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Shadows (R) Print

Written by Minx

12 December 2012 | 29219 words

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Chapter 5

Not work safe due to nekkid Fara pictures

Faramir stared in shock at his brother lying prone at the bottom of the steps, and then gasped as he noticed the dark stain spreading out from under his head.

“Boromir!” Elessar pushed past him and ran down the stairs taking them two at time. Behind him Legolas and Gimli came running out of the supper room nearby.

“Gimli, go and get a healer,” Legolas said frantically, “Estel, take care on those steps!”

Faramir came down the steps in a daze staring at the crumpled figure on the floor. The king and Legolas crouched around Boromir’s still figure, calling out to him, and chaffing his wrists.

“He’ll be fine, Estel don’t worry,” he heard Legolas speaking as though at a great distance, “It’s just a bad knock. And here… he’s cut his skin on the sharp wooden edge, that’s all. Be careful now… we’ll carry him to the houses of healing.”

And then Gimli came running down the hallway again with two healers behind him. They hurried down the stairs nudging Faramir aside.

“Move away now!” the master healer, Eldreth said calmly, “You too Sire!”

Faramir stayed away from everyone, watching as they examined the Steward. Boromir was so still, his face so white. The king looked stricken, and equally ashen, as he moved away.

He stepped back and his gaze fell upon Faramir.

“What have you done to him?”

The king looked furious, his grey eyes afire as he advanced towards Faramir. He looked angrier than Denethor ever had.

Faramir shrank back against the wall, terrified.

“You hurt him!”

Aragorn’s hand descended on his cheek, sharp and heavy. Pain blossomed across his face and the impact of the blow sent him sprawling off balance.

He realised with a daze that he had fallen to his knees… he was breathing rapidly in short painful gasps, as he shivered, waiting for Aragorn’s booted toe to strike his ribs, much as his father has often done. Instead he felt himself being pulled up, the king’s fist bunched around the collar of his shirt.

“How dare you strike him?”

“I – I didn’t mean to -,” he pushed back against the wall, as Elessar continued shouting.

He was struck across the face again, in the same spot, equally painfully. His head snapped back against the wall and he cried out from the impact. A loud buzzing sound filled his ears … the grip on his shirt tightened.

“Stop it!”

He looked up fearfully to see Legolas pulling the king away. Elessar was still shouting, his face red, tears shining in his eyes.

“Inglor said you were jealous and resented him!”

“Stop it!” Legolas shouted again, “He’s fine. It’s just a bad knock.”

The king let go of his shirt and Faramir fell again, unable to hold himself up.

“He’ll wake up soon,” Eldreth said calmly from where he sat crouched over Boromir, “Nothing to worry about. We’ll just carry him over to the houses of healing and see about stitching up that cut.”

Faramir curled into himself, terrified.

Aragorn turned a cold gaze on him, grey eyes shining with worried tears, “I will deal with you later,” he said, his voice hard and angry.

“F-forgive me,” he whispered.

“I should have you clapped away somewhere! You did after all just assault the Steward!” he spat out the words before hurrying off behind the others.

“Stay away a while lad,” Gimli said gruffly. The genial dwarf’s voice sounded hard and cold, and Faramir shrank further away.


It was just like the last time he had caused Boromir to get hurt, he thought as he stayed crouching miserably by the wall.

They had been at sword practice, and at Denethor’s insistence, they had been at combat with each other.

He’d been losing badly, for he was still a novice, the sword was heavy and his footwork was almost clumsy compared to Boromir’s light moves. His brother had been going easy on him. And then Faramir, tired and worn out, had slipped. Boromir, confident of victory, had not anticipated the unexpected movement, and the sword had gone through his thigh. Since it was merely a practice sword, the injury had not been as bad as it could have, but it had left his brother laid up in bed for some days.

He tried to push away the memory, and rose, stumbling somehow to his feet, using the wall for support. The others had left, but the blood stains still remained on the floor. He felt the bile rise to his throat as he stared at the splashes of bright red against the white floor.

He had to get to the houses of healing, he told himself. He needed to see Boromir! But not Elessar, he thought, shuddering. Unbidden the memory of the older man’s furious face looming so close to his rushed up and he clenched his fists, trying to control the fear he felt.

It seemed to take him an age to reach the houses of healing. The news of Boromir’s fall was spreading across the citadel, and he noticed uncomfortably that the people he passed by were giving him odd looks, some thoughtful, and some cold and hard.

He made his way towards the room he knew Boromir would be in, keeping an eye out to see where the others might be. Voices floated over to him from the hallway – the king, Legolas and Gimli. He slipped out of the hallway into the garden and crouched on a small bench behind some bushes. A soft, exasperated voice cut through the others, sending relief coursing through Faramir.

Boromir was awake!

He sounded exhausted though, he thought miserably, and slumped into the bushes unhappily. His father had spoken truly. He was little more than a nuisance. He should have been a support to Boromir in these tough times, helping him with his work. Instead he’d been spending his time sulking and not helping Boromir.

He stayed there, thinking worriedly of his brother. The sounds died away after a while but he stayed there.

Eldreth came across him some time later.

“On you’re here too? Well, come along in. Boromir is still awake, but he needs to go to sleep soon. I’ve just sent the others away so he can rest awhile.”

Faramir let himself be pulled into the room.

Boromir was sitting up in bed, awake; his bright grey eyes clear and lucid. An ugly large bruise marked the side of his face, and a white bandage covered the cut on his temple. He looked a little annoyed. He’d always hated being cooped inside the houses of healing.

“Faramir,” he said, sounding a little surprised, “I wondered where you’d wandered off to.”

“Boromir,” he gulped out, unable to stop the tears, “F-forgive me… I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s all right,” his brother said quietly, “I’m fine.”

“It – it was just like the time in the practice ground,” Faramir said worriedly, “You were hurt so badly then. It’s my fault again.”

“Don’t be silly. It was an accident. I should have watched where I was stepping. I just didn’t expect you to move so suddenly.”

“I would never hurt you,” Faramir mumbled.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to move. I just thought…you work so hard. I know I’m not of much help, but I thought…,” he knew he was rambling, but he was worried and he really needed to let Boromir know, “Forgive me, I did not mean to…”

“Oh for Eru’s sake, Faramir, stop it! It was an accident, I know that,” Boromir snapped, “I’m really tired now, can we not speak later?”

“I – I,” he floundered. Tears flowed down his cheeks.

“And stop blubbering!”

“I – I didn’t…”

“That’s enough now. Boromir, stop getting excited,” Eldreth bustled in, “You’d better leave now, Faramir. Your brother needs rest.”

“I’d rest better without all this fuss,” Boromir snapped out mutinously.

“Oh-of course,” Faramir mumbled, and rose to his feet.


He left his supper uneaten, and returned to the houses instead, lingering in the gardens. He went towards Boromir’s rooms after a while, wishing to check on his brother. He could hear soft voices from inside. Boromir was laughing. He sounded happy, and not at all annoyed. The king’s soft voice floated through the open window.

Boromir was clearly not too tired to withstand Aragorn’s company, he thought blankly. He returned to his chambers.

The room was cold and unlit. He lit the lantern, and undressed slowly, dragging his clothes off.

He could feel the bruises now, from the fall after Elessar had hit him. He’d hurt tomorrow he knew. Some had already started purpling. He stared down at his unattractive nude frame; his frame, spare and bony, tiny tufts of grizzly black hair on his chest and groin. Tiredly, he washed himself with a washcloth dipped in cold water. And then sat heavily on his bed. He felt exhausted.

He’d have to meet the king later for the rest of his punishment. He hoped Elessar would not be too harsh…. Boromir did seem better now. He hadn’t recovered this quickly the last time. He stirred uneasily as the old memories overwhelmed him. He pushed his bedclothes away tiredly and lay down on his bed.

He could still remember the incident. He’d been fifteen. Denethor had till then chosen to largely ignore him. After the incident at the practise ground, however, Denethor had decided to take an active interest in all he did, particularly his errors. He had earlier been miserable over the neglect, but in later days, he’d craved for that earlier time when Denethor had barely seemed to care what Faramir did. After that, his each action and word was scrutinised and incessantly criticised, verbally as well physically.

He shivered as he lay in bed, curling up miserably, breathing heavily.

On that occasion, Denethor had used a belt, he remembered – thirty strokes – one for each day that the healers said Boromir would be laid up, for he had developed a fever as well.

Boromir had been stone-faced and angry when Faramir had visited him in the houses of healing, before meeting his father. “Please go away, Faramir,” he had said, his face pale, voice small and defeated, “I don’t think I can speak to you now.”

He’d left with a heavy heart, slowly making his way to his father’s study.

“You did that deliberately!” Denethor had spat out when he’d reached his chambers, frightened and worried.

“No, I-”

Denethor had struck him on his face, so hard that his ears rang, and he’d almost fallen over.

“Silence! Insolent boy! Do you think I do not know how you envy your brother!”

He’d tried to protest. He had never envied Boromir’s prowess, accepting it instead with equanimity and admiring him for it. He did envy him for all who loved him though. Denethor had brushed his protests aside, with another slap, equally hard.

“Thirty days!” Denethor raged, “He will be unable to walk for thirty days all for your stupidity.”

He’d stood there shrinking inside, trembling from worry and fear, as Denethor raged.

“Indisciplined…. worthless… incapable… coward….craven fool… you let your jealousy rule your actions… I will not stand for this any longer… you will mend your ways … I will personally see to your discipline now.”

“I – I’m not,” he’d started and Denethor had lashed out then.

“Quiet!” he’d roared, “I will not tolerate any more transgressions.”

He removed his belt. Faramir had barely enough time to react as he was shoved over the table.

“I am personally going to punish you for each and every error in future. Starting from today. That is thirty days your brother is out. You will get thirty strokes for what you have done.”

“No – no,” Faramir said. He felt ashamed and humiliated… surely he was too old to be thrashed like this….

He’d struggled, terrified by the cold and harsh tone his father was using and the sight of the thick belt with its metal buckle glinting in the firelight. But Denethor was taller and stronger and had simply held him down, pulling up his shirt to bare his back. The leather striking his skin had made him scream, and his reaction had only angered his father further.

“Craven, blubbering fool … Boromir would never cry as you do…” He’d held back his cries, whimpering softly, tears trickling down his cheeks as the belt landed all over his back.

After the first few strokes, Denethor changed his grip so that the metal end struck Faramir now. He hadn’t been able to hold back his cries after that, as the sharp edges bit into his skin.

After the fifteenth stroke, he had nearly fainted and slid off the table, but Denethor had continued viciously striking him even as he lay on the floor. To his intense humiliation, the bindings on his sleeping pants had come undone from the force of the strikes and the garment had slid down to his upper thighs, baring his buttocks and hips and groin to Denethor’s derisive gaze.

The belt had landed indiscriminately then over his back, buttocks, thighs, abdomen, hips, as he’d lain curled on the cold floor, whimpering.

When it was over, he had still lain there, unable to move, hurting terribly, and still in shock over what he’d had to go through.

“I suggest you comport yourself as you should now for the next few weeks,” Denethor said coldly, looming over his crumpled form, prodding his bare and already sore midsection with his booted foot, so that he was forced to look up, “I will not hesitate to punish you again.”

He had had to be helped back to his chambers by Inglor. He’d lain there on his bed, for the next two days, fevered and in a haze of pain and fear and worry.

Boromir had recovered in fifteen days.

Faramir had spent those fifteen days trying to make himself invisible. And many days after that as well, for Denethor’s fury had only increased.

It wasn’t until some days later when Faramir was to leave for his training stint in Ithilien that he and Boromir had spoken. He had been sitting on his bed, putting his few belongings into an old satchel when Boromir had entered and hugged him quietly before wishing him a safe journey.

“I thought you’d want to spend time with me before leaving.”

He’d been conflicted then – glad to see his brother, yet still hurting from their last meeting. He’d wanted to remind him that he’d asked him to leave.

He’d wept instead. He remembered soaking Boromir’s shirt with his tears.

“I didn’t mean to… forgive me… I would never hurt you…”

“Hush, I know… ‘tis alright… I am well now. It was nothing.”

Faramir woke up, his heart racing, cheeks wet with tears.

He couldn’t return to sleep after that. Disjointed memories flooded through his mind, his father’s constant anger, the repeated comparisons to Boromir, his constant nagging worry of how his father would react to anything he did.

For each misconduct he was to expect a punishment, either a caning or belting. On matters that Denethor deemed more serious, it would be a riding crop or worse, one of the many whips he used. Faramir had felt each and every whip his father owned on his body; the scars littered his back, his backside, and the back of his thighs.

It was not going to change, he thought now desperately; nothing would change. He was still struggling to match up to Boromir’s skills as a steward, the king was furious with him, and given his earlier injuries, he would be of no use in the battlefield as well.

Over the years the frequency of the punishments had not reduced and their intensity had only increased. Five strokes for speaking out of turn became ten, then fifteen. For dawdling or laziness, the punishment changed from ten strokes to fifteen on his bare arse, six on each buttock alternately, and three across, so that he would be unable to sit for at least two days. He would shamefully lower his pants, and crouch over the study table, his crotch pressing into its edge painfully, his entire body flushed with embarrassment at his state of semi-nudity. To the young man’s mortification, Denethor would often have Inglor present as well, sometimes even handing over the task of completing a punishment to the old servant, and at times, in the earlier days, when Faramir would protest, unable to tolerate the derisive words and humiliating beating, needing him to subdue Faramir – holding him down, or forcibly removing his tunic. Inglor would comply efficiently and just as harshly. Faramir had finally in some years, stopped protesting.

Faramir had over the years, felt increasingly shameful, knowing well that there would be no other grown man, of his age, receiving such penalties. He made sure he hid the knowledge from Boromir. If his brother were to find out, he’d thought initially, he too would be as disgusted with him as Denethor was. And later, as he grew older, and crossed the age of thirty as well, it was too embarrassing and humiliating for him to admit to anyone, especially one he admired as much as Boromir, that he was incapable even of living up to the most basic of their father’s requirements.


By the next morning, Boromir’s room in the houses of healing was full of small tokens and flowers, carrying wishes from all and sundry.

“I’m fine, you know,” Boromir smiled at Aragorn and grasped his hand gently, “Stop worrying.”

“I was really worried, when I saw you on the stairs,” Aragorn shuddered painfully.

“Poor Faramir. He was hovering around rather miserably too. I sent him off then – he was giving me a headache. But he’s quite a worrier.”

Aragorn bit his lip, as he remembered his encounter with the Steward’s brother. He’d shouted at the poor lad quite awfully, he knew, letting his anger and fear get the better of him. Seeing Boromir lying on those steps, bleeding, had made him realise yet again how much he loved the younger man.

He’d hit Faramir too, he realised suddenly and winced.

“What is the matter,” Boromir asked sharply.

“I need to speak to him” Aragorn sighed, “I was – a little – harsh…”

“Oh,” Boromir said doubtfully. He’d never known Aragorn to be the harsh sort. He’d always been so patient and kind to everyone.

“I was worried. And I thought he’d hurt you. I – well, I hit him. I shouldn’t have…”

“You hit him?” Boromir said.

“I was angry. And he hurt you.”

Boromir sighed.

“It wasn’t his fault,” he said, “You needn’t have hit him.”

“I know now,” Aragorn said unhappily.

“He might be a little upset. I should see him, I suppose. He’s a little shy, you know. Father once slapped him after a rather fractious council meeting over the Ithilien supply line. He was very upset then.”

“I’ll meet him. I need to apologise.’


Faramir received the summons from the king whilst he was readying himself in the morning. He’d had a miserable night and what little sleep he’d had was plagued with nightmares. The note delivered to his chambers, had him sitting back heavily on his bed, half-dressed.

Nothing had changed, he thought blandly.

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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7 Comment(s)

Heart wrenching, stomach twisting and wonderful! Absolutely loved it!

— JD    Friday 14 December 2012, 6:36    #

Thank you JD:) I’m really glad you liked it.

Minx    Monday 17 December 2012, 16:32    #

After reading this in bits and pieces as you wrote it, I finally had the time to reread it front to back in one sitting last weekend. That’s some first class angst! Well done!
Although… according to h/c standards and conventions, I think this poor chap is due some more hugs and cuddles. Might have to imagine those myself. But then stories that get my imagination going are my favourite;) So many thanks for this one!

Iris    Wednesday 30 January 2013, 16:48    #

Awww…. thank you! :) I think he needed more hugs and lots of cuddles too…. :o

Minx    Thursday 31 January 2013, 18:00    #

I enjoyed this very much, Minx, as sad as it always is to read of Faramir going through such things! I’m glad that his brother and Aragorn were able to help him, even if it took some time for them to figure it out!

— Susana    Tuesday 18 June 2013, 4:47    #

Thank you Susana! I’m delighted you enjoyed it.:)

Minx    Sunday 23 June 2013, 19:04    #

That was fantastice.
Good job honey, well done.
Ohhhh…my poor little Faramir.
It such a relife that he finally has someones who care about him.
Thank u for creating this

— Elahe    Friday 5 November 2021, 11:16    #

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