A/N: I really think this is my favorite chapter, just because of the sheer drama in it. :-D I know you'll all want to kill me after this, but PWETTY PWEASE WIFF A CHEEWY ON TOP don't flame me. (Resist the urge...) And enjoy! The next chapter will come sooner or later, depending on how many reviews I get. Happy St. Patricks Day to one and all (especially if you're Irish). Hmm. I have no idea where that came from. I really don't get into St. Patty's Day, like, at all. But enjoy anyway. Don't get stoned, 'cause that's bad. Ta! (Oh, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!)

Chapter Ten: Dark Days

"You hurled me into the deep,

into the very heart of the seas,

and the currents swirled about me;

all your waves and breakers

swept over me."

-Jonah 2:3

Things seemed to get worse and worse after Mithrandir left. I refused to let myself think about what I might have done, or what I was doing. I worked harder everyday, and as a result, Ithilien prospered.

But much suffered.

Morwen eventually stopped having nightmares, and Elboron seemed to be doing fine in archery (thanks to a few lessons from Legolas). But Feomir and I grew more at odds daily. Every little thing he did annoyed me...from the way he ate to the way he walked. Of course I did not share this information, but I think my son got the picture anyway. He would look at me sometimes in the exact same way I had looked at my father: like a patient and yet pained animal. And I wondered if he still loved me, for I had loved my father.

At nighttime, if I could not sleep, I thought about my father, and things about his life and why he hated me became clearer everyday. I had thought I would never understand them; here I was walking in his shoes. And I cried out to the stars for guidance...why was it all happening to me?

I admit, at times I thought of what my sweet wife would think, was she there. But when I thought in that channel, all my mind could think of was the fact that things would be so different if she WAS there that it was no use asking questions.

I also knew that Mithrandir had left Beregond with the job of watching over Feomir, and I began to resent the guard, though I knew he was my last friend. The King had tried once or twice to befriend me again, but I shook off his attempts, more out of jealousy than anything else, I suppose. He had a living wife, and he was happy in all he did. Eomer and Lothíriel too came to visit us, but their visit was short and somber, thanks entirely to me.

I admit it. I freely and whole-heartedly admit it to you, oh Eru. I ruined their lives, all of them. In my blindness, I could not see that what I thought was just the misfortune of my life in reality was harming and tearing apart my children's lives, my family's lives, and my friend's lives. And I, of all people, should have seen it! I, who had suffered abuse from the same man I was morphing into, I who had been the one whose life was ruined because of the bitterness and selfishness of one man. And now I was doing it to my own son.

Selfishness calls to the blind, and they answer.

I did.

It had been a little over a year since she died when I hit rock bottom, and I am going to tell you about it. No, I had to reach up to touch rock bottom. My life had degenerated into something it was not even when I was in the clutches of my abusive father.

I always had lessons with my children, everyday. They, of course, had tutors, but I liked to see what they were learning and how they were progressing. Elboron was the best in their arms practice, and Morwen had no competition in embroidery and such (literally), but Feomir, my smart lad, always outshone the others in any kind of schoolwork. He really was so like me, but I did not see it. I have stopped wondering why.

As I was saying, I was looking over their work one evening, and teaching Morwen the correct way to pronounce her elvish roots. I always liked teaching her, because she smiled so sweetly and took everything in. The next time you could be sure that, if there was a mistake, it was not the same one.

Feomir, who was now six (though he honestly had the mental capacity of a ten year old) was sitting at the table, straight and tall as I liked my children to sit, staring at a flickering candle. Suddenly, he leaned forward and blew it out with a puff of quick breath. I stopped writing and looked up at him.

"Why did you do that?" I asked sternly. He bit his lip and looked down.

"I'm sorry."

I set the pencil down. "Why did you do that?" I repeated.

Feomir looked up at me, as if deciding to tell the truth even if it would do no good. "Because...it was like mother."

"What?" I replied, dumbfounded and forgetting to be stern for a minute. He blushed and clarified quickly.

"It was flickering, and I blew it out. Mother's life was blown out quickly and suddenly, and now she is no more. She is gone forever."

I could have pondered the incredible depth this showed in my six year old, but instead I felt my ire rising. "Did you have to bring her up?" I snapped. Feomir's eyes kindled, then subsided again.

"She was my mother," he murmured, thinking I would not hear him. If I had been anyone else I doubt I would have, but twenty years in Ithilien had taught me, if nothing else, to have sharp hearing.

"She may have been your mother," I said through gritted teeth, "but she was my wife, and you cost me her."

His small face looked blank, and I saw something familiar slip over his face.

A mask.

My own mask, the mask MY father had formed, was in place too. Two masks staring at each other, neither knowing how to break the other down. Was I mad?

I heard a gasp behind me, and I turned to see Elboron staring at me as if he had lost his wits. "Father!" he managed, "what are you saying?"

"I thought you said it was not my fault," Feomir said quietly, ignoring his brother.

I also ignored Elboron. "The mouth may say one thing, but matters of the heart lie deep within." I quoted back. It was an old proverb of Gondor, and I had used it but once before. I do not even know why I used it then, for my chief end had been to bury my heart.

Feomir set his jaw. "She was protecting me."

I knew then that Morwen and Elboron were trying to understand what was going on, and I knew they never would. They had noticed many things in the past year, but I do not think they could have guessed the extent of the damage being done.

In two quick strides I was across the floor and I brought my hand back. Before I knew what was happening, the slap landed on his cheek and his head snapped around. Elboron rushed forward and Morwen screamed, and Feomir looked up at me in bitter grief. It was not until I saw the thin line of blood on his cheek and looked down at my hand to see it dropping back to my side that I realized fully what I had done.

I had struck my own child.

I believe children must be punished, and I have doled out justly received thrashings. But never in my life had I hit or harmed an innocent being, much less my own CHILD. Weight crashed down on my shoulders as the sound died out and I looked down, transfixed, into the face of my son whom I had struck.

Elboron stepped in front of Feomir then, blocking his brother's body with his own small one. I looked into his face and saw the utter defiance and protectiveness, and I knew then that it was over. I had turned my family into a vision of the past. I had placed Elboron in the position of intermediary trying to love an abusive father and help his brother at the same time.

An abusive father?

Oh Eru, what had I done?

Was this possible? What kind of animal had I turned into?

Had I forgotten my own childhood? How could I?

I stepped forward with sudden compassion and a desire to set things right, and I do not doubt it might have happened, but Elboron set his jaw and looked up at me in defiance. "Don't touch him," he hissed.

I reeled back, grabbing my hand with which I had struck him and shaking my head. "II didn't mean..." I could not take it any longer, and I ran.

Away from my children.

Away from release.

Away from the right thing.

Away from love.

It is impossible to describe my emotions as I sprinted into my room and flung myself at the window, tears of fear and turmoil streaming down my cheeks. They were the first I had cried since a year ago, practically, and I was, I admit, a bit ashamed of them. My heart seemed to be leaping against my chest as if saying over and over, "I'm here! I'm here! You tried to deny me for so long, but I AM HERE!" I bent my head into my hands and allowed my bitter tears to wash over them for a long minute, my gasping sobs echoing through the still room.

Eventually, I got a hold of myself again and tried to use reason, telling myself that it was normal for a child to get a scolding.

Not like that.

Not like what?

A slap across the face. No sane parent slaps their child. What will they learn from that?

So it was one time. I won't do it again, I promise!

It's only the start of something larger. How did your father start?

I whammed my head against the table, trying to rid myself of the voice. I suppose I knew it was my conscience, but I had been trying to do away with it for so long it came as a shock to me then. Sharp pain triggered by the contact flooded my head, and, for a minute, I forgot about it all. But then it became a dull ache and everything came back to me. I raised my head, again weeping, and then I saw it.

Across the room, in a cabinet, stood a bottle of wine, full to the brim and ready to be drunk. I stood shakily and walked toward it, all other thoughts rushing from my head.

I had never drunk the stuff, since my father was an alcoholic and he used to beat me when he was drunk. I kept it around for emergencies onlywhen the pain from a wound became too great to bear or, more recently, when one of my children was ill and needed something to calm them. But I had never drunk the stuff, for I knew what it could do. And now, in the face of what I had done, I had two options.

I could take it down and drink it.

I could shut the cabinet and resist a temptation stronger than I felt I could resist at the moment.

I took it down.

The red wine glittered in the dying light almost evilly, as if it knew what it was about to do to me. I did not think of what the consequences would be, I only knew that with wine you could forget. With wine you could dream about what used to be, and you would not know that your wife was dead, your children were being harmed, and your friends were estranged.

And so, my readers, you see fully what I had become. I cannot even pen these words without weeping bitterly over what I had done, and what I was putting us all through. And I know now, that had I not forsaken Eru, my maker, I would not have been where I was then.

Too many stories would end here, in the lowest ditch humanity can throw itself into, but only by the grace of Eru mine does not. And I can only wonder, speculate, and question, why? Why me? I have been asking that my entire life, but I will never have an answer until I meet my maker and ask him those questions face to face.

I uncorked the bottle, my hands shaking so bad I spilled the rich wine on the table a little, and poured a large quantity into a glass. I lifted it up to the light, watching it, then brought it to my lips.

Then I brought it back down.

My subconscious was kicking in, making one last futile effort to regain control over my mind. I fought back viscously, and my hand went up again. Forget, forget, forget...

"FARAMIR!" screamed a voice, and I heard the door being thrown open. I whirled around to face...Beregond.

My guard was panting, his face marked by dirt and tear tracks, and he stood with one hand still on the door handle. Evidently he had come from the great hall, where my children were probably still sitting. His face bore a slightly angry expression, but more so fear and pain. I scowled at him.

"What do you want?" I snapped, my voice harsher than it had ever been before.

Beregond straightened. "Faramir, how could you? To strike Feomir, though he may...sweet Eru, what are you doing?" His eyes widened as he saw the bottle of wine and the full glass sitting on the table. In two steps he was by my side, speechless.

You must believe that I wanted to say I was sorry...I wanted to ask him for help, any kind of help, to fix the ruins of my life. But I couldn't. The cold mask that I had made for myself in the past year slipped on, and, try as I might, I could not get it off. "I do not require your presence," I replied. "I can deal with my own problems, thank you."

Beregond stepped back, in shock, and I could read his heart through his eyes as plain as day: This is the man I risked my life for? And something else was there...something I do not like to repeat. But it was there just the same. He was thinking that it would have been better had I died.

"Faramir," he gasped, "Who are you? Where is the Captain I would have followed to the end of my days? Wake up, man!" he said, shaking my shoulder. My reflexes from my service in the army were still acute, and before I could stop myself I had crossed his jaw with my fist. He tumbled backwards, holding his chin and staring at me with wide eyes.

"Leave me!" I snarled. "Leave me alone!"

Beregond backed away, and I could hear his sobs as he slowly shut the door. "Don't do it, Faramir. Please..."

As soon as the door was shut my strength left me and I hunched over the table, staring at the wine. Forget... I picked the glass up and put it to my lips, ready to drink...

...It would have been better had I died...

With a strangled curse, I hurled the glass against the wall, where it shattered into a million pieces and splashed red wine all over the room. Sobs racking my body, I smashed my head against the table again and again and again, until I couldn't feel it any longer. As I felt myself slipping away from reality I heard myself murmur two words:

I'm sorry...

A/N: Still breathing? Now review, and you can see who finds him and what she...oops! Gave away too much already! 8-D