Faramir Fiction Archive

Darkness and Light (NC-17)

Written by Lilith and Minx

29 March 2004 | 29486 words

CHAPTER THREE

Dawn was just breaking and already the travellers had entered the mountains. Their night passage had been swift through the valley, the fleet feet of the elves matched by the determined pace of the man and dwarf. Only as they approached Silverlode, at the mouth of the Great River, would Aragorn consent to a brief rest.

Gimli and Rúmil immediately sat down to eat, leading to a spirited debate about the merits of lembas bread. Their argument assaulted Aragorn's ears, and he wandered alone to the riverbank and gazed towards the Misty Mountains.

"Oh, Faramir, please be safe," Aragorn whispered quietly.

"There is a strong connection between you and this man, is there not?" Haldir said, startling Aragorn, who had not heard his silent footsteps.

"Yes, there is," Aragorn admitted, "and I confess that I wish there was even more." He turned and looked at Haldir, tears glistening in his eyes. "That is why I cannot believe he is dead."

The man would be better off dead than alive and at the mercy of the Orcs, Haldir thought to himself. He remembered the days of Celebrimbor, long past now, when Moria had been a friendly place to the elves. Since the dwarves awakened evil in the mountains it had been avoided, but Haldir still pitied Balin and his kinsmen. The tale of their cruel fate had crossed the borders of Lórien, leaving no doubt about the brutality of Orcs towards their prey.

Haldir knew that these thoughts would not comfort the man beside him, so he searched for another topic. "How was your friend captured?" he finally asked. The elf did not really care about the details of the skirmish; he just wanted to distract Aragorn in the telling of it.

"We were overwhelmed by Uruk-hai as we fled from the bridge of Khazad-Dû m. Gandalf was already lost – he held a Balrog at bay, allowing us to escape, but then he fell –" Aragorn shuddered violently at the thought before continuing his story. "We knew we were close to the entrance. There was light there, real light that gave us hope that we might escape that accursed place. But the Uruk-hai were unstoppable. We fought them, even the hobbits that you met. They are small, and not given to battle, but they are fierce combatants when pressed."

Aragorn smiled sadly. "Legolas and Gimli were our advance guard, Faramir and I held up the rear. We finally made it to the last hall. We could even see the door at the other end. Faramir yelled for me to go ahead. Oh, I should not have listened, but I did." Tears spilled onto Aragorn's face now, glistening in the morning sun. "I didn't even see what happened. One minute he was there, the next I only heard his scream, and horrible sounds –" Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut and wept quietly.

Haldir wondered at his wisdom in bringing up this subject. He was about to say something else when Aragorn continued in a quiet voice. "The thing is, when I first met Faramir, I did not esteem him as he deserved. I saw him only as the second son of the steward, only a representative of Gondor – even as a liability for our quest." Aragorn sighed heavily. "As we travelled I learned there was so much more to the man. He is wise, and compassionate, and so brave. I never realized how brave he was. It was only in Moria, as we were fighting side by side, that I saw him for who he is. Oh valiant heart!" Aragorn cried out, "I've failed you!"

Haldir, Guardian of Lórien, had never given much thought to the relationships between men. The few men he had met in the past seemed uncultured and bellicose, their lives too brief to encompass the deep feelings and understanding that elves took for love. But hearing these words, he found himself strangely moved. He wrapped his arms around the man, holding him tightly as Aragorn wept for his friend.

---

"Faramir, awake!"

The voice, one he had not heard for thirty years, startled him from sleep. "Mother?"

"Yes, my son, I am here for you." Faramir felt a comforting hand smooth his tangled hair.

Faramir scrambled to sit up, but his eyes could see nothing but dark shadows. "Mother, where are you? I need you," he pleaded, his voice cracking like a child's.

"My poor little boy. I did hate to leave you those many years ago," Finduilas said soothingly. Faramir sighed as arms encircled him, and he relaxed into his mother's warm embrace. He felt safe for the first time in ages. Her voice held the promise of peace and comfort.

"Long was my struggle to stay with my sons. But I have ever watched over you and your brother. He has become quite the warrior."

There was a pause, then his mother's voice said, "But I have not been happy with what I have seen of you. You are weak, Faramir. You shame the entire realm of Gondor."

"It isn't true," Faramir whispered.

He tried to pull away from the embrace, but arms held him fast as Finduilas continued. "Nay, I speak justly. I had hoped for much more from you. Instead you let your companions down. They are lost because of your weakness."

"I tried to save them –"

"Yet even your best efforts failed. What could you have done? What could you ever do? You could not even save yourself. It was lore and dreams that you always sought, when you should have been studying swordplay like your brother. Your books did you no good in the end, did they, my son?"

The hatred dripping from these last two words was horrifying. "Mother, why are you saying this?" he whimpered softly.

"I say it for your own good," the voice replied haughtily. "You are no son of mine. You are a prisoner, the whore of beasts like Lurtz. My death was a blessing, for I could not live with this shame."

"No! It's not real! You're not real!" Faramir protested, struggling to wake up.

"Only Gríma Wormtongue cares for you now, Faramir. You have no one else."

Faramir awoke sobbing in the very real arms of Gríma. Feelings of revulsion battled with his desolation. Despising himself, he surrendered to his need for solace as Gríma's pale, thin lips covered his own.

---

Faramir shivered. The stone floor was very cold on his naked skin – and very real. At least this is not another nightmare, he thought, reaching out towards a dirty blanket lying on the ground. As he moved, a blinding pain shot through his lower back and he groaned sharply.

"Ah, you are awake, my precious," Wormtongue purred. He knelt beside Faramir, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. "I fear I have no travelling clothes for you. Those filthy beasts tore yours to shreds, and mine will not fit you." He appraised Faramir's body with hungry eyes, and a pointed tongue darted over his upper lip.

Then he abruptly stood up. "Nonetheless, Master will not abide any further delays. Lurtz has already poisoned his ears, no doubt, and your health can only be blamed for so long. We must ride tonight."

"How long have I been here?" Faramir rasped.

"Your third day as Master's guest is drawing to a close. You will meet him soon – he will be well pleased with this gift," Gríma added almost to himself.

As Gríma roughly pulled him to his feet, agonizing pain shot through Faramir's back. He tried to slide to the ground, but Wormtongue held him fast in his grip. By the time a riding cloak was fastened around his neck, the pain had subsided and he took the blanket that Gríma handed him to wrap around his waist. Then the shackles were refastened on his bruised wrists and ankles. "Just a precaution, my dear. If you tried to escape Lurtz would only find you again, and I doubt he would be as gentle this time."

He turned then, pulling his prisoner by the chains. Faramir groaned as they moved, his body aching with every step.

"We have only a short distance to go," Wormtongue purred, pulling the chains harder now. "My horse is hidden outside the Gates. Then we ride to Isengard."

Even this short distance was excruciating to Faramir. As they entered the hall where he had been captured, his mind reeled and he collapsed to the ground. Gríma tried in vain to lift him, but the young man was beyond his reach. Looking around, Wormtongue spotted a small, dark recess that might have once been used for storage. He dragged him into it, pressing his lanky frame into the tiny space as Faramir moaned in pain. Gríma cast a furtive look around the hall before withdrawing another vial from his bag.

Faramir could only moan as his throat was burned with Wormtongue's draught. The last thing he saw before the blackness overtook him was a fair-haired maiden, clothed all in white, save a golden braided rope around her waist. Her voice was soothing, entreating him to trust Gríma, his only saviour.

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