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Bessain (R) Print

Written by Helmboy

20 December 2008 | 5164 words

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Title: Bessain (part one of two)
Author: Helmboy
Codes: LOTR, CHALLENGE, R, F/?, Violence, AU
Disclaimer: Tolkien is owner. I merely dabble. Nothing accrues to me but good times. Thanks, Tolkien family, for the opportunity to play.
Author’s note: I am not sure that I can fulfill this challenge to the nth degree but I shall try. This is not the story I had planned. An injury to my hand prevented me from putting the long convoluted story I started out for this. I shall post it at a time in the near future when it doesn’t hurt to do this. J
Dedication: To the unknown soul who wanted this story. It is for you.
Feedback: Welcomed and answered. Use the form below or email.

Written for the 2008 Midwinter Swap.

Request by Laurëlóte: There are many fics in which Faramir is the one admiring another from afar. I would like to read a fic in which someone else is admiring Faramir. I would like Faramir to be portrayed as strong and confident, as a captain of Ithilien should be, but as someone who is oblivious to people’s attractions to him (perhaps this could be because of a bad experiance in the past, a controlling lover who had convinced him that no one else would want him). Faramir’s admirer (A man please as opposed to another race – but not Boromir) will have to do something spectacular to catch Faramir’s attention but I would like to see a happy ending for them both. Ideally, I would like the fic to be r-rated or above please.

At a great house in a fabled valley…

The sound of water dripping off the eaves caught his attention and he turned, watching as spray from the waterfalls coming off the hillsides all around him clung to the rooftops of the dream in which he found himself. All around were the sounds of rushing water, the call of birds and the soft caress of the breeze murmuring in the towering treetops. It was hypnotic.

From the moment that they had crossed the river that bounded this land, he had felt a quiet peacefulness come over him that he had never felt before. It was as if time had slowed down, stretching out the minutes that marked the passing of hours and he himself had felt slowed down as well. The softness of the air, the warmth of the sun that dappled the ground as it found its way through the dense trees that filled the valley had warmed him from the night before. Spring had come to the land and with it, a warm day coupled with a night of intense star-filled beauty.

Buds were bursting and here and there green ground plants were beginning to emerge from the warming soil. All around him, life was coming back and it was delightful after the dark cold winter. The ride from his land to this one was harsh. Winter held to the higher grounds and spring was wet and windy lower down. Only here in this enchanted place did it feel like there was some agreement on what weather and vegetation should present itself to those fortunate to be here.

He was walking down a winding stone staircase, itself ancient and broken here and there with the trunks of trees that had stood in the way but were given life instead of the ax. Beyond him on terraces and bridges scattered discretely about, people were walking. In the trees and treetops on both sides of the river there were houses and sleeping platforms, some silent and some with stirring life.

They had come here to meet the others and to make excursions into the westerly lands beyond this sanctuary to test what the danger to all their homes might be from a threat as old as time itself. They had come from Gondor, riding across plains, rivers and hills to make it here. Beyond them would come the Rohirrim. Also from the great green forests that covered great swaths of the world, more fabled people of myth, Elves from the Green Wood and beyond.

That he would stand in the house of a legend, the home of one of the greatest living creatures in a world full of surprises came to him once again as a shock. Elrond of Rivendell, the Master of Imladris, this was his house. They had not known they were coming here until they met up with a band of rangers, men of the north who knew the land the way a mother knows their child.

It had been rainy too that day…

“We will halt here,” Faramir said, pulling up at the edge of the latest river before them. They had traveled for days, forging swollen streams, living rough and enduring silently the endless rain.

Boromir had pulled up beside his brother, looking along the edge of the river, noting that scrub brush and low trees beyond could hide more than just the men they were coming to meet. It had been two days since they had reached the ford many miles behind them, missing the rangers who had sent word they would be there. They had sat on their position until it became clear that plans no longer held. With even greater vigilance, they had continued onward until it became clear that the land offered few reasonable possibilities for them to continue forward unguided.

They could not enter the elf lands beyond without someone to grease their way. There was greater distrust between the peoples of Middle Earth over the last few years than ever in the past. The old alliances were the stuff of legend rather than the blueprint for the present. No one trespassed onto elf lands without some sort of permission. The Rangers were theirs. Some said they had elvish blood themselves. In the tales of old, it was said of the men who built kingdoms that had stood as testiment to their might were among their ancestors. Few trusted them and as they stood by the swollen river at the only ford for miles around, they found their distrust rising again.

“They might not come,” Faramir said, glancing at his brother. Boromir nodded, moving to see where the bend of the river turned, that there might be a better crossing up ahead.

“We shall have to go alone if they do not come,” Boromir said, nodding. “We shall have to make our way to the Bruinen and see what comes.”

“The Rohirrim are only a little bit ahead of us,” Faramir said, a look of amusement forming on his handsome features. “Shall we say that we follow them or shall we make them follow us?”

Boromir snorted, glancing over his shoulder at his brother and the men sitting horseback behind them, waiting for their leaders to make up their mind. “And when did we allow a horseman from Rohan to make us second best in anything?”

Faramir smiled more broadly. “I shall not bore you with details, brother.”

Boromir laughed, kneeling down and pausing to reflect upon hoof marks that were fading away with the current of the water that rushed by. As he did, a high-pitched whistle broke the stillness. Rising swiftly, withdrawing his sword, Boromir stepped back, his eyes scanning the riverbank. For a moment, they all sat frozen on their horses and then as quickly dismounted, pulling weapons to bear. Faramir, sword in hand, moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Boromir.

A dog appeared, rather a large black wolf, moving to a small clearing, raising its head to stare at them. Behind them moving as silently and stealthily, a man appeared. He was very tall and dark haired, his face tanned from the outdoors and bearing nobility that surely marked him as a Northman, a noble sort.

Two more men similarly dressed in dark clothing well worn by the trail stepped out with him and with a grace and ease that was startling, crossed the ford by leaping from rock to boulder to shore. Faramir and Boromir sheathed their swords and walked toward them, the group conversing for a few moments.

Bessain sheathed his own sword, watching with usual intensity the figures as they talked. The same frission of irritation crept up his back again, gathering in his shoulders as a nagging ache. It always happened every time and no matter how trivial the moment, it was always the same …

A birdcall caught his attention and broke his reverie. He stopped and looked for it among the green folliage of the canapy overhead but did not find it. A rustle of leaves marked its presence but not a hint of its type. The sound reminded him of other times, other circumstances …

There was a lot of blood. Blood was everywhere. He stood over the body, wiping the blade of his knife with his victim’s cloak. The moment had been extremely quick and finished almost before it began. A slip of the knife piercing flesh and the rattling gasp of surprise and pain was as music to him as his victim sagged to the ground. Horses shifted in the corral, their forms barely discernable in the darkness of the moonless night. His heart was racing and his blood pounded in his temples as he shrunk back and listened.

Nearby, an owl hooted. A soft snort of a horse by his back made him shrink even further. No one came. They never did. He was careful to plan his moments and he always had more than one exit route cyphered out. Turning, slipping his knife into its sheath, he found his way to the back of the public stable and slipped out into the night. He would find his mount nearby and leave, riding back to Minas Tirith before he was found to be missing by anyone. It would be another coup. Another rival eliminated and another step closer to what he wanted most.

The streets were empty as he made his way in the shadows, finding his horse at repose in front of a shuttered shop. Taking the reins, he led it through the empty streets, making his way toward the gate that barred entry into the city. Mounting, turning his horse away from the paddock and the chaos that would come with the rising sun, he made his way slowly out of Osgiliath and onward toward home.

He sighed. That was then, this was now. He looked at his feet, noting the beginning of algae along the edges of the stones still damp with the melting ice of days shortly past. When the days became warmer, longer such hazards would be gone, making passage much easier. Moving forward, he listened to the sound of the river rising as it got closer.

Rivendell was unlike no other place he had ever been. Riding through the gates, pausing before the steps that led into the most beautiful wood building he had ever seen, he could still feel the sense of amazement that had gripped them all as the inhabitants of the house stepped out of the great doorway.

They were tall and beautiful, ageless and wise. It was as if they had entered another world rather than found a secluded and fantastical corner of their own. Introductions between them took but a moment and then they were shown their quarters for the duration. From then they were on their own for a while. The leadership would be meeting. The hands could go about their business.

He felt the uncomfortable feeling that he always had when he could not be at Faramir’s side. That was his place, the one spot where he was needed the most, where he could do the most good. He had created his life around the second son of the Steward and any place not near to him filled him with a restless anxiety.

He had joined the King’s Guard as a young man, roughly the age of Boromir. Keeping the caretaker well didn’t take much effort; Denethor seldom left the King’s House. That left him free to become a member of the mounted guard, something that Faramir was part of as well. The younger man was a friendly sort, his station not being a hindrance to getting along with men from all sorts of classes.

Faramir was smart, decent, brave and kind. He didn’t ask anyone to do anything he wouldn’t do himself and he would do anything that asked of him without complaint. The men of his command adored him, as did his brother, Boromir. Boromir was the only person Bessain didn’t loathe to be in the company of his Captain. Denethor was another matter.

The first time he saw the Steward attack his captain, it had shocked him deeply. It was unwarrented as far as he was concerned and the lack of respect for Faramir’s authority as well as the lack of regard for him as a man ignited a deep burning hatred for the Steward in his gut. Many were the times he stalked the Steward, watching without being noticed by him. Many were the times he was in Bessain’s power. It was only a matter of luck that Denethor had not been slain for his insolence regarding Faramir. He had done worse to others for less reason.

He kept his blade sharp and at hand. He kept his eyes open when the Steward came near. He always did. When they celebrated a victory, or when the men were together in good cheer as men at arms do, he would always come around. When he did, it quashed the moment. Boromir would become anxious and defend his brother against the indifference or arrogance that Denethor would pour out against Faramir. Faramir would become silent and hurt. The pain that Faramir never seemed able to hide during those moments haunted Bessain and made him loathe Denethor in ways he could not describe. It puzzled Bessain how he could do that to his son in such a public way. His own father had belittled him often enough. That part of Denethor was too familiar. However, his father had never done it in front of others. He didn’t do that to spare Bessain. He did it in private, as he would often say because he didn’t want anyone to know that he had a son so lowly, so lazy or stupid.

His father had always been demanding but he had become more unbearable the older Bessain became. It was as if he was being physically lashed, listening to the endless vitriol that flowed from his father’s tongue. When his mother died and his sisters married away, it was just he and his father. The farm was not big enough for him to be away from torment and in the end, as if inevitable, he had done something about it.

“Where are you, boy?”

The bellow of his father’s voice reached him in the barn and he sighed, wondering if he even wanted to continue to elude the bully or face him. He had started to do that of late and he had noticed fear in his father’s eyes the last couple of encounters. He had studied on that, considering the almost orgasmic thrill it had given him to make his father pause and consider that he might not be able to prevail this time.

He finished currying his horse and turned, putting the brushes back on the small bench next to the stall. He swung the saddle on his horse’s back and tugged the straps into place. He heard his father coming closer, his voice rising and the sound of footfalls on gravel signaling that they would be rowing before too much longer. For a moment, a tingle of fear swept him and then it was gone. He paused, waiting for it to return but it didn’t. Instead, he was as clear-minded and calm as he had ever felt.

The barn door swung open a bit, creaking and the light fell across him and his horse. His father, slightly drunk and blinded by the darkness in the barn paused. “Boy! Did you hear me?”

Bessain smiled slightly to himself. “I heard you, old man.”

His father stepped inside, pausing next to his son. “Then you are ignoring me are ya?”

“I guess I am,” Bessain said, tugging on the reins and walking his horse out of the stall. He walked past his father and continued through the door, hitching the horse to the ring by the trough.

“Boy! Come back here!” His father had followed him out and was standing beside the horse, anger and disbelief on his face. “I’m talking to you!”

“I’m not listening,” Bessain said, smiling again. “Not anymore. In fact,” he said, picking up his pack and slinging it over the rump of his horse, “I’m leaving.”

His father stared at him, disbelief and rage warring emotions on his face. He reached out and gripped his son’s arm. “No, you won’t be going anywhere,” he began. As he did so, Bessain twisted free and turned, a torrent of pent up rage filling him and then it resided just as fast leaving him cold and in control. Without even a thought to what he was doing, he pulled his knife from his belt and drove it into his father’s abdomen.

It shocked him how hard it was to do so. He expected that it might be easy but it wasn’t. He shoved harder and then drew it free, watching the intense surprise that contorted his father’s face. He gripped his middle, swaying slightly and then pitched forward, falling on his face in the gravel. He twitched for a moment and then lay still.

Bessain stood silently, lost in a maelstom of pleasurable emotions, staring down at the man who had haunted his nightmares for the entirety of his life. Then he reached down and gripped his father’s arms, pulling him unceremoniously toward the orchard nearby where he would dig a hole and dump his father in. There would be nothing but satisfaction in his mind about his actions, that and curiosity about why he felt nothing in remorse. When he rode out later that afternoon, he didn’t look back once.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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2 Comment(s)

Oh wow! Thank you! This is certainly not what I had imagined when I wrote my request.

I’m sorry to hear you hurt your hand, firstly because I never like to hear of one in pain and I know how frustrating it is when you can not write, and secondly because I’m desperate to know what else you have in store for this fic. I do love long and complicated stories!

Thanks again

— laurelote    Monday 22 December 2008, 20:06    #

I liked this. When it comes to saving a man’s life, Aragorn is your man.

— balrog    Tuesday 23 December 2008, 6:39    #

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Read more of Helmboy’s (aka Arctapus) fiction at http://www.ithilas.com/helmboy.html