Faramir stood in front of his father’s desk quietly, waiting
for the other man to look up from his papers. He’d learnt long
ago that his father preferred not to hear him at all. A servant was
stoking the fire, despite the fact that the day was quite warm. He often
wondered if his father did this purposely, to make his guests feel uncomfortable.
It certainly worked for him. He could feel his palms turning sweaty.
He’d deliberately worn a high collar tunic but was now wishing
he hadn’t as the thick velvet made him itch as the warmth spread
through the room. He needn’t really have hidden his neck he thought,
Denethor would know anyway.
When the servant had left, Denethor looked up. Faramir unconsciously
stiffened when he rose, a tall imposing figure behind his table, hands
clasped behind his back, his face hard, the eyes cold with anger.
“You were not in your rooms last night,” he stated, his
voice flat and devoid of emotion.
Faramir paused wondering what to say. He had not been in his room;
that was true. Boromir was in the city too, and he had wanted to spend
time with him; they got little time to spend together. Ultimately though,
they had not really spent the time with each other. Boromir had taken
his younger brother to a brothel upon discovering that his experiences
with the female sex had been limited to put it mildly. Faramir had agreed
partly out of curiosity but mostly because Boromir at his element rarely
gave anyone an opportunity to say no.
Denethor he knew would not wish to see him; he rarely did while Boromir
was in the city. It had been the practice ever since Boromir had joined
the army. The Steward had in fact said in so many words when he had
summoned Faramir the night before Boromir’s arrival.
“You can go back to being useless for the few days your brother
is here” he had sneered, as Faramir had laid breathing heavily
on the bed, struggling to hold back his sobs. Tears only angered Denethor
further. He had been more forceful than usual that night, almost brutal,
ensuring deliberately that Faramir had hurt, thrusting harder and harder
into him until he had been forced to cry out, almost as though he wanted
Faramir to remember the extent and manner of his control over him. Neither
the father nor the younger son however had any desire for the elder
son to know either the extent or the manner. Faramir had no idea how
Boromir might react if he came to know that Denethor’s idea of
control over his younger son had been to rape him at thirteen and continue
doing so regularly till date. His own feelings were those of disgust
and revulsion and he did not dare risk the chance that Boromir may feel
the same way and never speak to him again. Not that he would blame him.
“No, my lord,” he finally murmured softly, “I was
with Boromir.”
“You, sir, were in a brothel!”
How Denethor knew, he had no idea for they had gone dressed in the
garb of common soldiers. However, it was known that he had his spies
everywhere. Faramir flushed now somehow the fact that his father knew
he had been there embarrassed him more than his actual experience at
the brothel, which he had found to be short and in fact quite mortifying.
The woman he had got had seemed affronted at his inexperience but had
still shrugged and taken the lead, until he had realised that the kisses
or rather the bites she was bestowing on his neck and chest even as
he lay awkwardly under her, breathing heavily, would leave marks. His
father, he had known even then, would not approve of their visit to
this establishment. It had not taken long for her to lose interest after
that.
“Yes, my lord,” he murmured softly, now, knowing there
was nothing else he could do but admit to his fault, as always.
“A lowly brothel in the third circle!”
That had been Boromir’s idea too. The courtesans the high ranking
lords normally went to, discreet young women, well-versed in many matters,
were according to him better if one had experience. Faramir should go
dressed as common man to a common brothel to get a real experience,
he declared. Courtesans were too sophisticated. Besides, Denethor had
for some strange reason refused to let his brother be acquainted with
them for some time yet. Boromir had no idea why.
He had no reply to that. He didn’t need one though, for Denethor
had risen with a swiftness that belied his age and coming across the
table struck him across the face with great force. Faramir swayed on
his feet, and dropped his eyes to the ground in an effort to hold back
his tears. He didn’t even raise his hand in self-defence, it only
worsened things. He had once felt he’d get used to this, but he
never did. Each time his father struck him it stung anew. He would have
a bruise to show for that on the morrow, he knew.
Denethor grabbed his chin roughly and forced him to raise his head,
the strong familiar fingers pressing painfully into cheek and jaw.
“What were you thinking, you fool?” Denethor hissed, “For
you to go spewing your filthy seed shamelessly among common whores across
the city is bad enough but you must needs drag your brother into it!”
He didn’t reply. It was his fault he knew. He should have known
Denethor would get to know. He should have dissuaded Boromir, and insisted
on waiting till his father had approved a courtesan for him. Even if
he had known his father wouldn’t.
“What was she like?” Denethor sneered, “She must
have been quite a piece considering how soon you were out of her room!”
Faramir shivered despite the fire. Denethor spoke truly. It had been
short and hurried and unsatisfactory for both parties. He had been desirous
of leaving the place soon but had had to wait for Boromir to finish
and his brother had taken his own time.
Denethor’s eyes gleamed like silver in the firelit room, boring
into him so hard he knew the fear he felt was clearly readable.
“You cannot even bed a tavern wench properly,” Denethor
taunted, “You are an abject failure in all matters, Lord Faramir,
save one. Perhaps you should have exchanged places with her, after all,
all you are good at is whoring yourself!”
He let go of his chin abruptly and Faramir stumbled backwards. He put
out a hand onto the table for support but missed and fell heavily on
his backside. But he ignored the pain that it caused the still sore
and tender area as his eyes continued to remain riveted on his father
who was bearing down on him now.
“But you needn’t worry,” he said silkily as he loomed
over Faramir, “I shall teach you how to truly bed a common slut,
they are more used to heavy soldiers’ hands than those of craven
fools such as you. Get up!” he commanded as he reached for the
collar of his shirt and hauled him up roughly, causing the fine stitching
to rend.
Faramir leaned against the table for support, sick with worry and fear,
as his father stared at his exposed neck, with the red and blue marks.
Denethor leaned forward and ran his fingers lightly over the marks,
smirking a little. Faramir froze as Denethor leaned closer in, his warm
breath falling on his neck and jaw. He could feel his face and neck
flush, he knew if it weren’t for the table he’d probably
sink to his knees. A knot of fear settled in his stomach. Denethor continued
to stare at his neck, looking almost amused and Faramir knew he’d
noticed the quickening of his pulse; Denethor knew he was afraid. He
dropped his eyes, willing himself to breath evenly.
The fingers stilled and then Denethor moved back. Faramir took a deep
breath and finally let go of the table and looked up. Denethor held
a package in his hands.
“Here,” he commanded, “Take this.”
It was a square shaped package, wrapped in cloth. Faramir stared at
it, puzzled, as it was thrust into his hands.
“Undress,” Denethor said, and Faramir’s heart suddenly
began to beat faster again. Surely his father couldn’t mean to-
*Not tonight!* he thought desperately. *Not tonight, while Boromir
is here!*
“Your brother shall not be returning to his chambers tonight.
You will dine here,” Denethor continued oblivious to the mute
appeal in his younger son’s frantic eyes, “And you will
wear that. Aren’t you going to open it?” he asked calmly
as Faramir stood rooted to the spot.
Unsure of what to make of such developments, Faramir fumblingly undid
the string tied around the thick cloth. His fingers felt numb and the
string kept slipping off, so that it was a while before he could finally
unwrap the thick covering. Denethor was tapping his feet in impatience
by the time Faramir pulled out the contents.
He stared incredulously at the clothes in his hands. At first all that
registered was the amount of satin and lace. A dress, he thought to
himself. A woman’s dress. And... he nearly staggered when he noticed
the other items. He almost blushed as he realised he was holding underthings,
all made of satin again.
“Put those on,” Denethor said in a voice that left no room
for disobedience, and then sat down on a nearby chair to watch.
He stared helplessly at his father.
“But-”
“Have we not discussed earlier that I do not wish to hear your
voice unless I ask to? Put those on! I hope you will know how to. I
am told your lady friend last night didn’t bother to undress,
but I am sure you will still now what goes on where?” There was
no disguising the mocking tone in the cold voice now.
Faramir stared at the clothes he held. There were undergarments, some
kind of frilly thin stockings like garment, another gauzy tunic-like
item, and finally a dress that no lady would have dared wear to court.
It was blue in colour with a startling low neckline, tight around the
bodice and the waist, curving over the hips and then flaring out. The
shoulders hung low, the sleeves small and dainty. There was also a small
velvet purse that seemed to contain boxes of some sort.
He stared at the items dazedly. He could not be here doing this. This
was all part of some morbid dream, some cruel joke his weary and overwrought
mind was playing on him.
“Do you require help?” Denethor asked in a nasty tone,
“Should I call upon the servants perhaps? They’ll help you
undress.”
Any idea of resistance flew from Faramir’s mind. He had learned
merely months prior that resistance was futile. He removed his clothes
quickly. His father hated it when he was slow in his movements, and
there was no reason to anger him further. When he had removed every
stitch of clothing, well aware that Denethor’s gaze continued
to rest on him and on the marks on his torso, he picked up the garments
and filtered through them, trying to figure out what to pull on first.
His father rarely waited for him to undress fully. To stand completely
naked in front of him was unnerving. He usually merely undid his leggings.
He began pulling on the under things, flushing as he did so. Denethor’s
derisive eyes bored into him as he fumbled with the laces in the bodice,
much as he had done the previous day. He finally managed to get them
done somehow and picked up the dress.
A knock on the door of the outer chamber made both men start. Denethor’s
eyes narrowed as he rose. Picking Faramir’s clothes he thrust
them into a cupboard nearby and then grabbing Faramir’s arm in
a bruising grip he pulled open the door to his antechamber and shoved
his younger son inside sending him sprawling across the hard, stone
floor.
“I wish to see you ready by the time I return,” he said
coldly and shut the door.
Faramir rose unsteadily and pulled the dress on mechanically but hurriedly,
trying not to think. He heard the outside door open, and then a loud,
booming voice that, at any other time, he would have welcomed. Now,
hearing Boromir’s voice filtering in through the solid door, he
simply froze. Boromir was outside, he thought desperately.
At that moment he wanted nothing more than to run out, fling himself
in his brother’s arms and beg him for help, plead with him to
save him from their father.
And yet, he knew he could never do that.
Boromir just needed to take one look at him right now to know what
he had become. He mustn’t let that happen. Hot tears welled up
in his eyes.
*Oh Gods! I hope he leaves soon… he can’t see me here like
this!*
Boromir’s enthusiastic voice continued to filter in through the
door as did Denethor’s voice softer, more measured but filled
with an unmistakable pride. Boromir was chuckling now, standing perilously
close to the door of the antechamber, and for a brief panic-filled second,
Faramir expected the door to swing open, and his brother, the brave
and dashing Captain-General of Gondor to walk in and see him standing
there in a tight, voluminous, decidedly tacky blue dress.
Faramir stood frozen stiff, in the centre of the room, and stared at
the fire in the tiny hearth, trembling despite its warmth, trying to
concentrate on the flames, anything but dwell on his current situation.
Then, Boromir’s voice became progressively distant and finally,
the outer door slammed shut and the connecting door flew open. Faramir
turned in trepidation.
Denethor took in the flushed, panic-stricken face and the tearing eyes
and snorting contemptuously threw the small velvet bag that Faramir
had left on his table at him.
“Perhaps you should fix your face!” he said.
Faramir looked up at him in confusion, and then at the contents of
the bag that had fallen onto the floor - little boxes of powders, he
noted with dismay.
“Go on,” Denethor said in a voice that Faramir knew would
tolerate no disobedience.
He knelt down and picked up the face powder and hurriedly rubbed it
on his face, and somehow managed to apply the lip paint. The other jar
contained some kind of cream and he stared at it puzzled.
”You’d better use some of that,” Denethor said derisively,
“Since you do after all whine like a wench at the slightest discomfort!
We wouldn’t want Boromir to wonder about anything tomorrow, would
we?”
Faramir lifted the jar of cream hesitantly, then glanced towards Denethor,
who merely stared back impassively. Swallowing, he took some in his
fingers and lifting the skirt, lowered the stockings a little. There
was very little in the jar he realised, he would have to be economical.
He had never prepared himself in front of Denethor before. He had learnt
early on that Denethor would not give him the time to do so, and so
he had taken to hurriedly preparing himself in his rooms every time
he was summoned to meet Denethor alone. He had not done so today assuming
that Denethor would not want him while Boromir was around. But he’d
been wrong, of course. He tried as unobtrusively as possible now to
prepare himself but that was an impossibility when his father stood
right in front of him. He still knew he must present a pathetic sight,
scissoring his fingers into himself.
No wonder his father felt his uses were few.
He wiped the cream clear out of the jar and swallowed again. It was
not enough, he realised desperately, and he was still in some discomfort
from the last time. He’d be in pain after this he knew, not enough
to restrict his movement, but enough to ensure he would ache for a few
days at least. His father was staring at him, a bored sneer the only
expression on his face.
When Faramir was done, he pulled the stockings back on and lowered
the dress and stood up straight. Denethor nodded grimly in satisfaction.
“You look quite fetching, Faramir,” he said snidely, “It’s
a pity I forgot to get you ribbons for your hair!”
Faramir’s shifted his gaze to the floor.
“Come here,” Denethor ordered and swept back into his study.
Faramir followed him in.
“The correct way to treat one of those women is with the right
mix of force and consideration,” Denethor said pleasantly as he
forced Faramir’s chin up, “You can’t damage them.
It’s inconsiderate. What would they do otherwise after all?”
He then grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him against the table.
Faramir fell back his fingers scrabbling on the polished wood for support.
“You give them enough pleasure to ensure they will give you your
money’s worth.”
Denethor tugged at the shoulders of the thin dress, ripping the sheer
fabric off, and then tore apart the lacy vest underneath, to reveal
Faramir’s left nipple. He bit into the tiny nub, causing Faramir
to cry out, and then tore at more of the lace till Faramir’s slender
chest lay completely exposed, the skin pale but for the marks left there
the previous night. Denethor glanced down at them, smirking all the
while as he ran his hands over the mark, and then slowly deliberately
pinched the reddened skin causing Faramir to hiss in pain. The sound
seemed to amuse him for he suddenly lowered his head and bit at another
mark directly above Faramir’s right nipple. Faramir hissed again.
Denethor raised his head and smiled cruelly at his fearful face.
“Subtlety is oft lost on them. They like a man to be a man,”
he said and sent his hands exploring under the dress. Hands groped beneath
the petticoats and the thin stockings that covered Faramir’s groin.
More fabric was torn as Denethor’s long fingers attacked the gauzy
material, pulling it down.
He then stood back and turning Faramir roughly around so rapidly that
the dazed man barely had time to process what was happening, yanked
the silken belt off the dress. Then he pushed him facedown on the table
and pushed the skirts up so they were bunched around his waist. The
stockings were hauled down some more and his legs were spread wide.
Denethor scissored two fingers quickly into him, and then before Faramir
could adjust to the intrusion pulled them out and entered him in one
swift, painful motion. Faramir tried to muffle a soft moan as he was
grabbed by the waist, the strong fingers digging into him and lifting
his slender hips off the table. Denethor continued pushing into him,
grunting heavily in his ear.
Faramir’s hips ground painfully into the hard wood as Denethor’s
entire weight pressed down on him. His hands clung to the table surface
for support for at times the force of the thrust was such that Faramir
felt he would simply be pushed forward. Denethor simply thrust in repeatedly,
ignoring the gasps of pain that Faramir could not help but emit now.
And then finally it was over. Faramir felt the warm liquid spurt inside
him, and then Denethor’s fingers went lax. The wet sticky release
trickled down his inner thighs as Denethor pulled out swiftly. The steward
walked round to a bowl of water kept in the corner and began to clean
himself, as Faramir slumped down onto the ground, panting in small gasps,
the tattered pieces of the dress billowing around him.
“Well done Faramir,” Denethor said coldly, “You’ve
once again managed to prove your only use!” Faramir stayed slumped
where he was.
“Leave now,” the steward ordered as he pulled on his pants.
Faramir got to his feet shakily. The skirts fell down in an ungainly
heap around him. One shoulder of the dress was completely torn so that
the sleeve hung right above his elbow, revealing the torn vest and his
marked chest. Denethor’s release snaked down his legs, pooling
uncomfortably into the stockings that had slipped down to his thighs.
He looked around for his clothes and then realised Denethor held them.
“What are you waiting for?” his father demanded.
“M-my clothes...,” he managed to mumble, still somewhat
dazed from the entire experience.
“You will wear these,” Denethor told him calmly, “The
guards think I have a bit of skirt inside this room. You can use your
cloak to cover yourself. They’ll escort you outside. I’m
sure you can find your way back to your chambers later.”
And then he walked out of the room.
Faramir stood numb until he heard the voices of the guards outside
the outer door. They mustn’t come in to get him, he realised frantically
and looked desperately at his clothes. The stockings he realised he
could do nothing about, save pull them up and hope they would stay on.
He did so, shuddering at the stickiness that clung to him now. The undervest
was beyond repair. He tore it off and threw it into the fire angrily,
his only lack of restraint during the whole episode, and then arranging
the torn dress over his chest, quickly wrapped the cloak around his
shivering body and stepped out.
The guards were waiting outside; he kept his head lowered and pretended
to ignore their lewd remarks. They were merely teasing. He knew, for
none would go so far as to do worse to the Steward’s bedmate for
the night. The walk seemed the longest he had ever taken; the stockings
were terribly uncomfortable now. He held the cloak wound tight, ensuring
that the hood covered his face completely.
He tried to maintain his composure as the guard gripped his arm and
led him down the passage towards a side staircase that led out of the
buildings. They came across a landing and Faramir heard more footsteps
and realised with a sinking heart that there were a few more guards
around.
“A fine filly, Halor. What was she like?” He felt a hand
slap him lightly on his backside and jumped even as the guard’s
grip on his arm tightened.
“She’s earned her week’s fill, haven’t you,
dear?” the other guard laughed as he continued to lead him away.
And then, the clear voice rang through when they stepped onto the staircase.
“Well, Halor, you sly old fox! Still the ladies’ man are
you?” Boromir’s sounded extremely happy and more than a
little drunk.
Faramir’s heart nearly stilled right then. He shrank into the
shadows and pulled away from the guard.
“It’s good to see you back here, My Lord,” the guard
replied formally, “As to the *lady*, uhm…” he coughed
discreetly and nodded towards the passage they had come from.
Boromir laughed loudly, “I didn’t think he had it in him
still! And from the lower circles! She must be a fine bit of skirt.”
“Perhaps you’d like to try her out, Sir,” one of
the other guards suggested laughing. Faramir gasped at that, and shrank
into the alcove, drawing the cloak around him. He tried again to extricate
his arm from Halor’s grip.
“Oh, I don’t think I could live up to her expectations
now,” Boromir said, still laughing, but stepped closer all the
same. Halor’s grip slackened as he smiled broadly.
It was all Faramir needed. He pulled away desperately and then raced
down the stairs. He heard Halor coming behind him, yelling out laughingly
over his shoulder, “You scared her away her, Sir!”
Faramir ran faster than he ever had the cloak still clutched tight,
laughter and Boromir’s voice still echoing in his ears. Halor
finally caught up with him at the doors, and shaking his head, escorted
him outside past the smirking guards at the doors.
His heart beating wildly, Faramir slipped into the grounds around the
citadel and managed to sneak his way to the tree outside his window.
His clothes and the dull ache that pulsed through his lower back made
climbing painfully difficult but he managed somehow to clamber over
the window sill and stumbled into his antechamber to wash himself, willing
himself to not think of what had happened.
When he came out after changing into night robes, he slipped into his
bed and finally released the tears he’d held at bay. They did
nothing to alleviate his distress though and he finally fell into an
uneasy sleep, waking only when Boromir came into his chambers early
next morning, his entrance loud as usual.
“Good morning brother!” his voice echoed loudly in Faramir’s
aching head.
“Boromir,” he greeted softly, sitting up slowly.
“I though you would be awake!” Boromir said as he slouched
into a large chair in front of the hearth, “We were to breakfast
together here remember?”
He’d forgotten that, Faramir realised, as he shrugged and rose
sluggishly off the bed.
“Hurry up and change. The kitchens will be sending it up soon.
You are quite slow this morning! Are you well?”
“I slept late,” Faramir mumbled and swiftly entered his
anteroom to change before his brother had the chance to say more.
Boromir however was by the door when he came out. Faramir stopped short
and stared at him, his mind numb, “Breakfast is here. Where were
you last night, anyway?”
“The third circle again!” Boromir exclaimed with a broad
grin.
“No,” Faramir said blandly, having managed to regain his
composure now, “Father knows we went there. He disapproves.”
“Really, brother dear?” Boromir asked and then leaned forward
and ran his thumb slowly over Faramir’s lower lip.
The younger brother froze in shock and fright and then staggered back.
Boromir was smiling as he looked at his thumb.
“Or is it suddenly the fashion for men to paint their lips in
Minas Tirith now?” he asked cheerfully holding up the residual
scarlet paint that had remained on Faramir’s lips, “Or do
I guess that you and father reached an understanding on the matter of
courtesans?”
All Faramir could do was stare at the red paint, a gesture Boromir
took as a shy agreement. Still smiling he held his thumb closer. Faramir
continued to stare at it, feeling dazed and almost silly as Boromir
laughed and suddenly dabbed the paint on his nose.
“Excellent! You do look nice now!” he said approvingly,
“But this is good news! I am glad to hear it! Come and eat now.”
Faramir nodded timidly.
“But … father doesn’t seem to abide by the same principles
himself!” Boromir informed him with a snort as he returned to
the chair and picked up a piece of bread, “He had a wench over
yesterday and I can tell you she was not one of his usual ‘ladies’!
Some base-born whore no doubt! No wonder he was in such a hurry to get
rid of me when I called on him earlier!”
Faramir felt a constriction in his stomach that worsened as Boromir
continued.
“She was quite comely, though! Tall too. Pity she ran off, I’d
have liked a turn with her!”
Faramir tried to block out his brother’s voice and picked up
an apple his heart thumping wildly.
“He must have an appetite for rough and tumble stuff, eh?”
Boromir smirked, as he reached for some cheese, “Halor tells me
he came out looking excessively satisfied. She must have served well,
that one. You should have seen the state he left her in! Poor wench
could barely walk, though she sure fled when I neared. He certainly
has lost none of his prowess over the years!”
“I suppose he hasn’t,” Faramir murmured softly and
sighed heavily as he sat down opposite his brother.
He could, after all, still hurt Faramir as much as he had been able
to seven years ago, if not more.
End
