The hell was behind his eyelids. The flame swelled
- pulsed like the hood of a giant cobra - flared with spikes of blinding
light going right through his eyeballs. The fire grew; from a small
throbbing dot in the depth of his consciousness, blossoming into a hideous
flower until there was nothing else in front of his closed eyes but
this altering, blazing outline of bright gold and sucking-in, unfathomable,
endless darkness inside it.
The hell was the ring - and it called for him.
It seemed every nerve of his body had a voice of its own
- screaming for attention, driving him mad with insistent, discordant
summons. Rough surface of the cave's floor was digging furrows in his
back as he writhed on the thin cloth of the cloak; sleepy breathing
of his men was like rasping of a knife against a whetstone, reaching
his ear even through incessant pounding of blood in his veins.
He could feel it all; he could hear it all - much more than
he had ever heard; usually he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the
pillow. But now there was no sound he would be spared of. There was
quiet, almost inaudible breathing of two halflings curled in small tight
balls in the nook of the cave. There was subdued, unending muttering
of the creature they had so cleverly captured - Gollum or what was its
name - talking, talking to no one in its hushed, whispering voice.
And there was more he could hear. And it frightened him.
He was not used to feeling like that. Planning and careful
devising - those were things Faramir always relied upon; those were
the things that brought him success, assured his victory. His brother
was the one to go for passion, for acting before thinking - but Faramir
knew better; always had known. He was not going to fall into the trap
Boromir had fallen.
He was not going to repeat Boromir's fate: was not going
to fail... to die.
"Always the smart one, aren't you... little brother?"
How much he missed this voice... how much he missed the hand,
roughened with the hilt of the sword, tousling his hair - the warm touch
that made Faramir's insides melt into something mushy and his spine
arch with pleasure, made him lean closer, butting his head against the
shoulder of his brother.
He wouldn't feel this touch again; he wouldn't see Boromir
again.
It hurt.
It made him angry; anger was not a usual feeling for him.
But now he felt even angrier now than upon learning about Boromir's
death. Maybe, the reason was that little halfling - cute-faced but with
the eyes in thunderstorm shadows of exhaustion - who called Boromir
his companion - but didn't even know he was dead.
"Bad hobbit... Bad little liar... You know he's a liar,
don't you, little brother?"
This voice again. It seemed almost like he could hear Boromir
talking to him; only the voice sounded in his temples, not in his ears.
It was low and whispering - but familiar to the last note - and almost
real.
Yet... Shouldn't Faramir know better than listening to the
voices of those who were gone? His fingers dug into the chapped rock
so deep that sharp crumbles slashed the fingertips - so deep as if he
tried to root into the unyielding ground to prevent himself reacting
to this voice, from answering it.
It was a good thing they had captured that Gollum. Things
the creature said were invaluable. Faramir had almost taken the ring
from the hobbit; of course, it wasn't the halfling's pathetic buddy
- a gardener, indeed - that stopped him. Oh gods... how close the ring
was... All the power one could dream about - all the glory for his homeland
- just within the reach of Faramir's hand. But there was more than that.
He felt it when he was ready to yank the stupid chain from the thin
neck of the hobbit: a blinding needle shooting from the innocently looking
glittering circle of gold right through his forehead - and deeper, into
his brain. He felt the ring. And he knew it felt him; it knew him -
it sliced though the things inside his mind buried so deep Faramir himself
had forgotten.
It called for him; encouraged him to take it, to rip it off
from the small creature - surely the hobbit wouldn't be able to put
any fight against him - to shove his finger through it and feel... feel...
And that was exactly why Faramir hadn't taken it. Or so he
told himself. His astute mind made an obvious connection. There must've
been some reason why in the Fellowship consisting of powerful men, an
elf, and a dwarf - the thing was trusted to someone who seemed so small
and frail that could be broken one-handedly.
Let the hobbit carry it - carry the enormous weight that
Faramir managed to feel even without touching it. He would bring the
halflings to Minas Tirith with him; and Frodo would carry the ring.
Let Frodo be bent over under its burden.
It was reasonable and it was wise - yet in the sleepy darkness
ruined only by the muttering and moans of Gollum his reason stepped
aside, giving the way for something else. Something Faramir didn't want
to think about.
How blue the hobbit's eyes were... like water in unfathomable
lakes high in the mountains. How soft his mouth seemed...
Muffling a groan against the collar of his cloak, Faramir
sat up in the half-darkness, pressing the heels of his palms to his
eyes. It felt like grains of sand under his eyelids - or small shards
of glass - and there was no way to get rid of this sensation.
"Don't you know what you want to do, little brother?
Don't you know what I want you to do?"
No... he was not going to do it. He didn't want to do it...
But the ring had the voice of his brother. And it urged him
to act.
Gold circle of fire turned scarlet as he got up. The pounding
of blood in his ears was deafening but Faramir knew there was no sound
for anyone else to hear. The wall felt cold and rough against his shoulder
as he swayed and stumbled - and the few steps he made were like falling.
But he didn't fall; not until in the dim light of the dying
fire he saw two small figures curled on the floor. The bigger one was
snorting softly - and the smaller, frailer one seemed almost completely
quiet - if not for the small fists of the tied hands clenching convulsively,
so hard fingernails were drawing blood - if not for the shadows of a
nightmare flitting over the pale face in silence.
What am I doing here?
"You know, little brother. You know."
Boromir's bearded face, smiling, came into view in front
of his eyes - for a moment clearer than the brightness of the ring,
closer than the childish face of the hobbit.
No. It's wrong.
"Yes. It's right," the ring whispered. "Do
it for me, little brother."
He reached, clasped his hand on the thin upper arm of the
hobbit - the bones so light, bird-like; and his other hand lay on the
hobbit's face, covering his soft mouth. Faramir yanked, dragged the
halfling away from his sleeping companion, away from the others - to
the far corner of the cave.
The hobbit fought - strangely desperately for someone who
seemed so defenseless - his short fingernails clawing into the backs
of Faramir's hands - but Faramir almost didn't feel it. It was too little
to stop him when the voice in his mind reveled in what he was doing,
praised him for it.
He threw the hobbit against the rock wall, slammed him into
it - and saw how the dark-blue eyes, filled with wild terror, went unfocused.
The hobbit slumped down in a little heap, his already pale face going
almost translucent. Crouching in front of him, Faramir looked.
"Don't make a sound. Or I'll tear off the head of your
stupid companion from his fat shoulders. Do you understand me?"
It took awhile for the hazed eyes to clear up a little; in
the sparks of the dying fire the eyes seemed dark - black pupils surrounded
with very thin bands of blue irises. There was fear in those eyes -
and also some kind of doom.
He looks like he thinks I'm going to kill him... But I'm
not going to kill him, right?
Only... only to hurt him?
The longest curved eyelashes fell, hiding those eyes for
a moment; and then Faramir felt a small nod against his palm.
"Good."
As soon as he let go, the tied hands went up immediately,
digging under the collar of the shirt, clasping on something - as if
checking - and Faramir knew what it was, what the hobbit was so worried
about. The ring. Faramir could take it now, couldn't he? And there was
not a thing the hobbit would be able to do about it. Even the ridiculous
self-appointed protector of a gardener was not there at the moment.
The hitching breath Frodo made was almost inaudible - and
his words Faramir rather guessed than heard. "What do you want?"
I don't want to hurt him.
"But you will, little brother."
He hit the soft cheek that was warm and vulnerable under
his palm - and for a moment, feeling how Frodo's head struck against
the rock, Faramir sensed horrible pleasure flaring up in him.
"I told you to be quiet."
There was no sound. Good hobbit. A little bit of blood appeared
on the pale lips - Faramir didn't know if it was because of the blow
or because the hobbit was biting his lip. The eyes were so huge - seeming
to occupy half of the hobbit's face; and they looked at Faramir so searchingly,
so insistently.
"My brother is dead," he whispered. "Because
of you."
Was it real - or did it seem to him that he noticed relief
flooding those eyes, dispelling the darkness in them a little? There
were tiny speckles of gold in the depth of Frodo's pupils - reflections
of the fire, of course - but for a moment Faramir thought he saw the
familiar outline of the golden ring there.
"You killed him, hobbit."
"That's right, little brother," the voice hissed
in his head.
Boromir hadn't ever talked like that, he thought weakly.
Boromir was strong and feared nothing and never blamed another for his
decisions.
Boromir wouldn't want it.
He touched his temple sharply, as if trying to tune the voice
better - to make it say things he, Faramir, could believe.
"You're going to pay for it."
The hobbit's sad eyes, so big in the shadows of tiredness
around them, held his gaze. There were no tears in his eyes - and it
surprised Faramir. Surely the creature size of a child had to behave
like a child, too? Yet Frodo's eyes were dry - as if the moisture there
was burnt out with the same fire Faramir could see in front of his own
eyes as soon as he closed them.
Then the hobbit nodded; like agreeing with Faramir's words.
Like agreeing with whatever Faramir was intended to do.
No! Don't... don't let me...
Anger rose in him, stronger than any other feeling. Pay for
Boromir's death? There was no way such a pitiful creature could ever
pay for it! Boromir was beautiful... and kind... and everything Faramir
would never be... joy of their father... hope of Gondor...
Dead. Defeated.
Defeated in the battle where Faramir was going to succeed.
He had learned Boromir's mistakes well; he wouldn't let the
ring to rule him.
"Of course, little brother."
Blood in the corner of Frodo's mouth was warm and wet under
his thumb. The lips were silky and so soft...
So wrong... so wrong - how could he want it? How could he
want it from a creature twice smaller than him... it would be like wanting
it from a child... Suddenly Faramir wanted for the hobbit to struggle
- to make enough noise to wake up the others, to prevent him from going
on.
He wanted to wake up in his place, with the cloak crumpled
under his sweating body aching from inconvenient position, with the
residuals of a nightmare draining out of his mind...
But he was here - and Frodo stared at him with those defenseless-oh-so-stubborn
eyes of a child... of a sacrificial maiden... and his mouth was so sweet
- so kissable that it made stars shoot in front of Faramir's eyes.
Or, maybe, there was just one star - hidden under the little
palms clasped on the hobbit's chest, on the silvery glittering chain.
And this star - the ring - made everything possible. Made it possible
to live with Boromir's death - to turn this death into something so
wwrong and twisted - to forget the casual touch of Boromir's fingers
brushing through his hair - to replace it with another touch, another
closeness...
To take and slam and crumple and squeeze and spoil...
The hobbit's mouth tasted with blood - but it was sweet,
too - Frodo's lips warm and accepting - more that than the lips of any
woman Faramir had kissed. He could feel how those lips trembled, parting
under his tongue, crushed against his teeth. But there was no sound.
Silence was blissful.
The little hands, squeezed between their bodies - Faramir's
leaning down and the hobbit's pressed against the solid rock - were
fluttering, still trying to cover the only thing that seemed to have
meaning for the silly creature. The ring...
Why not to have both, Faramir thought suddenly - both this
mouth, trembling but opening for him - and the ring, so full of power,
of glory? He could peel these clenching hands away and put his finger
into the thin band of gold. He wanted to do it so much. The little body
bucked against his, convulsively, in torment - the whimper never leaving
Frodo's lips as it was caught in Faramir's mouth - and it was enough
to send Faramir into action. His hands had the mind of their own, ripping
the clothes, twisting, turning.
He's so small, I'll hurt him...
But it'll feel good.
"Say 'good-bye' to me, little brother."
The voice whispered it - and at the moment Faramir's body
thrust forward, tearing, getting in - he knew it was the last time he'd
heard this voice.
And it hurt to know it.
But he knew the little creature under him was hurt unimaginably
worse. The fathomless eyes were screwed up tightly, the little swollen
mouth quivering in pain.
I don't want to do it... I don't want to see him like this...
But it was too late.
He didn't stop - frozen in the inconvenient position, the
size difference too big - only his pelvis moving, slamming forward,
unceasingly. Darkish curls of the hobbit were wet with sweat, plastered
to the pale forehead.
Faramir wanted to touch this forehead with his lips - but
knew he had to stop himself from doing it - wouldn't add this indignity
of caress to what he was already doing.
The hands clasped on the ring kept pushing against his sternum
- and under Faramir's arms wrapped around Frodo's body the hobbit's
sharp shoulder-blades felt like amputated wings of a bird who would
never fly again.
Yes, it was what he, Faramir, had done... added another weight
to the burden the hobbit had to carry... and he, Faramir, would have
to live with it, as long as it was left for him.
He closed his eyes - and for once the blinding, singeing
brightness of the ring in his mind eye exchanged with the dull grey
of a stone - a grave stone, he knew... and trying, struggling very hard,
he almost believed he could read what was written there.
"Here lies Faramir, son of Denethor, whose life was
ash in the wind and whose soul was dew under the sun... who tried and
failed and left nothing to be remembered by..."
He gasped and didn't want to have read it; didn't want to
believe it. He wouldn't fail; he would succeed; he would do what Boromir
hadn't be able to.
Suddenly the tightly closed eyes under the huge eyelashes
opened - blue darkness looking at him from the pale face of the hobbit.
The eyes were nearly black with pain - and yet as clear as always -
and then whitened lips parted, whispering:
"Not the ring."
And all of a sudden Faramir understood - so definitely as
if it was spelled for him in the fire letters over the dark wall: saw
the little hands slightly unclenched over the sparkling band of gold
- fingers holding it... almost as if about to put it on...
It was not him the ring was calling for all the way. He was
just the means to push its bearer over the verge of endurance, to make
him want to do anything to escape what Faramir was doing to him... to
make him put on the ring...
The thought was bitter and dark, shrinking the dazzling fire
of the ring - leaving a huge, sucking emptiness instead of it. Frodo
looked at him - with this inexplicable sweetness in his tormented eyes
- but trembling fingers never moved again, never put on the ring.
"Not the ring," Faramir whispered, echoing - and
saw a small nod of the hobbit.
Frodo was stronger than the ring; he, Faramir, was not.
He closed his eyes in shame, knowing with deadly certainty
that he would never be able to prove that he was better than Boromir,
more successful. And not only because Boromir was dead. But because
Faramir would never succeed.
Spikes of pain under his eyelids finally crushed through,
making moisture slide over his cheeks, tasting salty, mixing with the
sweetness that trickled onto his lips from the hobbit's small mouth.
After everything was over, he was hunched over the small
figure curled in a tight ball. There was blood; too much of it. The
hobbit didn't cry - through the messed-up strands of curly hair his
blue-grey eyes were dark - and dry. He just trembled - and the little
clattering sound Faramir could hear was the chattering of the hobbit's
teeth.
"You won't tell anyone," he whispered.
Or I'll wrench the head off the shoulders of your buddy...
or I'll use your Gollum creature for shooting practice of my archers
- it remained unsaid.
The hobbit looked up - and then moved, scrambled onto his
knees, with effort but not hesitating - and Faramir saw how the small
tied hands worked feverishly, pulling the pants up. Blood was beating
in his head with tidal wave, making him reel slightly. He wrapped his
arms around himself.
The hobbit met his gaze, unflinching.
"I won't tell."
The dark-blue eyes stared at Faramir, with the strangest
expression in them - questioning? trying to make sure?
We have an agreement, don't we? We both resisted the temptation
of the ring - and for now, we both won, right?
Faramir couldn't stand it - lowered his head, whispered almost
inaudibly, without looking:
"Go back to your place."
There was so little noise the hobbit made.
In front of Faramir's eyes the ring continued its hideous
dance of blazing up and falling - and now it was getting closer; his
brain flared with pain - almost as if the ring was tightened around
it.
THE END
