Faramir Fiction Archive

Deluge (R)

Written by Moit

23 December 2012 | 1428 words

Title: Deluge
Rating: R
Characters: Faramir, Éomer, Pippin
Warnings: physical abuse, implied torture
Summary: Faramir is finally the captain of his own ship, but at what price?
Disclaimer: If I did own any of these fictional people, Faramir would be locked in my closet right now.
Author’s Note: I really hope I was able to rise to the occasion of this challenge. The primary aspect of my challenge was sailing, but I’ve never even been on a sailboat, so it was quite tricky. The story itself was easy enough to build around that, however, so I really hope you like it. :)

Written for the 2012 Midwinter Swap.

Request by Nerey Camille: AU. I’d like to see what Faramir would be like if he followed his own evil desires instead of doing what is right. A dark, strong Faramir seizes power and becomes Lord of Gondor, even of Middle-Earth if you like. You contrive the means: maybe he takes the ring, maybe it’s all just a dream. Once Faramir rules, what does he do? Any rating (violence, smut etc are OK), any pairings. The end is up to you: Faramir rules, or gives up power, or is overthrown. What of Sauron? He might as well be vanquished by Faramir at the beginning as be the one who defeats Faramir in the end. There’s one must: I’d like to see Faramir sailing at some point (i.e. handling a sailing ship, either directly or through orders). Feel free to elaborate on this: describe the ship, the navigation, make him manoeuvre the sails and command the crew… just make it as detailed as you feel up to.

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The open seas. Captain of his own ship. Captain Faramir.

It was a dream come true.

The feeling of the wind through his hair, the spray on his face, it was like nothing the young captain had ever experienced. In Gondor, he was just Faramir: brother of Boromir, son of Denethor. The second son of Gondor to whom nobody paid much attention. They left him to his books, to his idle fantasies. The could never have imagined that one day Faramir would rule them all.

He clutched at the Ring around his neck: the true testament to his plunder of power. It was simple enough: convince the remaining members of the Fellowship to allow him to continue where his brother had failed, kill Frodo and Sam, and take the Ring for himself. He felt somewhat sorry for the Hobbits, but they had only been pawns in a much larger scheme. Once Faramir assumed the power of the Ring, it was only a matter of time before the Free People of Middle-Earth fell and a new dark lord assumed the throne: Captain Faramir.

Rather than rule his kingdom from land, Faramir set forth upon the seas, sailing the largest and most grand of all the corsair ships. He himself guarded the edges of his land while his many Orcs and Men (those who had pledged him allegiance) prowled the land itself. His greatest enemy were the Elves, for though they had sailed to the Undying Lands, they still coveted that which Faramir now controlled. He was always on guard—always ready for a fight, should the Elves come looking for one. They would only meet their untimely deaths.

Faramir lovingly caressed the wheel of Boromir’s Blessing. He had named the ship after his brother gave up his life so that Faramir could live his dream. He was careful to never forget the sacrifice his brother made.

He looked out across the deck, at his men tacking the sails to stay on course. He would never tire of watching his crew, watching as his ship steered its way through the sometimes turbulent seas, the sails fluttering in the wind.

“Heave, men, heave!” Éomer called. He was one of the few Men who chose to give his life to Faramir’s service, rather than die. His sister, Éowyn, was not so fortunate.

The group pulled at the ropes, directing the sail to turn the boat. When the ship turned accordingly, they collectively tied off the rope they were holding and lifted another. Faramir allowed a genuine smile to cross his face. He had never loved any woman as he loved this ship. Éowyn had tried to plead to Faramir’s sense of duty to their betrothal, and to his father, a father who had never really loved him. Faramir had seen his father—and Éowyn—dead before giving up that in which he believed.

The sails tilted into the wind and the ship picked up speed. Faramir felt his heart race with the thrill of it all. His men, his ship, his command. His Ring.

Faramir left the wheel and sauntered down the staircase leading to the main deck. He walked the length of the deck, surveying his ship, watching his men. Several of his crew members nodded respectively in his direction. Faramir glared in response. He did this daily, both to keep his crew on their toes, but also to stay abreast of the condition of his ship. If he had learned one thing from his father, it was that to be loved was to acknowledge the weakness in your rule. He preferred to rule with an iron fist. He did not truly trust the safety and wellbeing of Boromir’s Blessing to anyone but himself. If his men feared him, they would fear what hell they would bring upon themselves should they attempt to mutiny. He would more quickly give up The Ring than his ship, but he would have his people believe otherwise. Nobody challenged the new Dark Lord.

The crowning jewel of Boromir’s Blessing was the wide wooden mast upon which Faramir hung the bodies of traitors until they died from either thirst or starvation to show all of his men what befell those who renounced their leader. The current occupant, upon which Faramir had bestowed such an honour, was none other than Peregrin Took, heir to the Thainship of the Shire no more. His irritating cousin Meriadoc had been dispatched by Faramir’s hand much earlier in the week when he caught them trying to board his ship.

Faramir gave the wretched creature little more than a glance. He—it, really—looked half-starved already. The Hobbit’s clothes were hanging on its frame, worn and threadbare. Peregrin raised his face to Faramir, but the Dark Lord turned his head away in disgust. He would not have his afternoon defiled by looking at such filth. Let his men gaze upon such a sight, for that was the purpose of his prisoners.

He came to stop at the edge of his deck near the bow. Beneath the blade of his ship, the sea was a deep blue that reminded him of a summer’s day when he was still a boy in Gondor. It almost reminded him of the colour of his mother’s eyes, but he pushed that thought away quickly. His mother had never really loved him either, or she would not have left him at birth. The colour troubled him, though. It seemed so reminiscent of other things…

“Faramir!”

Faramir jerked his head up and his surroundings faded away, leaving him in a stark stone room. The wooden basin of water in which he was sitting had gone cold. The little toy sailboat in his hand steady and unmoving. The woman beside the washbasin was staring at him with red cheeks. She had obviously been shouting at him for some time. He tilted his head to the side, regarding her curiously. She looked like the nurse that cared for him daily.

“Betta,” Faramir told her.

“Yes,” the woman sighed, clearly exasperated. “Bethalyn would very much like you to finish your bath, Faramir. It’s time for you to go to bed.”

“Bed,” Faramir growled, scowling.

“Yes,” Bethalyn repeated. “You’ve been in the bath far too long. Come on, now.”

Faramir allowed himself to be led up out of the bed. Bethalyn took her time drying his skin and helping him dress in nightclothes. He was a large man, towering over her, but he needed her help in almost all things. Bethalyn tucked him into bed, read him a story, kissed him goodnight, and blew out the candle.

When the door shut behind her, Faramir allowed his eyes to close. He heard whispers behind the door, things like “head injury,” “sickness,” and “Sauron,” but they meant nothing to him. All that Faramir cared about these days were the dreams that visited him while he slept. Only in his mind was he truly in control.

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