Faramir Fiction Archive

Under the broken sky (R)

Written by Fëawen

22 November 2009 | 21704 words | Work in Progress

Title: Under the broken sky
Author: Fëawen
Feedback: Email or use the comment form below
Paring: Faramir/Elrohir Faramir/Denethor
Warnings: Incest, violence.
Rating: R
Summary: Faramir is in love with Elrohir. However, after constantly being told that he is worth nothing and that there is something very wrong about not being attracted to women, he refuses to admit to anybody what he truly feels, not even to himself.
Little does he know that Elrohir share his affection, but that since Faramir will not let anybody close enough to hurt him, ‘Ro does not know how to approach him.
No one really understands why Faramir acts the way he does until one day, Aragorn finds Faramir’s old diaries and a truth that has been hidden for many years is something no one could even imagine, not even in their worst nightmares.

This story has not been beta-read so the mistakes are all mine, and no one else. English is not my first language, but I hope that one can read and understand anyway. The Sindarin I have been using comes from a Swedish site, which I have tried to translate to English, I do hope it will not be too bad.

I would like to thank Minx and Iris for starting this site, until now I have been a passive member, not feeling that my work would be good enough. I am very new at this and this is actually my first fic and I would be so happy if I received some feed back on it.

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Prologue

Minas Tirith T.A. 2988

A tall man with weather beaten look and dirty clothes rode over the plains. He drove his black stallion into a sweat and around its mouth there were traces of foam. The warm horse’s body steamed in the cold autumn evening but the rider wouldn’t stop to rest. He had to hurry; soon it would be too late.

Finally the towers of Minas Tirith revealed themselves at the horizon; for the first time since he set out from Edoras he felt how tiered he was. He had ridden for three days without any rest and now, finally, he was here.

The heavy oak gate opened in front of him and he rode in and through the narrow streets to the first circle up to the Citadel.

He leapt of the stallion and throw the reins to a young boy, who lead the horse to the stables and gave it water and hey.

He ran inside to the Grand Hall.

“Denethor, my friend. How fare you?” He embraced the man and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Oh Thorongil, you made it. Thank Valar for it, I fear that there isn’t much time left. She is slipping away and I’m powerless to stop it.” Denethor grabbed his friend by his upper arms and looked on him with grieving eyes.

“Your sons need their father to be strong for them; they need you now more than ever. Know this my friend and fear not, I’m here for you. Come now, let us go and see them. Are they with Finduilas?” Thorongil placed an arm around Denethor’s shoulders an together they headed to Finduilas’ bed chamber.

Denethor grip on Thorongil’s arm tightened as they approached .

“I must warn you, my friend. The Finduilas you once knew isn’t the Finduilas who now rests in her bed. You may not even recognize her.” The Steward swallowed hard, his throat felt dry and it hurt when he breathed.

Thorongil nodded but he knew in his heart that he should always recognize the girl who had softened the cold heart of his friend and brother-in-arms. No matter how much she changed in looks, her eyes and soul would always give her away.

Those eyes, they never stayed the same colour, always changing. They were as changing as the sea that she has left behind her, to live with her husband.

He remembered Denethor’s and Finduilas’ first meeting. Denethor had been forty five, but still very young in his mind, Finduilas a maiden of twenty five.

She had visited Minas Tirith with her brother and father. Her raven black hair had been forced into a thick braid and secured high up on her head. Her eyes had glistened in the sharp sunlight, at first he had thought them blue, but then they changed and were grey and in the next moment they were green.

He smiled to himself as the memories came back to him.

Minas Tirith T.A. 2975

She was speaking to an old mare when he and the Steward’s son, Denethor, had entered the stables.

He remembered the look on Denethor’s face when he saw the young girl. The Son of Ecthelion looked like he had swallowed a fish.

Suddenly the young girl noticed that she wasn’t alone.

“Oh Valar! My Lords, You gave me such a fright. Why were you standing there like two Nazgûls, all silence? Forgive me, but have you not better things to do than go sneaking up on an innocent girl like this?” She laughed and stroked the horse over the soft muzzle.

Denethor’s face had turned blood red and he had mumbled something that could have been translated to some sort of apologize.

Thorongil had known that look upon his friend’s face, although he had never expected to see it on him. Denethor was in love.

This man, the strong and cold hearted Denethor. Who always had thought of love as something reserved for the less powerful and for women and children. No, he corrected himself, not always. He cursed the old fool of a Steward who had made his son believe that a man should not show love, but power. A real man should not be reading books and poems about grate wars, he should fight in them.

Once he had been a young man full of hunger for lore and music, full of love and care. The Steward, his father, had made him believe that as long as he didn’t learned sword skill or how to plan a successful ambush, he would never be a son worthy of the Steward.

“What’s the matter? Cat’s got your tong?” The girl looked at him with those strange and bottom less eyes. He smiled.

“No my Lady, forgive me, but I do not think I caught your name.”

“That’s because I did not give it to you” She giggled and glanced at Denethor.

“May I be so bold of asking you what it is?” He continued. He started to get a bit agitated.

“Give me your names and I shall give you mine,” she answered back. Denethor hide a laugh behind a sneeze.

Thorongil gave him a surprised look; he hadn’t heard his friend laugh for many years. This girl obviously had a positive effect on him.

“My name is Denethor II, Son of Ecthelion my Lady. This cranky old man is Thorongil.” Thorongil gave his friend a glair, old my foot. He was one year younger than Denethor. He turned his eyes towards the sweet looking girl

“Now would you please be so kind to give us your name.”

“My name is Finduilas; my father is the Lord of Dol Amroth.” She answered and smiled one of her most breathtaking smiles.

Minas Tirith T.A. 2988

That was now more than twelve years. Denethor and Finduilas had married the next year and after two more years she was in childbirth. He remembered how nervous Denethor had been when he waited outside the bed chamber.

Minas Tirith T.A. 2978

Denethor had been as pale as a sheet and Thorongil had to laugh.

“By the look on your face, one could easily believe that it was you who were in there delivering.”

“That is not funny, Thorongil. What if something happens? What if…”

“Calm down my friend. This is not the first time a woman has ever gone trough childbirth, and not the last.” When the first cries of the new born was heard through the closed door, Denethor had stormed in but been haltered by the midwife.

“My Lady has lost a lot of blood and her body is very weak. I am afraid that she has burst inside. She may never recover. My Lord, she must never be with child again, next childbirth will be her death.”

Thorongil groaned and cursed under his breath, he reached out for his friend but Denethor pushed him away.

“I do not believe you, you are wrong. Finduilas is strong she will live trough this.”

He went inside and kneeled beside his beautiful wife. He kissed her and picked up the babe.

“My son, my heir, my life” He had held the baby close in his arms and pressed a kiss on his red face.

“Congratulations to you both. He looks like a fine little lad. Would you introduce us, Finduilas.” Thorongil came in to the room and with those words he kissed Finduilas on her pale forehead which was still wet from sweat.

“My love, Lord Thorongil, I am pleased to present Boromir.” They both had been so proud and a tear had made its way down the Steward’s cheek.

By the second time, T.A. 2983, when Faramir was born, Denethor had been occupied by Boromir, a five year old bursting with curiosity. Denethor had time and time again had to fetch him as he ran to the bed chamber where Finduilas laid in torments. This was a far more extended birth.

Finally it was over and a very young and pale midwife came out and shook her head. Both Denethor and Thorongil had jerked up from their seats.

“Tell me, is she alive, is she well?” Denethor had grabbed the poor girl by her arms.

She had winced and her eyes had filled up with tears.

“Please, My Lord. You are hurting me. My lady is weak and in pain, I need to go.” However Denethor had not let go, he wanted answers.

“What is it? Please, tell me, is it the daughter that I prayed for?”

“Nay my Lord, You have received another son, but he is small and I do not know if he will live. Please My Lord, let me go!”

The young woman hurried away to fetch some more cloths and some herbs from the House of Healing.

Before either Denethor or Thorongil had the time to react, Boromir had hurried in to his mother.

“Mama, are you alright?” Boromir clanged up into her bed and stared at the little body that lied next to her.

“My little wilwarin¹, of course I’m aright. Say hello to your baby brother.” Finduilas pulled down the cover a bit and reviled the baby’s face. Boromir looked at him and frowned.

“He looks so small. Will he be able to play with me soon?”

Finduilas laughed.

“He is only minutes old little wilwarin, it will be yet some years before he can play some of your adventures games. But you can help me take care of him, would you like that?

Boromir’s childish face shined up.

“I will be the best brother in the world; I will protect him from Dragons, from Balrogs, from Nazgûls, from Goblins, from Trolls and from Orcs.” Finduilas had laughed; her sons would become best friends, no doubt. Boromir leaned over and pressed his nose against his little brother’s.

“I’m Boromir, your big brother. What is your name?” The baby had blown a spit bubble and it made his way past the little chin.

“He can’t speak yet, he’s too little” Denethor appeared in the doorway with Thorongil behind.

“Do you know his name papa?” Boromir slipped down from the bed and reach up for his father who picked him up.

“Something that ends with Mir. He is our second little Jewel.” Finduilas spoke with a very week and soft voice.

“Faramir. That is a suitable name for him” Denethor had decided and not another word was said and the child was named Faramir.

Minas Tirith T.A. 2988

Here they now stood. Five years later and the illness that Finduilas had suffered from had not give in, but increased. She was dying.

They entered the bed chamber and the first thing that met their eyes was a young boy by the head side of the bed, stroking his mother’s hand. Her black hair was spread over the pillow. It had lost its formal shine and even though she was still young there were traces of silver blending in with all the black. A younger one in the bed beside his mother sang a soft tune in flawless elvish.

“Get down from there! How dare you disturb your mother like that?” Denethor shouted and before the little boy had had the time to react his father had grabbed him by his arm and pulled him harshly of the bed. The drag had been forceful and Faramir lost his balance and tumbled into the stone wall.

Thorongil noticed that Finduilas had seated up with a jerk and Boromir had grabbed her hand.

The ranger looked over at young Faramir, he didn’t show any visible sign of being injured, only his eyes, the mirror of the soul, showed his fear and hurt. Thorongil noticed a fading bruise on the boy’s cheek; he prayed that it hadn’t been inflicted by what he suspected. However by the reactions from both Finduilas and Boromir, it wasn’t likely.

“Haven’t you done enough harm? Get out from here. Now!” Denethor took a step towards the little boy who fled from the room. When he passed Thorongil, the man saw tears in the child’s eyes.

“My love, please, he was just singing to me. He didn’t disturb me at all” Finduilas laid a thin and pale hand over Denethor’s. Boromir moved to the other side of the bed and hugged his father.

“Father, must you be so hard on him? He is not yet five years old.”

Denethor sat down on the bedside and picked up his son and placed him on his lap. He kissed the boy’s forehead and held him tight.

“I’m glad to see you again My Lady. How fare thee?” Thorongil approached and stroke her gently over her arm.

“Please, Thorongil. Don’t speak to me in such a formal way. I would feel much more like the old me if you would address me with my name and not my title” She smiled and Thorongil noticed that her eyes were dark blue this time.

“Certainly. How fare you Finduilas? It has been too long since last time we met.”

“Indeed it has, I feel better now that I know you are here. You will stay now will you not? You are needed.”

She didn’t have to say more. The ranger understood her worries. Denethor would have too much to handle after she had passed and the caring for their sons had to be addressed. The ranger gave his promised that he would stay as long as he was needed.

Later that evening Finduilas took her last breath before she was lost to the halls of her ancestors.

By her side were Denethor, holding a violently crying Boromir in his arms, Thorongil stood on the Steward’s left side with a comforting arm around his shoulders and the other around Faramir. The boy was wiping away his silent tears from his eyes. Even though his father had told him over and over again not to cry they fell. The emptiness in his heart was too big for him. He wanted to say his farewell to his mama, but he could not. Saying farewell meant that she would never come back and that he would never see her again. No one noticed his tears except his mother who had given him a warm smile and mouthed the words “I love you” to him.

Finduilas funeral was over. It had been an informal ceremony; Thorongil was the only one who wasn’t part of the Steward’s family who joined the family in their grieving.

Finduilas’ family was not aloud to enter the city walls, and had never been so. That was why Boromir and Faramir never had had the opportunity to get to know their relatives from Dol Amroth.

The falling rain wetted them into the skin and their hair dripped.

Denethor held an arm around Boromir shivering shoulders. Faramir stood on his other side clenching and unclenching his small hands, trying desperately not to cry. He knew how much his father hated when he showed any sign of weakness.

Faramir looked up in the sky, he wondered if the Valar too were crying over the loss of his mama.

“Father, are the Valar upset over mama’s death?” Faramir tugged his father’s robe; he had never called his father `papa´. It would be disrespectful.

“What do you mean boy?” Denethor wasn’t use to that Faramir asked him questions or spoke before spoken to, and he didn’t like it all. “Why are you asking such a foolish question? You should pay more respect towards your mother. Boromir is quiet and I expect you to be so as well.” If Faramir had been older he might have heard the threatening tone in his father’s voice. However he was only five years old and still full of imagination and daydreams. So he continued.

“The clouds, they are crying. Aren’t they?” He heard the slap before he felt it, the raw and burning feeling. He felt tears pricking behind his eye lids. It was not only the pain, it was the humiliation. He had been slapped before and he knew the strength of his father’s hand, but he hated it when it occurred in front of others. This time it happened right in front of strong, brave and heroic Uncle Thorongil. A man he admired and looked up to.

“If you don’t hold your tong I’m going to let you learn the true power of my hands and give you something to justly cry about you worthless little fool.” Denethor lowered his voice so the words could only be heard by his second and lesser son.

Faramir carefully touched his burning cheek with trembling fingers and bit his lower lip to prevent him from crying.

As they left Thorongil gripped Denethor’s arm and whispered something to him. The Steward glared at him, but nodded.

“Boromir! Take your brother to his room and wait there for my return.”

Boromir took his younger brother by the hand and led him away, towards the child’s bed chamber. When they were out of reach for their father’s eyes he kneeled in front Faramir and carefully examined the bruised cheek.

“You really shouldn’t agitate him so much. Just stay silent when ever you are near him. He misses mother so much, he’s just sad that’s why he hits you.” He hugged his brother and started walking again. He detested it, when their father hit Faramir, but there was nothing he could do about it except comfort his sibling after a session with the Steward, and he hated the incapable felling even more. He knew that his father’s sadness wasn’t the whole reason why Faramir constantly was the target of their father’s violent behaviour.

“Do you not think you were overreacting against your son? What did he do to make you so enraged?” Thorongil was disturbed over the way he had witnessed the slap at the funeral and the harsh treatment in Finduilas’ chamber earlier.

“I did what I had to do. He should learn that there are acceptable ways to act and those which are not. I am the boy’s father so it is my responsibility to discipline him. Do you not agree?” Denethor tried to stay calm; he had no wish to be lectured about his temper.

“Certainly, but still, a slap, was that necessary? He is only five years old.”

Denethor glared at his friend.

“I am well aware how old my son is. I am also aware of his weaknesses and those should be controlled while he is still young and adaptable. I thank you for what you have done for me and my sons, but enough is enough, I think it is time for you to leave. You must be missed by your family in Rivendell. How long is it since you last saw your `ada´ and your beloved Arwen.” The words `ada´ and `Arwen´ almost sounded like they were substitute for something vicious and revolting.

“My friend I wish you would not let your feelings about Elves out in the open. I understand that you are grieving but still, think before you speak. Isn’t that what Lord Ecthellion always told you?” Denethor swallowed hard.

“Do not ever bring up that fools name within my hearing ever again. Do I make myself clear `friend´?”

“Loud and clear My Lord. I will take my leave but I suggest you try to learn to control your temper. I should go and take farewell of your sons. Until we meet again my friend, good day.” Thorongil turned around and left.

The knock on the door separated the two boys from their embrace. The older comforting the younger as he always did. No one, beside their father, ever used to come to Faramir’s room, and usually he never knocked.

“May I come in?” Thorongil’s soft voice was heard outside the thick oak door.

Boromir smiled at his `little one´.

“You don’t have to be afraid it’s only uncle Thorongil. Please, come in.”

Thorongil poked his head inside. He wasn’t the boys’ real uncle but he had known their father for such a long time and had visited them on several occasions so it was only natural that they would call him uncle.

“I was just coming to say good bye. I’m leaving first thing in the morning.” Boromir left Faramir’s side and walked up to him.

“You promised mother that you would stay with us for as long as we needed you. We still do.”

Thorongil bent down so that his eyes met Boromir’s.

“Your father has begged me to leave, he want to spend some time with you alone.” He knew it wasn’t quite true but he hoped that it would be.

“You do not need to speak untruth dear uncle Thorongil. It is because of me is it not? That is why father has asked you to leave. I know it is. It is always my fault when something poignant happens” Faramir’s soft and childlike voice caught the ranger of guard.

“Oh Faramir, do not ever say that again. You are not to blame for me leaving” here he paused for a moment “or your mother’s death” Thorongil pulled the small child so that he too was facing him; he is so thin, far too thin for a child of his age. “Do you hear me? Answer me Faramir.”

“If it had not been for me mama would never have fallen ill and she would never have left my father and brother, and you and father would not have been arguing. I am to blame. I must face my faults and my weaknesses with courage. Then I possibly will have earned my father’s care.”

Thorongil’s felt his heart aching by such immense words coming from such a young child.

“You are so very wrong Faramir. You do not have to prove yourself to `earn´ your father’s love. He should give it to you without any demands, requests or claims. Do you understand what I am saying to you?” The boy’s eyes started to fill up with tears, he looked away and Thorongil saw the child struggle to keep his tears from fall free. Without a word the ranger picked him up in his arms and held him close. Faramir’s slender body shivered from suppressed emotions.

“Let your feelings out, little one. There is no shame in shedding your tears” The man stroked the boy over his back and combed the boy’s dark tangled hair with gentle fingers. Slightly rocking and mumbling words of comfort in the child’s ear, just like Elrond had done to him when he was a child and his mother had died.

“I can not; tears are for women, children and those who have the courage to face their fears and deal with them victoriously.” Faramir’s voice trembled, but he was decided not to display his weakness.

“Look at me, Faramir. Answer this question, do you find your brother weak? Do you find me weak?” The ranger sat down on the bedside, still holding Faramir in his arms. Faramir looked puzzled. How could uncle Thorongil ask such a thing, of course his brother wasn’t weak. Neither was Thorongil. These two were his heroes, he looked up to them. He wanted to be just like them. He couldn’t find the right words and he feared that his voice wouldn’t hold, so he just shook his head.

“So why is it not a display of weakness when we cry? What makes us so different from you?”

The man wanted the child to understand for himself that his thoughts didn’t make any sense. Little did he know that the child had had time to think about this and should he ever have second thought or fail to remember it his father would always jog his memory. Remind him of his lack as a good and worthy son of a Steward.

“You are a ranger, uncle Thorongil. You have fought in many battles and shown your strength. I have been told that you served under my grandfather, when he was the Steward of Gondor. Your bravery permits you to show other emotions than just courageous. Boromir proves himself worthy with the arms master. Every time he is facing a new challenge he copes with it in a heart beat. He can ride any one of the horses in the stables without any trouble. Every thing comes easy to him so of course no one sees him as weak if he should ever cry. If Boromir cries he has reasons.” Boromir moved over towards the man and his little brother and gently touched the little boy’s cheek, which were already started to darkened.

He opened his mouth to begin to say some words of comfort but Thorongil haltered him.

“You speak only of our virtues. Do tell me `little one´ what are yours?” He smiled broadly. Faramir blushed and looked down on his hands.

“I am afraid I have to disappoint you, but I do not have any virtues, only flaws. I am not strong, like Boromir, I do not posses your courage, my efforts with the arms master have been nothing but merely a feeble act of becoming something that I will never be. To make matters worse, I have no wish to become a soldier. All I want to do is study history, language, music and art. I want to learn about other creatures than just the humans, like Elves, Hobbits, Dwarfs and even Orcs. I would like to learn how to speak their language so that I could communicate with them instead of fighting them.

So you see, uncle Thorongil, I am weak and a coward, I can learn how to kill but in my heart I know that no matter what I could never deliver the killing strike, you can never wash blood from your hands. It will always be there even if you do not witness it and I do not think I could live with that, ever…

If all I can ever prove is weakness and faultiness I am not entitled to show my grief.”

Thorongil felt tears pricking behind his eye lid. Faramir was too young to have learnt these so called and cold truths about him for himself. This was something that clearly had been told him over many years. He couldn’t understand how someone could ever tell a child of five that he was weak and a coward. It wasn’t right that a five year old should learn sword skills, he should be playing. Thorongil remembered how he himself had begged his foster father, when he was seven, for a sword but had been denied on account that he was still too young.

“You have virtues, little brother.” Boromir sat down beside them. “You are kind and thoughtful, you care for other people. You have so much love in you that sometimes it appears that your heart is to big for your own good. You are intelligent and witty, you are my ‘little one’ and I love you. Don’t ever change, promise me that” He kissed his brother on his forehead and reached out for him. Thorongil shifted the slender body from his lap and placed him on Boromir’s.

“Will you give me our word that you will take care of each other? I do not want to have to worry about you when I’m gone.” The man rose from the bed, gently placed a kiss on each boy’s cheek and left. He turned in the door way and saw the older boy hugging the younger. With a crooked smile on his lips he carefully closed the door behind him and left.

¹ wilwarin – butterfly

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