Chapter Eight - Suffering

Faramir closed his eyes. His head fell forwards on to his chest as sleep tried to claim him but like so many times recently, just when he thought he had found his escape, he felt the painful jab in his ribs that pulled him back. A dejected groan escaped his parched lips.

“No sleeping!” Wormtongue’s hated voice intruded into his stupor.

Slowly Faramir lifted his head, blinking his eyes in confusion. He was sitting on a stout wooden chair in a large room somewhere in Saruman’s tower. He had sat there since the Uruk-Hai had dragged him in, thrown him into the seat, and tied his wrists to the arms of the chair. Then, Wormtongue had brutally forced a dirty gag into his mouth and fastened it tightly. The incident had caused Faramir to fight back the retching sensation as Wormtongue’s ridiculing laugh had rung in his ears.

Faramir had no idea how long ago that had been, for his sense of time was as confused as the rest of him. He could remember that Saruman had been there at some point, but his recollections were vague. The only lasting image was Wormtongue, his voice mocking him, his one aim seemingly to stop him from sleeping.

Faramir had been tired before. He had felt the weariness that only battle could bring, but he had never been reduced to this state while still conscious. He was truly exhausted. All of his senses pulled him back towards oblivion, but whenever he got to the brink, he was brutally jerked back again. He faded again. His eyelids shut out the world; his head dropped and his breath slowed.

This time his awakening came from a hand that slapped his face so sharply that it rocked his head back against the chair. He twitched, blinking into focus the face that swam in front of him.

“You will not sleep,” Wormtongue repeated, as if speaking to an idiot. “What part of that do you not understand?”

Faramir groaned through the gag. His voice sounded like it came from someone else who was a very great distance away.

The second slap was harder than the first, and Faramir tasted acrid blood along with the foulness of the gag in his mouth. Dumbly he tried to raise his hand to rub the stinging flesh where the blow had fallen, but his hand was immovable, tied at his side.

“Neither may you groan!” Wormtongue commanded, relish in his voice. “The rules are very clear. I don’t see why you can’t understand them!”

Faramir sought something on which to focus his flagging spirit, but he was too tired to find that, or anything else. He craved sleep so much that he could not conceive of a time when he had not. His world was simply thus, and all else was but a distant memory.

Wormtongue’s face that he knew he hated, but could not summon up the energy to remember why, moved closer to him, stopping only inches from his own.

“Maybe I can help you stay awake,” the supercilious voice continued. “Give you something to think about. Saruman has promised that I can have you when all this is over, you know.”

Faramir looked at him dully over the top of his gag.

Wormtongue smiled. “What will I do with your worthless carcass? How will I make you pay for the way you have treated me? The possibilities are endless, but one word is contained in them all... pain.”

Faramir shook his head slowly and looked away from the nauseating face with all the audacity he could muster.

Wormtongue chuckled. “Not interested in your own fate then? Maybe I can tempt you with the plans I have for another, for Eowyn will be mine too!”

Faramir’s head shot up despite his fatigue.

“Oh, a reaction,” mocked Wormtongue. “How easily I find your weakness, former Steward!”

He moved back and perched on the table in front of where Faramir sat. As he spoke his hands played carelessly with the wooden stave he had used to prod Faramir awake.

“Eowyn and I had an ‘understanding’ a long time ago. She was to be mine, and we would rule Rohan together. That was before all those meddlers came, and you stole her from me. She never told you?”

Faramir clenched his fists and tried to free his hands, but he was held fast. His eyes flashed dangerously as the torment continued.

“I used to watch her undress, you know. I dreamed of running my hands along her sweet, lithe body, of tasting her cool but enticing treasure. She knew I lusted after her, she knew I watched, and the stench of her fear made her much more tempting to me. I should have taken the flower of her maidenhood then. It would have been so much more fitting than letting one such as you have the pleasure.”

Faramir had stopped struggling with his bonds. He sat perfectly still in the chair, the only sign of his emotion his wild and wide eyes.

Wormtongue paused and regarded him. “Doesn’t it make you angry?” he asked smoothly. “I can tell from your eyes all this has been a revelation to you. I wonder why she never told you the full extent of our relationship. Why would she keep it secret from her husband? All that time we spent together, and you never knew.”

Anger rushed through Faramir like a cold, refreshing wind. He welcomed the strength it gave him but he refused to be swept away with its rage. Instead he held Wormtongue in the most withering gaze. Gone was the wildness in his eyes, instead they were controlled and murderous.

Wormtongue shuddered involuntarily and let out a nervous giggle. He moved away from the table, as if suddenly unsure and hoping the distance would protect him from this sudden dread. Faramir’s deadly gaze followed him unblinking and unwavering.

“Well at least that’s got you awake,” Wormtongue mumbled. “I think Saruman wants to see you.”

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Aragorn called a stop to his men. He squinted through the dusty haze to make out the rocks that had once been part of the Black Gate now looming in front of him. It appeared there was something flapping in the breeze, attached to one of the rocks.

Aragorn pushed his horse forward.

The number of men he had at his disposal had been swelled by Legolas with Gimli and his elves, and also by the Ithilien Rangers under the command of Anborn, who had joined them on the road. Elboron had met them as they proceeded northwards and had been with them since.

And then early the previous day, Eowyn had ridden into their camp. She had told him exactly what had happened, her voice strained but controlled. He reached out and clasped her hand when she told him of how she had escaped the fight.

“I should not have left them,” she said.

“You did what you had to do. Someone had to come back to warn us,” Aragorn placated.

“I will not forgive myself if he is harmed,” she said.

“Eowyn, we both know what happens in war. You have to do what you think is right. It was most important that you rode for help. You cannot blame yourself in this. Faramir would not want you to.”

She had nodded, but her eyes betrayed her true thoughts.

Wishing he had more men at his disposal, the King moved forward towards the rocks, with him rode Legolas, Elboron and Eowyn. As they moved near and saw what had been done, their hearts cried out in anguish and despair at the horror of it.

Tied across the rock was the broken, barely clothed body of Beregond. His arms and legs spread-eagled and contorted into an unnaturally grotesque pose. His head forced back to reveal his throat had been cut. The rock was daubed with the blood that had come from the wound. On what was left of his doublet the white tree had been painted over with a hideous white hand.

Aragorn growled at the sight. “Cut him down gently,” he ordered and the elf and dwarf moved to obey.

“Sire,” Eowyn’s voice was strained once more. “Beregond’s son is in the company. He is a Ranger.”

“Bring him to me,” Aragorn said.

Eowyn reached across and placed her pale hand gently on the King’s. “My King,” she said. “I brought Beregond to this. It is my duty to inform Bergil what has happened to his father. They were both my soldiers.”

Aragorn hesitated for a second, and then he nodded curtly. “See to it my Lady,” he commanded. “For we both know the speed such news travels down a column of men. I will see Bergil when we camp, if you feel it necessary.”

Eowyn wheeled Daisy around and galloped down the column. Elboron remained beside the King, his face ashen.

“Are you all right, Bron?” the King asked gently.

Elboron choked back the bile that had been threatening to spew forth from his stomach for some minutes. “Yes, Sire,” he responded weakly.

Their eyes met and the King rested a reassuringly strong arm across the young boy’s shoulders.

“Why have they done this to poor Beregond?” Elboron asked.

Aragorn sighed. “This is war, Bron. They do it to weaken our sword arms but more importantly our hearts. But they misjudge us, for such horror will only make our need for justice keener. I have been a soldier for a long time, Bron, and though I have seen many such sights as this, that does not make it easier to bear. Beregond was an honest and brave man; he did not deserve this end. We must repay this wrong.”

Elboron nodded but still looked unsure.

“There is more that you would know, son,” Aragorn said. “Tell me what it is that worries you.”

Elboron gulped. “I fear for my father.”

Aragorn closed his eyes, as a wave of sadness washed through him. “As do we all, Elboron,” he replied sadly. “We know the fate of Beregond, and we ride to avenge it, for I am the King and one of my subjects treated in such a way is not to be tolerated. We know not what has befallen your father, but we do know that whatever it is, Faramir will have faced it with a courageous heart. We can only do likewise.”

Elboron nodded. “Is war always this difficult?” he asked.

“Aye,” replied Aragorn. “And it should always be so. We should not be easily drawn into the fight, but once resolved, we must follow the course to the end.”

Aragorn regarded the boy who seemed to have calmed a little at his words. He had always had a special regard for Elboron which, although in part was due to his parentage, had only grown as he watched the child develop into an attractive young man. He wished that his own son could show the same integrity and devotion to duty, but Eldarion seemed to show little interest in the Kingdom and its governance. Aragorn would have liked his son to accompany him on this trip but the boy was away in Rohan, looking for good horses for no better reason than he could use them to race with his sycophantic friends. Not for the first time Aragorn prayed Eldarion would grow up soon and wondered if he did not, how the Kingdom would fair with him as King.

“You’re a brave one, Bron,” he said. “A credit to your family, and you will serve Gondor well; I know it.”

“Thank you, Sire,” Elboron bowed his head.

Beregond’s body had been removed with tender care. Legolas and Gimli returned.

“There is the sense of strong evil all around,” said the elf.

Aragorn nodded. “We should have been aware of this. Why haven’t we patrolled this area?” his voice had the hint of irritation overlaid with guilt.

Gimli growled. “If I recall, two years ago, after the last patrol went deep into Mordor and found nothing amiss, there was much debate on whether it was worth spending the time and money sending your soldiers this far. You argued that it was but some of the most powerful of your advisors thought otherwise. You were defeated in the council vote and for . . . er . . . diplomatic reasons chose not to press your authority further. Although, as I remember, you did not like the decision one bit.”

Aragorn felt a sharp pain begin to throb in his forehead. “I should listen to my instincts more than my advisors, is that what you tell me, my good dwarf?”

“Aye, I do that lad,” Gimli said. “Especially when some of your advisors are more interested in the gold in their pockets than the safety of the Kingdom.”

“I should not have allowed them to influence me. I am the King after all.”

“I remember you telling me once, Sire,” Elboron ventured, “That in diplomacy as well as war, you cannot hope to win every battle.”

Aragorn sighed. “Indeed,” he said, but his voice was gentle and his eyes glinted with respect at the mettle of the boy before him. “And I think I continued by saying that it is critical that you ensure it is the most important battles that you win. It would appear I chose the wrong fight to give ground in.” His voice became angry. “My judgement was lacking. I should have listened to my instincts, as Gimli says. I knew that placating the money grabbers in the council by leaving my easterly borders undefended was a strategy full of risk.”

He did not say it, but the thought entered his head that if his far-sighted Steward had been at his side maybe the mistake would not have been allowed.

“Your eastern borders were hardly undefended, Sire. The Rangers protected Ithilien. Besides, you could not have known the evil would return so quickly,” Elboron offered. He had obviously recovered from his previous shock and his quick, perceptive mind was anxious to support the King in any way he could.

“All the more reason to keep watching for it,” responded Aragorn. “How many more will pay because of my mistake?”

“Let us move to face our enemy,” advised Legolas as he leapt back on to his horse. “Delaying here, debating old mistakes will not help us or Faramir.”