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An Innocent Affection (R) Print

Written by Minx

20 December 2008 | 9111 words

Title: An Innocent Affection
Author: Minx
Pairing: OMCs/Faramir, Denethor
Rating: R
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Archiving: Drop me a line before you do
Warnings: Slash, non-consensual situations, mild violence
Summary: Faramir is asked to help a councillor with work in the archives. The experience is unexpected in many ways.
Author’s Notes: This fic covers the Denethor protecting Faramir from abusive councillors request. I hope it fits.
Many thanks to Iris for the beta and suggestions!

Written for the 2008 Midwinter Swap.

Request by Bell Witch: Human partner, possibly a younger Faramir being taken advantage of by friends of Boromir, Théodred, Gríma. Faramir trying to decide whether he should go with a young lady or a man—confused. Denethor protecting Faramir from abusive counselors. Aragorn mad at Faramir for making googly eyes at Arwen (or thinking Faramir did.) Smut accepted but not required.


“Faramir!” Denethor’s voice was sharp and loud, as he called out to his younger son.

Faramir stopped in the act of arranging the scrolls containing the notes from the day’s council meeting and walked hurriedly over to his father, as he stood by the large balconies that opened out to the citadel gardens. Lord Turondil, a councillor from Pelargir, stood with his father.

“Father?” he inquired softly.

“Lord Turondil has requested some help for his work in the archives. He needs to locate texts on Khadrim customs. He feels it may help us understand the information his spies are receiving on their treaties with Harad, as well as in revising our own trade agreements with them. You can help him with that.”

“Certainly,” Faramir agreed immediately. To spend time in the archives at his father’s request! He could think of nothing better. And Lord Turondil was one of the most senior and respected councillors in Gondor. To work with him would surely be most interesting.

Lord Turondil, however, was frowning, “Really, Denethor, that is unnecessary. A scribe will do. In fact, a scribe will be better… some of the texts I need are quite old and not very well-known.”

Faramir took a step back instinctively, despairing at the note of irritation he heard in the older man’s voice. He should not have expected otherwise from one of the councillors. Ever since he had started attending council meetings as an aide and helping his father with scribing work there, his father’s poor view of him had become known to more and more people.

“I ask Faramir to help you because I can think of no one better. He spends more time in the archives than on the training grounds, unlike his peers,” Denethor said cuttingly.

Turondil turned towards Faramir now. A fleeting expression passed over his face and then he smiled warmly at him.

“That is not entirely a bad thing, Denethor. Although I know you will not agree.”

“There is much we will never agree on, Turondil,” Denethor retorted sharply, “Faramir will help you whenever he is not undergoing his training, or tutoring.”

“I am most gratified, my lord,” Turondil replied, “And to you too, my dear child. It is most surprising, although pleasantly so, to find such interests in one so young.”

Denethor snorted openly.

“I shall see you in the archives after your break of fast on the morrow,” Turondil said, “That is, if you do not have your arms practise at that time.”

Faramir nodded quietly, still a little worried by Turondil’s initial response, even though the councillor was smiling in a most friendly fashion now.


Faramir ensured he reached the archives on time the next day, after attending an early morning training session and a partaking of a quick breakfast. It would not do to further antagonise such a senior councillor as Lord Turondil. His father would be most displeased if he did so, even if Lord Turondil and his father rarely got along. Turondil, in some ways, reminded him a great deal of his father.

He needn’t have worried though. Lord Turondil had already reached the archives and was leafing through a book in Sindarin. He greeted him most cordially, and showed him a list of all that he required. The requirements were many.

“These are the texts I need. Some that I recollect and many are references from others. Most of the requirements are fairly specific. I was able to recollect at least the author or the title. But some I’m afraid are very vague, they are mere references to passages in books that we cannot recollect the names of. Those will take time to find.”

Faramir nodded, looking through the list, “I’ll get started right away,” he offered promptly.

“I am most grateful! I shall be on the reading room. I have found the most delightful table by a large window. I find the sunshine in Minas Tirith most welcome!”

Faramir found some of the texts that Lord Turondil had marked as important ones, fairly soon. He had just a few months ago, been searching through this part of the archives for folklore from Rhun, having read about those in a Sindarin text on the eastern cultures.

Gathering a handful of scrolls and texts, he hurried back to the reading area. The archives for the most part remained empty. Often Faramir would be the only person there, usually curled up on a pile of cushions in the sunny corner, that he noted, Lord Turondil and another man now occupied.

“Ah, here’s my little helper, Haldor,” Lord Turondil said to the man next to him, “Denethor has most kindly allowed young Faramir to help me!”

Faramir glanced at the newcomer curiously. Lord Haldor was one of the younger members of Denethor’s council, a slight, dark haired man with a pleasant face. He seemed a little flustered this morning, his hair mussed, and his collar askew.

“That is indeed kind of Denethor,” Haldor said, rising hurriedly, from the cramped confines of the small bench they had been sitting on. “I shall leave you to your work now,” he told Turondil, “I see you have plenty!” he waved a hand towards the scrolls Faramir carried.

“Very well, dear,” Turondil said, cheerfully.

Faramir watched on in interest. He had not known these two councillors were such good friends. He handed over the scrolls to Turondil now. “These are some of the ones you sought immediately,” he said.

“That is most kind of you, my boy,” the older man said, smiling, as he took the proffered scrolls, “As I said, it is good to find a young one in these days so well-versed in these texts.”

Faramir flushed at the unexpected praise, as he stumbled through a response, “I – I am only too glad to help,” he said softly.

He still felt a little awkward as he returned to search for more texts. He managed to find most of the specific referenced texts. Some, he realised in despair, were probably in the disorganised mess in the older section of archives. He sighed, and sitting down began to go through the list of requirements again. There were also those references that had no specific details.

He read through some of those, pursing his lips in concentration. Some referred to very old addendums in the trade agreements. Thinking a little, he pulled out a more recent text by the yarn merchants’ guild on trade agreements. It was nearly evening, well past the time for the lunch repast when he made his way back to the reading room, with an old book, his face and hands smudged with dust.

Turondil glance up when he entered, “More already?” he said smiling, “You really are a quick one.”

Faramir flushed again. “I – I was looking through the references that you said were vague, and well I thought if these texts are old ones, they may be referenced in other newer material on that subject as well? I found one such for this quote that you have on the yarn levies… there were four books referenced in that, so I went through them and I found what you wanted in one of them.”

Turondil pounced on the text immediately, and quickly flipped through a few pages, “This is perfect!” he declared, and then looked up at Faramir, his grey eyes shining, “You are a most intelligent and hardworking young man!”

Faramir reddened at that. It felt strange to him to hear words of praise or appreciation, and he felt a strange lightheaded feeling course through him. He smiled happily, feeling strangely more confident in the older man’s presence now.

“I could do that for the other references as well,” he said immediately, “It would take time of course, but father said you would be here for some weeks yet, and I have little to do other than my arms practise.”

“Excellent!” Turondil said approvingly, and the glanced out of the window. “Oh! I hadn’t realised how late it was. Haldor will be waiting for me at supper. Off you go too! I shall meet you here again tomorrow.”

Faramir returned to his rooms that evening, extremely relieved that all had gone well that day.


He helped Turondil each day over the next few days, meeting him after his breakfast in the mornings and staying till the evening in the archives, searching for all that the older man required. They even lunched together along with Haldor, who came by quite often. It was at these times that Faramir started noticing the strange intimacy between the two men, and thought back to the whisperings he had heard in court about Lord Turondil’s habits being different, though he knew not how.

Lord Turondil was similar to his own father in build, and although of a similar age, he looked younger and spryer. He kept his still black hair long and tied behind his neck, and often wore long robes, adorned with the intricate threadwork that was common to Pelargir. Faramir knew most of the other councillors were amused by the other man’s rich attire and care for his appearance. His own father, in fact, was oft scornful. Haldor was far younger, and in fact only some years older than Faramir even. He was a quiet young man, who rarely said much in council, though in Turondil’s presence he seemed to be a different, more confident and sociable young man.

Sometimes he would join Faramir as he worked through the archives, and talk to him quietly. And Faramir would reply awkwardly at first, but later more easily, for Haldor always spoke very gently and easily.

Later that week, as they were leaving for the day, Turondil called Faramir back.

“I nearly forgot,” he said smiling, “This is for you.”

“Wh-hat is it?” Faramir asked, feeling the thick square object.

“A book,” Turondil said, smiling, “It is an old one I fear, but I am sure you would appreciate it. Open it.”

Faramir did so immediately. It was indeed an old book, but it looked lovely to him. The thick old cover had an intricate painting on it, depicting a dragon, a warrior and a sword.

“This is most kind of you!” he exclaimed, “Is this not a rhunic tale?”

“Aye, it was translated into Sindarin and then into Westron. I find this version an excellent translation and the tale itself a fascinating one.”

“It is a translation by Lord Mardil of Lebennin, is it not?”

“You have read other works of his?”

Faramir nodded, “They are not very easy to get but I find them very well – different.”

“That is very insightful of you. Yes, his work is not very popular in these times… it is felt his thoughts does not run concurrent to what many see as ideal for these times. Our people would rather we counter darkness by shutting ourselves off to all light as well. In times such as these, when we should fight back and embrace the light, and foster culture and delicacy, we turn instead towards that which we fight.”

Faramir stared at him. The older man spoke with a low, urgent passion and it seemed his gaze had wandered very far away.

“It is difficult,” Turondil said almost tiredly, “To be different. But I sense I do not have to explain that to you much.”

He placed a hand on the side of Faramir’s face lightly, before walking away.


Faramir felt immensely happy as he sat down to breakfast a few days later. He had just finished reading the book that Lord Turondil had gifted him, and had liked the tale immensely. The story was of the life of a young warrior culminating in his return home to his family from war. It was full of rich descriptions of lands far away and heavy with the introspections of the warrior on his fellow soldiers. It had ended most satisfactorily.

Even Denethor walking in with a scowl on his face, did little to run Faramir’s pleasant mood. His father glared at him as he sat down at the table. Faramir greeted him softly and went back to munching a chunk of honeyed bread, his mind still lingering on his favourite scenes in the book.

Denethor picked a jug of wine and filled a large goblet before glaring at Faramir again.

“I have received a report from your armsmaster,” he said angrily, “Your progress is extremely slow! He tells me your footwork is still unsure and that you stumble with the broadsword! At your age, Boromir could fend off two attackers at the same time!”

Faramir stared at his plate quietly, all thoughts of the book forgotten, as his father continued in the same vein. The armsmaster had told him he was progressing well enough. He knew he was not doing as well as Boromir had but few people could emulate his brother’s prowess.

“I have asked him to double your practise time,” Denethor snapped out, “You will report to him in the afternoon as well from today.”

He nodded quietly in acquiescence. He would have to leave the archives earlier then, he realised in dismay.

He enjoyed his time helping the councillor. He liked wandering through the archives and hunting for the texts through convoluted references. And most of all he liked the way Lord Turondil constantly expressed his appreciation and regularly praised him. He would hoard up the memory of the kind words and play them over in his head each night before sleeping.


“Does it not bore you to spend time here in the archives instead of – instead of – well, doing whatever it is lads your age do these day?” Turondil suddenly asked him one afternoon, as they ate lunch with Haldor.

“They train in arms and riding,” Faramir said, “I do that in the mornings before coming here and in the evenings after finishing here. Whenever Boromir is here though on furlough, then we go for longer rides outside the city.”

“Oh,” Turondil said, “But surely it must bore you just a little bit to be cooped up inside the musty archives with one as old as I!”

“I like being in the archives, my lord,” Faramir said softly, “And I certainly do not mind your company at all.”

“Surely such fine weather as this should be spent in the company of a lover,” Haldor said suddenly.

“Well, I have none,” Faramir said, blushing a little.

“Denethor makes you work too hard,” was all that Turondil would say.

He truly did enjoy their company. Lord Turondil expressed his appreciation every day, in words that he was unaccustomed to but liked greatly. Even Haldor would take the time to talk to him daily. He would ask Faramir of the books he liked to read, and of the music he liked to hear and even the kind of foods he liked to eat.

Faramir noticed then that Haldor had brought along the sweetcakes that he had said he liked. He had even nudged most of them towards Faramir’s plate quite unobtrusively.

“Eat,” Haldor said, smiling, “You said you liked them, so we thought it would help you tolerate us! And I vouch you will find these far better than cakes from the citadel kitchen. They are made by a woman from Lossarnach.”

Faramir privately thought the citadel cakes were better. These had a different flavour that he didn’t like as much, but he ate the cakes nevertheless touched by the gesture.

“Yes, eat,” Turondil said, looking up from his papers, “Oh and this translation you gave me of the trade agreements from Sindarin to Westron is quite perfect. You have a good flair with language I see.”

Faramir blushed slightly, unused to such praise, “It is too kind of you to say so,” he stammered out, awkwardly picking at a loose thread in his sleeve.


Faramir gathered up a stack of scrolls in the archives a few days later, trying desperately to ignore the ache in his stomach and head. He had been feeling a little unwell since the previous day, his stomach unsettled and a mild throbbing festering in his head.

“Are you all right?” Haldor asked him when he walked into the reading room, laden with scrolls.

“A mere stomach ache that is all,” Faramir said, trying to smile but failing, as Haldor divested him of the scrolls. The old archives were musty and an hour inside has worsened his headache and left him feeling strangely lightheaded and warm.

“Let me see,” Turondil demanded, and grasping his arms pulled him closer, “Sit! You do look unwell.” He led Faramir to a chair and placed a hand on his forehead.

“I am fine truly,” Faramir protested, “Merely a little queasy.”

“You feel a little warm,” Turondil announced, and then placed the back of his palm against Faramir’s throat, “Quite warm,” he pronounced.

“May I?” he inquired, tugging at the hem of Faramir’s tunic.

Faramir stared at him in surprise, overwhelmed by the concern.

Turondil raised the tunic, and pulling the waistband of his pants a little lower, laid his hand palm up on Faramir’s lower belly. His hand felt cool against Faramir’s fevered skin and he sighed tiredly, as he leaned back against the chair.

“You should be in bed, child,” he said frowning, and turned his palm over. He probed gently and Faramir winced for his aching stomach felt quite tender. He loosened the bindings of the tunic and pushing it further up, placed his palm against Faramir’s chest. Then he made Faramir lean forward, and placed a hand on his back. Faramir felt the fingers lightly run over raised skin. He flushed as he remembered that his back was still scarred from the last beating his father had given him two weeks ago.

“Poor lad,” Haldor’s voice floated up to him, and he shifted uncomfortably.

Turondil removed his hand frowning down at him. Faramir pulled his tunic down hastily, unused to such openness.

“If you are queasy, we have some herbal tea here that will have you feeling better soon. Why don’t you have some and lie down for a while?”

“L-lie down? But I have -”

“Oh hush, Faramir. Whatever you have to do, you can do that when you feel better. Turondil said, even as Haldor brought him the tea, “Now drink this and lie down here a while. It will settle your stomach and take care of the headache.

“I – I will,” he mumbled, “Thank you.”

“You really should take care of yourself, child. I saw you in the practise ground quite early today and even last night. Surely that is too much when you are so unwell!”

Faramir’s eyes dropped. He had indeed maintained his schedule at the practise grounds, despite feeling terrible. Denethor would not have seen a mild fever or an unsettled stomach as reason enough for him to not attend to his training, so he had gone, spending hours out in the cold early morning and evening winds as well as the hot afternoon sun, ignoring his throbbing head and his aching stomach. He had not performed as well as he ought of course and the armsmaster had been most angered with his distracted behaviour, and had cancelled the rest of his practise for the day. Faramir had been relieved, even though he knew Denethor would be angry over this.

He sipped the tea morosely, while Turondil returned to his papers. Still tired from the morning exertions, he fell asleep, lying there on the bench, not awakening until Turondil and Haldor gently shook him awake. He woke from a deep dreamless sleep, feeling far better, and thanked them for the tea. It had certainly made him feel much better. Rising, he blushed as he noticed that his clothes were still askew, his tunic bindings were still loose and the topmost one had come undone, while his pants hung low on his hips.

At breakfast the next day, Denethor shouted at him over his practise session the previous day. He had learnt too, probably from one of the archivists that Faramir had slept in the reading room the previous afternoon. To Faramir’s mortification, Denethor’s chief councillor, Lord Calembil, was present to hear him.

He listened quietly; speaking only after Denethor had finished denouncing him as a wastrel, lazy and incompetent, and asked him to see him in his rooms later that evening.

“Yes, father,” he said quietly, well aware that that could only mean a beating.

The rest of the meal continued in silence until Calembil suddenly spoke.

“How do you find working with Turondil, Faramir?”

“Quite enlightening, my lord,” Faramir replied quietly, unwilling to get into any discussion with Calembil. He often tended to bait Faramir into making some inappropriate remark or the other which would in turn anger Denethor.

“Strange. Most people find him difficult.”

“He is kind and intelligent,” Faramir began only to be interrupted by his father.

“Kindness is not always easy to judge. As it were, he tells me most of his work is done. You may work with him till the end of this week. After that, I would have you return to helping the scribes. They tell me they are shorthanded these days.”

Faramir pursed his lips in unhappiness, when he heard that. He would miss working with Turondil, he thought morosely. Returning to his father’s barbs and resentment would be all the more difficult after the days of kind words and praise that he was almost getting used to.

“Does Turondil still go on about the training courses for the military officers?” Calembil asked suddenly, “Had he not suggested they study poetry and art for relaxation?”

Denethor groaned, “No, but he does want the treasury to allocate funds for a school of eastern languages and to revive the Dol Amroth theatre. He doesn’t seem to understand the theatre died out because no one wished to watch painfully long discourses on philosophy when they care more about putting food on their children’s plates!”

“I would rather we allocated any surplus funds we had to the swordmakers’ guild. I hear they are trying to work on a new alloy.”


“And how are you today, child?” Turondil asked him when they met in the archives.

“I am well,” Faramir replied, smiling back at him, “The tea was most helpful.”

“I think it was far more the nap. You were tired. You do look far, far better,” Lord Turondil said agreeably, and reaching out, placed a hand on Faramir’s forehead again.


Faramir presented himself for his punishment at the appointed hour, removing his tunic and bending over a large desk. He received ten strokes with cane on his back, a few more caustic words, and a warning of direr punishment should he display such laziness again.

He rose, and pulled on his tunic, avoiding his father’s eyes. He could not help but think back to the tender manner in which Lord Turondil had treated him.

“What is that?” Denethor said suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.

He glanced at the dark red blotch on his left collarbone and shrugged, “Something bit me in the practise grounds this morning, perhaps. The fruits trees there attract a lot of insects.” He had noticed it after his practise session but ignored it. There was one on his hip as well.

“Perhaps,” Denethor said, frowning a little, as he continued to stare at the blemish.

Faramir gave him a puzzled look, as he pulled on his tunic. Denethor still seemed very distracted when Faramir rose.

“I would have you wind up your work for Turondil as soon as you can,” Denethor said as he was leaving, “Now leave. I need to go to the tower room.”

The next few days seemed to almost fly. Faramir managed finally to speak to Turondil about his return to scribing.

Turondil nodded, “My work here is nearly done.” He said.

“I – I shall miss working with you,” Faramir said shyly, “It was most enjoyable for me.”

“And for me as well, dear child,” Turondil said, and reaching up lightly stroked Faramir’s cheek, in a gesture that the younger man still found a little awkward but tolerated.


Faramir limped up the stairs of Lord Turondil’s quarters in the citadel buildings. Turondil and Haldor had invited him to sup with them that night. Turondil was leaving for Pelargir the next day. Faramir was unhappy to see him go but Turondil had reassured him he would be returning in some weeks and would certainly meet Faramir.

Since he usually supped alone as Denethor preferred to have his dinner in his room in the tower, he accepted the invitation quite happily.

“Have you hurt yourself?” Turondil demanded when he stepped in, limping still.

“I just twisted it a little during my sword practise. The training grounds were wet today,” Faramir said quietly.

“Let me see,” Turondil said gently, “I have had some training in the healing arts.”

“Have you?” Faramir asked eagerly, “I have been reading some most interesting texts on the healing art followed in the woods of Lebennin, and-”

“Show me your ankle,” Turondil suggested, “Here sit on this chair.”

He guided him to a chair and pulling a small footstool closer, made him place his foot on it.

Faramir unwrapped the bindings. The ankle was swollen and purpled with bruising. Turondil gently probed the affected area, and gave Faramir a sympathetic look as he hissed from the sudden pain.

“It will hurt, I know. It is best to let it out… scream if you want to, do not bottle it up inside,” he said softly.

Faramir felt tears prick his eyes, as his father’s words came back to him, so contrary to Turondil’s words.

“Quiet,” Denethor had hissed out when he had let out a soft cry as the healers had bound it tight, “It is a minor injury, no more. There is no need to for you to weep over it like a girl.”

Turondil’s fingers gently roved his ankle and shin, through the thin material of his leggings. Faramir thought the touch felt very different from the detached and rather painful probing of the healers.

“Would you move your tunic a little, child? Sometimes these injuries affect the knee as well.”

He raised the hem of his long tunic and pulled it back. Turondil pushed it up further, to mid-thigh, and squeezed his knee gently.

“Does that hurt?’ he asked.

“N-no,” Faramir said. Turondil’s hand moved to his thigh and squeezed again.

“I –,” Faramir stared at him in confusion.

The hand snaked up between his legs, and Faramir gasped as he was lightly fondled between his legs.

He rose off the stool, nearly falling over, “My lord!” he cried out, shame and panic warring inside him, as he stood there awkwardly, covering himself with his hands, “I – I don’t understand…”

“Faramir, I find I am most enticed by you,” Turondil said softly, moving closer to Faramir, his voice lower than ever. Faramir backed away, staring wildly around himself.

Turondil’s expression was warm and friendly as ever, his grey eyes still patient, but openly showing his desire.

“I must leave,” Faramir gasped out and turned swiftly, only to come up short against Lord Haldor.

“Lord Haldor,” he cried out, almost relieved.

Haldor grasped his wrists in one hand and then painfully twisted him around to face Turondil, wrapping his other hand around Faramir’s waist to hold him in place. Faramir grunted, trying to kick out his good leg, only to have Haldor kick the back of his knee sharply. He let out a cry and slumped in pain. It hurt everywhere, he realised in shock, his legs, his wrists, his stomach.

Turondil reached out and brushed a strand of hair off Faramir’s forehead, and then trailed his fingers over his face, coming to rest below his lower lip.

“I – no, I,” Faramir stammered wildly. He stared at the thin, gnarled fingers that rested lightly on his chin. They moved slowly down to his torso, resting on the skin exposed by the open neck of his tunic.

“I – I do not – understand,” he said desperately, struggling to free his wrists, from the vice-like grip of Haldor’s hand. The fingers dug deep into his wrists and he moaned as pain shot through his hands.

Turondil’s eyes darkened at the sound, and his other hand slipped lower, undoing the bindings on the tunic swiftly, till Faramir’s torso lay exposed.

“You don’t understand?’ he said gently, “It is quite simple really. I find you far too alluring and enticing to stand back and watch you merely turn pages in a book for me. There is far, far more you can give me, young one. And it helps a great deal that you are Denethor’s son. You remind me greatly of him in his younger days, although thankfully not in attitude.”

“I never thought of you like this,” Faramir said.

“Don’t be silly now, child. I can tell you want this… I have seen the way you look at me, with such longing.”

Turondil moved closer, his lips nearly brushing Faramir’s now. A hot wet mouth descended on Faramir’s and he acted almost instinctively. He kicked out at Haldor with his twisted foot, hoping the other man would not anticipate it, and then pushed Turondil off, shuddering as he remembered the feel of the wet mouth on his, the teeth scraping him lightly. Haldor yelled in pain as he hit his knee. Faramir slid out hurriedly and ran, stumbling over the cushions scattered on the floor.

Turondil however, moved with a swiftness that belied his age. As Faramir tripped over a large cushion, the older man’s hands clamped down on his shoulders, whirling him round, and taking him down falling onto the hard floor.

Faramir cried out, as his head came in contact with the hard floor. He felt a jarring sensation travel through his head and then the pain blossomed. He felt a strange haze descend over him as his aching head tried to process all that was happening… he hurt… there were shrill voices all around, and then was lifted… and there were hands all over him, touching him in places… he felt the rough cloth of his pants sliding against his lower body and then cold air…

Faramir came slowly awake to hurried voices and the strange sensation of hands all over him… touching him…

He moaned as he felt wetness on his cheek and then gasped aloud as he realised that Turondil was licking him, his tongue slowly lapping at Faramir’s cheek. He remembered being attacked and he remembered falling. His head throbbed miserably from the contact with the hard floor.

“He’s awakening,” a second voice spoke, and Faramir blinked slowly as Haldor’s face came into sigh, leaning over him. He made to rise, still confused, only to find that he couldn’t move. His hands were behind his back, tied he realised as his fingers scrabbled against the cold, hard floor and Haldor’s hands rested on his shoulders holding him down, on his bare shoulder. His legs were spread and tied, one to an iron fixture in the grate and the other to the foot of a massive table. The bindings pressed down on his various injuries hurting him further, but he was completely immobile. He was completely naked, he realised in horror, his pants and tunic lying on the floor some distance away.

He felt a touch between his legs and bucked up gasping. Pain shot through his neck and head but he ignored it.

Turondil sat between his legs, his long robe open revealing his tall, well-muscled frame. He stared horrified as Turondil’s fingers reached his groin, into the tuft of dark hair. He grasped Faramir’s limp shaft in one hand, and gently ran his long bony fingers over it. Faramir felt a strange sensation course through him at the unfamiliar touch. To his utter mortification, his body responded. He felt himself stiffen.

Haldor laughed delightedly, “Ah, it is his age, you need but a touch… do you do this at nights, boy? Touch yourself like this? You will certainly satisfy many,” he said chuckling.

Faramir stared at him in horror.

“No!” he gasped, as he was touched there, “Please… why are you doing this…”

Turondil moved back a little, hands still fondling Faramir’s shaft, his expression changing swiftly to a sneer.

“Your father thinks he is so great. He thinks I have views that are outdated and that just because I think our soldiers need to spend more time with their tutors learning history and language, I am craven. He probably thinks of you similarly! He disapproves too of Haldor and me because we are lovers. What do you think he will feel when I take you as a lover too? For I have decided I will.”

“As a – a lover?” Faramir wondered wildly if he had hit his head too hard. He must be hearing things. He must…

“Why do you think he spent so much time with you?” Haldor asked incredulously.

“I – I”

“It is because I liked you,” Turondil said patiently, as he squeezed Faramir’s member gently with one hand, and stroked his balls lightly with the other, using his nails to scrape at the sensitive skin.

“Please… please don’t…” Faramir moaned out as he felt a heaviness in his lower body that was not entirely unpleasant. He breathed in heavily as he felt the touch, only half-listening to Turondil as the fingers followed a steady pattern over his balls. Haldor was right, he had touched himself there often but never had he had such intense reactions.

Turondil removed his hands suddenly and sat back, rocking on his heels. Faramir looked at him through a haze that was caused only partly by the bump at the back of his head.

“I tire of this,” Turondil said, his tone full of annoyance, “Why do you think I spent so much time with you, gave you gifts and courted you with fine words? I have seen the way you look at me. You crave my touch, I know. You seek my approval so much…”

“I – I can’t… I would never see you as that. I wished my father were as you,” Faramir gritted out, painfully
.
“Do you want me to act as your father would?” Turondil asked calmly, “I would be most pleased to do so. You look quite beautiful when you are in pain.”

He ran a hand over the fading marks left by Denethor’s belt on Faramir’s side.

“I can certainly be like your father. Does he hit you often?” Turondil asked, almost dreamily, pressing down on one of the deeper cuts.

Moving away, he took off his own belt and stared down at Faramir’s now trembling body.

“What are you doing, Turondil?” Haldor said, worriedly.

“I will be all right dear,” Turondil said kindly, “I think our young one needs to be calmed down a little as well.”

“I’d like to hit you,” he said to Faramir, “I meant what I said about you in pain. I could not keep my hands off you today. Haldor wanted me to wait. He said we could convince you to join us in Pelargir and court you on a ship’s deck while watching the sunset over the river. But the taste I got of you in the archives that day while you slept…”

He laughed at the horrified expression on Faramir’s face, and running his fingers lightly over the now faded marks that Faramir had thought were insect bites, said, “Oh! We undressed you while you were sleeping. I just could not hold back. I know the herbs in the tea coupled with the herbs from the sweetcakes would keep you sleeping soundly for a few hours. We even marked you and you felt nothing of it at all!”

He ran his hands along the length of the belt, and then grasped one end. The end with the metal clasp hung loose.

“Hold him down, Haldor!”

The belt came down on the unprotected upper body. Faramir cried out as the buckle struck him. He lashed him again, this time on his groin. The lashes rained down repeatedly, even as Faramir bucked and writhed in pain, hitting his head on the floor yet again, despite Haldor’s efforts to hold him in place. Some landed on his stomach, some on his chest, some over his half-aroused shaft, all hurtful.

Turondil stopped after about ten strikes. He leaned down, still holding the belt. He brushed a finger over Faramir’s right nipple, and then scraped the clasp over it, back and forth. The younger man gasped, as pain melded with a strange sensation. He had touched himself painfully sometimes, but this felt utterly humiliating.

“I wonder if Denethor realises how beautiful you look when you are in pain?” Turondil murmured, dropping the belt and leaning closer to Faramir. He lowered his mouth to Faramir’s chest, and the young man felt teeth scrape one nipple, right where the clasp had scratched it, causing a burning pain to flare up. The tongue flicked out as a warm wetness surrounded the sensitive nub. He felt it stiffening despite his fear and shame. He tried moving, but Haldor was extremely strong and his struggles were to no avail. He felt tears fill his eyes

Turondil toyed with him for a few minutes, biting and pinching till Faramir’s pale brown nipples had turned a deep maroon.

Turondil rose, and looked at Haldor, “Would you like to taste him now, or will you wait, dear?”

When Haldor acquiesced, Turondil rose and they reversed positions. Haldor nipped and touched Faramir everywhere, on his nipples, his navel, over the painful welts and scratches left by the belt; he even swiped his half-aroused penis with his tongue.

When he sat back, Faramir had tears coursing down his cheeks and more aches and pains all over his body.

“You – you have to let me go. Father will be expecting me for supper,” Faramir stuttered. His head hurt so badly, it was difficult for him to think.

“Your father will not care much you know,” Turondil said gently, as he let go of Faramir’s shoulders. The young man lay back, unable to rise.

“He says so often, that you are an unnecessary child. I know you do not sup with him, and you do not even breakfast with him every day. And you have no sword practise tomorrow. We could keep you here for all of tonight and tomorrow and none will learn where you are.”

Haldor and Turondil exchanged places again. Turondil picked up two large square cushions from the floor.

“Maybe we could even take you to Pelargir with us. You could lie with us very day. I would enjoy that!”

“Here, let me show you how it feels,” he urged, pushing one of the cushions under Faramir’s hips. He pushed the legs further apart. Faramir cried out as his swollen ankle jarred against the floor, still held in place by the rope binding it to the grate.

“St-stop,” Faramir said, and wriggled desperately.

“Hush, sweet one, quiet now. Let me show you how desirable you are.”

Faramir felt the hands cup his buttocks, the bony knuckles digging into the tender skin painfully. He was lifted slightly, and the cheeks parted, revealing him completely to the lust-filled eyes of the older man.

“Excellent,” Turondil murmured, running a finger over Faramir’s entrance.

He gasped, as he felt the touch there, strange and unknown.

“Oh dear. I thought you might be untouched… but have you never even touched yourself so?” The older man said, shaking his head.

A finger ran lightly over the sensitised skin. Faramir shuddered. He felt fear wash over him, and scrunched up his eyes in shame. The nail scraped against his skin and he moaned softly.

His legs and wrists ached as the rope bit into them, his shoulders hurt from the weight of Haldor pressing down on them, his head continued to throb from the various bumps, his throat was already hoarse after his repeated cries… and he had no inkling what Turondil planned to do with him.

Turondil’s finger moved, the nail dug deeper into tender skin, painfully. A searing pain through Faramir’s buttocks and lower back made him buck up, screaming, eyes flying open to see Turondil leering down at him as he breached his entrance with his finger. He took a deep gasping breath, as he felt Turondil’s finger push deeper inside him.

Haldor moved one hand moved off his shoulder, and placed it on his chest, pressing him down, holding him in place as though he weren’t already ineffectual enough.

Turondil’s finger pushed further in… stretching Faramir’s entrance impossibly wider. It hurt, burning him as his muscles stretched involuntarily. When had those bony fingers become so fat?

“I should have used something to ease the way, perhaps,” Turondil said, his eyes gleaming now.

He pulled out suddenly and Faramir screamed at the pain. This felt worse than all the injuries he had received on the practice ground or from his father’s belt. His breathing became heavier, and to his utter mortification he felt Haldor’s fingers start playing with his nipples again. Turondil who had risen and walked away, returned now, and crouched between Faramir’s legs again. He held a small box in his hands.

“Lebethron oil,” he said, holding up the box, “Interestingly, one of its earlier uses was in binding books. Oh, also in thinning paint. Some of the older books in the archives still smell of lebethron at times.”

As Faramir stared through pain-clouded eyes, Turondil dipped one finger in oil, and then another, and then a third… Faramir stared at him in shock.

The first finger slid back inside, still too large for Faramir. It pushed in more and more. Faramir’s breathing became almost erratic … his body was reacting involuntarily squeezing around the invading finger, much to Turondil’s satisfaction, who responded by stroking Faramir’s inner thigh with his other hand. Haldor responded too by pinning Faramir down more forcefully.

Turondil kept pushing. Faramir felt the knobs of his knuckles push through him… he heard his own heart beating wildly. A second finger entered him… he felt them move apart, as though to spread him wider open… he struggled wildly realising what this would mean…

“We will do this again,” Turondil was saying, “You are far too tight though, even for your first time. After we are done, I will give you a wooden phallus. If you keep it inside you, it will help you stay stretched.”

When the third finger entered, Faramir heard a hoarse pain-filled cry, and then realised it was his own voice. He felt a hazy curtain of grey fall over his eyes, and let himself be pulled towards it, even as he felt the intrusive fingers push deeper and deeper into him. That would help him go away from the pain and the humiliation.

A strange sensation coursing through him, brought him awake. He jerked, shuddering, confused, as pain melded with something almost pleasurable. Turondil’s fingers were still inside him. Something moved and he almost howled, at the conflicting sensations coursing through him.

“There! We knew you’d like it,” Haldor was saying triumphantly through the ringing sound in Faramir’s ears, “Isn’t it most delightful?”

He hated it, he wanted to scream. He hadn’t wanted to feel like that, not when he was held down and being forced into it by men whom he had thought he could like and respect.

Turondil pulled his fingers out, and the pain returned again. Faramir felt tears course down his eyes again. He turned his head sideways, and sobbed harder.

A wet slap on his cheek brought him back to awareness. Haldor was patting him with a wet towel, he realised.

“Hush. Quiet now,” he said. Faramir stared at him through bleary eyes, and then looked up. Turondil was standing, he realised tiredly. And he had removed his robe. He stood over Faramir, completely naked now, rubbing the oil onto his penis. His erect shaft was long and thick, far thicker than any number of fingers, he thought wildly. It glistened wet, the bulging tip speckled with white flecks.

He knelt between Faramir’s legs again, grasped his buttocks, parted them and pulled him forward. Faramir felt the wet tip at his entrance and struggled wildly.

“No!” he squeaked out, his throat too hoarse to make a clear sound any more. He felt his entrance stretch painfully, tearing to make way for the large thickness. He felt his body jerk, his legs tugging painfully at their bindings, his upper body arching, so that his head fell back, even as Haldor scrambled for purchase. He let out a loud keening wail, as he was painfully breeched.

“So tight, wonderfully so,” Turondil murmured as he continued to thrust into him, his fingers clutching Faramir’s hips painfully. Haldor still held him down. The pain ran through him in waves as the thrusts intensified, faster and rougher.

Faramir was never quite sure what happened next… Turondil had still not entered him fully, when he suddenly pulled out, and sat back heavily on the floor, his expression suddenly very tired and very old. Faramir nearly howled from the pain of the sudden movement. There were shouts all around, the sounds of running feet. Haldor let him go, and Faramir fell back, hitting his again on the floor, this time so hard that he felt his teeth rattle.

Through half closed eyes, he watched Haldor scrabble up frantically, shouting something. Someone advanced upon him and a thumping sound followed. Turondil rose, and then staggered and fell over him. To Faramir’s utter humiliation he felt a wet stickiness spread over his stomach, groin and upper thighs.

Then Turondil was dragged off him, and he found himself free to move his upper body. He couldn’t move though. Everything in front of him was as though in a haze. He took a deep breath willing his aching head to clear. He heard angered voices and glanced across the room.

There was Calembil, he realised in shock, and Haleth, his father’s aide, and… his father – standing over Turondil’s bunched up figure, rubbing at his knuckles.

“Do you know what you’ve done, Turondil?” Denethor’s voice was low but forceful, “You have attacked an unwilling man, a council aide and a soldier in training. Do you know the penalty that you could get for this?”

Haldor was sitting on the floor, nursing a bruised jaw. Turondil was now half lying, half crouching on the floor, his hand held against his cheek, where a large bruise as beginning to blossom.

“You will exile me? There is little I deem more of a penalty than serving in your council!” he spat out, “That should please you as well should it not?”

Denethor snorted.

“He is your son too,” Haldor said suddenly.

Denethor turned to glare at him.

“He’s not just a soldier or an aide,” Haldor said stiffly, “That was your son we were taking against his will. He’s a fool though. We were giving him a way out. A life where he could pursue his interests foremost instead of always being at arms practice. We could have given him a life where he could be a scholar and if he desired, an intelligent soldier. But he has a misplaced sense of loyalty towards everything you ask him to do.”

“Enough!” Denethor said, “I have not brought the guards along, but I trust you will cooperate. You may go put on some clothes. I will see you in ten minutes. Calembil, I will be forced to take a decision. You are my witness when I declare that I was forced to take this decision because of what they have done here. Haleth, can I ask you to escort them to my chambers?”

Faramir stayed as he was as more footsteps sounded around him.

After it seemed everyone had left the room, he sat up somehow, ignoring the pain, almost falling over in the attempt. He felt the room spinning around him and groaned. Footsteps sounded again and he raised his head worriedly to see who had entered.

Father! He realised, even as the other man knelt behind him and undid the bindings on his wrists by cutting through them with a single stroke of his knife. And then he undid the bindings on his legs.

“F-father,” he stammered hoarsely, once his legs were free. He tried to rise, but found it difficult to do so. His legs and wrists were numb.

Denethor tossed his tunic and pants at him.

“Put those on,” he said curtly, “Can you walk back to your rooms?”

Faramir stumbled up, naked, still half-aroused, Turondil’s release dripping down his stomach, buttocks and thighs, and stared at his father.

“Father, I-”

“Can you walk back?”

“Y-yes.”

“You may see me before breakfast,” Denethor snapped out. He marched out of the room, his boots striking discordantly against the stone floor.

Faramir slumped down to the floor, shaking as the tears began to fall. After a while, he managed to rise and pull on his clothes.


Faramir was never quite sure how he managed to return to his chambers after that. But he did manage to stumble in. A tub of hot water had been left in his bathing chambers and he used it gratefully.

Dawn had broken when he finally rose out of the lukewarm bathwater, still shaken but finally dry-eyed.

Denethor was waiting for him in his study. His father looked tired, his face suddenly seeming lined and drawn.

“Father,” Faramir said softly, “I –”

“Quiet!” Denethor hissed out, his visage filled with the familiar hardness and anger. Faramir stepped back in fear.

“How could be so foolish?” Denethor lashed out, “Whatever were you doing there last night?”

“L-lord Turondil invited me to supper.”

Denethor snorted, “Ah yes. He invited you to supper. They lunched with you often. He gifted you books, I hear! And all this while, he appears to have touched you, poisoned you with sweetcakes, molested you in your sleep, and you realised nothing?”

“I should have known. You can’t even defend yourself!” Denethor continued softly, through gritted teeth, “Only you could fall for a trap of honeyed words and let yourself into such a situation. Anyone else would have seen through Turondil’s words and gestures!”

He stood listening, head bowed, unsure of what to say. Denethor spoke truly, he realised. He had been a gullible fool, taken in by a few kind words.

“Turondil is to be removed from the council,” Denethor told him, finally, “As is Haldor. They will not be exiled, merely removed from any post of governance.”

“I have told your armsmaster that you will not be attending practice for the next few days. Use the time you have wisely. Think of what has happened and what could have. As a future member of the council and my son, you are in a position where people would think of using you to gain their own end. I hoped you would have realised that by now.”

When he left Denethor’s study finally, he found Calembil striding down the hallway.

The other man gave him a sympathetic look. Faramir tried to ignore the sickening feeling in his stomach. He had felt humiliated enough when his father had found him naked in the archives with Turondil over him, ready to… he felt his face pale.

He felt sick as Turondil’s various actions over these last few weeks took on other meanings. He recollected the way the older man’s hands had often rested on his shoulder, partly on cloth, partly on skin, hands on his face, at his waist. The cool fingers splayed over his aching stomach and his chest the other day… bile rose to his throat and he stumbled forward, clutching his stomach heaving, as the tears came again.


He was sitting in the terrace near his father’s study later that afternoon, trying not to remember anything, when he heard voices. He slid behind a door quietly. He did not feel like talking to anyone but he somehow felt more comfortable here, knowing Denethor was nearby.

Calembil and Denethor walked out side by side, the late sun playing over their stern, hard visages. Faramir sidled behind a door. He didn’t feel like speaking to either of them right then. Their voices floated over to him, carried by the light breeze blowing in from the gardens.

“Faramir is lucky,” Calembil said, “He could have fared worse. However did you know? When I saw you hurrying down from the tower chambers, I wondered what might be wrong.”

There was a slight pause before Denethor replied in a slightly uncomfortable tone, “I was in the tower. I realised I hadn’t seen Faramir all day. He usually sends a message asking if I will join him for supper and there was none that day. I asked Haleth to look for him in our chambers first. One of the kitchen lads told him he had seen Faramir walking over to Turondil’s house. I never trusted Turondil, you know that.”

“It is strange how things have a way of working out in themselves. We would never have been rid of him in any other way.”

“There were times when I regretted allowing Faramir to get close to him, knowing his ways… but yes, perhaps it was all for the better! He is out of the way and Faramir too must learn that not all is as it seems.”

Faramir walked away, still feeling sick to the stomach.

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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Ulaire , VH

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8 Comment(s)


NB: Comments may contain spoilers!

Severely creepy, wonderful story. I’m sure Faramir is older than I think he is in this. Realistic enough to be nearly squicky but emotionally true. And your Denethor is rock solid.

Damn good story.

— Bell Witch    21 December 2008, 05:44    #

Thank you Bell Witch! I’m very glad you like it. I did hope it would be in line with what you wanted to see. Faramir is supposed to be in his late teens – around seventeen or eighteen or so, almost ready to leave for Ithilien, and just about old enough to start helping Denethor.

— minx    22 December 2008, 18:26    #

What I loved most about this story was all the different layers it had. It wasn’t merely a tale about some random, wicked person taking advantage of Faramir, but of Faramir being betrayed by someone he looked up to like a father. He found someone that praised him, showed genuine concern, and took an interest in what he was doing; rather than Denethor’s usual style of being strict and distant. In this story, Denethor is the one to be blamed for Faramir’s naivete, for if he had acted like a loving father should, Faramir would have seen Turondil’s actions for what they were.

Turondil himself isn’t a completely evil antagonist. He was only interested in Faramir when he learned that Faramir prefered scholarly pursuits instead war. He genuinely appreciated those that cared for the written and spoken word. Haldor, as well, saw that there was another way to live life than constant fighting.

Denethor was perfectly in character. He’s cold, indifferent, but ultimately cares much for Faramir. The last passage when Denethor explains why he decided to look for Faramir sums this idea up perfectly. He’s not a heartless father, but he has trouble showing it.

— Chantal    4 March 2009, 06:16    #

Thank you Chantal, for such a lovely and thoughtful review! I’m very glad all the layers came out as well as the greys in the characterisation. I really, really appreciate that you took the time to read this and to detail out your thoughts so well. thank you again!

— Minx    8 March 2009, 10:50    #

I can only agree with Chantal, my mind is totaly blank, how do you come up with such stories, so wellwritten and so… alive

— Ingrid    14 May 2009, 22:20    #

Ingrid: Thank you for such lovely words! I’m really glad you liekd reading this.

— Minx    18 May 2009, 19:22    #

What a terrible cautionary tale… very well done.

And I was disgusted by Denethor too: more interested in the political advantage he was able to gain than in protecting Faramir.

It’s even worse than just not protecting him: he deliberately put his son in this compromising position, knowing that Faramir was too young to understand the dangers of these much older acquaintances…

Even showing up at the eleventh hour is timed for maximum blackmail potential, not to rescue his son. Really horrible.

Powerful story!

— HU    8 July 2009, 08:30    #

HU: Thank you! I’m very glad all those aspects came through and that it works.

Thank you for reading and for the feedback.

— Minx    12 July 2009, 19:45    #

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Minx

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