This story is rated «R», and carries the warnings «AU (for yet undisclosed reasons), incest and graphic content with gross-out potential. Not for prudes. ».
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21 June 2008 | 6893 words
Title: Trail of Tears
Rating: a harsh R
Warnings: AU (for yet undisclosed reasons), incest and graphic content with gross-out potential. Not for prudes.
Author’s Note: Boromir at one point presents himself and his brother under fake names. When Aragorn (Thorongil) thinks of them, it is by the fake names he is given by Boromir, when they look at things from their point of view, it’s Boromir and Faramir. It might just get confusing at a point, but bear with me :P
Archivist’s Note: This story is accompanied by an illustration by the author.
Written for the 2008 Midsummer Swap.
Request by Laurëlóte: When Faramir gets word that Boromir has not returned from his latest diplomatic mission he sets out with two of his rangers towards Harad to find him. (Bonus points for one of the rangers being Malblung doing his best father figure act) Aragorn is a wandering ranger who has either: found Boromir and is taking care of him, OR offers to help find him. Boromir and/or Aragorn pairing. R rated or above please. Fluff should follow much angst on Faramir’s part.
„Sweet boy, come in
I am the dark side of you
Die for my sins
One once did
For your unashamed appetite
This dance will hurt like hell
Oh, bare grace misery
Just a child without a fairytale am I”
(Bare Grace Misery — by Tuomas Holopainen)
Faramir’s wounds hurt, even days after they had been inflicted upon him, and he had to sit very carefully, because even his butt was bruised. But this time he had had it coming. He had managed to annoy Boromir, whom he worshipped, and he had received the beating of his life. Moreover, he understood now, he had almost given away vital information, thus jeopardizing Gondor herself.
In another world, nothing would have justified the harsh treatment, but in this one, Faramir’s behaviour could have cost them the safety of Gondor.
Boromir had been crying bitterly as his arm kept coming down to deliver blows to his little brother’s naked back. But it was either that or letting Denethor judge him for betrayal, which had only one punishment in Gondor.
They had not had the chance to say goodbye, and Faramir knew how heavy with grief his brother’s heart had been as he had ridden out of Minas Tirith at dawn on the following day.
Something was making him restless. It was as if his mind had been numb and now it was struggling with something, needing to push it out and away.
By the time night fell and the Steward’s second son lay himself gingerly down into his lonely bed, he knew what his state of mind meant.
He fell asleep in his own cold sweat, tossing and turning almost until dawn, when exhaustion caught up with him.
In the morning, his mind was troubled by what it had seen in slumber, but it was also made up. He would ride out to find him and bring him back. Gondor’s most precious jewel had to be returned to its rightful home. Boromir could not fall! Gondor would follow him into ruin, but before that, Faramir would fade from grief. Boromir was his entire world.
The outpost was quiet and all things seemed in their place. Faramir spoke the words in the darkness and the stone wall began to move, allowing him entrance. Mablung greeted him, and even by the light of the small torch, the older man was shocked by the state his captain was in. The haunted expression on Faramir’s face made the questions die upon his lips, so he saw to getting Faramir someplace warm and safe to rest after the road. He boiled water and put herbs in it, hoping the infusion would help the young lord.
Mablung had been a Ranger for a long time, and although he was the oldest of the company, he did not object to young Faramir being their captain. This was not a prissy aristocrat who worried about how his lace sleeves flutter in the wind. Faramir had grown up among them, doing the hardest chores, scraping his knees and taking blows and wounds just like they did; he had bested them all one by one and on the day Mablung had fallen to the ground with the tip of Faramir’s sword pointed at him, they had all known the little one was ready.
Even bruised and marked by deprivation, Faramir was a fair lad, perhaps too fair for their fate. They were Rangers who dwelt in the wild for months, who ate what the forest gave them and slept in the same clothes they fought and bled in. Faramir was a modest, deadly-accurate and effective warrior. No one had ever seen him lose his temper and inner balance, especially not in battle, when he fought as if killing was the first thing he’s learnt, even before breathing. In everyday life though, and Mablung did worry about this part, Faramir was incredibly shy, almost fearful, avoiding the company of young men his age and that of maidens. To his knowledge, Faramir still did not know a woman’s touch, and he had obstinately refused touches of men, be they offers for comfort or more.
The weathered Ranger could not help feeling protective of their young captain. Although he trusted Faramir’s instincts and keen senses, at times Mablung wished he could give him back something of the childhood the young lord had gone over, being thrown directly into training and battle very early on.
Mablung had children of his own in a few villages around Minas Tirith, children he loved dearly, and although they had grown up with less clothing and food on their tables, it still broke his heart to see his lord’s son not knowing how to spin a circle or how to carve a horse out of a piece of wood. So he did his best to “pamper” Faramir as much as their mission allowed, waking him up last, making him infusions when he was cold and showing him how to play the flute. The other Rangers were snickering good-naturedly on such occasions, but Mablung did not care, not when his reward for the small efforts was Faramir’s beaming smile.
Now, looking at the poor state Faramir was in, the older Ranger wanted to hold him and somehow take his obvious pain away. He knew that if it had been him instead of the young captain, he would have cursed and screamed loud enough to upset the gods. Faramir was livid from the effort of reining in his reaction to the pain he was in.
The reason he had ridden out in his condition had to be dead-serious. Boromir.
“He is missing, Mablung. He was supposed to return to us three days ago. He has fallen on Haradhrim land, I must get him back!”
“You shall not go alone. It is dangerous and risky. Ohtar and I are coming with you.”
“Nay, I cannot ask that you risk you lives for a personal pursuit of mine.”
“A personal pursuit, my lord?! Boromir is the future ruler of Gondor! He cannot be left behind to perish in a wild forest!”
Faramir did not argue further and snuggled deeper into the wolf skin Mablung had wrapped him in.
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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: enkemeniel , dream.in.a.jar , Dís , wingy , rothesis , , Mel