Faramir Fiction Archive

Walk No More In The Shadows (NC-17)

Written by Minx and Iris

12 January 2007 | 50694 words | Work in Progress

Chapter 7

Faramir made his way slowly back to his rooms from the gardens, feeling much better after breathing in the cool, fresh air outside. Mithrandir and the king would probably scold him for going out alone, but he really hadn’t felt like waiting. He’d been wide awake after eating his afternoon meal and it had felt a shame to not slip out for a while both of them had gone to have their own meal. He felt a little guilty for the time both of them spent with him, especially when the king sat by him for so much time, more so after the incident with his father’s cane. He repressed a shudder at the thought of seeing it being consumed by the flames. It was such thoughts that made him feel grateful for their gesture in spending time with him and a tiny part of him welcomed their presence almost greedily finding in it an escape from the dark thoughts that always assailed him when he felt at his weakest.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted when he felt a hand grab his elbow, as he turned into a hallway near the council rooms. He half-turned to see Councillor Tarnost behind him and felt himself stiffening immediately. He had never been very fond of Tarnost, one of his father’s closest friends. Something about the man had always induced a fear in him. He thought he knew what the cause might be, but he preferred not to have his mind dwell on that event. He stared back into the aging face trying to maintain a dignity in his bearing.

“Faramir! It is good to see you well again, dear boy,” the older man purred, nudging him into the small alcove nearby, “I heard you were ill and that the King himself has been taking an interest in your recovery?”

Faramir frowned as his back hit the wall and the fingers tightened around his arm. They were interrupted before he could even think of replying.

“Oh he would wouldn’t he? Faramir must be offering him his ‘services’.” Faramir looked up startled, his heart hammering loudly. He knew that voice so well, still hearing it in some of his worst dreams oft times. Soft and cultured at all times, “Why else would he actually listen to any of his suggestions?”

“Ah, Calembel. I was just telling young Faramir here how nice it was to see him well again! He does look good, does he not?”

“Indeed,” smirked the other councillor, his eyes blatantly roaming down Faramir’s body, “so good it makes me regret I haven’t seen more of you of late.”

Faramir stood frozen, a familiar pounding starting off in his head, a nauseous feeling threatening to overcome him. Their nearness threatened to bring back a flood of memories he had fought long to repress. He’d always wondered if Tarnost had been there during one of those fateful days when he’d undergone the ‘lesson’ as his father had termed it. Now he knew. Those fingers that clutched his elbow now were the same clammy fingers that had dug into his waist to hold him down while… he gulped at the unbidden memories trying to force himself back to the present. They were still speaking and he was pushed against the wall now.

“I thought you might no longer be interested now, but obviously if you’re willing to satisfy the king’s craving, you’re just as much the depraved young lad you always were. I’m sure you didn’t lose a moment to throw your filthy body at his disposal.”

Faramir tried desperately to ignore the jibes even as he wondered frantically what they were speaking of. How could they talk of their king in such depraved terms? Elessar? His king was to marry a beautiful Elven maiden… how could they think of suggesting someone as tainted as he could cater to Elessar’s physical needs!

“That is good!” exclaimed Calembel, “I have often desired to repeat the wonderful experience we once shared, Faramir dear, but your father would not agree, and one must respect one’s friend’s wishes after all. I am sure he would not mind if we were to continue where we left off now. You did seem to enjoy it then. After all, you never protested.”

He’d been too dazed and shocked to protest at first and later too scared. Protesting was what had got him into that predicament to begin with; he didn’t dare to protest any more for fear of even worse repercussions. He could feel that same awful fear inching back now.

“Indeed. I’ve never had such a willing bed mate,” Tarnost said, pushing Faramir further up against the wall. Calembel came and stood by him, and Faramir found himself feeling closed in as their bodies nearly touched his. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out, “I wonder if the King knows yet what a lovely obedient whore he’s found himself?”

“Have you shown him the wonders of your talented mouth? You were better than the women in taverns in the third circle,” Calembel murmured, running a finger down Faramir’s face and then along his lips, then down his chin onto his neck.

“We must get together once again, dearest,” Tarnost purred and Faramir suddenly felt a hand slide around his waist into his leggings, to cup his buttocks. He gasped in mortification inducing soft laughter from the two men.

“I must leave now,” Calembel said, even as he toyed with the bindings of Faramir’s tunic, exposing his collar bone, and slipped his fingers in, running them lightly over his skin, “But never fear, child, I’ll give you a fine experience soon.”

“As must I,” Tarnost said regretfully, letting Faramir go, but not before squeezing his buttocks lightly.

Faramir made it as far as the hallways before stumbling against the wall, breathing heavily, the touch of the prying hands still lingering on his flesh. These men would always be there to remind him, he thought bleakly, no matter what Mithrandir said or did. He could not take away all the awful memories, not ones like these that he could share with no one. And these were not the only memories that left him so shaken… his father had seen to that.

For a few brief days he’d forgotten how these men could induce fear in him by their very presence. He’d always known with his father around they would not come near him without Denethor’s leave; Faramir had ensured Denethor never had occasion to resort to that again. But now, with Denethor gone… surely they would not…? And yet, wasn’t that what they’d said…

He tried to straighten up, leaning against the wall, and closed his eyes to take a deep breath and calm himself. They couldn’t harm him now. Mithrandir and Elessar would ensure they wouldn’t. But then, they mustn’t know.

“Faramir!” he heard the king call out to him, and felt his breathing turn rapid.

“S-Sire,” he managed to squeak out.

“Are you alright?” Aragorn demanded, “Are you running a fever again? I told you not to strain yourself, didn’t I? You were supposed to be in bed, weren’t you?”

“I’m fine,” Faramir said in as calm a voice as he could manage. He knew he was looking flushed. He could feel the heat on his face and cheeks. He clenched his fists.

“You certainly don’t look fine to me,” Aragorn retorted and grabbed Faramir’s arm lifting his other hand to check his forehead, and then his throat, where the bindings of the tunic had fallen open.

Aragorn’s hand around his arm felt so warm and reassuring, unlike those hard, clammy fingers that had touched him earlier, that Faramir felt his bare minimal control slip away, and promptly fell into Aragorn’s arms, leaning his head into the strong chest and shutting his eyes so he could simply savour being near his strength and courage. The king would help him, he knew… Mithrandir had told him to trust him, he’d trust him to protect him, he had to. He had no one else. And Mithrandir would be leaving soon.

Aragorn forgot his momentary surprise to pull Faramir closer into his embrace. It was obvious the younger man needed his nearness and truth be told, he quite liked it. He’d often wanted to hold Faramir in his arms, he was convinced he could help the younger man. He continued holding him, realising bemusedly that he could become quite fond of this nearness. Faramir’s head rested against his chest and he could feel his warm breath, coming out in small gasps… He could even see the tiny pulse that beat erratically at the base of Faramir’s throat in that tiny dip where the bindings had come undone.

He didn’t have to wonder too much what had caused this panic attack. He’d seen two of his older councillors walking down the other hallway with far too smug expressions their faces. He’d noticed a tendency among the older members of his council to deride Faramir constantly, especially nowadays while Faramir himself was not present. He gently tightened his hold on the almost trembling figure comfortingly.

Faramir stiffened as Aragorn’s arms tightened around him, and realised he was clinging to his king like a child. He drew back hastily, horrified at having forgotten himself so.

Aragorn let him go immediately, noticing the wariness take over.

“I’m – I’m sorry, Sire,” Faramir gasped out backing away some more.

“It’s all right, Faramir,” Aragorn started in a soothing tone, “you seemed unwell?”

“No – no… I’m fine. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have – shouldn’t have… I’ve creased your robes,” he said frantically.

Aragorn waved the last bit away, wondering what Faramir would say if he saw him in his ranger outfit, “You don’t look very fine,” he repeated.

“I – I’m just tired,” Faramir blurted out, still mortified at having thrown himself into his king’s arms. How could he have done that. There was a protocol to be maintained between the King and those who served him, and he had just breached that quite magnificently and that after everything his father’s friends had insinuated. Elessar had simply been kind to him, it was in his nature to do so, he was a fine and honourable man after all… and he in turn had taken advantage of that, and thrown himself at Elessar, just as Calembel and Tarnost had said. How could he have been so stupid?

Aragorn simply sighed, even as Faramir’s mind went into turmoil, “Come on then, back to your room now!” he said firmly, and taking Faramir’s numb arm in hand, guided him back to his room.

“Rest now,” he said as he left after ensuring Faramir had lain down on his bed. Faramir simply nodded numbly. He didn’t think he could rise right now, his knees wouldn’t support him.

Faramir glanced around the small room in fear. It was dark and he could see little from the corner he was huddled in, but he knew he must make an awful sight. His tunic and hair were filthy from being rolled around on the dirty floor for so long, and he was covered in bumps and bruises and dried saliva and semen. He winced as he tried to move into a more comfortable position. He was cold having on nothing but a now torn and ragged tunic and sore all over but more so in some places than others. Perhaps he should simply stretch out on his stomach. His ears were straining to hear sounds outside though there was little he could do even if he had advance notice of a visitor, for by now he was so tired and pained he could barely move.

“Please,” he had mumbled incoherently over and over again all through the terrifying ordeal as one satiated advisor was replaced by another, then another, each using him gleefully, and even now when he was here all alone, waiting, wondering when the next visit would happen, when he’d be grabbed by rough hands, and forced to give in.

His father was right. He should never have protested.

“Please, Father let me go! I’ll never refuse you again,” he wept over and over again his voice cracking, as strange hands touched him, grabbing, pinching, hurting him deliberately and gleefully. But his father either wasn’t there or was simply ignoring him as ever, delighting instead in his helplessness.

And then the footsteps came again, and the door opened, a stream of weak light filtering into the room. He cowered in the dark, breathing heavily. He was a child no more, he was an Ithilien Ranger now, and yet… he was terrified.

Someone bent over him and he sobbed harshly, trying to move away from the hands that he knew would touch him hurtfully.

Gandalf frowned as a soft frightened cry sounded out of the Steward’s room. Quickly, he pushed the door open and hurried to Faramir’s bedside. He knew he shouldn’t have left him alone. The nightmares had still not abated. The bed was in complete disarray, the covers half off the bed, exposing the still recovering body to the pre-dawn chill.

Faramir was whimpering as he curled into himself, shivering all the while. Gandalf grabbed the covers and covered the slight frame, before pulling him into his arms. Faramir continued to flail his limbs weakly, trying to resist the wizard’s hold.

“Please,” he begged, trying ineffectively to push away the arms that were wrapped around him, “Please let me go…”

“Hush now, young one,” Gandalf whispered softly, hoping to calm him, “It’s all right. I’m here now. He won’t harm you.”

The grey eyes flew open at his voice, confused and hurting.

“Mithrandir,” Faramir whispered in a sleep-leaden voice, “Mithrandir. It’s you,” the relief in the voice was unmistakable. Gandalf could feel the silent tears seeping into his robe.

“Yes, I’m here now. Go back to sleep child. It is still dark outside. I shan’t let anyone harm you.”

The wizard stayed awake all night, unable to sleep, watching over his charge.

Aragorn walked briskly towards Faramir’s rooms. He hadn’t been able to check on Faramir yet today and he hadn’t even seen Gandalf around, a thought that suddenly made him panic. He hadn’t realised till now how important it was becoming to him that Faramir recover completely and he realised strangely it had very little to do with the amount of paper lying on his desk.

Faramir was curled in the bed, his head on Gandalf’s lap, the slight frame swaddled in a thick blanket. The wizard was gently combing his fingers through the young man’s hair.

“How is he today?” Aragorn whispered softly, taking in the faint tracks on the cheeks that he realised with dismay, could only be caused by tears.

“He had a rough night,” Gandalf responded grimly, “So I thought it I’d ensure he slept in today. He woke a while ago but he was so exhausted I made him have a little food and go right back to sleep.”

Aragorn nodded approvingly and sat on the other side of the bed. Faramir was lying comfortably on Gandalf’s lap, and despite the signs of sorrow marring his face, his strong sense of honour and sincerity still shone through. He looked almost beautiful to him. Aragorn simply could not understand how anyone could want to hurt him in any way at all. Gandalf’s fingers continued stroking the dark hair and it was obvious that it soothed Faramir.

Aragorn had a strange feeling he would like very much to be in Gandalf’s place; to be able to have Faramir slumbering peacefully in his arms, while he stroked away all his worries. He found he wanted to ensure Faramir had nothing to fear, he’d protect the younger man from anyone or anything that threatened him in any way at all. He tentatively reached out a hand and placed it on Faramir’s hand, gently clasping it, and began to slowly stroke the skin with his thumb, oblivious to the close scrutiny Gandalf gave him.

“I’m so relieved to see him rest peacefully for a change.” Aragorn sighed.

Gandalf nodded in agreement, “His nightmares are so intense, ferocious almost; simply watching him scares me sometimes.”

“Well, no wonder he’s having horrible nightmares. I’m still having nightmares after merely seeing Denethor rape him once, and he has suffered years of abuse!”

“You fool of a Took!” Gandalf growled turning towards the door from whence the unexpected voice came, “Do you never knock before entering someone’s private chambers?”

“I’m sorry, Gandalf. I had my hands full – see?” Pippin lifted the tray a bit higher, presenting a pot of tea, cups and a plate with an array of delicacies.

“I thought you might like a bit of afternoon tea.” He said cheerfully, smiled and looked around the room, expecting his efforts to be met with appreciation.

Instead what he saw made him start back and almost spill the tea. Faramir was pale as he was the afternoon he had just referred to, sitting up wide awake now and staring at him in terror. When Faramir tentatively shifted his gaze towards Aragorn, Pippin’s eyes followed to find the king trembling, and staring at Faramir with a similar look of horror, though immediately changing into one of confusion and concern once Faramir’s eyes were upon him.

It took the hobbit a few seconds to comprehend the situation, but then it dawned on him.

“He didn’t know?” he whispered to Gandalf.

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