Chapter 3 - Weaving

“There is no sign of him at the river bank as far as we can tell, Sir,” the Ranger reported.

Beregond nodded in response and turned away so his men did not see the disappointment etch his features.

It was not surprisingly there was no sign. It had snowed heavily again during the night and was trying to do so again. Any telltale signs that Faramir had passed this way would have been thoroughly covered.

It was two days since Lord Faramir’s horse had returned alone, and they had begun to search for the missing Steward. Every time Beregond closed his eyes he saw the haunting expression on Lady Eowyn’s face, so fragile and yet so regal. As she had stood by the gate wishing them luck. He could not, would not, give up the search until he had found their beloved Captain.

He turned back to his men who watched him expectantly. They were cold and wet, all in need of a big meal and a dry bed, but there had been not one complaint, nor would there be. All knew whom they searched for and none would give up the hope that they would find him.

But hope was dwindling, and Beregond knew it. Even if he had survived the fall, Lord Faramir had been out in these bitter conditions for too long. If he was injured he would surely have died of exposure. If not then why hadn’t they found him struggling along the path trying to make his way home?

“All right,” he growled. “Rest’s over. We go back to where the road skirts the river and start again. We must have missed something.”

Pulling his hood tightly about him to block out the bitter wind, Beregond followed the others. He refused to think of what might have happened and instead concentrated on finding the smallest evidence that his Lord hadn’t simply fallen off the face of the earth.

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Faramir spluttered. Rough arms held him strongly as he tried to move away from the liquid pouring from the cup pressed to his lips. The liquid tasted horrible, but he was unable to stop it filling his mouth, and overflowing down his chin.

“Swallow,” a voice near him breathed.

Faramir fought against it, shaking his head weakly, but too soon he was overwhelmed and forced to swallow. The vile liquid ran down his throat, burning as it went. He could feel it all the way into his stomach where it seemed to gather in a sticky pool.

“More,” the voice commanded.

“No,” Faramir tried to protest, but the rushing liquid drowned his voice.

Again he tried to pull away, but the arms around him held him firmly. He felt so weak and tired. There was, in truth, little fight in him.

Faramir had woken only moments before as the evil brew was being poured into his mouth. Panic rushed through him. He was disorientated and powerless. His mind wanted to stop the humiliation that was being forced on to him. He needed to get his bearings, to comprehend what was happening to him. However, he feared he would drown if he didn’t concentrate as fully as he could on surviving the next few moments. Aware that he could do nothing to stop it, he decided his best course of action was to get it over with as quickly as possible. He stopped fighting the hands that held him and grimly started to drink the liquid.

“At last he sees sense,” muttered the voice.

Finally it was over. The hands let go, and Faramir fell onto his side in the dirt, retching loudly as the foul liquid threatened to make a return appearance.

“Shut up,” Came an insidious whisper in his ear. “You should be pleased we spared some of our precious grog to get you better!”

Faramir breathed heavily, trying desperately to control the spasms in his stomach. He managed to pull himself to a sitting position. He peered into the darkness, trying to work out where he was. However, his eyes had difficulty settling into focus, and they weren’t helped by the lack of light. Judging from the hard stone at his back and the dirt on the ground, he was in some sort of a cave. He tried to remember what had befallen him, but his thoughts, just like his eyes refused to focus properly. Overlying them all was a thundering headache.

He closed his eyes again and gulped in some air, hoping that would quell his nausea. He felt himself drifting off into blackness again, but he sensed movement approaching him. He became aware of two shapes moving towards him. One was tall and thin, the other shorter and squatter. Faramir blinked to try to see their faces, but their features were lost in the shadows.

“Feel better?” the first voice asked him sternly. It came from the taller of the two.

Faramir nodded slowly although the grog had made him nauseous, he had to admit that the strength did seem to be returning to his limbs. His mind however frighteningly foggy.

“Who are you?” His voice was strangely weak and distant.

The taller man knelt down beside him. His face was still out of the light, but Faramir caught a sense of recognition there. He had the feeling he had met this man before.

“Doesn’t matter,” the commanding voice said. “What matters is we saved you from the storm. Now you owe us.”

There was an unmistakeable threat behind the words, and Faramir felt his unease grow. Unintentionally he moved away from the figure, but the bare stone of the cave was at his back. He had nowhere to go.

Keeping his voice as calm as he could, he said, “What do you want from me?”

There was an evil chuckle. Faramir became aware of the second figure creeping up on his other side. Faramir started at the sight of such a pathetic creature clothed in black ripped robes, face pale and dark eyes staring at him greedily.

Panicking Faramir tried to sit up. The arm of the taller man shot out and hit him on the shoulder. Violent pain rushed through him then, and Faramir gasped as he fell backwards.

“You were wounded,” the voice said with no trace of sympathy. “Not much of a wound for a warrior like you. It’s healing now, but it wouldn’t take much to open it again.”

Faramir glanced down at his shoulder and gulped as he saw new, fresh blood seeping onto his once white shirt. He shivered.

“See, you hurt easily,” said the voice. “You should be careful.”

Faramir licked his lips nervously. “Is it my purse you want?” he asked. “I....”

“Oh that would be easy wouldn’t it? Buy us off will you? How easy for the rich man to pay off his debts. I am offended.”

“I meant no offence,” Faramir snapped, feeling his fear turning to annoyance. “I thank you for your intervention after my ...eh...accident. I ask only how I can repay you.”

“Ever the gentleman!” scoffed the voice.

The other man began to giggle maniacally.

“Look....” Faramir took a deep breath and tried to start again.

“I am told you resisted the call of the one ring,” the voice said.

“What?” Faramir gasped, as the dread that had been lurking in the depths of his mind suddenly rushed forward. “Who are you?” he demanded again, this time with as much anger as he could generate.

The smaller shape’s surprisingly strong arms were around his upper body again forcing him back. Faramir tried to struggle.

“I wonder if you can readily resist my evil?” the voice said. As it spoke the features of its owner were suddenly revealed. The wizard had lit the top of his staff and the cave was bathed in bright light.

“Saruman!” Faramir gasped.

His shock made him stronger, and he burst upwards, surprising the other man who held him. He had every intention of fighting his way out with his injured shoulder and his throbbing head if he needed to. But a quick glance about told him the smaller man was sprawled on the floor in front of him. The opening to the cave was just beyond. Instead of making for it immediately, Faramir glanced back to where the wizard sat regarding him quietly. That was his undoing.

Saruman stood up to his full height and something green and bright sparkled in his hands deep within the fold of his robe. The green light flashed out across the space between him and the Steward. As soon as the light hit his retinas Faramir stopped, as if turned to stone.

Wormtongue picked himself up. He moved toward Faramir’s statue-like form.

“What happened?” he asked in awe as he stretched out, poking the oblivious Steward.

“There are some things in nature stronger than a mere man’s will. I just introduced one to the Lord Faramir.” Saruman moved forward. He passed his hand in front of Faramir’s glazed eyes. The young man blinked and then looked expectantly at the wizard.

“Give me your purse,” the wizard commanded.

Wormtongue drew in an impressed gasp as the Steward of Gondor slipped the beautifully stitched purse from his belt. He handed it to Saruman without a word.

Saruman weighed it in his hand, whistled through his teeth and then tucked it away in the folds of his cloak. “How goes it in Minas Tirith?” he asked calmly.

Faramir shrugged nonchalantly, but his voice was strangely emotionless and distant as he answered. “All is well. The King has returned. His Kingdom prospers.”

“And you Steward, where do you ride to alone and in such a hurry that you brave the storm?”

An ingenuous smile broadened Faramir’s full mouth. “I am going home to my Eowyn for the winter.”

Wormtongue let out a sharp jealous breath. “You are not worthy of her,” he muttered.

Faramir tilted his head to one side as if unaware where the voice had come from. “No, I am not,” he agreed.

“Enough of this!” Saruman roared.

Faramir looked genuinely frightened and lowered his head in deference.

“Sit down!” Saruman ordered.

Faramir instantly sat down, his head bowed.

Wormtongue regarded the scene with incredulous eyes. “What have you done to him?” he repeated.

“Nature abhors a vacuum, Worm, it must fill it with something, Saruman began. “In destroying Sauron those fools threw the world out of balance. It is down to us to right that wrong, for how can good exist without evil?”

Once long ago Wormtongue had possessed the mental capacity to grasp such concepts but not now. His mind was too overpowered and mangled through years of abuse. He stood and stared at his master, his tongue protruding slightly.

Saruman shook his head. “How do I stay sane?” he muttered. “Go and find food, Worm. I need time alone with the Lord Steward so I can explain what I would have him do. I only put him under with a very quick short-lived spell. I need to make sure my influence will be of a more permanent nature. It will take time for this enchantment is a complex and pain- filled web to weave.”

“Yes, master.”

Wormtongue turned to leave but glanced back. “Master?” he said.

“What, Worm?”

“When you have finished with him, can I have the pretty boy for my own?”

“We shall see how much is left of him when I am done.”

Wormtongue nodded and left. When he looked back the whole cave seemed to be bathed in the mysterious green light. He stopped as the clear winter air was pierced by a horrifying human scream. Wormtongue could not stifle the shiver that ran the length of his spine. He knew it was nothing to do with the freezing winter temperature.