Faramir Fiction Archive

The Price (R)

Written by Minx

28 February 2003 | 34809 words

Chapter 3

Faramir moved purely on reflex, as he had been taught to in case of a sudden attack, ignoring his pain, he rolled away, but was still not quick enough to prevent the tip of the whip lashing his side. It tore through his tunic, and bit into the tender skin below drawing a thin line of blood, and causing him to cry out in pain as it stung. He scrambled to a sitting position edging further and further away from Fenekor who seemed to be highly amused by his attempts to escape. A heavily booted foot lashed out at him catching him in the centre of his stomach, then again, and again. Faramir bent over groaning, exposing his bent back to the captain.

The whip sang through the air and landed full across over the previous day’s welts, cutting cloth and skin, and leaving behind it a trail in bright red. Faramir screamed in agony and arched his back away from the whip. It landed again, this time across his torso and stomach. Then again. And again. And again on his back. It was a huge whip, and quite sharp, so that the cuts were not only large but deep as well. He could bear it no longer, the pain was intolerable. He used whatever strength he had left in him and bringing up one his legs kicked out at Fenekor. His boot came in contact with the other’s shin, drawing out a yell and much swearing. Fenekor hopped on one leg, fury engulfing his face. He bent towards the fallen young man and grabbed him by his shirt.

But Faramir was past caring, he struck out with a bunched up fist, and Fenekor barely managed to dodge it. Instead of landing smack on his face as Faramir had intended, it brushed his jaw, the impact causing him to grunt in pain, and serving to further fuel his ire. Faramir’s ring had scratched his chin and drawn blood. Fenekor glared at the Gondorian.

“You will regret this, I promise you that!” he yelled and grabbing Faramir by his hair, slapped him across his face repeatedly gleefully watching the red marks spread across the cheeks, some turning blackish, as they bruised him. Grey eyes clouded over, and the once firmly held head now lolled backwards and forwards as the smacks continued.

Faramir swayed in a daze, if Fenekor left his collar he would fall. He felt his body explode with pain, he felt rivulets of blood flow across his back and front, and then he felt his clothes being ripped off again, as he was thrown against a huge wooden table. He lat dazed across it, his clothes ripped apart, pain coursing through every inch of his body.

“For Gondor, remember,” a silky voice cut through the haze of his mind, and then Fenekor was entering him again as he lay bent over the table. He rammed hard into him without warning, pushing into him with greater force than he had used the day before. Healing muscles were ripped once again, and blood trickled down his legs, mingling with a trail of blood leading down from his back. Faramir had thought he had never hurt as much as he had the day before, but this was worse. Knowing how it felt did not ease the pain for him. And this time Fenekor showed no mercy whatsoever. He rammed into him again and again, till Faramir began screaming from the pain.

When he was satiated, Fenekor turned Faramir around. He smirked at the sight of the bruised and bloodied body, covered in half torn clothing, leggings lying at his ankles, and grey eyes filled with pain… and fear.

He reached a hand out for him, and almost smiled when he saw Faramir begin to tremble.

“Scared, beautiful?” he purred, reaching for Faramir’s face, and running a sharp fingernail down one darkening bruise, causing him to wince. Another hand reached for his crotch, and began toying with his member. Faramir moaned involuntarily at the touch, and when Fenekor suddenly bent down and kissed it lightly, and ran his tongue all over his lower belly he gasped. Fenekor rose and started licking his face, while continuing to lightly rub his hand over his swelling member.

“They tell me you are not one for the women, pretty one, how goes it then. Is it the men that you bed, love?” the Harad man crowed, “Do you not secretly love to be taken by another man?”

Faramir simply screamed in reply as Fenekor tightened his grip and ruthlessly twisted him, sending an explosive pain through the battered body.

“Whore!” he spat at his face and released him. Faramir crumpled to the ground sobbing, and curled up in a ball of agony and pain.

“How many more had your father given you to? You weep!” he snorted, ”If I had a son who were to weep so, I would give him to a brothel. No wonder your father feels naught for you!”

Faramir gave a loud strangled cry, and made as if to shake his head, but Fenekor bent down and grabbed him by his hair and pulled him up, till their lips were nearly touching, “Come with me,” he hissed into the abused face, glaring down at the frightened grey eyes, “Come with me when I leave, I will give you your heart’s desire.”

Faramir shook his head ignoring the overwhelming pain. He got a perverse satisfaction from noting that the cut he had unintentionally given the man from Harad with his ring, still bled.

“Fool! What have you here? Can you not see Denethor loves you not? What father would give his son up for the sake of his land?”

Faramir shook his head again, angering the captain. The grip on his hair tightened, and then he was kneed in his groin. He had no strength left to scream as he sagged down in pain. Fenekor continued to grip his hair so that he almost hung to his knees now.

“You whore!” Fenekor screamed at him again, “You filthy, vile creature!” A resounding slap to the side of his head sent Faramir into a daze. What happened after that was only a vague memory in his mind. He felt himself being entered once again, he felt immense pain, he felt slaps, he felt a heavy body pressing down on his groin, he felt it grind against him, causing more pain, and he shut his eyes and tried to lose himself in a void, but the void wouldn’t let him inside.

It kept him on a threshold from where he could feel all, but do nothing. He was powerless, completely helpless, so he just lay there.

Then there was a knock on the outer door, and Fenekor rose cursing, rustled on a robe and walked out. The sounds of a whispered conversation filtered through, of a summons in the great hall. Fenekor returned and throwing a long tunic at him, pulled him up roughly by one hand.

“You can go now! Go – go to whomever else it is you have sold your filthy body to. The Rohirrim? The elves? The dwarfs?” He dragged him over to the door, a shaking figure, stumbling over the leggings around his ankles, and bodily threw him out into the thankfully deserted hallway, in his torn clothes, clutching pathetically to the tunic.

Faramir lay on the cold floor, willing himself to rise. He knew this wing was rarely visited, that was why his father had made him move there, so he could keep him out of his sight.

Father, do you hate me so?

He dragged himself up against a wall, watching detachedly as he left spots of blood all over the floor, wondering what the servants would think. He pulled up his legging somehow, and then half crawled, half dragged himself to his own room. Pushing the door open he stumbled inside and then painfully raising himself entered his antechamber where his cleaning and healing materials lay, and passed out.

Boromir spent the morning reading the reports his father had bade him to. Then he had gone down and had some good rigorous sword practice. When he returned to his chambers and finished cleaning off the sweat and grime it was almost midday. He entered the great hall for his luncheon meal nodding at the other eaters who sat scattered along various tables.

Noticing Haldir sitting alone at a table, he made his way over and sat next to him. They exchanged pleasantries and discussed each other’s plans for the rest of the day.

“I do not see your brother,” one of the Rohirrim men remarked from a nearby table, “Is he always late for his meals?”

Boromir heard the underlying jest but the words still angered him. Faramir was being so stupid. But then, Denethor was not around either, perhaps the two were together. His rigorous session in the morning had helped Boromir get rid of all his excess energy leaving him much calmer now, and better disposed over his younger brother. Perhaps he had been tired last night. After all he was late for breakfast, which he would never have dared to, especially with guests around, for fear of Denethor’s wrath. And who was to know how his father had been treating the younger brother while he was not there. He knew though, from Faramir himself that for many months, the slights had been verbal only, and not physical. It had been a relief to here that Denethor had now stopped raising his hand at his younger son at the least provocation.

“Is Lord Faramir with my father?” he asked the servant who came to replenish his wine.

The servant shook his head, “No, my lord the lord steward has been meeting with his commanders since morning.”

“And Lord Faramir?” Boromir asked, a little glad, for he knew any meeting between father and son would only result in disquiet for the younger.

“He has not been here all day,” the servant replied.

“He must be in the library,” Boromir mused slightly exasperated.

“No, my lord, for they are cleaning there today, and it is my lord Steward’s orders that none else be allowed in.”

“Very well, thank you.”

He left with Haldir after his meal intending to take the other too the armoury and show him the new archery equipment that had arrived there. But he was still thinking of his brother.

I was too cold with him yesterday; I hope he did not notice. But of course, he would notice it. Father’s behaviour has made him a little too sensitive. But he did look tired.

He fretted all the way along the long hallway traversing the citadel, worrying about Faramir. If he had not been in the hall it would mean he had not had his meal at all, for Denethor had long since forbidden him from having meals in his room. Boromir knew it was just an excuse to prevent Faramir from hiding away by retreating into his books. Denethor might not eat his meals with his younger son, but he still insisted that he walk all the way to the hall to eat.

“You are worried,” Haldir stated simply. Boromir, not for the first time was struck by the other’s quiet perceptiveness.

“I would like to check on Faramir first, I see no reason why he should have missed a meal, it is down this wing here and will barely take us a few minutes. If you do not mind, we can go to the armoury after that,” Boromir requested.

“Certainly, my friend,” Haldir agreed sagely, “your brother I am sure would welcome your company.”

He used to, Boromir thought to himself, but will he now?

When he rapped on the outer door, there was no response. He was about to turn away when Haldir stopped him and pointed at a small stain on the floor near the door, a drying crimson stain. Boromir simply pushed the door open and barged in, the elf following him.

Faramir was nowhere to be seen. He noticed the open door to the antechamber and covering the distance in a few long strides stopped short at the sight in front of him.

His younger brother lay on the floor, in a muddled heap. He gave a small cry and rushed to the motionless figure that lay bleeding on the floor, face hidden from view by his hair. He gathered the fallen figure up in his arms, and cried in alarm again as he saw the whip marks, and then the dark bruises covering his face.

“Oh, little one,” he cried, using a term from long-forgotten childhood days, “Who has done this to you?”

“Boromir,” Haldir’s voice cut through the varied emotions swirling through him, “We must get him into bed, he will be getting cold on the floor.”

Together they carried the young man to his bed, and began undressing him, faces becoming progressively grimmer as the true extent of the injuries came out. The entire torso was either black or blue or red in colour. As also the back. When Haldir tugged the leggings down, Boromir noticed the line of dried blood on the leg. But it was Haldir who realised what had happened, and turned him around, nodding angrily at Boromir, who was now beside himself with emotion. The next few minutes were ones Boromir went through in a haze. He remembered being pressed by Haldir into getting herbs, heating water, and getting fresh clothes out. Once the injuries were dressed, and Faramir put into a long tunic of fine soft material, Boromir knelt by the bed drained, waiting for his brother to awaken and tell him hat had happened. Who had hurt him so badly?

He sank his head down, and then the felt the bile rise up his throat. He swiftly rose, and headed for the antechamber where he collapsed against the wall retching and crying. How long he lay sprawled there he could not say, but he heard Haldir enter and put a hand on his shoulder and was glad of it. It provided him strength as he sobbed, “He was hurt yesterday, some bruises are a day old. How could I be so blind?”

Lost in recriminations, neither heard the outer door open as the Steward of Gondor entered his younger son’s chambers for the first time in many years.

Denethor strode through the darkened room, towards the lump on the bed, his face a mask, but his set body revealing barely suppressed anger. The figure on the bed lay in the shadow and all that was visible of him was dark hair. The steward grabbed at him by the neck, causing the grey eyes to open unsteadily and the dark hair to fall all over the face, hiding it from view, and aided by that and a blind rage, Denethor did not notice the condition of his face or the pain filled grimace that assailed it.

Yanking Faramir out of the bed, he shouted, “Whatever possessed you to do something so stupid? If Gondor is ruined it will be because of you.” And sent a resounding slap to his son’s face, that was loud enough to be heard by the two occupants of the antechamber.

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