Masks

Thanks, guys! Glad you liked and yes, twas the MoS. ;)

*

“You seem agitated, brother,” Faramir said with a slight amusement that made Boromir’s hand tighten. He was agitated. Very agitated just now.

Pacing there in the dining hall, Boromir threw a glare at his brother and hissed, “There is something strange going on. Do not think I am such a fool as to not see it. Éowyn is getting no better. She does not leave her room, she sleeps much of the time, and she barely touches her dinner. The healers know not what has befallen her.”

Faramir shook his head, taking a drink of tea. He watched his elder brother with weighing eyes, as if he had authority to change whatever he saw fit. It was a scrutiny Boromir did not welcome. The younger shrugged. “People take ill. The death of our mother was proof enough of that.”

The comment jarred Boromir out of his thoughts and he stopped, gazing at his brother. He shook his head. “Alura is missing. I have not seen her all damn day.”

“Have you been searching for her?” His brother’s gaze hardened at that.

The elder Captain of Gondor crossed his arms defiantly. “And if I have?”

Anger crept across Faramir usually calm eyes. “You have held the love of our father since the day you came into this world. You have kept that and more from me. I’ll not give her to you as well.”

“She will give herself to whom she will,” Boromir countered sourly. “What can you do about that?”

“She’ll not give herself to you, Boromir. I promise you that.” His certainty galled his elder brother.

He began to pace again, irritably, trying to figure out what was going on around him. The guards were silent. None of them would breathe a word about his father’s plans. He stopped at a nearby window, gazing out at the mobilization happening outside the city walls. Something about this sudden move nagged at him. He turned away from it and looked Faramir straight in the eyes. “What of Éomer? Do men suddenly fall upon their swords in the night? If so I must begin to lock mine away.” Éomer’s apparent suicide had shocked him. The Third Marshal had not been the type given to such despair and yet they had found him on the floor, his own sword sticking through his stomach, broken wine bottles strewn around the room.

To that Faramir did not have an answer. He looked away, seeming just as confused as Boromir felt inside. “Perhaps Father can answer that when he returns from speaking with the captain of the guard.”

Boromir grunted in disgust. “Can you truly not see something odd is going on? Or are you a part of it? Is that why you and Father get along so well now?”

His brother turned with penetrating eyes. “What do you insinuate, Boromir?”

For a long moment they stared, eyes locked, as Boromir battled between wisdom and pride. Letting his brother win this round, he sat across from him and sighed. “Nothing, Faramir. I only wish I understood better. Is that so terrible? Everyone is so damned bent on giving me a break that they forget I do not wish one. I am a man of action.”

“Do you truly want to be a part of our father’s plans?” Faramir asked him in a musing tone, watching him.

He shrugged and leaned back, taking a drink of his now cool tea. “Of course I do. Sitting around, having nothing to do with Gondor’s future…it makes me restless, Faramir. Am I not to become Steward when Father passes on?” He looked up into his brother’s face. “Do you not trust me anymore? What have I done to merit that?”

Faramir’s eyes glittered as he raked his brother over. He reached across the table and took him by the bracer, giving it an encouraging shake. “I trust you, of course. I thought you did not trust me. Any brother would react in anger at that. Do you trust me?”

Boromir took a moment, then nodded. “Of course I do. Can we stop the feuding?”

“I think we can.” Faramir wore a half smile as he lifted his cup, finishing his drink. He sat back. “Has anyone told Éowyn?”

The elder sighed. He could have gone a long time without thinking on that. “I have not. Father told me to, but I could not bring myself to do it yet. If Alura has not spoken a word to her then she may not know yet.” He looked up with a thoughtful expression. “What do you believe led him to take his life?”

Betraying nothing, Faramir shook his head. “Who can say what leads a man to such actions? Perhaps Éowyn’s illness made him despair. Perhaps he did not take his own life, even.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean someone must be poisoning Éowyn somehow to keep her ill despite our efforts to see her get better. Perhaps that same someone arranged for Éomer’s death to look like suicide. Can anyone confirm that note was Éomer’s handwriting?”

Boromir groaned and shook his head. “I was to ask Éowyn that as well, but as I said, could not bring myself to bring such pain to her. This is why I was searching for Alura, if you must know.”

That seemed to relax his little brother some. He nodded in understanding, then shrugged. “I have no idea. Perhaps she heard the unfortunate news and hid herself away to grieve. She may be with Éowyn even, if you have not checked there.”

“Perhaps,” Boromir breathed, but somehow he doubted that. Still, there was nowhere else to look and he could not hide from his duty forever. He stood up, straightened his belt and said, “I suppose the time has come.”

Before he could leave he saw a form coming towards them. He sighed as Denethor’s gaze bore into him. “And where are you headed, my son?” he asked as if expecting it would be nowhere good. He used to use that tone with Faramir.

“To speak with Éowyn,” he replied with the same tone.

“Have you not already told her of her brother’s death?” his father asked him sharply. Ever since the news had come he was more waspish than usual.

“I did not look forward to giving her such terrible news.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Valar, Father, she is going to take it hard. Do you think I want to see her weep?”

Denethor swept past him and sat down where he had been seated. “If you cannot even bear to see women weep then how can you ever bear to send men to their dooms when war is upon you? For women weep then as well, Boromir.” He watched his son appraisingly. “Give her something to fill her with joy then. Tell her you will marry tomorrow night.”

Startled out of his wonderings and dreads, Boromir stared with wide eyes for a moment, then glare at Faramir’s snort. “Tomorrow?” he breathed incredulously. “You will forever mar her wedding with the memory of a dead brother?”

The Steward rolled his eyes and drew a bunch of grapes from the bowl on the table, setting them on a clean plate that Boromir had not touched. “Her wedding is already marred, for even if it waits another month she will miss his presence. At least now when she buries him she will have someone to cling to. You do intend on knowing her when you are married, do you not?”

“I will do my duty as a husband,” replied coldly. “I hardly doubt she will wish for it when she hears this news, however.”

Denethor did not bother looking up at him. “Perhaps not. But my decision still stands.”

Irritated, Boromir huffed and stalked out of the room, heading towards Éowyn’s quarters without even realizing it much of the way there. They were so frustrating, the pair of them, scheming together and forcing him into choices he did not care for. Perhaps Faramir had felt this way about he and Denethor when it was he that their father confided in, but Boromir could not bring himself to care right now or reflect upon being in his brother’s shoes. Something was very wrong with the people around here and he was going to find out what it was if he had to tear every brick from every wall to do it.

When he came to Éowyn’s door he glared at the guards as if they were the perpetrators of all that made him angry. They said nothing, of course, would never, and flinched away as he said sharply, “Has Lady Alura been here?”

They shook their heads, both of them. “No, sir. No one.” Boromir grunted and entered without thanking them. The room was dim and it filled him with dread.

Éowyn was seated by the window, gazing through half-lidded eyes out at the night. Her skin was very pale and her hair mussed. He cleared his throat and she startled, apparently not having heard him come in. “I am sorry.”

Éowyn smiled gently. “Do not worry. I had thought no one would visit me today.” The sorrow in her voice made his breath catch. Anger pulsed through him at her sorry state. She looked outside again. “I thought I heard a woman scream.”

“You may hear it again if Faramir crosses my path,” he grumbled, thinking on his brother with a renewed sense of aggravation. He sighed at her soft smile. “Éowyn, there is something I must tell you and it will not be easy to hear. Two things, actually.”

“Tell me what is easier to tell first,” she said with a faltering breath.

He fiddled with his bracer anxiously. “My father wishes us to marry tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow?” she repeated with wide eyes. Her hand went to her hair as she shook her head. “I look a fright and I’m not well. I…”

“I know,” Boromir said gently, sinking down on the mattress. “But my father insists. Out of some misdirected belief it will ease your grief.”

Éowyn knit her brow. “My grief?” And so it began.

“I have never been good with these things. Forgive me for being a coward.” He reached into his surcoat and removed Éomer’s hastily written letter, handing it to her. “Is this your brother’s handwriting, Éowyn?”

She took the paper with shaking hands and unfolded it. He watched her bright blue eyes scan the words, widening further each new line until tears pooled at her eyelids. When she was done she tried to sit up, but fell back weakly. “My brother, where is he?”

Boromir rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. He could not look at her right now. “He is…being examined. Éowyn, he carried out what he said he would in the letter.”

“But why?” She shook her head, looking at the parchment again. “He says he has committed sins, but what could he have done to drive him so far? I do not understand this. Where is Alura?”

“I have not seen her today. She may be too grieved to show herself.” He hated not having the answers.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she did not wail or make a sound, and that made it worse for him. She turned her head towards the window again and said softly, “If you see her, please send her to me.”

He got up and moved to the lounger where she was, pushing her legs aside to sit with her. “Do you want me to leave?”

She sniffed and brought her eyes to his, looking more tired and drawn than ever. “Do not worry about me.”

Boromir lowered his head, running his fingers through his hair. Such a request was preposterous, of course. Just looking at her inspired worry and to ask it to be dashed was like asking a mountain to throw itself in the sea. He stood up, feeling she would rather be alone. When he got to the door he stopped. “And our marriage?”

The Rohirrim princess did not turn around. “I will marry you tomorrow,” she said as if it were nothing.

He wrapped his hand around the doorknob and turned, saying, “Sleep, Éowyn.” When she didn’t reply, he exited, feeling heavy inside. He had to find Alura.

*

Her should burned like a fire had been set on her skin. Alura groaned and opened her eyes to a flickering orange light on the walls. The smell of torches permeated the room, but however many were lit, they offered little warmth. She lay still, listening as two voices spoke in hushed tones nearby. The stranger was still here and now added to his frightening presence was the Steward of Gondor. She tried to listen to what they were saying, but they spoke in such hushed voices she found herself dizzied by just trying.

Shivers shook her to her very core. The room felt unbearably cold, but she could not find the strength to curl into herself. A wave of dizziness washed through her, leaving her feeling chilled and nauseated, and without being able to stop herself, she whimpered. The speaking of the two men stopped. She listened as a chair scraped across the wooden floor volumes too loud for her ears to bear. Footsteps pounded through the wood beneath her, filling her with dread as she looked up to see who was coming.

It was the Steward. He knelt down and raked his eyes along her form. There was no mercy or regret. "So you have survived after all. I did not believe you would."

Alura tried to retort, finding her voice trapped behind her tingling lips. The dark creature here in the tower must have taken a lot of blood from her. She wondered if she would survive yet. Another voice filled the silence. "My kiss will lead her unto death."

"How much time?" Denethor asked, hovering over her, yet not touching her just yet. He did not look at his guest.

The dark voice traveled with his footsteps as he neared. "The time is relative to how long you leave her to me." Above the Steward Alura saw the horror of what he was revealed by torchlight. Yet she had not the energy to move. "Some years presently."

Denethor exhaled and reached for her, tangling his fingers into her hair. She held herself stiff, not sure what to expect from him, except that whatever he intended would not be friendly. "My son has expressed a desire you remain alive. He has yet to relinquish his soft nature. Yet for the sake of preventing your people further upset I offer you one more chance. Boromir weds Eowyn tomorrow. You will not have him. So will you give yourself to Faramir or shall I leave you here?"

The creature standing above could not be called looking at her by any visible means. His eyes were bound by the cloth she had seen earlier. And yet she felt as if eyes were on her, a hungry gaze that made her shudder back. It was like darkness caressing her soul and she knew she could not remain here, no matter what awaited her on the other side of the door. She had a feeling more than pride would be lost to this terrible thing watching and waiting greedily for her reply. "I...I don't want to stay here," she whispered, unable to take her eyes off the being above.

Denethor released her hair, smoothing his fingers along her cheek. "Swift and hard is my vengeance, Alura, but you will find the reward for loyalty a match you cannot refuse. Serve Faramir well, give him children, and you will be rewarded justly. Is it agreed?"

Feeling her eyes line with tears, she closed her eyes and nodded, feeling defeated at last. She couldn't fight them all. As Denethor wiped her cheeks dry, Alura dragged her heavy arms up over herself in some vain attempt to find warmth. Denethor abandoned her and headed towards a door somewhere nearby, opening it and disappearing from the room.

The other did not leave, but knelt down, reaching for her. Alura's eyes opened wide when his fingers brushed along the bite on her shoulder. "No," she breathed, trying to back away.

"You defiant little beast," it crooned, rubbing her wound hard, causing her to squirm and whimper. She watched as it raised its fingers to its large mouth, listened as it slurped her blood of its fingers. "I will let no one bring to ruination what has been set forth by my master. The Steward is but a servant and I do not believe he inspires the correct fear in thee. Fear my wrath if not his."

Alura tried to move away from him, but found herself helpless as he continued to partake of her blood. Its fingers were so cold, as if belonging to a dead thing rather than something living. She found herself wishing for Denethor's return, as if he had the authority to stop this from happening. But she knew that was not true. No, this being commanded much more authority. It was a creature of Sauron's, if not Sauron himself. Never had she felt such fear before.

When the door opened she looked, batting her arms weakly, trying to get help in any way she could. Denethor made no protest to what was being done to her, however. The creature abandoned her with a cold smile and retreated as another form entered in. Faramir got to his knees at her side while his father and his guest moved away from them. "Look at you, Alura," he breathed, removing his cloak and wrapping it around her. She groaned as he lifted her up. "I'll take her to my rooms, Father."

"See that she remains there," the Steward warned before they left.

The stairs were a slow walk down, but Faramir kept a strong hold on her as they made the descent. He said nothing and she could see nothing in his eyes, so abandoning the attempt, Alura closed her eyes and fell asleep, awakening only when she was lowered to a soft bed. She gazed around her hazily, noticing it was Faramir's room indeed.

He was nearby, stoking a fire in the hearth. When he noticed she was awake, he smiled softly and came to her side. His thin white shirt was open, sleeves pushed up and his surcoat missing. He reached for her cheek and caressed her softly. "I know you do not feel well. It will pass in time."

"I feel like dying," she breathed truthfully, for her heart was so weighed down it seemed as if the life in her was bleeding out of her wounds.

Faramir pursed his lips and reached for a rag on a nearby table. He pressed it to her bite and shook his head, holding her down when she attempted to sit. "You are not dying, my dear. Life for you is about to begin anew."

Alura grunted at his flippant words. “Life beginning anew,” she mused darkly. “To what end? I know that thing up in the tower must be from Sauron. Is that the fate you would lead me to?”

He continued cleaning her wounds without a smile or sarcastic remark. In fact he seemed very grave as he said, “You assume what is ahead will be bad. I assure you it shall be if you refuse to see it any other way.” He dipped the rag into the warm water and pressed it against her skin gently. “Do you believe I am miserable, Alura? Strangely I am not. It might have something to do with hope on the horizon.”

“What hope is there in aligning yourself with Sauron?” At his glare she shook her head with a frustrated exhale. “Can you not even answer a simple question without being defensive? You will lose your soul to this madness.”

“Is my soul worth the peace of my people? As I said, the bread maker down on the first level need never concern himself with Sauron or serving him. What does it matter, except that Sauron will no longer be a threat?” He tossed the rag into the bowl and watched her, waiting for her to speak.

Alura closed her eyes, feeling too drained to argue. “Sauron will never let there be peace,” she whispered, hoping he would leave her alone.

She listened as he stood up from the bed and began peeling his clothes off. Each article that hit the floor jarred her with worry that there would be more abuse tonight. Anxiety welled up within her. She did not know that she could take being raped again. Not like this, while she was so weak. He pulled the covers back from her body and slid into bed beside her, smoothing his arm over her belly. He rested his head along her uninjured shoulder, petting her skin softly. She stiffened, waiting for him to begin, but he did not.

Saying nothing, Faramir held her to him and settled. His breathing normalized and his hand came to a rest on her hip. She remained awake even when he was well asleep. His warmth teased her to the brink of unconsciousness, but her circumstances kept her from falling off the edge into what she desperately wanted. She contemplated what she had gotten herself into by agreeing in her weakened state. It was expected now that she would marry Faramir and be his loyal wife. She could have laughed it off and refused in the morning, she thought, except for what she knew lurked upstairs. He frightened her to her core. The perversions and pain that could befall her at his hands made marriage to Faramir seem pale in comparison.

Her thoughts strayed to Boromir and the Steward’s words. So they would marry tomorrow, he and Éowyn. At least she knew Éowyn was still alive, though Alura did not hope that would remain a fact forever. Éowyn was no fool. As soon as she suspected what was going on she would begin to react the same was Alura had reacted. She felt her stomach muscles tighten in anxiety. Would Éomer rape her as well? It frightened her to think of that, but she could put nothing past him now. Without her notice a few tears had lined her eyelids.

She closed her eyes, making herself comfortable in the warmth that surrounded her, resting in the needless state of acceptance. She had not the energy to even yearn to be in her own bed right now. Her tears slid down into her hair and then fell no more as she forced herself to relax and think of nothing. Tomorrow she could consider fighting. Right now she was exhausted.