Invocation
Author: Valkyrie
Pairing: Denethor/Faramir and references to Faramir/Boromir
Rating: M for blatant acts of debauchery, rape, crude humor, and Mpreg
Disclaimer: All the recognizable characters, places, and ideas belong to Tolkien and his estates. Leftovers belong to me. Of course that doesn't mean you can sue, because all you'll get is the 37 cents I have in my purse and maybe a tube of lipstick.
A/N: This is my first fic on the site, and I'll admit that I'm terrified to post it because of the canon activists out there that flame AU fics. So…. I appreciate comments and constructive criticism, but flat out flaming is rude and will probably be ignored, so please don't bother. Note: This story has not been beta read, but I proofread it until I got a headache.
He was, as his father had always said, weak. Denethor never spoke lightly or without cause, but it had taken a death ride across the plains of the Pelennor Fields to make him truly see the precision of the words.
Whilst the rest of his family perished either at the hands of the enemy, or driven to madness from grief, Faramir had lain in darkness until the rightful heir of Gondor recalled him to life. Upon awakening, rather than rejoice the dawning of a new age, the Steward's second son instead felt a bitterness that he should live and his brother and father should die. Should not a man of more substantial skill fill the now vacant office of Steward? Should it not have been his brother?
So it came to be that Faramir realized his weakness, or in the very least understood that he was weak, if not fully understanding why. And yet, it was as if only Denethor and himself had ever seen it. True enough, the people of Gondor adored him, but they worshipped Faramir's general appeal and his way with men, whereas they worshipped Boromir's skill with the sword. The people of the gleaming White City were as docile lambs: content to be led by whatever shepherd wandered down from the mountains; never minding the fact that not a few of Gondor's rulers had in fact been wolves in the cloaks of shepherds.
And once he came to the realization, Faramir's only choice was to leave.
Leave the position of Steward, which he had yet to exercise, leave Eowyn, whom had more or less imposed the idea that he should also love her because she loved him, and most heart-wrenching of all, leave his homeland. That alone was enough to break a man's heart.
Of course the whole scheme meant utter secrecy on his part and breaking troth with Theoden's young niece, the former being considerably easier than the latter. He could run away in the dead of night, but Faramir was wholly unprepared to face the coldness of Eowyn. Not now, not when he was only recently recovered from his wounds and still feeling quite faint. Faramir had contemplated leaving without so much of a word, but he was an honorable man and would never do such a thing. So he was left to face her.
"Love, what do you mean when you say that you cannot fulfill your oath to me?" Eowyn's soft voice was questioning, but it held a tight manner. It was really more of a demand than an inquiry.
Next to her ethereal glow, Faramir looked positively ashen. Only his stock of reddish-gold hair and pert blue eyes gave evidence that he was anything more than a soulless shell of a body.
"I mean that I cannot wed you, as I find it in my heart that I could not love you in the way that you deserved to be loved," Faramir's voice was steady and sincere, but he felt none of its confidence. Eowyn was as fiery a woman as he ever did see. She was liable to reach for her sword and run it straight through him; surely she would not calmly take another rejection from a man.
"Why?" There was demand again.
Why? Because I find you an utterly frigid and domineering wench whom I could not abide lying next to every night. You would take from me and give nothing in return.
Of course he did not say these words, but rather, shaking his head, spoke a more courteous version. "This war has taken something from me, m'lady. It makes me ill, so it does and I would not chain both of us to my melancholy. Please find it in your heart," If one exists "To forgive me."
"Oh my poor love," Eowyn purred, taking one of his hands in her own. A touch Faramir found that he could not easily bear. "We shall weather this together, you and I. Once you feel the sunshine on your face, you will be well again. Remember when you told me that, remember?" Her last words were desperate, a plea.
He could only pull his hands from her cold grasp, shaking his head and muttering over and over. "I'm sorry."
Whether Eowyn had departed from their conversation with anger in her soul, he would never know. He guessed it to be so, but since her brother, Eomer had not sought him out to avenge his sister's honor, Faramir knew that she had told no one. Who would she tell? She was a woman twice spurned by two different men. Another woman might see the fault lying with the hot-tempered shieldmaiden and not the men.
Thusly, Faramir was able to slip away in the dark of night and no one was to the wiser. He carried no map with him, nor wore clothing that might distinguish him as anything but a humble vagabond. With the hood of his rough cloak pulled down to his nose, the men guarding the city gates scarcely gave the beggar on a fine chestnut stallion a second glance. Mithrandir rode a Mearas, why not a beggar ride a mount bred for kings?
"Easy now, easy," he would remember uttering later, as Gulhyd shied and pranced and snorted, as uneager to leave the city as his master was to be gone. Even then the men did not look again, for these were the times of the king, and evil was gone from the world.
Faramir paused briefly once outside the gates, eyes travelling to the upper levels of the city, where he had spent so much of his life. Perhaps someday he would return, perhaps not.
Once on the open rode, Faramir considered his path. To ride to Ithilien was too risky, as he would be recognized there, and he did not want to be known. He wanted to be alone. He found himself thinking of Rohan, and how it might be easy to find oneself lost among the vast and rolling plains. Even then a band of riders might identify the deserted Steward. His thoughts eventually settled on Fangorn Forest, where the trees were thick and dark. Faramir had ever been a lover of nature. With a shrug, he urged Gulhyd into the west.
"Let us begin a new life in the west."
Faramir had not been untruthful to Eowyn when he had complained of illness. The journey was rough for him, which he could only attribute to the injuries acquired during battle. Though quite frankly, the ailments he noticed had little to do with his scars. He was nauseous and fatigued. Lest he was taken by another fever, Faramir did not understand but was reluctant to think too much on the subject as that required effort. Shortly after leaving the realm of Gondor, he had relied heavily upon the horse's sense of direction and opted for lying limply against Gulhyd's neck and trying to sleep.
Faramir took little water and even littler food. Most days he reigned his mount up to vomit and then spent countless time looking for a spring to wash his mouth out, only to be sick again once tasting the earthy flavor of the water. Granted when the urge to eat took him, he was ravenous. He was of course ill afterwards.
One morning, after an unusually miserable night, Faramir came to the grim understanding that they were no where near Rohan. His reliance on Gulhyd had gotten them hopelessly lost.
The grass of this new land was tinged brown and the air cold. There were few trees, save for the occasional shrub or sapling bent by the wind. It was almost as if these lands were indeed those of Rohan, if Rohan were to be devastated by drought and plague.
"Gods, where are we?"
From the back of Gulhyd, it was impossible to gather bearings. There were no rivers that might lead to towns, or roads that proved this was a common place to travel. Nor were there any signs of life from man or beast. A small pool was the only visible landmark.
Faramir slipped from his horse's back, unsteady. The great stallion closely followed his owner to the small pool, nostrils flaring at unfamiliar scents. He was unwilling to bend his neck to drink as Faramir did, but stood careful guard over the young man.
Gulhyd's breath was warm against the back of Faramir's neck, ruffling the fine hair found there. Had he not been so consumed with lapping at the cool water in his cupped hands, Faramir might have laughed.
Despite the miserable night before, Faramir found the he felt quite well and was glad for it. The water tasted good, the first thing he had wanted in a long time. He did not notice when his horse suddenly moved away from him, nor did he notice the soft rush that the bending stalks of grass made. Faramir did not notice anything until the chill of a metal blade brushed against his neck.
"Quiet now, lad, or we'll have to be done with you here."
So it was there by an unknown pool in a foreign land, that Faramir, the would-be Steward of Gondor and son of Denethor II was taken captive by a band of men so fearsome, that they were thought to be myth.