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.

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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.