Title: The Price
Author: Minx
Pairing: Faramir/OC, Faramir/Haldir
Rating: R
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Feedback:Please do give greenrivervalley@lycos.com
Archiving: Drop me a line before you do
Warnings: Violence, rape, slash
Summary: A break away captain from Harad brokers a deal with 
Denethor, and convinces him that giving him his desire for a week is a 
small price to pay for Gondor’s good. And it falls to the lot of Boromir 
and Haldir to help Faramir out. AU elements.


Chapter 1


“Welcome home, my friend,” Boromir turned around at the sound of a 
familiar voice, and his tired but pleasing countenance wreathed in smiles 
when he noticed the tall, blond figure who had greeted him as he headed 
towards his room.

“Haldir! It is good to see you! It has been so long!” he exclaimed heartily 
shaking hands with his old acquaintance, taking in the elven features 
seemingly unchanged since the last time they had met ten years ago in 
Edoras at an archery meet.

“You have changed,” Haldir commented, as he pushed back his hood 
revealing the trademark ears of his kind. 

“Ah, but it has been nearly a decade,” Boromir exclaimed, “Although you 
have not changed at all.”

“A decade is not a very long time for my kind,” Haldir said smiling.

“Aye, you are true there,” Boromir said, “but, where are my manners, do 
come inside,” he jerked open the door to his room, “are you here for the 
council?”

“Yes, I am here for the council as a representative of Lorien. But, you 
have just arrived, surely you have other things to do, spend time with your 
family?” Haldir said.

“I have met my father, but had to leave for he has an important envoy 
meeting him today,” Boromir said, “And my brother I have yet to meet, 
but he is sure to come around himself, and when he does he will be 
pleased to meet you. Unless you have already met him?” He smiled 
thinking that Faramir would surely jump to meet an elf that too one from 
the Golden Wood. He had been so excited to hear of Haldir when Boromir 
had returned from Edoras.

“Would you join me in a cup of wine?” he asked, “I hope you are 
comfortable here?”

“The Lord Steward’s hospitality has been impeccable,” Haldir replied, and 
then smiled, “He even sent someone to request me my needs for the 
night.”

“And did you tell him you had a preference for blonde young Rohirrim 
men?” Boromir asked grinning as he remembered how interested Haldir 
had been in one of the contestants at the tournament who unfortunately 
had not returned the interest preferring the company of blond young 
Rohirrim women.

Haldir smiled, “No, but I did refuse the request politely.”

Boromir suddenly looked up from his goblet of wine, “Haldir, you must be 
careful.”

Haldir cocked an eyebrow up quizzically.

“I saw whom my father is meeting today. A commander of a breakaway 
troop from Harad. They have, it seems, been speaking with my father a 
few days now, offering their services to Gondor.”

“And?”

“The commander of the troop – Captain Fenekor, I have heard of him. 
You remember in Rohan one day when we went out riding and came 
across that injured man from the Harad camp?”

Haldir nodded. He had been truly appalled at that sight, the man had been 
repeatedly assaulted physically and sexually and lay in a ditch. They had 
taken him to the healers but he had refused on awakening to name his 
attacker.

“I found out later that Fenekor was the attacker, and that he does this 
regularly. If he finds out you prefer men to women, Haldir… I am scared 
he may hurt you,” he breathed softly.

Haldir nodded grimly, “Do not fear for me, Boromir, I can look after 
myself. Now tell, me who is this diplomat’s wench I hear much about?”


*******


Denethor glanced back at the huge man in front of him. 

“Captain Fenekor, surely -?”

“No! If he spends the night with me, and I get to use him for my entire 
stay here, we have a deal, else I call all off!” Fenekor retorted crossing his 
arms across his ample chest, his thin lips seemingly smiling through his 
tick dark beard and moustache.

Denethor sighed, “And he is the one?”

“Aye.”

“Very well, come with me then,” Denethor rose and headed for the door, 
“I have given you rooms on the same wing as his, and the servants have 
been dismissed for the duration of your stay. You may do as you please, 
but if you do not mind my requesting it, use your room and not his.”

He opened the door, and passed on a message to one of the guards, and 
then led Fenekor out towards one of the wings in the far corner. He never 
came this way nowadays, for he had little work there.

They entered the room allocated to the captain.

“You will not regret this, Gondor has much to gain from my troop, and we 
know of every tactic every movement Harad will employ. And we know 
their strengths and their weaknesses. In return for that this is small price.”

“I do this for the sake of Gondor,” Denethor informed him.

“Is that why you object little?” Fenekor inquired.

Denethor gave him a cold look, and was about to reply, when a knock 
sounded on the door. He bade the arrival enter, and watched his guest’s 
reaction. He could read pure lust in those eyes. 

“You called for me, sir?” the new voice interrupted his reverie and he 
turned to look into grey eyes, that looked puzzled, apprehensive and 
hopeful all at once. He made the necessary introductions and then 
addressed the dark haired new arrival, who nodded as he spoke.

“Captain Fenekor wished to meet you. You will give him all the help he 
wants.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain, I take your leave, Faramir will give you what you want.”

“I will take what I want, my lord steward,” came the smooth toned reply 
as Fenekor returned Denethor’s bow. He rose, and walking up to the slim 
young man, suddenly reached for his face.

“Faramir, is that your name?”

Faramir’s reaction was cut off for Fenekor had already closed his mouth 
on his even as Denethor stood at the doorway. Faramir pushed him away, 
roughly, and scowled at him, “How dare you?” he spluttered angrily.

“My lord steward, would you be so kind as to –“ Fenekor began.

“Faramir, do as he says,” Denethor said.

“But sir, -“

“That is my order, Faramir.” 

“Father -?” he pleaded anxiously, as out of the corner of his now tearing 
eyes, he saw Fenekor remove his belt and finger it meditatively.

“It is for the sake of Gondor, you must do as he says!” with that Denethor 
turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

Fenekor reached for Faramir and grabbing him roughly began tearing off 
his shirt. Faramir struggled hard, screaming for his father all the while. 
Two hard slaps across his face stunned him into silence, until he stood 
completely naked in front of the Harad man, who drunk in the sight of the 
supple young body. He grabbed him by the arm, wrenching it badly in the 
process, and causing Faramir to cry out, and pushed him onto the large 
bed.

Faramir fell heavily and lay dazed for a few seconds unable to move. 
When he recovered his breath he raised himself up only to fall back as a 
thick leather belt came flying on his chest. He yelled in pain and shock, 
but by the time Fenekor was done all he could do was whimper softly. 
Then he was turned onto his stomach, and whipped across his back. When 
it was all done, he was in such pain, that everything else receded to the 
background. 

Fenekor grabbed his hair and threw him onto the ground, where he kicked 
him repeatedly. But he never hit Faramir’s face.

He kept hitting the young man even as he undressed himself. He slapped a 
half dazed Faramir awake and paraded his huge well-muscled body in 
front of him, before giving him a bruising kiss. Throwing him back on the 
bed, Fenekor entered Faramir without warning or preamble. And smirked 
contentedly as he heard the screams. 

Faramir screamed and screamed till he had no voice left. It hurt, it hurt so 
much, as the other’s shaft pounded mercilessly into him, tearing through 
him, sending trickles of blood down his legs.

Then a great weight lifted off him, and he felt someone turning him over 
and licking his neck and torso, “That was lovely darling,” a voice at his 
neck whispered, “We must do it again tomorrow, and the day after, and – 
“

Faramir kept his eyes shut. Even when he was slipped into a long robe, 
and scooped up in Fenekor’s arms.

“Open your eyes,” Fenekor commanded, and Faramir instantly obeyed. 

The thin lips closed in on his again.

When his gasping mouth was released, Fenekor leered down at him, and 
then carried him back to his own room. There he threw him onto his own 
bed, and then bent down over him as he lay there heaving. One hand 
reached out and went under his robe, lifting it up a long way. Fenekor 
continued smirking at his face.  

Faramir felt the hand groping his groin area, and then suddenly he was 
being tickled there. He wriggled in protest. Fenekor finally stopped, and 
then smoothing the robe over him, bent and kissed him on his groin 
through the coarse fabric of the robe. Tears pricked his eyes suddenly as 
he realised all he’d been through. Fenekor leered at him once again and 
then walked out of the room.


******


“I wonder where Faramir is?” Boromir said aloud as he walked Haldir 
back to his room, a slight disappointment showing up in his voice.

“Does he not know you are coming today?” Haldir asked.

“He does, but I suspect he thinks I will be coming in much later, after 
meeting with father,” Boromir responded, “I think I shall go to his room, 
he must be there, will you not come? He will like to meet you.”

“Certainly.”

Boromir lead the long winding way through a number of hallways and 
staircases to the wing his brother’s chamber was in. 

“This is some distance away from the great hall and yours and your 
father’s chambers,” Haldir commented.

Boromir simply nodded in reply.






































Chapter 2


Faramir lay in his bed, covered to his chin in blankets as he felt a chill 
descend on him. He had with great difficulty managed to clean himself 
somewhat, get rid of the blood and apply some salves, but it was not 
enough for his mind to feel at rest. He had always assumed he would give 
his life for Gondor’s sake, but what he had given up now seemed worse. 
His eyes welled up as he remembered how his father had stridden out of 
Fenekor’s room with not even a look of remorse on his face.

*Does he not care? Would he have been so heartless if it had been 
Boromir? Would he have given him up so easily? *

He was so sore, he could barely move, he had nearly bent over in pain 
more than once while trying to clean himself, and had had to crawl back to 
his bed, where he now lay curled up on his side because in any other 
position it hurt. He felt he had as much strength as a half-drowned kitten. 
His entire body was covered in bruises and welts, and Fenekor had 
promised a tomorrow. He shuddered at the thought of it. 

He tried to block out the incident from his mind, the indignity and pain of 
it. And the feeling of betrayal, which festered all the more so because his 
father had not even bothered to come and see how he was doing.

*Oh, father what have you asked of me? * His eyes burned but the tears 
refused to come. It had all happened so soon, he was still trying to come to 
terms with what had happened. Barely an hour and a half earlier, one of 
the servants had told him his father had summoned him. 

He had been a little apprehensive for he had already met his father once 
since his return from a stint with the company of rangers at Ithilien. 
Denethor had been curt and had listened without comment to his words, 
and then dismissed him immediately. Since then Faramir had not seen his 
father except at breakfast, the only meal they ate together, where they had 
barely spoken. Denethor would eat and leave, exchanging only the barest 
words with his younger son. 

When the summons had come, he had been worried wondering if he had 
done some ill and angered his father for Denethor never called for him 
these days, but when he was asked to go down to one of the guest rooms 
in his wing, he had a faint flicker of hope too that perhaps his father might 
be giving him some task of responsibility. 

He shifted as his muscles protested being in the same position too long. 
Waves of pain ran through his entire body with even the slightest twitch, 
and he could barely control the soft moans he made as he turned over onto 
his other side. Lying on his back was out of the question. He had tried 
lying face downwards, but his chest and stomach were too tender from the 
welts criss-crossing them.

He wondered quietly if his father might come and see how he was doing, 
surely he would. Boromir might be his favoured son, but surely even he, 
Faramir, merited at least a little concern.

Boromir!

Boromir was to come today. Had he come? And what would he think if he 
had not seen Faramir yet? Surely he would realise something was amiss, 
and come down to his room? He must not see him like this!

Faramir snuggled deeper into the blanket, ensuring that not a bit of skin 
showed through, glad that he had worn his old nightshirt that closed up at 
the throat and had long sleeves. If he pretended to be asleep when his 
brother came it would solve the problem. But why had he not come yet? 
Surely he would have noted his absence. Faramir had always been one of 
the first to greet his brother each time he returned form his soldiering 
duties. And this time, Faramir too had been out with rangers. His brother 
knew that.

As if in answer to his thoughts he heard a knock on the door.

“Faramir!” his brother’s voice wafted through the wooden door, and too 
late, Faramir realised he had not latched it. He shut his eyes, and curled in 
even more, willing himself to stay calm.

The door slid open, and he heard the sound of movement across the bare 
uncarpeted floor. Two sets of footsteps.

*Father? *

Faramir’s eyes flew open involuntarily, eager for the sight of Denethor 
hoping he had come after all, but he hadn’t. It was someone else. In the 
fading light he could make out a fair pleasing countenance, and a tall and 
lithe but well-toned figure.

“Faramir! Are you unwell, where have you been? I thought you would 
have to throw you out of my room tonight as I always have to when I 
return, instead I find you in bed already, and it is just a little past 
sundown.” Boromir ranted. 

“Boromir,” he was surprised at how normal his voice came out, soft and a 
little scratchy from all the screaming but calm nevertheless, “You have 
arrived.”

“Are you unwell?” Boromir repeated.

“Nay, I am all right, merely a little tired,” Faramir responded still wrapped 
up in his blankets, “When did you come?”

Boromir stared at his brother a little disappointed, “Yes, but surely you 
knew I was coming at midday? Where have you been all day? In the 
libraries?”

He laid a hand on his brother’s forehead looking for signs of fever relieved 
to find none but at the same time angry at his impolite behaviour. The 
room was dim and he could barely make out the expression on his face, 
for the shadow of the walls fell over his features revealing little, or he 
would have seen the raw pain and sorrow in them. 

“I am well, Boromir, merely very tired, that is why I retired early,” 
Faramir repeated, still clutching the blanket, trying to move as little as 
possible.

“Will you join me in a small supper in my rooms?”

Faramir shook his head, “Forgive me brother, I am very tired. Can we not 
do that tomorrow?”

“Very well,” Boromir said, a little coldly. He did not mean to sound so, 
but it annoyed him when he saw that Faramir did not look all that 
overjoyed to see him as he always had earlier.

*He thinks he’s been out once with the rangers so he’s all grown up now. 
*

“Are you not going to introduce me to our guest?” Faramir interrupted his 
thoughts.

“It would hardly be polite while you are still in bed,” Boromir said tersely, 
“but seeing as nothing will induce you to abandon your comfort, this is 
Haldir of the Golden Wood, whom I met in Edoras all those years ago. He 
is here for the council.”

“Eight years ago,” Faramir said suddenly, ”at the archery tournament 
wasn’t it?”

“Yes, nearly a decade,” Haldir nodded smiling.

“It is good to meet you, Haldir, forgive me for not rising but I am not 
dressed to receive company.”

Boromir stared amazed, surely Faramir would not be acting so modest as 
to refuse to appear in front of another man in his nightclothes!

He shook his head slightly, disappointed at the seeming changes in his 
brother.

“I bid you a good night then,” he said coolly, “We will meet when you 
have recovered sufficiently from your hard labour in the library.” He 
regretted the words immediately for even in the dim light he sensed rather 
than saw a look of hurt pass his brother’s face, but what was said was said 
and he would not take it back now.

“Good night Boromir,” came the small voice, ”I bid you a pleasurable stay 
in Minas Tirth, Haldir.”

Boromir was quite unhappy as he led Haldir down the hallway.

“I am sorry for my brother’s impoliteness Haldir, he is tired, and not 
himself,” Boromir said.

“He seemed worried,” Haldir told him.

“Worried?” Boromir could not keep a trace of anger from his voice, 
“What has he to worry about, he has not spent all these years staving off 
Mordor’s shadow. He has served barely two months in the army, now. No, 
his worries are trivial.”

But even as he said that Boromir knew he was not quite right. Faramir’s 
worries were ones he knew he’d never know. For he would never know 
what it was like to feel unloved by a parent. He knew Faramir hurt a great 
deal from Denethor’s treatment but he was still angry with his brother. 
Faramir had never before let his disappointment at his father’s remarks 
come in the way of his love and respect for Boromir. So all he could 
assume now was that his brother had changed. Faramir no longer loved 
him as much as he did earlier; he no longer thought Boromir was the 
centre of his existence.

“You are weary, and it is clouding your mind, sleep the night through, and 
you will feel much better,” Haldir’s voice broke through his reverie, but he 
recognised the wisdom in the soft-spoken words.


The coldness in Boromir’s voice had not escaped Faramir and when his 
brother left he let his mask of control slip, as the tears flowed down his 
cheeks. He felt a pain clutch his heart. His brother was angry with him, 
and he didn’t blame him. He must have sounded so rude and hateful, 
refusing to get up, refusing to sup with Boromir, and probably insulting 
one of his friends. 

He willed himself to try and sleep, but sleep would not come. He wished 
he could sit by the window, and let the cool night air touch him, but he 
could not think of moving. He stared instead at the window, into the sky 
outside, full of stars, and was reminded of his days at Ithilien, under the 
commander of the rangers. He had learnt much, from a slightly unsure 
youth of twenty-one to a more confident and tactically intelligent warrior. 
But he had a long way to go before he became like the older rangers. He 
sighed softly as he remembered the nights spent outside, sleeping on the 
soft earth, the smell of grass and heather in the air, the stars in the sky. 
And the tears continued to fall.

When he awoke, the sun was already up, and it took him a while to realise 
why he felt so terrible. The herbs he had ingested the night before had left 
their influence, he felt lethargic and his head ached. So did the rest of him. 
Slowly, like the pages of a book, the past day’s events unfolded 
themselves in his fogged mind, with crystal clarity, each shard of memory 
wrenching a knife deeper in his heart. 

He rose from the bed, slowly, painfully, almost bent over like an old man. 
Each ache in his worn body hit him like a hot skewer. The slaps to his face 
had thankfully not bruised noticeably, and his lips had been healed by the 
salve. He felt a little faint too and realised he had not eaten since midday 
the day before. And though he was not sure he could eat much, he knew 
he should have some nourishment at least. Denethor would not hear of 
him having breakfast in his room, for the first meal of the day was always 
held in the great hall. He would have to go down. And he might as well, or 
Boromir might come here himself. For the first time ever, he was thankful, 
his wing was so far from his brother’s. Hardly anyone came here. But that 
was why Fenekor could do as he pleased too with no disturbance.

The thought of the man from Harad plunged him back into despair.

When he finally managed to get ready, ignoring the protests from his 
aching muscles, and reached the hall, having walked down the long halls 
and winding staircases at an extra slow pace, he was flushed from his 
effort, and feeling very faint. He was also obviously very late, judging by 
the barely contained annoyance in his father’s face.

Faramir realised with a start that they had guests at breakfast. Haldir was 
there, as were two more elves, two dwarfs, and men from Rohan and Dol 
Amroth and Fenekor and one of his men.

“You are late.” Denethor did not even raise his eyes from his plate. Even 
Boromir gave him only the tiniest of glances and then looked away, his 
expression completely unreadable.

I apologise,” he directed it to the entire table, and hurriedly slipped into a 
place between Denethor and Haldir. The seat was hard and he winced a 
little as he sat. It still hurt him and he was also careful not to rest his back 
against that of the chair. Boromir sat to the other side of his father talking 
to one of the Rohirrim. Haldir sat speaking to the other Rohirrim and one 
of the other elves, leaving Faramir with no one to talk to. His father ate in 
silence, occasionally nodding at something the Rohirrim near his brother 
would lean over and say. Boromir would interject often too, and Faramir 
could not prevent the pang of jealously as he watched father and son talk.

*He never says a word to me during meals, now he talks with Boromir of 
horses. * 

He picked at his food, stealing glances every now and then at his father to 
see if he was looking at him. But Denethor had no eyes for his younger 
son. Across the table, Fenekor gave him a polite glance once. Nothing 
more. Somehow that scared Faramir more than if that glance had been a 
smirk or a leer. He was still picking at the food when the others rose. 
Denethor glanced at him briefly as if in impatience and then stood up, the 
others following him. Faramir too pushed back his chair and made to get 
up.

“Finish you meal,” Denethor bade him gruffly, and then turning to the 
others said, “Gentlemen we meet at midday then, and the council begins at 
first light tomorrow, as agreed.”

As the others filtered out of the room, Denethor called Boromir back, 
“Meet me in my chambers now.” He told him.

“And, Faramir, I wish to see you, alone, as soon as you have finished your 
meal.”

Before Faramir could reply he strode out followed by Boromir, who still 
would not look at his brother.

Faramir ate what he could slowly, for otherwise, he felt nauseous, and 
finally upon finishing it headed for his father’s chambers. He wondered 
why he had been called alone, and then realised his father probably 
wanted to ask after him. There could be no other reason, he had given his 
report on Ithilien, he was not in the council so it could not be about that, it 
must be as he thought. It made him feel decidedly better. 

He knocked on the door and entered as bade. Boromir was sitting on the 
couch leafing through some papers, a cup of herb tea in his hands. 
Denethor sat at his table, another cup in his hands. Faramir was suddenly 
struck by how companionable it all looked. Denethor was pleased with 
Boromir’s performance, there had been no secret about that. He had 
literally killed the fatted calf on his eldest son’s return.

“Boromir, go through those papers carefully, and I will expect you at the 
council at first light tomorrow.” There was a hint of pride in the words; 
one Faramir never got to hear.

“Yes sir,” Boromir rose and headed for the door, nodding at Faramir as he 
passed. Just a small, polite nod.

Faramir shut the door behind him and stood in front of his father’s desk. 
The faintness had gone though the aches and pains still screamed. He 
wished he could sit on that lumpy couch but Denethor had not given him 
leave to do so. Denethor rarely spoke to him for long however, so he never 
offered him a seat, or herb tea for that matter, a small voice in his mind 
told him.

He stood quietly as Denethor began to speak.

“I have received a report from your commander at Ithilien,” Denethor’s 
calm voice hit Faramir. Ithilien, he called me to talk of Ithilien, not of last 
night.

“So he is willing to have you under him some time longer. You will make 
ready to leave within a fortnight.” Denethor’s closing words pierced 
through the haze in his head, and he stared at him quietly.

“Yes father,” he said when Denethor gave him a baleful glare.

“You may leave now,” Denethor dismissed him.

“Father, I –“ what was he to say? Surely, it was to Denethor to say 
something?

“Yes?” Denethor snapped looking up from his papers.

“Nothing father,” he muttered and sidled out of the door. The faintness 
returned with a vengeance. He made his way back to his wing reeling in 
pain and exhaustion. Stumbling down the hallway with half-closed eyes, 
he pulled up short as he hit something.

“Well, beautiful one, looking for me?”

He felt himself being dragged into Fenekor’s room, the door being latched 
shut, and then he was pushed up against the wall. He cowered slightly as 
Fenekor held him against the wall with just one arm, and then pressed onto 
him. Fenekor was huge and he completely dwarfed Faramir, as he kissed 
him violently once again. Then he was thrown to the floor, on a thick 
carpet, on his back. Fenekor began kneeling down, and then holding 
Faramir’s hands flat against the floor suddenly brought his knee down on 
Faramir’s crotch, grinding it in hard through his clothes, causing the 
young man to scream out in pain, and buck against the attack.

Faramir sobbed aloud as the grinding continued, until Fenekor equally 
suddenly removed his knee, and released the Gondorian’s hands. He 
curled over clutching himself in pain, only to look up in horror as he heard 
the crack of the huge whip Fenekor now held in his hands.



















Chapter 3


Faramir moved purely on reflex, as he had been taught to in case of a 
sudden attack, ignoring his pain, he rolled away, but was still not quick 
enough to prevent the tip of the whip lashing his side. It tore through his 
tunic, and bit into the tender skin below drawing a thin line of blood, and 
causing him to cry out in pain as it stung. He scrambled to a sitting 
position edging further and further away from Fenekor who seemed to be 
highly amused by his attempts to escape. A heavily booted foot lashed out 
at him catching him in the centre of his stomach, then again, and again. 
Faramir bent over groaning, exposing his bent back to the captain.

The whip sang through the air and landed full across over the previous 
days welts, cutting cloth and skin, and leaving behind it a trail in bright 
red. Faramir screamed in agony and arched his back away from the whip. 
It landed again, this time across his torso and stomach. Then again. And 
again. And again on his back. It was a huge whip, and quite sharp, so that 
the cuts were not only large but deep as well. He could bear it no longer, 
the pain was intolerable. He used whatever strength he had left in him and 
bringing up one his legs kicked out at Fenekor. His boot came in contact 
with the other’s shin, drawing out a yell and much swearing. Fenekor 
hopped on one leg, fury engulfing his face. He bent towards the fallen 
young man and grabbed him by his shirt.

But Faramir was past caring, he struck out with a bunched up fist, and 
Fenekor barely managed to dodge it. Instead of landing smack on his face 
as Faramir had intended, it brushed his jaw, the impact causing him to 
grunt in pain, and serving to further fuel his ire. Faramir’s ring had 
scratched his chin and drawn blood. Fenekor glared at the Gondorian.

“You will regret this, I promise you that!” he yelled and grabbing Faramir 
by his hair, slapped him across his face repeatedly gleefully watching the 
red marks spread across the cheeks, some turning blackish, as they bruised 
him.  Grey eyes clouded over, and the once firmly held head now lolled 
backwards and forwards as the smacks continued. 

Faramir swayed in a daze, if Fenekor left his collar he would fall. He felt 
his body explode with pain, he felt rivulets of blood flow across his back 
and front, and then he felt his clothes being ripped off again, as he was 
thrown against a huge wooden table. He lat dazed across it, his clothes 
ripped apart, pain coursing through every inch of his body.

“For Gondor, remember,” a silky voice cut through the haze of his mind, 
and then Fenekor was entering him again as he lay bent over the table. He 
rammed hard into him without warning, pushing into him with greater 
force than he had used the day before. Healing muscles were ripped once 
again, and blood trickled down his legs, mingling with a trail of blood 
leading down from his back. Faramir had thought he had never hurt as 
much as he had day before, but this was worse. Knowing how it felt did 
not ease the pain for him. And this time Fenekor showed no mercy 
whatsoever. He rammed into him again and again, till Faramir began 
screaming from the pain.

When he was satiated, Fenekor turned Faramir around. He smirked at the 
sight of the bruised and bloodied body, covered in half torn clothing, 
leggings lying at his ankles, and grey eyes filled with pain… and fear.

He reached a hand out for him, and almost smiled when he saw Faramir 
begin to tremble.

“Scared, beautiful?” he purred, reaching for Faramir’s face, and running a 
sharp fingernail down one darkening bruise, causing him to wince. 
Another hand reached for his crotch, and began toying with his member. 
Faramir moaned involuntarily at the touch, and when Fenekor suddenly 
bent down and kissed it lightly, and ran his tongue all over his lower belly 
he gasped. Fenekor rose and started licking his face, while continuing to 
lightly rub his hand over his swelling member. 

“They tell me you are not one for the women, pretty one, how goes it then. 
Is it the men that you bed, love?” the Harad man crowed, “Do you not 
secretly love to be taken by another man?” 

Faramir simply screamed in reply as Fenekor tightened his grip and 
ruthlessly twisted him, sending an explosive pain through the battered 
body. 

“Whore!” he spat at his face and released him. Faramir crumpled to the 
ground sobbing, and curled up in a ball of agony and pain.

“How many more had your father given you to? You weep!” he snorted, 
”If I had a son who were to weep so, I would give him to a brothel. No 
wonder your father feels naught for you!”

Faramir gave a loud strangled cry, and made as if to shake his head, but 
Fenekor bent down and grabbed him by his hair and pulled him up, till 
their lips were nearly touching, “Come with me,” he hissed into the abused 
face, glaring down at the frightened grey eyes, “Come with me when I 
leave, I will give you your heart’s desire.”

Faramir shook his head ignoring the overwhelming pain. He got a perverse 
satisfaction from noting that the cut he had unintentionally given the man 
from Harad with his ring, still bled.

“Fool! What have you here? Can you not see Denethor loves you not? 
What father would give his son up for the sake of his land?”

Faramir shook his head again, angering the captain. The grip on his hair 
tightened, and then he was kneed in his groin. He had no strength left to 
scream as he sagged down in pain. Fenekor continued to grip his hair so 
that he almost hung to his knees now.

“You whore!” Fenekor screamed at him again, “You filthy, vile creature!” 
A resounding slap to the side of his head sent Faramir into a daze. What 
happened after that was only a vague memory in his mind. He felt himself 
being entered once again, he felt immense pain, he felt slaps, he felt a 
heavy body pressing down on his groin, he felt it grind against him, 
causing more pain, and he shut his eyes and tried to lose himself in a void, 
but the void wouldn’t let him inside.

It kept him on a threshold from where he could feel all, but do nothing. He 
was powerless, completely helpless, so he just lay there. 

Then there was a knock on the outer door, and Fenekor rose cursing, 
rustled on a robe and walked out. The sounds of a whispered conversation 
filtered through, of a summons in the great hall. Fenekor returned and 
throwing a long tunic at him, pulled him up roughly by one hand.

“You can go now! Go – go to whomever else it is you have sold your 
filthy body to. The Rohirrim? The elves? The dwarfs?” He dragged him 
over to the door, a shaking figure, stumbling over the leggings around his 
ankles, and bodily threw him out into the thankfully deserted hallway, in 
his torn clothes, clutching pathetically to the tunic.

Faramir lay on the cold floor, willing himself to rise. He knew this wing 
was rarely visited, that was why his father had made him move there, so 
he could keep him out of his sight. 

*Father, do you hate me so? *

He dragged himself up against a wall, watching detachedly as he left spots 
of blood all over the floor, wondering what the servants would think. He 
pulled up his legging somehow, and then half crawled, half dragged 
himself to his own room. Pushing the door open he stumbled inside and 
then painfully raising himself entered his antechamber where his cleaning 
and healing materials lay, and passed out.



Boromir spent the morning reading the reports his father had bade him to. 
Then he had gone down and had some good rigorous sword practice. 
When he returned to his chambers and finished cleaning off the sweat and 
grime it was almost midday. He entered the great hall for his luncheon 
meal nodding at the other eaters who sat scattered along various tables.

Noticing Haldir sitting alone at a table, he made his way over and sat next 
to him. They exchanged pleasantries and discussed each other’s plans for 
the rest of the day.

“I do not see your brother,” one of the Rohirrim men remarked from a 
nearby table, “Is he always late for his meals?”

Boromir heard the underlying jest but the words still angered him. Faramir 
was being so stupid. But then, Denethor was not around either, perhaps the 
two were together. His rigorous session in the morning had helped 
Boromir get rid of all his excess energy leaving him much calmer now, 
and better disposed over his younger brother. Perhaps he had been tired 
last night. After all he was late for breakfast, which he would never have 
dared to, especially with guests around, for fear of Denethor’s wrath. And 
who was to know how his father had been treating the younger brother 
while he was not there. He knew though, from Faramir himself that for 
many months, the slights had been verbal only, and not physical. It had 
been a relief to here that Denethor had now stopped raising his hand at his 
younger son at the least provocation.

“Is Lord Faramir with my father?” he asked the servant who came to 
replenish his wine.

The servant shook his head, “No, my lord the lord steward has been 
meeting with his commanders since morning.”

“And Lord Faramir?” Boromir asked, a little glad, for he knew any 
meeting between father and son would only result in disquiet for the 
younger.

“He has not been here all day,” the servant replied.

“He must be in the library,” Boromir mused slightly exasperated.

“No, my lord, for they are cleaning there today, and it is my lord 
Steward’s orders that none else be allowed in.”

“Very well, thank you.”

He left with Haldir after his meal intending to take the other too the 
armoury and show him the new archery equipment that had arrived there. 
But he was still thinking of his brother.

*I was too cold with him yesterday; I hope he did not notice. But of 
course, he would notice it. Father’s behaviour has made him a little too 
sensitive. But he did look tired. *

He fretted all the way along the long hallway traversing the citadel, 
worrying about Faramir. If he had not been in the hall it would mean he 
had not hand his meal at all, for Denethor had long since forbidden him 
from having meals in his room. Boromir knew it was just an excuse to 
prevent Faramir from hiding away by retreating into his books. Denethor 
might not eat his meals with his younger son, but he still insisted that he 
walk all the way to the hall to eat.

“You are worried,” Haldir stated simply. Boromir, not for the first time 
was struck by the other’s quiet perceptiveness.

“I would like to check on Faramir first, I see no reason why he should 
have missed a meal, it is down this wing here and will barely take us a few 
minutes. If you do not mind, we can go to the armoury after that,” 
Boromir requested.

“Certainly, my friend,” Haldir agreed sagely, “your brother I am sure 
would welcome your company.”

He used to, Boromir thought to himself, but will he now?

When he rapped on the outer door, there was no response He was about to 
turn away when Haldir stopped him and pointed at a small stain on the 
floor near the door, a drying crimson stain. Boromir simply pushed the 
door open and barged in, the elf following him.

Faramir was nowhere to be seen. He noticed the open door to the 
antechamber and covering the distance in a few long strides stopped short 
at the sight in front of him.

His younger brother lay on the floor, in a muddled heap. He gave a small 
cry and rushed to the motionless figure that lay bleeding on the floor, face 
hidden from view by his hair. He gathered the fallen figure up in his arms, 
and cried in alarm again as he saw the whip marks, and then the dark 
bruises covering his face.

“Oh, little one,” he cried, using a term from long-forgotten childhood 
days, “Who has done this to you?”

“Boromir,” Haldir’s voice cut through the varied emotions swirling 
through him, “We must get him into bed, he will be getting cold on the 
floor.”

Together they carried the young man to his bed, and began undressing 
him, faces becoming progressively grimmer as the true extent of the 
injuries came out. The entire torso was either black or blue or red in 
colour. As also the back. When Haldir tugged the leggings down, Boromir 
noticed the line of dried blood on the leg. But it was Haldir who realised 
what had happened, and turned him around, nodding angrily at Boromir, 
who was now beside himself with emotion. The next few minutes were 
ones Boromir went through in a haze. He remembered being pressed by 
Haldir into getting herbs, heating water, and getting fresh clothes out. 
Once the injuries were dressed, and Faramir put into a long tunic of fine 
soft material, Boromir knelt by the bed drained, waiting for his brother to 
awaken and tell him hat had happened. Who had hurt him so badly?

He sank his head down, and then the felt the bile rise up his throat. He 
swiftly rose, and headed for the antechamber where he collapsed against 
the wall retching and crying. How long he lay sprawled there he could not 
say, but he heard Haldir enter and put a hand on his shoulder and was glad 
of it. I t provided him strength as he sobbed, “He was hurt yesterday, some 
bruises are a day old. How could I be so blind?”

Lost in recriminations, neither heard the outer door open as the Steward of 
Gondor entered his younger son’s chambers for the first time in many 
years.

Denethor strode through the darkened room, towards the lump on the bed, 
his face a mask, but his set body revealing barely suppressed anger. The 
figure on the bed lay in the shadow and all that was visible of him was 
dark hair. The steward grabbed at him by the neck, causing the grey eyes 
to open unsteadily and the dark hair to fall all over the face, hiding it from 
view, and aided by that and a blind rage, Denethor did not notice the 
condition of his face or the pain filled grimace that assailed it.  

Yanking Faramir out of the bed, he shouted, “Whatever possessed you to 
do something so stupid? If Gondor is ruined it will be because of you.” 
And sent a resounding slap to his son’s face, that was loud enough to be 
heard by the two occupants of the antechamber.






























Chapter 4

Faramir was deep in a sleep he wanted to awaken from desperately for all 
he saw over and over again in a silent nightmare was Fenekor’s face and 
then a pain would explode in him as a weight would descend on his 
slender body. Each time he would feel the fear and pain as Fenekor 
entered him. He only rose when a hand gripped him and shook him awake 
fiercely. Through sleep-clouded eyes, he could vaguely make out his 
father’s form looming over him. Consciousness was yet to return fully, but 
the searing pain did not go unfelt. Too tired to verbalize his pain, he was 
even less ready for the shouting and then his father’s hand rose, and fell on 
his abused face.

And then came the noise of more shouting.

*Boromir. *

He was pulled into someone’s arms, spent, exhausted and in pain so severe 
that everything else was forgotten.

The sound of the slap had brought Boromir out of his shock-induced state 
and he had rushed out for fear of his brother. The sight that met him 
angered him greatly. His brother’s limp form was being held up by 
Denethor, who in his furious rage was raising his hand again to get his 
silent son to answer him.

“You fool! Thanks to your folly –“

“What are you doing?” Boromir lashed out at the steward, grabbing his 
upraised arm with one hand, and tugging at his brother with another. He 
pushed away Denethor’s arm, and turned his attention to the one he held. 
Dragged into the light, the injuries on Faramir were clearly visible.

“He is hurt!” Boromir spat out angrily, and picking the semi-conscious 
form laid him gently on the threadbare couch near the fireplace.

“He has been beaten, and -  and- “ Boromir bit back a sob.

“He has endangered Gondor!” Denethor shouted, and turned away to face 
the window.

“No!” Faramir’s faint voice rang out. They turned to see his eyes open, 
tired, but open, and clouded with pain and sorrow.

“No, I did all you asked,” he gasped out. His body was on fire. Pain 
resounded in every muscle and every bone. He could not even sit properly.

“What did you do?” Boromir asked anxiously.

But neither father nor brother seemed to hear him for Denethor continued 
to stand in the shadows his voice lashing out at his younger son, while 
facing away from him.

“Did I ask you to hit Captain Fenekor, you worthless idiot? To draw 
blood?” 

“Father!”

“No, my lord, it was an accident,” Faramir’s voice was getting fainter still 
and wavering, and tinged with what Boromir realised almost immediately 
was fear.

“You hit him, he says, and refused to do as he asked,” Denethor spat out, 
“Coward!”

Boromir took a step forward, “You speak in riddles, this is not the time. 
Faramir is ailing, my lord, and I would call a healer.”

“Ailing? So he should, when the white city is destroyed tomorrow, we can 
all ail with him!”

“My lord!” Faramir raised himself, ignoring Boromir’s cry of annoyance, 
and his own body’s protests, “I swear to you, I did all he asked, would you 
not trust me, your own son, to speak the truth?” Faramir sounded terrible, 
and raw pain laced his voice now. Haldir who had been standing silently 
by took a step towards the couch, but stopped short as Denethor’s voice 
cut through sharply.

“You are no son of mine.”

Faramir simply gave a strangled sob in response.

“Father!” Boromir sounded as though he wanted to strangle Denethor. 
Instead he sat by Faramir holding the trembling young man.

“My son would give his life for Gondor,” Denethor continued mercilessly, 
still facing away from his sons. 

“I would,” Faramir cried, “You ask for body and soul and I gave up both, 
what more do you ask? My life? You have it my lord for I can live with 
this shame and humiliation no more!”

“Who did this to you?” Boromir’s voice came icily calm.

“You gave up your body you say? For Gondor? Then why says Fenekor 
otherwise? He says you resist him, and you hit him and left?”

“Fenekor!” Boromir shouted, “Fenekor did this to you?”

Denethor turned suddenly, “Did what?”

“And you knew?” Boromir raged.

Denethor walked up to the couch, and then for the first time in all that 
while saw his younger son’s condition. 

“Fenekor hit you?” he said slightly horrified at the bruises lividly standing 
out in a pale face.

“He raped him!” Boromir screamed, “And with your leeway.” He 
launched himself at Denethor, only to be stopped by a strong arm.

“Do not be foolish, Boromir. Your brother was his price for allying his 
troop with us against Harad. And little price.”

Boromir seethed speechless in anger.

“But that he would go so far as to hurt your brother like this, I did not 
realise,” Denethor leant towards Faramir, and opened the bindings holding 
the long robe in place. Faramir flushed as his chest was exposed bandaged 
and bruised. He tried to push away his father’s inquiring hands, and made 
to move off the couch, to be stopped by Haldir who grabbed him and sat 
him down. 

Denethor blanched at the sight of the marks that covered his son’s torso, 
the spots of blood on a bandage covering the wound from the whip 
standing out against the black and blue skin.

He reached a hand for his son’s face and brushed a stray strand of hair 
away. Faramir flushed again, unused to such a display of concern from his 
usually taciturn father. 

“You let someone and that too a Haradrim  *have* your son as payment?” 
Boromir shouted again.

“Yes,” Denethor rose. 

In Haldir’s arms, Faramir started to shake, tears flowing down his face.

“How could you? A Haradrim, a filthy Haradrim? And my brother?”

“If the need be, I would let an orc take your brother, if it meant saving 
Gondor!” Denethor spat out.

Faramir gave a distressed cry at that. Fenekor’s words hit him with a 
vengeance.

*How many more had your father given you to? *

Haldir tightened his grip around the trembling young man in his arms. The 
unfolding events were leaving a bitter state in his mouth. 

“Father, you should leave now, please send for a healer. I will be here with 
Faramir all day and possibly all night,” Boromir replied with a strange 
calm that belied his true feelings.

“No,” Faramir whispered, struggling to get out of Haldir’s arms, “Not a 
healer, I will not let anyone see me like this, no, please no,” he sobbed. 
Pain clouded his mind, threatening to send him over a deep dark abyss and 
he fought to stay awake.

“Very well, Boromir will see to your injuries,” Denethor said and strode 
towards the door.

“F- fa- My lord?” Faramir spoke up again, his eyes tinged with anxiety.

“Yes?”

“What of the captain? Will he – what will you-?” *I cannot anymore, not 
anymore…*

“I do not know,” Denethor said sighing, “But you will not have to go to 
him again, that I can assure you, I did not think he would hurt you so 
badly.”

“You must be joking!” Boromir shouted out again, “What did you think he 
would do to Faramir? Give him a hug and a sweet and send him back to 
his room?”

“You will not understand, Boromir, but you must, for you must also learn 
that Gondor should have the first place in your heart. Faramir, rest and 
recover your strength, I will have your meals sent to your room, and 
inform the servants that you are ill and not to be disturbed.” With that the 
steward swept out of the room.

Boromir moved to the door too, his hands clenched tight, he felt like 
hitting his father, and killing Fenekor and… the small cry from the couch 
stopped him. He turned to his brother his face a mask of remorse and 
sorrow, tears filling up his eyes and spilling onto his cheeks, when he saw 
the forlorn young man lying in his friend’s arms. Faramir stared back at 
him, and then pushing Haldir’s hands away with unexpected force rose, 
and stumbled into his brother’s arms.

They stood there for a long time, taking comfort in each other’s presence, 
just being close to his elder brother giving Faramir the strength to stand. 

*Oh Boromir, I know you’ll keep him away, I’m scared, it’s stupid and 
cowardly, but I’m scared, and if Gondor falls it will be because of me…*

Haldir watched them, his heart ached for the younger, who seemed torn 
between duty and self, who so obviously did what he did, not just out of 
duty but out of need for filial love. Little things like the lack of 
conversation between father and son, the desolate location of Faramir’s 
room had not escaped his notice. Everyone else liked Faramir much, his 
brother, the servants, the people loved the two brothers equally. All but 
Denethor, it seemed. Denethor was quite simply indifferent.

Which was a pity because the boy, no the young man, was indeed likeable, 
he seemed intelligent, sensitive, brave, not built like a warrior though. He 
was slight of build but surely a few seasons with the rangers would change 
that. The slight figure must have been what attracted Fenekor’s attention, 
Haldir decided, and the finely chiseled mouth, and those beautiful grey 
eyes, they look wise and far-seeing, like one with elvish blood in him, 
from his mother, no doubt – Valar what am I thinking? I am no better than 
the fool captain from Harad to analyse his body like this. I should be 
helping. 

Boromir was still holding his brother in his arms, tears pouring down his 
own cheeks.

“I did not realise yesterday, did that -, did he - ?” Boromir could barely 
complete the sentence, as Faramir nodded and then buried his head in his 
shoulder. He instinctively tightened his hold on the slim figure of the 
younger man.

“Oh, Faramir, I am sorry, I should have realised,” he started off, hugging 
his brother tighter only to be cut off by a gasp from the younger man, 
“What is it?” he asked alarmed.

Faramir raised his head, grey eyes clearly showing he was hurting badly, 
”Naught, it is just my back.”

“Oh,” he loosened his grip, and then carefully adjusted his arms so that he 
would not hurt his brother’s injured body more.

Haldir rose, not missing the fact that Faramir looked on the verge of 
collapse, and Boromir looked terrible too, “Come, you must rest now,” he 
told the younger one, and pulled him away a little. Faramir nodded, and 
began to sag slightly as Borormir’s hands left him. The next minute his 
brother had picked him up and carried him back to bed. Haldir went 
quietly into the small antechamber.

“Haldir is right, sleep now,” he said soothingly and leaned down to brush 
his forehead with a small kiss.

“Sleep does not come,” Faramir said tonelessly.

Boromir placed a hand on the dark hair, and sighed, “It will, little one, it 
will.”

“Perhaps Boromir should stay here for the rest of the day,” Haldir 
suggested,” Here, have some of this brew, it will help you sleep.” He 
handed the young man on the bed, a small cup full of a thick liquid.

Faramir glanced up, it was as if he was realizing for the first time that 
Haldir was there for hew flushed uncomfortably, “I am sorry, Haldir, to 
have caused you all this needless trouble.”

That Faramir was embarrassed to have been in such a position before a 
relative stranger was painfully obvious. He seemed very distressed at the 
thought, so the elf leaned forward, and placing a hand on one shoulder, 
said quietly, “It is no needless trouble to be of service to you Faramir, 
Boromir is a very good friend, I am sure he would not hesitate before 
doing anything for me, and I merely reciprocate the sentiment. Now sleep, 
you are in no condition to debate on trivialities.”

“Thank you indeed Haldir,” Boromir said as he sat on the bed watching 
his brother’s light sleep after a while, “He sleeps now, but not peacefully, I 
feel. I will be by him for the rest of the day. He needs me.”

“You cannot stay up all day and night,” Haldir told him quietly, “there is a 
council tomorrow. Will you not let me help you further, and watch him 
awhile while you sleep?”

Boromir sighed, “You are being too kind. I would not like to impose, but 
you are correct too, so I will accept your offer. Although, I must admit I 
am loathe to attend the council on the morrow, for I do not see any 
likelihood of Faramir getting better by then. He has been through much, 
and If Fenekor is there, I will probably rip him apart for doing this!”

“Peace my friend,” Haldir said softly.

“How could he, Haldir? How could father do this to him? Doe he not see 
his pain and his suffering? My poor little one, he looks so terrible.”

There was a quiet sob from the bed and both elf and man rushed to the 
sleeping man’s side to assuage whatever nightmare seemed to be 
bothering him.

“Get some more of the brew, Boromir, it is in the other room,” Haldir said 
urgently as he took the flushed face of the sleeping man in his hands and 
tried to quiet him. Boromir ran to the antechamber, leaving Haldir with the 
younger man, softly sobbing away.

Haldir found that a soothing litany of elvish words calmed him down 
sooner than anything else, and suddenly began to croon a soft slow 
melody, all the while stroking his hand. Faramir’s face relaxed and he 
slipped back into a quiet sleep and Haldir continued to hold his hand, 
lightly caressing the long fingers and watching him.

They spent the day taking turns with Faramir, who woke up just once. He 
was groggy and was immediately fed a few spoonfuls of a drugged soup 
that sent him back to sleep again. When he awoke the next time, it was at 
night, and Boromir had gone to fetch some more healing herbs for 
Faramir’s stock had depleted. He awoke when the effect of the herbs had 
worn out, with a startlingly fresh memory of everything that had 
happened, as though he had not slept at all, and finding Haldir next to his 
bed gave him a look fraught with confusion and worry.

Haldir gave him a reassuring smile, “how do you feel? Boromir has just 
gone to get some herbs.”

Faramir tried to return the smile, “I don’t feel very hungry. I am alright, 
merely a little weary.”

Little, Haldir felt was an understatement. Dark circles lined the young 
man’s eyes, neatly complementing the ugly bruises on his face. Tiredness 
and pain shone intensely in the slate grey eyes, and lines around the 
mouth.

“The pain -?”

“I am well. The pain is little.”

*That, my young friend, is not what your eyes tell me * Haldir thought but 
forbore to say aloud.

“You are tired? Then go back to sleep, my friend, it will do you good,” he 
said instead.

“I do not think I will be able to,” was the unhappy reply. Seeing Haldir’s 
distress at those words, he put one hand on the elf’s palm resting on his 
bed, and said quietly, “Will you not tell me about the Golden Wood?”

Haldir almost gasped at the tingling he felt when the man’s hand touched 
his. He could feel the calluses in the palm, an indication of much time 
spent handling weapons one was not entirely accustomed to, and he felt an 
irrational anger at the circumstances facing the land that forced hands that 
should have been touching books being forced to touch weapons that 
maimed and killed even if for a cause. And those bruises, still fresh from 
that terrible assault. Ai, he was young, too young. *Why, Denethor, did 
you force him into this? Surely you could have refused? * And the anger 
rose, further, but finally  he swallowed his feelings and patting the hand 
atop his with his other hand began to speak softly.

The next ten minutes showed Haldir a little of the side of Faramir he had 
heard of. The grey eyes sparkled with the light of one who loves 
knowledge for its own sake as he fluently spoke of his home, and not 
without yearning for in the stones of Minas Tirth he missed the trees of his 
beloved Lorien. And Faramir seemed to understand for his eyes took on a 
look of compassion as Halidr went on telling him about his brothers, about 
the woods, about the lady.

Faramir’s eyes were closing, despite his unwillingness to sleep, and face 
fresh nightmares. Haldir softly stroked his head with his free hand, the 
other still lying loosely under the man’s hand.

“It sounds a nice place,” came the sleep tinged remark.

“It is beautiful,” Haldir responded.

“As our its inhabitants. Are all elves as beautiful as you?”

Haldir stopped short at those words, and then leaned forward only to see 
Faramir was nearly asleep. He suddenly realised Boromir should have 
returned by now, and began to wonder when he heard muffled sounds 
from outside and went to the window. Lights were coming on as torches 
began to be lit. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. It was a 
servant with summons to the hall downstairs. Lord Boromir was there too. 
He turned hesitantly to the bed where Faramir lay, his eyes open for the 
knock had caught him just as he was falling into slumber.

“Go, Haldir, but would you ask Boromir if he would come when his work 
is done?”

“Certainly.”

Haldir left with the servant. Neither saw a figure detach itself from a 
nearby corridor, and walk slowly to Faramir’s door. Waiting outside 
listening to sounds of sleep, finally turning the handle on the door, and 
entering the room making straight for the bed, where his current 
infatuation lay.

































Chapter 5


Haldir hurried behind the servant wondering what the motive behind such 
an urgent summons could be. He had a feeling, nay, he knew, it had 
something to do with the heightened activity outside. The number of 
torches he’d seen being lit far outnumbered the norm on any given day. 
And his heightened uneasiness did not help matters either. He did not want 
to leave Faramir alone, but the missive the servant had brought along to 
add weight to his words was worded urgently. And Faramir would be safe 
here, he felt. After all, from what he’d seen of this wing, no one ever came 
here, and Faramir’s was the only room. 

But he still felt worried for the young man. He decided it was because of 
the state he’d seen him in. Faramir was seemingly on the verge of physical 
and mental collapse if not already there. 

*Poor lad, * he thought to himself, *it must be difficult for him when 
Boromir is not around. No wonder he prefers to spend his time in the 
library, even books can be better friends than stone walls, and the distance 
of a father. *

The handsome young face floated back into his vision just then, a face 
shorn of the ugly bruises that covered it, a face lively and animated and 
grey eyes that reflected joy and content, and not as he had just seen, pain, 
sorrow, fear, and loneliness. The last he had seen vanish each time the 
soulful grey eyes had rested on Boromir. 

“Does Lord Faramir stay alone in this wing?” he asked the servant.

The servant nodded grimly, as most did when they sensed questions about 
the younger son of the house that could only bring about uneasy silences 
and hedged words.

“Sometimes, if there are many guests, such as now, then some of the 
rooms are opened.”

Haldir shrugged slightly, he thought he’d seen one of the rooms open the 
day before, but by now they were at the hall, and the general aura of 
confusion there soon took over his senses pushing everything to the 
background.

“What is the matter?” he asked a worried looking Boromir who stood 
some distance away from the melee of people all trying to talk at the same 
time, servants, guards, soldiers. Denethor’s study door was shut, and 
Denethor himself was nowhere to be seen.

Boromir grabbed Haldir by the arm and led him further away from the 
crowd, “Faramir?” he asked.

“He is all right, nearly asleep, but wishes you visit him when your work 
here is over.”

“I wished to stay with him tonight,” Boromir said grimly, “but this will 
take awhile. Oh, friend, great problems have arisen.”

“What is the matter?” Haldir asked again, knowing that Boromir had left 
merely to get some herbs for Faramir’s comfort and would never have 
tarried returning to his ailing brother’s bedside where he was sorely 
needed, unless it were a really serious matter.

“It seems Fenekor’s aide, Lieutenant Dorec was found killed,” Boromir 
replied, running a hand through his dark hair, weary grey eyes clearly 
filled with worry, “And we know not who the perpetrator is. And worse is 
that Fenekor thinks the knife used was meant for him for he had sent 
Dorec off towards his camp in his place at the last minute, and Dorec was 
found dead in the stables. And he has the gall to imply Faramir might have 
tried something. Can you think that? Boromir’s voice rose in anger here, 
“Thankfully, father assured him there has been someone with Faramir all 
day, and he has been too ill to move from his room.”

Haldir took a deep breath, “This is terrible news, what is to be done now?”

“I do not know. Fenekor awaits in the study. Father will be here shortly; 
he is speaking to his generals. Haldir, we fear greatly now. Even if 
Fenekor has rebellious tendencies, a death of one of their lieutenants can 
be an invitation for attack. I am sure it is the work of their spies. They will 
now have killed two birds with one stone. Killed a rebel and found an 
excuse to attack our defenses.”

Haldir was about to reply when Denethor strode around the corner, 
beckoning to Boromir to follow him as he did so. 

Boromir tugged Haldir along though the elf was sure Denethor would not 
like him around, but the steward barely seemed to notice his presence as 
he flung his study door open and stood on the threshold nonplussed. For 
the study was obviously empty. They entered it, and looked around once 
again.

Boromir, yelled out to a servant, asking him if he had seen the Harad 
captain to be told the man had just walked out of there some ten minutes 
ago, towards the wing his rooms were in.

“And where is his room?” Boromir asked. 

“The outer wing,” he was told.

“He was last seen heading towards his room in the outer wing,” Boromir 
re-entered the study and told his father, and then stopped struck, “But that 
is Faramir’s wing. You placed him in Faramir’s wing?” 

Receiving no response from his father, he continued, icily, “How 
convenient!” And then dashed out of the study, with Haldir following him.

“Move Faramir to your rooms tonight,” Denethor called out to the 
retreating back of his elder son.

The two friends raced through the long hallways and winding staircases to 
the far reaches of the citadel. When they reached their object it was to 
found that their deepest unspoken fear had come true. Faramir’s room was 
empty, the only signs that anyone had been there all day, were the rumpled 
sheets lying on the bed and floor.

******

Fenekor urged his horse forward, the prone body of the young man lying 
in front of him, dressed only in a thin long tunic, that flapped up and down 
in the wind, revealing pale skin underneath, and adding to his arousal. He 
gave a feral grunt each time the tunic rode up a little more, hands often 
itching to leave the reins of his steed, and stroke the exposed upper thighs, 
moving further upwards…. His destination was thankfully nearing, and he 
could hardly wait to continue where he’d left off with the steward’s 
younger son.

******

Boromir dashed out of the hallways running around wildly before Haldir 
stretched out an arm and stopped him gently.

“We will ask the servants,” he told him quietly trying to calm down the 
panicking man. A search of Fenekor’s rooms had revealed no one inside 
and Boromir had panicked thinking Faramir could be anywhere now.

“He would not leave towards the more crowded part of the citadel, it 
would be too conspicuous to carry out the steward’s son, is there a lesser 
known way out of that wing?”

“Yes,” Boromir breathed sharply, “It leads down to the stables.”

And then he was racing down to the stables, the elf at his footsteps.

The stables were in uproar, given the events of the day, but quick inquiries 
revealed that one of the urchins playing outside a side exit had seen 
someone resembling Fenekor ride out, with some kind of a long bundle in 
his arms. He had of course headed out of the city, towards a long out of 
use track that went across the Pelennor, over the Anduin and hit Harad 
Road.

“We do not use that track anymore, we have better routes now,” Boromir 
muttered, “Why would he use that trail then to head back to his camp, near 
Harad?”

“Maybe he has a hideout there?” Haldir suggested, “but if so, surely you 
would know?”

“Nay, not a hideout, although old buildings are many, but in ruins.”

“We will have to ride out then. He must have thought we would follow 
him along the usual route, and taken this path instead.” Haldir said.

“You will come with me then?” Boromir asked eagerly, and Haldir 
nodded seriously. He did not like where this was heading. His heart filled 
with worry for Faramir. his predicament was unenviable.

“Should you not take more men along?”

Boromir paused and then shook his head, “We can ill-afford to tarry 
longer and he is a lone man. But I will send a message to father, let us 
leave immediately.”

They were soon on their way, racing through the old disused pathway, 
searching for signs of their quarry, and his precious baggage. Haldir’s 
keen eyesight could track them even in the low light. They had ridden long 
and hard when Haldir began stopping irresolutely. 

“Their tracks have vanished,” he said worriedly, “I noticed sometime back 
but thought I may have missed something, but now I am sure. They have 
not come this way, we must turn back and search for signs of their having 
left the track.”

Reaching the point where the tracks left the trail, Haldir finally found a set 
of tracks going through dense bushes towards a highly overgrown area.

“Is there anything here?” he asked Boromir frowning.

“Once, many score years ago, a village, all that is left of it is their old inn,” 
Boromir said, puzzled, “Fenekor may have stopped for rest.”

“Aye, let us go there.”

*******

Faramir awoke slowly to the sound of a soft voice in his ear, his head 
feeling cloudy, a distant memory of pain, and a closer memory of a sweet 
elvish lilt. But then as he regained his senses he realised the soft voice in 
his ear was actually a coarse low voice that was mocking him. His eyes 
flew open and met the dark eyes that had been haunting his nightmares 
ever since he’d first seen them. Gasping he tried to sit up, but found 
himself held down by strong hands, hands that held him tightly in place 
bruising him. He was lying naked on a hard stone bench and all was dark 
around him, except for a small glimmer of light from afar, barely enough 
to help him make out the features of the one leaning over him. His hands 
were manacled by steel chains attached to the stone wall. Pain flooded 
back into his sense and when he gasped again, his voice was edged with it. 
He tugged desperately at his manacled hands, but found himself unable to 
budge, and his tired muscles protested at the smallest movement. His legs 
were free but felt leaden, and pain shot through his right ankle when he 
tried to move his foot.

“Does it hurt, beautiful one?” Fenekor mocked, and grasped him even 
tighter, burying his fingers into the soft pliant flesh underneath, “So 
young, so soft,” he murmured letting go of one shoulder, and tracing 
rough callused hands over the flesh of the chest and stomach. 

Faramir wriggled panic-stricken as the hand traced circles around his 
bruised stomach. A finger was run lightly, almost lovingly over one of the 
welts, and he realised his bandages had been removed leaving his wounds 
exposed, raw, angry and red. Pain clouded his senses again as Fenekor 
deliberately pressed the finger down on one of the marks. Then the hand 
began moving again, running over the abused body causing the young man 
to squirm in pain. Tears were lining Faramir’s eyes now, and Fenekor 
soon brought his hand towards his crotch. 

“So beautiful,” Fenekor said silkily, parting Faramir’s legs, causing him to 
catch his breath.

He parted the legs even further, and lightly began to finger Faramir’s 
entrance, pressing his fingers down upon the torn flesh, causing more pain. 

“What does the elf do in return for your services,” he asked, his fingers 
still circling the skin near the entrance.

Faramir stared back, pain and confusion riddling his senses. Fenekor 
removed his finger and leant forward to stroke Faramir’s face instead, 
once again fingering the livid bruises.

“Tell me, what does the elf do in return?”

“Elf?” Faramir managed to rasp out confused. Fenekor lowered his hand 
and began fingering Faramir’s entrance again.

“Yes, my little pretty one, the elf, I saw him in your room, and for so long, 
and such a delicate blush on his face when he left. What does he give in 
return for your body, my little whore?” 

Faramir gasped harshly, shaking his head, “No, he never –“

Fenekor simply plunged his finger into Faramir mercilessly, causing him 
to scream in pain. He twisted it further in ruthlessly.

“And you were smiling in your sleep. So you like it when he makes love 
to you, but not when I do, is it? Whore!” One more thrust, and a tiny 
trickle of blood began to seep out as healing muscles were torn yet again.

He pulled out his finger and slapped Faramir across the face. The younger 
man moaned in pain, “Did you tell him you lost your virginity to me, my 
filthy little prostitute?”

Faramir was sobbing openly now. Fenekor slapped him again.

“You are mine you hear,” he said softly, “all mine!” Kneeling between 
Faramir’s legs, he ran rough hands over his thighs, kneading them 
ruthlessly, “I will take you with me wherever I go, and you will satisfy my 
needs.”

Faramir cried out in pain as Fenekor’s hands continued their violent 
manhandling, “And if I find you with anyone else without my leave, I will 
thrash you like I am going to do now.”

“Open your eyes,” he commanded, for Faramir had long since shut his 
grey orbs tight from pain and fear. They flew open now, scared by the 
anger in the captain’s voice.

“Look at me,” he commanded, “I want to see what goes in your eyes, 
when I take you.  Perhaps when we return to my camp, I will let my men 
take you one by one, and watch. You look so nice when you scream like 
that.“

“Why?” Faramir managed to rasp out, as the hand began to pinch and 
knead the sensitive flesh around his upper thighs, causing him to gasp 
harshly. He could feel himself getting aroused purely from the pain despite 
his unwillingness, and it only made him sob louder.

“Why? Why? You ask why? After seductively swinging past men who 
have ridden hard and fast for the last many weeks, with none to satisfy 
them, you ask why? Did you not see the lust in the eyes of all around 
when you first entered your citadel, my pretty? Even the elves were taken 
in by the sight of your hips swinging off your horse.”

“And such a smooth face, and then your shirt hanging open displaying 
your chest to all who wished to see it, and your waist as pretty and slim as 
a young girl’s. And your voice, so soft, so gentle. And your hands, such 
long beautiful fingers, how does their touch feel, they wonder. Aye, such a 
comely youth you look, so young, so innocent– just asking to be 
deflowered. To sleep with a pretty young virgin is a conquest indeed for us 
battle-hardened men.” 

The finger probed near his now defiled entrance again, drawing out more 
blood, “Yes, it is such a conquest, to take for the first time.”

“And such submissiveness. Tell me, my pretty, do you never stand up for 
yourself? Do you never go against your father’s word? Tell me,” came the 
mocking voice slowly, softly filling the unhappy youth’s voice with all the 
words he wished not to hear, “How does it feel to be asked by your own 
father to give your body in to me?”

Once again, his shaft was gripped by the rough hands and squeezed. Nails 
dug into the skin, sending a mixture of pain and unwanted ecstasy through 
the writhing body. He flailed his legs trying to kick out, but that only 
earned him more violent slaps. 

Fenekor’s temper grew progressively foul, as Faramir continued to writhe 
in pain under him, eyes half-lidded.

“I said keep your eyes open!” another slap across his face. He could feel 
his lips swelling from the blows. And he wished and wished for 
consciousness to forsake him, as Fenekor began telling him what he 
planned to do to him, and how many men he would set on him when they 
reached his camp, all the while either twisting his inflamed shaft 
ruthlessly, hurting him even more or running roughs hands all over his 
bruised aching body, pinching and scratching. 

He did not know which was worse, the words or the blows, both hit him 
hard. Especially when talk kept going back to his father. Faramir kept 
telling himself through the clouds of pain, that his father had been forced 
into a decision, that he did what he did out of concern for a greater good- 
the good of Gondor. They expected soldiers to sacrifice their lives for the 
land; surely what he had been asked was a small price to pay. If by 
demeaning himself like this he was helping his land, so be it. But it hurt, it 
hurt so much He was still young and relatively inexperienced in the ways 
of the world, being the younger and neglected son of the steward, and such 
a brutal introduction was not what he had expected. And Fenekor kept 
talking of what he would do, and it scared him, so much. 

The narration was interrupted by a loud crash from somewhere in the 
distance. Fenekor cursed and got up indecisively, reaching for his weapons 
from near a small staircase that Faramir noticed for the first time.

******

Boromir barged into the inn swinging aside the rotting wooden door, 
leading into the crumbling structure, to find it completely empty. Having 
seen tracks of a horse nearby, they had been sure, Fenekor was using this 
as his hideout.

“They are not here,” he raged, having quickly gone through the crumbling 
building. Picking up a huge earthen pot that seemed wondrously to have 
withstood the travails of time, he flung it at the wall, where it landed with 
a resounding crash before smashing into fragments.

“They are here,” Haldir cautioned, “I see sign of someone, and they lead – 
would there not be a cellar here?” he asked pointing towards an iron door 
Boromir had noticed. Before he could stop him, the distraught man had 
rushed at the door. It flew open, and he suddenly found himself falling 
through air.

*Steps * his mind told him as he rolled down bumping himself all the 
way, cursing his thoughtlessness and lack of caution.

He reached the bottom with a resounding thud, dazed and aching all over. 
But the moment he made to stand up, he felt something crash down on his 
head and all was darkness, as a voice cried out in distress, Faramir, 
followed by a shout of alarm – Haldir.

Haldir raced after his falling friend, down the stairs stopping midway 
when he saw the hilt of Fenekor’s sword come down on the fallen man. 
Faramir cried out, and then Fenekor readied to plunge the blade in, and he 
found himself screaming too.

The Haradrim looked up, eyes gleaming as he beheld the elf in the faint 
light pouring out of a small lamp in the far corner.

“Welcome master elf,” he said mockingly, “If you would just leave your 
weapons and walk down, I might spare your friends.”

Haldir had no choice but to obey.

When he reached the bottom, Fenekor grabbed him painfully by his hair 
and pushed him where Faramir lay. The elf fell heavily onto the bare front 
of the young man causing him to cry out in pain. Haldir raised his eyes 
and looked into the suffering face of his young friend, his heart wrenching 
at the sight.

“Faramir,” he whispered, horrified.

“You elf!” Fenekor shouted, grabbing Haldir by his tunic, “I saw you 
come out of his room at night. Isn’t he beautiful?”

Haldir simply gaped at him. Fenekor stared down at his captive and then 
slapped Faramir with his free hand. Haldir struggled angrily, “Stop it, 
leave him be!”

“Why? So you can have him again. Nay, master elf, he is mine. To have 
him, you need my permission.”

“Leave him be,” Haldir repeated angrily.

“Such love,” Fenekor mocked him, “How does he feel? Was he under or 
were you?”

“I did no such thing!” Haldir shouted, his face turning red as he realised 
that he might actually have liked to do it.

“Is he not delightfully tight? I have taken him thrice already,” Fenekor 
added conversationally, “And twice in the same morning. He is always 
tight. Tight as a virgin!” he laughed. On the bench Faramir’s distress 
continued. He pulled at the chain, and then howled in pain as Fenekor 
suddenly brought his fist crashing down on his crotch.

“Stop it,” Haldir screamed fighting at pushing Fenekor away.

“Take him now!” Fenekor ordered, “I want to watch what it is you do that 
he smiles so when he beholds you.”

“No!” Haldir shouted.

“Take him now or I will kill master Boromir,” Fenekor said pleasantly.

Faramir cried again. Haldir stood rooted to his spot in disgust and anger. 
Fenekor pulled out his knife and going to Boromir’s semi-conscious body, 
yanked his head back and poised a sharp knife over the vein in the 
exposed neck.














































Chapter 6


“Stop,” Faramir wailed out, grey eyes tinged with untold fear, “Please, I 
will do anything you like, leave Boromir alone, please…”

“Tell your elf friend,” Fenekor said, pressing the blade in slightly inducing 
a small drop of blood that sent Faramir panicking.

“No! Stop!”

“It is a pity, your brother is quite good looking. I might have liked him 
myself.”

“Haldir,” Faramir screamed out, “Stop him!”

“He can’t,” Fenekor retorted, “He will not actually, he seems coy, ask him 
nicely, nay, grovel before him, show him how sweet you look, unless he 
enters your sweet tight little ass, I will not leave your brother.”

“Haldir,” Faramir screamed, as Fenekor pressed the blade tighter.

Haldir watched despairingly from where he lay half sitting beside 
Faramir’s bench. He had no weaponry left on him, even the knife in his 
boot was gone.

Dropping Boromir to the ground, Fenekor walked across to Faramir, 
snapped off the manacles holding him in place, and grabbed him up by his 
hair. Haldir growled in anger as he heard a painful sob wrack his young 
friend’s body.

“Is he not beautiful?” Fenekor purred, running his free hand over the 
trembling body, inducing more tremors. The hand came to rest over his 
lower back, threatening to defile the sore and bleeding entrance once 
again. 

“Tell him you want him,” Fenekor ordered, fingering the much abused 
area roughly, eliciting hisses of pain, “Tell him how it feels to have 
another inside you, tell him how much you love it, that you smile in your 
sleep, when you think of it, that you may cry now, but you love it, you 
crave it.”

The young man cowered in fright eliciting a contemptuous burst of 
laughter from the Harad captain, “Sniveling little coward, I do not wonder 
why your father gave you up so easily, with nary a protest,” he scorned, 
throwing him back onto the bench.

Faramir fell curling into himself, sobbing softly now, the very pain and 
humiliation that threatened to send him into oblivion, was perversely 
keeping him awake. He could hear Haldir shouting angrily, a rage in the 
elf’s voice that he would otherwise have thought impossible. 

“Kiss him!” Fenekor ordered, and yanking Faramir’s head back, he stared 
into the grey fear filled eyes, with a gloating expression on his face. 

Haldir glared at him, and stood up, his expression murderous, “Leave him 
alone!”

Fenekor stroked Faramir’s bruised face and let the hands rove all the way 
down his back, across his stomach, and down his lower belly till he was 
lightly stroking his member, “Kiss the elf,” he repeated, bringing his 
mouth close to the trembling man’s ear. Then he let Faramir drop forward. 

Faramir struggled up, and lurched towards Haldir, who caught up the 
beaten, naked body in his arms and once again looked in horror at the state 
he was in. Then he felt himself being gathered in his loving arms, and 
spoken soothingly to.

“Oh, Faramir,” Haldir whispered, his distress evident in his voice. “Do not 
worry, I will not force myself on you. I will not do as he asks.”

“He will hurt Boromir, please, father will never forgive me,” Faramir 
sobbed out.

The Gondorian pulled himself up, and silenced Haldir by placing his 
mouth on his, and immediately removing it. 

“That’s not a kiss,” Fenekor shouted, and he felt something flay his back, 
bringing tears to his eyes, and more pain.

Haldir hissed in anger as Fenekor stood belt in hand behind them, “Kiss 
him,” he ordered again.

This time Faramir obeyed implicitly, he let his tongue rove inside Haldir’s 
mouth, and the elf found himself being sucked into a contented vortex he 
never wanted to come out of. Faramir seemed in a state of semi-oblivion 
now, and so he took the lead. He held him comfortingly, probed the mouth 
with his tongue, and stroked his hair, in a loving manner, sucking at the 
finely chiseled mouth until he felt he had to come up for air. Faramir lay 
spent in his arms, tears flowing copiously, clutching him as though he 
were all he had.

“Take off the elf’s clothes,” Fenekor ordered, he was now sitting on the 
bench, and watching them licking his lips in anticipation. Boromir’s prone 
body was at his feet, the head placed over his knees so that his blade still 
remained at the exposed throat.

Faramir obeyed, but his eyes were downcast, and his face was very, very 
pale.  He pulled off Haldir’s cloak and tunic, and then his leggings, and 
stared at the beautifully sculpted body in front of him, reddening as he 
realised what a terrible sight he himself must look. An audible gasp from 
behind told him Fenekor agreed with his assessment. Haldir stood proudly, 
his neatly braided hair falling onto his shoulders, lips set in a thin line, the 
muscles in his arms and legs finely developed from years of archery and 
life in the forest, anger forcing each sinew to stand out. 

“Do it now, show him your pretty little ass, and tell him you want him 
inside it,” Fenekor commanded, the blade pressing down on Boromir’s 
skin, and Faramir looked at Haldir mutely pleading.

Haldir felt his own eyes tear up as he saw a plethora of emotions cross the 
tired face in front of him, fear, shame, pain, and worry. The face was 
swollen and bruised, the lips were almost double their size, eyes and nose 
reddened by tears, and livid marks and traces of blood covered the entire 
body. He shut his eyes in despair, he could not possibly do to Faramir 
what that monster had done to him. He found him attractive, yes, but 
Faramir was in neither the physical nor the mental condition to be made 
love to, no matter how gentle he would be. But if he didn’t, then Boromir 
stood to be harmed and Faramir would not survive that. Faramir made the 
decision for him by seating himself on the cold hard floor, and pulling him 
down. He was trembling and his eyes were shut tight as he lay down on 
his stomach, and stretched his legs apart.

“Turn over and open your eyes,” commanded Fenekor, “Or the elf will not 
be able to see how you enjoy him.”

The command was obeyed without hesitation. Haldir sat where he was, his 
clothes in a heap at his feet. He could not move. His heart felt torn, and he 
wondered how heart wrenching it must be for Faramir, if it was this bad 
for him. Faramir gave him a pleading glance, tears filling up the grey eyes 
once again, but Haldir continued staring mutely at him. How could he do 
this? He averted his eyes from the gory display in front of him, his own 
orbs clouded with tears.

A cry from Faramir brought his gaze back. Boromir was awakening, and 
Fenekor was trying to prevent that. He was shaking the half awake 
thrashing figure in his arms.

“No!” his younger brother sobbed, curling up in agony.

“Why not, pretty?” smirked the Haradrim, “Let your brother too see you 
being humiliated.”

Boromir’s open eyes took in his brother’s abject figure huddled on the 
floor, his friend kneeling in despair, and the knife at his throat, and the 
man he wanted to strangle with his bare hands holding it in place.

“It is good to see you awake, Lord Boromir, would you too like to see 
Master Haldir give you brother some pleasure.”

“No,” Boromir whispered, turning an anguished gaze from his brother to 
his friend.

Haldir shook his head, “I will not,” he said resolutely.

“Very well, then, Boromir dies.”

“I would rather die than let my brother suffer any more,” Boromir 
thundered, his ire now totally roused, as Faramir began getting up, and 
then slumped back grimacing in pain.

“But he will suffer! After I kill you I will kill the elf, and then your brother 
will continue to suffer. What do you say, my pretty little Faramir, should I 
kill your brother or will you show us what it looks like when an elf beds a 
man?” Taking advantage of the fact that Fenekor’s eyes were on 
Boromir’s angry face, Haldir slowly reached for his braided hair. He had 
almost forgotten that he still had a weapon he could use, if only he could 
reach it.

Faramir straightened up and crawled towards Haldir ignoring the muted 
protests from Boromir, whose mouth had been covered by Fenekor’s free 
hand. Haldir grabbed at the clasp holding his braids in place, a sharp silver 
implement, pushed Faramir aside, and threw himself with every inch of 
speed and agility he possessed at Fenekor.







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.



Title: The Price
Author: Minx
Pairing: Faramir/OC, Faramir/Haldir
Rating: R
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Feedback: Please do give greenrivervalley@lycos.com
Archiving: Drop me a line before you do
Warnings: Violence, rape, slash
Summary: A break away captain from Harad brokers a deal with 
Denethor, and convinces him that giving him his desire for a week is a 
small price to pay for Gondor’s good. And it falls to the lot of Boromir 
and Haldir to help Faramir out.
Notes: Just wanted to get rid of a crazy plot bunny plaguing me all day. 
Also because I like hurting a certain Gondorian. Haldir’s presence is 
purely because it seemed nice to have an elf around, wisdom of the ages 
and all that.



Haldir steadied himself to handle the weight of Faramir’s inert form, as 
the dark head fell against his chest, one arm snaked around his shoulder, 
the other lying limply at his side. He caught up the prone figure, and 
scooped him up in his arms, observing with growing concern the way the 
beads of sweat stood up on the pale forehead. The cheeks were 
discoloured with bruising, as were the swollen lips. Dark circles were 
etched deep underneath the closed eyes, and the torn clothes partly 
covering him up merely served to hide from the elf’s eyes, the more 
grotesque signs of injury on the rest of the body. But he knew they were 
there, having seen them earlier. 

Faramir’s pleading eyes, and quivering body came back into the picture as 
he remembered how the young man had been forced into degrading 
himself. The son of the steward of Gondor, a ranger, albeit still in training, 
a young man of high breeding and good blood forced literally onto his 
knees begging to be made love to, to be humiliated in order to save the life 
of one he loved, and this after being defiled repeatedly and abused 
horrifically by one considered a sworn enemy. The anger surged through 
his veins afresh, as he hugged his charge close, noticing the shivers that 
had begun racking the slight frame.

Boromir came into view dragging Fenekor’s bound and still unconscious 
form behind him, heedless of the thumps created by the knocking of his 
head and back against the stone floor, “Faramir,” he stopped.

“He has merely fainted, he is exhausted and cold, and his injuries continue 
to plague him, I feel,” Haldir tried to reassure his friend, “Come let us 
leave.”

“In our haste we have forgotten an extra horse,” Boromir muttered, “Mine 
is the stronger, he will take Fenekor’s weight. Will you carry Faramir?”

“It will hurt,” Haldir said staring down at the sleeping man in his arms.

Boromir nodded, his eyes troubled at the thought of all his brother was 
having to endure, and he suddenly gave one fast furious kick to the trussed 
up form at his feet, causing the unconscious man to grunt in his sleep. He 
dragged him roughly up the steps, and across the stone floor above out 
into the open. Throwing the huge Harad man over his horse, struggling a 
little with the bulk as he did so, he waited for Haldir who came up at a 
more sedate pace so as to not jolt Faramir and cause him more pain. The 
cool air outside however stirred the prone figure, bringing out a small 
whimper of pain, as grey eyes opened and stared out confusedly.

“B-Boromir,” he called out softly.

“S-sh, he is here, do not worry,” Haldir soothed him, still holding onto 
him. When Faramir began to writhe in his arms, he set him down, but 
continued holding him up, as Faramir seemed unable to stand without 
support.

“Yes, young one, I am here,” soothed Boromir coming up to his other 
side, and slinging an arm around the slender waist, “Come we are going 
home.”

Faramir sighed softly, still leaning against Haldir’s chest.

“Haldir will carry you,” Boromir told him.

“I – I can ride,” Faramir protested softly, his eyes still seemed dazed as 
though he felt he was not yet fully awake.

“It would be best not to, you will not be able to sit astride a horse for 
long.”

Faramir flushed at the not so subtle reminder of what he had been through, 
but he knew his brother was right. Merely stretching his leg a little sent 
shooting stabs of pain through his lower body. He knew he was bleeding 
again, for Fenekor had been brutal with his hands, tearing through tender 
skin and half torn muscle to re-open old wounds and cause new ones. He 
shuddered as he remembered the intrusions; the pain caused the first time, 
increasing each time after that. Fenekor’s grubby hands, he remembered 
seeing them up close each time they had landed across his unprotected 
face. Fat hands, with pudgy fingers, chipped fingernails caked with dirt, 
touching him where none had touched him before. Entering him forcibly 
over and over again, fingering him, scratching him. He never realised 
when his shudders turned into sobs of agony, and Haldir wrapped 
comforting arms around him, and stroked his hair softly, while Boromir 
tightened his hold, and the three of them stood there, the elf and the older 
man offering him support and comfort, but it was not enough. 

Memories ran a jumbled course through his head, pleasant days under the 
warm sun in Ithilien, the forests, the green grass, the river Anduin, the 
retreat in Henneth Annun, returning to Minas Tirith looking forward to 
seeing his brother, hoping his father would look upon him with love now 
that he was a soldier, seeing the stern impassive look on his face as he 
reported to him and realizing some things would never change, receiving a 
summons from him and wondering if the change he wished for had come, 
and then his world had fallen apart. In one afternoon, the scales had fallen 
from his eyes, he was weak, his soldiering skills had been of no aid to him, 
his perusal of the heavy tomes in the vast libraries had been to no avail. 
For nothing could have stopped what had happened. There was no choice. 
What choice could there be? His father had commanded, and it was his lot 
to obey.

But did he do what he did for his father’s love or for the sake of his land?

He felt himself being pushed towards Haldir’s mount as she stood by 
patiently nibbling at grass that felt soft and fresh to his bare feet. He was 
tugged onto the back of the mare, pulled up by hands hooked under his 
limp armpits. The jerk caused him to nearly cry out again, only extreme 
self-control made him stifle the sobs as his injuries flared up yet again, 
protesting the aggravation. He found himself pulled across a blanket on 
the horse’s back, being held in place by the soft hands of Haldir, that 
pressed gently down on the small of his back, setting up yet another sob, 
as the touch centered on the opened wound from his whipping. His sore 
stomach and chest pressed onto the rough blanket protected only by the 
torn tunic covering him. 

He moaned in pain, stopping only when soft hands caressed his face. Soft 
hands he reminded himself, not rough, dirty ones, but soft ones. Then he 
was pulled up into a sitting position with Haldir’s arms wrapped around 
his chest and waist, gasping with the agony that flared through him with 
each movement. He was so sore, even this half-sitting position was a trial, 
each time his much abused lower body came in contact with any surface it 
hurt, and he found his head lolling backwards, even as he sat atop the 
mare, in front of the tall elf, his legs chastely held together, dangling over 
the blankets covering the equine back.

“It will hurt,” that was Boromir’s voice, edged with distress and sorrow, 
“But it will hurt more to be lying across on your back or stomach or to sit 
astride.” Haldir pulled his head against his chest, one hand wrapped 
around the lower back and waist, tightening around bruised skin.

Boromir was right of course. But he felt helpless there and the cool night 
air swirled through his bare lower legs, sending a slight shiver through 
him. Haldir quickly covered him up with a cloak, and he found he felt 
even more fettered that way, but could do naught about it. It worsened as 
they began moving. With each step, he was jolted, rattling his aching 
bones, forcing his tired muscles to adjust to the movement, and worst of 
all forcing his rear to come into constant contact with the horse’s back. 
Haldir tried to make it easier, by forcing the mare to slow down, and by 
attempting to make the jolts less, by pressing him closer so as to reduce 
the impact of the movement, but to no avail. It felt to him as though 
repeatedly, he was being sent a new stab of pain as if to remind him of 
what had happened. He clawed desperately at the soft tunic he leant 
against, the feeling of the rigid muscles that farmed the other’s chest 
offering him solace. He felt weak, so weak, and so tired. Haldir kept 
murmuring to him, soft words he could not decipher, whether from 
tiredness or from his lack of knowledge of the tongue they were spoken in, 
he could not say. But he derived some comfort from the soft voice, and 
from the grip around him, for they helped banish the thought of a rough, 
leering voice and rough hands that held up his waist before the pain flared 
through his lower body each time. The memories of the assaults refused to 
go away. They kept returning. The slightest touch, the slightest movement, 
now that he was awake, he remembered all clearly. But he desisted sleep, 
for then he would dream those memories. In the end, all he could do was 
to let the tears fall from his eyes, wetting the soft tunic his head rested 
against, causing the hold on him to be tightened, and the other’s chin came 
to rest on his head.

Haldir held his breath each time his mare moved too suddenly, he felt 
himself being thrown up and down for the surface was uneven, and he felt 
Faramir being jolted up and down, and felt the tremors that ran through the 
injured frame, each time. The young man squirmed in his position 
unconsciously as his much abused rear was brought into contact with the 
horse’s back, and that he was in pain was obvious as each time he gripped 
Haldir’s shirt and tugged at it in desperation.. He murmured a few soft 
words into his ears hoping to soothe him. Faramir’s eyes were heavily 
lidded, but that he was awake was easily borne out by the fact that he 
made no sound, controlling himself from even the softest moan. Haldir 
quietly hugged him closer still, letting his arms wrap around the small 
frame, and rested his chin on the soft hair wishing that he could simply lift 
that face and kiss away all the worries, but knowing that that would not be 
possible. That Faramir let him so close was surprising in itself, and he was 
glad hat the young man held so much trust in him. He felt the tears wet his 
tunic, as he sang tunelessly in elvish, and then he bent his lips down onto 
the mop of now unruly and dirty dark hair, wishing his charge would sleep 
so as to not endure this pain.

Boromir rode a few paces ahead, with Fenekor still lying unconscious in 
front of him. He had no qualms about making his horse take uneven rutted 
paths. They were in half forest and half scrubland, and the ground was 
littered with stones. The more it jolted his prisoner the happier he was. It 
might hurt him a little too, but he found that helped him focus. Every now 
and then he looked back to see how his brother was doing, and the 
difficulty the younger man was in was so apparent that it nearly broke his 
heart. He wanted desperately to hold him in his arms to assure him he 
would protect him, he would never let him get heart. And then he would 
mock himself, *he is already hurt *.
 
“Someone is coming,” Haldir had urged his horse forward, causing 
Faramir to cry out at the sudden movement.

The horses neighed irresolutely, and Boromir could almost smell the fear 
that his steed felt, and he soon understood why when he saw the cause 
push their way through a group of bushes.

“Orcs!”

The attack was sudden and the numbers large. Within seconds they found 
themselves surrounded by a host of the gruesome creatures, each leering at 
them as they inched closer and closer. Boromir found his horse rearing up 
in fright, and struggled to hold him down, Haldir fared better with his 
mare, keeping her calm, as they inched away backwards, but knowing it 
would be of little help as the orcs began to circle them.

“We must fight!” Boromir shouted desperately, “Faramir –“ the 
desperation in his voice grew as he worried for his brother.

“Yes,” came the soft voice, as Faramir straightened up and looked back at 
him through clear grey eyes, “We must fight.” Whatever happened to him, 
he would not let Boromir get hurt, His brother was here without escort 
because of him, he could not let anything happen to him. If Boromir had 
not come to rescue him, he would not be in danger like this.

Haldir nodded to Boromir as both man and elf slipped off their respective 
horses.

“Stay here!’ Haldir commanded his young charge, handing him a knife for 
safety, knowing that he would have no weapons on him. He patted his 
horse on the rump indicating to her to flee.

“No,” Faramir whispered, “I will help you, watch out!” the last as one of 
their attackers neared weapon brandished in the air. For a while all that 
could be heard through the glades was the ring of metal against metal. 
Faramir fond his mare rearing irresolutely as Haldir left her side to fight. 
He slipped off before he could be thrown down, and sank to his ness from 
the exertion face flushed and panting. A huge shape loomed over him, a 
leering smile, an evil smirk, and he automatically lunged his knife in its 
direction. Ugly, dark blood spilled onto his fingers as his assailant fell, and 
then one more loomed over him, to receive the same treatment, as Faramir 
employed the quick reflexes his days with the rangers had polished. Out of 
the corner of his eyes he could make out other fighting shapes, could hear 
Boromir’s triumphant yells each time he felled one of the orcs, could see 
Haldir gracefully ducking and weaving against another. Te orcs might 
have outnumbered them but they were not intelligent fighters. Both horses 
had reared away whinnying incessantly, too scared to stay but too loyal o 
go too far, ready to spur off the moment an orc tried to touch them.

Faramir stayed in his half kneeling position fighting off each of the fell 
creatures that neared him, feeling himself pushed to the ground by one, 
feeling scratches from their long nails, watching with apprehension the 
look in one attacker’s eyes, as his ragged tunic tore across the front 
revealing his bare skin underneath He felt hot breath, and saw the lustful 
look in the eyes of the orc. He shut his eyes to that thought and shuddered 
as the foul beast touched him. He swung wildly, plunging the knife into 
the other’s stomach watching as lust turned into shock and then horror in 
the other’s eyes, before they turned completely unseeing. The creature fell 
across him, and he struggled to move him off, but his body was weak, and 
he found himself lying underneath the bulk of the creature panting heavily, 
pain clouding his senses.

It did not take long for the attack to disperse, and Haldir and Boromir soon 
found themselves sin command of the situation. Before long, their 
attackers had become the attacked and were soon retreating away into a 
clump of forests. Boromir’s horse shied away in fright as a straggling 
bunch of orcs ran towards him on their way to escape, but Boromir and 
Haldir had other concerns at that moment. They had seen the small figure 
dwarfed underneath one of the dead orcs, and to extricate him took some 
effort on their path.

“Faramir!” Boromir stared in horror at the pale face of his brother, who 
lay still, his tunic now literally hanging in rags around him, ugly black 
blood covering most of his body. Grey eyes flew open, as the ragged 
breathing evened put a little, and Faramir looked back into the two pairs of 
concern filled eyes that stared down at him.

“Are they gone?” he asked softly.

“aye, but you should have stayed on your horse,” Haldir said softly.

“She threw me off,” Faramir frowned, “are you all right, did you get 
hurt?”

“No,” came the replies for barring a few odd scratches both man and elf 
had escaped unscathed.

Come,” they helped him up, and headed back for their horses, which stood 
together seemingly shivering.

“Fenekor –“ Boromir started as he took in the sight of his steed’s bare 
back, “where -?”

Haldir wordlessly pointed at something on the ground, and Faramir gave a 
small soundless cry.

Etched deep into the ground were the signs of someone having been 
dragged off towards the forest clump the orcs had disappeared into.


To be continued…



Title: The Price
Author: Minx
Pairing: Faramir/OC, Faramir/Haldir
Rating: R
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Feedback: Please do give greenrivervalley@lycos.com
Archiving: Drop me a line before you do
Warnings: Violence, rape, slash
Summary: A break away captain from Harad brokers a deal with 
Denethor, and convinces him that giving him his desire for a week is a 
small price to pay for Gondor’s good. And it falls to the lot of Boromir 
and Haldir to help Faramir out.
Notes: Just wanted to get rid of a crazy plot bunny plaguing me all day. 
Also because I like hurting a certain Gondorian. Haldir’s presence is 
purely because it seemed nice to have an elf around, wisdom of the ages 
and all that.



Denethor sat watching the closed door, after one of his captains had 
departed. The spy had been caught, but his ire was high. To have had a spy 
in such inside ranks. The aide to one of the top army commanders – a spy! 
He had known the man had not grown up in Minas Tirith but his 
grandmother had been a native of the city. He was in fact, furious, that so 
many of Gondor’s secrets had been at peril simply because they had a 
mercenary in their ranks. He’d ordered him clapped in chains. He would 
take a decision when he was calmer. There might yet be some use 
salvaged from this terrible situation. Harad had made no overtures over 
their man’s death yet, and it seemed to Denethor that they welcomed it. He 
would have for sure if he’d been in the same position. A rebel commander 
was no loss. But what price would Fenekor extract. He could still use his 
help. He welcomed it. With Harad’s main spy in his custody, and 
Fenekor’s aid, there was no better opportunity to strike than the present.

Now, all that remained to see was what Fenekor would want. He would 
have to tread carefully here. Especially if it involved Faramir. A few 
nights of pleasure were nothing, but if he had long term plans for the boy, 
he could not keep such doings under wraps for long. He knew there would 
be little approval from his councilors or the people if they found out the 
steward’s younger son was busy keeping a Haradrim captain’s bed warm. 
And Boromir would probably revolt. He could silence Boromir. But 
people were not easy to silence. Already there was much gossip about 
Faramir’s ‘illness’. And the citadel was rife with rumours of his 
kidnapping. Well, that would explain his state when he returned, Denethor 
thought grimly. He had no doubt his son would be in a worse condition 
than the last time he had seen him. Fenekor’s cruelty was known. And his 
younger son was a spineless wimp. A fool. The type that simply asked for 
Fenekor to get progressively violent. 

Denethor found that by channeling his anger towards its favourite cause, 
he was actually calming himself greatly and spent much time assuring 
himself that it was Faramir’s fault that he had been singled out for special 
treatment by the Haradrim. After all, Minas Tirith had its fair share of 
brothels. One could get what one wanted there. Fenekor’s love for soft, 
pliable men, that he could watch break under him was evident. It didn’t 
take more than one glance at his worthless younger son to show he fitted 
the bill. The fool! 

As he sat going through his reports he found himself trying to justify the 
steps he’d taken. *It is not my fault, he finds him attractive. It is not my 
fault. It is Faramir’s fault alone. *  But each time he saw his son’s battered 
face, and body and his hands clenched the papers tightly, as he tried not to 
think of the fact that his son could be going through much worse at that 
very moment.

He had sent a small troop of soldiers after Boromir but he knew they 
might not reach in time to prevent the boy from getting hurt worse. So he 
poured himself a large glass of wine hoping it would dull his senses and 
banish the thought of what could be happening to Faramir or for that 
matter to Boromir who had simply shot off after him without adequate 
protection.

******

“They took him,” Boromir whispered.

“What do we do?” Faramir’s hoarse voice came out distraught.

“What can we do?” Boromir demanded, “He deserves it. He deserves 
worse!”

“I know he is a terrible man, but – but – they are orcs,” Faramir said.

“Fenekor is no worse!” Boromir snapped.

Faramir flinched at the sharp voce, his head was pounding, his back hurt, 
and he could barely stand. Boromir noticed the paling of his already wan 
features, and immediately softened.

“You are worried I know, even if he has treated you so ill. But there is 
nothing we can do, we cannot go after them. We must get back now.”

Faramir never knew how he managed to make it back to Minas Tirith. If 
the ride earlier had been torturous, now it was ten times worse. His 
exertions against the orcs had tired him out more than he thought, and his 
body made its displeasure evident by screaming in protest. The pain kept 
him conscious, and permeated every fibre in his body. Despite the cool 
night breeze he was sweating profusely, and the riding motion was making 
him nauseous. He was on Boromir’s horse now, that young man having 
decided he wanted his brother near him. He clutched the other’s tunic with 
all his strength, trying his utmost not to make the pain evident. His clothes 
hung in tatters about him, and so he was wrapped up in Haldir’s thick 
cloak, and he took a simple comfort from the strange mix of smells arising 
from it. He thought he smelt the golden wood in it, a strange leafy, woody 
smell, so he concentrated on that trying to forget the pain.

Boromir held his brother close, his heart heavy with sorrow. He knew 
Faramir was hurting and was stubbornly showing no outward sign of it. 
But he had known his brother all these years, and he knew that those grey 
eyes would be clouded with unhappiness. He felt the damp sweat clinging 
to the younger man and felt the slight stiffening motions his body made 
every few seconds, each time their horse moved too quickly. They were 
going at a slow trot, and the ground was relatively smooth, but it did 
nothing to ease the discomfort.

They entered the city quietly, the disarray in the citadel not having been 
allowed to permeate to the remaining levels of the city. The horses were 
left in the stables, and Boromir swung Faramir down and held him in his 
arms, refusing to set him down, despite his entreaties.

“Hush, we are almost there. I am taking you to my room. You must sleep. 
I will look after you, do not worry,” he said hurriedly, relieved at being 
able to return home with no further incident.

Surprisingly they encountered no one along the way, and Boromir 
correctly deduced that the commotion must have died down somewhat. 
When they neared the citadel entrance, Faramir entreated him to let him 
down again, and this time Boromir complied. He knew Faramir was afraid 
they would encounter Denethor. Entering the citadel by a side door, 
holding Faramir up, with Haldir’s help, he called out to the servant who 
stared at him wide-eyed.

“Please tell my father we have returned.” Faramir stiffened slightly, his 
grey eyes filling with fear and worry.

“Yes, my lord, lord Faramir -?”

“He is fine. A little injured that is all,” Boromir snapped back, “Please let 
my father know we will be in my room.”

“Shall I send a healer up?”

“Nay,” Faramir said, keeping his voice as close to normal as he could, “I 
have merely hurt my foot.” Which was true, Fenekor had ruthlessly 
twisted his ankle, while dragging him into the inn, the finger marks 
bruising his skin deeply, and the fight with the orcs had worsened it. 

The servant nodded and hurried away, while the other three progressed 
slowly, as Faramir began stumbling. The long ride had cramped his 
muscles, and he was cold, despite the fact that he had wrapped on the 
cloak tight so as to hide the state of his clothes.

Once upstairs, the cloak came off, and Boromir tried to help him remove 
the tattered clothes.

“I need a bath,” Faramir muttered.

“There is water drawn out for me, it will still be warm if I know the 
servants,” Boromir said, “There will be enough for you to clean up a 
little.” He led him to a small chamber where a bowl of warm water had 
been left, and some towels. When Faramir returned he looked a little 
better, but still quite terrible. They helped him into bed, and then went 
about tending to his injuries. In the light of the lamps, he looked even 
worse than he had in the dimly lit inn. 

Haldir could clearly see each and every bruise and welt standing out as he 
helped Boromir tend to the injuries for the second time in a day. Faramir 
had pulled on an old robe he’d found, and when Boromir tried to remove it 
the young man’s first reaction had been to stop it. Then he’d taken it off 
himself, and lain back against the pillows, Haldir holding him up so as to 
ensure his back wouldn’t hurt. Boromir cleaned up the re-opened wounds, 
and wrapped bandages wherever necessary. He covered the bruises with a 
salve to reduce pain, then motioned for Faramir to turn around, giving his 
sore back the same treatment. Then he reached for his rear, and gently 
rubbed the salve in, over the torn flesh, his expression a mix of anger and 
sorrow causing Faramir to cry out in distress.

“It is bleeding,” Boromir said softly, his eyes tearing up at his brother’s 
reaction. Faramir sobbed into Haldir’s shoulder and the elf found himself 
stroking the young man’s hair and kissing it lightly, hoping that would 
give him peace. He realised Faramir was feeling embarrassed, and wished 
the drugs they had given him would take effect soon. 

But Faramir didn’t fall asleep even after Boromir had finished his 
ministrations. He lay on his side, curling up as he felt the heat caused by 
the salve spread through his body like a fire. It was comforting but hurt 
him a lot. A loud moan escaped from his lips as Boromir’s hands flew 
over a particularly nasty bruise, and he felt Haldir pull him closer. He 
snuggled into the embrace, resting his battered face against the other’s 
chest, feeling the well-developed but lithe body underneath, taking in the 
same woody scent he had smelt in his cloak. Haldir’s lips were resting on 
his head, and he found himself remembering the moment when he had 
rested his lips on the elf’s. 

He had been scared and at first he had thought he had been scared of 
kissing another man after Fenekor had brutalized him, but then he had 
realised he had been scared of being pushed away. When Haldir had 
kissed back, he had joyously accepted it, rev