Co-authored by Raksha

Chapter 3

Underneath

Cirion sneezed loudly. Faramir was not surprised; his own nose had been tingling for most of the day, an annoying effect of the dust surrounding them. Faramir and his young son had spent the hours since the early morning investigating every nook and cranny in the tunnels and fissures beneath the plains surrounding Barad-dur.

Earlier in the day Faramir sent the Rangers off to scout the perimeter of Mount Doom and beyond, which allowed him the time to continue exploring the tunnels used first by Sauron's forces, then by Saruman.

Cirion had accompanied him and was having a marvellous time investigating the rubbish that the Uruk-hai had left behind. He kept disappearing into rooms and ditches, from which Faramir would hear scrabbling and then an exclamation. His son would re-appear holding some particularly nasty torture instrument or weapon, thumbscrews and metal-tipped whips and the like.

“Look at this!” he would say, eyes flashing with glee. “What do you think it does?”

Faramir frowned. “I would rather not think about it at all,” he replied, preferring not to contemplate the certainty that if he had remained Saruman's captive, he might have gained personal knowledge of the damage that such tools could cause to flesh and bone. He really should have a talk with the boy about what those tools, and even weapons, could do to real people. Cirion did not yet understand the consequences of violence; and would have to learn never to casually inflict pain or take life. But Ciri was so young; not even 12 years old; he hated to dampen the lad's high spirits, especially while they tarried in this wasteland. The matter could wait until they returned to Minas Tirith.

“This place is great!” Cirion exclaimed and scurried off into the next room.

Faramir sighed and took a long swig from his water flask. It was another hot day made even less bearable by the tunnels which seemed to magnify the heat. He had already stripped off his cloak and undone the top laces of the leather tunic that covered much of his shirt and leggings. He still felt hot, thirsty, and very frustrated. But he was in Mordor, and had seen too many orcs during his last visit to readily remove all protection.

What was he doing here? He asked himself again. Why did he expect to find something that the King’s men had missed in their sweep of the area after the battle? Why was he so sure that there was something to find? Was he wise to trust in a dream?

The answer had to be yes. Faramir had experienced strange dreams before that foretold future events or revealed some aspect of the past. His dream of a few nights earlier had been very specific that he must return here and look for that cursed stone. While it was possible that the dream could have been just a random collection of voices cast into his sleep by his own mind, it could also be a true vision of the future.

They had started the search in the fissure below the tower. Faramir had looked up to see the remains of Saruman's tower rising skyward above him. He smiled grimly, remembering the moments when he had hung from the distant rail some three hundred feet above with only the strength of his shoulders and arms keeping him alive. He also recalled watching, even while he dangled precariously by his arms, the satisfying sight of Saruman the White falling to his death. Saruman must have landed exactly where Faramir had stood, or at a point very close to it, but there was no sign of the wizard's presence. Faramir knew that Aragorn had deployed Rangers to search the tunnels the same day that Saruman had fallen. They had found no trace of the wizard's body.

If he was truly dead.

Faramir had broadened his search as he moved away from the tower, but to no avail. Soon the little light that leaked through the clouds would start to wane from the tunnel's entrance, and then the shine from the torches set in the walls would be the only light by which they could see.

“Ciri,” he shouted. “I’m returning to where we started.”

He began to walk purposefully along the tunnel. Saruman had to be dead. He had seen him fall and no man could survive that. Faramir stopped; Saruman was no man, of course. He was an Istar. Gandalf had survived a far worse fall in Moria when he had fought the balrog. If Saruman was indeed dead, then why had no body been found? And if he was dead, how could his spell still bind Eldarion? Would not a spell die with the wizard that had created it? And how had Saruman created such spells at all when his magic had been lost during the War of the Ring? So many questions, and no answers! Not for the first time, he longed to lay eyes on Mithrandir, his old friend and teacher. But he would have to be content with Mithrandir's voice in his dream. Faramir shivered despite the heat. He could almost hear Saruman’s arrogant laughter bouncing off the rocks and mocking him.

He could find no answers, only more questions. Faramir wondered uncomfortably if Saruman had planned to so bewilder him. Faramir shook his head with irritation. For someone who had been dead for over six months, Saruman continued to exert an unwelcome influence over his actions and thoughts.

If he was truly dead!

Faramir reconsidered the strange dreams he had had, from his convalescence to the exhausting vision that had finally brought him back here. He had lain close to death in the Houses of Healing following his last journey to Mordor. The wound in his left thigh, inflicted with an Uruk dagger by that treacherous snake Wormtongue, had not healed properly. The healers believed that the knife had been coated with some unknown foul orcish brew that had caused an unanticipated and troubling infection. Eventually, through the skill of the Healers, no little luck and his own powers of endurance, Faramir had survived. The Healers had told him that he would never completely regain the strength he had possessed before the battle. Faramir refused to believe it.

When was a dream more than a dream? He could swear that his dream of a few days past held signs of a terrible future that he must avert. The strange substitution of Aragorn for Denethor in his dream made his blood run cold, and he could not bring himself to ponder it further. In contrast, the dreams he had dreamt while recovering last autumn had seemed more like the usual fancies of sleep. Except that the repeated image of Saruman crying out, like a demented crow, "Look for me in Eldarion's eyes, I will be there," echoed the last words of the late and unlamented White Hand as Faramir had heard them himself.

The wizard’s voice echoed around Faramir’s head once more. The Steward was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of heat; and wondered if the air could be any less close inside the Sammath Naur itself. His legs began to buckle. But if two exhausted hobbits could brave the Crack of Doom, he could bear up in this deserted tunnel.

Faramir continued to walk, and then came out of the tunnel into the broader fissure directly below the tower, to stand again in the huge ditch towards which Saruman had fallen where he had begun his search earlier. The fissure was a large one, perhaps thirty feet deep and one to three feet wide, extending nearly halfway around Saruman's tower and connecting to most of the tunnels. The Rangers had left several ladders against various points along its walls for easy egress. He forced himself against the uneven wall for support , closing his eyes, and brought his hand up to his head to rub the point where a headache was beginning to fester. At least the air was less close out here, even if the dust stung his eyes a bit more.

"Faramir,” he chided himself; "You have become entirely too old and soft if you are fretting so much over dust."

He eased himself down into a squatting position, and wearily scanned the dirt and rocks of various sizes all about him. Suddenly he noticed something small and light, a few inches to his left, under the shadow of the fissure's wall, which slanted at that point. He bent down and examined a corner between some small rocks on the ground and a slight curve in the fissure's wall. Faramir's heart beat faster as he saw a torn patch of dirty white linen, less than a finger's length, caught under one of the rocks. Saruman had worn white robes; less than totally clean, he had noted during their confrontation. The Rangers who had searched the tunnels did not wear white; their shirts were darker in colour. Faramir looked closer and almost shouted in excitement. There were several strands of long, white hair beside the patch of cloth. He picked up the strands carefully and examined them closely. The strands were tinged with blood! Could they have been dislodged from Saruman's head when he fell? He would have to find out the name and age of every Ranger who had searched this part of the tunnel, and see if any of them had been an older man with a head wound.

Faramir's attention thus engaged, it was a complete shock when someone who was not his son nearly tripped over him. Taken off balance, Faramir fell to the floor as the figure wrestled past him with a swirl of a dark cloak and then turned back into the tunnel from where Faramir had come.

Faramir pulled himself upright and unsheathed his dagger, his fighting instincts fully aroused and in play. One thought rushed through his head.

The figure was running towards. . . Cirion!

Faramir followed, cursing the sudden pain shooting up his left leg. Too slow, too slow! His boy needed him! He bit back the warning shout that was almost on his lips. If he shouted, Cirion would be more likely to leave whichever room he was currently exploring and walk straight into the stranger, who had disappeared around a bend in the tunnel. He staggered up the tunnel and rounded the bend. The sight he saw there forced the cry he had managed to suppress moments before out of his mouth.

“Cirion!”

Faramir’s son had obviously left the room he had been in just moments before the stranger had arrived at the same point. They had collided and Cirion, being the smaller of the two, had been knocked off-balance and fallen. As the scene came into Faramir’s view the stranger punched Cirion to the ground and continued to run. But to Faramir's surprise and trepidation, his son bounced back onto his feet, eyes following his assailant, and his hand already seeking the dagger at his belt.

Cirion withdrew the knife and threw it in one fluid movement. The lad was good, his father had not seen such deadly speed and grace in a child of his age...well, since Boromir had been young. The dagger flew fast and embedded itself deep into the back of the intruder who emitted a surprised grunt and fell forwards in a heap.

Faramir rushed passed his son, who was standing shocked and motionless, staring at the crumpled figure.

Faramir closed the distance and kneeling stiffly lifted and turned the body over. He found himself looking into a pain-filled face with quickly fading pale golden skin, with a drop of blood running down the side of the mouth. The man's dying eyes, dark and agonized, stared up at the Steward of Gondor.

The man wore nondescript dark clothing, under a dark blue hooded cloak fastened with a small badge of silver in the shape of a five-pointed star, with a turquoise in the centre. It looked like an emblem, but Faramir did not recognize it. He was middle-aged, with dark hair and two tattoos in the shape of an unknown rune, one on each cheek. When he spoke he did so in the common tongue, with a clipped accent that differed noticeably from the softer speech of the Haradrim. He looked like he could be an Easterling. Turquoise stones were frequently imported to and from the East by the Haradrim.

“Faramir, Steward of Gondor?” he managed to articulate through gritted teeth.

“Easy,” Faramir said as he nodded.

The man’s body stiffened in his arms and he groaned weakly. Much to Faramir’s surprise, the man’s face broke into a bitter smile.

Behind them, Cirion shuffled closer to stand and watch.

“Go on,” Faramir said softly.

The man licked his dry lips and his smile widened. “There is no more to say.”

The stranger began to laugh hysterically. The laugh became a cough as his body tensed. Then he groaned softly and relaxed as the life left him.

“Is he. . . I didn’t mean . . .” Cirion began. “He just took me by surprise, he hit me and I wasn’t thinking. ”

Faramir sighed as he gently placed the body onto the ground. Riddles again! He slowly began to search through their assailant's robe and belt. He would normally disdain to rob the dead, but he did not seek so much to rob the dead man but to glean some clue as to his identity and purpose.

The words from his dream echoed in his mind, “You will find the stone that Saruman lost. Go in haste, for very soon the Stone shall be taken by less worthy hands.”

Suddenly Faramir’s long probing fingers curled over something round and hard secreted deep in the man’s robe. He pulled it out quickly and saw that he held the clear green stone that Saruman had used to bespell both Eldarion and himself.

The Steward felt an uncontrollable surge of triumph roar through and almost unman him, but a quiet sob from behind brought him back to more immediate concerns. Faramir rose, then moved to embrace his son. As he took the boy’s seemingly small and fragile body into his arms, Faramir felt Cirion begin to shiver.

“It is all right, Cirion,” he said softly.

“I didn’t. . .” Cirion began to say but his pale face grimaced with the import of what he had done and his remaining words were lost as he began to sob softly.

“Shush, my son,” Faramir said pulling Cirion to him more tightly. “We will talk of this later. Do not be afraid to let your tears fall.”

As he held the boy to his chest Cirion’s sobs became more violent, but Faramir managed to look over the boy’s head at the object he had found on the body of the stranger. His heart lurched as he saw the brilliant stone, shining malignantly in the gloom of the tunnel. He remembered the thing! He had seen it, sought in vain to evade it. He remembered his own frantic, pained heartbeat and a wizard's purring voice echoing through a small cave in Ithilien seven years ago. He had seen that stone in Saruman's hand; felt its glow almost palpably as a cold hand clenching tight around him, blocking out all conscious thought and hope.

Again the words of his dream came back to him, “Find the stone....Though you have reason to fear it, you shall master your fear and undo the evil work in which the stone was used.”

Gulping, Faramir pulled his eyes from the stone. He put the wizard's tool into the pouch on his belt and repulsed the evil memories it brought.

Cirion was feeling the agony of his first kill; his boy needed Faramir's support now.

All else would have to wait.