Faramir is not found by Theodred.

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[edit] In the Arms of his Mother

by VanwaHravani, 5 July 2008

Faramir raced through the woods blindly, with no idea of where he was going other than to put distance between himself and Theodred, between himself and his memories. One he could elude in the dark woods, but the other? He was well trained in the Rangers’ secrets of speed, strength and silence, but no amount of stealth or expertise could shield him from himself, from that. At least it never worked before.

He could hear Theodred’s calls behind him and off to the left, becoming fainter as he wound between large trees and crested another hill. Finally it seemed the sounds of pursuit had died off, and Faramir checked his pace as he entered a dark vale tucked below a ridge of gnarled trees. No doubt a stream flowed here in wetter months, but for now the small valley was quiet and dry and spoke of hidden things. Faramir felt a sense of belonging.

He instinctively made for the darkest part of the valley, the cleft of a waterfall in spring. A tree had fallen down the hillside, yet remained growing at a rakish tilt half resting on other trunks and half on the ground. Its roots had pulled up a large mass of soil with them when they had been torn from the earth. This jagged depression now formed a shadowed cave, hidden under the mass of exposed roots and tangled topsoil. Ranger training and survival instinct collaborated in an unconscious reaction to pursuing danger, and Faramir slipped into this space without thinking. Crouching there, hidden by roots, earth and welcoming darkness, he pulled his cloak close about him and struggled to calm his panting breath. He must not give himself away.

____

Moving on silent feet at the edge of the clearing, one was watching as the frightened mortal seemingly disappeared into the hillside. Now only Elven eyes could have found his shape against the night landscape, and only then with both luck and great concentration. But the one who watched possessed both of these, as well as a great interest in what had brought the shaking child into this grotto at an hour when he ought to be abed.

Cunning ears had also noted the distant voice of Theodred, eventually joined by those of the twins. No other sound of pursuit came. Clearly it was the other young ones from whom the man ran. With a silent snort, Glorfindel knew what that likely meant. He sighed and settled in to keep watch. He had no desire to disturb the annoyingly odd little human, but he had a duty to keep him safe. And he could certainly sympathize with him for running from the heated blood of the randy threesome back in the camp. Only last night he had considered stuffing beeswax in his own ears to muffle the unwelcome sounds of their lusty revels in the woods. Was it too much to ask for a little quiet sleep anymore? He was getting old.

Wrapping his own cloak more tightly around himself, Glorfindel leaned his head back against the trunk behind him and looked up to the silently wheeling stars where Eärendil now dwelt. It was no longer his watch; he could afford to spend the night out here rather than back at the camp. Chances are it would be quieter anyway. He snorted to himself and let his eyes go hazy.

____

“Oh you’ve really done it this time, Theo,” Elladan said for possibly the fourth time. “Losing the Steward’s Son will go over even less well than tackling him in his bed without invitation. I told you we should have had him first. A little more finesse is sometimes necessary.”

Theodred was long past being goaded by the Peredhil, and threw back none of the bristly rejoinders that would normally have come to mind. Instead he only continued searching the woods below him for any sign of the man’s passage. Elrohir, however, turned on his brother, a muscle in his jaw twitching “’Dan, would you kindly shut up! I have no doubt that Theo recognizes the gravity of the situation. Else, why would he have fetched us to help him at this time of night when we’re not due to sample the sweet merchandise until tomorrow? Does he really seem to you like someone who would share so willingly? Or misplace so succulent a peach?”

For his part, Theodred was still having a hard time wrapping his mind around their current predicament. Somehow he had set off some intense fear of Faramir’s, and now he was wandering through the woods calling for him while Elladan and Elrohir reluctantly helped, bickering all the way. At least he was no longer naked, although he was no more presentable than the twins, whom he had disturbed mid-tangle (hence Elladan’s pointed ire). All three wore only hastily donned breeches and boots as they wandered through the night woods.

“Just hope we find him before we wake up Glorfindel,” Elrohir continued. “He’ll skin us all alive if he wakes up tomorrow to find the human both deflowered and missing. I don’t even want to think about that!”

“No worries there, bro,” Elladan put in. “His sentry said he’d gone off for a walk an hour ago. Little chance of him hearing us if he’s not even around here. Probably off swapping tales with some crusty rocks or trees about mutual friends of the First Age. But I agree,” he swallowed, “having him find out about this would not be advisable. He and Ada would be livid.”

“Brother mine, you speak as if Glorfindel needs to be present to know when there is trouble. Since when have you known our dear tutor not to know as soon as we are involved in something, ah, difficult? My guess is we’ll be in trouble before first light no matter what the outcome of our present hunt.” Elladan grunted in acknowledgement. It was no doubt true.

Theodred failed to hear the conversation behind him. His ears still focused on the anger and terror in Faramir’s voice as he shoved Theodred away, and the desperation with which he had heaved and sobbed moments later. The Prince’s bruised ego battled with something more unfamiliar – concern for the welfare of his bedmate.

He was not a bad lover. In fact, he was skilled and much desired, considerate of and usually attentive to the pleasure of those he bedded. But in his world, deeper emotional concerns tended to be checked at the door – or tent flap, in this case. There would be a time later in life when the needs of maidens and political alliances called for more circumspection, but for now he was young and among warriors, and that implied a certain sense of carnal abandon.

This sudden confrontation with something more demanded that Theodred think beyond sex as an act of lust, infatuation and frolic with healthy bodies and healthy minds. It pushed him also to think about Faramir in more complex terms, something he was not originally planning to do. Faramir was just a friend’s kid brother, someone to play with and perhaps teach a few tricks to.

Now Boromir -- that was different. For Boromir he felt an intense loyalty and friendship (and occasionally a little lust, easily fulfilled), and for that reason he knew he had to make this right. What would he want Theodred to do? Hadn’t Boromir himself suggested he initiate Faramir? For this reason? Or perhaps there were things not shared between brothers? He knew he owed it to Boromir to not hurt his brother, and to help him if he could. But what did that mean?

____

Faramir’s eyes quickly grew accustomed to the lack of light in his tree root cave. He seldom had difficulty seeing even in the deepest darkness – a fact that further added to the awe in which he was held by his Ranger company. But at the moment he had no need of this talent, for his head was buried in the cloak and pressed against his raised knees. The second son of the Steward, the much respected Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, was curled in a ball, shaking violently and rocking himself in the hollow below the tree. If he hadn’t been afraid of being found, no doubt the breathless keening that filled his mind would be audible as well. In fact until he had been certain no one was coming, he had crouched absolutely unmoving as well. It was only when he relaxed enough to breathe that he began to shake, and then to rock himself to comfort. As he held on, a silent litany played over and over in his resisting mind.

Not again. NOT again. How could this still hurt so badly? How could this still hurt? Hurts so much. Hurts…

Faramir shivered, gripping his cloak to him, seeking always to be smaller, more protected, less visible. His hand chanced on a hard place in the folds of cloth and his fingers closed around it. Without thinking Faramir drew the thin dagger from its hidden pocket. It was a beautiful piece of work, thin and light enough to remain hidden in the folds of even medium weight cloth, yet with a long mithril blade that might deal instant death to any who held a Ranger against his will. None but the Rangers knew these cloaks carried their own weapons. They were, after all, a brotherhood of many secrets, and they had their ways.

Faramir’s initial grip on the knife suggested defense against an approaching enemy, yet after a moment his muscles shifted and the blade turned inward, until it was instead drawn against his own throat. Rocking slowly, gripping his knees, eyes clenched shut in denial, Faramir became aware of the sharpness on his skin, the burn as the blade began to bite. His eyes fluttered open and his hand relaxed a bit, easing the pressure of metal on skin. With grim recognition he realized what he was doing. He did not immediately withdraw his hand. Instead he paused, considering.

Then, with a deep exhalation, part resignation, part disappointment, Faramir lowered his hand. He could not. He must not. Power was not granted him to escape his destiny, more was the pity. He would not be remembered as a coward, though the word applied well.

The willful blade paused again over Faramir’s heart, shifting until it was poised not for slicing, but for stabbing, for being driven to the source of his pain, where he might force the blade home, twisting it, finding the horror and fear in its deepest places, eradicating the pain once and for all. His flesh was calling to the metal. He could feel it reaching out as if to pull the blade in. Could feel the need to bring them together, to sheathe the dagger where it longed to be, where his aching need claimed the deadly blade for itself. The blade near vibrated with it and the hilt grew warm.

Sometimes the need, the pain was larger than Faramir, a being of its own that Faramir found himself trapped inside a skin with. He felt horror at what he had become – a host to the demon of Denethor's madness, of Gondor's twisted corruption, power greed and sin. Denethor poured it into him and only by holding it close, guarding it, could Faramir keep it from destroying others. But that left him alone with this demon that devoured his soul and filled him, allowing him only a tiny portion of their shared body in which to live.

And control of the face. No matter what the demon inside did, Faramir had to control the face, make everything look normal, let no one see that his body was home to this dreadful parasite, this terror that would destroy all of Gondor and perhaps Arda itself if he let down his guard for a moment.

And not only would the demon destroy all that was still good in his world, but all would know that he had released it, that he had nurtured and kept it, doing nothing as it grew until it must overwhelm everything. A stronger man might have might have strangled it at birth, or starved it soon after until it became no more than a distant memory. He was weak. He had let it grow, let it take over. He was a traitor. He had to keep the secret, keep the demon in, no matter how big it got or how much it weakened him, no matter what. To kill himself would be to invite questions; to let it escape. He had no choice. He had to control it and go on.

The blade moved again. Faramir shifted to kneel with his arms inside the cloak, which now lay out loosely behind him. He wearily bowed his head as he knelt, chest to legs, prostrate, a supplicant in prayer. The blade behind his back moved sinuously, wickedly, slicing gashes from one side of his back to the other. He took care to stay above the line where his breeches and sword belt would rub, and low enough that a comrade’s arm around his shoulder or a hefted load could not cause him to flinch accidentally. Invisible to all but one who should not see him so intimately. Three swift cuts, long and deep, and Faramir began to breathe again. He pressed his forehead to the soft ground, feeling the hot wetness on his back and breathing in smells of rich earth, the dust of the forest floor, and the promise of green things yet to grow. Blood ran down his sides and joined with his mother Arda. There was new life yet in the soil.

____

Faramir rose stiffly at first light. He didn’t remember sleeping, but he must have drifted off at some point. He came to no longer kneeling, but curled like a baby against the curve of the earthen grotto. His head ached a little, but he felt much better, much more clear than the night before. As he moved to get up, he felt a stab of pain that was all too familiar and he tasted bitterness at the sides of his tongue. Then the memory of Theodred came flooding back and he swallowed the bile. It was different this time. Running fingertips over the dried blood of the night before, Faramir felt a wave of relief. This pain he knew better. This pain could be stronger. He could focus here. He scratched gently at his back, feeling fresh blood come – but only a little. He couldn’t risk any stains or questions. Just enough to know, to feel. Pulling his cloak into place, Faramir ducked out of his hiding place and started back toward the camp, eyes alert for a stream in which to wash before slipping into his tent.

Glorfindel returned his attention to the grove as Faramir emerged. After giving the young man a few minutes’ head start, Glorfindel rose as well, stretched, and quietly started off after him. 

==



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