Faramir Fiction Archive

The Price (R)

Written by Minx

28 February 2003 | 34809 words

Chapter 7

Denethor sat in his study, outwardly calm but inwardly a mix of various emotions ranging from fury to worry. Worry about the implications of a Haradrim’s death in his house. Fury at Fenekor, and partially at Boromir for rushing off as he had, with barely a word, when he was needed here.

Although of course, if he thought about it, technically Dorec had no right to be there. He was not there as an envoy, neither was Fenekor. Which as good as made them spies. And that might deny Harad the opportunity to declare a formal war, but it would not stop their constant skirmishes with the forces of Gondor. And with Dorec dead, and the likelihood a spies in his house, how did things stand with Fenekor? If the Haradrim had sense he would have stayed put and allied himself with Gondor. But apparently Fenekor was nothing more than a huge bully, for the first sign of possible assassination had seen him scurrying off. With Faramir.

He frowned slightly at the thought of his younger son, he had not allowed himself to think about his deal with Fenekor. It was better that way, to do it and then forget about it. And it was partially Faramir’s fault, for attracting Fenekor’s attention with his youthfulness. Countless times he’d told the boy, sometimes tried to beat it into him, that books and dreams were not all. He had watched him train with weaponry, and felt his ire build up as he realised that the younger boy would never be as good with weapons as his brother was. And now that he had entered manhood, he might be able to wield a sword, but he was yet to fill out like his brother, still retaining a kind of sensitivity about him. And now Boromir was off in search of him!

He fumed some more until someone knocked on his door, when he had expressly forbidden anyone from disturbing him unless it was of utmost importance. He bade them enter, wondering what else could possibly have happened.

Fenekor may have been quick but he was no match for a very furious elf. The knife that was set to plunge into Boromir’s throat was knocked off with one hand while the other used a sharp edge weapon to dig into his shoulder. He fell back, Haldir over him, the knife hitting the bench and falling down. Boromir lay for a moment gasping and coughing, and then collecting his senses went to help his friend. Haldir however needed no help. He clouted Fenekor hard on the side of his head, knocking him senseless, and then sat back on his heels. Getting up, he picked up his clothes, and pulled them on, while Boromir ensured that Fenekor was indeed senseless.

“I should kill him,” Boromir growled, and probably would have done so if the high-pitched whimpering hadn’t distracted him.

“Faramir,” he was at his brother’s side immediately, joined by Haldir, aghast at the state he’d found his younger brother in. Faramir lay where he’d fallen, eyes wide open in fear, clutching at the hard stone floor as if in search of support. His face was covered with a fine layer of sheen and he was breathing in short rasps. His chest heaved, rising and falling rapidly. And it occurred to Boromir that if he’d though his brother had been in a bad shape yesterday, there was no way he could describe him today. He felt the anger well up even more, as he saw the swollen face, the raw wounds, fresh bruises on the legs, and more blood.

Boromir gathered him up in his arms trying to find some place on his body where he wasn’t bruised and not succeeding. No matter how he held him, it would hurt, so he simply pulled him into an embrace, laying his head against his chest, arms wrapped around the slender figure, desperately trying to provide some sort of succour. Faramir tried to pull away, silent sobs running through him spasmodically.

“Oh Faramir,” Boromir held his younger brother tight, trying to stop him struggling in his arms. He rubbed an arm soothingly on his back only to stop as he realised he was only hurting the injured man further. Haldir meanwhile had managed to locate Faramir’s discarded robe, and returned with it now, dusty, and torn.

“I should never have left you there, without a guard,” Boromir murmured, evidently distressed.

There was no response from the sobbing figure in his arms. Faramir had given up struggling, he was too weak, but he desperately wanted to flee, anywhere. He wished he could stop thinking, stop remembering how his last two days had been, the abuse, the humiliation. He wished he could just enter some state of oblivion but instead, he remained wide awake, perfectly aware of his injuries, physical and emotional, aware that he had been shamed in front of his brother, and his friend, that he had been shown up for a coward. Every ache, every sting that assailed his brutalized frame kept him awake and made him aware of that. He wanted to get away from Boromir, and curl up in some corner, all alone, and wait for release. He didn’t know what else he could do.

How was he to be a soldier? And soldier he must be if he wanted his father’s love, or even acknowledgement. But soldiers did not scare like him. For along with pain, fear coursed his veins. Fear from events past, fear of events that almost happened, fear of rejection, that his brother and friend would forever think of him as a weakling, that he had failed in what his father asked him to do. And, as he then realised, fear of what Denethor would say. Was he not to have obeyed implicitly and done as Fenekor had asked him? And did Denethor give the captain leave to take him away, far away from Minas Tirith, out of his sight, somewhere where he would not have to be reminded on a daily basis that he had another son, one who might as well not exist for him. And would his father ever accept him now? Now that he had betrayed Gondor? What price would Fenekor extract now, when he awoke? Whatever would his father say? Jumbled thoughts ran through his head, as protective arms held him, someone else covered his shivering frame with cloth.

“Father,” he whispered turning even more ashen, and Boromir stopped crying at the sound of the pained whisper, and looked into the dull grey eyes.

“I have left a message for him, he knows we have come to rescue you,” he said smoothing away the dark hair plastered over a sweat lined forehead.

Faramir looked at him in confusion, “Father will be angry,” he said, the tremors in his voice betraying his agitation, “you should not have come. If he sent me away with Fenekor, it would be with reason. You should not have come.”

“He did not send you away!” Boromir exclaimed, a cold hand clutching at his heart. How could his brother even think like that? How could he think his father would send him off with a man who had treated him like this? After all, he had promised Faramir he would never have to go to Fenekor again. But Faramir would never have expected to have to go to him in the first place, would he; a second voice in his mind spoke up, maliciously.

“Fenekor kidnapped you,” he said quietly.

Faramir stared at him expressionlessly, “Father did not -?”

“Of course not!”

“But what will happen now?”

“We will go back home, and you will rest, and this time I will not leave your side.”

“Fenekor -,”

“I will handle that.”

““The alliance–”

“Is unnecessary. We can hold out against Harad on our own as we have been doing all this while,” Boromir said.

Faramir shook his head, slightly and wearily, whatever Boromir might say, he knew his father would be angry with him. It might be an irrational anger, but rarely had Denethor’s ire at him displayed any rationale behind it. The thought of facing an irate father, sent more shudders through his already shaking body.

“Hush, young one, I am here now, and none shall ever harm you again,” Boromir whispered, stroking the damp raven hair. It was chilly in the cellar, and Faramir’s body was icy to touch, but even so he was sweating, and Boromir knew it was his body’s reaction to all the abuse it had had to endure. He was in fact surprised Faramir was still conscious and speaking cogently. He was glad his brother wasn’t pushing him away, that he still recognised his touch from that of Fenekor’s and clung to him. He trusted him. Silent tears streamed down his face, as he listened to his brother’s raspy breathing, and felt the sight chest heave against slowly and almost tiredly against his body. Did he really deserve to retain Faramir’s faith and love? He had failed to protect the one who was dearest to him. He did not deserve to call himself a soldier after this. Soldiers protected people. And this was his own brother here.

Haldir watched irresolutely, keeping an eye constantly on Fenekor’s prone body stretched out on the cold stone floor. Like Boromir, he wanted to do something really terrible to that monster. But he kept himself in control knowing the situation was delicate, and even the smallest thing could spark off a chain of unwanted events. But the sight of that tortured, broken body kept pushing his anger over the edge. He felt he understood what was going through Boromir’s head. He wondered how Boromir would be towards him after what had happened but it was obvious that Denethor’s elder son understood the duress all of them had been under.

Boromir finally stirred himself, “We must leave now. I must get you home. It is cold and you are shivering,” he told Faramir who continued to lean against him. He realised how much his embrace meant to the younger man. Faramir needed him. To think he had actually thought otherwise and spoken harshly to him because of that just the day before.

Scared grey eyes looked up at him. Total exhaustion reflected out of them. Boromir felt another pull at his heart. In all these years, he had never seen Faramir so scared. Confused and hurt perhaps, but such a depth of fear was a new emotion. Faramir suddenly looked much, much younger than his twenty-one years, reminding Boromir of their childhood days, when he had often held his weeping brother to comfort him after their father’s rash tongue or hand had held sway.

“It hurts,” Faramir whispered softly, the first vocal admission of pain he had made.

“Where, child?” Boromir glanced unhappily down at the battered body, liberally dotted with signs of the suffering it had undergone. He knew the answer even before it came out, the voice hoarse from pain and tiredness.

“Everywhere.”

Haldir moved forward, and kneeling by the two of them, spoke softly, “Will you be able to ride with one of us? It will not be comfortable, though.”

Faramir nodded tiredly. He really didn’t want to go home. He knew his father would be angry. He had failed. The Harad captain would never – the captain!

“What of the captain?” he asked fearfully.

“I forgot about that – that – creature,” Boromir spat out, “I would like to kill him, but I think we should take him prisoner, and take him back to father. And have him clapped in the worst possible dungeon and made to suffer for everything he has done. For every time he has dared to hit you, dared to –“ he stopped when he noticed his brother’s face, and cursed himself as he realised the very mention of the captain’s deeds made the younger man blanch.

“He will never touch you again,” he said firmly.

“You are hurt,” Faramir exclaimed, reaching out a quivering hand to Boromir’s forehead, where the blood had caked around the small cut he had received when he had fallen down the stairs. He himself had not noticed it, and listened with growing bemusement as Faramir’s voice became high pitched in panic, “Forgive me, Boromir, I did not see it earlier. I am sorry. Does it hurt?”

Boromir caught up the raised hand, and brought his brother closer to him.

“You should have it tended to,” Faramir continued, trying to pull away, “Do not worry about me, see to your injuries.” He pointed to the tiny cut on the neck where the knife had drawn blood.

“They are naught, child,” Boromir said his voice thick with tears. His brother did trust him, and he still loved him. But how can you? When I have let you down like this?

“He said he would kill you,” the sobbing voice came muffled, “if I, if I did not -, I was so scared. He almost killed you; I should have listened to him. Then he would not hurt you.”

“He did not hurt me, it is naught.”

“I should have done as he said, I let you get hurt. It was selfish of me,” Faramir sobbed, while Haldir and Boromir exchanged glances of consternation.

“Faramir! I should be saying those words. You are not selfish, I was not hurt. I would rather get hurt, than let anyone hurt you.” Faramir simply continued to sob.

He stared at Haldir uncomprehendingly, his vision blurred by the tears, and the elf stared back at him with a deep sadness in his eyes.

“Come,” Haldir said softly, “Let us leave, Faramir is tiring, and he has been through much.”

He reached for the man, to help him stand up. He reached a hand for Faramir’s shoulder, and raised one dropping hand. The fingers brushed past his bent face, and he felt the same rush he’d felt the first time their hands had come in contact. The lightest of touches grazed his lips, and he almost hissed, backing his face away a little. Faramir turned his grey eyes towards him realizing he’d just brushed Haldir’s lips with his hands, and then dropped them in embarrassment as the elf swerved his face. He found himself blinking back more tears as he thought back to how he had forced a kiss upon the elf. And had almost made him make love to him. He had been about to force Haldir to bed him, a human and a man at that. He had not thought that Haldir might find it distasteful, and that he was forcing him to do something he had not wanted to.

He felt Boromir and Haldir help him up, and then Boromir slipped away to truss Fenekor up “I’m sorry,” he whispered, as Haldir held him up, “I should not have – not have f-forced you –“

Haldir stared at him surprised, but had no chance to reply as he felt himself tottering unsteadily when Faramir slumped forward into his arms, consciousness finally forsaking him. Faramir’s last thoughts before a black fog beckoned him were that of his muscles screaming in protest at the sudden movement, and that in Haldir’s arms he would be safe. His arms flailed in the air for a fraction of a second, where he once again felt the touch of the soft skin of the other’s face, and it somehow comforted and soothed him, so he shut his eyes, and welcomed the blackness that overtook him.

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