Chapter 4 - Found

It was two weeks since his horse had come back alone. Two weeks since Beregond had started his daily searches, and two weeks since Lady Eowyn’s pale face had watched him and his men leave.

This morning she stood by the gate as she had done for every morning of those two weeks, but for the first time, Beregond had noticed there was no twinkle in her eyes. Surely she hadn’t given up?

Beregond refused to believe it. Gritting his teeth grimly, he spurred his horse gently down the road back to the agreed meeting place. He had scald down his force to just six men, the best trackers the Rangers of Ithilien could boost for he knew that there were other duties that the rest of the men should fulfil. He would however not give up his search, not if it took all winter; he was determined to find at least one trace.

Lady Eowyn supported him in this, ever positive and ever hopeful, but his wife Maura had sat with the lady the night before. It had become their custom to sit with her in the hours after the children were abed, when the fear had chance to really catch hold and take away Eowyn’s immense courage.

Maura had not returned to Beregond until just before he had left. They had exchanged full words, but those they had had chilled him to the core.

“Her Ladyship wept all night,” Maura began. “I could not leave her. It was as if her heart had broken at last. She cannot bear it anymore. She must find out what has become of him for it is the not knowing that is killing her. She kept saying, ‘He sent Anborn home to be with his family. Why did he not come home to his?’ How could I answer her.”

“And then she said that she felt their love was so strong she would know if something happened to him. She should have been able to feel it if he had come to harm, but she felt nothing.”

Maura had clasped hold of Beregond’s arm. “I believe that it would be better if you were to bring his body home, although the horror would be beyond imagining, than for you to return again empty handed. If you cannot do that then maybe you should not go at all, my husband.”

Beregond had growled and pulled away from his wife’s touch. “You know I must go,” he had muttered, his voice hoarse. “I have made the promise. Besides I am not strong enough to stay here and wait.”

He banged his fists frustratedly on the wooden table in front of him. “I helped save him before. I spilled innocent blood to keep him safe. I pray only that I be given the chance to do so again.”

“But if she has given up. If she is prepared to let him go and face the future without him, then so must you.”

“No!” Beregond could feel his grief so very close to the surface. “Understand woman I cannot, not yet.”

Maura heard the catch of desperation in his voice, saw the glint of horror in his eye and moved to embrace him.

“I meant no harm, Beregond,” she whispered. “It’s just...”

“I know,” he sniffed. “You speak with great wisdom, but I am not yet ready to believe he is gone. Give me this time I pray Maura.”

She smiled. “Of course.”

He bent and kissed her, and then he left her standing in the kitchen as she had every day for the last two weeks.

He sighed and glanced up at the sky. It had been a beautiful winter day. The sky above was still brilliant in its blue although it was beginning to darken. Beregond judged they had only two hours left before sunset. It was time to turn for home, but he did so with great guilt, as the memory of his wife’s words of the morning underlined his failure once more.

He whistled, a shrill sound that broke the stillness of the glade in which he sat. Within minutes his men had returned. None of them met his eye. All walked to their waiting mounts with heads down and shoulders slumped. No one spoke.

Maura was right of course, Beregond realised. This daily ritual was doing no good. He was being selfish and unreasonable to expect his men to go through it, just to ease his own breaking heart. It was like constantly re- opening a wound instead of letting it heal. They needed to move on. The Lord Faramir was not coming home and they all needed to accept it.

He turned his horse back to the road, and as he did so he glimpsed movement through the trees to his left. He turned back, peering into the area where the trees were more densely packed and the bright winter sun could not penetrate. There was something there his senses told him, something too big to be a bird.

“What is that?” he asked.

As one the rest of the men turned to peer into the trees.

“Where?” one muttered.

Beregond slipped off his horse into the snow. He began to walk towards the shadow. His men followed, save one who remained with the horses.

As they got nearer they could see the shadow began to take shape. It was walking on two legs. It looked like a man although it was shambling more like the movement of a bear. As they drew nearer it fell to the ground.

Beregond was running now. His heart was beating a terrific drum-like tattoo in his chest. Around his head a litany was running. ‘Oh please let it be him, oh please...’

He reached the figure that had fallen head first into the snow. It was wearing only light breeches and a white grubby shirt.

Beregond cursed as he fell to his knees beside it in the snow.

His men gathered around them both as Beregond gently gathered up the inert form and rolled it over.

“My Lord!” he wept as his eyes fell on Faramir’s pale face.

Faramir’s grey eyes opened but rolled uncontrolled in his head. He was shivering violently and gulping in air.

One of the men placed his cloak over him, and Beregond shifted his position to ensure it covered all of the Steward’s freezing body. As he tucked it around the shuddering form, Beregond noticed the shoulder wound surrounded by dried blood as well as the fact that Faramir had no boots on.

“My Lord,what have they done to you?” he whispered.

Faramir managed to stop his eyes from rolling long enough to focus on his captain. He smiled weakly. “Beregond,” he whispered as his teeth chattered fiercely, “I am so cold.”

“Aye, there are icicles on your nose!” Beregond muttered, “Time we got you home and warmed up a little.”

He stood up and carried Faramir to the horses. He was surprised how light and insubstantial the Steward’s body was. Tenderly he placed the violently shivering man before him on the saddle. Faramir was drifting in out of consciousness, but his body, anxious for any heat, nestled into Beregond’s larger frame snugly.

“Come on, boys,” Beregond said to the now considerably brighter Rangers. “Let’s get this man home to where he belongs!”

So relieved were the men of Ithilien that none threw a final glance over their shoulders. If they had done they may have glimpsed two further shadows lingering in the trees watching them.

“So it is done,” Saruman said as he turned away. “I have returned the Lord Steward, not completely untainted but alive at least, to his good lady wife for now.”

At his side Wormtongue growled.

“Think yourself lucky, Worm,” Saruman continued. “You have got new boots and a new cloak out of him already. And by the time I have finished with him, you will have everything that he holds dear.”

Wormtongue looked up from the collar of what had once been Faramir’s cloak. He had been caressing it lovingly. “Everything?” he asked.

Saruman smiled, obviously pleased with his plans. “Everything that you desire!” he promised with a satisfied chuckle. “Come now we have money let’s find some better lodging that that draughty cave.”

Wormtongue guffawed with pleasure. “I thought you’d never offer,” he muttered.