Faramir Fiction Archive

Unholy Light (NC-17)

Written by December

05 January 2020 | 6480 words | Work in Progress

Title: Unholy Light
Author: December
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Faramir
Warnings: Non-con, torture, psychological torture, AU canon divergence, dark!fic
Author's note.,Alright everybody,I am sorry about this. It's my first (and quite unplanned) dabble into the dark fic realm. I blame it all on watching too many compilations of the GOT most brutal scenes in one go. This may never live up to that standard

Things go pear-shaped towards the end of the quest to destroy the One Ring, and Boromir is left with impossible choices on his hands as his darkest hopes are dragged to the light.
Added: Chapter 5

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Part 2.

A nonexistent noise rings in the young Steward’s ears as his feet carry him into his brother’s ward. Can this actually be happening at last?

The bed is empty. The crumpled blanket thrown aside. Glass-paned doors into the gardens stand ajar.

Boromir races outside, breathless.

He stops in his tracks when he spots him on a bench nearby. What had he expected? That Faramir had been abducted in the past two minutes, or jumped off the open balcony onto the white roofs far below?

It is late in the spring season, and the gardens are very green, the slender birch next to the bench swaying softly in the breeze.

If they had not had to crop Faramir’s hair so short, it would have moved in the breeze too.

“Faramir! Should you be up so soon?”

Faramir slowly turns his face to him, or at least as much of his face as is not wrapped in layers of loosely woven hospital gauze.

“Brother,” he says in greeting. His voice sounds disconcertingly the same as before. “I did not mean to startle you. My body was growing sore from lying down, and I wished for some fresh air.”

Of course. It would have been his first chance at any fresh air since…

Boromir swallows, does not quite know what to do with his hands, or the rest of himself.

Faramir still cannot sit up quite straight, but his pose is as collected as can be, knees together, hands in his lap.

Boromir takes an uncomfortable breath, unable to get rid of the sensation that in his bulk he is hovering over the now much thinner man.

“Do you wish me to leave?” 

Faramir closes his eyes.

“No.”

Boromir cautiously lowers himself on the far end of the seat.

He heaves a silent sigh, studies his hands.

“How… how are you? I mean…”

“Tired.”

He glances over at his brother, sees Faramir try to offer him a peaceable smile.

“Boromir, ‘tis… ‘tis fine. I shall be fine.”

For a long time Faramir says nothing more, visibly drained by any little activity.

“So, I hear you are Steward now. How are you finding it?”

Boromir shrugs. “Ah, you know, a bit too much desk work.”

The corner of Faramir’s mouth moves, but it is but a shadow of the grin he would have given in response to these words under more normal circumstances.

Boromir swears under his breath.

“Faramir, look, I… I am so -”

Faramir shakes his head, with a calm resoluteness that implies he had long thought through what would come next.

“Brother, please, there is no need. Do not torture yourself.”

“Myself?! Torture myself? Faramir! I -”

With a pained intake of breath, Faramir hauls himself up to his feet.

“I am sorry, I think I may need my rest.” 

No natural light could find its way into the dungeon. The torches often went out as well, and were not lit again until the guards felt like it.

What little food and stale water was brought to be forced down their throats, came at equally random intervals.

Before long, they lost all track of time.

Sometimes it got frightfully hot in the cell as far below in the bowel of the earth heat shifted around, and the walls shuddered and groaned. Then at other times, for no apparent reason, it got equally cold, gripping joints with a gnawing ache, paralising the mind into a half-awake stupor.

Once Denethor was satisfied with the account of how the brothers had been captured, no one spoke much. The surroundings somehow felt less real this way.

Faramir seemed particularly withdrawn, and although Boromir at times greatly yearned to hear his voice, he feared that to call out to him would disrupt his apparent composure. How Boromir envied his calm.

More than water, food, daylight or to be able to sleep lying down, Boromir grew to crave to be unchained from the wall so he could pace this cage of a room.

Stuck somewhere inside a stupid volcano, no doubt to be tortured to death once Sauron could find a free afternoon in his diary – while the others were still out there, fighting.

If only father would stop rattling his chain when the lights burned out.

Every now and again a wave of hot anger would rise in him. Faramir had not said a word about it to father. That Boromir had gone against his counsel. Not just that, dismissed Faramir’s concerns with a chuckle. Took unnecessary risks, as usual. And here they both were. Along with perhaps a few dozen other men, or however many of them that had not been butchered yet.

He wanted Faramir to yell at him, curse him with foul, well-deserved words. So he could yell back, so he could cry in the dark when they could not see him.

But Faramir said nothing.

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