Faramir Fiction Archive

Unholy Light (NC-17)

Written by December

05 January 2020 | 6480 words | Work in Progress

Title: Unholy Light
Author: December
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Faramir
Warnings: Non-con, torture, psychological torture, AU canon divergence, dark!fic
Author's note.,Alright everybody,I am sorry about this. It's my first (and quite unplanned) dabble into the dark fic realm. I blame it all on watching too many compilations of the GOT most brutal scenes in one go. This may never live up to that standard

Things go pear-shaped towards the end of the quest to destroy the One Ring, and Boromir is left with impossible choices on his hands as his darkest hopes are dragged to the light.
Added: Chapter 5

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Part 5.

The door stands ajar, and Boromir thinks nothing of glancing inside.

Faramir is not alone.

He is propped up on the pillows, the bandages from his head removed, and beside the bed sits a young woman, very slender and very pale.

She wears the simple white robe of a hand of the Wards, but her back is straight as a lance, her head held with an unselfconscious, proud grace that only comes through habit. Her hair is plaited neatly out of the way, but its colour of ripe wheat is not that of Gondorian people, and Boromir frowns.

In the woman’s lap is a bowl of thick ointment, and she is massaging it into Farmir’s fresh scars with her fingertips.

She looks frustrated as a gentle wince touches Faramir’s lips.

“Forgive me,” she says, with a Rohirric accent, but it is faint, subtler than a commoner would have. Her voice is harder and stronger than Boromir would expect from someone of her frame. “My hand is ungentle, I was trained for battle. I am only just learning.”

Faramir smiles, and offers her kind words of reassurance.

Boromir does not hear what he says, for all he can see is that Faramir smiles.

For the first time in a hundred years.

For someone else.

Without thinking, he pushes the door and walks in.

Faramir’s companion gives a start, as one too accustomed to unpleasant surprises.

Quick to reign herself, she transforms the momentum of her jolt into rising up to greet the visitor, but her reaction does not escape Faramir’s notice. Boromir thinks he catches a shadow of disapproval pass over his brother’s face. He is not smiling anymore.

Boromir also sees her take in his warrior build, the rich attire of his office, his lordly bearing. He sees the subtle change in her face. Not that of servitude, but of recognition and restrained interest. She stands up a little taller.

“My lord.”

He bows in return. “My lady.”

A high-born maiden of Rohan in Minas Tirith would have certainly been mentioned to him. Of course she has, but he is completely blank, can recall nothing at all. She looks quite a bit like Éomer – but then again, they all look like one another to him. There are probably so many other things going on that he just does not notice.

“You must be the Steward, Lord Faramir’s brother. We were just talking of you,” she says in way of initiating polite conversation.

Boromir knows that he should say a line in return, but he cannot. They were just talking of him, were they? What is it Faramir was telling her? Of course, Faramir would not mention any of that, but… He can only stare at her, harder than he should. It throws her, but still he says nothing.

She is reluctant to acknowledge the awkwardness, he can tell she likes things to be done properly. Her chest rises, she tries again. “I had come to apply the salve. Perhaps now that you are here, you would like to-” she proffers him the bowl. He takes it on reflex, before realising Faramir would probably be less than thrilled about this.

She nods to them both, glances once again over Boromir, and draws the door closed after herself.

Boromir purses his lips.

Faramir begins to wrap his bandages back on.

He had long understood what needed to be done, he only needed the patience to wait.

If Sauron wanted no knowledge out of them, if this was purely for his entertainment, and if indeed Aragorn was dead or as good as, then there was no point at all, nothing to be won by playing the game of resilience.

Faramir leaned his back against the wall and rubbed his wrists when he was unchained. He seemed very pale, although this could just as easily be the strange light, the fatigue, or lack of water. He was not looking at Boromir, and this made it easier.

Boromir counted backwards in his mind as the Orc-guard fiddled with his cuffs one after the other. His right arm was released first, which was good. He rolled his wrist to get the feeling to return into his fingers, counting.

The other cuff clicked open.

Three.

He lowered the freed arm.

Two.

The Orc turned away, seeing no threat in the weakened prisoner. One.

Boromir pulled the crooked sword forth from the Orc’s scabbard, rotated his wrist in a loop and struck with the return momentum. His body had not forgotten how to do this.

The Orc’s head hit the floor and rolled, and the rest of him swayed and collapsed a moment later.

The other guard screeched in enraged surprise and charged at Boromir, only to meet the same fate.

With the back of his hand, Boromir wiped the splash of black blood off his cheek.

Sauron regarded the scene emotionlessly.

“Are you done?”

Boromir stole a glance at Faramir, but the younger man would still not look to him. It seemed to him that Faramir appeared… sorrowful? But it was hard to tell, and they had no time.

He planted his feet wider, squared his shoulders.

“Take a sword,” he said. “Fight.”

Sauron looked him up and down.

“Why?”

“I challenge you!”

“Who are you for me to fight you in hand-to-hand combat, boy? You got captured by a flock of these,” he gave a nod to the dead Orcs. “It would be rather altogether below my dignity.”

Boromir growled.

“Brother,” Faramir said quietly. “Please.”

Boromir exhaled through his teeth. Now or never.

“Fight me!” he cried and went for it at a run.

The blow never made contact, or at least not with its target as such. He struck an unseen barrier halfway over, and it exploded at him. The weapon ripped out of his hand as he flew all the way back across the room until the wall stood in his way.

He slid down heavily, all breath knocked out of him.

“How can I fight you if you’re all the way over there?” Sauron said, reasonably. “Men are so confusing, what am I meant to hit? Oh, maybe this?”

The flick of his hand was light and small, as though waving away a fly. But Faramir doubled over with a grunt, clutching at his stomach.

Boromir cried out, scrambled to his feet, lunged forth unsteadily.

He was so slow, as though running through water. Another blow came crushing with sudden brutality and an inhuman, uncanny speed. Boromir did not know how many had found their mark before he made it, but his brother was flat on the floor.

He shielded Faramir with his body, and at last the onslaught stopped.

“Enough! If you have any pride, fight like a warrior!”

Sauron shook his head.

“Poor thing, you have not thought this through, have you? There is nothing in this for me. As your prize, you will ask for an honourable death or something similarly inane – and if I win, then in reward I can do with you as I please? But wait, I can already do as I please.”

“They!” Boromir pointed at the new Orcs that had snuck into the cell to replace the slain guards. “They will see their master was afraid to battle a prisoner. Your entire host will know.”

Sauron considered his words.

“Alright, perhaps you are not entirely as useless as you seem. But for me to battle you would not be fair, for you are such a puny little thing. Tell you what, here, take my sword. Land one decent blow on me, and all of you can go.”

He made a motion with his hand, and the iron longsword at his hip rose out of its scabbard and flung itself across the cell to fall at Boromir’s feet.

“Why would you let us go?”

“There are so few of you left, the battles are becoming terribly predictable, you see. No suspense whatsoever. Perhaps I am finding myself wishing to stretch out the pleasure of this war a tad longer.”

“We will be free to go?” Boromir repeated slowly. “All of us?”

Sauron shrugged. “All the same to me.”

Faramir behind him groaned, slowly pulling himself up on all fours. He coughed and Boromir saw blood drip on the stones of the floor.

As at last Faramir looked up at him, there was no misreading the admonishment in his eyes. Do not do this, brother, you will only anger him more. This is not your battle, this is greater than you.

Boromir pursed his lips, turned to Father instead.

Denethor’s face was alight, for once since the day of their capture – in fact, for the first time in many years.

Boromir saw the fire of fey hope in his gaze, and knew that he could not let this chance pass.

Isildur had managed to land the Enemy a crippling blow even when Sauron was at the height of his power, with the One Ring upon his finger. Captivity may have taken its toll on Boromir’s strength, but the Enemy, too, was diminished. If all he needed was one good strike…

Keeping his eyes on the Enemy, he bent down to pick up the iron sword.

Boromir laid a firm grip on the hilt and so nearly blacked out from the sudden burst of scorching pain in his hand. Like grabbing a coal out of a burning furnace.

There was no taking back the involuntary, rather unheroic yowl that escaped his throat as he dropped the sword, nor the equally involuntary way he cradled his burnt hand to his middle.

He straightened up, muttering dark curses under his breath. The inherent humiliation of being unable to reign his body’s responses stung his face with bitter heat.

Sauron just watched, patient like a spider.

This was not how deeds of valour were meant to be done, not in stuffy, filthy dungeon cells, coated in uncounted layers of dried-up sweat, tattered and weak, given a sword he could not even hold, facing an Enemy who seemed above all infinitely bored with him.

“Take your time,” Sauron said, generously, “it will cool down eventually.”

“Go to hell.”

Boromir pulled a roughly made leather glove off the arm of one of the beheaded bodies on the floor. It fit poorly and felt sickeningly grubby on the inside, but it did not matter. Upon a moment’s reflection, he also ripped off the Orc’s cloak and wrapped it several times over the glove.

He probed carefully this time, first touching lightly, then allowing himself to take a surer hold. He could still sense the heat, and it decisively bordered on the uncomfortable, but he could work with that.

The blade was longer than any he had ever held, and he placed his other, uncovered hand on top of his hold, for a more controlled grip, and stood up.

Except the sword did not come up with him. So Boromir did not stand up either, only yanking up rather comically to remain bent down with his backside up in the air.

He tried again, putting in more force.

He could feel the weight of Faramir’s eyes with his back, sorrowful, reproachful.

Boromir gritted his teeth, squatted deeply for purchase, and heaved with his full brawn, what was left of it.

The hilt came up about two feet off the ground, the tip scraped across the floor. What was this bloody thing made of?

No matter.

Breathing heavily with the effort, he pushed forward, one impossible step at a time, dragging the metal over the rocks with an unholy screech.

The sword grew hotter. The room grew hotter.

Moisture he did not know he had left in his body beaded on his forehead.

His forearms began to cramp with the strain. The veins in his face began to bulge with the strain. The target was still so far away.

Another step.

He heard himself panting. Where had all the air gone?

Sweat trickled down into his eyes. He blinked, shook his head, nearly lost his balance. His strength was draining away too fast, and the distance seemed to grow only the greater.

Another wheezing intake of breath, another step.

Perhaps three, four more, and he should be within striking range. He needed to save up for the effort, parcel out how much he could afford to spend on each foot of ground earned.

The corners of Sauron’s mouth moved. His lips parted, and it seemed he blew a puff of air towards Boromir.

With a moment’s delay, a wave of utter, paralisying dread washed over the man. His eyes lost focus, knees weakened, a nauseous knot rose up in his throat. They were all going to die, Gondor will fall, and the sun will rise no more. They must run, hide, crawl into any dark hole they could find. He staggered, and tripped over his own feet.

He crashed hard, hitting the ground with his knees. The sword dropped down in front of him, making the floor shudder.

As the spasm of terror passed, he was left trembling and cold, as if after a fever, even as the air around him seemed about to boil.

He swallowed, shut his eyes tight.

For Aragorn. For Frodo.

Slowly, he dragged himself up again. He could not quite stand straight, but it was not necessary.

He gave himself a pause to recover, hands on knees, gasping for breath.

Then to pick up the dark sword again. There was no pushing it ahead of himself anymore, so he dragged it behind, with a half-turn of his body.

His shoulders ached, his chest was on fire.

He looked down and saw the fabric wrapped around his glove turning black around the edges, curling back and crumbling. He saw the first sparks of orange.

For Father, for Gondor. For Faramir.

He made the mistake of looking up.

Another wave of nameless, inescapable dread crippled him. He let the sword drop, waited for the shadow to wash through him and move past.

This was it.

With weak, shaking fingers Boromir gripped the hilt, again. Heaved, pulled up.

Please. Valar in the West, or any power that will listen to me, guide my hand.

He just needed to turn around, and with the momentum of the turn to swing the sword, and aim high enough for the strike to count.

Boromir nodded to himself, breathed in, breathed out. His right hand was taking damage, but he only needed to last one moment more.

He mustered the full remainder of his strength, planted his foot down for purchase, and swung with his all.

“Gondor!”

The tip of the iron sword painted a perfect, round arch. Half an inch above the floor. Meeting no obstacle to break its path, it took Boromir with it, and spun him around into a full circle, and then some.

In a flash of heat, the metal burned through his glove, and as he let go it skidded across the floor, far into the corner of the room behind Sauron.

“That – that is actually quite impressive,” Sauron said, graciously ignoring the fact that his opponent had been thrown the other way and landed on the floor in a heap. “It flew a good five feet right there, well done.”

Boromir closed his eyes, unable to hold back the tears of shame.

The iron steps rung out, then stopped in front of him.

He stared dully at the blur of Sauron’s boots, not bothering to look up.

“Now you are done,” Sauron said softly.

Then he bent down, and with his hands split Boromir’s skull open.

To be continued…

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