Chapter 11 - Confession

“We need to limit the damage,” Faramir began. “I will confess to everything. You strip me of my title, punish me and then the Kingdom can move on. It will soon be forgotten.”

The King held his Steward in a long unwavering stare. He had thought to find Faramir contrite and suffering, and that would have almost been easier to bear than the man he confronted now. For the Steward was animated, his eyes burning brightly in the dull prison light as he sat behind the table and held his King’s questioning stare.

Behind Aragorn sat Legolas watching silently. The rest of the room was empty as no one else felt strong enough to participate in this audience.

“Punish you?” Aragorn repeated.

Faramir nodded earnestly “I guess a public hanging for high treason,” he answered too blithely.

It was then that Aragorn realised what was happening. Who knew what agonies Faramir must have suffered during the long black night when he wrestled with his demons in the cell nearby? It was obvious from the profound black shadows under his burning eyes that he certainly had not slept. But by conscious process or simply by reverting to the one thing that had saved him through the horrors of his child and early manhood Faramir had devised a strategy to cope. He was reasoning and reacting as the Steward of Gondor. He had taken his personal involvement out of the equation. The fact that the traitor he was so easily discussing suffering the death penalty was himself was something that he completely refused to register. He had grounded himself in the one tactic that had kept him safe throughout his life; his duty.

Aragorn felt his stomach turn over at the insight. ‘Faramir, my Faramir’ he thought, ‘the loyal Steward even to the end. What brought you to this?’

As if hearing his King’s thoughts Faramir stopped talking. He reached across the table and gently took hold of the King’s hand. Their eyes met.

“It is the only way I can live with this,” he confessed softly. “I do not know why I did it. I can give you no explanations or reasons but I know that if I sit here and think on it any more, it will drive me truly insane. So I fight this in the only way I know how. I fight it in the way I have been taught, and I fight it with one hope that Gondor will endure, that my treachery will come to naught.”

“Faramir,” the King responded. “I will not lose you. I will not let any man touch you. You are worth so much more than this.”

Faramir pulled his hands away. “The law is the law,” he said softly. “And even the King must abide by it. You must keep your distance, Sire. You cannot be seen to be prejudiced in this for that really would foretell the end of Gondor.”

He stood up and moved towards the far wall as if to action his words. “There was a crowd earlier,” he said his voice dreamy. “I heard them shouting, baying for my blood. How quickly things change. How easily integrity and reputation is lost.”

“Ruffians, fools!” the King said dismissively. “They do not understand.”

Faramir’s eyes were infinitely sad as he said, “They are your subjects, Sire, and they understand very well. I have done wrong. Gondor expects retribution. She must not be denied. or the passion and the courage that put you on the throne will turn against you. And I am the last person who would want to be remembered as the reason Gondor fell. I have faced death for Gondor many times. To do so once more would not be so hard.”

The King stood up and rushed to embrace his Steward. “All that you have said, Faramir, proves to me you are too good to lose. I will not let you go. Gondor needs you alive as her Steward, and if she does not see that then she is not worth saving.”

“Never say it, Sire,” Faramir said calmly. “Gondor is all; for if she is not then all I have suffered has been for naught, and I do not think I could bear that thought at this time. Save me if you can, but I beg you do nothing to put your Kingdom in jeopardy, for I am not worth that.”

They left him then the guard returning him to his cell. The King had wanted to plead with his Steward for the good of his wife and young family what effect would this ‘damage limitation’ have on them, but he could see from the flash of his eyes to the shaking of his hands how tenuous Faramir’s grip on his sanity was. To mention those he loved so dearly now would surely unman him completely. Even so the last glimpse Aragorn had before the heavy door slammed shut Faramir was sitting on the bed, his shoulders drooped and his head in his hands. His hair obscured his features, but the King could tell he had exhausted his strength, and he was sobbing silently.

“What good is being a King,” Aragorn hissed to Legolas as the guard took them down the corridor to the next cell. “If you can’t save your friends?”

Legolas shrugged. “I think you know the answer to that,” he replied softly.

“It’s just down here, Sire,” the guard said. “I put the Lord Faramir in the best cell we have. Gets the sun in the morning, makes it more homely like. Begging your pardon, Sire, but I didn’t want to put him in a cell at all. You see I fought beside him at Osgiliath, and I know the strength of his heart. I said as much to him, and do you know what he said back? He said, ‘Do not worry on my account, Captain, cells are for traitors and that I most certainly am.’ But I remember Osgiliath, and I don’t reckon he could ever be a traitor. Ah, now here we are.”

“I do not do this to save my own skin even though I know that is what you think, but know this I, of all people, know how worthless I am. I do this for one small token of kindness from the Lady Eowyn, for I do believe that could cleanse my weary heart and make me whole again.”

“You are not serious!” hissed Legolas.

Aragorn raised his hand to silence the elf. His initial thought over the pious wrench that sat before him had been exactly the same, but he forced himself to stop and look more deeply into Wormtongue’s words and the sentiments behind them.

His shock from the revelation about the identity of the man caught pawning Faramir’s belongings was still raw. Aragorn had not been able to withhold the gasp as he entered the cell and saw Wormtongue gazing at him.

“Welcome, Sire,” Wormtongue had whined. “Although as I am here at your pleasure, I am not sure it shouldn’t be you welcoming me!” He tongue darted nervously, but his eyes were bright and challenging.

“I thought you dead,” Aragorn had answered. “You and your Master.”

Wormtongue had smiled “Oh no, Sire. It would take more than a weak hobbit’s thrust to kill the greatest wizard that ever lived.”

“That is a matter of opinion,” Legolas had muttered.

“Then Saruman still lives?” Aragorn had asked.

“Oh yes, Sire,” Wormtongue’s smile had been acidic. “He is in your lovely City even as we speak.”

“Then the evil I have sensed has a name,” Legolas said.

“Evil? Master Elf,” Wormtongue had answered. “Doesn’t that rather depend on what side you are on?”

“We are not here to talk philosophy!” Aragorn had cut in angrily. “You will tell me everything you know.”

And so now Wormtongue was offering his information at a price. Aragorn closed his eyes and rubbed a pulsing pain that was growing in the centre of his forehead.

He contemplated the offer. Eowyn would want to rip Wormtongue to pieces, he knew, not only for his part in the events of the last few days but also for the lingering hurt of what he had done at Edoras. But Aragorn remembered Wormtongue. Once long ago he had been a proud Rider of Rohan, he had been corrupted by the deceit of Suraman, it was true, but as Aragorn put the pieces of this puzzle together, he saw that the wretch before him was not the only one to suffer such a fate. His loyal and wise Steward had fallen under a similar spell, and if Faramir could not resist it what chance had Grima, Rider of Rohan ever had? To have deteriorated to this thing before him, he who had once been a man, surely he deserved pity not punishment.

“I cannot speak for the Lady Eowyn,” Aragorn answered finally. “But I do speak for my Kingdom. Tell us what you know, and I shall ensure that you receive fair justice from Gondor.”

Wormtongue laughed a brittle, humourless sound that reverberated around the cell. “Justice from Gondor! You should keep that for your treacherous Steward! Let him burn finally.”

Aragorn surged forward, his anger boiling through his veins, but Wormtongue was out of his range and just laughed louder.

“I had heard your sense of humour was lacking,” he muttered as he shook his head slowly. Then he brought his eyes back up to gaze at the King. “Seriously I have had some time to review my situation. I have to agree that I have not acted as nobly as I may have liked, and Saruman’s defeat had a devastating effect on me. It quite took my conviction for a while, but I find myself recovering. I thank you for the time in here, that I have been able to get my head together and plan for the future.”

Aragorn snorted and forced himself to relax. “Go on,” he prompted patiently.

“It has not been easy for me,” Wormtongue continued, ignoring the sharp intake of incredulous breath from Legolas. “In truth wandering the earth, with no place to call my own, and at Saruman’s beck and call has had a detrimental effect on me. Now I see that as a man grows old, he needs to settle down with the love of a good woman.”

Legolas stared his eyes wide with disbelief, but Aragorn kept his tone neutral as he said:

“We understand what you say and all you have suffered; you need not dwell on it. What are you asking for?”

Wormtongue smiled. “So we come to it. I would have the hand of a fair maiden; one whose beauty is as fair and cold as the snow of deepest winter.” He laughed again. “That I would have, but I know that is not yours to give, all powerful King! So instead I will ask for safe passage, a little land in a far corner of Gondor, a little gold to get me started and more than a little peace to go about my business. You would not hear from me again. I would even swear fealty to you.”

Aragorn held his stare for long minutes, his eyes incisive and perceptive. Wormtongue eventually looked away.

“It is not too much to ask for information that can save your Steward’s worthless hide,” he hissed.

“Don’t listen to him,” Legolas said. “He has ever been false. Why should we believe a word he says? He deserves his punishment.”

Aragorn nodded in recognition of the elf’s words, but he continued to stare at Wormtongue.

Finally he said, “So be it, but if you once more break the faith I put in you, my retribution will be swift and strong. There will be no place on all of this earth that you will escape it.”

Wormtongue nodded. “You are indeed a virtuous and forgiving monarch.” There was no hint of a sneer in his voice.

“So tell me now the information for which you have bought you future and sold your honour,” Aragorn said. “What did Saruman do to Faramir?”

“He said for those who have suffered great personal torment, the scars will never heal; that no matter how deep they are buried and how strong the person, a skilled manipulator can reach them and use them. The skill is in taking the subject’s inner-most fears and using them to influence the behaviour of the individual. Saruman said he had found plenty of material to work with in your Steward.”

Aragorn shuddered but remained silent as Wormtongue completed his story.

“The stone?” Legolas asked after Wormtongue appeared to have finished. “What was it?”

“I don’t know, elf,” Wormtongue cleared. “It could have been a slither of the palantir, it could be something else. I only know that it was filled by an ancient and deep power, and that once you look into it, you are enslaved.”

“Saruman is still in Minas Tirith?” Aragorn asked.

Wormtongue shrugged. “I know not. I thought I heard his voice leading the chants of the lynch mob yesterday, but I have not seen him since you threw me in here. I pray that you find him and deal him some ‘justice from Gondor’ quickly, for none of us are safe now.”