Faramir Fiction Archive

In the Stillness of Night (R)

Written by Minx

30 March 2004 | 5385 words

Pairing: Faramir/Legolas
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Archiving: Drop me a line before you do
Warnings: Angst, implied rape and violence
Summary: The aftermath of a terrible ordeal.

Notes: This is more of a companion piece to In the Stillness of Night. Reading that first would help. This is Faramir’s POV of the events there. A reader mentioned she’d like to see this POV. I wasn’t sure if I could do it then. Well, I’m trying now. Hope it comes out fine.

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Aftermath

It hurt. Pain clouded his senses, but not enough to make him ignore what hurt him more, the shame. He had wished and prayed that the blackness would take over. But it had not happened. He had been awake, and worse still aware, as the pain had intensified. And the more it hurt, the more aware he became of it. And the more aware he became of other things. Such as the alarm in a pair of blue eyes that stared at him in horror, the feel of a sticky wetness trickle slowly down his legs, the singing noise the lash made before it came in contact with his skin, such as the leer on a fell face before his mouth was forced open, the biting of nails into his scalp as his throat filled up with a taste so foul he had thought he would rather be poisoned.

They would not let him scream.

The blue eyes turned away filled up with tears, and he was glad. His companion was so pure, so kind, and so fair in heart. He could not face him after this, he who was now completely defiled. They were mere acquaintances, having met but lately in a time of war.

He could do nothing but whimper softly. They left him with a parting caress to his bruised cheek. He had not even the strength to flinch from the touch.

The same blue eyes held his gaze as he lay in the comfort of his arms. He was torn, bleeding and despoiled, but his friend still held him. He was a coward but his friend still held him and called him brave. He wanted to scoff; no one ever called him brave. Bravery was for warriors. He was no warrior now. He was the toy that had been played with so much in so little time that he felt broken beyond repair. He was fit for no more than to be thrown into a corner where he could lie in his miserable state. He tried to move but the Elf would not let him. He gave into the blackness then.

When awareness returned, he knew they were outside, no longer in that cave they had been held in. The arms that held him were not his friend’s comforting arms. He panicked. These hands had hair on them, and the palms and fingers were callused. It was going to happen again. He could not survive it again; he knew that. All he wanted was to bid his friend farewell and to thank him for holding him. It hurt but he moved. Pain flared up, overwhelming him, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it until his friend’s long smooth limbs circled his battered frame. Then he let the pain take over, a pain so great it rendered him insensible.

He wandered through the dark recesses of his mind, attempting to shut out terrifying pictures. From very far away, he could hear voices. They spoke harsh words, in anguish and anger and he found himself cowering away from them. He struggled away from the haunting thoughts, opening his eyes to a white wall, and more faces. He wanted to move, to get away but he could not. Pain rippled through his very being and he wanted to scream but then he remembered – he must not scream or they would hurt his friend.

His friend…

He blinked and re-focused his eyes. His gaze fell on serious grey eyes in a face framed by dark hair. His breathing became more rapid. Where was his friend? What had they done to him? What had they done to the golden one? The only one who gave him comfort?

The dark haired man placed a hand on his head, and he automatically felt tears well up in his own eyes. Not again! There were others too, but not the golden one. He felt fear flood his heart and even breathing became a struggle. He had to get away!

He tried to move but the man stopped him. He felt a rough hand come in contact with his bare shoulder. His breath caught once again. The he realised he was lying between clean white sheets, and his upper body was covered with strips of white cloth. It only served to confuse him more.

“Is he awake?” the voice cut though his fear-filled mind.

His friend had come. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a shrill whimper. The golden one came closer to him and he moaned again. It took all his effort, and sent rivets of agony through his entire back but he somehow managed to push himself up and reach out for him. The dark-haired man exclaimed uncertainly.

His friend moved forward as fast as lightning and caught him up. He held him in his arms as he cried. The dark-haired man tried to pull him away. He felt his heart turn cold. What was going to happen now?

“No, Aragorn, you are scaring him!” he heard someone say.

Aragorn? He knew that name from somewhere…

“They will pay for this!” he heard the wrathful words, and wondered if they were aimed at him.

He cried on. The tears would not stop. He hurt everywhere. His back stung, his mouth hurt when he moved his lips, his lower body seemed on fire. He clutched at the cloth of a green tunic.

“Ssh, it is alright,” he heard the voice he longed to hear, and looked through the veil of water into clear blue eyes, “No one will harm you now.”

But the men were still around them. What was his friend saying?

“No,” he moaned, “They must not touch you. I will not let them touch you.”

A tear fell from one blue orb. He was scared now. Had they already hurt him? Had they forced the elf as they had done with him? No! The Elf would not survive. He had failed in his duty!

“Why do you cry?” it hurt to speak, but he must know, “did they – did they -?” he could not say the words, they only reminded him of what he has been through.

“No, they did not,” more tears fell from the blue eyes, “you stopped them, my friend.”

“Then why do you cry?” his voice was becoming more and more hoarse, the words dying out at the end of each sentence.

“Faramir…” someone touched his face and he felt more pain. He wanted to move from the touch but the golden one will not let him.

The hand moved to the Elf’s shoulder. It was going to happen again! He cried out and launched himself at the man, using every ounce of his depleted energy. Spots danced before his eyes, his ears rang shrilly, and a searing pain erupted through his entire body. They crashed against the wall.

It seemed pandemonium erupted. There were running steps and shouting voices.

“I will kill them all,” his golden one’s voice, but something had happened to it. He heard anger in it.

He was on the floor, curled up in pain. The man neared him, and he felt fear ripple across him as grey eyes stared at him – with concern? Concern?

Then he was back in the comforting arms again.

The man was speaking to someone else now, “The troop is ready. I am leading them.”

More voices sounded. Something cool was held to his bruised mouth. He felt something enter his mouth and stiffened. But this was not the foul release that had filled his mouth earlier. This was cool and tasted nice. The liquid flowed down his parched throat, and he felt his mind turning foggy.

“I will lead them. I am king, and that is my steward. He swore me his allegiance from the day we met. I will lead the party and we will hunt down each and everyone of those filthy brutes who have reduced him to this state!”

The words reached his ears but meant little too him then, as he burrowed his head against a slim but firm chest and breathed deeply.

“And I will come too,” his friend spoke.

He felt almost dizzy with fright. Where was he going?

“Don’t go,” he tried to say but the words would not come out. Oblivion came instead and he wearily accepted it.

They had thrown him at his friend. Their mouths met under duress, under threat from a knifepoint poised over the Elf’s throat. He took comfort from the tenderness he felt from his friend and tried to give back reassurance for he had already known, deep inside, what he would have to do. He took strength from the warmth of those beautifully sculpted lips, and from the touch of the other’s body. They tried to force him upon his friend. He refused. He knew they would not accept refusal and that merely served to strengthen the plan that was taking seed in his mind. It was inevitable, and nothing could prevent what was to happen.

He reacted by spitting at them, hoping to divert their attention on him. It didn’t work. They made for his friend. He knew enough about the Elf’s kind that what they intended to do to him would destroy him. So, he put into action what he had planned.

He was thrown to the ground as soon as he offered himself up. Lust dripped from maniacal eyes. He felt his clothes being ripped off. His legs were pushed apart. They were stronger than he was, and many in number. His legs ached and he cried out in pain so they hit him. When the first, man or Orc he could not tell, entered him, the nightmare started. He screamed, and found his mouth had become another source of pleasure for them. He felt them rip through him, and shred him, not once or twice or thrice but many, many times. Pain was replaced by shame and degradation.

He screamed.

He was in a white room, and no one was around him. He sat up panting heavily, fear filling his mind with terrible thoughts. He was alone, all alone. It scared him even more.

He screamed again.

Someone ran into the room, he kept screaming.

Hands held him down, and he screamed louder. Something was slipped into his mouth and he gagged, but swallowed it. The next time he awoke the golden one was there, talking to somebody.

“We found them and finished them off.”

He whimpered in pain and the Elf immediately looked towards him with relief in his eyes. He tried to sit up, but the Elf stopped him and instead came and sat by him and held him gently in his arms. He closed his eyes.

Memories flitted through his wandering mind.

A stern fatherly face, a loving brotherly face; he knew somehow he would not see those in his waking hours anymore.

Water, fire, war… and an assault.

Every now and then, they would clear and peace would come upon him. He heard voices he recognised and loved.

When he awoke next, some semblance of awareness returned. He was back in his city in a healing room. They had dressed him in a soft, thin tunic. He looked into a dark-haired man’s face and recognised his king, “Sire?” he asked, his voice raw and soft and full of self-loathing.

“Rest, my friend,” his king said, relief evident in his voice.

Others flitted in and out, healers, his uncle, a neighbouring king, a beautiful elven woman, he knew them all, but he had no wish to speak to them. All he wished for was his friend.

When the king returned later, he opened his mouth, “L-”

“I am here.”

And he was. The only one he wanted near him.

It was a very warm night. He felt a cool, soft hand on his brow.

“Legolas,” he whispered softly. He hated how his voice sounded but he could not raise it any louder without being assaulted by a fresh wave of memories.

“Go back to sleep,” his friend said soothingly, running a hand through his hair.

“Why do you sit here?”

He realised he was being held, carefully and tenderly, in the Elf’s arms.

“I wished to see how you fare,” the Elf replied.

“I am well,” he said softly, knowing as well as his friend that it was a lie. He could move around now, and the physical pain had subsided greatly, but there were aches that went deeper. Aches he could see mirrored in those blue eyes.

He had asked about it some days earlier. And the Elf’s answer had startled him. His friend felt guilt for not being able to watch what happened to him. He begged his forgiveness for turning his eyes away.

He could not hide his relief. His shame had no witness now. His attackers he knew were dead.

He looked into the Elf’s eyes now, and saw the sadness had still not left them. All was still around them. Outside in the warm summer night, nothing moved, not even a leaf. His thick robe felt too warm but it was the only one he felt comfortable in.

“I am well,” he repeated softly.

The Elf nodded sadly and brushed his lips with his brow.

He closed his eyes and let sleep overtake his benumbed mind.

The End

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