Faramir Fiction Archive

Under the broken sky (R)

Written by Fëawen

22 November 2009 | 21704 words | Work in Progress

III

In the archive Faramir’s sleep was neither a peaceful nor a well needed rest. He whimpered as memories haunted his dreams.

Steps echoed through the corridor. He could hear himself breathe and his racing heart pounding in his ears. He did not know what he had done this time, but surely it must have been something despicable. How he wished that Boromir was at home. Then father would not be as ruthless. But sadly he was not. He was out hunting with two of his best friends, Targon and Mardil.

His legs ached as he sat curled up behind the marble statue of Isildur.

“Faramir, I know you are here. I can hear you breathe. Come out now and take your medicine. Be a man and accept your punishment. You know you deserve it.” His father’s voice was soft and low. He hated that tone even more than when he bawled at him.

“I am not angry with you. I just want you to understand for yourself that what you did is not an acceptable way to act.” In his mind, Faramir went over every possible way to handle this situation. He could stay here until Boromir returned, but that could take hours, days even. He could come out freely or being dragged out by his father. He was caught in a corner with no way to escape. Suddenly the light above him disappeared. His father’s dark figure was over him. He was dragged out in the open room, stumbling, trying to find his feet. A hand with a sharp cut emerald ring met his face and split his lip. Before he fell to the floor, the hands were there again, grasping the neck of his tunic.

“My study, now!” no other word was needed. At barely nine years old, he already knew what that meant. The punishment was not to be light, thirty strokes at least.

“Remove your shirt and your tunic.” As in a dream he untied the bindings and exposed his naked torso. It was not only the chill, from the cold stonewalls in his father’s study, which sent shivers down his spine, he new what was coming. In the back of his head a small voice cried out for help, begged him to run away and hide. But how could he?

“Bend over.” The orders were short and said with the same emotionless tone Denethor always used when he spoke to his youngest.

“Count” The first strike with the multi tailed whip punctured him, made him grasp for breath. He bit hit lower lip to prevent him from crying out his pain but a small sob escaped his lips. He felt a hand grip him from behind and lifted his head by his hair. “You are in no position to be allowed crying. If I hear one more snivel coming from you I will administrate the whole retribution again. Now I said ‘count’.” His head was slammed against the hard wooden desk. A thin trace of blood made its way from a cut on his forehead, down his cheek and rubies dipped and tainted the desk’s surface. He took a deep breath…

“One…” His voice was frailer than he would have wished it to be. The whip fell over and over again, slowly, so that the new pain would not subdue the old. Faramir continued to count and kept his voice as steady as possible.

“Two… three… four… twenty… thirty two… fifty.” His back was on fire, he could feel the stickiness of blood and sweat all over him. His arms were numbed and he could not move his hands, they were frozen in cramp.

He felt his father’s breath on his neck, felt the ice cold grip around his arms tightened.

“Lower your leggings.” Faramir froze. No, no please no. tears welled up in his eyes. The pain on his back and the fear of what was going to happen made him overlook his father’s hatred towards emotions. He fell to his knees and clanged to his father’s robe.

“Please father, not that. I beg you. I will do anything, just say the word. Please father, if you love me than please let me have some dignity left. I beg you. Please, I am sorry for the troubles I have put you through. I am sorry that I am a poor excuse for a child. I am sorry that I was born, but I plead to you. Do not expose me to that. Please, I beg you.” The tears streamed down his face, he had lost all power of control them. He repeated over and over again prays of redemption. Any other person would have had their heart shattered by the site of this thin and pale child begging his father to spare him from a fate worse than death. A child pleaded for a sign that his father had at least some fatherly feelings towards him. He begged for an absolution that would never come.

Denethor stood as cold and motionless as one of the statues in the Grate Hall.

“Lower you leggings.” Faramir’s whole body shook as he stood up. He turned around and started to loosen the ties of his pants. Slowly he pulled them down and bent over the desk yet again. On the desk was his belt, he took it and folded it in four. He sank his teeth in the smooth fabric and waited. He heard the sound of his father’s metal buckle cling and fall to the floor, he jerked at the sound it made as it came in contact with the floor. An arm meandered around his waist, the fingers played on his clearly visible ribs, and the other stroked his hair. These times were the only times his father ever showed him any satisfaction, love and care. He so longed for a gentle word, a friendly touch and yet he would rather be beaten and ignored every hour for the rest of his living days than have this done to him. He hated this more than everything else he had to endure.

A sharp pain travelled up along his spine and he was glad that he had learnt to put his belt in his mouth. It helped him from not screaming from the top of his lung. But it could not stop the tears. Almost as quick as it had started it ended. “Father must be in a rush today or maybe Boromir is on his way home” He put on his leggings, shirt and tunic, he would have to burn these before anyone saw them. They were covered with blood, sweat and semen. He cleared his throat and bowed to his father.

“Thank you for teaching me how to present myself as a son worthy of a Steward Sir” Denethor snorted.

“You will never be a son worthy of a Steward you useless, emotional fool. You should thank me for showing you some attention. I curse the day you were born. Had it not been for you Finduilas would still be alive and I would have had a family worth killing for.”

“Father please, believe me, I never wanted mother to die. I would give my life if I thought that it would bring her back.”

“So why do you not? And do not dare to speak of Finduilas as your mother. If I hear you one more time utter her name in any family way I will make sure that you would be wishing for death before I was halfway done with you. Now leave!” Denethor emphasized the last word with a stinging slap that sent Faramir into the wall and down on the floor. He crawled back up on his feet, bowed and started walking the long way to his own chamber. Every part of his body ached and he left traces of blood after him. “Poor Alassea and Nessa, they will be forced to clean this up.”

He walked past a few guards on his way to the safeness and seclusion in his chambers. He did not dare to look at them. Surely they would be able to read in his face what had happened. What a filthy and disgusting boy he was. If he had dared to meet some of the guards’ eyes he would have seen neither loathing, disgust nor a smirk. All he would have seen would have been pity, sadness and anger. Not towards him himself but what had been done to him.

He tried to swallow down the vomits that threatened to come up but failed. He bent over and let all his anxiety, agony and pain out on the stone floor. He sank to his knees and kept on till there was nothing left in him but sour bile.

“Come child let me help you.” A young guard, no more than twenty, caressed Faramir’s damp face with a soft cloth. Faramir stared at the man, why was he so nice to him? Before he had the chance to say his thanks an older man came up to them.

“Iorlas, leave him alone. If the Steward sees you caring to much about his son the child will suffer twice the next time.” The man called Iorlas looked puzzled.

“But Cirion, he is obviously sick, should we not get him into bed. Surely Lord Denethor would not mind that?”

“Please Sir, but I am quite alright. I must have eaten something my stomach did not approve of.” Faramir tried desperately to get away from this nice man. Cirion was right if his father was to find out it would add at least fifteen strokes to the next punishment.

“By the look of your vomits, you have not eaten even a quarter of what you should have. Come now son, let me help you. I mean you no harm, you can trust me” Iorlas kneeled in front of him and took his hands.

“Iorlas, come with me now. That is an order!” Cirion placed a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. Iorlas sighed, he had to obey a direct order but he would rather have helped this undernourished child to bed, make sure that he stayed there and given him some soup.

“Till we meet again, my young Lord, I bid thee farewell.” He saluted smartly and followed Cirion.

Faramir put the cloth, he still held in his hand, over the puddle of bile and continued his painful walk…

He jumped up from his seat so forceful that his seat fell over and slammed against the floor. The authentic world slowly became real to him. Outside the sun had been replaced with the moon and the whole sky was embellished with tiny jewels. He opened the window and let the night’s air cool his burning face. The atmosphere was saturated with smells and sounds. An owl hooted in the forest and was answered by a wolf who howled to the full moon. In one of the trees, in the garden, a nightingale had her nest. She sang her soft lullaby to the sleeping flowers and Faramir wished for her to come and sing for him too at night. Maybe she could help chase the phantoms and demons away?

The rain had increased the plants’ scents and their aroma calmed his heart and pulse down faster than it normally did.

He gathered his things in a hurry and walked towards his chamber to freshen up before dinner.

A bathe would have been most welcomed but he had dismissed his servants for the night so a cold splash would have to serve that purpose.

Not that he minded. It would remind him of the

times he had washed himself in the river Anduin in his ranger days. Even in the late summer, when the sun gazed from a cloudless sky, the Grate River never seemed to get warmer.

Those days seemed so far away and yet it was no more than three months ago.

He smiled to himself when he thought about how proud and blissful Boromir had sounded when he told his seven year old little brother that he had been allowed to train with the captain of the Rangers.

“The Rangers of Ithillien are the best warriors in the whole Middle-Earth.”

“But Boromir, I thought that the Rangers protected the forest and its wild life. Guarded the boarders from enemies yes, but never went to war. At least that is what the old books in the archive tell me.” He had looked puzzled at his big brave older brother. The reason he, himself, had been drawn to the Rangers’ life was the fact that they never went to war. He had been so naïve at that age.

“They used to do that, but for a long time now there has been smoke rising from Mordor and Mount Doom. It would be best if the Rangers were to assist the army. They are too skilled and precious for Gondor to be allowed not to take part in case of a war.”

He had recognised the words spoken from Boromir as their father’s to the last syllable.

“I do not want to fight Boro. I hate war, nothing good ever comes from fighting and violence. Only evil fight, why should we lower ourselves to their level? Should we not set a good example?”

“Oh you are truly still innocent and naïve, ‘Little one’. When you become a Ranger you will see for yourself. But that is not going to happen for a long time.” He had kissed him laughed and then took on a sturdy face and again recited father “If evil raise their weapons against us, we have to protect ourselves. I know that you love to read, write, sing and paint, but that does not help our cause. You can not talk to the enemies, has father not told you that?”

With those words Boromir had left to go to the training yard and left Faramir alone with his thoughts. Father had told him over and over again that he should not waist time with books and music.

“Nothing good has ever come from reading a book,” he used to tell his son as the crop fell over the bare back.

He did not want to think about that now, he pushed the door open to his chamber and stepped inside.

The moonlight infolded his dark chamber in curtains of silver. It made the shadows long and mystifying. In the soft light he began to undress and pored water in the wash basin. It felt refreshing and he felt ready to meet the others. He opened the closet and picked out clean leggings, a fresh shirt and tunic. His hand stopped and looked longing on the ranger outfit deep in the closet’s darkness.

The clothes that he now wore were of a more delicate material and had a more suitable fitting, but still the rough greens and browns were more to his liking. These burgundy and heliotrope looked good on him with his dark hair and grey eyes but he felt uncomfortable, he was now visible and could not hide in the shadows. He was the Steward of Gondor but he was still a Ranger at heart even though he had not been out in the forest for months. With a sigh he pulled a hairbrush through his shoulder long hair and tied a leather band in it.

With a glance in the mirror’s shiny surface he made sure that he looked presentable.

“This is as good as it is going to get. What do you think Silmarwen?” he bent down and scratched the little black kitten on his bed and kissed her wet pink nose. He got a purr and a lick on his cheek as an answer. He smiled at the tiny black fur ball.

“You understand everything I say do you not, my sweet little friend?” Faramir’s pony-tail fell over his shoulder and the kitten immediately lifted her paw and hit it. “I can not believe that Lady Arwen gave you to me. I will soon be back and then I promise that we will play.” He straitened up and went to join the others for dinner.

“And that was the last time I saw them until Boromir came to Imladris and Faramir, when I tried to heal him in the House of Healing.” Aragorn had ended his story and was now waiting for some sort of reaction.

“That was quite the story you told us. There is a special bond between you that will not brake easily. I agree with ‘Ro that you should continue to read. But remember what I said, he might not want to get over it, just forget it.

Now you two, I would advice you to try to put on your normally so cheerful façade. We are late for supper.” ‘Dan got up and walked towards the door.

“How can you be so heartless? Have you not listened to a word Estel told you? You just do not want to strain yourself. Am I not right?” ‘Ro took a firm grip around his brother’s arm

“I am not heartless; I am just trying to be rational. Estel has a past with him and you love him so none of you can be impartial. Neither can I, for I care too much about you two and I fear that you would bend over backwards to help him even at the cost of yourselves.”

“Oh ‘Dan, I know that you are not heartless. I actually think that you are right. You were not Erestor’s and Glorfindel’s favourite student for nothing.” Aragorn walked up to them and loosened Elrohir’s tight grip on Elladan.

“So, what does Lord Genius suggest we should do?” The sarcasm in ‘Ro’s voice could not be missed. But it was not spiteful, just teasing and Elladan knew that.

“This Genius thinks we should talk to Mithrandir and ada. They know more about these things than we do”

“No! We should not involve any further parts in this. If you want to help, then we welcome you, but do not talk to anyone else about this until Estel and I have come up with a solution. Now, let us do what you have suggested before. Put on our happy faces and go and join the rest at the dinner table.”

“You two can go but I am not hungry, I will turn in early tonight. I need my sleep if I have to sit with the counsellors all morning tomorrow. Give my excuse to the others, would you.”

“Why do you not tell us the truth? You are going to continue to read, are you not?” Elladan smiled. Aragorn blushed but nodded.

“I just can not face Faramir until I find the answers to some questions I ask myself over and over again.”

“Very well then, we will leave you to your, I am sorry, to Faramir’s books” With those words the Elrondion twins left Aragorn in his study to accompany Arwen, Elrond, Mithrandir, the hobbits, Gimli and of course Faramir in the dining hall. The King himself opened a new book and flipped to a new page.

July 10 Third Age 3000

Today I have helped Boromir with his protocol for the council meeting tomorrow. He wanted to ride out on his new stallion instead, I did not mind, it was a paper in Sindarin that he had to translate. I love my brother dearly, I look up to him and I want to be just like him, but I do not understand why he does not take his paper works more serious. When he is the new Steward, Gondor’s safety will lie in his hands.

All he cares about is training with the new soldiers. He is the finest captain they can ever ask for, but the world is filled with so much more.

Yesterday I received a letter from Mithrandir. He told me that he had plans to visit Minas Tirith and search our archives for papers about the old alliances between the free folk of Middle- Earth. He asked for my help.

Could anyone imagine me assist the Gray Pilgrim?

I told father about his request. How could I have been so stupid? He already thinks I spend too much time reading.

If I did not help Boromir with his work he would not have time training because he would have too much to do before meetings. I wish that father would know that. Then maybe he would not scold me for my love of lore and music.

No, I should not say these things, not even think them. Pride comes before fall and Boromir would surely be a success in both council and sword fighting even without me.

He does not need me, not as I need him.

I am to be seventeen this fall and I have still not learned that begging only leads to punishments. He asked why he wanted my assistance and not Boromir’s, Gondor’s finest.

I told him that perhaps he knew how much I enjoyed spending time with him.

As always he gave that dreadful look.

“Well little ‘Wizard’s pupil’ I think we should discuss this in my study. I will send a Servant to come and get you as soon as I am ready for you.”

I am now waiting for Rían to come and tell me that father is expecting me. At least I now have the sense to prepare myself. I did not the first two years.

He wants me tight and dry but I rather take the flogging it means than let him tear me more than enough.

I still remember the time, I was about to turn eight, when I overheard father speak to some of the guards that the Grey Pilgrim was approaching. The Maia and Istari they call Mithrandir in Elven way, Tharkun by the Dwarves, Olórin in the West, Incánus in the South and Gandalf in the North. The books say that he never travels in the East. I wonder why?

How I wished that I could meet with him and ask him to teach me everything he knows.

When I asked father for permission he told me to go to his study and wait for him to answer my question.

I was so excited that I did not think closer on the fact that he had asked me to go to his study. Normally when he punished me he would deal with it in my own chamber.

When he stepped inside the study I immediately understood that there was something amiss. He was too calm, too methodical.

“If you wish to meet the Wizard I must first see proof that you can hold your tongue, when urged to speak of things that no one should hear about. Gondor’s safety, and your life, can be at stake if you let your lips move. Role up you sleeve.”

I did how I was told and he grabbed my arm. His bony fingers bruised my wrist and I was scared to death.

Without a word he dragged me over to his desk where a lit candle burned. He held my arm over the blazing flame. The heat radiated and increased, I could feel it eating into my flesh and I could recognize an odour of burning hair. Finally, when the pain became too much for me, I screamed.

Father smirked.

“It was as I thought. You can not stay silent even if your own life depends on it, I thought my disciplinary actions would have taught you what would happen if you screamed, cried or whimpered, but I suppose I was wrong. You disappoint me Faramir.” He had not stopped smirking.

“Lower you leggings.” I thought he was about to spank me, he had never done that before, so as always I did what he told me.

The pain, I will never forget the first time. I thought I was to be ripped in two. A scream, I understood that it came from me, that could make the blood freeze in one veins was heard and father’s hand closed in over my mouth. I think I must have fainted, for I do not remember what happened next, only that I woke up on the floor in his study, alone, leggings still down and my lower body covered with blood and a sticky foul smelling fluid.

After this first time it became more and more regular. But I have never, even after almost ten years, gotten used to it.

Aragorn stared in silence on the words. This could not be for real, it just could not.

He closed the book silently, took a deep breath and rose.

An answer was needed and it could not wait.

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