Faramir Fiction Archive

The Price (R)

Written by Minx

28 February 2003 | 34809 words

Chapter 2

Faramir lay in his bed, covered to his chin in blankets as he felt a chill descend on him. He had with great difficulty managed to clean himself somewhat, get rid of the blood and apply some salves, but it was not enough for his mind to feel at rest. He had always assumed he would give his life for Gondor’s sake, but what he had given up now seemed worse. His eyes welled up as he remembered how his father had stridden out of Fenekor’s room with not even a look of remorse on his face.

Does he not care? Would he have been so heartless if it had been Boromir? Would he have given him up so easily?

He was so sore, he could barely move, he had nearly bent over in pain more than once while trying to clean himself, and had had to crawl back to his bed, where he now lay curled up on his side because in any other position it hurt. He felt he had as much strength as a half-drowned kitten. His entire body was covered in bruises and welts, and Fenekor had promised a tomorrow. He shuddered at the thought of it.

He tried to block out the incident from his mind, the indignity and pain of it. And the feeling of betrayal, which festered all the more so because his father had not even bothered to come and see how he was doing.

Oh, father what have you asked of me? His eyes burned but the tears refused to come. It had all happened so soon, he was still trying to come to terms with what had happened. Barely an hour and a half earlier, one of the servants had told him his father had summoned him.

He had been a little apprehensive for he had already met his father once since his return from a stint with the company of rangers at Ithilien. Denethor had been curt and had listened without comment to his words, and then dismissed him immediately. Since then Faramir had not seen his father except at breakfast, the only meal they ate together, where they had barely spoken. Denethor would eat and leave, exchanging only the barest words with his younger son.

When the summons had come, he had been worried wondering if he had done some ill and angered his father for Denethor never called for him these days, but when he was asked to go down to one of the guest rooms in his wing, he had a faint flicker of hope too that perhaps his father might be giving him some task of responsibility.

He shifted as his muscles protested being in the same position too long. Waves of pain ran through his entire body with even the slightest twitch, and he could barely control the soft moans he made as he turned over onto his other side. Lying on his back was out of the question. He had tried lying face downwards, but his chest and stomach were too tender from the welts criss-crossing them.

He wondered quietly if his father might come and see how he was doing, surely he would. Boromir might be his favoured son, but surely even he, Faramir, merited at least a little concern.

Boromir!

Boromir was to come today. Had he come? And what would he think if he had not seen Faramir yet? Surely he would realise something was amiss, and come down to his room? He must not see him like this!

Faramir snuggled deeper into the blanket, ensuring that not a bit of skin showed through, glad that he had worn his old nightshirt that closed up at the throat and had long sleeves. If he pretended to be asleep when his brother came it would solve the problem. But why had he not come yet? Surely he would have noted his absence. Faramir had always been one of the first to greet his brother each time he returned form his soldiering duties. And this time, Faramir too had been out with rangers. His brother knew that.

As if in answer to his thoughts he heard a knock on the door.

“Faramir!” his brother’s voice wafted through the wooden door, and too late, Faramir realised he had not latched it. He shut his eyes, and curled in even more, willing himself to stay calm.

The door slid open, and he heard the sound of movement across the bare uncarpeted floor. Two sets of footsteps.

Father?

Faramir’s eyes flew open involuntarily, eager for the sight of Denethor hoping he had come after all, but he hadn’t. It was someone else. In the fading light he could make out a fair pleasing countenance, and a tall and lithe but well-toned figure.

“Faramir! Are you unwell, where have you been? I thought you would have to throw you out of my room tonight as I always have to when I return, instead I find you in bed already, and it is just a little past sundown.” Boromir ranted.

“Boromir,” he was surprised at how normal his voice came out, soft and a little scratchy from all the screaming but calm nevertheless, “You have arrived.”

“Are you unwell?” Boromir repeated.

“Nay, I am all right, merely a little tired,” Faramir responded still wrapped up in his blankets, “When did you come?”

Boromir stared at his brother a little disappointed, “Yes, but surely you knew I was coming at midday? Where have you been all day? In the libraries?”

He laid a hand on his brother’s forehead looking for signs of fever relieved to find none but at the same time angry at his impolite behaviour. The room was dim and he could barely make out the expression on his face, for the shadow of the walls fell over his features revealing little, or he would have seen the raw pain and sorrow in them.

“I am well, Boromir, merely very tired, that is why I retired early,” Faramir repeated, still clutching the blanket, trying to move as little as possible.

“Will you join me in a small supper in my rooms?”

Faramir shook his head, “Forgive me brother, I am very tired. Can we not do that tomorrow?”

“Very well,” Boromir said, a little coldly. He did not mean to sound so, but it annoyed him when he saw that Faramir did not look all that overjoyed to see him as he always had earlier.

He thinks he’s been out once with the rangers so he’s all grown up now.

“Are you not going to introduce me to our guest?” Faramir interrupted his thoughts.

“It would hardly be polite while you are still in bed,” Boromir said tersely, “but seeing as nothing will induce you to abandon your comfort, this is Haldir of the Golden Wood, whom I met in Edoras all those years ago. He is here for the council.”

“Eight years ago,” Faramir said suddenly, “at the archery tournament wasn’t it?”

“Yes, nearly a decade,” Haldir nodded smiling.

“It is good to meet you, Haldir, forgive me for not rising but I am not dressed to receive company.”

Boromir stared amazed, surely Faramir would not be acting so modest as to refuse to appear in front of another man in his nightclothes!

He shook his head slightly, disappointed at the seeming changes in his brother.

“I bid you a good night then,” he said coolly, “We will meet when you have recovered sufficiently from your hard labour in the library.” He regretted the words immediately for even in the dim light he sensed rather than saw a look of hurt pass his brother’s face, but what was said was said and he would not take it back now.

“Good night Boromir,” came the small voice, “I bid you a pleasurable stay in Minas Tirth, Haldir.”

Boromir was quite unhappy as he led Haldir down the hallway.

“I am sorry for my brother’s impoliteness Haldir, he is tired, and not himself,” Boromir said.

“He seemed worried,” Haldir told him.

“Worried?” Boromir could not keep a trace of anger from his voice, “What has he to worry about, he has not spent all these years staving off Mordor’s shadow. He has served barely two months in the army, now. No, his worries are trivial.”

But even as he said that Boromir knew he was not quite right. Faramir’s worries were ones he knew he’d never know. For he would never know what it was like to feel unloved by a parent. He knew Faramir hurt a great deal from Denethor’s treatment but he was still angry with his brother. Faramir had never before let his disappointment at his father’s remarks come in the way of his love and respect for Boromir. So all he could assume now was that his brother had changed. Faramir no longer loved him as much as he did earlier; he no longer thought Boromir was the centre of his existence.

“You are weary, and it is clouding your mind, sleep the night through, and you will feel much better,” Haldir’s voice broke through his reverie, but he recognised the wisdom in the soft-spoken words.

The coldness in Boromir’s voice had not escaped Faramir and when his brother left he let his mask of control slip, as the tears flowed down his cheeks. He felt a pain clutch his heart. His brother was angry with him, and he didn’t blame him. He must have sounded so rude and hateful, refusing to get up, refusing to sup with Boromir, and probably insulting one of his friends.

He willed himself to try and sleep, but sleep would not come. He wished he could sit by the window, and let the cool night air touch him, but he could not think of moving. He stared instead at the window, into the sky outside, full of stars, and was reminded of his days at Ithilien, under the commander of the rangers. He had learnt much, from a slightly unsure youth of twenty-one to a more confident and tactically intelligent warrior. But he had a long way to go before he became like the older rangers. He sighed softly as he remembered the nights spent outside, sleeping on the soft earth, the smell of grass and heather in the air, the stars in the sky. And the tears continued to fall.

When he awoke, the sun was already up, and it took him a while to realise why he felt so terrible. The herbs he had ingested the night before had left their influence, he felt lethargic and his head ached. So did the rest of him. Slowly, like the pages of a book, the past day’s events unfolded themselves in his fogged mind, with crystal clarity, each shard of memory wrenching a knife deeper in his heart.

He rose from the bed, slowly, painfully, almost bent over like an old man. Each ache in his worn body hit him like a hot skewer. The slaps to his face had thankfully not bruised noticeably, and his lips had been healed by the salve. He felt a little faint too and realised he had not eaten since midday the day before. And though he was not sure he could eat much, he knew he should have some nourishment at least. Denethor would not hear of him having breakfast in his room, for the first meal of the day was always held in the great hall. He would have to go down. And he might as well, or Boromir might come here himself. For the first time ever, he was thankful, his wing was so far from his brother’s. Hardly anyone came here. But that was why Fenekor could do as he pleased too with no disturbance.

The thought of the man from Harad plunged him back into despair.

When he finally managed to get ready, ignoring the protests from his aching muscles, and reached the hall, having walked down the long halls and winding staircases at an extra slow pace, he was flushed from his effort, and feeling very faint. He was also obviously very late, judging by the barely contained annoyance in his father’s face.

Faramir realised with a start that they had guests at breakfast. Haldir was there, as were two more elves, two dwarfs, and men from Rohan and Dol Amroth and Fenekor and one of his men.

“You are late.” Denethor did not even raise his eyes from his plate. Even Boromir gave him only the tiniest of glances and then looked away, his expression completely unreadable.

“I apologise,” he directed it to the entire table, and hurriedly slipped into a place between Denethor and Haldir. The seat was hard and he winced a little as he sat. It still hurt him and he was also careful not to rest his back against that of the chair. Boromir sat to the other side of his father talking to one of the Rohirrim. Haldir sat speaking to the other Rohirrim and one of the other elves, leaving Faramir with no one to talk to. His father ate in silence, occasionally nodding at something the Rohirrim near his brother would lean over and say. Boromir would interject often too, and Faramir could not prevent the pang of jealously as he watched father and son talk.

He never says a word to me during meals, now he talks with Boromir of horses.

He picked at his food, stealing glances every now and then at his father to see if he was looking at him. But Denethor had no eyes for his younger son. Across the table, Fenekor gave him a polite glance once. Nothing more. Somehow that scared Faramir more than if that glance had been a smirk or a leer. He was still picking at the food when the others rose. Denethor glanced at him briefly as if in impatience and then stood up, the others following him. Faramir too pushed back his chair and made to get up.

“Finish you meal,” Denethor bade him gruffly, and then turning to the others said, “Gentlemen we meet at midday then, and the council begins at first light tomorrow, as agreed.”

As the others filtered out of the room, Denethor called Boromir back, “Meet me in my chambers now.” He told him.

“And, Faramir, I wish to see you, alone, as soon as you have finished your meal.”

Before Faramir could reply he strode out followed by Boromir, who still would not look at his brother.

Faramir ate what he could slowly, for otherwise, he felt nauseous, and finally upon finishing it headed for his father’s chambers. He wondered why he had been called alone, and then realised his father probably wanted to ask after him. There could be no other reason, he had given his report on Ithilien, he was not in the council so it could not be about that, it must be as he thought. It made him feel decidedly better.

He knocked on the door and entered as bade. Boromir was sitting on the couch leafing through some papers, a cup of herb tea in his hands. Denethor sat at his table, another cup in his hands. Faramir was suddenly struck by how companionable it all looked. Denethor was pleased with Boromir’s performance, there had been no secret about that. He had literally killed the fatted calf on his eldest son’s return.

“Boromir, go through those papers carefully, and I will expect you at the council at first light tomorrow.” There was a hint of pride in the words; one Faramir never got to hear.

“Yes sir,” Boromir rose and headed for the door, nodding at Faramir as he passed. Just a small, polite nod.

Faramir shut the door behind him and stood in front of his father’s desk. The faintness had gone though the aches and pains still screamed. He wished he could sit on that lumpy couch but Denethor had not given him leave to do so. Denethor rarely spoke to him for long however, so he never offered him a seat, or herb tea for that matter, a small voice in his mind told him.

He stood quietly as Denethor began to speak.

“I have received a report from your commander at Ithilien,” Denethor’s calm voice hit Faramir. Ithilien, he called me to talk of Ithilien, not of last night.

“So he is willing to have you under him some time longer. You will make ready to leave within a fortnight.” Denethor’s closing words pierced through the haze in his head, and he stared at him quietly.

“Yes father,” he said when Denethor gave him a baleful glare.

“You may leave now,” Denethor dismissed him.

“Father, I –” what was he to say? Surely, it was to Denethor to say something?

“Yes?” Denethor snapped looking up from his papers.

“Nothing father,” he muttered and sidled out of the door. The faintness returned with a vengeance. He made his way back to his wing reeling in pain and exhaustion. Stumbling down the hallway with half-closed eyes, he pulled up short as he hit something.

“Well, beautiful one, looking for me?”

He felt himself being dragged into Fenekor’s room, the door being latched shut, and then he was pushed up against the wall. He cowered slightly as Fenekor held him against the wall with just one arm, and then pressed onto him. Fenekor was huge and he completely dwarfed Faramir, as he kissed him violently once again. Then he was thrown to the floor, on a thick carpet, on his back. Fenekor began kneeling down, and then holding Faramir’s hands flat against the floor suddenly brought his knee down on Faramir’s crotch, grinding it in hard through his clothes, causing the young man to scream out in pain, and buck against the attack.

Faramir sobbed aloud as the grinding continued, until Fenekor equally suddenly removed his knee, and released the Gondorian’s hands. He curled over clutching himself in pain, only to look up in horror as he heard the crack of the huge whip Fenekor now held in his hands.

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