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This story is rated «NC-17», and carries the warnings «Non-con, torture, psychological torture, AU canon divergence, dark!fic».
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Unholy Light (NC-17) Print

Written by December

12 December 2018 | 1557 words | Work in Progress

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Author’s note.
Alright everybody, I am sorry about this. It’s my first (and quite unplanned) dabble into the dark fic realm. I blame it all on watching too many compilations of the GOT most brutal scenes in one go. This may never live up to that standard of gruesomeness, but you have been forewarned.


Part 1.

As the sun rises, the King’s page comes running to tell the new Steward that his younger brother has finally awoken.

That walk to the Wards seems like the longest journey in Boromir’s life.

It is a bright morning, the empty corridor airy and full of light.

He stands silent before the shut door.

Gathering strength.

He draws a heavy breath, feels his fingers curl into his palms. He would rather face a horde of Uruk-hai, than this.

It had taken weeks, and all of the healing wisdom left in the kingdom to nurse Faramir back to life, and Boromir should be rejoicing in it more than anyone, and yet…

The knot in his stomach is so tight there is a distinct possibility that he might literally be physically sick.

Without warning, the door opens in his face.

Aragorn steps out, wiping his hands dry on a towel as he walks.

His expression is pointedly contained, as though he has no reason to have anything other than practical tasks on his mind.

“I was just changing his dressings,” the King explains. As though it is actually important.

Boromir purses his lips, nods. As though what they say now makes any difference.

Aragorn wipes his hands some more, then glances at him sideways, without quite meeting his eyes.

“Boromir, I…” he shakes his head at the futility of trying to put the unspeakable into words. After a moment of hesitation, he places his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Just remember, please. It was not your fault.”


“You were a good sport, my old friend.”

The Steward raised his head with as much pride as the iron collar around his neck allowed.

“I am no friend of yours, beast.”

The grey lips curled, showing the fangs.

“So clever, aren’t you just? Thinking you can provoke me into giving you a quick death. How adorable. You mortals never cease to amuse.”

“Your arrogance is pathetic.”

The armoured hand came close enough for Denethor to feel the raw heat against his cheek. He did not flinch.

“You would like this, old man, wouldn’t you? I could burn you to a shell in a minute.” The hand was withdrawn, another twisted grin. “But no, that would not do us justice at all, would it now? All those years you gave me, staring into your magic ball in your little tower. That was good fun.”

The Steward turned away in distaste.

“You will look at your master when spoken to, Gondorian scum.” An invisible force gripped him on the chin and forced his face to turn so that their eyes met again. Again that self-satisfied sneer. “What we have is special, it would really be quite ungenerous to kill you without repaying the debt. Let no one say I am not a fair-minded lord. Let me entertain you in turn.”

He called something quick in the Morgul tongue.

Denethor’s eyes widened as a young man was dragged into the chamber and thrown to the floor, but he withheld any further emotion.

“You seem unimpressed, your grace. How disappointing. My boys went to all this trouble.”

The captor regarded the bound shape at his feet, struggling to get up against the many tight loops of chain, then gave it a disinterested prod with the pointed tip of his iron boot. Like a cat undecided if it will bother to play with a new toy.

“Oh, but that’s right, how very foolish of me. This one was never your favourite, was he? Good thing I have a back up option for you.”

At this, the Orc guards returned, dragging in a second man, so alike the first, if a little older.

“No!” Denethor strained against the chains even as his knees went weak and left him hanging by the hands and neck.

The yellow eyes lit up with interest, the narrow pupils widening into a hungry, gaping void.

“Well,” the heavy armour rang and scraped as Sauron came to stand over the two warriors. “We shall enjoy this very much, shan’t we?”

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4 Comment(s)


NB: Comments span all chapters and may contain spoilers!

Intriguing and disturbing at the same time. Actually, I’m a bit into this kind of thing, disturbing and nerve-racking, so I’m happy with your choice of darcfiction genre)) Another ‘thank you’ for Denethor, I believe his character to be too complex to be wasted just as a reason of Faramir’s eternal sadness, so it’s nice to see him again. And I really like your choice of words. Please keep writing.

— LCD    22 November 2018, 18:38    #

Thanks so much, LCD! Again, your commentary is very thoughtful :)

Well, we shall see what I can make of this genre!

Denethor is an interesting one. I’ve said this elsewhere before, he is indeed more complex than that. Can’t say I exactly like him as a person, but I definitely like him as a character. He is a flawed person who’d had a pretty rough run of it in life, with things getting progressively worse. It doesn’t mean he is an inherent tyrant and madman. If anything, he had endured and fought for a very long time before succumbing. And his relationship with Faramir was not entirely one-sided either.

Thank you for reading!

— December    23 November 2018, 09:30    #

Can’t wait for you to finish this fic! Perhaps you wouldn’t mind also posting this on An Archive of Our Own so that way readers can get chapter update alerts. I’m afraid I don’t check this site often.

Romanse    2 December 2018, 08:05    #

Thank you Romanse! Yes, I always publish both there and here.

— December    6 December 2018, 08:43    #

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About the Author


December

Greetings, fellow fan, and welcome!

What to expect to find here: All the stories are based on Book-verse for looks and personalities, although you will often find the canon bent (hehe) in terms of events. Please prepare for an unhurried, often bitter-sweet read with lots of sexual tension.

A bit about me for those interested: feisty redhead headquartered in New Zealand. Living in a wooden house in the old forest not far from the sea – probably goes some way to explain why I write what I do. Other than reading and writing, my passions are music, visual arts, travel, gardening, dance, horses, acrobatics, medieval martial arts, jewellery making, banter, and above all chocolate.

Was introduced to Tolkien at the tender age of six, was never the same since.

Always keen to collaborate with all ye good folke in the fandom. Feel free to get in touch if you’re looking for a beta reader, too. Please, also, if you’re one of the dudes in the fandom, I would really really appreciate if you could please take a moment to share a bit of your perspective on how authentically my stories portray relationships between men.

Also, if you’re looking to visit New Zealand, happy to offer a bed and breakfast (second breakfast negotiable).

Cheers.