – quiet thunder. Faramir was growing up, changing so fast, Boromir noted absently. The younger of Denethor’s two sons had always been a slender whippet of a thing, but now he was growing tall, and corded muscle ran over his thin body. His newly grown red-gold mustache must be a challenge to keep so neat in the wilds of Ithilien, but somehow, Faramir had managed. Boromir tried to restrain his jealousy. His own hair, a paler gold, lent itself less well to the neat manly display of facial hair that was popular amongst Gondor’s young lords. Then Boromir registered what his brat of a brother had just said, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Pot calling kettle black, little brother.” Boromir scolded in disapproval, then aborted his lecture in favor of an undignified groan at a spasm from his injured, over-strained leg. Accursed newly trained horse – if only his mount had not thrown a shoe prior to his last engagement! The horse HE had trained would never have shied thusly at a snapping warg, and the injury would have been avoided.

“Aye, I know.” Faramir grinned in self-deprecating agreement, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. The new ranger’s hands were gentle as he massaged Boromir’s healing leg. “But I would be a poor brother if I let you contend with this alone.”

“You must be returning soon, to Ithilien.” Boromir noted regretfully. “I like not having you posted somewhere so dangerous, and so far away. But even I must admit you are a boon to them. And that it has been good for you, to have been stationed so long in one place that folk get to know you well enough to listen to you. You take some getting used to, Fara.”

“So I have been told.” The younger soldier drawled, amused, before reluctantly agreeing “I shall be returning soon, I must leave in but a few minutes to check on the new recruits and Rangers returning from leave who are to accompany me back to Henneth Annûn. Winter is coming, and there are a few things I’ve read of these past few weeks, keeping you company, that I’d like to put to Captain Andacar, and see if we can perhaps get into place before our movements are confined by weather.”

Boromir hid a smile at the casual way his brother, only months out of the academy, spoke of sitting down with his captain, then frowned a little. It was good that the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers was listening to Faramir, but that was a lot of responsibility to put on a young soldier, still learning the ropes.

“Don’t worry, Brom.” Faramir reassured, seeing his brother’s frown and guessing wrongly as to its cause. “I’ve asked Father to watch out for you, since I will be gone.”

“What?” Boromir asked, in shock. ‘Don’t tell Father,’ was an unwritten rule of the two brothers’ lives. That Faramir had broken it shocked his elder brother.

“He loves you, Brom.” Faramir explained softly, helping his brother to a settee to lay down. “He will make sure you do not push your recovery, and that you are not posted back to your regiment until you are ready.”

“He loves you too.” Boromir protested, wanting to recognize the act of love from Faramir that going to Denethor must have been. “He just can’t look at you without seeing what he lost when Mother died.”

“I know.” Faramir said softly, meeting Boromir’s eyes though he wanted nothing more than to look away. “I’ve always known, I can’t help it.”

“Things have gotten better since you finished training, between you and Ada.” Boromir commented, wanting desperately for his father and brother, both of whom he loved so dearly, to have the comfort of eachother’s affection.

“Better, yes. But only in that he recognizes I am doing my best, to have finished so high in my class at the academy, and to have been posted as a ranger. The best I fear we’re ever going to be able to be, father and I, is respectful strangers.”

Boromir, knowing this was truth even as he wished with all his heart it was not, nodded painfully. “You deserve better, Faramir.” He said finally. “I am more sorry than I can say, that I cannot fix it.”

Faramir grasped his brother’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. “It is not your fault, nor was it your problem to fix. We were both children, you and I, when this pattern was set. I know Father never really recovered from the grief of mother’s illness and death. But still, father was the adult, and the responsibility was his. But other responsibilities were also his, including being Gondor’s leader in this dark time. If he must hate me to do that job, I can accept it. Our father is a dutiful leader. If he must accept me to lead Gondor, he will. We will all keep doing our best, and maybe someday, there may be something greater between us than duty and grudging respect.”

Both brothers were silent for a moment, in gratitude that the friendship between them was strong enough to bear even the most terrible of truths. Glad that their mother had gifted them both a sibling with whom to share the burdens of being the Lord Steward Denethor’s son, in this desperate time.

“I am grateful that I may return to Ithilien, confident Father shall oversee your recovery.” Faramir said in parting. “Though I ask you to note, I would not have mentioned this to Father had there been reason for confidence that you would be a good patient.” Faramir added with a grin.

Boromir glared at his brother mildly, wishing that their lives were different, such that he, in a corresponding circumstance, could have safely left Faramir in their father’s care.

“Have a care in Ithilien, Fara.” Boromir warned instead, clasping his brother’s arm in a warrior’s greeting, and farewell.

Faramir gave him a much-loved, familiar grin. Boromir grinned back, though he was slightly unsettled by how his baby brother’s rueful smile, the same expression he’d loved for years, was strangely different in Faramir’s newly matured face. Reading the concern but not the reason, Faramir gave him a salute, ranger to Captain, which Boromir returned instinctively.

As Faramir left, his older Boromir pondered when his baby brother had found the time to do so much growing up, in just a few seasons. During Boromir’s recovery these past few weeks, Faramir had seemed more a comrade-in-arms than a pain-in-the-rear tagalong, and where would that lead?

At least Faramir’s trouble-finding friend Dervorin had not been posted to Ithilien, nor would he probably qualify for ranger training for several years, to the unqualified relief of Boromir and of Boromir’s good friend, Dev’s cousin, Lieutenant Gendarion. Fara and Dev found more trouble together….and Boromir was worried enough over his brother as it was. Faramir was an exceptional archer, hunter, and tracker, and as proud as Boromir was of his baby brother’s skills and growing maturity, he worried over Faramir as many a man might worry over a son, despite the scant five years between their ages.

Title: He’s Four
Author: Susana
Series: Desperate Hours
Feedback: Please use the form below
Warning: AU
Disclaimer: All recognizable elements are Tolkien’s
Summary: A young Faramir uses his powers unwisely.
Beta: None, all mistakes are mine.

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He’s four

Healer Del looked from the pail of blackberries, to the poison-ivy and insect bite covered soldiers, and at last to the irritated child he’d just had to treat for poison ivy and bee stings.

“So,” Del started, “You went to pick blackberries, despite knowing the hazards of that particular bramble, because…”

The shame-faced sergeant explained, “Because they’re Lady Finduilas’ favorite, and this is the end of the season. That bramble is the only place where there are any berries left.”

“Unbelievable.” Del muttered, “Simply unbelievable. If Faramir had an allergy to bee stings, he’d be dead. No question. He still is one very sick little boy, and you idiots aren’t too well off, either. Your private IS allergic to bees, and you’re just lucky he didn’t get stung.”

The sergeant winced, and the private protested vociferously, “But Lord Faramir said…”

Del stopped listening at that point. He didn’t care what Faramir had said. He waited for the soldier to stop talking, and then responded in his quiet but intent voice, “It doesn’t matter to me what Lord Faramir said; it won’t matter to your captain, and it shouldn’t have mattered to the two of you, either. Look at him,” Del pointed to Faramir, who was angelically sleeping, “He’s four years old. Four.”

The sergeant sighed, “He was very eloquent.”

“You’ve both been treated; get out of my hall.” Del ordered, adding, “Your Captain is waiting for you.”

Del waited for them to leave, and then contemplated the child on the bed. He wished he could just turn the good-hearted but dangerously capable and charming little imp over to his father. Faramir’s mother was sick, but his father was healthy enough…in body. Unfortunately the situation was as it was, and the only one who really looked out after this child was…

“He’s a clever kit, but he is SUCH an idiot.” A frustrated and affectionate but still carefully modulated voice noted from just behind Del.

“I know, Lord Boromir.” Del agreed with the nine year old heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, “I know.”

“Mama said to spank him, when he’s well. But he seems too miserable now…” Boromir noted sadly, stroking the sleeping Faramir’s red-gold hair.

“We’ll see how he’s doing tomorrow afternoon.” Del said gently, placing a supportive hand on Boromir’s shoulder. Such strong shoulders, for a nine year old. Such slender and young shoulders, to be his brother’s keeper.

Title: A Bit of Fun
Author: Susana
Series: Desperate Hours
Feedback: Please use the form below
Warning: AU; spanking
Disclaimer: All recognizable elements are Tolkien’s
Summary: A teenaged Faramir and his friend decide to have a bit of fun, near the end of their time as academy trainees.
Beta: None, all mistakes are mine.

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“‘Twas just a bit of fun,” Boromir repeated incredulously as he pulled on his friend Gendarion’s spare leggings, torn between embarrassment, anger, and…well, laughter.

“‘Twas just a bit of fun indeed. What were they thinking?!?” The twenty year old Lord Steward’s heir demanded of his friend and fellow officer, “Just because their training exercise is over, doesn’t mean they can get away with something like this!”

Gendarion bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Well, the sight of you coming downstairs in your…ah, friend’s chemise, after they removed your clothes from her room…it was rather funny. And it was just us still here at that point, waiting for you, so no one else saw. But no, you really can’t let them get away with it.”

Gendarion had been surprised that sixteen year old Dervorin and fifteen year old Faramir had elected to stay up in the common room of the inn, waiting with Boromir’s friends for Boromir’s return from the bedroom of a pretty barmaid, rather than retiring at a decent hour to sleep as Faramir, at least, usually would. But even Boromir’s friends had had to agree that the sight of their very young Captain, naked but for a lacy garment slung across his muscular waist, had been well worth waiting for.

“I’m going to kill my…clever little fox of a brother, especially if he’s still laughing like a hyena when we get downstairs.” Boromir promised darkly, putting on Gendarion’s spare tunic.

“I’ll deal with my cousin Dev,” Gendarion offered, “It was probably his idea, anyway.”

Boromir growled, agreeing, “My brother is never so much of a pain as when he is with your little cousin. But…” Boromir sighed, and wrestled his temper under control, “It was funny, and…I am glad that they are friends, Gendan, even with the trouble Dev lures Fara into, as I know Dev will always have his back.” Boromir straightened his borrowed clothing and checked his appearance in the old, dingy mirror of the small room. “But I am going to have to see that they both learn a lesson…this just isn’t an acceptable way for trainees to treat officers.”

Gendarion nodded, and the two assumed very somber, grim expressions and walked down the stairs. Their friends and fellow officers Tavisond and Galdoron suppressed careful grins as Faramir and Dervorin paled.

“It was my idea,” Faramir and Dervorin said at the same time.

Boromir couldn’t completely hide a smile, though he kept himself from laughing. “I’m sure it was.” He told both of them, “And I’m sure you both know,” Boromir lectured, his smile disappearing, “that it was disgraceful behavior from two young men who expect to soon become soldiers of Gondor.”

Faramir blushed, and Boromir knew that his baby brother was ashamed of himself, because he knew Faramir. Dervorin didn’t blush, and didn’t seem particularly sorry, but Boromir knew that he had trouble reading Dev…pretty much everyone did, except Faramir.

“It…it was just a bit of fun, Brom.” Faramir said quietly, “I’m sorry, I know we shouldn’t have. Um, here’s your clothes, and boots, and purse, back.”

“No, you must certainly shouldn’t have.” Boromir lectured the two of them sternly, walking towards Faramir as Tavisond collected his belongings from Boromir’s uncharacteristically naughty younger brother.

As Boromir’s pinching, borrowed boots made a “thwik” sound on the sticky tavern floor, a clever idea occurred to him. Boromir smiled, a smile that Faramir knew to be wary of, and patted his younger brother on the shoulder. “However, I am not so full of myself that I cannot take ‘a bit of fun’ in good part, Faramir. The punishment for this level of disrespect to a senior officer from a trainee would normally be a birching in full view of your classmates, and promising lads have been dismissed for less.”

Faramir swallowed, and nodded. Dervorin looked abashed as well, but Boromir thought it likely Dev was just pretending to feel ashamed and penitent because he thought that he should. Besides, Boromir would never dismiss a trainee for a prank that had only been embarrassing and not dangerous, not unless forced to it by political necessity. And no one even knew of this one, save Boromir and his closest friends.

Boromir squeezed his brother’s shoulder reassuringly, “However, since as of yesterday our training mission was officially over…I am going to deal with this as Faramir’s elder brother, rather than Faramir’s senior officer.” He ruffled Faramir’s hair, “Come, little idiot.” Boromir commanded to his brother, then, “You too, menace.” He amended, including Dervorin.

Faramir and Dervorin reluctantly followed Boromir to his room. Gendarion followed behind them, smacking his younger cousin Dervorin’s head lightly, “Foolish imp.”

Dervorin yelped, though it had not been a hard blow. “Oww. No hitting.”

Gendarion rolled his eyes, and Boromir chuckled, waiting for the door to close, before sobering and beginning to lecture again. “After training was officially over or not, this was not acceptable, Fara, Dev.”

Faramir swallowed nervously, wishing he’d never let Lothiriel and Amrothos convince him that humiliating his older brother and calling attention to Boromir’s scandalous habits would be a good idea. “We…we know, Boromir. We’re sorry. Ah…”

“I’m not going to tell Adar,” Boromir reassured his brother, “Or even the academy commandant.”

Dev made a quiet noise, and Boromir and Gendarion exchanged a look. Boromir nodded, and then added, “And Lord Tyorvond your uncle need not be informed, either, Dervorin.”

Dervorin didn’t relax visibly, but Faramir did. Boromir gave the two miscreants a half-sympathetic grin, despite their outrageous offense against him, “Now. For the first part of your punishment – leggings down, both of you, and over the table.”

Faramir and Dervorin exchanged a quick look but didn’t hesitate to obey.

Boromir patted his brother’s white bottom affectionately,half-regretful for the paddling he was about to deliver, and half-feeling that it was well-earned, this time, “‘Twill be an unpleasant ride for you tomorrow, Fara.” Boromir warned, “Remember this, the next time that you are minded to express your disapproval of my womanizing in such an inappropriate fashion.”

With that, Boromir brought a thin wooden paddle down firmly on his brother’s bottom, aware of Gendarion delivering a like lesson with a large wooden spoon to Dervorin just a few feet away. Dervorin yelped and danced, and Gendarion had to reprimand him to keep still.

Faramir held as still as he could, an indrawn breath at Boromir’s first statement his only reaction beyond wincing, and clenching and unclenching his leg muscles as Boromir snapped the paddle down on his backside a handful of times.

Boromir paused after Faramir’s bottom had reached a rosy pink shade, and held up a hand for Gendarion to stop, as well.

“Ah?” Faramir gasped in surprise to have the paddling cut short.

Boromir grinned, taking a seat on the bed and pulling his baby brother over his lap. Faramir groaned, “Brom, I’m not…I’m not a child.”

Smacking his brother’s already heated bottom soundly with his calloused hand, Boromir advised, “Then don’t act like one.”

Faramir blushed, and tried to keep himself still and quiet. Soon enough, despite his best efforts, Faramir was yelping and squirming, embarrassed to be wriggling from the pain of a child’s punishment.

Boromir kept a careful watch on Faramir’s reactions. When his younger brother began showing his discomfort, he ruffled Faramir’s hair comfortingly with one hand, though he didn’t stop smacking Faramir’s reddening bottom. “I know it hurts, kit. ‘Tis allright to call out, it doesn’t make you weak. And I don’t mean to let you off lightly this time. I was amused by your funny little joke, baby brother, but stealing your brother’s- and senior officer’s- clothing to ‘have a bit of fun,’ or to teach him a lesson, whatever you were about, is just not acceptable.”

“Oww! Sorry!” Faramir yelped, tears in his eyes. Taking pity on his brother, Boromir ended the spanking with a last firm swat to each of Faramir’s sit spots, and pulled Faramir carefully into his lap.

“Little idiot.” Boromir said with affection still leavened with outrage. “Whatever were you thinking?” Lifting Faramir’s chin gently with one hand and keeping his other arm wrapped around his brother’s thin but muscular shoulders, Boromir’s grey-green met Faramir’s grey eyes, and waited.

Faramir, feeling much less mature than he had when he and his younger cousins and Dervorin had hatched this clever plan, sniffled and explained, “Well, it seems…disrespectful, I guess. The way you sleep around with so many different women…someone is bound to get mad about it someday, too.”

Boromir shook his head and tugged on a lock of Faramir’s hair, “You’re my baby brother, Fara, and my headache of a trainee for the previous week, not my father. What I do with attractive and willing women in my free time is my affair, and no concern of yours.”

Despite his burning bottom, Faramir protested, unhappy and worried, “But I don’t understand…and it doesn’t seem honorable!”

Boromir didn’t take offense; ‘twas an honest question, honestly asked. “I’m not always perfect, Fara.” He told his younger brother gently, “But I I have no marriage pre-contract with anyone, and I don’t force anyone into my bed, nor do I sleep with married women. Father’s ignoring it, Uncle Imrahil says he thinks I’m acting like an idiot but concedes that I am an adult, and that I could be an even bigger idiot.”

Faramir sniffled again, looking up uncertainly, “Uncle Imrahil didn’t say that.”

Boromir had to chuckle, “Well, he used bigger words. But that was about the gist of it. Still, it’s not honorable to steal one’s big brother’s clothing, and embarrass and upset the kind…friend, whose chemise he had to borrow, either, is it?”

Faramir blushed, “No, I….guess I wasn’t thinking of that. Well, I was thinking that you deserved it,” Faramir amended cheekily, “But you’re right, I owe your friend an apology.”

Boromir huffed a laugh, “Cheeky brat. From now on keep your commentary on my social life verbal and private, and I’ll not object overmuch if it’s impolite or none of your business. Deal?”

Faramir nodded, “Deal.” Faramir leaned against his brother for a moment more, before getting up with a hand from Boromir and righting his clothing. “What’s the rest of our punishment?” Faramir asked, resigned but not truly worried or upset. Boromir might have a sometimes lamentable sense of humor, but Faramir had confidence he would never be harmed by his brother.

Boromir put one hand on Faramir’s shoulder, and one on the shoulder of the red-eyed Dervorin, “Your punishment and your idiot friend’s for your affront against me and my friend shall be scrubbing the tavern floor first thing tomorrow morning, so that my friend doesn’t have to. It’s normally her duty, but two fine lads who have time and energy to plan such a funny prank undoubtedly have the energy to scrub a floor before we leave tomorrow morning.”

“I hate scrubbing floors.” Dervorin objected perfunctorily. Boromir shook his head at the teenager and Gendarion smacked his undoubtedly sore bottom. Dev jumped and yelped indignantly, then apologized.

Boromir shook his head as his good friend led Dervorin away. “When any sensible man would stay silent, why is it that Dev feels the need to speak?”

Faramir shrugged, looking to his brother with a rueful half-grin, “I don’t know. Sometimes he does it to distract attention from me. Maybe he’s just an idiot tonight. I should go and see..”

“Nay.” Boromir didn’t let Faramir finish saying whatever he’d been planning to do, “You can sleep here. Tomorrow’s soon enough to deal with arrangements for leaving – and I don’t mind staying until mid-morning so that you and Dev can take a bath after scrubbing that floor.”

Faramir nodded gratefully, and decided not to complain that Boromir’s new friend wasn’t the most meticulous of floor scrubbers.

“I can’t believe that you’re still playing juvenile pranks, and yet Adar is planning to send you to Ithilien next year.” Boromir complained to the darkness as they lay in bed.

Faramir stiffened in excitement from his spot beside his brother. Pulling himself onto his elbows (as sleeping on his back just wasn’t in the picture tonight), Faramir tried to control his happy anticipation as he asked, “Father has said yes, then?”

“He hasn’t, yet. But he’s going to. He’s proud of you, of course he is. And I’m proud of you, too. But…it’s so far away, Fara. We’ll see a lot less of you.” Boromir complained, one hand reaching out in the night to squeeze his brother’s shoulder.

Faramir realized that part of the reason Boromir had wanted him close, this night, despite being the victim of their rather clever prank, was because his brother was going to miss him, a lot. The distance and the seeing less of one another would be a good thing, so far as Lord Denethor was concerned. But Faramir would miss his brother, too. “I’ll miss you, but it’s what I want. And I think I’ll be good at it.”

Boromir sighed, “I think you’ll be good at it, too. Now get some sleep – you have a busy morning ahead of you.”

Faramir murmured something quiet but uncomplimentary about his brother’s sanitary habits, and Boromir lazily smacked his brother’s blanket-clad bottom.

“Ouch!” Faramir objected, surprised.

“Go to sleep, and if any of this…‘bit of fun’ was an attempt to push me away so that I won’t miss you after you go to join the rangers…” Boromir rolled on his side to look his brother in the eyes, “then it was stupid, and it would never work, and if you ever do anything similar again, I’m going to tell Uncle Imrahil that your secret desire is to be a sailor.”

Faramir’s jaw dropped, “Then I’d have to go through the academy at Dol Amroth, and I wouldn’t be done with school for…oh.”

“Another four years, or maybe three considering that it’s you.” Boromir said with smug satisfaction, “time for you to grow up a little more. Might be for the best, really.” If Denethor would let his younger brother-by-law poach his second son for the navy, which was not a sure bet. “The only thing that stops me, Fara, is that I know you prefer Ithilien to the sea. So don’t do anything like try to push me away, ok?”

Faramir nodded solemnly, reaching out a hand to clasp his brother’s. “It wasn’t that, at least I don’t think it was. It really only was meant to be a bit of fun.”

Rolling his eyes, Boromir jested, “We’ve really got to talk about your idea of ‘a bit of fun,’ kit. But some other day. For now, go to sleep.”

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