Faramir Fiction Archive

Shadows (R)

Written by Minx

12 December 2012 | 29219 words

Chapter 6

Faramir straightened his tunic miserably as he walked down the hallways towards the king’s study. A shiver ran down his back, as he wondered how harsh his punishment would be. He reached the king’s apartments and stared irresolutely at the study door. He felt lightheaded and recollected that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the previous day. He heard the king’s voice summoning him from inside the study. He felt scared, and he hated himself for it.

The king’s study was large and airy, and the table looked imposing. It was the same one he’d been hauled over so often, the carved edges pressing into the soft skin of his lower belly, leaving faint bruises each time.

And the king, sitting there looked as imposing and terrifying as his father had. He took a deep breath and walked forward. A whip hung over the wall, above the desk, a large one. And a cane rested against the wall by the king’s chair, and his riding crop had been thrown onto a chair by the fire. Elessar rose.

Faramir stopped; his legs felt leaden, unable to carry him forward. The king strode forward, and with each step, Faramir could hear his heart thudding heavily against his chest. The blood seemed to rush to his head, leaving him almost faint.

“Faramir,” the king’s voice seemed toneless.

He came closer, and Faramir backed away.

“Forgive me,” he spoke rapidly, “I – “

He kept moving backwards, as terror welled inside him. His back hit the stone wall painfully, and he gasped.

The king was moving closer. He sank to the floor, breathing heavily in short quick gasps. Elessar’s face loomed closer to his, a large hand came up. And then the blessed blackness overtook his exhausted mind.

Aragorn darted forward as he saw Faramir slump forward. He grabbed the smaller man around the waist, letting him collapse against his chest.

“Faramir,” he called out, worriedly. The lad lay still in his arms. He hoisted him up and carried him over to a cushioned bench near the fireplace. He was far too light, he realised.

He laid him on the bench, and gently stroked his face. He winced as he noticed a purpling bruise on his cheek, from where he’d hit him. Faint lines of worry marred the pale face, and dark circles ringed the closed eyes. He must have been worried a great deal over Boromir, Aragorn realised! He wondered suddenly if he’d eaten.

Faramir stirred, moaning slightly.

When Faramir came to, the king was leaning over him, holding his hand talking to him gently.

“Wh-what?” he said foggily, wondering why Elessar sat by his bed. And then he realised he was not in his bed.

He made to sit up, and felt a wave of giddiness pass through him, and then a firm hand on his chest held him down.

“Hush, lie back,” the king said, “You fainted. When did you last eat?”

“F-fainted?” Faramir said. He’d fainted, he thought, in the king’s study. As though he were some weak maiden. He flushed at the thought. He was truly becoming more and more inept.

“I-,” He stared about him in confusion. He wondered why he laid like that, his confused mind grasping for stray memories. He was in the king’s study, he’d been called, and Boromir….

“Boromir!” he shouted and sat up with a gasp.

“Lie back,” the king said gently.

He stared up at him, and felt fear welling up.

Aragorn stared bemusedly at the younger man who had quietly collapsed mere minutes ago. He suspected it was from exhaustion and lack of food. The youngling had certainly worked himself into a state over Boromir’s injury!

“He’s all right,” he said reassuringly, reaching a hand out to brush the hair away from the sweat slicked face.

Faramir flinched, cowering away.

And Aragorn realised that he had backed away just so into the wall earlier. He noticed too, as he had not earlier, the emotions flitting across the now pale features – fear mostly.

He lowered his hand quietly, and Faramir seemed to breathe easier, barely though. He still looked terrified, as though someone were going to hit him. And immediately Aragorn recollected bitterly that he had done just that.

“I called you in to request you to forgive me for my behaviour yesterday,” he said quietly, watching Faramir’s face closely. The younger man stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“I should not have reacted so. I was worried, but I should not have taken my worry out on you.”

“N-no,” he gasped out, “M-my fault,” he said.

“Of course not,” Argaorn said gently, and came closer.

“Boromir slipped. It was not your fault. I – I should curb your temper. But,” he paused, as he felt his face flush from this display of emotion, “I love your brother greatly, and it terrified me to think he was hurt.”

He sat by Faramir’s side, pretending not to notice the way the younger man inched his thin body away.

“I should not have hit you,” he said quietly, “Again, I beg you forgive me for that.”

Faramir stared at him, “F-forgive you?”

He was hearing things, Faramir decided.

“I – I am ready for my punishment,” he said quietly, instead.

“Punishment?” Aragorn stared at the younger man in surprise. The poor lad really looked done in. His hair was badly tousled, and faint shivers racked his body. He must still be badly disoriented, he decided.

“F-for hurting Boromir,” Faramir murmured softly, his eyes now bright with unshed tears, “M-must penalise. He’s the Steward. And c-captain.” He was trembling now, and had curled into himself.

“It was an accident,” Aragorn said, soothingly, “Lie back, you need some rest. And then something to eat.”

“B-but I hurt Boromir,” Faramir said frantically.

“He slipped.”

“I hurt Boromir,” Faramir repeated, sounding almost bewildered.

Aragorn sighed and rose.

Faramir stared at the king walking away, his vision hazy through the film of tears. The riding crop lay on the chair near him. Elessar must be getting the cane or a whip. He should get up, and lean over the table, but his limbs felt so heavy. And he needed to remove his tunic. Denethor had always insisted on that, saying he would not let him ruin his clothes.

He lay back miserably. His head was pounding now, and fear seemed to block even his throat. The king was returning he realised, even as a fresh wave of blackness suddenly surged through him. He felt something wet and cool at his lips, and realised the king was giving him something to drink. He sipped obediently.

And then he remembered nothing else.

Aragorn sighed as Faramir’s breathing evened out. The herbal tea he had given him to calm him had worked a little too well. But it would help Faramir rest. He’d have some food to sent to him in a while, and then take him to see Boromir. He draped his cloak over the prone figure, and brushed the stray strands of hair off his face.He looked so small and young!

It would take Faramir a while to awaken, he thought. He could visit Boromir in the meantime.

He told his secretary to let Faramir sleep in the study undisturbed.

He received an odd look when he summoned one of the kitchen staff and asked them to leave a plate of bread and cheese by Faramir, in case he woke up and felt hungry.

Boromir was awake and chafing to leave. Aragorn smiled for the young man presented a fairly incongruous sight, his dark uncombed hair flying wild, a bright white bandage on his forehead, and his expression stormy.

“I feel perfect,” he told Aragorn, in annoyance, “Why do I need to be here two more days?”

“Because you hit your head and one cannot be too careful on that. And then you need complete rest for a week,” the master healer announced, “You may return to your chambers but you must rest – as little reading as possible, no riding, nothing strenuous.”

Boromir snorted in annoyance and turned to Aragorn after he had left.

“He hates me because I once bit him when he was stitching a cut on my hand,” he told the king.

Aragorn laughed and sat by Boromir’s bed, “Well, as favour to me then, obey his instructions. The sooner you recover, the sooner we can indulge in some – ah… pleasurable strenuous activities?”

Boromir laughed in response.

Aragorn smiled. He was glad to see Boromir looking so well.

“Did you speak to Faramir?” Boromir asked suddenly, “I thought he’d be here by now, hovering over me.”

Aragorn told him about Faramir’s collapse as briefly as he could.

“He’s all right, merely worried about you,” he told him, “I’ll bring him over once he wakes up. If he spends some time with you, he might feel better too! And if he hovers, let him. Don’t shunt him off like you did yesterday!”

When Faramir came to again, he was alone in the king’s study. The afternoon sun was shining through thin curtains, but Faramir had still been covered with a cloak. He pushed it away and sat up. He remembered fainting, twice now, in the king’s study and felt extremely mortified.

“Oh you’re awake!” Elessar said, cheerfully, “Boromir’s asking for you. I told him you were resting. You need to eat something. Will you join him for luncheon? There’s stew I think.”

Faramir nodded, still feeling a little groggy. He followed the king to the houses of healing, and entered Boromir’s room.

His brother was awake and smiled at him as he entered. Faramir rushed to his side.

“Boromir…,” he said almost pathetically, his fingers hovering over the bruises on his brother’s face. He felt tears spring to his eyes.

“There you are, little brother!” Boromir said jovially, “I wondered where you were.”

And then when Faramir didn’t respond but continued staring at him, he sighed, “Oh come, youngling. It’s merely a cut and some bruises. The bandage will come off in a week. And the bruises give me a rather dashing look, don’t you think? Like a corsair or some such.”

Faramir sniffed miserably.

Boromir gave Aragorn a despairing look.

‘Be patient,’ Aragorn mouthed, smiling.

A sharp sound from the doorway had all three of them looking up. Inglor stood there, holding some books and clothes, and he looked furious.

“You,” Inglor glared at Faramir, “Why are you here? You horrible, nasty, jealous boy! See what you did… poor Lord Boromir, he tolerates you and helps you and this is what you do to him. I knew you would show your true colours soon. You should send him off my lord, back to the borders… it’s the apt place for disobedient, uncivilised creatures.”

“Inglor!” Boromir shouted, shocked at the tirade, “That’s enough. You can’t talk to Faramir like that!”

“He hurt you!” Inglor spat out, his ageing features distorted in fury.

“It was an accident,” Aragorn said quietly, “Calm down, Inglor. There is no call to shout at Faramir like this. Boromir slipped. And I suggest if the citadel staff do not know yet, you inform them.”

Inglor looked at them darkly, “Lord Denethor would have taken care of this properly,” he said, his lips pursed in disapproval, and then he walked off.

Boromir shook his head in consternation, “I am very fond of that old man, but I think he needs to be pensioned off now. He’s getting senile! Oh Faramir! You’re not crying because of what he said, surely?”

Aragorn laid a hand on the trembling man’s shoulders. Faramir wiped the tears off his face and shook his head unhappily.

“And no, don’t apologise again!” Boromir snapped trying to curb his annoyance. All he wanted was a quiet meal.

Boromir pulled him close to sit by his side, gently patting his back and head awkwardly. He was very grateful when lunch came in. They ate together – he and Aragorn trying to maintain a cheerful conversation, Faramir staying in a subdued silence.

Perhaps, Faramir thought, he was indeed not going to be punished this time.

Some days later…

Boromir lay back against Aragorn sighing pleasantly. It was raining furiously outside, with flashes of lightning appearing at intervals, and the muffled crack of thunder sounding in the distance.

They were sitting in front of a merrily crackling pine wood fire. The lights in the room had been dimmed so that only a soft golden glow spread around them. They had just finished a fine dinner – hot creamy, stew, warm buttered bread, a selection of roast meats, and warm pudding.

“The weather is so horrible today,” he muttered, “Inglor said Faramir had returned, thankfully. I hope he didn’t get too wet.”

“Legolas and Gimli are still at the taverns. Faramir will welcome a warm fire and this wonderful supper.”

Boromir nodded, “Supper was indeed very nice today. I must thank the kitchens. They seem to want me to eat like a hobbit.”

“The master healer said lots of rest and to eat well,” Aragorn said smiling, and ran his fingers through his hair and over his face, glad to see the bruises had faded.

“And no exertion,” Boromir smirked.

Aragorn snorted.

Faramir stumbled into his room. He was completely drenched. It had been a fine day, almost sunny, when he’d ridden out to the Pelennor to inspect some repairwork on the riverside fortifications south of the city. But then the weather had worsened over the afternoon, and the threatening clouds had finally burst as he’d still been a few miles short of the city. He’d ridden on, braving the flashes of lightning and heavy rain, and urged his horse forward. He’d reached the city some time earlier. But he’d had to stable his horse first, and rub her down and feed her. She was one of the smaller animals, unused to such exertions and it had taken him a while to get her settled. He had then run over to the citadel through the pouring rain, with little more than his cloak for cover.

His room was dark and cold. He peeled off the sodden clothes with difficulty, and washed himself quickly with bathwater that had been left there in the evening. It was lukewarm by now, as usual, but it was adequate. He pulled on a dry, thick tunic and pants, and then still feeling cold, pulled on another heavier tunic. He wished he could have a fire in his rooms but Denethor had instructed that the fires would be lit in his room only from the month of Ringare. That was still weeks away, but winter seemed early this year, the days getting cooler and sudden thunderstorms often breaking out as had happened today. There were reports of early snow in the villages on the White Mountains.

He had missed out on supper in the great hall as well, so he decided to go to the kitchens and get some food. He could then see if Boromir was awake and how he fared. His brother had been allowed to leave the houses of healing some days ago but was still recommended complete rest. It was hence that Faramir had ridden out to the repairworks instead, after finishing all his paperwork. Between Boromir’s secretary and himself, they had managed to redistribute the Steward’s work so that he would have as little to do as possible for another fortnight at least. Aragorn had said he would ensure Boromir would stay quiet.

He knocked lightly on Boromir’s door and pushed it open gently. The lights were dimmed, with only a few lamps lit, their golden glow lending the room a soft, warm atmosphere. A fragrant, warm fire crackled merrily in one corner, and as he stepped in, he realised that Boromir and Aragorn lay in front of it wrapped in furs, their empty dinner plates and bowls lay to the side. They were sleeping, Boromir curled into Aragorn arms. Faramir left quietly, unwilling to disturb them.

The next day remained dark and overcast, and Faramir took care of all the work he could do sitting within the citadel. He’d never realised how much paperwork his brother had, he thought guiltily. He’d worked on his own tasks faster than usual, before looking through Boromir’s. It was lucky for them the work had lessened considerably after the council meetings had ended. Thankfully he seemed to feel non ill-effects from his drenching barring a faint tickle in this throat.

The day after dawned sunny again, so he planned to ride out to the Pelennor in the afternoon again. The captain overseeing the work there needed a lot of guidance.

To his consternation, the weather turned foul again. However, he’d worn his thicker cloak this time, and the rain was not as heavy. So he hoped he would not get as wet. He was still dripping water along the floor when he entered the citadel, though, despite his best efforts. And the tickle in his throat was starting to hurt.

He trudged slowly towards his rooms, lost in a cloud of exhaustion, cold and misery.

“Faramir, you look like a drowning cat!” Boromir had walked p to him, and Faramir lost in his thoughts hadn’t noticed him.

“Boromir,” he said, smiling wearily at his brother, “I thought you might be sleeping.”

“I was waiting for you. The Haradric envoy sent me some books, which I thought you might like better. But I think the only thing you’d like now is a warm, dry bed and supper! Come, let’s get you into something dry.”

“I’m fine,” Faramir protested, slurring, and then stumbled, stopped by falling only by Boromir’s hand on his elbow.

“Yes, you certainly are. Come along now.”

“It’s nothing,” he tried again, “It’s just like two days earlier, it was raining, and I got wet. I was fine later.”

“Oh, is it?” Boromir asked ominously, but said nothing more.

Boromir walked along with his brother into his chambers, cursing himself silently for not checking what duties Faramir had taken on. The rebuilding work on the Pelennor could have waited a few weeks till the rains stopped.

He’d forgotten how far Faramir’s chambers were from his room!

Faramir’s room was unlit and cold, when they reached. Boromir frowned, as he led Faramir into the bathing chambers, helped him shrug off his cloak, and left him there to change. He walked out onto the hallway, found one the pages, and sent him off to ask for a fire in Faramir’s chambers. He then lit the lanterns placed around the room, and then pulled out some dry clothes from Faramir’s chest for him.

Faramir was sitting in the bathing chamber, shivering as he tried to tug off his boots.

“The fire’s not lit,” Boromir said, as he dipped a towel into the bathwater, “And this water’s not even hot.”

“They keep it here in the evening. I was late,” Faramir said, as he struggled to remove his tunic. Boromir helped him, and then aided him in removing his pants, until Faramir sat shivering in only his underclothes. Boromir gathered his wet clothes and placed them aside.

“Your cloak is inadequate for this rain,” he grumbled, “You need a thicker one. This one is so old!”

A sound outside indicated the arrival of a servant so Boromir left him to wash and change into his dry clothes.

Boromir found Haleth, one of the younger cleaning staff, standing outside uncertainly.

“Haleth, the fire needs to be lit,” he said, “I’m surprised it hasn’t already been done!”

“But it is too early. We only light the fires after Ringare starts,” Haleth said.

“Whoever told you that?” Boromir asked incredulously. He knew he hadn’t imagined the fire in his own chambers or in Aragorn’s.

“They are Lord Denethor’s instructions,” Haleth said, “In Master Faramir’s bedchambers, the fire is to be lit only in the winter months, after Ringare starts.”

“Why would he say that?” Boromir demanded.

“Well,” Haleth scratched his chin, “Elgin in the kitchens said it is because Master Faramir is a little lazy so Lord Denethor wanted him to stay out of his chambers as much as possible.”

Boromir stared at him, incredulously, and then sighed in irritation.

“Very well, I’m telling you now to light it, so do so! And ask your friend in the kitchens to send some firewood here.”

It took Haleth a while to get the fire going however, for the fireplace itself was damp and dusty and he needed to wipe it clean first. He managed with some difficulty to get one going.

In the meantime, Faramir emerged, cleaned up and wearing dry clothes. He was still shivering though, so Boromir had him get into bed and pulled the blankets up around him. He rested a hand on his forehead and cheeks and was unsurprised to feel the warmth.

“You’re running a fever,” he said quietly.

“I need to rise. I have to complete the report on the reconstruction,” Faramir mumbled.

“I’ll do that,” Boromir told him reassuringly.

“No, the healer said you have to rest –”

“For now, why don’t you get some rest?” Boromir suggested, “I’m calling Aragorn here to see you. So rest till then.”

Faramir let out a painful cough in response.

Aragorn was waiting for him in his chambers.

“Honeycakes for you,” he said smiling, “Warm and buttered too. Boromir – what is it? You look troubled.”

“Faramir was caught in the rain tonight, and I think two nights prior as well. He’s running a fever. Could you come take a look at him?”

“Oh dear. Yes, of course I will,” Aragorn said. He picked up the pouch of healing herbs he had kept for Boromir’s use and followed the other man out.

“Faramir’s chambers are rather far from yours,” he commented as they walked quietly through the long winding hallways.

“Yes – yes they are. I hadn’t realised earlier,” Boromir said.

The room itself was small, the furnishings bare and old, but neatly maintained. The bed and a small desk took up most of the area. A shelf over the table was piled high with books. Aragorn stared curiously out of the window. The only view he could see was of other citadel buildings, grey and dull. The fire was a small one and the wood seemed damp for it hissed and spat at regular intervals. It was a far cry for the bright cheerful chambers they’d just left.

A dank odour wafted in through the open windows. He shut them firmly.

“It’s not very warm,” he commented, as he sat by Faramir’s bed. The younger man was lying with his eyes closed, but he shifted restlessly often.

“The fire was unlit,” Boromir said.

Aragorn sighed as he placed hand on Faramir’s face. The lad’s face was pale and clammy, and his breathing raspy.

“You’re right. He’s running a fever, and he’s developing a bad cough as well. I think we should move him from here, to your chambers or mine. They are far more comfortable!”

“He weights next to nothing,” Boromir exclaimed as he helped Aragorn gather the younger man into his arms, blankets and all.

Aragorn nodded unhappily.

“We need a nightshirt for him, a thick one. I have some old ones, we’ll use those. We need to rub him down with some herbs and then he can eat something and then rest. Will you ask the kitchens for supper for him – soup perhaps?”

Boromir agreed and went in search of Inglor – he could arrange for supper and extra blankets.

He found Inglor in the dining hall, supervising the clearing away of supper.

“Lord Boromir! You should not be up and about at this time. You are to rest,” he chided.

“Yes,” Boromir said, “But Faramir is unwell. Aragorn is taking him to my chambers as we speak. He will need some dinner, soup and bread perhaps.”

“Very well,” Inglor said, “But that is not excuse to wander so.”

“And Inglor, what is this Haleth tells me of being instructed to not light a fire here till the winter sets in?”

“That was Lord Denethor’s order. He said it was very important that Faramir be taught discipline, and that his laziness be taken care of. He said if he had a fire in his chambers, he’d be here all day lost in a cloud of books and fantasies.”

“Faramir is not lazy,” Boromir retorted. Inglor responded with a shrug and returned to supervising the cleaning staff.

Aragorn had laid Faramir on his bed when he returned. He was mixing together some herbs.

“What happened?” Aragorn asked him, for Boromir was looking quite distressed.

Boromir told him quietly, shaking his head as he did so, “I didn’t know. Father never disciplined me so.”

“It is odd,” Aragorn agreed, “You must ask Faramir about it.”

“Is he all right?” Boromir asked anxiously, looking at his younger brother, as shifted restlessly in the large bed. His breathing seemed a little too rapid.

“We need to remove his shirt and rub this paste on his chest and back. It’ll help him breathe easier,” Aragorn instructed.

Boromir untied the bindings of his brother’s shirt, and pulling Faramir up into his arms, gently peeled off the upper garment. It was loose enough to come off with little effort. Clearly Faramir had lost a lot of weight. Faramir grunted as he was moved, but his eyes remained closed. Boromir laid him back down, and then loosened his pants to bare his lower abdomen. Warmth radiated off the soft skin of his belly.

Aragorn soaked a few pieces of cloth in the herb mixture, and handed him one. They applied the herb mix on the pale skin, working it into either side of his chest. Aragorn paused briefly as he encountered fine scars on the stomach. He frowned down at the marks but said nothing. It pained him to think of the way both brothers had tirelessly soldiered on to protect his kingdom.

They turned the younger man onto his back, and began working on that. Aragorn glanced curiously at the scars there. He had not realised how many marks the younger man had had earlier. He’d been bandaged the last time he’d seen him in the houses of healing. Aragorn paused. Boromir continued to gently rub the cloth over the naked back. The skin gleamed in the lamplight from the herb mix.

“These marks,” Aragorn said worriedly. There were so many! And he could see them snaking down below the waistband of the trousers, loosened just enough to expose the curve of Faramir’s buttocks.

“There are a lot of them,” he said, “Was – was Faramir captured ever? And – mistreated….?” he shuddered to think of what the gentle and shy younger man could have endured.

“No,” Boromir said, “Why do you ask?”

“Where are these marks from then? They are too many and too consistent in pattern to be battle injuries. He’s been beaten, more than once.”

“Beaten?”

“These are from cane or a whip. Or a belt,” he looked closer and felt a sickening feeling in the depths of his heart, as he spoke on, “At different times. Some are very old. Some are quite new, some months ago perhaps. Was he disciplined ever?”

“Nay. Only father would ever have raised a hand at him.”

“Boromir, someone had raised more than a hand on him. Look.”

He could see as Boromir paled that the man was beginning to realise the extent of Faramir’s injuries.

Boromir ran a finger softly along one long almost faded scar that ran across the thin, shivering back, and stared miserably up at Aragorn.

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