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.