Chapter Fourteen - Falling

As the Uruk-Hai had attacked from the tunnels below the plains the very earth had trembled and large fissures ripped it apart. The air was filled with dust and debris, the sound of battle, and the smell of blood.

“Aragorn!” Gimli yelled in warning, as he glanced back to see their forces being engaged.

“Saruman!” Aragorn shouted with cool fury. “Come down and face justice!”

The wizard let out a rolling laugh as beside him an Uruk with an arrow strung to his bow moved forward to put the upstart king in his sights.

Saruman smiled triumphantly. Finally, and in spite of Grima's foolishness, his plans began to move toward fruition. He felt a thrill of satisfaction course through his body. Power was power, whether held in a staff or in a combination of good strategy and the fortuitous return of this forgotten pawn so highly valued by the king of Gondor. And he had not even had to hazard the most valuable piece in the game! Without Gandalf the Grey to hold his hand, the Dunedain could scarcely keep watch on his own heir, much less the interior of Mordor. Or find a trustworthy Steward to replace the one whose life Saruman now held on the point of his knife. A poor sort of kingdom Gandalf had helped Aragorn reclaim, if it held so few men of quality. Saruman sighed, in anticipation of the triumph that would soon be savoured, and relaxed slightly. It would not do to develop a cramp in his leg!

Faramir felt the force of his captor’s grip lessen as the wizard stretched his legs. This was his moment! He contrived to slump forwards, making his body go suddenly limp as if in a faint, causing Saruman to curse and support all of Faramir’s weight. Faramir felt the knife at his throat puncture his skin, then the blade’s pressure was withdrawn. Ignoring the cut, he used their growing momentum to fall further forward. Faramir grunted as his chest hit the rail in front of him, but by using all of his strength he forced himself further still. Holding on to the rail with his hands, he pushed his head downwards and flexed his body round and over. Saruman lost his handhold on Faramir’s hair, but seized his shoulders instead as they both fell.

Suddenly there was no tower below their feet, only sky, as the world tipped over around them. Faramir’s body twisted painfully as he somersaulted over the rail. He grabbed up at the bar as he began to slide downwards. Thankfully he managed to get purchase with both hands on the rail’s slippery surface; and then he was hanging, desperately clinging to the rail. He grunted as his shoulders protested the strain, for although his upper body strength was greater than most men due to long years spent wielding a longbow, the pull downwards was irresistible and the reason was obvious.

Saruman had been thrown over the rail with him. But rather than plummeting to his death as Faramir had hoped, the wizard’s grasp had remained firm, his fingers now digging tightly into Faramir‘s shoulder blades. Faramir sensed that their combined weight was too much for him to sustain. He would not be able to hold on for very long.

Now the two enemies dangled dangerously from the tower over the plains, attached to the rail by the strength of Faramir’s hands. And that strength waned with each aching breath he took.

Saruman spat in his ear, “You cannot hold on much longer, son of Gondor. I can see that your hands begin to slip. Fight me no more; I will lift you up when I regain the balcony.”

Saruman hauled his legs up over Faramir’s back as he climbed towards the elusive rail. Faramir’s arms and shoulders began to shudder from the effort of keeping his hands wrapped around the railing. An animal growl escaped his gritted teeth. As sweat ran down his back, he uselessly flailed his legs to try to find a foothold. There was nothing! And all the time Saruman was inching his way upwards. He knew that Saruman would be more likely to throw him down to certain death than pull him to safety if the wizard managed to reach the balcony. Faramir frantically tried to buck the wizard off. But Saruman clung on and continued to use Faramir as his living ladder.

Faramir closed his eyes. If he let go now, he could take Saruman with him, forever remove the wizard’s menace from Middle-earth. It was a tempting proposition. But then he saw Eowyn’s face, the warm glint in her eyes when they had last touched. And the children! He could not leave his little ones fatherless. Faramir of Gondor had been reared to hold on in the face of peril, not give up the fight. If his end was to be a fatal fall to the dusty ground so far below him, then it would happen because his arms lacked strength to hold him, not because his heart was strong enough to let go.

With a sickening lurch, Faramir’s left hand began to slip. The wizard’s feet now squeezed into the other’s ribs to support him, while he placed his other hand on top of Faramir’s head to lever himself upwards.

“No!” Faramir screamed, feeling the muscles in his shoulders tremble from the increased weight pressing down on them.

Suddenly, through a haze of agonized desperation, Faramir heard the familiar sound of arrows in flight. He tensed, knowing he had nowhere to go. One arrow hit its target with a dull thud. Then he felt the breath expelled from the wizard’s lungs. Saruman’s body tightened with a gasp of pain.

“You have not seen the last of me!” Saruman hissed into his ear. “Look for me in Eldarion’s eyes. I. . .will. . .be. . .there!”

The wizard spoke no more, but released his grip, slid down Faramir’s back, and fell. Faramir looked down to see the white-garbed body twisting and turning in a sudden gust of wind. As Saruman’s robes billowed, Faramir thought he could see an intense point of the familiar green light falling beside the wizard. Faramir blinked and the light was gone but he could just make out the shaft of an elven arrow sticking from the wizard’s back. The body fell deep down into one of the newly formed fissures and disappeared from view.

Faramir turned his attention back to his own fate. His hand had stopped slipping without the wizard’s extra weight, and the strain on his shoulders had become somewhat more tolerable. However, he was also pitching dangerously from side to side. But by using this movement to his advantage, he managed to grab the rail with one foot. From then it took him several long, muscle-shaking moments to pull himself back over the rail on to the tower balcony.

He found himself on his knees, panting heavily, desperate for breath; his body a map of pain. Oblivion beckoned again; but he could not yet seek rest.

Faramir checked his neck first. As he suspected, since he was still breathing, Saruman’s dagger had only inflicted a superficial flesh wound. He would live a little longer! The wound in his thigh throbbed and leaked blood once more, but there was no time to tend to it. He sighed, and considered asking the Uruk-Hai if they would get him a poultice before they hacked him to pieces.

Then he lifted his head and looked around himself. Five Uruks lay dead on the balcony’s floor, each with a particularly long, green-shafted elven arrow protruding from either heart or head.

“Legolas, my thanks,” Faramir muttered as he pulled himself to his feet.

He bent down to take weapons from the corpses and noticed that one Uruk clutched a bow, but the arrow had already left it; the other arrows remained in the quiver. A sudden dread for the King gripped Faramir. He looked over the rail, and for the first time observed the battle that raged some three hundred feet below, beneath a cloud of dust. . He could not distinguish who was winning or who was dying. He had to get out of the tower! And he had to find the Prince. The fight below would have to wait, as would his concern for the King.

Armed anew with a sword, dagger, and a longbow and quiver-full of arrows, Faramir wearily re-entered the tower and started down the stairs. Suddenly he sniffed an odour of woodsmoke wafting up the stair. It spurred him on and he descended at a faster pace, despite the increased discomfort caused by his wound every time he brought down his left foot. As he neared the bottom, Faramir saw the reason for the smoke. Wormtongue scurried about like a demented sewer rat, talking to himself as he busily fed a small bonfire with wooden chairs and planks. The Worm had loosely strewn small tables, clothing, linens and rags down the last thirty feet or so of stairs to form a trail for the fire. And the lackey was pouring what appeared to be cooking oil over the stairs to land in smears and dribbles on the floor below.

Faramir stopped. “What are you doing, Grima?” he asked.

Wormtongue hesitated, his shoulders stiffening at the sound of the Gondorian's voice. Then he turned and stared at Faramir, his face contorted with hatred.

Faramir was shocked at the deterioration he saw in Wormtongue. The Worm was shuffling, barely able to raise his body off the floor. His tongue flicked in and out as he panted; and his narrow eyes held an uncontrollable wildness.

“He will not come down,” Wormtongue muttered. “So I will burn him out!”

“Grima,” Faramir said firmly. “Saruman is dead. He fell from the tower. Now you must put out the fire, how can we get out with it burning?”

Wormtongue barred his teeth and snarled with fury. “I am burning him out!” he repeated.

“Where is Prince Eldarion, Grima?” Faramir asked, trying another tack. "Is he still where the wizard left him, or has he been moved?"

Wormtongue nodded. “Over there,” he said distractedly. “Everyone else has gone to fight the King but I seek greater game. I have suffered enough; it is Saruman’s turn now!”

“Put the fire out, Grima,” Faramir repeated. He was losing patience, but he could not be sure how much Wormtongue heard or understood.

“No! It is my fire!” Wormtongue’s voice trembled on the verge of hysteria as he raved, “I’m burning him out!”

Faramir eased his way down the last two steps. “You may not want to leave this place of sorrow and death, Grima,” he said keeping his voice as calm as he could. “But I do. Your fire bars my way. Put it out, now."

Wormtongue pulled himself up to his full height and reached across for the sword and hammer he had discarded earlier in favour of his fire raising activities. He moved towards the other man, his eyes blazing with anger.

“I will kill you, Grima,” Faramir promised as he raised his sword.

"You keep saying that, Princeling!” Wormtongue spat. “But you never do. You are too weak, soft of hand and heart. Had I the luck to be born in your place, I would have killed Elessar years ago, taken his place and made Eowyn the Queen of Gondor. You never had what it takes to be truly strong. Now, stand not between me and the wizard!”

“Don’t be a fool, Grima! You can still survive this and live until tomorrow. Stand aside,” Faramir tried again. “You are no match for me.”

He did not want to cut down an older man who was obviously no warrior, even if the Snake‘s life was forfeit for his attack on the King‘s unarmed son. And Wormtongue had strategic value; he had been privy to Saruman's secrets and might have knowledge that could help them.

“Prove it!” Wormtongue screamed, then continued in a shrill but more controlled voice. “You look quite battle-weary to me, ‘Lord’ Faramir. Maybe this is my chance to be rid of you forever!” As he spoke he lunged forward, driving at Faramir with sword and hammer.

Faramir turned easily and avoided the attack. The fight took longer that it should have; due to Faramir’s hope of keeping his foe, and the precious knowledge in his head, alive. Despite his own injury, Faramir was by far the superior fighter. Samwise Gamgee's young daughter would make a better fighter than Wormtongue, but the older man had rage and determination heightened by madness, a combination that could prove troublesome, for the Snake of Isengard had naught to lose.

Wormtongue tried to press forward and left his right side vulnerable and defenceless. Faramir saw the weakness immediately. He still questioned whether he should kill this miserable creature, but Wormtongue tenaciously refused to stop or step out of the way. Faramir could waste no more time sparring; the fire was growing and he had a prince to save. Nor could he just turn around and walk away; he might quickly find Wormtongue's knife in his back or, worse, in Eldarion's back. Wormtongue had become too dangerous to ignore. Wormtongue tried to press forward, dealing Faramir's ribs a glancing blow with the hammer. Faramir parried his foe's thrust, then plunged his sword deep into the Worm’s stomach.

Wormtongue snorted. The weapons fell from his hand and a gurgle of blood escaped his dying lips. Malice, then life, faded from his eyes. Faramir pulled out his sword and the Worm tumbled to the floor, dead. Eowyn's torment, her uncle's degradation, and the honoured dead of Helm's Deep, were finally avenged in full. He wished that he could feel more joy in that vengeance. At least there was now certainty that Wormtongue could never trouble Eowyn with his presence again.

Faramir cleaned his blade with the edges of his torn shirt, then sheathed it. He skirted around the now blazing fire and entered the room Wormtongue had indicated earlier.

The room was dark and Faramir waited a few seconds on the threshold before he could see well enough to enter. The chamber was empty save for the motionless form of Prince Eldarion on a table in its centre. The Uruks who had been tasked to guard him were long gone.

Faramir dropped his sword and moved forwards quickly. He carried out a brief examination of the boy. Eldarion was alive, though pale, his breathing shallow but rhythmic. His injured arm had been cleaned and bandaged across his chest. Thankfully, the boy appeared to have suffered no other injury. Faramir carefully lifted the prince's head.

“Prince Eldarion,” he whispered, gently shaking the boy. He tried again but Eldarion showed no signs of waking.

Faramir did not understand why he could not wake the Prince. He began to fear that Saruman had put him in some sort of new, stronger trance. If that was the case he could do nothing now. He must simply get the boy out and pray that someone skilled in the healing arts, like Eldarion’s own father, would be able to rouse him.

Smoke from the fire drifted lazily on the air. Faramir knew he could not wait. He sighed at the knowledge of what he would have to do. His legs suddenly buckled, and he supported himself by leaning on the table. He stayed like that for a minute, until the shuddering in his muscles had ceased. He looked around the room. It contained only a few buckets, some brushes and a discarded leather jerkin; no rope. He would have to carry Prince Eldarion through the fire and out to freedom all on his own.

So be it, he told himself stoically.

The fire was roaring now, columns of flame leaping up the stairway and catching the wooden posts that lined it at regular intervals. The tower's interior would soon be aflame, or at least the part of it through which he must pass to reach the door. Moving quickly Faramir went back out to Wormtongue’s body and pulled off the dead man's black cloak.

“You owe me a cloak from your theft of seven years past, Snake,” he muttered. He glanced down at Wormtongue’s feet. “You can keep the boots though! Now at least you have repaid one of your debts.”

Then, returning to the room where Eldarion lay and shutting the door, he picked up the bucket of water he had spied there. He doused the cloak, himself and the Prince with water and then put on the soaking garment. Pulling the hood about his head and face, he moved toward the chamber‘s door.

Opening the door a crack, Faramir saw that the flames dancing slowly towards them, from a distance of about a hundred feet away at the juncture of hall and stairway. The smoke was closer, and becoming uncomfortable as it swirled around the confined space and clutched at Faramir’s throat, trying to steal away his breath.

Ignoring the smoke, Faramir took a deep breath through the smelly hood and tried not to retch as he breathed in Wormtongue’s awful scent. He did not know which was worse, the smoke or the odour of Worm! Then he lifted Eldarion up in his arms; trying to cover as much of the Prince's body as he could with the damp cloak. The boy, although tall for his age, was as light-limbed as his Elven ancestors, but Faramir‘s strength was ebbing. Slowly, he turned and made his way out of the room.

He checked that he held Eldarion as firmly as he could, but he knew that his hesitation only delayed the inevitable. The fire seemed to roar with hunger as it came nearer; he could now feel its dreadful heat on his face.

It was only fire, he told himself; a good servant but a bad master. Not a Balrog, just flames.

"Not this time!" he croaked to the memory that often burned in his nightmares, that faint, brief memory of his father's anguished voice and the crackle of flames in Rath Dinen; "You took one Lord of Gondor; you shall not consume another!"

He had been utterly helpless on the night his father died, but now he was awake and could think and act. Not this time, he repeated silently, not this Steward, and not this helpless Prince!

Taking another deep breath and praying that the flames would not close around their path, Faramir stepped forward to walk through the fire.