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This story is rated «R», and carries the warnings «Implied rape and violence, gore and plenty of angst».
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In the Stillness of Night (R) Print

Written by Minx

30 March 2004 | 5385 words

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Pairing: Faramir/Legolas
Rating: R (should be enough I think, everything’s implicit)
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien Archiving: Drop me a line before you do
Warnings: Implied rape and violence, gore and plenty of angst
Summary: Plot-less one-shot intended to inflict physical and mental anguish on character/s – Two riders captured by an allied group of horrid men and Orcs, nasty things ensue.
Feedback: I’d especially love some for this one. Please do give, you’d make me very happy;-)– greenrivervalley@gmail.com


An ethereally beautiful golden-haired creature watched as the moonbeams played on the sleeping visage of the young man in his arms. While not an entirely peaceful slumber, it was at least not wracked by the violent nightmares that had become a usual feature. He held him delicately as one would hold a child, observing the lines on a face that had once held innocent wonder on first beholding him. Wondrously fair, the young one had called him. But true fairness of the heart this one alone possessed, this sleeping, grave faced Man in his arms, clothed even in the hot summer night in a sleeping robe that covered every inch of skin, as though the cover of cloth could hide within it scars etched deep never to go away completely. He held him hoping to take away at least the pain beneath them, if only he were allowed to.

He could offer naught but momentary solace, some comfort from the memory of a horrific ordeal. He had sought to slake his vengeance by joining the raiding party that had set out to catch the terrible monsters who had so hurt his beloved friend that he slept not in peace any longer. But it gave his angered heart no solace. It did not take away his friend’s hurt, his pain. It did not take away his own pain that the one on his arms had endured such for his sake. A sacrifice the slumbering man had gladly made – for him. And that when they had known each other for barely a few months. Mutual respect and affection had set off their friendship, but it was the horror and sorrow of their mutual experience that had taken it into a higher level.

Each night since that fateful night some moons ago, he had held this man who when compared to him was but a mere child on Arda, held him as his sleep had been mutilated by foul memories that he could push away with difficulty even when awake but had no control over when asleep, figments of memory of what started as a ride through the woods, and suddenly became an incident that would forever mar their lives. Proof that not all men were as noble as this one, or as the king he served, or the brother he had had. Some men were cruel without reason, driven by no desire but selfish ones, seeking to please none but themselves. And when such a kind met one of an ancient race marked for its grace and nobility, and one of their own kind known for his selflessness, the results were disastrous for both.

And unfairly, sometimes the results were more disastrous for the one who deserved it least. The selfless, fair-hearted ones lost more than those dark of heart and mind. Those fell creatures were dead now, killed by him and by his friends, actions backed by a wrathful king, shocked at what had been done to a loved and respected subject and friend by a group of selfish men and Orcs.

They had been beasts. They had outnumbered the two riders, a man and an Elf, and snickered at the thought of holding prisoner a graceful, fair and beautiful being from far off realms, and an equally graceful being of their own kind, one still recovering from hurts inflicted on him. Taunted and hit, the two had tried fighting back but been forced to give up, and dragged into a dark cave. He had seen it then, in the faint light that filtered through the cave. He had seen it in their eyes. The lust dripped maniacally from the greedy eyes, as their sight fell upon the two battered bodies. They had lain in pain against each other, hands and legs tied up, still harbouring some hope of escape. But, at that moment the hope had begun to die out. He knew the result of such lust on his kind, and braced himself for untold misery.

And misery did come, but not the sort he had expected. This was a worse misery for it fell to the lot of another to bear it, and he could do nothing but watch it unfold.

The men and Orcs were cruel beyond measure and devious as any. They pushed his companion at him. The young one had refused first, his grey eyes reflecting nothing but loathing and contempt for these foul men and their equally foul companions. But when one of the fell men grabbed him and pushing his long golden hair back, held a knife at his throat, the young man’s expression of hate turned to one of sorrow and grief. The eyes had begged forgiveness as their lips met. They were forced to hold it for long, forced to rub up against each other, still tied up. Then they had told his companion to take him. He had shut his eyes, feeling tears prick them as they egged the other on.

The young one had refused. His grey eyes held reassurance as they stared back at the Elf’s impassive countenance.

The men had kicked his companion. He still refused. The Elf had felt the knife at his throat again. The man had spat at them. And the Elf knew then that his friend knew it would kill him to be violated, just as much as the knife at his throat could kill him, and that the knife was a more pleasant option. He had seen a strange worried gleam in the young one’s eyes, but not realised that he had come up with a solution, a terrible one.

The men had tired of this sport. They had their own urges to satisfy; he could see how they bulged. One kicked his friend in his side, hard. He heard himself protesting, and a heavy hand landed on his own face, sending him toppling to the floor in a daze, hitting his head again. He could make out words, vague words, holding out a threat. Someone gagged him to prevent him shouting and clutched at his clothes and began to rip his tunic open. He fought and kicked and thrashed through his hazy state, coming into contact with bone and hearing with satisfaction the muffled curses. They retracted with violence, leaving him aching and sore and semi-conscious. His younger companion, meanwhile, was screaming, shouting and yelling, over and over again. The normally calm and serene voice was shrieking madly. It hurt his aching head just hearing the noise. He finally made out one phrase.

Leave him. He will not survive it. Take me. I will do as you wish, as many times as you please. Leave him be, please.

And he wanted to shout back at the innocent naiveté of the other. He knew such men. They would have him. They would have the young man first, and then they would break their word and have him. But his head hurt so badly, and then there was a grey fog in front of his eyes. Sporadic noises kept interrupting the fog. His friend was sobbing in pain and agony. His own body hurt terribly from the kicks and blows. But what hurt him more was less physical and more mental as what would constitute his most hateful memory developed seed in front of his horrified eyes before he gave into pain and tiredness, knowing that his friend’s terrible plan had worked.

Then he felt himself being shaken awake as something wet slapped his face. He opened his eyes to the leering faces of men and Orcs, a terrible combination if ever there was one. The unbearable stench of those foul beings hit his nostrils and his head ached as he tried to register their
promise to return shortly and similar treatment to be vented on him. He had not understood at first. His memories were blurred. Something had happened, he knew, but what it had been, his brain out of tiredness chose to block out. He lay upon a hard floor in a dimly lit enclosure, his clothes rumpled but intact, lips feeling sore under the cloth covering his mouth, his body aching, his feet tied. They had loosened his hands stupidly secure in the thought that he was too hurt from their beating to move.

And some distance away had laid someone – a naked and bleeding figure. Lying in an unimaginable position, leg spread out wide as though they had been pulled till he had screamed, and a pool of blood between them, that grew larger and larger each pulsing second. Pale and still lay the figure, completely unmoving, battered and beaten and violated. The only sign of life was the faint rise and fall of the black and blue chest, streaked with red lacerations where someone had let leather fly on it. Furious at the sight, he had torn away his loosened bindings.

Swallowing hard at the sight, he had crawled over to the young man, and gathered him up in his arms. There was no protest, nary a murmur of pain or any other emotion. Blood coursed down a lacerated back and chest and down the inner thighs through the shredded entrance. Blood mixed with the seed of each rotten creature that had so defiled one who had but walked on earth a few and thirty years. All over, the bruised body was covered with the same mixture, while out of a corner of the battered mouth trickled the gory proof of the further violations he had undergone.

The eyes had opened briefly, filled with fear, then seen him and fear had turned to shame. The man had tried to move away, pleading forgiveness for his cowardice through his swollen lips, but he had not let him go. He had held him, told him he was no coward, but the bravest creature he knew of. Held him until he fainted again from weakness and blood loss and other untold pains.

They had been rescued before the beasts could return, by a chance patrol. Shock and horror had greeted their presence. The state of the man in his arms could induce that in anyone. He had covered him gently with someone’s cloak, and handed him to his friend, the king. But the sleeping eyes had opened and the distraught mind had come to its sense briefly, only to scream. To the battered creature, any man was his violator. He had pushed his king away, fallen to the ground, and half crawled, half dragged himself to the only one he seemed to trust. So, the Elf ignored his own aches for they were mere physical hurts of a relatively mild nature, and had lovingly held the young one and carried him home, shielding him from prying eyes that could be unknowingly cruel.

He had clenched his teeth through the healing process. The now unconscious man had made no sound as his hurts were cleansed, and the grimness of his friends was soon transformed into a burning desire for revenge, as each ghastly injury was exposed. They had cleaned and stitched late into the night, and stuffed the man with sleeping draughts for there would be no comfort from the pain to ensue. A furious king himself led the patrol against the brigands, and the Elf joined him. Not one was spared. But the pain in the battered soul and body could not be healed.

As they had sat in the healing room, slowly and steadily, his vague memories of the ordeal had cleared as his own strength had returned. He could remember how his friend had pleased the beasts. Bent when they told him to bend. Spread himself when they asked him to. Given himself when grabbed. Stopped screaming in pain when asked to shut up. And submitted himself to be broken just so they would not hurt what he had termed a fair creature whom none should raise even a finger upon. He offered himself up for what pleasure they wished to derive, so they could take their lust out on one who could survive the ordeal than attack one who would simply fade away if subjected to such torture.

The first one had been enough to cause the young one to break. The Elf had seen untold pain and agony on the man’s face, heard an unearthly scream such as he had never heard before, and known that the younger being had lost something irretrievable. He had not wanted to see but he could not turn away from such anguish. Then the man had seen him watching, and tried to school reassurance into his features. Instead what had come had been another defilement, by a larger creature, and pain and misery were all that covered the once fine features. And shame. Shame as he glanced upon the Elf he had sought to protect. And the Elf knew not why, for to his battered mind, if anyone was to feel shame there, it was he. He who had lain there, with tears streaming from his eyes, unable to help while a young one he had known for so short a while, and not even one of his kindred, sacrificed something he could never regain.

They took leather whips to the battered body to make him more pliant, and laughed as the strokes fell on the writhing frame, already wracked by immeasurable agony. They had attacked his mouth, and made him pleasure them through his agony. They had fallen on him together, defiling his mouth as well, so that to the weeping elven being forced to watch the sight, it seemed there were just these monsters around, for his friend had vanished under them. The others had followed, and the grimaces had turned to whimpers of pain and pleading, as men and Orcs both had repeatedly raped one of the noblest men he had known to exist on Arda. Each attacked him more than once, satisfying weeks of pent-up desire in the slender body of one who had offered them everything he had in exchange for the spirit of a friend. The man had lain awake through most of the torture, the pain too much to let him forego consciousness.

And all the while, he had lain helpless, trussed up from head to toe, unable to move, unable to speak, his frustration building up slowly as neither voice nor action was able to manifest itself. And his friend’s innocence had bled out slowly, repeatedly, as he was mauled over and over again. Until finally, too horrified to bear the sight any longer, the Elf had closed his eyes, to the sound of his friend’s pained whimpers ringing in his ears, waking up only when one of the attackers had shook him awake. He regretted it. He regretted letting go of himself and forsaking him.

He knew if his own memories of the event shook him so much, it could only be worse for he who had actually gone through all that anguish, and in silence because they would not let him release the pain by screaming. Because they defiled his mouth when he tried to shout out his sorrow. So he screamed now, each night, in his nightmares. Releasing the cries that they had smothered then. The screams he had wished to indulge in but been prevented under threat of pain to himself and to the one who held him now. They were all the man released of himself. At all other times he was silent and withdrawn, at first cowering away from anyone at all but the golden one who had comforted him when he had first woken from his ordeal, and then as coherence had slowly returned, he accepted his friends but would still shy from their touch. None could near him but the Elf. And the Elf would stay near him at all times, and marvel at the lack of accusation that the pleading eyes held. He felt guilt for what the young man had undergone, but saw no blame in the grey eyes. All he saw was pain and a plea for succour. When he begged a tearful forgiveness for forsaking the young man through his ordeal by shutting out the horrific scene unfolding before his eyes, the other’s face had actually turned relieved and thankful. And he realised that the sense of shame still remained in the fragile mind.

All wondered if the young one would revert to his normal self ever. But men are no elves to fade away. Live through horror they must, and live he had to for none would let him do otherwise. And so he lived, a breathing shell of his former self, the light having left his eyes, only to return when the Elf with golden hair held him near. They consoled each other, one for his sense of failure and the other for the pain of a lost innocence.

Each night the Elf held the man while he slept. A man he had known for so short a time, yet felt like he had known for centuries, for in all the world, he had seen none such. If the need arose to spend each night in such a way, he would do it with no qualms. For the guilt would never leave his heart. The young one would never blame him, he was not of that kind as to blame others for what he took upon himself, but the Elf could never stop blaming himself. The only succour for him from the guilt that ate him daily when he saw the steward of the realm fight his fate was to aid him in any way he could.

But all that was required of him was his mere presence while the young man tried to sleep. And he gave that willingly, each night without fail.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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

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7 Comment(s)


NB: Comments span all chapters and may contain spoilers!

These two stories are so amazing in the emotional depth, there must be a 3rd one to round them out and bring closure

— Lucky    23 July 2006, 01:00    #

This was a profoundly moving and emotional story. The horror that Faramir experienced and the love in which he did it to save Legolas, is mind blowing. How sweetly you provided the healing comfort. A most satsifying read and compelling story this was.

Romanse    14 July 2009, 14:23    #

I read the sequel first, not knowing it was. This was just as superbly done and my emotional reaction to it, just as deep. Thank you for the courage to share such a moving tale of bravery and sacrifice.

Romanse    14 July 2009, 14:47    #

Thank you Romanse. I’m glad to hear all that came across. And I’m delighted you liked reading it.

— Minx    15 July 2009, 22:34    #

Romanse: thank you for such kind words. I“m really glad both fics worked:)

— Minx    15 July 2009, 22:36    #

Wow. I love it. The detail is incredible, as is the compassion. this seems exactly like what Faramir would have done.

— Asëa    1 January 2013, 08:48    #

Asea – thank you! I’m delighted to hear it works that way!

Minx    2 January 2013, 19:35    #

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Minx

This author also draws.

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