Chapter One - Desperation

Aragorn breathed in a deep sigh. It was a wonderful summer evening, following another blisteringly hot day. To the west the sky, over the treetops, was etched with the vivid red and gold of a mesmerizing sunset. He gazed out over the beauty of Ithilien, drinking in the sight before him like a thirsty man. The trees were bedecked with luscious greenery, the bushes and undergrowth laden down with bounteous fruit. Everywhere he looked the sheer harvest of life was evident, swelling, growing, and plentiful, just waiting to be picked.

It had been a scorching summer. Minas Tirith had shimmered in the heat and Aragorn was glad to be away from its sweltering towers and bad tempered inhabitants, if only for a while. They had reason to be angry, for the City’s sewage system had been faltering badly and regularly, waves of repugnant odours have drifted across the magnificent vistas. Aragorn breathed in the scent of the forest all about him and quelled the guilt that lingered. Was he not their King? How could he desert his people to their fetid fate?

In truth the burdens of the State had hung heavily on him for some time. He felt he was drowning in bureaucracy and paper. Too many complaints and too many problems, weighing him down, sapping him of his strength and vitality. He could see no way through the maze and worse, could not summon the energy to try to find one. Time and again his mind had sought refuge in memories of earlier times when, although danger had been at every turn, he had felt alive. With the loss of such peril, he had lost something vital and infinitely valuable too. He did not know if he would ever be able to retrieve it but he did know that its loss brought a bitter taste.

Part of the reason for his descent into the horror of ’official procedure’ was the man who walked beside him through the forest. Faramir, once Steward of the White City, a man whose temperament was infinitely more suited to the perils of paperwork. A man who would have eagerly grasped the issues and found the simple solutions that seemed to elude the King. Aragorn had no doubt that if Faramir had been at his side, then the sewage system of Minas Tirth would not have become such an insurmountable dilemma.

But Faramir was no longer Steward. Aragorn felt he should drag the younger man back to Minas Tirth, tie him to a desk and leave him there until he had sorted the sewage, the rubbish, the new building programme... all the issues that caused Aragorn’s head to ache. He smiled to himself ruefully at the thought. Instead, he would try to persuade Faramir back to his rightful position, as he had so often in the past. He would try to out think the thinker and out maneuver the logician. His smile faded on his lips. He had not been successful on the other occasions he had tried this tactic, and his desperation was growing - maybe kidnapping was the best way!

The playful lilt of children’s laughter drifted towards them on the light breeze. Aragorn stopped.

“You build a paradise here, Faramir,” he said softly.

Faramir turned to regard his King. He shook his head slowly. “Not I, Sire,” he began. “Prince Legolas.....”

Aragorn lifted his hand to silence him. “I know exactly what contribution Legolas makes, and it is a mighty one. But there is also another, more human aspect, involved here. And don’t give the credit to Anborn either. Although he has his talents, your Captain would be the first to admit creation on such a scale is not one of them. Anborn is as destructive a force as any born soldier. No, I know the source too well, Ithilien benefits from what all Gondor needs.”

Faramir shrugged and looked away, his face inscrutable in the fading light.

Both men knew the reason for this twilight walk but neither seemed prepared to break the peaceful serenity of the moment by actually starting the conversation. Aragorn regarded the other man intently, while Faramir’s gaze remained stubbornly on the middle distance.

Finally, unwilling to start, but pressed to it by the other’s apparent comfort in reticence, Aragorn began.

“You are a stubborn one, Faramir. For seven years you have shown this Kingdom your strength, while denying it your talent. How much longer? How can you deny your potential? I am failing; I feel everything is slipping through my fingers. I stand on the brink of the abyss. I need you”

Faramir shook his head. “You don’t need me, Sire, I am not strong,” he said with no emotion.

Aragorn grunted. “Most men, no matter their courage, if treated unfairly and undervalued will eventually come to fail. Even the strongest heart will come to believe it is worthless, if told it often enough. You suffered, Faramir, I know you did. Always second, not quite good enough, always belittled and undermined, but you never gave up. You let your misery neither cloud your judgment nor steal you from your duty. You retained your honour and your dignity through it all. What is that if not true courage, true strength? Although your father broke your heart, you never reacted against him. You held your pain deep inside and never revealed its depth to anyone. You endured, Faramir. But more than that, you did not let it destroy you, and through such fortitude, you made yourself even stronger.”

Aragorn paused, as Faramir remained motionless beside him, his face hard and closed, with no indication that he even heard the other’s words.

“I need that strength, Faramir,” Aragorn continued. “I have had enough of court lackeys, of people who will always say yes to me because of who I am. I am floundering, losing direction and appetite. I cannot right myself. I need someone at my side who shares my vision but more than that, who can lead others to it. I need a man who I can trust implicitely, someone who will dare to tell me when I speak nonsense, who will tell me when I am being ignorant or arrogant. A man strong enough to argue with me when he is convinced he is right. There is only one such man in my Kingdom.”

Still refusing to look at his King, a small muscle had begun to flex on Faramir’s jaw.

“There are others,” he said softly.

“No,” the King retorted abruptly. “There is only one who has the breeding, the background, and the experience.”

“Elboron will be of age soon”

“In five years!” Aragorn’s frustration was beginning to become evident from the way he flexed his fists. He took a deep breath to calm himself before continuing. “Elboron will make a good Steward, given time. But he needs to learn from one who knows the history of the role. He needs to leech experience and understanding, and you are the only man alive, Faramir, who can give him that. But no, you determine to stay in Ithilien and deny his potential just as you deny your own.”

Faramir remained unmoved as Aragorn pressed.

“Seven years, Faramir, since you walked in Minas Tirith. Think what we could have achieved together in that time. Think what we will yet achieve, and think what we could leave for our sons! Your self-imposed exile has been too long already. I have allowed you to punish yourself as you felt fit. Now as your King I can no longer justify it. The punishment is now too great for the crime you committed, and now we all pay. I will not let Gondor suffer as you wallow in self-centered anguish.”

“You tell me naught you have not told me before,” Faramir counted stiffly. “Have you found Saruman?”

“No I have not. There are whispers and rumours but no substance, and I have never been this desperate, this afraid that I cannot cope without you, before,” Aragorn replied.

Faramir turned to regard his King at last, his eyes shining with respect at Aragorn’s honesty. He nodded almost imperceptively.

“I will think on it,” he said.

Aragorn hit the tree trunk he stood next to in an explosion of uncontrolled fury. “It is too late to think!” he snorted. “Do you want me to beg, because I will?”

Faramir’s face furrowed with shock but he remained immobile as if caught in a prison of inaction. He had never seen his King so affected, so close to the edge. He wanted so much to give in to his demands and resolve his conflict, but he found he lacked the conviction to do so.

The two men stood facing each other for an immeasurable length of time, Aragorn breathing fast and angrily, and Faramir tottering on the edge of decision. Finally he drew himself back from the verge. He pulled in a long ragged breath and averted his eyes to the distance once more.

Aragorn growled in frustration. “What more can I say?”

Faramir shook his head. “There is nothing more. I cannot trust myself still; that is all I have to say.”

Aragorn bit down the rebuke that rushed to his lips. He wanted to hit back, but he suddenly felt empty. Too many times had they had this or similar conversations, and every time his ex-Steward had refused him. How could Faramir be so stubborn? Why could he not see this was no longer about personal pain? This was affecting the whole of Gondor. For a man so committed to his land, Faramir was behaving with complete selfishness.

They were silent for some time. The night had come, and through the trees they could see the twinkling lights of the houses.

Although he did not show it, Faramir felt most uncomfortable. His mind desperately searched for a change of subject to something less sensitive. “How go the negotiations with the Harad?” he asked finally. It was not a good choice.

Aragorn shook his head, his anger building. “Such information is only for those who serve me,” he snapped.

Faramir’s shoulders stiffened. It had been a low blow, but Aragorn had meant for it to hurt. His own frustration at Faramir’s intransigence was spilling over, pushing him into tactics he would not normally contemplate.

The hot anger that flashed across the younger man’s eyes testified that the blow had hit the mark but the heat was quenched equally quickly, by a sudden sad smile of cold acceptance.

“I understand,” Faramir, said, his voice controlled and emotionless. “And I will think on what you have said, Sire.”

Aragorn nodded, his own anger having lost its intensity in the face of his friend’s dignified acceptance. “If naught else will sway you, remember this Faramir, for all the time that he keeps us apart, Saruman is winning. He doesn’t deserve to!”

With that the King turned on his heel and walked back down the path to where the rest of the jubilant throng were enjoying the summer night.

Faramir watched the King’s powerful form retreat but did not follow immediately. Instead he turned back, to gaze unseeing at the beautiful scenery. The words of his Monarch drifted around his head, but the thing he could not forget was the glint of desperation that shone in Aragorn’s eyes. And he knew deep in his heart, that no matter his own plight, it was wrong that those he loved and the rest of his country should be made to suffer.

Chapter Two - Confrontation

Faramir closed his eyes and tried to violently rub away the itch that he felt there. It did not work, and he snorted dejectedly. He sat at his desk in his library. It was late, and the rest of the world seemed to be sleeping. It was only at this time of night that the house was ever this quiet. Normally Faramir enjoyed the chance to be able to study in such peace, but since his conversation with the King over a week ago, he had found himself unable to concentrate on anything.

The royal party had returned to Minas Tirith two days ago, and the house was almost back to normal. Everything reverting back to how it had been except for Faramir’s conscience. He knew the reason for that was because he agreed with the King’s assessment of his behaviour. He was being selfish and childish, but something stopped him from being able to put the episode with Saruman and the consequent damage it had done to his self- esteem behind him. Even the King’s obvious frustration was not enough to give him the impetus to change his decision.

Faramir sat back from his desk. Over the preceding years, he had spent numerous nights like this one, poring over so many books and journals desperate for knowledge. It had been difficult in the beginning as he had no access to the vast libraries of the White City. But now Elboron was a pupil in the Academy there, his eldest son was constantly sending him books home. Aware of his father’s need to understand what had befallen him, Elboron had spent long hours hunting through the libraries, and Faramir was deeply grateful.

However, although all that time had been spent, Aragorn’s words had forced Faramir to put in to perspective exactly what he had achieved. It was heart breaking to realize that he knew little more than he had the day he had resigned his Stewardship. He certainly had found nothing to ease his fear that he was still held under Saruman’s power in some way. Faramir had always been a proud and independent man, and the thought that he was beholden to the wizard was the hardest thing to bear. That, more than anything else, was what had pushed him to find the key to unlock the power. Once he had done that, he had promised himself he would return to Minas Tirith and all that it held. He had never realized it would take so long and that Gondor would suffer in the meantime. A naturally modest man, he could still not quite believe that there was no one else that Aragorn could engage to fulfill the Steward’s duties.

His failure to find the means to release himself hurt him acutely. How he wished that Mithrandir was still on Middle Earth, but the White Wizard had long since departed. There was no one else that Faramir could ask, so he had tried to do it alone. It was only now that he allowed himself to look above his single-minded endeavor to critically evaluate what he had achieved. Seven years while his King waited and Gondor suffered; seven years for what?

“My Lord?” The voice came from outside the slightly ajar library door, pulling Faramir from his reverie.

“Yes,” he replied as he looked up.

“There is someone to see you, my Lord,” said the guard as he peered into the library’s candle lit interior.

Faramir’s face crumpled puzzled. “At this time of night?” he said.

“Begging your pardon, my Lord,” continued the guard, “But he has a strange look.”

Faramir could now make out the guard’s features as he stood on the threshold. “In what way, Tobir?” he asked.

Tobir shrugged. “He’s not the sort of person you would want in your library at any time, let alone at three o’clock in the morning,” he responded gruffly.

Faramir smiled. “I don’t think I need worry with the caliber of my guards,” he said. “Bring him through but keep an eye out.”

Tobir bowed. “Very good sir,” he said.

Faramir stood and moved toward the fire. It had once roared welcomingly in the grate, but he had forsaken it during the evening and it was almost burned through. Still it was not cold, as autumn was only newly trying to force itself into prominence over the hot summer.

Faramir turned as he heard the footsteps nearing, but the welcoming smile froze on his lips when he saw the identity of the newcomer.

“Greetings!” came the insidiously whining voice.

Faramir looked past its owner to the guard. “Thank you, Tobir,” he said.

“But...”

Faramir shook his head. “That will be all,” he said authoritatively. He shut the door, hiding the guard’s burly, retreating form.

Turning to the newcomer, Faramir’s face was contorted with rage as he spat, “What do you want?”

The other man had moved silently into the room and was appraising his surroundings minutely. He turned back to where Faramir shivered with unconcealable rage. The man’s lips twisted into an obsequious smile.

“Is that any way to greet the man who practically saved you from the rope, Faramir?” he said mildly. “I am sure that is not the how your father taught you to welcome valued guests.”

Faramir breathed in deeply. “What my father taught me is not relevant, Wormtongue!” he snapped, when he could trust himself to speak.

“Oh but it is,” Grima Wormtongue purred, “for what are we, if not our fathers’ sons?”

“What do you want?” Faramir fought valiantly to quell his temper and keep his celebrated control.

Wormtongue’s smile widened. “I promised myself I should see Ithilien,” he said. “And I thought to renew old friendships. How is your good lady wife? I hear that the two of you are set on populating the whole of Ithilien yourselves. Six children is it now?” He let out a lecherous chuckle.

Faramir shuddered but he refused to be drawn. “What do you want?” he repeated, his tone as icy as his eyes.

Wormtongue had moved to the desk. He picked up the book that Faramir had left open there and whistled through his teeth. “Palantiri and How to Survive Them,” he mocked. “I would have thought that would be more appropriate for your family, bearing in mind your history!”

Faramir grabbed the book from Wormtongue’s grasping hands. It was actually a beautiful Sindarin tome that Faramir knew the other man was unable to decipher. He threw it back on the table.

“Temper, temper,” Wormtongue sniggered.

It was too much for Faramir, he grabbed the other by his collar roughly. “What do you want?” he spat.

Wormtongue made a strange growling sound in his throat. “I have information!” he squeaked.

Breathing heavily, Faramir reluctantly let the other man go. “Go on,” he ordered.

Wormtongue made a great play of straightening his tunic. He eyed the bottles of liquor on the cupboard to his left. “I’ve come a long way,” he said. “Any chance of refreshment for my dry throat?”

Faramir snorted. His eyes never left Wormtongue, as he moved across the room, poured a small amount of brandy and then passed it to the other man.

Wormtongue took a long gulp and emptied the glass. He handed it back to Faramir expectantly. The ex-Steward put it on the desk and turned back.

“Go on,” he repeated through clenched teeth.

Wormtongue appeared to have regained his confidence and smiled. He moved over to a comfortable chair and sat on it.

Finally he began. “A couple of weeks ago, I had cause to be in Minas Tirith. How it has changed. If you get chance you should go and see the new building works.” He smiled at Faramir’s obvious chagrin. “Oh, I forgot, you are exiled, aren’t you?”

“I have been very patient with you,” Faramir began, his tone was iced with malice. “I counsel you now I am that close to wringing your pathetic neck. Tell me why you are here quickly, for it is the only way I shall let you walk from this room.”

Wormtongue gulped. The threat was unmistakable. His smile was gone, in its place his tongue protruded from the side of his mouth. “I was in the library in Minas Tirith,” he said quickly. “And I saw a young boy there. I recognized him instantly. He had the look of his mother whom I still hold dear. He was updating an arrangement with the librarian to have some books shipped to you in Ithilien. I listened for a long time, and I began to understand.”

Wormtongue paused, but the cold prompting in Faramir’s eyes forced him on immediately. “It got me thinking, and I realized that you are still in torment here, aren’t you? After all those years, the rest of us have moved on, but not you. He holds you in his spell still, as he said he would. You are still searching, trying to escape his power. Aren’t you?”

The fear and hesitancy had left Wormtongue. He sat in the chair, his eyes gleaming their challenge as they held Faramir’s intently. It was the ex- Steward who found the need to break the stare and look away. Wormtongue sniggered.

“Another drink would be nice,” he hissed. Much to his surprised amusement, Faramir moved to comply.

As he handed the glass over, their eyes met once more. “What do you know?” Faramir’s voice was strangely brittle with apparent vulnerability.

“Not so quickly,” Wormtongue replied. “Farming is such an expensive business and so very tiring for an old man like myself.”

Faramir’s eyes widened as his mouth fell open. “You have been paid off once,” he spluttered.

“That was seven years ago, and that was from the King! You have never paid the debt you owe me for saving your skin.” Wormtongue said. “Although, I did have a good pair of boots, now I need new ones!”

Faramir’s eyes fell on the other man’s boots as Wormtongue knew they would. The former Steward let out a frustrated but impotent roar as he recognized them as his own

“I got them from an anonymous benefactor,” Wormtongue laughed.

Faramir’s hand went to his head, his shoulders shivered, and he turned away from his tormentor. There was silence for a long time as he fought his emotion. Wormtongue simply watched the entertainment.

When his voice finally came, Faramir refused to turn back to Wormtongue. “How much do you want?” he asked dully, eyes staring at the wall.

Wormtongue whistled through his teeth. “It’s useful information,” he said. “Fifty pieces of gold.”

His smile widened as he saw Faramir’s body shivered with rage and heard his sudden vent of breath.

“You mock me!” Faramir spat.

Wormtongue stood up and moved to stand directly behind him, so close that Faramir could feel the other’s putrid breath on the back of his neck.

“It’s easily done, you pompous fool!” Wormtongue said.

Faramir turned to confront him then, the anger surging through him with liberating and uncontrollable venom.

Wormtongue stepped back. “Come on then Lord Faramir!” he jeered, “Show me what you’ve got!”

The fist hit him square on the side of the jaw and flung Wormtongue’s pathetic body to the floor. He groaned and dabbed feebly at the split that had appeared on his lip, spitting blood.

“Did that make you feel better, Son of Denethor?” he scoffed. “How commendable of you to take out your temper on a defenceless, old man!”

Faramir stood above him, his forehead beaded in sweat and breathing heavily.

“Get out!” he spat with murder in his voice.

Wormtongue stared at him for a long moment, as if measuring the conviction in his voice. Slowly and painfully he pulled himself to his feet.

“I have what you want,” he hissed. “And sooner or later you will beg me for it.”

He turned and shambled towards the door but as he reached it, he turned back. “Every day you delay, the price goes up five gold pieces!

Faramir stepped towards him, hand raised. “Get out!” he repeated. “Or I will rip the life out of you with my bare hands, right now!”

After Wormtongue had retreated, and once he was sure that Tobir had escorted him off the premises, Faramir returned to the library. He picked up Wormtongue’s empty glass and threw it with all of his pent up fury to explode on the wall above the fireplace.

He stood for a long time. Shocked at his own reaction to the provocation he had been subject to, he gently massaged his bruised knuckles and thought deeply.

Chapter Three - Together

There was the normal chaos at the breakfast table, as all the family argued, ate and laughed together. Eowyn fussed over her children, as did Maura and the new young maid, Hiril. There was much commotion as Melethron, the youngest of the brood at a little over a year, tipped his porridge over. It fell not only on the table but also over the leg of his sister, Eirien, the next youngest, who immediately burst out in tears. It took a good ten minutes before everything calmed down enough for the meal to continue.

Finally it was over, and Eowyn ushered all the younger children out into the nursery where their tutor waited. Elboron and Cirion, who were both on summer vacation from the Academy, where they were both now pupils, wandered out into the garden, muttering something about cooling off down by the stream. Eowyn gently gave Melethron to Hiri, and the maid rushed out to clean him up. Only then did she turn to regard her husband, who had been sitting silently at the head of the table, seemingly oblivious to the anarchy around him.

“Honestly, it’s like trying to feed an army, although without the discipline!” She reached across for a slice of cold toast. “Did you come to bed at all last night?” she asked.

Faramir sniffed and his glazed eyes suddenly found focus on her. “What?” he said. Then he shook his head slowly as he realized what she had asked him.

“You get too carried away in those books,” she admonished gently. “You need to sleep as well.”

He sighed and his hand went up to his head. It was then she noticed the cuts on his knuckles.

“Faramir, what’s wrong with your hand?” she asked, suddenly concerned.

He looked at it and blinked, as if seeing it for the first time. He flexed his fingers and stared, as if mesmerized.

Eowyn knew exactly what the bruising signified. She put down her toast. “Whom did you hit?” she asked.

“Wormtongue,” Faramir said softly.

Eowyn puffed in confusion. “What... Wormtongue, but how?”

Faramir shrugged as it was a regular occurrence and nothing was amiss. “He came to see me last night. He was rather.... eh... unreasonable, so I hit him.”

Eowyn’s mouth was wide open and her eyes gleamed with shock. “You hit him!” she repeated and then her face broke in to a satisfied smile. “Well good for you! He deserved that,” she beamed.

Faramir stood up. “As you know, it is not the way I normally conduct business, but I have to admit,” and his face broke into a corresponding smile, “I enjoyed it!”

He moved around the table to his wife. They had been together for so long that the gestures of affection that they had regularly shown each other at the start of the relationship were now rare, but he felt the need to touch her warmth. Something he did not understand pushed him to her. Sensing his need, she stood up, and they embraced. He pressed his face into her neck and nuzzled her softly.

“Will he come back?” Eowyn asked, for though she wanted to respond to her husband, her constantly practical mind sought security.

“No,” he whispered into her ear. “He won’t ...ever.” In between his words, he kissed her softly as deep down he felt his passion began to stir.

“Come to bed,” he purred.

She giggled as his soft whiskers tickled her neck.

“Faramir!” her voice was playfully shocked. “It’s the middle of the morning. I have things to do.”

He continued to nestle into her neck as his hands enveloped her in a longing embrace.

“Come and ‘do’ things with me,” he enticed. Playfully she pushed him away. “What has got into you?” she said. “Abusing visitors and now this!”

He would not be denied. Instead he bent and took her into his arms once more. She began to beat at him lightheartedly, her small, balled fists falling painlessly on his chest.

“Stop, woman!” he teased. “You should know your place. And today your place is in bed with me!”

So saying, he lifted her off her feet and carried her. She was giggling but not giving in without a fight, and it took him some time to negotiate his way to the bedroom. By then the whole household had been alerted to what was occurring. Anborn had just arrived to discuss an issue with Faramir, but with a smirk he turned away.

“I will return later, much later,” he said to Maura, who rolled her eyes knowingly.

“Oh, Captain,” she said. “I will not hear of any book being run with regard to the gender of the next one, you know.”

Anborn’s smile widened. “The next one!” he said, shaking his head. “Who’d have thought that lanky, little Ranger who turned up at Henneth Annûn all those years ago had it in him!” His eyes twinkled as he teased, “I’ll pop round and see Beregond later to find out which his money is on!”

“Don’t you dare!” Maura said rising to the bait, but the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers had already slipped away, as was his talent. Maura cursed where he had been and then turned back to the meal she was preparing. “Better make it special,” she muttered. “My guess is that they will have worked up quite an appetite.”

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The morning sun sparkled in through the window as the heat of the day grew. Outside the birds were singing merrily, and their voices were joined by those of the children, playing happily outside on the grass.

Eowyn could not stop the contented smile running across her lips. Beside her, his head resting on her chest, and his arm still cuddling her protectively, Faramir snored softly. She looked down at his familiar face, appearing so young and carefree when lost in the release of sleep, and gently stroked his tangled hair.

She wished for this moment to last forever. Although she had joked about her husband’s treatment of Wormtongue the night before, the very mention of the name, not to mention the thought of that toad being in her house, so close to the children, had struck fear into her heart. The fear that it was all about to start again, for though it had been seven years ago, she knew that Faramir had still not recovered from his last skirmish with Saruman. His behaviour, although nowhere near as desperate as it had been at the time, was still bizarre enough to give her serious concerns. Long had she debated whether she should raise it with him, but in truth she feared the consequences of such a discussion, and so, uncharacteristically, she had held her tongue.

Her anxiety had been re-focused and augmented since the royal visit. She had known that Aragorn had asked her husband to reconsider his position once more. Faramir had not disclosed the details of what had passed between the men that evening, but she could tell from both their reactions that harsh words had been spoken. On their return the King had appeared flushed, and Eowyn noted that his hands had shook with what she could only conceive as being anger. Faramir had been subdued and troubled. This morning’s antics had been the first time he had really seemed at ease since.

Now, this further revelation that Grima Wormtongue had been there concerned her greatly. She was not aware that her husband had met with him since those awful events of seven years ago. Thinking on it now, she realized she had missed it at the time, but there had been something sinister in the tone of Faramir’s voice when he had asserted that Wormtongue would never bother them again.

An ice-cold fear gripped at her heart. She needed to be assured and began shaking Faramir beside her. He groaned and tried to turn away.

“Faramir,” she hissed. “Wake up.”

He opened one weary eye and stared at her through the unruly hair that fell across his face. “Not again,” he breathed. “Give a man time. I’m not as young as I used to be!”

“We need to talk,” she said.

“Oh,” he groaned again and slowly pulled himself to a sitting position. “I might be able to manage that.”

“What did you mean about Wormtongue not bothering us anymore. You haven’t killed him, have you?”

“No,” he said.

Eowyn let out a sigh of relief but gulped it back in again as he continued. “Not yet, but I will.”

She stared at him and saw the bright glimmer of conviction in his eye. It scared her. She would have expected such a reaction from her brother Eomer- King, who in fact had been furious that Aragorn had agreed to release Wormtongue last time, but not from her husband. Personally she had long hoped that Wormtongue would meet a grisly end, and even hoped she may be able to have some part in it, but somehow she had never thought that her husband would be the one to strike the final blow.

“Faramir,” she said, trying to find a way to frame her concerns, which would not offend him. “The threat of violence, murder even, is not what I would expect from you.”

He sighed deeply. “When a man is pushed to the limit, when a man knows he has wasted time, been taken for a fool, who knows what to expect from him?”

They were silent for a long time. Finally she asked, “You will be careful won’t you? And anyway, why now?”

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Because...” he replied but let the sentence fade to nothing.

“Because what?” she pressed. “This is important, Faramir. I need to understand.”

He nodded. “The King is desperate. He told me that his rule is failing. Not because of important things like wars and diplomacy, but because of the little things. The things that he says I could attend to, I should attend to.”

Eowyn’s face darkened. “He cannot blame that on you. There are others surely.”

Eowyn had remained steadfastly loyal to Faramir’s decision to resign his Stewardship. Although she hated the circumstances that had forced him to take such action, secretly she was pragmatic enough to realize that it had given him the chance to devote so much more time to her and their family. Time that would have been shared between them and the Minas Tirith court had become exclusively theirs. She knew that the children had benefited greatly from their father’s unwavering attention.

“Apparently not,” Faramir responded.

“But his rule failing? It cannot be.”

Faramir gulped. “I don’t think he lied. His desperation was genuine and quite frightening.”

Eowyn closed her eyes as all the thoughts rushed about her head. Finally she came to a decision. “You must go back, Faramir,” she stated her conclusion, not willing to disclose the thought process that had got her to it.

“I know,” he shook his head sadly. “No matter what I do, it appears the fall of Gondor will always be my fault. I cannot withdraw from society without my supposed unique talents suddenly becoming crucial to its very existence, and if I do return I may kill the King!” His eyes were bleak as he finished, “Which is the lesser of the evils?”

“You do not know that the spell has not been lifted,” Eowyn stated, speaking from hope, but realising as she said it that all the facts pointed to the same conclusion; they both really knew it had not.

Faramir steepled his hands and chewed his thumbs. “No, I do not, and I have wasted so much time and effort getting absolutely nowhere in trying to determine the answer. My head does not know, but my heart tells me the stain has not left me and will not without action.”

“Why was Wormtongue here?” Eowyn asked. Something was still gnawing at her conscience.

Faramir snorted. “He is aware of my predicament. He offered me information to aid me.”

“What information?”

Faramir threw back the bed covers and eased his feet on to the floor. Standing up, he padded towards the bathroom. “I do not know,” he replied as he disappeared. “I was not prepared to pay the price he asked of me to find out.”

Eowyn cursed loudly, reverting to her native Rohiric to best express her feelings. She was still describing in graphic detail what she would like to do to Wormtongue, when Faramir came back into the bedroom after his wash.

He dripped on the floor, as he stood, a towel around his middle his only garment and regarded her, a smile playing across his lips.

“Do you mind, Lady?” he teased. “My children may be within earshot and I do not wish them to be exposed to such barrack room language!”

Eowyn stopped and pouted as the colour rose in her cheeks. “You are taking this very calmly,” she retorted hotly.

“You forget, Eowyn,” he responded. “I exorcised some of my demons last night when my fist connected with his jaw.” He shook his head. “And it felt good,” he muttered.

He sat down on the bed and handed her another towel. She began to dry his back.

“So what are we to do?” she asked.

He let out a long, deep sigh but refused to meet his wife’s eye. “I have to come to a decision,” he reasoned. “But which way do I go?”

Chapter Four - Decisions

Eowyn woke early the next morning to the sound of a baby’s cry. Almost without opening her eyes, she was out of bed and through into Melethron’s room. She picked the child up into her arms and returned to her own bed with him. Placing him down in the middle of the bed, she climbed in next to him, whispering him her assurances. She was tired, and sleep was claiming her once more as Melethron hushed. She cuddled him close, but then the feeling that something was not quite right clutched at her.

She extricated herself from Melethron’s grip and sat up. The other side of the bed was empty. It would not have been the first time her husband had not come to bed at all, but she knew for a fact he had definitely been there earlier. He may have simply got up early, but a nagging doubt still ached at her mind.

Pausing to check that Melethron was content, she got out of bed. Her intention was to go down to the library to see if Faramir was there, but as she reached for her gown, she saw the envelope propped on her dressing table. Her name was written on it in his unmistakably beautiful handwriting.

She picked it up, her heart suddenly thundering in her chest. The letter felt ordinary in her hand, but her heart screamed that what it contained was anything but commonplace. She sat down on the bed, took a deep breath and opened it.

Inside there was a letter and a second smaller envelope addressed to Elboron, which Eowyn put gently on the bed beside her. Unfolding the first letter she began to read:

‘My Dearest Eowyn,

Forgive me.’

The feeling of impending doom grew in the depths of her stomach. Impatiently pushing her hair out of her eyes, she continued:

        ‘I wish I had the strength to tell you this yesterday but, as ever, I
        have taken the coward’s way for fear that you, with your common sense
        and practicality, would talk me from the path that I have determined
        to pursue. Forgive me my weakness, my love.

        You know I have struggled with my conscience. You know I have felt
        powerless and unable to determine my course. I cannot stay here and
        let Aragorn and all he has worked for fail, too many good men died
        winning his throne, for me to allow that to happen. Neither can I
        risk endangering his life once more.

        I am therefore resolved at last, I hope to return to Minas Tirith and
        be of some service to my King, but first I must seek out that which
        enslaves me, that which has stolen my purpose and my honour. I must
        confront my fear and win back what I allowed him to take from me so
        easily. I must do this or die in the attempt.

        If I do not return please give the enclosed letter to Elboron – it may
        help him to understand.

        Look for me in the sunset at Henneth Annûn and listen for me in the
        thrill of our children’s voice. But most of all feel me in your own
        heart, for that is the only place where I have ever felt true and
        lasting peace.

I love you, my darling,

Faramir.’

Eowyn sniffed back the tears and re-read the words again. They brought her no comfort.

“Faramir, you fool,” she said finally. “Why must you always face it alone? Why do you still not understand that you have friends who will do whatever it takes to help you through this?”

She jumped from the bed and moved to the wardrobe. She rifled through all of her clothes, violently discarding all until she found what she sought. Her hands worked furiously then as she dressed and beheld herself in the mirror. She could not resist the quiver of pride that rushed through her veins then. It may be twenty years and six children later, but the armour still fitted her form immaculately.

“Greetings, Dernhelm,” she said to her reflection. “I have need of your help.”

********************************************************

Faramir walked somewhat stiffly into the roadside inn. It had been a long time since he had spent a whole day in the saddle and his legs were evidencing their displeasure painfully.

Like the Ranger he once was, he had spent a number of days tracking his quarry, and he was now confident that he had found what he sought.

Faramir blinked as his eyes adjusted to the candle lit interior. The Inn Keeper was polite but professional. Although Faramir wore no insignia on his livery, the proprietor’s eyes glinted with recognition as he spoke to his customer, but he said nothing except what was necessary.

After setting his saddlebags in his room, Faramir returned down the rickety stairs to the public bar. He ate a satisfying, if basic, meal and then sat back in the shadows with a mug of ale and waited.

The bar began to fill, as the labourers and workers came in following the end of their working day. The noise level increased steadily as the ale flowed. If anyone noted the stranger in the corner, no one gave any sign of it.

Finally Wormtongue entered, to howls of derision from the other regulars. He swore and whinged at them, but they simply laughed in his face. Spilling his ale as he sought respite from the jeering, Wormtongue turned desperately away from the bar. As he did so, his eyes fell on Faramir. His demeanour changed instantly.

Gone was the pathetic butt of the joke. Wormtongue perceived a soul, he thought, more tortured than his own and took strength from the other’s misfortune. He drew himself up to his full height and moved towards Faramir. This obvious change in posture delighted the watchers, who bombarded him with insults and whistles. He ignored them all as he moved in on his prey.

But Wormtongue had misjudged the ex-Steward greatly, his pride blinded him into misplaced confidence, and he failed to notice the dangerous glint in Faramir’s eye.

“I knew you would come,” Wormtongue said with self-assured glee. “I knew you wouldn’t refuse me.”

Faramir eyed him and indicated he should sit. Wormtongue pulled his ungainly body down on to the chair opposite. The crowd watched for a while but soon lost interest and went back to their own mundane conversations. Most, however, cast numerous, interested glances to the corner where the well-dressed stranger sat with the worm.

“Do you have the money?” Wormtongue asked greedily, still thinking himself master of the situation.

Faramir smiled coldly. “I have had a long ride,” he said. “Let me first refresh my dry throat.”

Wormtongue nodded, his tongue snaking rapidly in and out of his mouth. They sat in silence for a long time. Outwardly Faramir appeared indifferent to his companion, but he actually watched him very closely, noting the small changes in the other’s behaviour that indicated Wormtongue was loosing patience.

Finally, bristling, Wormtongue tried again. “I...”

Faramir raised his hand. “Not yet,” he ordered. Then indicating Wormtongue’s mug he said, “More ale?”

Wormtongue nodded. “All right but....”

Faramir ignored him, stood up and moved to the bar. He left the older man sitting impatiently alone at the table.

The Inn Keeper quickly refilled the two tankards Faramir gave him.

“Begging your pardon, my Lord,” he began as Faramir proffered payment. “But I don’t think the likes of him should be doing business with someone like you.” He nodded to where Wormtongue stared at them distrustfully. “He’s naught but trouble, if you don’t mind me saying, Lord Faramir. It is Lord Faramir, isn’t it?”

Faramir smiled. “Yes, it is. And thank you for your concern, but I know exactly what he is.”

As he passed back the change, the Inn Keeper hesitated, “When are you coming back, Lord? We all miss you. We know it was all just a misunderstanding, particularly those of us veterans who fought for you during the War.”

Faramir took the change. “Where did you fight, soldier?” he asked.

The Inn Keeper’s eyes glistened with pride. “Osgiliath and Minas Tirith, Sir,” he said. “The worst time of my life but somehow, ever since, my heart has never beat so strongly in my chest, as it did then. Fear makes you truly alive.”

Faramir sighed. Instead of replacing the change in his purse, he took out a further gold coin. “I thank you for your service. You and your regulars have a drink on me.”

“Nay, Sir,” the Inn Keeper responded. “It was my duty, and through it all t’was a pleasure to serve you.”

Faramir refused to take back the coin. “Then follow my last order, soldier,” he smiled and turned away from the bar.

“Thank you, Lord!” The Inn Keeper called after him, and there was a general buzz of agreement from the rest of the gathering.

“It makes me sick!” Wormtongue hissed as Faramir placed his drink before him. “You play the nobleman so well, don’t you? If they really knew the blackness in your heart, they would not love you so.”

“And what do you think they would do to you, if they knew you were trying to blackmail me?” Faramir asked as he sat down.

Wormtongue looked distinctly uncomfortable but said nothing.

Faramir took a long draw of his ale and then licked his lips. “’Tis good brew,” he muttered.

“Have you got my money?” Wormtongue pressed, his desperation suddenly evident.

Faramir held him with a long, disapproving stare before answering, “No, I have not.”

Wormtongue gasped in anger and stood up. “You waste my time,” he hissed.

Faramir raised his eyebrows. “On the contrary,” he said mildly. “I am doing you a favour.”

“How so?” Wormtongue asked.

“You have been such good company this night that I have decided not to do what I came here for.”

Wormtongue’s eyes narrowed. He had caught the veiled threat in the other’s tone and for the first time begun to perceive that Faramir was not the desperate soul, he had sought to manipulate days before.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice quavering slightly.

Faramir’s stare was masterful in its cold fury. “I will not kill you, not yet anyway.”

Wormtongue gulped, his mouth suddenly dry. “Kill me?” he said, nervously giggling. “You, kill me? You would not do that.”

Faramir took a deep breath. “I am a patient man, but you have pushed me too far. I have come to the end of my tolerance. I am resolved to finish this, and since I do not care to pay you what you ask, the only way I could see to rid myself of you was to kill you.” His voice was steady and emotionless as he spoke, which made it all the more frightening.

Wormtongue’s laugh was brittle and nervous. “But you are Faramir, son of Denethor!” He tongue was snaking violently as he stared at the other, trying to decide the ex-Steward’s intent. “Besides, I have important information for you,” he whined.

“I don’t need your information,” Faramir said dismissively.

“But....” The fear in his voice was now unmistakeable.

Faramir stood up, and Wormtongue cowered. “I will not kill you because you are such an entertaining drinking partner. Instead I am taking you with me.”

Wormtongue’s eyes were wide and his tongue bobbing uncontrollably. “Take me where?”

“I am going to see a friend of yours,” Faramir moved forward.

Wormtongue stepped backwards and realised that all the other conversation in the Inn had stopped. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that everyone in the place was watching the exchange with interest.

“A friend of mine?” he hissed. “I have no friends!”

Faramir’s smile was grim. “But you do, Grima,” he said. “You’re coming with me to see Saruman.”

“Saruman!” Wormtongue squealed and turned to run but the Inn. Customers had formed an impenetrable wall that he banged against. They forced him back to stand before the ex-Steward.

“I can’t, I can’t...please,” Wormtongue fell to his knees. “He will kill me. You can’t make me go. I am a free man; the King freed me!”

Faramir reached down and picked up the trembling wreck by his collar. Lifting him up, he spoke with grim determination into Wormtongue’s contorted face.

“I tell you this Grima, you should fear me more than you fear the wizard because, in here in front of honourable men, I swear, for all the hurt you have given me and others, I shall be the one will kills you. You have forced me to this. Only the manner and the time of your death need to be decided. Play me false, and believe it will be soon, and it will be slow and painful!”

Wormtongue struggled. “You would not, you could not.” he whined in desperation.

Faramir simply held his gaze, his eyes blazing.

“No, no,” Wormtongue began to cry as he realised the truth in the other’s words.

“Inn Keeper,” Faramir said.

“Aye, Lord Faramir.”

“Would you be so good as to take this scum and lock him up somewhere safe and uncomfortable until the morning, please?”

“It would be an absolute pleasure, my Lord.” The Inn Keeper said as he and a number of men moved forward to comply.

As he passed the cringing figure, Faramir said, “You better spend the night remembering where Saruman is, Wormtongue, because we leave at first light. And if you lead me astray, I shall see you never do so again.”

Wormtongue was still screaming for mercy as the men roughly carried him away to the stables.

Faramir sat back at his table and finished his ale silently. He felt suddenly exhausted and retired to his bed soon afterward.

Chapter Five – Uncertainty

Eowyn yawned. They had been in the saddle for a number of days, and the gentle motion of her horse was most soporific. Not one of the three riders had spoken for some time, each preferring the silence of their own thoughts.

It was very different from the pandemonium that had preceded the start of their journey. Her mind went back to that awful morning, after the shock of reading Faramir’s letter; the need to act had soon taken her.

She had summoned Anborn immediately. He had raised his eyebrows at her garb but had said nothing. She had apprised him of the situation, explained her plan and asked him to send word to both the King and Prince Legolas of what had happened.

She could tell from his scowl that he was less than pleased with her plan, but he was in a difficult situation. As Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, Anborn knew he had no men to spare to follow Faramir, although that was obviously what he would wish to do. Still he was unsure that Eowyn’s proposal of her own services was the best option. He was finally persuaded by that old war horse, Beregond, who although now retired from the White Company had been alerted by his still serving son, Bergil, of the situation.

Beregond had offered to accompany Eowyn, for as he put it, “You know I would follow our Prince into the darkness of Sauron’s own hall.”

Eowyn had smiled and silently marvelled at the quality of her husband that engendered such loyalty in his men. It was an easy decision for her to accept Beregond’s offer. It had been infinitely more difficult for her to agree that her other companion join them.

She looked across to where Elboron sat proudly at her side, his jaw set in grim determination. When he and Cirion had both offered, she had wanted to tell them both not to be so stupid, but she had seen the pleading in their eyes. She had known that it was wrong to dismiss them immediately. Instead, she had pondered for as long as she possibly could, weighing in her mind the danger against the boys’ need to do something to aid their father.

Both boys were well schooled in the arts of war, having had the very best of training that Gondor could provide, but neither had yet been forced to experience battle conditions. At almost fifteen, Elboron was expected to spend the following summer attached to a regiment in Gondor’s army, and though Cirion was four years his junior, he was as skilled as his brother.

Eowyn did not want her children hurt; what mother did? But she was painfully aware that neither of them were babies anymore, and she could not keep them safe. They would both be soldiers in Gondor’s army one day, and she was determined they would be prepared as well as possible when the time came.

She did not know what danger she would face, but bearing in mind that she had asked the King for aid, she did not believe it would be for any sustained period of time. The boys had to learn the truth of life as soldiers at some point, and this may be an excellent opportunity. But she dared not take both in case some unmitigated disaster occurred.

She then pondered which boy to take, knowing that she would break the heart of the other. Elboron was the eldest, and almost a man. He was the physically stronger, having inherited the physique and looks of his Rohan ancestors, but in truth, Cirion was probably the most determined and certainly an intrepid warrior. She recalled her horror when, only two weeks into his first term at the Military Academy, she had been called to the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. Cirion had been fighting with older boys and had suffered a bad facial wound. He would bear the scar of a knife wound down the left side of his cheek for life. The Healer had said he had been lucky not to lose his eye.

She remembered sitting by her second son’s bed, waiting for him to awake, staring at the half of his face that was not swathed in bandage and seeing that the boy was indeed a minute imitation of his father. Cirion, more than any other of her children, was the image of Faramir from his grey eyes, to his colouring, to his physique.

When Cirion finally woke, she had made him tell her why he had been fighting. To begin with he had pouted, been stubbornly resolute and refused to speak, but she had finally extracted the truth from him, as only a mother could.

Cirion’s lower lip had trembled, and his eyes filled with tears, as he confessed. “There were six of them, all older than Bron. They said I had my father’s eyes,” he said. Then the tears have flown freely as he had continued, “They said I had the eyes of a traitor.”

She had held him for a long time as the boy had drawn up tears from the bottom of his heart. And when he was finally finished crying, they had talked for some time, and both agreed that it was probably for the best that his father did not find out the true reason for the scarring. She had felt dishonest and guilty, but on her return to Ithilien, where Faramir had been forced to wait and worry, she had told him that the injury had been caused by an accident with a bow. The incident had been all but forgotten, Cirion remained a happy child with the most infectious laugh, except that the scar remained, and Eowyn was not naive enough to believe that both Cirion and Elboron did not suffer other similar treatment because of who their father was.

All these thoughts had swirled around Eowyn’s mind as she pondered her decision. They were both such brave boys, and she was infinitely proud of them. The fact that they had volunteered in this current crisis just underlined their quality. In the end she had decided that Cirion, for all his loyalty and courage, was simply too young. She had explained that he was needed to look after the rest of the family. He was obviously upset, but she was proud that once she mentioned honour and duty, he had bitten back his tears and accepted his role.

So now, she rode silently flanked by Beregond and Elboron, all of the memories and worries flooding around her mind. Earlier in the day, they had stopped at a roadside inn and found that Faramir had been there days before. The Inn Keeper, a veteran of the war of the ring, had also informed them that Faramir had left in the company of Grima Wormtongue, who had a farm in these parts. If you could call it a farm, since the old worm was rarely there, and when he was, did very little work.

Eowyn had shuddered at the mention of that accursed name again, but the Inn Keeper, noticing her blanche, had smiled confidently.

“My Lord Faramir had things well under control,” he said.

“Did they say where they were going?” Beregond asked.

The Inn Keeper shrugged. “He mentioned the wizard, Saruman, and the worm taking him to wherever he was. But they named no specific places. When they left, they went north.”

They had thanked the Inn Keeper and started off up the road. They had travelled northward for some days, asking everybody they saw whether they had seen Faramir. It would appear that the ex-Steward was keeping doggedly to his mission.

At night Eowyn and Beregond discussed her husband’s plans. Elboron listened, and though he offered a few suggestions, seemed content to listen and learn from his elders.

“He must be heading for Isengard,” Beregond hypothesised.

“Is Saruman there?” Bron asked.

“The King has been searching for him for seven years,” Eowyn responded. “I think that would be the first place he would have looked.”

“So if not there, why are we going north?” Bron asked.

Neither of his companions knew the answer, so both remained silent.

*******************************************************

Faramir gazed in to the flames of his campfire and sighed. It had been a long time since he had lived off the land for such a protracted period, and he had been much younger then. Recently he had spent a few nights in the forest with his two older sons but it was many years since he had lived the life of a Ranger. He was finding it difficult to cope. His muscles were increasingly stiff, and his belly grumbled unforgivingly at the meagre meals he was forced to eat. He was beginning to feel light headed, as well as very tired. He found himself dreaming of his bed, and though he would not admit it, he was beginning to doubt his wisdom on ever starting on this mission.

To his great relief, at least the weather had been good; although there was a distinct chill in the air, it had remained dry. He dreaded the thought that the autumn rain was expected, and this journey may have to be completed in wet and miserable conditions.

However, more than all the other issues, the main reason for his bad humour was his travelling companion. There was not a second of the day or night that did not seem to be filled with Wormtongue’s noise. He was either whistling tunelessly or whining pathetically, either happy ridiculing Faramir viciously or cringing in fear of his life. Even when he slept, he snored so loudly that Faramir could find no peace. Wormtongue was indeed one of the most disgusting creatures the ex-Steward had ever had the dubious pleasure to travel with.

This night the situation had become unbearable. All day Wormtongue had been convinced that something awful was about to happen. He had wailed constantly, ignoring Faramir’s increasingly angry orders to be quiet until Faramir had no choice but to gag the noisy nuisance. Even then Wormtongue had moaned maddeningly.

Faramir looked up from the fire, realising that Wormtongue had been quiet for some time. The other man was lying on his side, his hands tied in front of him and his wide, wild eyes staring at Faramir over the top of the roughly fashioned gag.

Inexplicably, Faramir felt a sudden rush of guilt over the way he had treated his prisoner.

“If you promise to stop whining, I will remove the gag,” he offered.

Wormtongue’s eyes spat his defiance, but he nodded slowly. Faramir stood up slowly, trying not grimace at the stiffness in his legs, and moved around the fire. He bent and untied the gag.

Wormtongue spat a long globule of saliva and cleared his throat nosily but said nothing. Faramir returned to his place at the other side of the fire.

“I don’t understand you,” Wormtongue said finally. “Call yourself an honourable man, ha! How can you treat me like an animal?”

Faramir regarded the other with hard eyes before he answered. “You seem to have the impression that I am some sort of soft, spineless fool. I am not. I am prepared to do whatever it takes. You mistake integrity and honour for weakness.”

Wormtongue sneered. “And you forget that I witnessed what Saruman reduced you to. Why do you walk back into his arms?”

“I want the situation resolved,” Faramir said simply. “That is all.”

“And if its resolution results in your death?” Wormtongue pressed.

Faramir shrugged. “So be it. I am not afraid to die.”

“No, I don’t believe you are.” Wormtongue was no longer the irrational moaning idiot. He regarded Faramir with an intense stare. “But there are other torments that Saruman arranges, far worse for you than the simple release of death. You would do better to run and hide, and pray that he forgets about you.”

Faramir smiled ruefully. “I do not think that is an appropriate strategy for an honourable man, but I thank you for the suggestion, Grima.”

Wormtongue bowed his head in mock salute. “You cannot possibly hope to win this fight, Son of Denethor.”

“Again, that is not a good enough reason to stop me from trying,” Faramir said.

Wormtongue shook his head. “As I said, I do not understand you. And I certainly do not believe you will kill me in cold blood.”

“And I do not understand how a once proud Rider of Rohan, chose to fight for the White Hand, rather than his own people,” Faramir said, as he poked at the fire.

Wormtongue let out a metallic cackle. “I could give you many reasons but instead I shall just repeat your own words back to you, ‘I was prepared to do whatever it took.’ Maybe we are not so different after all, ex-Steward of Gondor.”

Faramir stopped and looked up into the other man’s eyes. “Just because a man desires not to fight, does not mean that he will not, if he sees no other way. I believe I have no alternative. You had more than one path open to you and yet chose the way of dishonour.”

Wormtongue’s face contorted indignantly. “Do not dare to judge me,” he hissed. “And worse still do not dare to pity me! If you wish to help me, simply let me go.”

Faramir stood up. “It is late. Get some sleep.”

“Do not forget I am your enemy and I always will be.” Wormtongue muttered.

Although he heard it, Faramir chose to ignore the comment. Instead he moved away to check the horses. In truth, he lacked the stamina to continue the argument with Wormtongue, particularly because the other man seemed able to focus on his doubts and dissect them so effectively.

Not for the first time, Faramir wondered what had possessed him to bring Wormtongue along in the first place.

Chapter Six- Revealed

The three pursuers had stopped where the road crossed a gurgling stream. It was mid afternoon on a hazy, but warm day.

As they waited, Eowyn stared at her son. Her eyes took in the firm set of his jaw, and his long blonde hair gently blowing in the breeze. Although she sometimes could detect certain of his father’s expressions in him, watching Elboron on his horse and prepared as for battle, Eowyn was minded of her brother, Eomer, King of Rohan.

The memory of the day of Elboron’s birth, almost 15 years ago, flashed into her mind unbidden. How proud and contented she had been to present Faramir a beautiful son, but how fragile and helpless the baby was. The vision was so clear in her mind that it seemed like only yesterday, and yet now he sat beside her, almost a man. Where had the time gone? Her heart was suddenly clutched by a rush of fear for her son. She could see where this journey was leading and she suddenly wanted to keep her first born child from it. She made a decision; she would not expose him to more danger than was absolutely necessary.

They sat on their horses and watched as Beregond moved around the muddy edge of the highway, his eyes looking for evidence of movement. Never a Ranger, he had picked up some tracking skills from his time around Anborn and his men. In truth, however, the signs that he saw now were easily read.

Finally he looked up at his companions and squinted. “This is where he left the path. He’s going east; not to Isengard at all,” he pronounced.

The road swirled westwards before them in a large arc that took it to the distant horizon, where the rolling hills of Rohan could just be made out through the haze.

“East,” Eowyn repeated. She pulled her gaze away from the direction of the land of her birth.

Beregond nodded. “Towards Mordor.”

Eowyn could not quash the cold shiver the name brought her even now.

“But why?” Elboron asked. “There is nothing there.”

“We don’t know that,” Beregond said. “Gondor only patrols rarely past where the Black Gate once stood. It is an evil land and the King has had other more pressing affairs to the south. Who knows what may dwell there now.”

Eowyn nodded. “Saruman - it makes sense. If he is not in Isengard, where else could he find minions and tools to suit his purpose but in the lair of the Dark Lord?” She gulped. “And Faramir is going there alone, save for that worm that accompanies him.”

An awful thought grew in her mind as she spoke. She glanced at Beregond and saw from the glint in his eye that he was thinking it, too. She made a quick, silencing motion with her head and looked at Elboron. Beregond nodded that he understood.

“Bron,” Eowyn said. “I need you to go back down the road and find the King. He should be told what is happening.”

“But...” Elboron began.

“That’s an order, soldier,” Beregond snapped. “’Tis a dangerous mission, out here in the wilds on your own. Do not make us have to re-think our plan because of dereliction of your duty.”

Elboron’s face flushed. After a brief but heartfelt farewell, the young man was galloping back down the road. Eowyn sat and watched till he was out of sight.

“It is so hard to let them go,” she muttered.

“Aye,” agreed Beregond. “But he’s a good lad, with a stout heart. He won’t fail us.”

They turned their horses off the road. The tracks of the others were clearly visible on the damp ground heading off eastward. They disappeared as the earth became dustier away from the stream. Eowyn wondered whether Beregond would need to use his rudimentary tracking skills again since it was now obvious which way her husband was going.

She shuddered again as that thought took her back to an earlier one. “What if Faramir isn’t going of his own free will?” she asked, voicing her earlier fear now Elboron was gone. “What if Saruman has called him, using whatever power he has over him, and Faramir cannot resist?”

Eowyn remembered how Faramir had behaved the last time Sauron’s shadow had darkened their lives. She remembered his confusion, his headaches and his inability to rationalise the situation. This time there had been no such obvious indication that something was wrong, as far as she could recall. He had been lucid and logical, all too aware of his problems but able to plan a way to cope with them.

Still, the fact that he had resorted to violence with Wormtongue and had so readily admitted he enjoyed the release was not like him. And his dreams had not abated. He had woken her regularly with his screams. She had not told him but sometimes when she moved to comfort she was unable to touch him. It was as if his whole person was contagious in some way. Just a supportive hand laid on his shoulder had caused her to suffer frightening flashbacks of her own. She had seen the Witch King before her and felt the cold pain in her arm where the fell being had struck her. The only way to stop the memory was to let go of her husband. On a number of occasions, she had resorted to simply lying beside Faramir and listening to him scream, so scared was she to touch him.

She knew there was some nameless terror still lurking deep within him, something that seemed to come nearer the surface when his conscious mind slept. She wished she had found the strength to disclose to him what happened when he slept for it was important knowledge that may help his search. She tried, but she had not wanted to alarm him, not wanted to focus on something for fear that it would set in course events as catastrophic as the last time.

Now she cursed herself that she had not found the words to tell him. She could see clearly that Faramir should have known, and now it was too late.

Beregond reached across and laid a supportive hand on hers. “Then he will need you to free him, my Lady,” he said grimly, bringing her back to their conversation. “For I do believe there is nothing in this whole world that has more power over him than his love for you.”

She smiled but there were tears in her eyes. She sniffed them back. “Wind’s getting cold,” she muttered as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

“Come on, we haven’t time to lose,” Beregond replied.

********************************************************

Faramir slowed his horse. The other horse, which he held on a leading rein, hesitated beside him. Wormtongue, tied securely to its saddle, began to grumble.

He remembered his own shudder of apprehension when Wormtongue had told him where he believed Saruman to have fled.

“How do you know he is there?” he had asked.

Wormtongue had snorted. “Gandalf, the old fool, broke Saruman’s staff and took his power. He has been searching for it since. He knew he was not welcome in Isengard not with those bloody trees there. We came to Mordor first many years ago and I saw the longing in his eye. There is something there he needs, some power still that he seeks to use. His plan was always to return. If he is no where else, that is where he will be.”

Faramir mused over their conversation again. His mind was pulled back to the present by his companion’s voice.

“We can’t go any further,” Wormtongue groaned. “This is madness! He is near. Can’t you sense him? He is reaching out to you. Pulling you in.”

“I sense nothing,” Faramir said resolutely, but it was a lie.

He was deeply unsettled by Wormtongue’s words but forced himself to ignore them. Instead he gazed at the sight before him. Where once the massive Black Gate had stood, there was now only a sea of rubble. Huge misshapen boulders pointed at the sky with grey indifference. Faramir marvelled at the sheer power that had tossed them about as if they had been mere pebbles on a beach. Although much of his adult life had been spent fighting the forces of Mordor, he had seen the Black Gate only rarely. Still the scale of destruction dwarfed his imagination.

A cold wind blew over the rocks, but it was not what made Faramir shiver. His perceptive mind could sense the evil as if it were engrained into the very rock. Even after all the time the malignancy was palpable.

Faramir knew his horse could feel it too. “Easy, Daisy,” he soothed as he stroked the horse’s neck. Gently he urged both the horses on, but it was slow work as they picked their way through the rubble.

“You shouldn’t go on,” Wormtongue groaned. “He will kill us both. Can’t you see this is just what he wants? You fool!”

“We are going on,” Faramir responded. “And I will gag you again, unless you give my ears a rest.”

Wormtongue continued to whine but under his breath, and his words were lost on the growing breeze.

Eventually they made their way through the rubble and on to the deserted plain beyond. After some time, Faramir stopped again and stared. Over in the distance he could see the fiery magnificence of Mount Doom, still smouldering but thankfully not erupting. One side of the once symmetrical cone had been blown away, and it now stood angrily regarding the sky, its angularity making is even more imposing than before. As if to emphasise its power and potential, the fires from below glowed eerily reflecting on the dark clouds above it.

Faramir had to squint to see the details of the mountain as the wind continued to increase. Taking hold of the dirt and debris, it was forming a large cloud of dust, which swept down the valley towards them.

“We have to get out of the wind!” Wormtongue shouted to be heard above its howl and the flapping of their cloaks.

Faramir nodded but still remained motionless, for his eyes had perceived another edifice standing between them and the simmering mountain.

All his life Faramir had envisioned what Mordor would be like. Many nights had he awoken, sweating and screaming as the vision had haunted his nightmares. It had driven him on to fight all the more desperately during the War of the Ring. But since the war’s end, he had mercifully been released from such foul images; recollections of the horrific battles he had seen took their place in his nightmares.

For Mordor had fallen, the Dark Lord had perished, his armies scattered and everything he sought to build had been raised to the ground. He was not at the Black Gate with the Captains of the West on the day that the Ring bearer had completed his quest, but Faramir knew well what had happened. The songs were still sung in the inns of Gondor and beyond. They told him, and he believed, that Mordor was just a barren and empty land that no man yet had the courage to enter and reclaim. In the moment that the One Ring was claimed by Mount Doom and unmade, all its evil was ended. He thought no one remained in Mordor, and he knew that King Elessar planned that Gondor would reclaim the land someday, but only in the future, when time had diminished all their hurt and fear.

Now Faramir stood in the gathering storm, wind buffeting him and dust tearing at his skin and clothes, oblivious to it all. He was unable to move, unable to tear his now streaming eyes away from what he saw. For, rising from the plain between him and Mount Doom, was the embodiment of his nightmares from long ago. His heart was lurching in his chest sending freezing, fear-filled blood around his paralysed body.

“It cannot be,” he muttered but even though the dust cloud enveloped him and blanked all into a world of grey, biting dirt, he knew it was true. He had seen it with his own eyes, and it caused his soul to shiver.

Barad-dur was risen once more.

 Warning: Character death in this chapter.... Get your handkerchiefs ready.....

      Chapter Seven – Capture

Despite having been named after a flower by his master’s young son, Daisy was a magnificent warhorse of Rohan. For many years he had served his Gondorian master with nothing but courage and loyalty, his heart was as brave and strong as any of his herd. But even he had his limit. After what seemed many minutes standing patiently in the face of the storm, with the wind and dust threatening to rip the skin from his bones, Daisy had his fill. It did not help that some moments before, the horse beside him had slipped the leading rein from his master’s hand and galloped away down the valley with its rider still tied to the saddle. Finally, Daisy decided he had endured enough of the sand’s bite; he shied away with an angry snort.

The movement pulled Faramir back from his fear induced reverie. Suddenly, as he felt the stinging of the dust ripping at his exposed skin, self preservation overtook the shock that had struck him motionless. He had to get out of the wind and quickly.

Slipping down from Daisy’s back, he pulled up his cloak’s hood. It was impossible to see in the storm, but he realised that Wormtongue was no longer beside him. He could not remember the time when the rein had slipped through his fingers; however, it was evident that his companion had gone.

“Wormtongue!” Faramir cried. “Grima!” But he soon gave up because the wind whipped the words from his mouth and chased them away.

His mind thought back along the road searching to remember any place that could offer shelter. The only answer was the boulders from the Black Gate. Leading Daisy behind him and grateful that the wind was at least at their back, Faramir made his way back down the valley. Once he found an appropriate rock, he slid down behind it, pulled his hood even tighter about his face and resolved to wait out the storm. Daisy too thrust his head below the height of the rock to benefit from what shelter he could. Glad of the company Faramir reached across and scratched the horse’s muzzle tenderly.

Faramir’s first thought, on seeing the evil tower, was to turn Daisy around and gallop back to Gondor as quickly as he could to warn the King. But his enforced delay caused him to re-think, for what else was there to do as he huddled into the rock, but think?

He had barely glimpsed the tower through the gloom. He didn’t know whether it stood from the Dark One’s time or whether it was newly built. Likewise, he had no way of knowing the threat the tower held. It could contain thousands of orcs, just an old wizard or nothing at all. He needed more information, which he would not obtain by leaving now. He needed to know the nature of the enemy before he raised the alarm with the King. The only way he could get that was to sit out the storm and then investigate further.

He thought on what had happened to Wormtongue and cursed under his breath for letting his attention wander long enough for the other to take advantage. Still, he did not know if that had happened or if the horse had simply bolted at the storm. If that was the case Wormtongue, being tied to the saddle, would surely get his wish of ending up far from Mordor!

Faramir closed his eyes. They were stinging and raw from the dust, but he resisted the urge to rub them; instead he made himself as comfortable as he could and determined to wait for as long as it took.

By the time the storm had blown itself out, night had fallen over the desolate land of Mordor. Faramir hesitantly lifted his head above his shelter as the wind died almost as quickly as it had come. Pulling himself to his feet, he tried rather unsuccessfully to brush the layer of dust from where it had settled over him.

He looked up at the sky, which was suddenly clear and black. Stars twinkled brightly and a massive full moon lit the landscape. Over in the distance Mount Doom’s fires danced, turning that part of the sky red with flame. Faramir mounted Daisy and turned the horse back towards the east. He had discounted thoughts of leaving immediately. He must travel further into Mordor. He had to find out what was happening and always, at the back of his mind, he could not forget that somewhere Saruman waited for him.

Faramir spent the rest of the night and next day exploring the area around the tower. He had not seen Barad Dur in all its evil glory, but as he investigated, he came to see that this tower resembled the tower of Orthanc.

During Faramir’s youth, his father had taken both his sons with him to visit Saruman at Isengard. The memories were not pleasant for Faramir. They were of Saruman as a powerful but arrogant old man, and so very different from the fond recollections Faramir held of his childhood meetings with Mithrandir. Saruman seemed to be always testing him and his elder brother, assessing them, probing for weakness and fear. While Boromir seemed to be able to manage such behaviour, Faramir felt that the wizard was able to look into his very soul and that possibility unnerved him.

On one occasion he remembered running from Orthanc and hiding in the trees that surrounded it, until his father had forced him to reveal himself. Denethor had not been pleased to be so embarrassed by the weakness exposed in his younger son, even though Faramir had been only nine at the time. His father’s anger, although cold, had been evident to all present. Even at such a young age, Faramir had perceived that Saruman had taken some delight in seeing him punished. The wizard’s eyes seemed to gleam with pleasure, as if he had gained some knowledge about the boy he would use to his advantage in the future. Ever after, the second son had endured whatever taunts and tests the wizard had subjected him to through feigning cold indifference and revealing nothing. It was a tactic he had learned to employ throughout much of his childhood.

Thoughts of Saruman now brought back not only that pain, but also the embarrassment of his fall from grace with King Elessar. As he skirted the tower and made mental notes of its aspect, Faramir’s desire for vengeance grew.

Although he found no evidence, he became sure that Saruman was indeed inside the tower. While scouting the area, he found an outcrop of rock which gave him enough cover to observe the tower without being seen from it. Hiding Daisy on the other side but leaving him saddled in case of an emergency, Faramir made himself comfortable and determined to wait to see what came forth from the tower.

Towards dusk his patience was rewarded as a number of figures could be seen exiting the tower from the door at its foot. Faramir squinted through the failing light, trying to discern their features, but the light was too bad and the distance too far. He was sure, however, that none of the figures were Saruman or Wormtongue. Who they were, though, he could not tell.

The figures moved off westward down the valley. Faramir hesitated, unsure whether to follow or stay where he was. He decided to stay, reasoning that his quarry was still inside. And so he waited through the night, slumbering briefly, but all the time watchful and ready.

At dawn the figures returned, pulling behind them the carcass of a deer. They must have travelled far in the night for Faramir had seen no sign of such a large animal in the barren waste that was Mordor. They took the animal inside the tower.

Faramir waited again. His supply of food was almost gone, and he was perilously close to emptying his water bottle. He knew that sometime soon, he was going to have to leave his position to find more provisions. His stomach rumbled loudly as if to emphasise his predicament, but still he lingered.

He needed to know more. Five figures in a tower, in Mordor, that reminded him of Orthanc were hardly enough to worry his King. But Faramir could sense more. He knew that something was amiss. All of his Ranger instincts were pleading with him, telling him that danger was very close.

That night he ate the last of his food and gave Daisy the last of the oats he carried. He allowed himself only one mouthful of water and judged that if he kept his measures to that, he had enough water for three more days. Three more days, and if nothing happened during that time, he would have to leave.

He need not have worried, for something happened the very next morning.

Faramir was dozing; his eyes open but not seeing when it started. The sun had been up for almost an hour but the day was grey with an insipid and indistinct tinge, so much so that he did not realise what he was seeing at first. Then as the picture developed in front of him, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and his blood surged around his cramped body.

From out of the tower two figures tumbled. Faramir bristled, sure that they were orcs. They moved with speed and purpose and Faramir saw the flash of the hazy sun reflected from their weapons. Faramir followed their line of vision and what he saw caused his heart to lurch and his bowels to go cold.

Coming down the valley were two figures on horseback, who appeared to be charging the defenders. Through the mist Faramir squinted as the figures got closer. It was difficult, but as they came nearer he could clearly make out that one was wearing the livery of Gondor and the other was a Rider of Rohan.

Faramir cursed under his breath, for the very earth suddenly seemed to disgorge grotesque figures behind the two riders. Massive shapes, with weapons held high, who were moving to engage the riders. As he sat and watched, his horror growing, it was obvious to Faramir that the riders had been drawn into a trap.

He could watch no more. He slithered down the dusty bank, leapt onto Daisy and then rushed to join the fight. As he rounded the outcrop of rock, his eyes sought to make sense of the scene before him.

The man in the livery of Gondor had been unhorsed but was standing his ground bravely, sword held high, ready to fight on foot. The Rider of Rohan had swept past the enemy and was even now turning to re-engage and aid his companion. The grotesque figures, who had mysteriously appeared behind them, were only seconds away from joining the fight.

Faramir urged Daisy to cover the ground between them in all haste but the distance was too great. As he neared, the newly arrived figures joined the fight in support of the first two orcs; the Rider of Rohan was thrown from his saddle and fell heavily to the floor.

“For Gondor!” Faramir screamed as, at last, he reached his objective and Daisy crashed into the nearest of the enemy.

It registered with Faramir then that they were fighting no ordinary orcs. The newcomers were big, they looked to him very much like the Urak-Hai that he had been told killed his brother. A red mist descended then and Faramir lost all sense, his sword blazed as he was transformed into a devastating dealer of death.

More of the massive uruks spewed forth from the tower. Even as Faramir cut the ferocious creatures down, a fresh multitude appeared to take their place.

“My Lord! My Lord!”

As he cut and thrust and wheeled Daisy to attack again, a familiar voice broke through Faramir’s killing haze. He looked to the man in Gondor livery, as he had lost his helm, Faramir recognised him instantly.

“Beregond?” he shouted.

Beregond was hard pressed to respond as he fought to keep two massive uruks at bay. But he indicated toward his comrade and shouted. “Look to your lady, my Lord!”

Faramir dispatched an enemy as the words fought for recognition in his crazed mind. Understanding came, finally, with a frantic jarring deep in the pit of his soul. Desperately he looked about himself for their other companion. The Rider of Rohan was over to his left and fighting frenziedly.

“Eowyn!” Faramir’s voice broke, as he realised the horror of the situation.

She did not acknowledge him, so lost was she in the fight, but Faramir knew it was she. Recklessly he urged Daisy towards her, steering the horse with his knees, as his sword flashed from side to side. He rode down the uruks who were threatening her and then slipped from the saddle.

For one instant their eyes met. A lifetime of longing swept between them then. He wanted so much to take her in his arms and sweep her away from this horror, to protect her and love her forever, to keep her safe; a moment of transfixing intensity that neither could afford. And then it was over.

He grabbed her to him, resisting the urge to plant even the swiftest kiss on those beloved lips and lifted her swiftly on to Daisy’s back.

“Go!” he commanded and hit the horse’s rump. “To Gondor!”

Daisy sprang forward and though Eowyn looked back longingly, she did not try to slow the horse. She knew her mission, and she would not turn from it even though it ripped her heart. The Shieldmaiden forced the tears from her eyes, and bent low into Daisy’s neck as they flew down the valley back toward Gondor.

Faramir turned, wiping his eyes. He fought his way to Beregond’s side. The pile of bodies was growing in front of them, but still more orcs were coming.

“How goes it, Beregond?” Faramir asked grimly.

Beregond had an evil gash on his thigh, which was spewing blood, but he smiled broadly. “Well, my Captain!” he breathed.

They fought side-by-side, but eventually Beregond began to stagger.

“I fear my strength is all but spent, my Lord,” he said, through gritted teeth.

Faramir grimaced as he glanced across to his companion. As he did so, Beregond could not deflect a thrust from a particularly brutal looking assailant. The blade buried itself deep into Beregond’s gut. The old soldier dropped his sword, let out a long groan and fell forwards. As if this was some signal known to only them, all the Uruk-Hai seemed to hesitate, stepping back from the fight.

“No!” Faramir breathed.

He knelt in the dirt, scooping Beregond’s shivering body up into his arms.

“Beregond, I am so sorry, I have brought you to this,” Faramir said.

“Nay, my Prince,” Beregond spoke through dry lips, his voice little more than a whisper. “This was my choice. Would that I could follow you still into this new danger but an old soldier knows when it is over.”

His body was shaking uncontrollably in Faramir’s arms, but still Beregond wished to speak. “I wished to die in Ithilien, but Mordor makes no difference. It is the manner not the place that is important.”

Faramir nodded, as he held Beregond tightly. “Never has there been a man with more honour than you, my protector and my friend. Fear not brave Beregond, for I will take you home to Ithilien; this I swear.”

Beregond nodded weakly, and then his body tightened painfully. He let out a long, low groan as his last breath escaped and then he relaxed completely.

Faramir dropped his head into Beregond’s chest and clutched his body to him, as the wave of devastation and loss crashed through him.

“You should never promise what you can’t deliver, Lord Faramir,” said a harsh, yet familiar voice. “I’d have thought a man like you, who rips himself apart in the name of his honour, would have understood that, at least.”

Faramir looked up bitterly. The Urak-Hai had parted and standing before him dressed in a robe of many colours, stood the imposing figure of Saruman.

The wizard motioned to his soldiers. They moved forwards, roughly lifting Faramir to his feet and relieving him of Beregond’s body. Faramir tried to hold on to his friend but received a blow to his face for his trouble. He was pushed backwards, his hand coming up to his mouth where the blow had fallen, and as he did so the body was taken.

“What are you going to do with him?” Faramir demanded.

Saruman smiled. “Even in death my enemies have their uses!”

Fury pushing him, Faramir tried to rush forward but a mighty urak stepped between him and the wizard. Two others moved behind Faramir. He struggled desperately but it was hopeless, within seconds they had his arms bound tightly behind his back and pushed him to kneel in the dirt in front of Saruman.

He looked up to see the wizard regarding him with a superior smile. Loitering behind the imposing figure, Faramir glimpsed a smaller man dressed in black. A hideous and annoyingly familiar giggle drifted on the air.

“Wormtongue,” Faramir breathed.

“Yes, so kind of you to escort my servant back to his proper place,” Saruman said. “And now that we three are reunited, I came begin to enact my plans.”

Faramir struggled to stand, but a leathery hand on his shoulder pushed him back to the dirt. “I won’t do it,” his voice was firm and his eyes burned their defiance.

Saruman’s smile widened. “You don’t even know what ‘it’ is. Besides, don’t waste your energy,” he laughed. “You’ll need that later.”

He indicated to his soldiers who hauled Faramir to his feet. Although he struggled all the way, much to Saruman and Wormtongue’s amusement, the former Steward was pulled inexorably towards the tower and the fate that awaited him there.

 Chapter Eight - Suffering

Faramir closed his eyes. His head fell forwards on to his chest as sleep tried to claim him but like so many times recently, just when he thought he had found his escape, he felt the painful jab in his ribs that pulled him back. A dejected groan escaped his parched lips.

“No sleeping!” Wormtongue’s hated voice intruded into his stupor.

Slowly Faramir lifted his head, blinking his eyes in confusion. He was sitting on a stout wooden chair in a large room somewhere in Saruman’s tower. He had sat there since the Uruk-Hai had dragged him in, thrown him into the seat, and tied his wrists to the arms of the chair. Then, Wormtongue had brutally forced a dirty gag into his mouth and fastened it tightly. The incident had caused Faramir to fight back the retching sensation as Wormtongue’s ridiculing laugh had rung in his ears.

Faramir had no idea how long ago that had been, for his sense of time was as confused as the rest of him. He could remember that Saruman had been there at some point, but his recollections were vague. The only lasting image was Wormtongue, his voice mocking him, his one aim seemingly to stop him from sleeping.

Faramir had been tired before. He had felt the weariness that only battle could bring, but he had never been reduced to this state while still conscious. He was truly exhausted. All of his senses pulled him back towards oblivion, but whenever he got to the brink, he was brutally jerked back again. He faded again. His eyelids shut out the world; his head dropped and his breath slowed.

This time his awakening came from a hand that slapped his face so sharply that it rocked his head back against the chair. He twitched, blinking into focus the face that swam in front of him.

“You will not sleep,” Wormtongue repeated, as if speaking to an idiot. “What part of that do you not understand?”

Faramir groaned through the gag. His voice sounded like it came from someone else who was a very great distance away.

The second slap was harder than the first, and Faramir tasted acrid blood along with the foulness of the gag in his mouth. Dumbly he tried to raise his hand to rub the stinging flesh where the blow had fallen, but his hand was immovable, tied at his side.

“Neither may you groan!” Wormtongue commanded, relish in his voice. “The rules are very clear. I don’t see why you can’t understand them!”

Faramir sought something on which to focus his flagging spirit, but he was too tired to find that, or anything else. He craved sleep so much that he could not conceive of a time when he had not. His world was simply thus, and all else was but a distant memory.

Wormtongue’s face that he knew he hated, but could not summon up the energy to remember why, moved closer to him, stopping only inches from his own.

“Maybe I can help you stay awake,” the supercilious voice continued. “Give you something to think about. Saruman has promised that I can have you when all this is over, you know.”

Faramir looked at him dully over the top of his gag.

Wormtongue smiled. “What will I do with your worthless carcass? How will I make you pay for the way you have treated me? The possibilities are endless, but one word is contained in them all... pain.”

Faramir shook his head slowly and looked away from the nauseating face with all the audacity he could muster.

Wormtongue chuckled. “Not interested in your own fate then? Maybe I can tempt you with the plans I have for another, for Eowyn will be mine too!”

Faramir’s head shot up despite his fatigue.

“Oh, a reaction,” mocked Wormtongue. “How easily I find your weakness, former Steward!”

He moved back and perched on the table in front of where Faramir sat. As he spoke his hands played carelessly with the wooden stave he had used to prod Faramir awake.

“Eowyn and I had an ‘understanding’ a long time ago. She was to be mine, and we would rule Rohan together. That was before all those meddlers came, and you stole her from me. She never told you?”

Faramir clenched his fists and tried to free his hands, but he was held fast. His eyes flashed dangerously as the torment continued.

“I used to watch her undress, you know. I dreamed of running my hands along her sweet, lithe body, of tasting her cool but enticing treasure. She knew I lusted after her, she knew I watched, and the stench of her fear made her much more tempting to me. I should have taken the flower of her maidenhood then. It would have been so much more fitting than letting one such as you have the pleasure.”

Faramir had stopped struggling with his bonds. He sat perfectly still in the chair, the only sign of his emotion his wild and wide eyes.

Wormtongue paused and regarded him. “Doesn’t it make you angry?” he asked smoothly. “I can tell from your eyes all this has been a revelation to you. I wonder why she never told you the full extent of our relationship. Why would she keep it secret from her husband? All that time we spent together, and you never knew.”

Anger rushed through Faramir like a cold, refreshing wind. He welcomed the strength it gave him but he refused to be swept away with its rage. Instead he held Wormtongue in the most withering gaze. Gone was the wildness in his eyes, instead they were controlled and murderous.

Wormtongue shuddered involuntarily and let out a nervous giggle. He moved away from the table, as if suddenly unsure and hoping the distance would protect him from this sudden dread. Faramir’s deadly gaze followed him unblinking and unwavering.

“Well at least that’s got you awake,” Wormtongue mumbled. “I think Saruman wants to see you.”

********************************************************

Aragorn called a stop to his men. He squinted through the dusty haze to make out the rocks that had once been part of the Black Gate now looming in front of him. It appeared there was something flapping in the breeze, attached to one of the rocks.

Aragorn pushed his horse forward.

The number of men he had at his disposal had been swelled by Legolas with Gimli and his elves, and also by the Ithilien Rangers under the command of Anborn, who had joined them on the road. Elboron had met them as they proceeded northwards and had been with them since.

And then early the previous day, Eowyn had ridden into their camp. She had told him exactly what had happened, her voice strained but controlled. He reached out and clasped her hand when she told him of how she had escaped the fight.

“I should not have left them,” she said.

“You did what you had to do. Someone had to come back to warn us,” Aragorn placated.

“I will not forgive myself if he is harmed,” she said.

“Eowyn, we both know what happens in war. You have to do what you think is right. It was most important that you rode for help. You cannot blame yourself in this. Faramir would not want you to.”

She had nodded, but her eyes betrayed her true thoughts.

Wishing he had more men at his disposal, the King moved forward towards the rocks, with him rode Legolas, Elboron and Eowyn. As they moved near and saw what had been done, their hearts cried out in anguish and despair at the horror of it.

Tied across the rock was the broken, barely clothed body of Beregond. His arms and legs spread-eagled and contorted into an unnaturally grotesque pose. His head forced back to reveal his throat had been cut. The rock was daubed with the blood that had come from the wound. On what was left of his doublet the white tree had been painted over with a hideous white hand.

Aragorn growled at the sight. “Cut him down gently,” he ordered and the elf and dwarf moved to obey.

“Sire,” Eowyn’s voice was strained once more. “Beregond’s son is in the company. He is a Ranger.”

“Bring him to me,” Aragorn said.

Eowyn reached across and placed her pale hand gently on the King’s. “My King,” she said. “I brought Beregond to this. It is my duty to inform Bergil what has happened to his father. They were both my soldiers.”

Aragorn hesitated for a second, and then he nodded curtly. “See to it my Lady,” he commanded. “For we both know the speed such news travels down a column of men. I will see Bergil when we camp, if you feel it necessary.”

Eowyn wheeled Daisy around and galloped down the column. Elboron remained beside the King, his face ashen.

“Are you all right, Bron?” the King asked gently.

Elboron choked back the bile that had been threatening to spew forth from his stomach for some minutes. “Yes, Sire,” he responded weakly.

Their eyes met and the King rested a reassuringly strong arm across the young boy’s shoulders.

“Why have they done this to poor Beregond?” Elboron asked.

Aragorn sighed. “This is war, Bron. They do it to weaken our sword arms but more importantly our hearts. But they misjudge us, for such horror will only make our need for justice keener. I have been a soldier for a long time, Bron, and though I have seen many such sights as this, that does not make it easier to bear. Beregond was an honest and brave man; he did not deserve this end. We must repay this wrong.”

Elboron nodded but still looked unsure.

“There is more that you would know, son,” Aragorn said. “Tell me what it is that worries you.”

Elboron gulped. “I fear for my father.”

Aragorn closed his eyes, as a wave of sadness washed through him. “As do we all, Elboron,” he replied sadly. “We know the fate of Beregond, and we ride to avenge it, for I am the King and one of my subjects treated in such a way is not to be tolerated. We know not what has befallen your father, but we do know that whatever it is, Faramir will have faced it with a courageous heart. We can only do likewise.”

Elboron nodded. “Is war always this difficult?” he asked.

“Aye,” replied Aragorn. “And it should always be so. We should not be easily drawn into the fight, but once resolved, we must follow the course to the end.”

Aragorn regarded the boy who seemed to have calmed a little at his words. He had always had a special regard for Elboron which, although in part was due to his parentage, had only grown as he watched the child develop into an attractive young man. He wished that his own son could show the same integrity and devotion to duty, but Eldarion seemed to show little interest in the Kingdom and its governance. Aragorn would have liked his son to accompany him on this trip but the boy was away in Rohan, looking for good horses for no better reason than he could use them to race with his sycophantic friends. Not for the first time Aragorn prayed Eldarion would grow up soon and wondered if he did not, how the Kingdom would fair with him as King.

“You’re a brave one, Bron,” he said. “A credit to your family, and you will serve Gondor well; I know it.”

“Thank you, Sire,” Elboron bowed his head.

Beregond’s body had been removed with tender care. Legolas and Gimli returned.

“There is the sense of strong evil all around,” said the elf.

Aragorn nodded. “We should have been aware of this. Why haven’t we patrolled this area?” his voice had the hint of irritation overlaid with guilt.

Gimli growled. “If I recall, two years ago, after the last patrol went deep into Mordor and found nothing amiss, there was much debate on whether it was worth spending the time and money sending your soldiers this far. You argued that it was but some of the most powerful of your advisors thought otherwise. You were defeated in the council vote and for . . . er . . . diplomatic reasons chose not to press your authority further. Although, as I remember, you did not like the decision one bit.”

Aragorn felt a sharp pain begin to throb in his forehead. “I should listen to my instincts more than my advisors, is that what you tell me, my good dwarf?”

“Aye, I do that lad,” Gimli said. “Especially when some of your advisors are more interested in the gold in their pockets than the safety of the Kingdom.”

“I should not have allowed them to influence me. I am the King after all.”

“I remember you telling me once, Sire,” Elboron ventured, “That in diplomacy as well as war, you cannot hope to win every battle.”

Aragorn sighed. “Indeed,” he said, but his voice was gentle and his eyes glinted with respect at the mettle of the boy before him. “And I think I continued by saying that it is critical that you ensure it is the most important battles that you win. It would appear I chose the wrong fight to give ground in.” His voice became angry. “My judgement was lacking. I should have listened to my instincts, as Gimli says. I knew that placating the money grabbers in the council by leaving my easterly borders undefended was a strategy full of risk.”

He did not say it, but the thought entered his head that if his far-sighted Steward had been at his side maybe the mistake would not have been allowed.

“Your eastern borders were hardly undefended, Sire. The Rangers protected Ithilien. Besides, you could not have known the evil would return so quickly,” Elboron offered. He had obviously recovered from his previous shock and his quick, perceptive mind was anxious to support the King in any way he could.

“All the more reason to keep watching for it,” responded Aragorn. “How many more will pay because of my mistake?”

“Let us move to face our enemy,” advised Legolas as he leapt back on to his horse. “Delaying here, debating old mistakes will not help us or Faramir.”

 Chapter Nine - Interrogation

He thought he heard voices but their words were lost in the air. Faramir’s tired mind craved rest: since Wormtongue had left him alone, he was anxious to seize the opportunity to sleep. Sweet oblivion awaited, all he had to do was relax a little more...

“Faramir!” The voice was powerful and used to being obeyed. It demanded Faramir’s attention and pulled him back from the edge of sleep.

Faramir desperately tried to concentrate as the figure that had haunted his nightmares for the last seven years entered the room. Saruman the wizard bore down on him, predatory dark eyes gleaming down from his considerable height. Somewhere deep inside Faramir noted rather dryly, that the wizard still knew how to make a dramatic entrance. He also observed that, though his robes were somewhat dirtier and more ragged than when he had been lord of Isengard, Saruman still had the power to evoke the anxiety in him that he had when Faramir was a child.

“You don’t look so well,” Saruman said as he pulled up a chair and relaxed into it. “We need to talk.”

From behind him, a nervous hand that had to belong to Wormtongue released the gag. Faramir resisted the urge to spit out the offensive article and swallowed back his bile. Instead he focused on the wizard in front of him.

“I have nothing to say,” Faramir said in a voice that was less resolute than he would have preferred.

Saruman smiled. “Oh but you do. I called you to me for a purpose.”

Faramir leaned forward, jolted out of his fatigue by a heady dose of fear. The wizard had called him? Could it be true that he had no will of his own anymore?

“You called me to you?” he repeated.

Saruman nodded, his smile widening.

Faramir gulped. “No,” he said defiantly. “You have no power over me.”

“Do you hear that, Worm?” Saruman called over his shoulder to where the black shape lingered.

Wormtongue laughed annoyingly.

Faramir clenched his fists. “What do you want from me?” he demanded.

Saruman drew in a deep breath. “And so we come to it,” he said. “Quite simply I want every thing you are, Faramir, son of Denethor of Gondor.”

Faramir would die before allowing the wizard to have any more of him than he had already taken. He gulped and staring into those vicious eyes, he asked softly, “Wizard, are you mad?”

Saruman stood up in a swirl of robes. “I am hungry. Worm, get my meal. I can talk with Lord Faramir while I eat.”

Wormtongue shambled out of the room muttering under his breath. Saruman moved to the seat at the head of the table and sat down, an expectant look on his face.

Faramir regarded him with contempt. “Get on with it, wizard!” he snapped.

Saruman smiled. “And spoil my pleasure? I think not. We play a game here, son of Gondor and I will enjoy every moment of it. You were a patient, some would even say indecisive child. Now I only wish to see how much of that patience has remained in the . . . adult . . . I see before me.”

Faramir snorted.

“There are some decisions that you will have to make very soon, Faramir. I wish to observe the process, that is all. I always liked to watch you; you have an interesting mind for a child of Men,” Saruman’s smile was icy. “And now that you are a man and have suffered so much more, I expect this to be an interesting experience for both of us.”

Faramir failed to repress a shudder. He remembered that look from the Isengard visits of his childhood. This was not going well at all. He knew he had to hold his nerve but it tired him to even look at his tormentor.

“But surely you expected this, Faramir?” Saruman continued. “If, as you maintain, you sought me out, you must have known this moment would come. You must have had some plan in mind, some strategy to break my hold on you? I cannot believe that you, of all people, the famed thinker and strategist, the former exalted Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, acted on impulse. On impulse! That is not a characteristic I associate with you. What, if not my power, made you act in such a way?”

Faramir opened his mouth to argue but as he did so the door banged open. Wormtongue and a number of orcs entered the room and began setting out a veritable feast in front of their master. Saruman continued to beam at him as Faramir shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“The effective use of torture should involve a lot of pain, and we will come to that, but sometimes the simple way of doing things is the most appropriate one to start with, don’t you think?” Saruman asked, as he ripped a leg from the fowl in front of him and began to eat it hungrily.

Faramir had not eaten; he had not even been given any water to drink, since he was dragged into the tower and for some time before that. The smell of the food was so tantalising to be almost overwhelming. He could not help but lick his dry lips as his mouth began to water.

Saruman eyed him. “It would be so easy for you, only bind yourself to me and you could join me in the feast.”

“You honestly think I would sell my soul for a seat at your table?” Faramir did not bother to hide the disgust in his voice.

“No, of course not,” the wizard laughed. “But it’s all part of the game and I will have my entertainment from you.”

Faramir sat and watched as Saruman demolished the food placed before him as if he had not eaten for weeks. Finally the wizard sat back in his chair with a loud belch.

“Very good. Are you sure I cannot tempt you, Lord Faramir?”

Faramir shook his head. “I fail to see how waiting for seven years can possibly be termed as acting on impulse,” he said firmly, returning to their previous conversation.

Saruman rolled his eyes. “Oh good,” he said, “This game shall surely amuse me for days!”

“I weary of your foolish games, wizard!”

“I am interested in your strategy, young one,” Saruman looked fascinated. “Does it include the skulking around my tower when you realised you lacked the courage to face what you’d ridden so far to confront? Just how long were you going to spy on me?”

The energy that had sustained Faramir since Saruman entered the room trickled away now. Faramir could almost feel his fatigue like a predator, lying in wait to claim him from within just as the wizard endeavoured to claim him from the outside. He had to guard himself now, he had to remain focussed. Saruman claimed to have called him here; was that not a rather convenient response? Faramir had to seize the initiative somehow. But it was much harder to think clearly now. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

Noting the gesture, Saruman continued, “Or could it be that you were simply waiting for instructions from your master?”

Faramir forced down a shudder of rage. “You are not my master,” he spat. “You have no power over me. I do not believe you have any power at all. Mithrandir broke your....”

“Oh, I wondered how long it would take you to bring my associate into this conversation,” Saruman cut in. “In case you haven’t realised Gandalf cannot help you now. Your former mentor abandoned this world, you included, for the comforts of our long-lost home. He has gone, while I and my power remain here.”

Faramir shook his head. Unsure whether he was trying in vain to convince himself, he repeated. “Mithrandir broke your staff.”

Saruman stood up and snorted. He moved to stand in front of his captive. “Then how do you explain what I did to you last time we met?”

“You had the advantage. You do not have it now.” Faramir was resolute. He realised he needed to keep his own counsel and not allow himself to be goaded into any damaging revelations. He also wondered, if what Saruman said was true, why the wizard had not used his power to enthral him once more.

Saruman threw back his head and laughed loudly. “Seven years,” he mocked. “Seven years and that it the best your logical, incisive mind can come up with.”

Faramir held his gaze firmly. “It is the truth,” he said steadfastly.

Saruman shrugged. “Maybe I only called you here as bait.”

“Bait?” Faramir repeated.

“Your King will come and rescue you.”

Faramir shook his head. “You overestimate my significance, Saruman. I have resigned; I have no more value to the King.”

“Do not test my intelligence, boy! Even if your scruffy Ranger-King held no fondness for you personally, you are still the brother by marriage of his strongest ally, the King of Rohan. You and I both know he cannot afford to abandon you. My scouts tell me he will be here within the day,” Saruman smiled. “He obviously sees something of worth in you.”

Faramir closed his eyes. “No,” he breathed.

Saruman regarded him with intense amusement. “I have a welcoming surprise just for him.”

“What are you going to do?” Faramir asked.

The wizard’s smile was lethal. “That really depends on you, Lord Faramir.”

Faramir gulped, but he had to ask, “On me?”

Saruman smirked. “Think on what I have said.” He turned with a dramatic swirl and made for the door.

“Wait!” Faramir shouted angered beyond reason. What awful plan did he wizard have? “What are you talking about, wizard? I demand that you tell me. You cannot leave!”

At the door, Saruman turned, “But that’s exactly what I can do.” And he was gone.

Faramir cursed and struggled with his bonds but the more he fought, the tighter they became. Finally, exhausted he allowed his body to relax back into the chair. Then he became aware of the familiar sound of sniggering that came from behind him. He managed to look over his shoulder and saw Wormtongue, who regarded him from his perch on a window sill.

Jumping down, the Worm stopped laughing. “Another weakness,” he muttered as he moved around to stand in front of Faramir. “Eowyn and the King; how many more can you afford?”

Faramir stared at him. “Grima,” he said. “Do you honestly believe that Eowyn will be yours? Has Saruman ever delivered what he promised you in the past or is it not more likely that he will use you like he always has?

“Shut up!” Wormtongue said, as he reached for the gag.

“Grima, listen to me,” Faramir continued. “It should not be this way. You must know that he will betray you. He wants you only as long as you are of use to him.”

Wormtongue hesitated. “And you, son of Gondor, what can you offer me? Do you think I have forgotten the promise you made me? What you vowed to do to me?”

The door to the room opened again. Two large Uruk-Hui entered and moved towards Faramir.

“I told you not to bring us here,” Wormtongue continued. “You did not listen to me then, why should I listen to you, now?”

“You are as much a pawn in all this as me, Grima.” Faramir tried again.

The two Uraks were upon him now. They untied him and hauled him to his feet. Pulling his arms roughly behind his back, they held Faramir helpless.

Wormtongue moved in close. “The difference is, my dear Faramir, I am winning.”

He punched Faramir hard in the stomach. As the man’s mouth opened in pain, Wormtongue stuffed the gag in.

“Now that will shut you up,” Wormtongue pronounced. He tied the gag around the back of Faramir’s head. Faramir was struggling in the arms of the Uruk- Hai.

“Now, my friends have waited patiently. It’s their turn to have a little fun with you. Think on what Saruman said and don’t forget, Lord Faramir, you can end all of this if you make the correct decision,” he laughed and left the room, leaving Faramir bound and helpless, at the mercy of the Uraks.

Eowyn sighed impatiently. The column seemed to move so slowly and she was anxious to get to the tower as quickly as possible. She knew that time was precious and Faramir’s life may depend on how quickly they could get to him.

There was something that had been worrying her ever since she had left the tower. Although she had told Aragorn all that had happened, she had the feeling that she had overlooked something critically important. As she rode she kept re-running the incident over in her mind. For an instant she felt she had grasped it but then it fluttered out of her reach like an elusive butterfly.

Deep inside she knew that she had to recall what this thing was. So, as the column moved slowly onward, she sat silently on her horse and contemplated.

 Chapter Ten – Plotting

The beating, though painful, had not hurt Faramir as badly as he had feared. The two Uruk-Hai had the power and the strength to damage him far more severely. Instead, it seemed to him that they had withheld their full strength and hit him mainly in areas that were not vital, such as his arms, shoulders and legs. So it was with some disbelief, but far more relief that he survived the pounding. He was then bound hand and foot and thrown into the corner of the room.

He lay there quietly, making what examination he could of his wounds. He was almost certain that no bones had been broken; the injury was to his pride rather than his body. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. The stone floor was cold, his arms were tied behind his back and the grubby gag was still in his mouth but he was too weary for any of these discomforts to matter. As a Ranger he had learned quickly to take what sleep was offered whenever the opportunity arose and so within minutes he was snoring softly as if in his own bed in Ithilien.

He did not sleep for long but it was enough to refresh him a little. He was woken by an orc, shaking him with little gentleness. The orc, however, went on to remove his gag and lift a bottle to his lips. The cold water was wonderful as it streamed into his dry mouth and throat. He resisted the urge to gulp down too much, too quickly and the orc seemed prepared to let him take his time. After he had his fill, the orc produced a piece of black bread. He broke some off and feed it to Faramir, who ate it greedily.

Without a word the orc left the room, when the bread was gone.

Faramir sighed deeply. He felt more comfortable physically than he had since he had entered Mordor, if one overlooked the unpleasantness of being hobbled like a goat. However, he had much to ponder and that made him uneasy because that was precisely what Saruman had instructed him to do. He feared that in thinking this through he was falling into a trap that the wizard had skilfully prepared for him and he wondered whether he had the intellect to outwit his enemy, particularly because Saruman was so sure of himself. But Faramir reasoned that, as a bound captive in the wizard’s tower, surrounded by dozens or more orcs and Uruk-Hai, his mind was his best resource. Actually, he realised angrily, it was his only resource.

He had defiantly held his ground when confronted by the wizard and he would do so again, but alone and with only his own thoughts, he allowed himself to recognise that he did not have such confidence in his position.

Much of the wizard’s accusations were true. Faramir had acted impulsively when he decided to confront Saruman.  Once he had made the decision, he had not taken enough time to consider a strategy that could counter the wizard who had once been Mithrandir's superior and captor.  He had given no thought to what would happen when he actually confronted Saruman, instead, he had convinced himself that he would ambush the wizard and defeat him with the strength of his resolve.  Fool! Faramir thought that Denethor would surely have something critical to say about his son's strategy; and this time his father would have been justified.  All Faramir had accomplished by his ride into Mordor was the death of a brave man, poor Beregond.  And he had exposed his King to an unacceptable risk. What could he have been thinking?  Had he been thinking at all?  Or was Saruman telling the truth?  Had the wizard merely called him and Faramir had run to him like a witless puppy?"

He stopped the thought; that was a path he would not allow himself to go any further down, for he knew Saruman was waiting for him at its end.

Instead he turned his mind to the King. He had known that Aragorn would try to save him. He had sent Eowyn away to find help, as well as to remove her from imminent danger.  Eowyn was a formidable fighter, some would say better than her husband, but she was the mother of his children and he would keep her from danger whenever possible. But he had not thought that the King could bring a force here to Barad-Dur in so short a time.  He needed to conceive some plan, some stratagem, before the King's arrival, but Saruman had said that Aragorn neared the tower.  Was it true?

Faramir closed his eyes. His mind was in turmoil. He needed time to think this through and he knew that time was something that he did not have. As if to confirm his thought the door to the room opened with a bang.

Saruman entered with Wormtongue at his heels. Faramir was hauled to his feet by the accompanying Uruk-Hai and thrown into the seat he had occupied before.

Saruman sighed deeply. “So, Lord Faramir,” he said. “Now we come to it indeed. I have given you the chance to ponder on what I said. It is time for you to make your decision.” He paused for effect. “I have been here for years, raising up a mighty army. And soon I shall unleash my forces on all my enemies. “

“I see no mighty armed forces here,” Faramir argued. “Where are they housed? How do you feed them? The deer that I saw your orcs drag back here would not suffice to feed a squadron, let alone an army.”

Saruman beamed. “You should not take things at face value, boy. I am a sorcerer, a master of illusion, remember that. The deer was a deception for your benefit. I knew you watched and I wanted you to believe that there were few of us here. I needed you to remain unaware of my true strength.”

“Then where is it?” Faramir pressed; already he could feel himself growing tired of Saruman’s constant condescension.

“I scouted Barad Dur many years ago. It was an ideal location for me. It had all the building materials I needed and it had something else that none of you ever realised. Sauron was a wily old campaigner and he left much here that was of use to me. Under the earth of Mordor he built a series of mines and caverns that would dwarf Moria; caverns big enough to hide an army; my army.”

“I don’t believe you,” Faramir said flatly. “Gondor would have known.”

“You have such complete and utter trust in your King, do you not Faramir?” the wizard shook his head. “It would be touching, if it were not so misplaced. He will fail, you know. He may be of Isildur’s line but he is not fit to rule. Why do you think it took him so long to claim his birthright? By nature, he was always a Ranger, never a King.  He delayed asserting his claim because deep in his soul he knew that he would be better employed tracking straggling orcs than ruling an ancient kingdom."

Saruman paused.  Faramir wished he could remove the wizard's sanctimonious expression, but held his silence and let the Istar indulge himself.  "Has he not said as much to you?  Aragorn let Mordor remain unwatched and barely guarded.  You and your late brother commanded hundreds of valiant men for many years in the face of Sauron's offensive.  You know that Aragorn should have secured Gondor's borders after Sauron fell.  But your King let himself be distracted by his coronation, the praise and tribute of his allies, and his marriage to the she-elf.  And in the years since he became King in name, Aragorn has sent no troops to patrol the boundary between Gondor and Mordor. He allowed me to rebuild Barad-Dur under his very nose!  His vaunted victories during the War of the Ring were a result of great luck, Gandalf's favour, and the aid of experienced captains, such as yourself, at his back." 

Faramir smiled.  "And yet, while you are reduced to one tower in a barren land, Elessar rules a great kingdom and rules it well.  As I recall, you were hiding powerless in Orthanc, guarded by talking trees, while my King brought forth the army of the Dead, defeated the greatest force ever assembled in Middle-Earth on the Pelennor Fields, and then brought the armies of the West to Sauron's very gate.  The White City would be a pile of broken stones if the King had not come to us."

“And yet Aragorn was all too ready to blame his recent failings on you, was he not?” Suraman echoed the other’s tone.

“How do you know that?” Faramir, though aghast at Saruman’s assertion did not show it.

Saruman ignored the question and carried on, “Aragorn is weak and scorns taking full responsibility for his failures. Instead, he seeks another scapegoat and you, the former Steward, fit the role quite agreeably.”

“No,” Faramir said.

“I do not blame you for your loyalty, Faramir,” Saruman continued. "You fought so hard and gave up so much to put that humble Ranger on the throne of Isildur.  But even you must start to see that he is not worth your pain, and the loss of your brother and father and all the others who have died to enthrone an unworthy outcast.  He is a liability.  Your father could see it long ago; Gondor surely deserves better."

“He is my King and I will follow him wherever he leads.”

“Your loyalty does you credit Lord Faramir, but there is an alternative.”

“He is the true King,” Faramir snapped. “You waste your breath Saruman. There is no alternative and even if you could offer me one, I would not take it.”

“You are a soldier, Faramir; you must know information is the most important aspect of warfare. In order to beat an opponent, you must understand him. You must learn to think as he does, you must know how he will act. That is why you are important to both me and the King.”

“We shall be here for days if you do not come to the point, Saruman" Faramir replied. He felt hot and constrained. 

“Aragorn sees your quality.” As if sensing the other’s discomfort, Saruman moved closer, hemming him in. “He wants you close. Why do you think that is? Because he knows you are a threat to him. Of all the men on this earth, you are most like him. And yet you are better than him for you could rule and you would be successful.”

“You would enthrone me in the King's stead? I will never commit such treachery. And I certainly would not have acted as I did seven years ago if you had not ensnared me unaware." 

“How can it be treason if the action is taken for the good of the realm? You know Faramir; deep inside you know it to be true. Do you remember what I did to you in that cave in Ithilien? Do you remember how I entwined you in my web?”

“No.” Faramir looked away from Saruman’s challenging stare.

“I tempted you with the Kingdom. I promised you the power but for the very best reasons: to save Gondor! And now I tell you that the only time that you have truly acted for the good of your people, for the good of your land was when you plunged that dagger into the King. You knew exactly what you were doing. You wanted to kill him to release Gondor.”

“No, that’s not true.”

“Look into your heart, Faramir. Allow yourself to see once more. Look past the walls of false friendship you have built up over the years and see that Aragorn must be removed. Be honest with yourself, for once.”

Faramir looked back to Saruman and pinned the wizard with the withering gaze that had been his father’s greatest weapon.

“Is this the best you can do, Saruman?” he spat. “There is no decision for me to make; I will betray neither my King nor the realm we guard.”

Saruman threw his arms in the air. “So you will remain the King’s fool. I have tried to reason with you. I have tried to make you understand but you are too obstinate or too stupid to see. After all you have lived through you have learned nothing. Age has not furrowed your face nor brought you true wisdom, I see.”

“I am not a child. You will not sway me with abuse, anymore than you will with false logic.” Faramir retorted coldly, fighting to keep his anger under control.

“So be it. You leave me with no choice. Wormtongue, bring our other guest.” He turned back to Faramir. “I said there was an alternative to Elessar’s pathetic rule. I am offering you a chance to be part of that, Faramir, because I do value your talents. You have the skill and understanding to lead an army that would beat Aragorn’s. I offer my troops to you. You could command an army of Uruk-Hai, the greatest fighters Middle Earth has ever seen. You would win because you understand Aragorn better than any other man. He knows this and he fears you!”

Faramir let out a humourless laugh. “You misjudge me Saruman. I will not lead your army. I have not forgotten that it was your Uruk-Hai monsters who ambushed and killed my brother. I would rather face any torment than stand at their side. And I will not take the throne from the King.”

“Even to give it to its rightful heir?”

“Aragorn is the rightful heir,” Faramir argued.

“I have explained to you that Aragorn is incapable, allow him to remain in power and Gondor will fall.”

As he spoke Wormtongue came back through the door with a companion, who was obscured from Faramir’s view by Saruman’s lean form.

“I can give you the King that you deserve." Saruman said as he moved out of the way. “Someone with the potential to be truly great if you, Faramir, shape him properly. I can give you a greater good to fight for and someone truly worth dying for!”

A young man, little more than a boy, stood before Faramir.  He was unhelmed, but otherwise arrayed in full armour, bearing the White Tree of Gondor on his silver breastplate.  The former Steward knew the tall, black- haired boy with the blue-grey eyes at once, though he had not seen him in two years and the youth had now grown so tall as to almost surpass his father's height.

“Prince Eldarion!” Faramir breathed, unable to control his shock.

Chapter Eleven - Resisting

Faramir tried to stand but an Uruk-Hai claw pressed down on his shoulder and pushed him firmly into his seat.

“Prince Eldarion,” he repeated.

The boy made no sign to indicate he had heard him. Instead, he stood motionless, his eyes staring blindly in front of him. Wormtongue flicked his tongue like a stalking lizard as he hovered behind the King’s only son.

“He cannot hear you,” Saruman said.

Faramir gulped. “What have you done to him?” he asked.

“I would think you would recognise the signs of my work, Faramir,” Saruman answered with a complacent smile. “The young are easy to influence. Their minds are an open page for an Istar to write upon. The lad is supposed to be mucking about in the royal stables of Rohan, but he is long overdue to that patch of dirt. Now Eomer rides to search of the errant child; and after I have finished with Aragorn, the horse-lord shall also meet his doom. I will flush them all out like vermin and crush them. ”

“You would put Eldarion on the throne?”

“He is the heir. The people will accept him after the King perishes during his ill-fated mission to Mordor. And what of you, Faramir? Will you die with the Ranger-King or will you let yourself live and take your rightful place as Steward of Gondor, to guide your people as the true power behind this boy’s throne?” Saruman smiled in a way that no doubt was intended to convey friendship. To Faramir, the wizard looked as benevolent as a cat eyeing its dinner hungrily.

“I know where the true power would lie, Saruman. Everyone else would be mere puppets, yours to command.”

The wizard stretched his mouth thinly as he focussed on the motionless Eldarion. “There are levels and levels of power, my good Steward. I have said that I value you; you would be an asset to the Lord of Middle-Earth. Gondor would be yours to rule through the boy; you would defer to me alone. You could see Gondor thrive and prosper, grow rich in wealth and knowledge. You could bring Numenor back to the ken of its lost children.”

Faramir bit down an angry retort. Now was the time for subtlety rather than open defiance. “With all respect, Saruman; Numenor fell long ago. Do you really believe that I would betray my King for visions of past glories?”

“Yes I do, when I consider the alternative.” The wizard moved to stand behind Eldarion, embedding his long fingernails in the prince’s shoulder.

Mastering a sudden surge of fear for Aragorn’s son, Faramir raised his eyes to meet those of Saruman. “The alternative?” he repeated coolly.

“Imagine Aragorn’s horror when he enters the tower to find his son cruelly butchered and his former Steward standing over the lad’s body, drenched in blood and dagger in hand, babbling about a wizard and an army. You have already tried to kill the King once, Faramir, who would not believe that you would kill his young heir? The evidence of your guilt will be overwhelming. I imagine that Aragorn would be so enraged he would not even wait to take you back to Minas Tirith for execution, he would cut you down where you stood.”

No! Faramir wanted to shout his defiance and fury, but he knew he had to be careful, be patient and out-stalk this king of cats to save the precious royal fledgling. “And how would Eldarion’s death and mine help you to conquer Gondor?” he asked.

Saruman sighed. “It would call for more direct means than I wish to employ at this time. But my army would engage the King on his return journey. They would kill him and then sweep on to engage the Rohirrim. I would dispose of you all and then move in swiftly. The people would have no choice but to accept me. Gondor would be mine.”

“You have been planning this for a long time, I see.” Faramir was stalling, desperately trying to find a weakness in the wizard’s strategy. ‘Think, Faramir, think!’ he told himself. Something was wrong; something did not make sense in the wizard’s offer. Why was Saruman offering him a choice, offering to let him became his accomplice of his own free will, when the wizard had over-ruled his will with that cursed spell seven years earlier? And why was Saruman trying to seem so reasonable, so kind, while threatening the King and his heir? Unless. . . the answer hit him like a blow; he saw the opening.

“Eldarion is a useful tool; I would hate to discard him this early in the game; but I will if you force me to it.” Saruman replied genially, as he stroked the helpless boy's shoulder.

“If I force you to it, Lord Saruman?” Faramir said softly. “There is something I do not understand.” He did his best to look confused, and in need of the wizard’s superior wisdom. “Why are you offering me this choice? If I am as valuable to your plan as you say, why have you not simply bespelled me once more and had me do your bidding without question? Or. . . is it that you can no longer do so?”

Saruman dropped the mask of benevolence and grimaced at Faramir, showing his frustration and ire, only for one moment, but it was enough. ‘I have you now, king of cats!’ Faramir exulted silently behind his tense but quiet face. He held still.

The wizard backed away from Eldarion with a stomp and a swish of his robes. He stood by the window and gazed out as if mesmerised, hands clenched behind him. Faramir wished he could see what the wizard saw. Did Aragorn stand outside the tower?

Saruman cleared his throat. “I have not given you the entire truth; some misdirection was necessary,” he began. “I knew how difficult it would be for me to persuade you of the correct course. You are a loyal, if misguided subject of the King. I sought to influence your decision and in doing so I did overstate the sway I have over you.”

Faramir gritted his teeth. “I came here of my own accord?”

“The enchantment I put you under seven years ago is all but gone,” Saruman nodded.

“What do you mean ‘all but’?” Faramir pressed.

“It would take too much time for me to weave it again,” Saruman said, his predatory eyes evading Faramir’s cold stare.

“But you could redo the spell?” Faramir pushed. “Be fair, Lord Saruman. I will entertain your offer; but please do me the courtesy of telling the truth in this one detail.” Let the wizard think he was actually considering such nonsense; for Faramir needed time now that he had an inkling of the true state of affairs in Barad-Dur.

Saruman looked away from his intense stare. “I do not need the spell. I have you here, my prisoner. I hold a royal pawn in my grasp and your King marches into my trap. You are wise enough to make the right choice.”

Faramir closed his eyes once more and released a long sigh. So it was as he suspected, the wizard did not have the power he once wielded. Any relief that he may have felt at this disclosure was quickly tempered by this situation.

“So now it comes to me,” he finally muttered. “I betray either my King, or his heir; and Gondor falls whichever choice I make.”

“Gondor will not fall!” Saruman came swiftly to Faramir’s side, bending down so that his face was only inches away. “Gondor will rise and prosper because of you! You and your family will be safe and live well.” Then the wizard added, in a softer voice that was almost a whisper, “I will even let you kill the Worm for the discourtesy he has shown to Lady Eowyn.

“I need time,” Faramir said. “You cannot expect me to make such a decision now.”

Saruman looked annoyed. “Very well,” he accepted.

“Leave the boy with me; I wish to observe my future king,” Faramir proposed. Eldarion was the future King of all Gondor, whether Faramir was there to see him crowned or not; so it was truly no treason to speak of him as such. He prayed that Saruman would be flattered and believe that Faramir was actually contemplating joining him.

Surprisingly, Saruman agreed with a nod. “You are at liberty within the room,” he said. “But my tower is full of Uruks who will kill you on sight should you decide to venture outside.”

Saruman and Wormtongue left but the two Uruk-Hai remained with an order to allow the prisoners to talk. Ignoring them, Faramir stood up and struggled to move over to where the Prince still stood. The wizard's promise of 'liberty' did not entail untying the ropes that still bound his hands and feet, Faramir noted grimly, although one of the Uruks did move forward, untied his hands at his back, pulled them roughly to his front and retied them very tightly there.

“Prince Eldarion,” he said. He was surprised when he got a reaction, for he had not seen Saruman release the boy from his spell.

However, the boy turned his head and looked at him. “Lord Faramir?” he questioned. “Is it you? Where am I?”

As he looked at him, Faramir felt his heart lurch. The boy’s bewildered eyes were wide with fear, his complexion ashen. Faramir wanted to take him in his arms and comfort him as he would have done his own beloved children. He was unable to do so because of his bonds, so he signalled for the boy to sit down on the floor. He then, rather awkwardly, eased himself down next to him. They sat with their backs to the guards. As they talked Faramir, realising that his newly re-tied hands would be more difficult to undo, indicated the ropes around his ankles. Eldarion, out of sight of the Uruks, began to work on unravelling the complicated knots.

“How are you feeling?” Faramir asked in Quenya. Although the guards were at the other side of the room he did not want them to overhear his conversation with the boy. He knew that Eldarion had learned Quenya from both parents at an early age.

Eldarion shook his head. “Strange,” he said, responding in the same tongue. “What is this place?”

“Prince Eldarion, we don’t have much time for me to explain the details of what has happened. You have been under the spell of Saruman, the White Wizard; he is threatening your father. We are in Saruman's fortress in Mordor. You will have to trust me for the rest until we are free. Can you fight?”

The young prince looked even more confused. Looking past Faramir his eyes fell on the Uruk-Hai and they widened even further. “Not them,” he breathed. He began to shudder.

“It’s all right,” Faramir tried to soothe him. He realised that his raising the topic of imminent combat with the two Uruk-Hai had aggravated Eldarion’s confusion, hardly the effect he had desired. As far as he knew, the lad had never set eyes on either Orcs or Uruk-Hai; to him they must be fearsome creatures out of legend. Seeing such legendary horrors come mysteriously to life and hold him captive would indeed strike fear into the prince's young heart.

Suddenly an old memory surfaced anew in Faramir’s mind. He was thirteen years old. He was visiting his brother, at eighteen newly installed in the army and patrolling land to the eastern borders of Ithilien. He and Boromir had gone for a ride into the forest, for the older brother had recently been shown the wonders of Henneth Annun and he wished to share the spectacle with Faramir. They never made it because along the way they were ambushed by a band of orcs.

Despite the extensive combat training he had received as son of the Gondor’s ruler, Faramir had not been blooded in true hand-to-hand combat. His prior experience of killing had consisted of clinically drawing his bow against distant targets.

As the orcs fell upon them his brother waded into the fight immediately but Faramir delayed. He broke out in a cold sweat, he began to shiver uncontrollably and his body froze completely. He watched fascinated, as an orc moved towards him, its face contorted into a hideous scream and its sword rising to cleave him in two. Faramir knew exactly what he should do to defend himself but he could not. Panic pure and primal swept through him.

“Faramir!” his brother screamed, the alarm in Boromir’s familiar voice shaking him out of his paralysis. The second son had felt his body loosen and he reacted in exactly the way he had been trained, barely realising what he was doing. His mind, still completely disengaged, watched as he cut down the first orc and then moved on to kill the others.

After it was all over, Faramir’s legs had lost their strength. He fell to the ground and vomited for what seemed like hours as Boromir had clasped him on the back and hugged him.

“It is ever so, the first time, brother,” Boromir said sagely. “Do not be ashamed; you did very well.”

The incident only mattered because it was the first of many brushes with death that Faramir had experienced. What had saved him, what had been crucial to his survival during that battle, was his beloved brother’s support. Boromir had pulled Faramir from the fear-induced shock that would have killed him, and had been there to hold him when he had wept tears of horror after his first battle was over.

Faramir regarded Eldarion with sympathy, remembering that moment, that seemed so very long ago, of soul-wrenching terror, and his gratitude for Boromir’s presence, his brother’s voice and strong arms. This boy, who was thirteen now, almost two years younger than Faramir’s own son, Elboron, had to contend with his first actual battle situation while trying to recover himself in the aftermath of Saruman’s spell.

“Eldarion,” he began again, keeping in mind the confident words Boromir had used to salve his own fear all those years before. “Listen to me. We shall escape together. Look at me.”

The boy raised his head as Faramir continued. “I know you can do this. Are you with me?”

Eldarion shook his head. “I want to go home,” he murmured, protruding his lower lip like the child he still was.

“I know you do. I long for my home as well, but we can only return to our homes if we work together.”

“Lord Faramir, I- I don’t think I can.... I am no fighter.” Eldarion’s young face twisted with shame. “I can be of no help to you.”

Faramir smiled and spoke kindly but firmly as he looked into the scared eyes of his friend’s son. “I am not overjoyed at the odds we face either, my Prince. But a truly brave man does not deny his fear, he just refuses to let it overwhelm him. Take a deep breath, think your way through it. I know that in your heart you have the strength to survive this peril.”

Eldarion brightened a little. “Do you?” he asked. “My father always speaks so highly of you. I thought you would not understand what it is like for me. I have never wanted to be a soldier.”

Faramir nodded. “I will tell you a secret, Prince Eldarion, but you must promise not to disclose it, on pain of death. Do you so swear?”

“I do,” the boy said solemnly.

“I, too, never wanted to be a soldier and the first time I had to fight, I felt exactly how you do now. I believed myself to be neither brave nor strong, but somehow I was able to summon up enough of both attributes to survive that first and many more battles after that one. I know you can too. Now, I will not tell what we have discussed here, if you do not, is it a bargain?”

For the first time since Saruman had left the room Eldarion relaxed and flashed the attractive smile he had inherited from his mother. “It is, Lord Faramir.” They shook on it sombrely but with diffculty because of Faramir’s bound hands.

“What must I do?” the boy asked.

Faramir looked past him to the corner where the huge Uruks stood on guard.

“To be perfectly honest,” he admitted, “I am not sure. But I think we need to get rid of those two. Forget all you have been taught about honour and fair fights; go for their most sensitive parts and just keep hitting. Meanwhile, please get these ropes off of me!"

Faramir knew their best chance of killing the two Uruk-Hai inside the room was to strike hard and fast and surprise them. He prayed that Eldarion could hold his own until Faramir freed his hands with the weapon he would hopefully get from one of the Uruks. Faramir knew that in his prime, he could have taken both Uruk-Hai, though never as magnificent a hand-to-hand fighter as Boromir, he was strong and fast enough to kill several times that number of orcs. But it had been many years since Faramir had been in constant practice of fighting and killing as an active Captain of Rangers in an ever more hopeless war. Still, he had not been idle these past fifteen years or more. His hunted with his bow and practiced constantly, albeit on targets that were not Uruk-Hai. He and Eowyn sparred several times a month for pleasure and exercise; he smiled wryly to himself. Eowyn did not have as much upper-body strength as a man or an Uruk, but she more than compensated with the controlled ferocity of her sword-arm. And in the past few years, Faramir had sparred regularly with his sons; first Elboron, then the younger boys. Would it be enough? As family members, they had always held back from true violence. At least he knew himself to be physically very fit; still possessing the endurance and quick reflexes of a younger man.

It would have to be enough for the fight that probably awaited him once they won free of this room, Faramir resolved. If he could just get to the door of the tower, get the boy out and running, give him that chance for freedom. . . He had to save Eldarion, at any cost. It was bad enough that he had fallen to Saruman's sorcery and attacked his King seven years ago, but to allow the King's son to suffer a similar fate, or be hurt or killed; no, he would die first! Faramir vowed. At least he had not seen bows or arrows among the weapons carried by the Uruks. The thought of Aragorn's son dying like Boromir was almost unimaginable. Faramir prayed that his own son was safely in Minas Tirith along with his mother. He did not want to picture them otherwise, not right now.

Eldarion gave one last tug on the ropes around Faramir's ankles and the last knot that tied them came undone. Faramir flexed his legs, then rubbed his feet and ankles to restore his circulation as quickly as possible. He heard a growl and an exclamation from the guards; looked their way and saw that one of them seemed curious about what the prisoners were doing. Another few seconds and the Uruk might come over to see what the prisoners were talking about; so time was short. His hands were still bound; the knots were tighter than those of the ropes that had tethered his feet. And the Prince had no knife. Faramir had to make his move now.

"Good work, my Prince" he told the boy. "Now, help me up as if my legs are still bound".

Faramir rose, clutching at Eldarion's strong arm for support. He turned towards the two Uruk-Hai who stood between them and the door. He noted that the Uruks were not girded for battle; they wore leather surcoats over cloth tunics rather than metal armour; and their grotesque heads were unhelmed. Only one had a sword, the other had a dagger belted on his waist. If Saruman had an army, it was not very well supplied.

"They are larger than we are, but slower and less flexible", he alerted his charge. "Your father once cut through a group of over fifty of them when an Uruk-Hai band ambushed the Fellowship. He killed at least twenty Uruks, although he wore no armour. He fought them by fighting like an elf, moving swiftly, turning and leaping so they could not catch him. Imagine it like a dance." He smiled at Eldarion, who he knew was an excellent dancer. And blessed the King in his thoughts for telling him not only of the events surrounding Boromir's death, but also the details of Uruk-Hai musculature and fighting style.

Facing the Uruks, Faramir addressed them in the common tongue. "We would like some food now; I am certain that your master wants his guests well- served. Fetch us some venison and ale."

He gestured towards the crudely made wooden table in the middle of the room. As he had hoped, the Uruks were confused and annoyed, but not suspicious; and approached, probably intending to beat him for his demand.

Faramir struck first! "Go left", he shouted as he charged the first Uruk and kicked the creature's knees, then punched the nose with his bound fists as the monster wavered. The Uruk went down in a most satisfactory heap.

Eldarion set himself between the second Uruk and Faramir, weaving around the monster as he had been advised, luring the Uruk away from the older man. Faramir had time to grab the dagger from the downed Uruk's belt and finish it with a quick cut of its throat.

But Eldarion's time had run out. The boy tried to kick the surviving Uruk as Faramir had the first one; but this Uruk was ready for him. He sidestepped, seized Eldarion's extended foot, pulled him close, then took the struggling boy by the waist, lifted him into the air, and threw him at Faramir.

The two Gondorians collapsed. Heart racing, Faramir heard a sickening thump as the boy hit the floor, his legs tangled with Faramir's limbs. The force of the throw had turned Faramir halfway around; he struggled to get his bearings. The prince did not move; had he hit the ground head first?

Faramir gasped in surprise as he was pulled from Eldarion's body. The Uruk had come up behind him! Faramir was seized in a choke-hold by a hugely muscled arm, then thrown across a flat surface, it must be the table. The dagger fell from his still bound hands to the floor with a metallic clatter. Faramir tried to rise, to move, anything! But the Uruk was above him, pinning him to the table with Faramir's hands trapped underneath him.

Faramir struggled as well as he could but his vision was tinged with scarlet acquiescing to black and he knew that he did not have much time. The Uruk's hands pressed tightly around his throat. He was vaguely aware of a strange gurgling that must have been coming from his own throat and his head was thundering.

Deep inside Faramir desperately tried to fight but every part of his body seemed to scream in defeat as his heart itself lost strength. The thought that ‘it should not end like this’ occurred to him when suddenly something was smashed over the head of the Uruk-Hai above him. The grip on Faramir’s neck loosened to be replaced by a terrific weight on his chest. Faramir began to choke as his lungs commenced their action again. Feebly he rolled over, causing the dead weight of the Uruk-Hai to fall from him. He lay on the table breathing deeply, retching violently and his body racked with cramping pains as the oxygen flowed around it once more.

Finally he felt strong enough to lift his head but he still had to wait long seconds until his eyes managed to focus on the scene in front of him. When they did he let out a gasp of surprise.

Eldarion still lay where he had fallen. The two Uruk-Hai were both sprawled on the floor, one lifeless and the other, who had nearly strangled him unmoving with a bleeding head wound.

His eye then fell on his rescuer. He stood before Faramir regarding him with an unreadable expression on his face and a hammer in his hand that dripped blood on to the floor.

“Wormtongue?” Faramir muttered.

 Chapter Twelve - Descending

Still breathing heavily from his near strangulation, Faramir stared at Wormtongue.

“Can I take it, that since you are here helping me,” he said dryly. “I am winning?”

Wormtongue shifted uneasily. “Hurry,” he hissed. “Saruman will be here soon.”

Faramir moved to where the Prince lay. He shook him gently and asked, “Prince Eldarion, are you all right?”

The boy groaned weakly and opened his eyes. “My head hurts. . . but it is not too bad,” he muttered as he sat up with the older man’s help.

“You did very well, my Prince,” Faramir tried to reassure him.

Eldarion snorted. “I don’t think so,” he retorted.

“I know few unarmed men who would dare to take on an Uruk in single combat. They will sing songs of your courage throughout Gondor in future years. Can you stand?”

The last was said as Wormtongue fidgeted impatiently behind them. Eldarion nodded and climbed painfully to his feet.

“At last,” Wormtongue muttered. “Now can we go?”

“No,” Faramir said as he turned to confront the whining snake. He seized hold of Wormtongue’s collar, lifted him and banged him bodily against the nearest wall, first squeezing his wrist so that the hammer dropped harmlessly to the floor.

“I have had enough of your shifts in allegiance, Grima,” he spat. “Now you explain to me exactly what is happening here.”

Wormtongue began to shudder with fear as he once again saw the resolve in Faramir’s eyes.

“You are hurting me,” he moaned.

Faramir banged his head against the wall again. “Yes, I am,” he agreed. “And the only way to stop me hurting you more is to start talking, and keep talking.”

“Saruman has no army,” Wormtongue said. His tongue seemed to be too big for his dry mouth and his eyes flashed dangerously. “He has misled you all along. His purpose is simply to kill your King. The wizard is in league with the Easterlings. They want Elessar dead and he has promised to accomplish it. In return they supplied men and equipment to help him rebuild Barad-dur. Saruman also found some of Sauron's mountain trolls and beasts of burden who survived the end of the Ring. Saruman had to entice the King out of the protective walls of the White City, but with no more than two hundred Uruks at his disposal he had to be clever. The Prince is his bargaining piece. You came too soon for him to re-create an army but no matter. He had planned to send an anonymous message for the King to come alone to save the boy. Thanks to you, the King came in force, but Saruman still has the King trapped. Once Elessar is gone, Saruman plans to simply walk into Minas Tirith with the Prince at his side, and entrench himself there as King Eldarion's trusted advisor. ”

'And Saruman believed that Arwen would stand by and allow him entry?' Faramir wondered to himself. But he would have to address that later, he must first deal with more immediate threats, such as his own vulnerability to Saruman's power.

“I came too soon?” Faramir questioned. “So he did not call me to him? He does not have enough power to bespell me?”

Wormtongue shrugged nervously.

Faramir was not surprised at the revelation. He had begun to suspect that it may be the case, following his latest interview with the wizard. But Wormtongue had been false all along. Could he believe what he was being told now? Could he put the fear that the wizard could make him strike his King again behind him?

“Go on,” Faramir prompted.

Wormtongue licked his lips again before continuing. His frayed voice lost all restraint, and he began to pant and sob as he gushed out a torrent of words. “You heard him say he would let you kill me! I don’t want to die. He has treated me like a slave - it’s not fair! I have given him my life, my countrymen, King Theoden - everything I was, everything. And now he would supplant me with you, who took Eowyn, you who have all that I should have had.” His body was suddenly wracked with sobs. “I hope he fails in this too. Everything that I have become is because of him. I was young and innocent once, I was bespelled just like you. It is only right that I should be on your side. I am not to blame for any of this!”

Faramir looked on the wretch with disgust. “You chose your own course, Grima,” he said. “At least have the decency to accept responsibility for your failure.”

Wormtongue shook his head violently. “No,” he replied, shaking. “It is not my fault. I hate Saruman more than you. I hope his tower falls around his ears! I hope all his plans fall to dust. It’s not my fault, it is not! I can help him no more. I will help him no more!”

Faramir let the shuddering traitor fall to the floor, where he lay weeping. Whether the tears were real or not, Faramir realised he would learn nothing more of value from Wormtongue.

Faramir moved towards the nearest Uruk and took his sword and dagger. The Uruk's sword was actually a heavy, one-handed weapon fashioned more like a butcher's cleaver than a true sword. The weapon was three feet long, and had a spike on the back of its single-edged blade. It was identical to the weapons Saruman had forged at Isengard for his Uruks' attack on Helm's Deep during the War of the Ring. Faramir had seen several such blades at Meduseld; and Eomer had spoken humorously of having gifted the cook with one to use for cutting beef from large game and cattle. He wished he had his own trusty sword in his hand; but Saruman had taken it from him and it doubtless resided in the wizard's armoury by now. He considered giving a weapon to Eldarion but decided against it when he observed how the boy’s hands were shaking as he leaned against the table and watched Faramir.

“Prince Eldarion,” Faramir called softly. “Let us go.”

The boy nodded and came to him.

“What about me?” Wormtongue moaned. He sniffled, then lifted his head and stared at them from the floor. “Will you take me with you?”

“Come or stay,” Faramir snapped impatiently. “I care not. But for the moment, that hammer shall be safer in my hands than yours.” He bent down and took the hammer from the floor where it had fallen at Wormtongue's side, as quickly as possible. He would trust a sickened dog more than he would ever trust Grima Wormtongue.

Wormtongue, still muttering about the defeat he wished would befall Saruman, pulled himself to his feet and followed the others but only at a discreet distance.

They moved into the darkened, confined area of the circular winding stairway that stretched from the tower's top to its lowest floor. Faramir glanced upwards and seriously considered searching for Saruman, but the Prince's safety was more important. Faramir promised himself that he would restore Eldarion to his father or die trying. The wizard would have to wait.

Faramir lead the way down keeping a paternal eye on Eldarion. The boy was pale and drawn but he seemed to have his fear under control, at least for the moment. In his haste Faramir did not notice that Wormtongue no longer followed them and in fact was not on the stairs at all.

As they reached a lower level, the young Prince let out a gasp of horror, as he saw a dozen Uruk-Hai ascending the stairs towards them.

Faramir raised his sword, balancing its unfamiliar weight in his hand, and held Grima's hammer in the other. He quickly passed the dagger to Eldarion. Shaky or not, he would not leave his Prince weaponless. He realised that while they were on the cramped stairs, he held the advantage since there was only room for one Uruk to attack him at a time. And only one of the Uruks, a larger beast at the back of the group, was outfitted with a hauberk; the rest wore leather surcoats or jerkins; and only a few bore vambraces. 'Oh, Saruman; you truly were unready for my coming', Faramir thought; 'And you shall have neither my king nor his son!'

Crying, "For Gondor!" Faramir leapt forward and swung the hammer down on the first Uruk's unprotected skull.

It was a muscle-numbing and exhausting fight for Faramir as he grimly cut and clubbed his way down the stair. No sooner had he finished one than the next Uruk charged up to take its place. He quickly tired of using both weapons, and stored the hammer in his belt. His arm began to ache from using the unfamiliar and over-heavy sword and sweat beaded on his brow. He had killed or mortally wounded four Uruks and disabled three when he took a cut on his forehead from the tall, armed Uruk who had shoved his way to the forefront by knocking two of his own soldiers off the stair. The wound streamed blood down Faramir's face, compromising his sight. He managed a quick glance downwards to see that he only had two more flights before the bottom, however, the rest of the Uruks were waiting angrily for him.

The Uruk noted his foe's lapse in concentration and pressed his advantage with a mighty roar. Ten seconds later, his spiked blade pinned Faramir’s exposed throat against the wall. Faramir heard the Prince cry out in defiance, and yelled "Stay back, my Prince!"

If the boy tried to fight the Uruk, the bloodthirsty monster might well kill him. Thankfully, the Uruk was pressing the dull side of the blade against him. But now two more Uruks came up behind their armed comrade; all three growling. The armed one, probably the captain, leaned close enough to Faramir's face that he could see its large yellow teeth, and, worse, smell its foul breath. Faramir turned as much as he could and kicked out at the Uruk's knee; only to nearly choke as the Uruk pressed the weapon harder against his neck. His strength was leaving him; he desperately needed just a minute or two to rest. But he would be dead by then!

“Stop!” the authoritive voice boomed down the stairwell, its awesome power forcing all to stop and heed it. "Do not kill him, not yet; and do not touch the boy!" commanded an unfortunately familiar voice.

Gulping, Faramir stood defenceless as the blood continued to flow down his face from the head wound. Moving his head very slowly, he managed to look up. Saruman looked down upon them from the top of the stairs. He fixed Faramir with his predatory stare.

“Am I to assume from this show of petulance that you do not accept my proposal, son of Gondor?” His voice was at its most melodious and dangerous.

Faramir felt as if fingers of darkness reached through his mind. It mattered not if this was one of Saruman's tricks or his own fears, he had not the time to entertain such illusions. Before brushing off the sensation like cobwebs, he wondered how much of Saruman's power now rested in his voice, and the way the wizard used it. He could think of nothing appropriate to say and so remained defiantly silent.

“You disappoint me, Faramir,” Saruman continued. “I thought you had begun to understand. I thought you had the vision to see. But sadly, you have fallen below my expectations and I really have little use for you at all.”

Faramir leaned back on the wall as a shiver rushed through him. His head was throbbing and he could feel his strength continue to seep away as the blood ran from his wound. The Uruk growled menacingly at him and held the blade rigidly at his neck. Its point pierced the skin and more blood began to trickle lazily down towards the man’s shirt.

As if he had dismissed the former Steward, Saruman turned his attention elsewhere.

“Eldarion,” he commanded. “Come to me now.”

A flash of green light emanated from the wizard. Faramir saw the young Prince stiffen as his eyes glazed.

“Eldarion!” he shouted, desperate to move forward but held securely in place by the Uruk’s blade. “Do not listen to him. He seeks to enthral you once more. Think of something else. Think of your father!”

Saruman laughed. “His father is the very root of the weakness I use to bind him to me. Aragorn is the fuel that feeds the fire of the spell. You obviously do not understand their relationship.

Unsure of what Saruman meant, Faramir concentrated his attention on the young Prince.

“Eldarion!” he shouted again but the boy had turned and was beginning to shuffle back up the stairs towards the wizard.

“No!” Faramir cried. He could do nothing but watch. The Uruk bared his teeth at the obvious desperation of the man in front of him. Faramir realized that the ugly expression on the monster’s face must have passed as a smile for Uruk-kind.

As Eldarion moved closer to the wizard, Wormtongue suddenly rushed through a door leading on to the stairs. He stopped as his beady eyes took in the scene before him. Wormtongue moved to intercept the young Prince on his climb.

“No, Saruman, not this time!” he shouted.

“Worm? What are you. . .” Saruman began but the words stuck in his throat as Wormtongue grabbed the young Prince.

“You will not supplant me!” Wormtongue spat. “Do you think I would allow you to use me for so many years and then cast me aside like garbage when you find fresher meat for your use?”

“Worm, you are a fool!” Saruman replied dismissively. “Crawl back under the stone where I found you. You have no business influencing the plans of your betters!”

Wormtongue was breathing heavily. He shook his head and pulled the young Prince closer. “No,” he said. “Now it is time for you to listen to me, Saruman! Behold! I hold the most valuable piece in your game! And I will kill him if I have to.”

“No!” Faramir said firmly. With renewed vigour he surged against the Uruk, who was watching events over his muscle-knotted shoulder and had let his hold on the sword lapse. Faramir raised his hand and knocked the blade away.

He raced up the steps; heart pounding. Eldarion was his to protect in Aragorn's absence, and no crawling snake would threaten the boy's life while Faramir still drew breath.

A shocked silence descended over the stairs and the remaining Uruks, confused by Saruman's orders, let him go without moving.

“Stay where you are!” Wormtongue screamed.

But Faramir would not be denied. "I'm coming, Eldarion!" he called out to the Prince.

As Faramir approached him, Wormtongue began to quake. Eldarion's eyes blinked and then opened, wide and bright. Taking strength from Faramir's approach and Wormtongue's sudden weakness, he began to struggle.

Captor and captive lurched dangerously close to the edge of the stairs in a deadly dance. Saruman was screaming at Wormtongue to desist, but was completely ignored.

Faramir reached them as the pair struggled tottering alarmingly. Suddenly Wormtongue seized and raised the knife that Faramir had given Eldarion. Wormtongue was suddenly a far more dangerous opponent. He turned on the boy, slashing wildly at him. Eldarion twisted to avoid falling off the stairs, then screamed in pain as the blade opened a long, deep gash on his right arm.

Faramir grimaced. He took hold of the Prince and bundled the boy behind him, toward the wall and away from the frenzied attack and the edge of the staircase. Eldarion was taken by surprise and stumbled as Faramir let him go. He slid down the few stairs and tumbled rear-first onto the landing, yelping in surprise at his fall.

Satisfied that the Prince was relatively safe, at least for the moment Faramir turned back to the spitting, knife-wielding fury that Wormtongue had become, just as the Worm thrust with his dagger. Faramir saw the manoeuvre but was off balance and though he tried to sidestep to miss the blade, succeeded only in deflected it into his left thigh.

The blade struck bone and was jarred from Wormtongue’s grip. The Gondorian gasped in sudden pain, but it was not enough to stop him. Wormtongue shivered as fear gripped him. Faramir stood bathed in blood, from his slashed forehead on down, dagger handle protruding from his bleeding leg, blood-spattered Uruk sword in hand. He was indeed a terrifying sight but it was his eyes that drew and held Wormtongue’s frightened gaze. Those eyes glittered with cold fury. Wormtongue knew he would find no mercy there. And Saruman would be angry; oh, where could he go now?

Faramir took a painful step towards his prey. Wormtongue screamed, turned, and fled back through the room from where he had come. Faramir staggered to the wall and held himself upright, breathing heavily. He raised the sword and glared up at Saruman as the wizard calmly descended the steps.

“How very courageous of you, Lord Faramir,” Saruman purred patronisingly. “Such a shame that all your efforts have come to naught.”

Faramir leaned back on the wall as a shiver chilled through his body. His head was throbbing and he could feel his strength ebb once more as the blood ran from his thigh wound. He forced himself to look down the stairs.

Eldarion was sitting, cradling his bleeding arm in his lap, his face contorted in pain, and, for the first time, anger. "You leave Lord Faramir alone, wizard!" Eldarion yelled, his voice changing from angry shout to squeak as his voice shifted in mid-sentence.

Faramir had to smile; remembering the embarrassment of the voice change from his early teens. But he was glad to see the Prince show some spirit. The King's son might become an eagle after all, if the squawking eaglet survived long enough.

“Enough of this!” Saruman snapped, then turned to his Uruks. “Take the boy. Clean and bind his wound,” he ordered an Uruk. “Somebody find the Worm and bring him to me quickly!”

His gaze then turned to Faramir, who he favoured with an unpleasant smile. “You have almost outlived your usefulness, son of Gondor,” he said. “But there is one more service you can do for me. Your King is here. Would you not like to see him before you die?”

Five or six Uruk-Hai approached Faramir. He could not be sure of their number, his eyes were tiring and could barely focus. He raised the blade one more time, but his arm could barely hold it; and an Uruk easily struck it from his grasp. The weapon clanged on the stone stairs with a dull metallic thud. The Uruk closest to him bared his teeth at the obvious desolation of the man in front of him. Faramir supposed he should be grateful that Saruman was not allowing the Uruks to eat him. Not yet; he told himself, recalling the tales of his halfling friend Peregrin, and felt his stomach lurch and twist.

“You will save the Prince?” Faramir demanded with all the strength he could muster. As long as Eldarion stayed alive, there was hope that his father would retrieve him from Saruman's hold. And 'Hope' was, after all, one of the King's many names.

Saruman’s eyes brightened with victory. “Oh yes,” he said. “I am a very conservative player, Faramir; I dispose of my powerful pieces only as a final resort. Now I shall see if I can win by sacrificing a secondary, less important piece. I shall hold the heir to the throne of Gondor in reserve. Who knows what I will accomplish when I come to use him? The only certainty is that you will not be alive to witness the end of my game!”

King Elessar frowned as he regarded the tower standing rebelliously before him in the dusty air of Mordor. He felt a sense of dread as he recalled the last time he had faced this wizard in his tower. Gandalf had been at his side to guide and strengthen his resolve. The conclusion to their confrontation with Saruman had been a satisfactory one. Aragorn found he had an itching fear that this time the ending would be very different.

He also remembered the horrific construction that had been the original Barad-Dur. While this tower before him was only a small imitation of the mighty fortress that had once stood there, it still worried him that he had allowed such a tower to be erected in Mordor once more. How could Saruman have found the labour to build this? How could he, the King of Gondor, have allowed it to happen? Saruman must have allies or, and this thought concerned him even more, the wizard had regained some of his powers. Could that be the case?

Aragorn snorted. “Gandalf, my friend,” he muttered. “How I wish you were still here. I have need of your counsel now.”

He turned back to consider his men's positions once more; his keen, experienced eyes making sure that everyone was exactly where he intended them to be.

Legolas and Gimli moved to stand beside him. The elf squinted at the tower. “He is here,” he said softly. “I sense him working to some evil purpose. It is very close.”

Aragorn nodded. “He will want to push his advantage. He will want to gloat.”

“Aye,” Gimli agreed, “but he will do it from the safety of his tower. Much as I would like to break his head open on my axe, I fear he will not allow us to get close enough.”

“I don’t need to be close,” said Legolas. “All I need is one clear shot.”

Aragorn sighed. He looked over to where Eowyn and her son sat ahorse waiting, their faces etched with worry.

“He comes,” said Legolas with a shudder.

Aragorn turned back to the tower. The light was hazy and it seemed to make all things indistinct but by squinting he could see figures on the top balcony of the tower.

“Come, Gimli,” he said. “Let us see what the wizard has to say. Legolas, should a clear shot arise, bring him down with it.”

The elf nodded and taking his bow in hand skipped expertly across the rocky outcrop behind which Faramir had once hidden, to find a suitable position.

Aragorn and Gimli moved forwards while Eowyn remained behind with the army.

As they came nearer the faces of the figures on the balcony could be clearly made out.

“Faramir is there,” Gimli snorted.

Aragorn nodded. The former Steward was standing in front of Saruman’s imposing figure, his head pulled back so they could clearly see the dagger that the wizard held to his throat. It was difficult to make out anything else about Faramir’s condition as they were unable to see his face. Aragorn thought he could see a dark stain on the former Steward’s left shoulder which he feared was blood, but the distance was too great for him to be sure.

He moved his gaze from his friend's helpless form to the other figures. Behind the wizard stood four or five massive Uruk-Hai and the black-cloaked Wormtongue, who seemed to be slinking around on the edge.

“Greetings, King Elessar,” Saruman’s voice was dulcet, but Aragorn knew it carried danger.

“What do you want?” Aragorn shouted as he and the dwarf came to a stop below the tower.

“Oh come now, Ranger-King,” Saruman smirked. “It is I who should ask you that. Is it not that I have something you value and you have come to claim it back?”

As he spoke the wizard pressed the dagger harder into Faramir’s neck. Aragorn saw his friend’s body stiffen noticeably. At least he is alive, Aragorn thought grimly, for until that point it had been difficult to tell.

Aragorn resisted the desire to glance back and see where Legolas had positioned himself. He knew the elf would do all in his power to loose a shot off but Saruman seemed to have been prepared. He kept his own body protected behind that of Faramir. Aragorn knew that Legolas could not risk a shot. He had to find away to prise the wizard away from his shield.

“What must I do for you to return Faramir to me?” Aragorn asked.

Saruman laughed. “Is that it?” he mocked. “The great King of the West reduced to begging? And all to save the life of his miserable, traitorous former Steward.”

“I am not begging!” Aragorn snapped. “I seek to find out what you want, wizard. I did not say you could have it!”

“Easy lad,” Gimli cautioned. “Do not be rash now.”

“I know, Gimli,” he muttered softly. “I must play this carefully, for I will not have Faramir’s blood on my hands.”

Aragorn suppressed the rush of frustrated anger that threatened to engulf him. He clasped his hands and let out a long breath. He had to trust himself to find a path out of this perilous situation.

But at the moment he was at a loss to see it and he knew time was escaping him.

 Chapter Thirteen - Fortitude

The wizard held Faramir so close that the Prince of Ithilien could feel Saruman's cool breath on his face.

"Stay still and live a few more minutes," said the hateful, melodious voice from but an inch behind his left ear.

Faramir closed his eyes and fought to remain conscious. He was tired, wounded, and would probably soon be dead. One of Saruman's hands was entwined in the hair at the back of Faramir's neck, painfully forcing his head back, while the wizard's other hand held a dagger to Faramir's exposed throat. The wizard had a very strong grip for such a physically aged man, Faramir observed.

When Saruman cut his throat, he would at least be spared further embarrassment, Faramir reflected grimly. He could scarcely think of worse humiliation! He had set out from Emyn Arnen with perhaps a foolhardy hope to confront Saruman alone and take back his pride, his life, his honour. Now Saruman displayed him to his King as a helpless captive, to be bartered for like a rabbit at market! Eomer would certainly never be caught in such a snare! How had it come to this?

Just an hour or so earlier, he had dared to hope that the worst was over, that he at least would be able to free the boy. But he had failed. Faramir remembered, his mind returning to the moment when he and Saruman had faced each other after he had lost the fight on the stairs. Although Eldarion was still alive, he was very much under the wizard's power. Saruman had stood motionless, surveying the four Uruk-Hai corpses littering the steps.

Saruman took a deep breath. He placed his hands behind his back, stepped off the last step and walked slowly across the hall, as if in deep thought.

Finally Saruman turned back to Faramir. “Before we meet your King, I must heal the boy. I need him able to lift his sword-arm in the future, if only to make a show of waving Anduril about to claim Elessar's legacy. Do you have even an inkling of the implications of my work?” he asked haughtily.

Faramir shook his head both in answer to the question and in an attempt to clear the blood that meandered lazily down his face from his head wound. Why was Saruman seeking his praise? Perhaps the wizard needed a new sycophant, now that Wormtongue had apparently abandoned him. Faramir was acutely aware of how much he missed his old friend Mithrandir; and how much he wished the Grey Pilgrim could appear and destroy this ancient, posturing windbag!

Saruman moved into one of the rooms off the hallway where the Uruks had taken Eldarion. Faramir staggered forwards, trying to follow. Saruman barked an order and two Uruks stepped up and thrust Faramir back against the wall.

Faramir allowed himself to slide down the wall to a sitting position. Moving and thinking at the same time was growing more difficult; he had to hoard his strength as much as possible. He gritted his teeth and pulled Wormtongue’s dagger from his thigh. He used the dagger to cut off half his shirt and slash the cloth into strips; with which he staunched the blood that welled up from the wound. He wadded up two of the strips against the wound; then wrapped the other strips around it as tightly as he could manage. The wound needed to be cleaned; but there was no time for that chore even if Saruman were kind enough to offer him a healer's provisions. He would just have to stay conscious long enough to try again to save his Prince. There had to be a way. He had been Steward of Gondor, and before that the Captain of her Rangers, descendant of a long line of men who had protected the realm, yet he had not even managed to succour Gondor's threatened heir when he stumbled across the boy. And he was so very weary now, reconsidering Eldarion's plight just made Faramir's head ache.

Faramir's eyes fluttered shut for a few moments, only to open when one of the Uruks moved in close and grabbed both the dagger and the hammer he still carried in his belt. Faramir doubted that such caution was needed since he lacked the strength to wield even a paring knife. Gulping in air he forced the welcoming darkness of oblivion from his mind.

"Bring me some water, Uruk!" he ordered his guard. "Saruman wants me able to walk. I must quench my thirst first, or I will faint and your master will be displeased."

The Uruk growled, but actually moved away to find some. Faramir did not care at this point whether Saruman wanted him to walk or planned to have the Uruks drag him, but he knew he needed water if he was to compensate for the blood he was losing. The Uruk returned bearing a flask. He seized Faramir's head, pulled it back, and started pouring some kind of liquid down his throat. Faramir managed three good swallows. The liquid actually was water, and tasted good, if somewhat murky. The Uruk laughed raucously as Faramir gagged and spit up the rest, too much of it was going down his throat too fast to drink. The Uruk helped himself to the last dregs at the bottom of the vessel.

Faramir turned away from the sight of the complacent Uruk sloshing down the last of the water he craved. Instead he watched the locked door of the room where the wizard had taken Eldarion. Was there anything more he could have done to save Eldarion from Saruman’s clutches; and was there anything else he could do now to free the boy? Through the crack between the door and the floor, he discerned the strange green light that he had seen come from Saruman before. He listened intently trying to hear over the noise of his own heart beating in his chest but he could ascertain nothing. Finally he simply sat, his head leaning on the wall, and waited.

A swish of his robes preceded Saruman as he returned to the room. He stopped and eyed Faramir with, it seemed, some frustration as well as disdain.

Faramir detected that the wizard’s aspect had changed. The fire in Saruman's eyes had dimmed; and he was walking stiffly rather than gliding effortlessly as he moved. Could it be that treating the Prince’s wound had taken a greater physical toll on the wizard than he would wish to disclose? Faramir believed that the former Lord of Isengard no longer possessed the power he had wielded for so many centuries.

But when Faramir had confronted him, Saruman had maintained that he could bespell Eldarion because of his youth, and had also mentioned the importance of the boy’s relationship with his father as a factor in that spell. Saruman certainly seemed to have the boy enthralled when he called him on the stairs. The wizard might have lost much of his power; but Faramir reminded himself that Saruman had still been resourceful enough to capture him, along with the only son of the King of Gondor and Arnor, and imprison them both.

“The wound was deep. He has lost some blood and is in pain but he will live to wield a blade,” Saruman pronounced finally to Faramir’s unspoken question. “You however, will not.”

“What have you done to him?” Faramir asked, ignoring the personal threat.

“He is bound to me,” Saruman had answered mysteriously and though Faramir had persisted, the wizard had refused to reveal more.

Since that exchange of words, Faramir had been feigning more weakness than he actually felt. His wounds and blood loss troubled him but he stayed conscious, although he appeared to all others to be swimming in and out of wakefulness. It was a simple subterfuge but all he had been able to contrive. The moment might come when his captor would relax his hold, and then he must be ready to make a swift and effective move. He might get one chance; but he had no doubt that there would be no second such opportunity.

He stood now, forcing his body to stillness, waiting like the hunter he had always been, waiting for his one moment and praying it would come. His positioning was such that he could not see anything but the bright blue sky above him. He felt Saruman tense behind him and he reasoned the King must be coming.

Faramir heard Aragorn’s strong voice drift up from the ground far beneath him; and was filled with hope and renewed resolve. As far as he knew, Aragorn knew not that his son was Saruman's prisoner. If he could not free Eldarion himself, Faramir had to live long enough to at least tell the King!

Faramir closed his eyes and pictured the scene below. Legolas and Gimli would have accompanied the King; possibly with elves and stout dwarves to swell the King's ranks. No, he thought; Legolas would not be with the King, he would be hiding elsewhere trying to get a shot at Saruman. Faramir tried to judge what parts of the wizard’s body could be reached by the arrow of that peerless archer. He realised that his own form was shielding the wizard and though he believed his own life an acceptable sacrifice for Saruman's death, his friends might not concur.

Faramir glanced down at the claw-like hand that held the dagger at his throat. The fingers were colourless as the skin was stretched so tightly across the bony, elegant digits. On the back of the hand the knobbled knuckles protruded like a mountain range. Black hairs vegetated the area in between which was crisscrossed by blue ridges of river-like veins. Faramir found himself mesmerised by every minute detail of the hand in front of him. Would this hand carry out its owner's threat and slit his throat?

“I am not begging!” Aragorn’s voice cut into his consciousness like the knife. “I seek to find out what you want wizard. I did not say you could have it!” He was angry now.

Faramir sensed a corresponding shift in the wizard’s stance behind him. Saruman pulled Faramir further backwards, forcing his back to arch like one of his own bowstrings.

Somewhere in the distance Faramir heard Wormtongue whine mournfully but he pushed it from his mind. He concentrated now on the wizard; gauging the tension of Saruman's body and the power of the two hands that held him helpless, as if they were the only two people in the world. He could sense that the longed-for moment was near. When that moment came, he must seize the chance it gave him or forever suffer the penalty. Below him gaped a deadly drop from the tower to the ground. As Saruman opened his mouth for another insulting reply to the King, Faramir summoned all his remaining strength and readied himself to act.

Eowyn sat silently on Daisy's broad grey back, peering through the dust rising from the barren landscape, at the tower. The King had given her the opportunity to accompany him to talk with Saruman but Eowyn had declined. She, had faced and slain the Witch-King, but she could not find enough courage to face whatever awaited them in the tower. She had learned what many soldiers had come to know before her; to face personal fear takes great courage but to know that it is a loved one facing that fear instead of oneself is ten times worse. She would fight any horror to save Faramir. But she could not sit by helplessly and listen to the wizard who had nearly destroyed Rohan stand in his tower and mock all that she cherished.

So she had stayed with the King's forces, with Elboron at her side. They waited astride their horses, knowing that this time was the calm before the storm. Her strong, handsome son would soon ride into a battle for the first time, prey to any arrow or sword or spear. Bron was a valiant young warrior, the blood of brave men sang in his veins, but he was still her baby. She checked him over with a quick glance to assure herself that he was properly helmed, and his armour well-fitted to his still growing body. She proudly noted his relaxed, calm grip on his mare's reins. Now and again, her son would reach across and squeeze her hand. Their eyes met and she would smile reassuringly. No words were spoken, none were needed.

But while she sat and waited, the troubling inconsistency that had plagued her mind suddenly became clear. After all the time she had spent trying to force the solution into her mind, the answer had finally come to her like an autumn leaf falling to the ground unrushed and unconcerned as to the time it takes.

She stiffened and Elboron sensed the change in her mood.

“What is it?” he asked nervously.

“Where is Anborn?” Eowyn asked.

“Yonder,” Elboron responded. “Why?”

“I have realised what has puzzled me all this time. We need to move quickly.”

They rode back to Anborn.

“My Lady, my Lord,” he said his stiffness extenuating the concern in his eyes.

“We need to change formation, Captain,” Eowyn said. “And quickly.”

“My Lady?”

Eowyn snorted her impatience. “When Beregond and I were attacked, the main force of Uruk-Hai did not come from the tower. It has been bothering me ever since. I have been so stupid, to overlook this.”

“Where did they come from, mother?” Elboron asked, trying to deflect her away from her self-absorbing regret back to the present.

She pointed down the valley. “They came up as from the earth over there. There must be tunnels or caves under the ground.”

“And while we focus our attention on the tower. . .” Elboron began.

“They creep up from behind and butcher us!” Anborn finished his sentence. The Captain turned and barked out a command. Quickly his Rangers moved to take up position facing down the valley behind the King’s men, who continued to face the tower. Eowyn and the others sat between the two lines of the men they commanded.

The Rangers re-formed not a moment too soon. As the last Ranger took up his place, the ground before them seemed to collapse, causing a terrific dust cloud to swirl into the air. Deep openings formed where the earth seemed to simply disappear revealing a warren of tunnels beneath where they stood. A rift in the earth snaked straight through Gondor's line; men screamed as they fell deep into the abyss. Other chasms could be seen criss-crossing the plains.

The men of Gondor waited, hearts racing with fear as the dirt began to settle and a fell vision seared their eyes. An army of Uruk-Hai rose up from the ground, weapons raised in challenge and hideous shrieks screaming from their lips. The monsters were flanked by the more familiar and scarcely less dangerous orcs, hissing and cawing like crebain feasting on corpses.

Elboron glanced over his shoulder to where the King still stood. He noted a newly formed gorge now meandered almost to the base of and then beyond Saruman’s tower. Fighting down the fear that arose in his stomach, Elboron clung to his well-developed sense of fair play. “They cannot attack yet,” he said. “King Elessar still parleys with the wizard.”

“Why trust the wizard to follow the rules?” Eowyn hissed, her eyes suddenly bright with excitement. “He has not done so up until now.”

“And if the Uruks wait, it would ruin their little surprise would it not?” Anborn muttered grimly. “I hate surprises!”

Eowyn lifted her sword. “And I hate Uruk-Hai and every other spawn of that wizard. They shall not remain alive any longer than it takes for me to kill them all!” Eowyn turned Daisy around and moved to engage the enemy.

“Stay by me, my Lord,” Anborn whispered to Elboron who hesitated as if he contemplated whether to follow his mother. “The battle lust is upon her. It would be better for you both if you did not accompany her just now. Do not fear for her, she is the White Lady of Rohan and she bears a charmed life. Stay with me and the Rangers. You can watch my back and I yours.”

The boy nodded gratefully, gritted his teeth and gently urged his mare to follow Anborn into the battle.

The first wave of Uruk-Hai ran through the arrows of the Rangers with only a few casualties and crashed into the front line of the army of Gondor. The air was full of keening screams and the clash of weapons. Bearing in mind his own stupefying fear, Elboron felt sure that the men of Gondor would turn and run but they did not. The knights of Gondor stood firm and the power of the Uruk-Hai charge was absorbed.

The fight shifted into a series of deadly skirmishes. It seemed to Elboron that everywhere he looked it was the men of Gondor who fell as the Uruk-Hai moved ahead, chopping furiously with spears and spiked blades. Gondor's line seemed about to break! Beside Elboron, Anborn swore as he gutted an Uruk. Elboron realized for the first time that the monsters were poorly armed; only about one in four wore hauberks or helms; the rest seemed to wear motley combinations of leather over cloth.

“Hold the line!” the Ranger Captain bellowed, as he too sensed the fear building in his men.

Elboron gulped in sudden terror, the hot fear twisting his stomach. A massive Uruk-Hai approached him, growling and making strange chuffing noises as he circled around the mare, brandishing an axe. Elboron fought the strong desire to throw down his sword and turn his horse, Snowflake, around and flee. He had never seen Uruk-Hai before. Until this day, the giant orcs had been faraway figures in his parents' stories and minstrels' lays. He was certain that he never wanted to see them again either! Biting down his lip and his fear, Elboron steadied himself. As the monster lifted his axe to slash at Snowflake, the boy turned her quickly and thrust his sword downwards below the creature's upraised arm. Elboron felt his blade hit bone with such force that it was almost pulled from his hand, but he hung on and pulled the sword free. The Uruk staggered away, blood gushing from his chest, and was soon lost in the fray.

Elboron sensed rather than saw Anborn at his shoulder. The boy waited grimly for the next attack, Snowflake taut between his knees. "Good girl, my brave one," He crooned to her. Truly the mare was worthy of her Mearas bloodline, crossbreed though she was. He must remember to thank his uncle again for the use of Snowflake's sire, son of King Theoden's own Snowmane.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder toward the distant tower, expecting to see the King and Gimli returning to join the battle. Instead, he glimpsed through the dust that an equally savage battle now raged where the King had stood. Elboron had no time to discern what was happening there, his attention was needed close at hand.

A second wave of Uruk-Hai hit the brittle line of men and it wavered. Then, from over to their left Elboron heard a terrifying cry. He looked through the dust and debris and saw a truly extraordinary sight. His mother was galloping between the length of the Uruk-Hai front line and that of Gondor.

"Ride now!” She shouted, raising a war cry of Rohan. Her voice pierced through the battle’s roar and her sword flashed like a silver flame. Eowyn's golden hair and white cloak held the light as she rode between Saruman's dark forces and the soldiers of the King.

“The White Lady of Rohan! It is Eowyn Wraithbane!” somebody cried in awe.

Cries of "Eowyn" and "Wraithbane!" were taken up along the line of Gondor’s soldiers as each drew new courage from the sight of the sunlit woman at their head. Elboron too found himself crying his mother's name and raising his sword in salute.

As Elboron watched with a pounding heart, Eowyn turned Daisy and drove straight at the enemy line, smashing her way through it. Elboron then realised that the enemy line was only three soldiers deep. This was no army! He reasoned that if the Uruk-Hai had reinforcements they would send them into the fray now or forever lose the initiative. He looked past where his mother turned Daisy once more to re-engage with the monsters, but save for a few orcs the plains were empty behind her.

Anborn saw it too. “Come on, Rangers!” he roared. “Prince Faramir needs us! Charge!"

The men of Gondor streamed forward. Elboron’s heart now beat so fast that he could hear nothing else. He was so frighteningly alive that his exhilaration had chased away all fear. He felt suddenly invincible and indestructible as the battle rage took him. He screamed at the top of his lungs and urged his horse forwards with his sword held high.

“Lord Elboron!” Anborn called but he realised that the boy was in a place where no words could reach him. The Ranger had hoped to stop Elboron from following the others into the desperate fracas. Anborn knew from experience that surviving such a close combat was chancy at best. Cursing, he followed Elboron straight into the heart of the battle, determined that the son of Faramir and Eowyn should not come to harm.

 Chapter Fourteen - Falling

As the Uruk-Hai had attacked from the tunnels below the plains the very earth had trembled and large fissures ripped it apart. The air was filled with dust and debris, the sound of battle, and the smell of blood.

“Aragorn!” Gimli yelled in warning, as he glanced back to see their forces being engaged.

“Saruman!” Aragorn shouted with cool fury. “Come down and face justice!”

The wizard let out a rolling laugh as beside him an Uruk with an arrow strung to his bow moved forward to put the upstart king in his sights.

Saruman smiled triumphantly. Finally, and in spite of Grima's foolishness, his plans began to move toward fruition. He felt a thrill of satisfaction course through his body. Power was power, whether held in a staff or in a combination of good strategy and the fortuitous return of this forgotten pawn so highly valued by the king of Gondor. And he had not even had to hazard the most valuable piece in the game! Without Gandalf the Grey to hold his hand, the Dunedain could scarcely keep watch on his own heir, much less the interior of Mordor. Or find a trustworthy Steward to replace the one whose life Saruman now held on the point of his knife. A poor sort of kingdom Gandalf had helped Aragorn reclaim, if it held so few men of quality. Saruman sighed, in anticipation of the triumph that would soon be savoured, and relaxed slightly. It would not do to develop a cramp in his leg!

Faramir felt the force of his captor’s grip lessen as the wizard stretched his legs. This was his moment! He contrived to slump forwards, making his body go suddenly limp as if in a faint, causing Saruman to curse and support all of Faramir’s weight. Faramir felt the knife at his throat puncture his skin, then the blade’s pressure was withdrawn. Ignoring the cut, he used their growing momentum to fall further forward. Faramir grunted as his chest hit the rail in front of him, but by using all of his strength he forced himself further still. Holding on to the rail with his hands, he pushed his head downwards and flexed his body round and over. Saruman lost his handhold on Faramir’s hair, but seized his shoulders instead as they both fell.

Suddenly there was no tower below their feet, only sky, as the world tipped over around them. Faramir’s body twisted painfully as he somersaulted over the rail. He grabbed up at the bar as he began to slide downwards. Thankfully he managed to get purchase with both hands on the rail’s slippery surface; and then he was hanging, desperately clinging to the rail. He grunted as his shoulders protested the strain, for although his upper body strength was greater than most men due to long years spent wielding a longbow, the pull downwards was irresistible and the reason was obvious.

Saruman had been thrown over the rail with him. But rather than plummeting to his death as Faramir had hoped, the wizard’s grasp had remained firm, his fingers now digging tightly into Faramir‘s shoulder blades. Faramir sensed that their combined weight was too much for him to sustain. He would not be able to hold on for very long.

Now the two enemies dangled dangerously from the tower over the plains, attached to the rail by the strength of Faramir’s hands. And that strength waned with each aching breath he took.

Saruman spat in his ear, “You cannot hold on much longer, son of Gondor. I can see that your hands begin to slip. Fight me no more; I will lift you up when I regain the balcony.”

Saruman hauled his legs up over Faramir’s back as he climbed towards the elusive rail. Faramir’s arms and shoulders began to shudder from the effort of keeping his hands wrapped around the railing. An animal growl escaped his gritted teeth. As sweat ran down his back, he uselessly flailed his legs to try to find a foothold. There was nothing! And all the time Saruman was inching his way upwards. He knew that Saruman would be more likely to throw him down to certain death than pull him to safety if the wizard managed to reach the balcony. Faramir frantically tried to buck the wizard off. But Saruman clung on and continued to use Faramir as his living ladder.

Faramir closed his eyes. If he let go now, he could take Saruman with him, forever remove the wizard’s menace from Middle-earth. It was a tempting proposition. But then he saw Eowyn’s face, the warm glint in her eyes when they had last touched. And the children! He could not leave his little ones fatherless. Faramir of Gondor had been reared to hold on in the face of peril, not give up the fight. If his end was to be a fatal fall to the dusty ground so far below him, then it would happen because his arms lacked strength to hold him, not because his heart was strong enough to let go.

With a sickening lurch, Faramir’s left hand began to slip. The wizard’s feet now squeezed into the other’s ribs to support him, while he placed his other hand on top of Faramir’s head to lever himself upwards.

“No!” Faramir screamed, feeling the muscles in his shoulders tremble from the increased weight pressing down on them.

Suddenly, through a haze of agonized desperation, Faramir heard the familiar sound of arrows in flight. He tensed, knowing he had nowhere to go. One arrow hit its target with a dull thud. Then he felt the breath expelled from the wizard’s lungs. Saruman’s body tightened with a gasp of pain.

“You have not seen the last of me!” Saruman hissed into his ear. “Look for me in Eldarion’s eyes. I. . .will. . .be. . .there!”

The wizard spoke no more, but released his grip, slid down Faramir’s back, and fell. Faramir looked down to see the white-garbed body twisting and turning in a sudden gust of wind. As Saruman’s robes billowed, Faramir thought he could see an intense point of the familiar green light falling beside the wizard. Faramir blinked and the light was gone but he could just make out the shaft of an elven arrow sticking from the wizard’s back. The body fell deep down into one of the newly formed fissures and disappeared from view.

Faramir turned his attention back to his own fate. His hand had stopped slipping without the wizard’s extra weight, and the strain on his shoulders had become somewhat more tolerable. However, he was also pitching dangerously from side to side. But by using this movement to his advantage, he managed to grab the rail with one foot. From then it took him several long, muscle-shaking moments to pull himself back over the rail on to the tower balcony.

He found himself on his knees, panting heavily, desperate for breath; his body a map of pain. Oblivion beckoned again; but he could not yet seek rest.

Faramir checked his neck first. As he suspected, since he was still breathing, Saruman’s dagger had only inflicted a superficial flesh wound. He would live a little longer! The wound in his thigh throbbed and leaked blood once more, but there was no time to tend to it. He sighed, and considered asking the Uruk-Hai if they would get him a poultice before they hacked him to pieces.

Then he lifted his head and looked around himself. Five Uruks lay dead on the balcony’s floor, each with a particularly long, green-shafted elven arrow protruding from either heart or head.

“Legolas, my thanks,” Faramir muttered as he pulled himself to his feet.

He bent down to take weapons from the corpses and noticed that one Uruk clutched a bow, but the arrow had already left it; the other arrows remained in the quiver. A sudden dread for the King gripped Faramir. He looked over the rail, and for the first time observed the battle that raged some three hundred feet below, beneath a cloud of dust. . He could not distinguish who was winning or who was dying. He had to get out of the tower! And he had to find the Prince. The fight below would have to wait, as would his concern for the King.

Armed anew with a sword, dagger, and a longbow and quiver-full of arrows, Faramir wearily re-entered the tower and started down the stairs. Suddenly he sniffed an odour of woodsmoke wafting up the stair. It spurred him on and he descended at a faster pace, despite the increased discomfort caused by his wound every time he brought down his left foot. As he neared the bottom, Faramir saw the reason for the smoke. Wormtongue scurried about like a demented sewer rat, talking to himself as he busily fed a small bonfire with wooden chairs and planks. The Worm had loosely strewn small tables, clothing, linens and rags down the last thirty feet or so of stairs to form a trail for the fire. And the lackey was pouring what appeared to be cooking oil over the stairs to land in smears and dribbles on the floor below.

Faramir stopped. “What are you doing, Grima?” he asked.

Wormtongue hesitated, his shoulders stiffening at the sound of the Gondorian's voice. Then he turned and stared at Faramir, his face contorted with hatred.

Faramir was shocked at the deterioration he saw in Wormtongue. The Worm was shuffling, barely able to raise his body off the floor. His tongue flicked in and out as he panted; and his narrow eyes held an uncontrollable wildness.

“He will not come down,” Wormtongue muttered. “So I will burn him out!”

“Grima,” Faramir said firmly. “Saruman is dead. He fell from the tower. Now you must put out the fire, how can we get out with it burning?”

Wormtongue barred his teeth and snarled with fury. “I am burning him out!” he repeated.

“Where is Prince Eldarion, Grima?” Faramir asked, trying another tack. "Is he still where the wizard left him, or has he been moved?"

Wormtongue nodded. “Over there,” he said distractedly. “Everyone else has gone to fight the King but I seek greater game. I have suffered enough; it is Saruman’s turn now!”

“Put the fire out, Grima,” Faramir repeated. He was losing patience, but he could not be sure how much Wormtongue heard or understood.

“No! It is my fire!” Wormtongue’s voice trembled on the verge of hysteria as he raved, “I’m burning him out!”

Faramir eased his way down the last two steps. “You may not want to leave this place of sorrow and death, Grima,” he said keeping his voice as calm as he could. “But I do. Your fire bars my way. Put it out, now."

Wormtongue pulled himself up to his full height and reached across for the sword and hammer he had discarded earlier in favour of his fire raising activities. He moved towards the other man, his eyes blazing with anger.

“I will kill you, Grima,” Faramir promised as he raised his sword.

"You keep saying that, Princeling!” Wormtongue spat. “But you never do. You are too weak, soft of hand and heart. Had I the luck to be born in your place, I would have killed Elessar years ago, taken his place and made Eowyn the Queen of Gondor. You never had what it takes to be truly strong. Now, stand not between me and the wizard!”

“Don’t be a fool, Grima! You can still survive this and live until tomorrow. Stand aside,” Faramir tried again. “You are no match for me.”

He did not want to cut down an older man who was obviously no warrior, even if the Snake‘s life was forfeit for his attack on the King‘s unarmed son. And Wormtongue had strategic value; he had been privy to Saruman's secrets and might have knowledge that could help them.

“Prove it!” Wormtongue screamed, then continued in a shrill but more controlled voice. “You look quite battle-weary to me, ‘Lord’ Faramir. Maybe this is my chance to be rid of you forever!” As he spoke he lunged forward, driving at Faramir with sword and hammer.

Faramir turned easily and avoided the attack. The fight took longer that it should have; due to Faramir’s hope of keeping his foe, and the precious knowledge in his head, alive. Despite his own injury, Faramir was by far the superior fighter. Samwise Gamgee's young daughter would make a better fighter than Wormtongue, but the older man had rage and determination heightened by madness, a combination that could prove troublesome, for the Snake of Isengard had naught to lose.

Wormtongue tried to press forward and left his right side vulnerable and defenceless. Faramir saw the weakness immediately. He still questioned whether he should kill this miserable creature, but Wormtongue tenaciously refused to stop or step out of the way. Faramir could waste no more time sparring; the fire was growing and he had a prince to save. Nor could he just turn around and walk away; he might quickly find Wormtongue's knife in his back or, worse, in Eldarion's back. Wormtongue had become too dangerous to ignore. Wormtongue tried to press forward, dealing Faramir's ribs a glancing blow with the hammer. Faramir parried his foe's thrust, then plunged his sword deep into the Worm’s stomach.

Wormtongue snorted. The weapons fell from his hand and a gurgle of blood escaped his dying lips. Malice, then life, faded from his eyes. Faramir pulled out his sword and the Worm tumbled to the floor, dead. Eowyn's torment, her uncle's degradation, and the honoured dead of Helm's Deep, were finally avenged in full. He wished that he could feel more joy in that vengeance. At least there was now certainty that Wormtongue could never trouble Eowyn with his presence again.

Faramir cleaned his blade with the edges of his torn shirt, then sheathed it. He skirted around the now blazing fire and entered the room Wormtongue had indicated earlier.

The room was dark and Faramir waited a few seconds on the threshold before he could see well enough to enter. The chamber was empty save for the motionless form of Prince Eldarion on a table in its centre. The Uruks who had been tasked to guard him were long gone.

Faramir dropped his sword and moved forwards quickly. He carried out a brief examination of the boy. Eldarion was alive, though pale, his breathing shallow but rhythmic. His injured arm had been cleaned and bandaged across his chest. Thankfully, the boy appeared to have suffered no other injury. Faramir carefully lifted the prince's head.

“Prince Eldarion,” he whispered, gently shaking the boy. He tried again but Eldarion showed no signs of waking.

Faramir did not understand why he could not wake the Prince. He began to fear that Saruman had put him in some sort of new, stronger trance. If that was the case he could do nothing now. He must simply get the boy out and pray that someone skilled in the healing arts, like Eldarion’s own father, would be able to rouse him.

Smoke from the fire drifted lazily on the air. Faramir knew he could not wait. He sighed at the knowledge of what he would have to do. His legs suddenly buckled, and he supported himself by leaning on the table. He stayed like that for a minute, until the shuddering in his muscles had ceased. He looked around the room. It contained only a few buckets, some brushes and a discarded leather jerkin; no rope. He would have to carry Prince Eldarion through the fire and out to freedom all on his own.

So be it, he told himself stoically.

The fire was roaring now, columns of flame leaping up the stairway and catching the wooden posts that lined it at regular intervals. The tower's interior would soon be aflame, or at least the part of it through which he must pass to reach the door. Moving quickly Faramir went back out to Wormtongue’s body and pulled off the dead man's black cloak.

“You owe me a cloak from your theft of seven years past, Snake,” he muttered. He glanced down at Wormtongue’s feet. “You can keep the boots though! Now at least you have repaid one of your debts.”

Then, returning to the room where Eldarion lay and shutting the door, he picked up the bucket of water he had spied there. He doused the cloak, himself and the Prince with water and then put on the soaking garment. Pulling the hood about his head and face, he moved toward the chamber‘s door.

Opening the door a crack, Faramir saw that the flames dancing slowly towards them, from a distance of about a hundred feet away at the juncture of hall and stairway. The smoke was closer, and becoming uncomfortable as it swirled around the confined space and clutched at Faramir’s throat, trying to steal away his breath.

Ignoring the smoke, Faramir took a deep breath through the smelly hood and tried not to retch as he breathed in Wormtongue’s awful scent. He did not know which was worse, the smoke or the odour of Worm! Then he lifted Eldarion up in his arms; trying to cover as much of the Prince's body as he could with the damp cloak. The boy, although tall for his age, was as light-limbed as his Elven ancestors, but Faramir‘s strength was ebbing. Slowly, he turned and made his way out of the room.

He checked that he held Eldarion as firmly as he could, but he knew that his hesitation only delayed the inevitable. The fire seemed to roar with hunger as it came nearer; he could now feel its dreadful heat on his face.

It was only fire, he told himself; a good servant but a bad master. Not a Balrog, just flames.

"Not this time!" he croaked to the memory that often burned in his nightmares, that faint, brief memory of his father's anguished voice and the crackle of flames in Rath Dinen; "You took one Lord of Gondor; you shall not consume another!"

He had been utterly helpless on the night his father died, but now he was awake and could think and act. Not this time, he repeated silently, not this Steward, and not this helpless Prince!

Taking another deep breath and praying that the flames would not close around their path, Faramir stepped forward to walk through the fire.

Thanks to Raksha, who started just reading, then reviewed, then beta-ed and finally became my CO-AUTHOR on this story. Take a bow Raks – you are a star and forever appreciated this side of the pond!!!!

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        MADE TO SUFFER

        Chapter Fifteen - Restoration

“Saruman!” Aragorn shouted, “Come down and face justice!”

The wizard’s laughter drifted down to them.

“Aragorn!” Gimli shouted as the door at the bottom of the tower opened, pouring out a river of huge Uruk-hai upon them.

“Baruk khazad!” roared the dwarf, leaping forward faster than anyone that broad and dense had a right to move. “Khazad ai-menu!” He swung his double-bladed battle axe across the first Uruk’s midsection in a sweeping arc that also lopped off the second Uruk’s arm.

The King unsheathed Anduril, and followed the dwarf to engage their enemy. He heard Legolas call his name in warning, and turned to avoid an arrow that whisked past his ear. He looked toward the tower, and then swerved quickly to avoid the upraised axe of an Uruk who had suddenly penetrated his guard. He quickly brought Anduril up to counter; then used his left hand to pull out his knife and stab the attacker hard and fast in his armpit. The Uruk shrieked, and then fell to Anduril’s death-stroke.

Glancing behind him, Aragorn saw Legolas, no longer in need of concealment, standing on a rock, loosing his arrows toward the tower.

“I have them, Aragorn!” Legolas called, “Heed the ones on the ground!”

Aragorn was forced to concentrate on the fight as three Uruk-hai confronted him with bloodlust in their eyes. He smiled grimly and raised Anduril once more, then whirled into a dance of death. The Uruks fell, and others took their place.

It was a brutal fight. Aragorn remembered standing back-to-back with the dwarf at Helm’s Deep in a living sea of blood-hungry Uruk-hai. At least here, the number of Orcs was far smaller, less than one hundred from what he could tell. At some point in the fight he became aware of Legolas joining them; and several Tower Guards fought their way through to line up behind them.

“How goes it, Legolas?” he managed to mutter.

“Saruman has fallen,” Legolas informed him between lethal flashes of his white knives.

“And Faramir?” Aragorn asked.

Legolas smiled dryly. “Still alive, last I looked. I killed the Uruks on the balcony to clear his way. That is six more for me today, Master Dwarf!"

“Hah!” answered Gimli. “I have just taken my eighth, Master Elf!”

“But Saruman should count for at least five Uruks, my little friend” replied Legolas.

“Nay, son of root and twig, each life counts just once!” countered the dwarf.

“That is not what you said on the Pelennor, after I slew the Mumak and all aboard it!” replied the elf. “That makes seven!” he warbled as he shot another Uruk between the eyes.

The King of Arnor and Gondor sighed, and paused to wipe his sweat-streaked brow. These two comrades really behaved like children when one took them into battle, he observed, but thankfully very strong and deadly children. He thought of his own twin daughters, not even a year old, and could not help but smile fondly, certain that his beautiful little girls would never squabble so noisily over the toys they would have one day. And they would never, ever have to kill Orcs, never, ever have to fight for their lives on a dusty, blood-soaked battlefield, Aragorn vowed as he dodged the blood spurting from the neck of the Uruk that Gimli had just decapitated.

The respite was over; as an Uruk with particularly large teeth demanded Aragorn's full attention. He nearly lost his knife in the Uruk's kneecap when the Orc tried to flee, and had to cut the leg half off with Anduril in order to retrieve it. The knife was a gift from Celeborn; which both Aragorn and Arwen treasured.

After killing ten or eleven more Uruk-hai, Aragorn was able to pause again. His sword-arm was tiring faster than expected. Thankfully, the flood of Orcs had ceased to flow in his direction, enabling him to take a moment to look above the immediate danger and gauge what was happening elsewhere in the fray. His first perception was that the wind was rising, as there appeared to be an enormous amount of dust swirling around both the battlefield and the tower. He soon realized from the smell that it was smoke, not dust, wafting out from the tower.

“The tower is burning!” he shouted.

Both his companions managed to glance at the structure.

“Where is Faramir?” Aragorn asked the elf again.

Legolas furrowed his brow, as he pulled one knife from the neck of a dying Uruk. “I know he did not fall. I believe he left the balcony and returned inside the fortress. He must still be in there. Fear not, Aragorn, Faramir is strong of heart; we will find him after we prevail.”

“Master Elf, my count is now thirteen!” interrupted Gimli. “How fare you?”

“Twelve, friend Dwarf! I will pass you yet!”

Aragorn snorted. He had to get to the tower! Although they could not yet see flames, it was obvious from the amount of smoke billowing from the balcony, that the tower was afire. And as far as they knew Faramir was still inside it. Aragorn stopped himself from racing to the tower. He could not forsake the battlefield to save his friend, he had to remain and fight on for Gondor. He turned his attention back to the fight, hoping that Faramir could hold on for a little longer. There were just four more Uruk-hai ringing himself and Gimli. The Flame of the West burned through the dust-filled air, and then there were three.

“Legolas,” he said. “Can you see the battlefield behind us? I am hard pressed with all the dust.”

Three Uruks left; a light slash under Aragorn’s right arm slowed him only barely, and Gimli’s axe struck an onrushing Uruk at the same time as Anduril. The last two fell to the steel-bladed spears of the Guards; and no more Uruk-hai came forth.

The elf stretched gracefully, wiping his knives on the hem of his cloak, then peered back down the valley. Gimli stood beside him, leaning on his axe and breathing heavily.

“It would appear that the White Lady has won the day, Aragorn,” Legolas said. “See, here she comes. And my tale is told at fourteen today! Alas, there were not enough of them for a finer score! How stand our people?”

Aragorn smiled and did a quick head count as he carefully cleaned the knife and Anduril, then sheathed both blades. All but two of his Guards still stood, and the two downed men were moving; guarded by their comrades. The Healers’ wagons awaited, beyond the battlefield, as soon as he could verify that the battle was indeed over. The dust was clearing. “I think the day is indeed ours, my friends."

“Ours?” sputtered Gimli, “With only fourteen fallen to my axe? At least a score of craven Orcs have fled the field before the elf or I could gain a clear advantage! ‘Tis not fair! What kind of base, mealy-mouthed, strain of monsters does the White Hand brew nowadays?”

As Gimli and Legolas continued their discussion of tied scores and the mettle of various Orc strains, Aragorn saw that Eowyn, her son Elboron, and Captain Anborn, approached him on horseback.

“Lady Eowyn,” Aragorn greeted her. “What news?”

The Lady of Rohan and Ithilien was pale, but her eyes were fierce and bright. She climbed stiffly down from Daisy’s back as her companions also dismounted.

“The Uruk-hai are routed, lord; with more than half of them slain,” she responded. “The Guardsmen and Rangers fought with great courage and are a credit to Gondor.”

“Losses?” Aragorn asked.

Anborn cleared his throat. “The Healers are still tallying, my lord. But I believe that we kept our losses to a minimum.”

“And you, son of Faramir?” Aragorn switched his attention to the young man who sat before him. “How went your first battle?”

Elboron smiled faintly, his cheek and knuckles bloodied, but his head held high. “I survived. And you, my lord?”

The King returned the boy's smile. “A few scratches and aches, nothing of note. Thank you for the enquiry.” What a stalwart young man Elboron had become! The boy had inherited his uncle's broad frame and excellent sword- arm, and his father's tenacity. Elboron, although not naturally as talented, also showed signs of becoming an archer as skilled as Faramir, according to his instructors. How would he ever manage to make his own son a fighter good enough to survive a battle, much less win one? Eldarion tended to trip over his own sword during practice. He would have to take the boy in hand after Eldarion returned from Rohan.

Elboron’s face darkened. “And my father?” he asked.

“He was in the tower,” Legolas informed them. “When Saruman fell, he . . . .”

“Saruman fell?” Eowyn drew in a shocked breath.

Legolas nodded. “Aye, down yonder trench.” He indicated the fissure at the bottom of the tower.

“Anborn,” Aragorn commanded. “Take as many fit men as you need and go down that hole. I want the wizard’s body brought back to Minas Tirith, so there will be no question of his death. Carry the wounded to the Healers’ wagons. The rest of you, come with me to the tower. Legolas thinks Faramir is still inside and the smoke and smell of fire worries me.”

Anborn turned to remount his horse and obey his King but stopped as his eyes fell on the tower. Red and gold flames could now be seen leaping into the air from a window near the highest turret. But it was not that sight that caused the Ranger Captain to hesitate.

“My lord,” he said. “Look.”

The group turned to squint where Anborn pointed, each transfixed by the sight they beheld. At first all they were able to make out through the smoke and dust was the outline of the shape. A lone figure was walking very slowly towards them through the haze. As it neared they could see that the figure was that of a man rather than an Orc. Sprawled across the man’s arms was the motionless body of a boy.

“Faramir,” Legolas said softly, frowning. His keen elven eyes were the first to see their friend and comrade.

The noble Prince of Ithilien was barely recognizable. Faramir’s torn, scorched clothing was covered by a faded black cloak. His shirt gaped open where he had ripped the cloth to bandage a wound that still bled from his left thigh. A hole in his legging showed a patch of reddened, blistered skin above the dirtied bandage. Soot and blood streaked his bruised face as well as his neck. Faramir’s red-gold hair was filthy, and matted around a head wound. He walked as if each step caused him pain.

But walk he did, slowly.

They stood immobile watching him, frozen in surprise and shock.

Suddenly Faramir stumbled and fell awkwardly to his knees. The body in his arms lurched and the boy’s head jerked but Faramir kept hold of him.

Faramir lifted his head gradually and looked towards them. All could see, even at that distance, the desperate need in his red-rimmed eyes.

In an instant they were all rushing towards him. In the next instant, they all rushed towards him.

When they arrived Eowyn and Elboron wanted to embrace Faramir, but they both stopped short for fear of crowding him. Legolas and Gimli also held back. Faramir seemed confused. His tired blue-grey eyes scanned the field, and then came to rest on the King. Aragorn knelt before him, his face contorted in sudden fear. He had discerned the identity of the boy in Faramir’s arms.

“Eldarion?” he breathed in disbelief.

Faramir let out a shuddering sigh as he held out his precious charge to the King.

“My Lord,” he said, his voice hoarse and gritty. “I am sorry.”

Aragorn’s heart thundered in his chest. “How did my son come here. . . what has happened. . . ?”

“Saruman held him captive.” Faramir answered, pushing the body nearer to Aragorn. “He is alive, but I tried... I cannot...awaken him. I thought you could . . . the hands of the King are the hands of a healer,” he quoted gently.

Finally Aragorn reached out, pressed his hand briefly on Faramir's shoulder, then gathered his son into his arms. What had so heavily burdened Faramir’s battered frame was a negligible weight for the King. As he hugged Eldarion against him, Aragorn's shoulders began to shake. Legolas moved to lay a supporting hand on his back as the King stood up, then and moved away, still carrying his unconscious son.

Relieved of his responsibility, Faramir began to tremble. He seemed to be falling in on himself; or was the world tipping over again? The sun dazzled his eyes; so that he could make out the forms of other people standing behind the King’s retreating form, but could not discern who they were. The sun flashed off the helm of a Guard, he would always recognize the black and silver outfit. So he was not surrounded by Uruk-hai or other Orcs, though; Aragorn had presumably been victorious. He was aware of a terrible thirst, and shivered with a sudden chill. For the first time in his life, Faramir felt old; and knew that he had no reserves of strength left to sustain him.

It was then that Eowyn stepped forward to her husband and knelt beside him. He looked into her distressed face. Her hair was tousled, her face spattered with blood and grime, her blue eyes circled by fatigue - Faramir had never seen a more beautiful sight. He wished she could have stayed out of peril, but when his Lady decided on a course of action, she was as unstoppable as the waves on the shores of Dol Amroth.

“I missed you, my Lady,” he murmured. “You are unscathed?”

“Fear not, my dear Lord” she answered quietly while tightly clasping his hand. “I had luck and a good horse, and am quite well.”

“And the children?” Faramir asked.

“They are all safe, all well. I left the White Company behind to guard Emyn Arnen. Shh, my Lord, you must rest now.”

Faramir smiled as his wife kissed his hand and stroked his hair. His heart swelled with sudden weary need and gratitude for her. Life could be good.

Now he could finally stop fighting. Saruman and Wormtongue were dead, and Eldarion was returned to his father alive, if not completely well. Eowyn was safe; and the battle was over. Aragorn had control of what was left of Saruman‘s tower. Faramir could let it all go, and, exhausted, he did.

Only Boromir’s strong embrace stopped him from falling further into the dirt, unable to keep his head up anymore. He blinked; remembering that Boromir was dead, and looked again. It was not Boromir who held him. The young man in the black and silver of the Guard, was his own firstborn son, shining in the sunlight, when had the lad grown so tall and strong. . .? And he had seen battle! Faramir tried to reach up, to touch his son’s now un-helmed blond head. Elboron’s face was bleeding from a shallow, jagged cut that stretched from mid-cheekbone down to the jawline; given by a knife or a metal gauntlet by the look of it.

Faramir felt a thrill of overwhelming pride, then a sudden dart of terror more acute than any fear ever inspired by Saruman. It was one matter to know that Elboron wore the black and silver on guard duty behind the City walls and quite another to realise that his precious child had come to Mordor and battled Uruk-hai. His little boy was a young man now, a young man who must fight and who could be killed, as Boromir had been.

“Bron”, he gasped, grabbing at the lad’s mailed shoulder for reassurance that his son was solid and safe. Valar, was this dread fear what HIS father had felt?

Elboron lowered him gently to the ground as Anborn called for the Healers.

“Rest now, Father, we will get you home” he told him. “The Rangers fought and won. I fought by Anborn’s side, Father; and I slew an Orc! Anborn took no wounds, and there were few losses. Bergil survived as well and is eager to see you.”

“I missed you too, my love,” Eowyn whispered as she leaned over him and held his hand securely in her own.

Faramir heard her words as from a distance, and tried to smile at her. Though the worst of his own and Gondor’s battle was now over, he still had so much to do. He needed to tell the King of all that had happened. He needed to see Saruman’s body to prove to himself once and for all that the spell that had bound him to the wizard was ended. He needed to take brave Beregond, and all the others who had died, home to Ithilien. He needed to talk to Bergil and Borlas of their father’s last moments, give them comfort and whatever help they would accept from him. He needed to see Eldarion restored to the boy he had been. And he needed to talk to Elboron about how to survive in battle, make sure he understood, as well as any very young soldier could, the difference between being courageous and being foolhardy. There was so much he needed to do but he also understood that his duties would have to wait. He was too tired to do anything other than sleep.

At the end of his strength, Faramir could at last welcome oblivion. For he realized that what he needed more than all else now was to go home to heal.