This story is rated «NC-17», and carries the warnings «rape, non-con, bondage, incest, angst, character death (nothing AU), underage characters ».
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12 October 2010 | 16713 words | Work in Progress
The Lesser Son
Written by Radical
Pairing(s): Faramir/Haldir, Faramir/Boromir, Faramir/Denethor, Faramir/OMCs (whoa…am I crazy or what?)
Rating: NC-17…all the way.
Warnings: rape (of a minor!!! You’ve been warned.), non-con, bondage, incest, angst, character death (movie canon that part), underage characters (in sexual situations…). And in case you haven’t guessed, the story in itself is AU.
Beta: NONE! But I proof-read it…so if you want to be my beta, shoot me an email! I could probably use one.
Summary: The Original Challenge posted by Fëawen: I have a challenge, or a request rather, I would like to see a story set before the war.
Faramir is eleven and has just begun with more serious military training. He is known to the soldiers and the cadets just as Boromir’s brother and the Steward’s youngest and lesser son. They see him as a weak and scared boy who would much rather read and write than fight. Boromir has left for horse training in Edoras so there is no one there for him.
After being hurt both physically and mentally by both his father and the cadets too many times he runs away.
Starving, lost and exhausted he stumbles into someone of free choice (not Boromir). What will happen next is also free and it does not have to be a happy ending.
Consider me a Darkfic writer, with a heart. <3 It sort of has a happy ending.
Author’s Note: Geez, sorry it took so long to get this first section out. RL can be such a kick in the bum…Some of the names come from http://www.arwen-undomiel.com names translation page. As I really suck at names, I needed help. :D Anyways, please do note the warnings…I posted them for a good reason. If you don’t like them, don’t continue. Don’t flame me if you do.
Feedback: Yes please! This is my first LOTR slash fiction! Please tell me how I am doing… :D
Disclaimer: Not mine. And I think Tolkien might be rolling in his grave if he knew what I do to them. Well, here’s to not getting haunted by a pissed off English Prof.
Faramir sighed. He rolled over onto his back, staring at the ceiling; he began counting all the tiny cracks…again. For some reason, no matter what he tried he just couldn’t fall asleep. Boromir was leaving on the morrow. It was customary, amongst the house of Stewards, to train in Edoras for two years in mounted warfare. For it was known throughout the lands that Rohan possessed the greatest knowledge of mounted combat. The Rohirrim also possessed the finest horses in all of Arda, except for maybe those of the elves.
Boromir was sixteen now, and he would depart for Edoras come first light.
Faramir sighed again, quickly giving up on the cracks. He turned back on his side and stared into the dying fire. Faramir did not wish for his brother to leave him. He shivered, knowing that with Boromir gone, all of Denethor’s attentions would be placed upon him.
Throwing back the covers, Faramir slinked out of the bed and crossed his room to the door. Wearing only a night shirt, he slowly moved from his room towards Boromir’s just down the hall. He paused for a moment, wondering if it would be okay for him to take comfort in Boromir’s embrace as he did when their mother died. Shaking the thought away, he entered the room, quietly closing the door.
Just as in his own room, the firelight was dying and the room had taken on a slight chill. Faramir glanced at Boromir’s sleeping form and without another thought he scampered across the room, quickly pulling himself under the covers next to his brother.
Movement on the bed, and cold feet against his shins brought Boromir abruptly from his reverie. He glanced to his side only to see a mass of red-blonde curls resting against his shoulder. Boromir smiled. This could only be one person. Faramir. Boromir slowly reached out a hand and pushed the curls away from the face of his younger brother. Faramir was staring at him with those big grey eyes that never failed in getting Boromir to do anything.
Boromir slowly ran his hands through the boy’s hair. “What’s wrong little one? Did you have a nightmare?” Boromir watched and Faramir closed his eyes and shook his head. “Could you not sleep then?” Boromir felt the nod against his shoulder rather than saw it in the dim light.
Faramir sighed and snuggled closer into Boromir’s comforting embrace. “I tried counting the ceiling cracks like you told me to, but I counted them all and I still could not sleep.”
Boromir laughed softly. “Alright, then you may stay here with me. But if father finds out you have snuck into my room he will be very displeased. So on the morrow you will have to sneak back, okay?”
Faramir nodded, “Why do you have to learn mounted training in Edoras? We have horses here!”
Boromir pulled his brother ever closer. So this was what was causing Faramir a sleepless night. “Father has ordered me gone.” Boromir began to move his hand in soothing circles at the small of Faramir’s back. “And you know as well as I that Edoras has the finest horses on Arda. And that their mounted combat tactics are second to none. It would be a great opportunity wasted if I did not go. Besides,” Boromir grasped Faramir’s chin and gently raised it until their eyes met. “You will be busy here. I hear father has decided to begin weapons training for you after I depart. You will be so occupied with the training, and your books, you won’t even notice I am no longer here!” Boromir lost his grip on Faramir’s chin as the boy shook his head.
“You are wrong!” Faramir cried, pulling slightly away from the comfort of Boromir’s embrace. “I will miss you every day. Every moment…” Tears started to creep down the boy’s cheeks and it caused Boromir’s heart to ache.
Boromir knew that when he left, there would be no one in all of Gondor who could buffer Denethor’s anger…his displeasure, towards his youngest. For all the world, Boromir wished he could take Faramir with him, away from the angry words of Denethor. But he knew he could not. Faramir must stay, no matter how much he disliked it.
Boromir wiped the tears clear and once again pulled his brother to him. “I will miss you as well. And I promise to write.” Running a hand through the mass of curls, he sighed. “And Faramir?”
At the sound of his name, Faramir glanced up into the concerned eyes of his beloved brother. “Yes?”
“You must promise me to try and stay out of father’s way. And try not to anger him.”
Faramir nodded his acquiescence. “I will. I promise.”“Good. Come now let us try to sleep. We both have a long day tomorrow.”
Faramir sighed in sheer contentment, resting his head against his brother’s chest. He slowly slipped into dreamless reverie soon after.
Boromir smiled to himself as he felt Faramir go limp with sleep. Before allowing himself to slip into reverie, Boromir sent a silent prayer to the Valar, asking them to keep his brother safe from harm.
Faramir awoke as the first rays of dawn began to slip above the horizon. He was still enveloped within his brother’s sleeping embrace. Faramir smiled dreamily and was tempted to snuggle closer, but he knew that he could not. Dawn had come and it would only be a matter of time before the servant came to wake the favored son for his early morning departure.
Faramir began to slip out from beneath the covers but found that he could not. Boromir seemed to have a death grip on him, even in his reverie.
“Boromir?” Faramir whispered. He moved his hand to brush the dark-blonde hair away from his brother’s face. “Bori, it’s dawn. I must be going.” Faramir laughed softly as his brother unconsciously drew him closer. “Bori, you must let me go. Father will be upset if he finds out I was here…”
“Father can kiss my arse.” Came the mumbled reply. “I do not know why he treats you so sourly.” Boromir released Faramir and stretched on the bed. Faramir withdrew from the embrace and moved to stand on the cold stone floor.
“You look a cat when you stretch like that.” Faramir laughed.
Boromir gave him a once over and laughed. “Fara, you need another night shirt. That one barely covers what is important.” Boromir all but launched himself from the bed and padded over to his wardrobe.
Faramir for the first time realized that Boromir no longer slept in a night shirt. Instead he wore loose sleeping pants. He wondered why he hadn’t realized the night before. Faramir just shook the thought away as his brother started sifting through his wardrobe.
Boromir sifted through a draw until he held three folded night shirts in his hands. He walked back over to Faramir who stood half-way between the bed and the door. “Here you go. These should last you for a bit longer.” Boromir held out the shirts. Faramir nodded and took the shirts from his brother.
“I should get going.” Faramir said, still staring at the shirts.
Boromir nodded. “Ok. I will see you at the meal Fara.”
Faramir walked towards the door. He gave his brother one more smile before he slipped back through the door, closing it silently behind him. Clutching the sleep shirts close to his chest Faramir turned to begin his trek back to his own rooms. He didn’t notice the silent figure in front of him until he ran into the black-robed man. He glanced up prepared to apologize only to notice that it was his father who loomed over him. He couldn’t help the look of terror that crossed his face as his father snarled at him.
Denethor was angry that his youngest, and lesser, son had once again disobeyed orders given and spent the night with his older brother. He was livid when said lesser son failed to notice his presence right besides him, running straight into him. Denethor snarled, and grabbed Faramir’s upper arms. He shook the boy violently.
“I have told you, and told you! You are NOT to spend the night in Boromir’s chambers.” Denethor shouted at the cringing boy in his grasp. “You are too old to be coddled by him.” Denethor easily lifted the eleven-year-old off the ground and threw him down the hall. “Now return to your room and prepare for the morning meal.” Faramir hit the wall and skidded a few feet before stopping.
Hearing the angry voices from outside his door, Boromir rushed from his room in time to see his father throw his younger brother down the corridor. “Fara…” Boromir took a few steps towards his brother before he was halted by an outstretched arm. His father was glaring at him now. He glanced back to where Faramir had fallen only to see his brother slipping into his own chambers.
“You should not have encouraged such, such…childish behavior. I expected more from you my son.” Denethor moved his hand from the wall and cupped his oldest son’s face. “You needed your rest. Faramir should not be disturbing your sleep as he does.”
Boromir shook his head slightly. “He did not disturb me, and I do not mind him sharing my bed.”
“Nonsense.” Denethor released Boromir’s face. He gently turned Boromir back towards his room. “Come, I wished to speak to you before you left.” Denethor said, almost smiling.
Boromir glanced over his shoulder towards Faramir’s door. It was still closed. He sighed and allowed himself to be steered into his room by his father.
Faramir stumbled into his room, all but slamming the door in his wake. He clutched the night clothes as he sank to the floor. Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought of his father’s anger towards him. He didn’t understand why his father hated him so much. Faramir clutched the clothes ever tighter, and cried.
Breakfast went as it always did, with Lord Denethor ignoring his youngest to dote upon the oldest. Eyes still red and puffy, Faramir sat quietly across from Boromir. Denethor sat at the head of the table doing everything within his power to ignore the very existence of Faramir.
Faramir had no appetite that morning, so he merely pushed the food around his plate. Denethor glared at him, telling Faramir that if he was not going to eat the food given, then he was more than welcome to return to his rooms. With the opportunity to flee his father’s presence granted, Faramir stood, bowed his head slightly before running off. He heard angry words shouted after him but it didn’t slow his pace. He bounded up the stairs with practiced ease and quickly slipped into his rooms.
Faramir crossed the breadth of his room and flung himself onto the bed. He reached out with his hand and gathered up once again the night shirt Boromir had given him. Soon, his brother would leave him. He feared being alone with his father most of all. Deep within himself he knew these next two years were going to be some of the hardest of his life.
Within the hour a servant came to inform his that his brother would be departing shortly and that his presence was required in the courtyard. Faramir simply nodded and thanked the servant. He let out a sigh and moved towards his wardrobe. He browsed through the contents until he came upon the green and gold tunic he knew his brother loved. He changed clothes quickly and headed out of his room towards the courtyard.
His father was there, hand on his brother’s shoulder, and a smile on his face as he beamed brightly at his oldest. Faramir paused for a moment and took a deep breath before moving into the courtyard. His brother turned and spotted him.A smile graced his face as he moved out of his father’s hands. “Faramir! I was beginning to worry that you wouldn’t make it.” Boromir dragged his brother into a fierce hug, which Faramir eagerly returned. The brother’s slowly parted, with Boromir planting a soft kiss upon Faramir’s head. “I’ll miss you Fara. Try not to upset father while I am away.”
Faramir nodded. He wasn’t sure if it was possible to not upset their father, Denethor was angered by merely being in Faramir’s presence. “I will.”
Denethor glared at the brothers as they embraced. A snarl formed on his lips at Boromir’s apparent sign of affection for Faramir. “Boromir,” he interjected, staving off any more of their brotherly nonsense. “It is time for you to be leaving.” Denethor tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace as he watched Boromir merely nod, then turn and kiss his brother once again.
Boromir ruffled Faramir’s hair as he walked toward their father and his awaiting mount. He was traveling with five other guards to Edoras. It made him a bit nervous as he did not know any of these men. But he was determined to train quickly, and return to his beloved brother. Boromir mount his steed and with a nod to the guards began the long trek to Edoras.
Faramir watched his brother leave with tears forming in his eyes. He sniffled a bit which is what caught Denethor’s attention.
Denethor whirled on his son. He stormed over to Faramir, who retreated a few steps, and grabbed the front of his tunic.
“Shouldn’t you be in the training fields?” Denethor shook the boy slightly. “Or perhaps you would rather be with those scholars in library, learning the ways of the academics?”
Faramir almost said that, yes he would like to go to the library, but held his tongue. The way Denethor had said “scholars” gave the impression that he didn’t think to highly of them. Faramir knew that Denethor was a firm believer in action, as opposed to diplomacy, or anything that involved thinking.
“I was just about to…to go to the fields.” Faramir’s voice trembled a bit. The look in his father’s eyes truly scared him. Realization hit him fairly quickly then, he was on his own.
“Then be on your way.” With that, Denethor pushed Faramir in the direction of the training fields. Faramir stumbled a bit then hurried off.
Faramir considered stopping off at his rooms to change before going to the fields, but reconsidered. If he was late, his weapon’s master might report it to Denethor. And that was something Faramir definitely did not want. So he hurriedly ran to the training field that Boromir had showed him a few days earlier.
The training field wasn’t much of an actual field. It was, for all intensive purposes, fifty by fifty square feet of dirt. There was a full wall, which Faramir knew would have looked out over the plains of the Pelenor and half-walls surrounded the rest. On a bench in the corner across the field sat his new weapons master, Arol.
Arol was a soldier of around forty, who had been given the honor of training the Steward’s sons. He was proud to claim that it was he who trained the Steward’s oldest, Boromir, in the art of war. But he was affronted that he would be forced to train the delicate younger brother, Faramir. The youngest was not meant to be soldier. Every guard in the citadel knew that. The boy was nothing but the scholar’s pet. The poor thing spent endless hours in the dreary libraries of the city just reading. Reading! Arol couldn’t understand what could be so fascinating about words on a page.
Boromir understood this. Boromir was a man of action, and brought true pride to Gondor. But Faramir was useless. The child thought far too much for one so young. Thus could never be anything but a disappointment. When Arol tried to argue the point with Lord Denethor however, he was informed that it was tradition that the sons of Gondor be trained in the arts of war. And if it was found that Faramir truly did not have the ability to wield a sword properly, then another use for him would then, and only then, be found.
Arol snarled at the memory of that conversation. Boromir was in the room at the time. It was only he that thought that Faramir would make an excellent soldier.
Arol looked up when he heard a shuffling of feet at the edge of the field. He all but snarled again to see the sight he had been dreading all morning. He bent over and retrieved a pocket flagon from beneath the bench filled with a potent liquor he couldn’t remember the name of. He unscrewed the top and dumped some of it down his throat. It burned, but it was what he was going to need to get through these next five years. He screwed the cap back on, setting it down he grudgingly rose from the bench.
Faramir watched as Arol drank from the brown flagon, and then stood. Faramir was shocked that Arol would drink before a training session. This wasn’t the man who had trained his brother. Boromir described a man of virtue and endless patience. The man Boromir idolized would not be so lacking as to drink before training a son of the Steward. Faramir was staring at the man when he was waved over. He hesitantly began the short trek across the dirt field.
Faramir collapsed onto his bed. He was covered from head to toe in dirt, sweat and just a little blood. But he couldn’t care less. The past few weeks had been little less than pure torture.
After the first day it had become very apparent that Arol did not like him. The man was cruel with his words and even more so in his training. Faramir had the nicks and the scratches, the bruises and the welts to prove it. Arol never had a kind word for Faramir, even when he accomplished some skill or other. Arol would merely snarl and tell him that Boromir had accomplished it better, or faster, or with more grace. Faramir had quickly realized that there was no pleasing his new trainer, so he quit trying.
When Faramir had finished his training that first day, a servant met him at the entrances to the fields to inform him that he would no longer be dining with his father, the Lord Steward, for any meals. A tray of food would instead be sent to his rooms for every meal. Exhausted and sore, Faramir just acknowledged the news with a simple nod. He was, in a way, happy to no longer be required to be in his father’s presence. It would be exceedingly difficult to upset his father if he never saw him.
As if thought could become reality, there was a swift knock at his door before it opened. A servant bearing a food laden tray crossed his room and set what he was carrying on a table near the window. Without ever glancing in Faramir’s direction, the servant left without a word.
Faramir sighed. He glanced at the food, contemplating if he was too tired or not to eat. His stomach settled the debate when it growled menacingly. Heaving another heavy sigh, Faramir pushed himself off his bed. Standing, he finally glanced down at himself. He was truly a sight to behold. For some reason he couldn’t remember if his tunic was white, or if it had always been brown. Faramir decided that a quick bath was in order before he ate.
When Faramir had bathed he sat down at the small table near his window. There was a plethora of food and even some wine. Just looking at the food made Faramir’s stomach growl again.
Once Faramir had finished, he set the empty tray outside his door and began his trek to the library. This was his favorite part of the day. He would spend the afternoon and well into the evening with his tutor and friend Calanon. More often than not, the two shared the evening meal together before Faramir would return to his rooms. Faramir was hoping that today would be no different.
Calanon was a gray-haired man with a slender frame. He once told Faramir that he was from the north, although he did not say where. His love of knowledge and of history brought him to the libraries of the White city. He spoke many of the tongues of Arda and had an impressive knowledge of its history. The Lord Steward immediately placed him in the libraries where he advanced in position until he finally put in charge of its care.
Faramir found Calanon where he always found his friend, hovering at his desk over a mound of papers. Faramir just smiled as he crossed the library’s great expanse.
Calanon looked up and smiled when he saw Faramir enter.
“Faramir! You are early again today. Perhaps we should change our meeting time to earlier so then you might be on time.” Calanon stood and approached Faramir. He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder and smiled down at him. Faramir was his best pupil, so bright, and eager to learn. Calanon was proud to say that, under his fine tutelage, Faramir already spoke not only the common tongue, but also Rohirric as well as had a firm handle on Elvish. Calanon knew that Faramir would become a great leader. If only the Lord Denethor could see that.
Faramir smiled up at his only friend. “What are we studying today?” Faramir loved this place.
Calanon laughed at the eagerness of his young pupil. “I figured we could begin with a few conversations in Elvish, then a few in Rohirric, before we continued our lessons about the first age. Sound reasonable to you?” Calanon starting walking to the back corner where there was a small fireplace and comfortable, plush chairs. It was a favorite spot of Faramir’s.
It was a beautiful morning. The skies were clear, and the birds were signing. Over all, Faramir felt good about the day. He was a little sore, but that was alright. He figured he would be constantly sore for the next five years. With a song in his heart, he made his way to the training fields. The sight he was welcomed with killed the song, and seemed to make the day seem that much greyer.
Arol was drunk. Not just drinking, but full on drunk. The man was constantly drinking it seemed to Faramir. But he was never actually drunk. But today, it seemed that Arol had just one to many sips from his pocket flagon.
Faramir hesitated at the entrance as he watched Arol stumble about, spitting profanities. He held his pocket flagon, every now and then taking a deep draught from it. This was a situation Faramir did not quite know how to handle. Should he leave? Or should he stay and train regardless? It was in these few moments of indecision that Arol finally spun around, and spotted him.
“Eh, boy! You just gonna linger in the entryway all morning?” Arol’s words were a bit slurred, confirming what Faramir already knew.
Faramir hesitated in responding. He shouldn’t leave. He should train, but Arol was in no position to do the training. So what should he do?
Arol stared at Faramir. The boy was an idiot. The child obviously didn’t know how to speak properly. He began to walk towards Faramir, intending to shake the answer out of the boy. At that moment, the sunlight slid over the walls of the citadel, highlighting Faramir in its glow. Arol paused a few feet from Faramir, just studying the boy through his drunken haze. For all his faults, the boy was quite fair. Arol moved a bit closer and stretched out his hand, caressing Faramir’s cheek.
Faramir called upon all of his might not to back away from the approaching figure of Arol, but he couldn’t stop from flinching when the man caressed his cheek. He began to draw away when Arol grabbed him by his tunic. There was a glint in his eyes that frightened Faramir, he didn’t know what it was but he knew that it scared him. He began to struggle to get away from Arol’s iron grip, but to no avail.
Arol just laughed as Faramir struggled against him. Yes, this boy was very fair, very…desirable. Oh, the things he could do to this boy. Arol licked his lips at the thought. He easily lifted the lithe form of Faramir before throwing him to the ground.
Before Faramir could register what was happening, he was slammed into the ground. He made to get up, to run, but Arol was suddenly on top of him with that glint in his eyes. Terror streaked through Faramir. Heart pounding, mind racing, he began to struggle only to have a hand clamp around his throat, squeezing the breath from him.
Arol reached for the dagger in his boot. He drew the slim, sharp blade and brought it to Faramir’s throat. He slid the flat of the blade down along his collarbone and finally to the edge of the boy’s tunic. With a few quick moves, and only cutting the boy slightly, he cut the tunic from Faramir’s form. He again ran the flat of the dagger along Faramir’s pale skin, slowly moving it down towards his leggings.
Faramir’s eyes widened at the dagger, and he winced as the blade cut him. He didn’t understand. Why was Arol cutting his tunic from him? He reached up and grabbed Arol’s wrist in a futile effort to shove the arm away. Faramir’s struggles, though, only seemed to please Arol. He shivered slightly when the blade was dragged down his skin and towards his leggings. He tried to cry out as Arol began the slow work of cutting his leggings from his form. Faramir began to struggle all the more, causing Arol to cut him on more than one occasion. Tears formed in his eyes as the last of his leggings were brutally cut form him, bared to the gentle breeze and Arol’s demanding gaze.
Arol sneered. Oh yes. This was what he wanted. He ran his hand down the lithe and trembling form of Faramir. So very fair, he thought. So much like a woman in his beauty…
It was all a blur for Faramir…questing hands seeking places no one had touched. Searing pain that made him cry out as tears slid down his cheeks in steady streams, the grunting of the man above him. So much pain…he couldn’t understand it. Then his world went black.
Beriadan stood in the shadows, eyes filled with rage and tears, unable to do anything about the scene before him. His eyes cast downwards, he could no longer bare to watch as the weapons master, Arol, raped the youngest son of the Steward. He had been making his duty rounds when he heard the grunting and moaning coming from the training fields. That was when he came upon a sight he did not wish to witness. He should not have stayed, he knew that but he could not leave the young Faramir…even if he could do nothing to stop what was happening. Arol was too powerful, to friendly with the Steward. It would be the favored, heroic master against a lowly citadel guard.
So instead he waited. He watched as Arol laced up his leggings and stumbled out of the training grounds laughing and singing to himself. When Beriadan knew himself to be alone, he crossed the fields towards the prone and unconscious boy. He removed his cloak and ever so gently wrapped the boy in it. He could not help but wince as he saw the bruises around Faramir’s neck, and the cuts that marked his body…and the blood that pooled between his thighs. Beriadan lifted Faramir into his arms and began a careful trek back to where he believed were the rooms of the Stewards sons.
When he reached the appropriate rooms, he gently laid the still unconscious son of the Steward on the bed. He deftly cleaned and bandaged what wounds he saw, then clothed Faramir in a night shirt before placing him under the covers. He then walked over to a chair near the small fireplace and sat down, intent to wait until Faramir awakened.
Faramir snuggled back into his favorite chair in the library. He had been skipping his weapons training for the past week as Beriadan had suggested. Instead he had been going to the library to read. Calanon had inquired as to his presence in the library as opposed the fields, but finally gave up questioning as Faramir seemed reluctant to give up any answers.
Faramir had thanked Beriadan for what he had done and asked him to be discreet in what had happened. Beriadan had agreed, though grudgingly. Faramir now saw Beriadan often, wandering the halls and making frequent stops in the library inquiring after him. It was nice to see that someone actually cared for him besides his brother and Calanon.
It was not long past a week, as Faramir was hunkered down near the fireplace that his father stormed into the library. Faramir shot out of his seat when his father approached.
Denethor grabbed his son by the front of his tunic and began dragging him towards the library’s entrance. “You have been skipping your training, and I will no longer tolerate it! The son of the Steward does not skip weapons training to go and read.” Denethor snarled. There was absolutely no excuse for his son’s disgraceful behavior.
“Father please! You don’t understand! I don’t want to be trained by Arol anymore please!” Faramir’s eyes began to fill with tears as he recognized the direction they were taking.
Without breaking stride, Denethor glanced at his son. “Oh? Is Arol not good enough for you? He was more the apt at training your brother…”
“No, he is a fine trainer but please! I don’t wish it father! Stop!”
Denethor did stop to Faramir’s utter surprise. “And why should you not be trained by the finest swordsman in Gondor?”
Faramir glanced at the ground. He definitely did not want to tell his father that his weapons master had raped him. When he looked back up into his father’s face he was shocked to see the man smiling.
“Do you not wish to return to him because he has finally found the only proper use for you?” Denethor sneered, and leaned in to whisper, “As a whore?”
Faramir tried to recoil in shock, but Denethor’s tight grip on his tunic restrained his movements. “Father…”
“You will return to Arol, of your own will every morning. Or be dragged there every morning by the guards. Am I understood?”
Faramir merely nodded. How could this be happening? What exactly was happening…?
“Good.” Denethor began walking again, still dragging Faramir behind him in his long strides. When they reached the training fields, Arol was waiting for them. Denethor shoved Faramir onto the dirt. “Here is your trainee. Try not to misplace him again.” With that, Denethor turned on his heel and left.
Faramir glanced up to see Arol smiling, with that same glint in his eyes…
And Faramir was frightened.
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