Chapter 4: Into the Wild
The night seems to stretch eternal. It eventually, however, comes to an end.
And its end comes long before dawn. The orcs have run into a glade and decided it's a good place to camp for the day. Éowyn's chain has been coiled around the trunk of an ash tree and secured into place with a heavy padlock.
The remainder of the orcs haven't remained idle. They have been quick to gather kindling and get a fire going.
Éowyn's situation isn't any better than before, but she's thankful for the rest. Her feet feel all mangled; she can barely believe her eyes when they tell her they still hold their original shape. Some spots are caked with her own dry blood, mingled with the general coat of mud and leaves.
Poor Éowyn! Tears stream down her pale cheeks. Why must love hurt so much? Her thoughts fly to her dear dwimmerlaik. Oh! I wish you were here…
Not far from her, oblivious to her plight, the orcs are drinking and laughing around the fire, as though they were engaged in revelry rather than on an assignment from their commander. And a music is coming thence. If such sound can indeed be called a music. One of the orcs holds some manner of instrument to his slavering lips and plays a horrendous tune, a cacophony clearly intended for ears other than human. There is no beauty in it; it's as much a mockery of the very notion of melody as Orcs themselves are of the fair Elves that dwell in mountain valleys and forests. It does nothing but to add to Éowyn's many sorrows. Even the trees seem to shiver and weep in the face of this acoustic onslaught.
An orc's gruff voice rises to drown the dire notes.
"Dude, you suck at that. Leave that instrument alone already!"
"Do you need to be such an insensitive twit? I'm trying to keep Stu alive here."
"Stu is dead. And his flute sounds like it is on its death throes itself."
"Yeah!," a third orc joins the conversation. "You better put that thing away or else I'll stick it where the stars don't shine!"
"I'll wager it'd sound better that way."
"You will eat those words!," the flute player says.
It is he who ends up doing the eating. Not of any words, but of an arrow. It lodges itself into the back of his throat with a thud that takes everyone by surprise. Especially him, it could be argued.
Orcs are undisciplined, and their reaction is to leap to their feet, draw their weapons and run aimlessly around the camp, flailing and howling as wild animals. None of them thinks of checking on the prisoner. They all stare into the woods with terror-stricken eyes, trying to pierce the darkness and guess at the source of this attack, as they are aware that stray free-flying arrows don't occur naturally in Ithilien.
Their shrieking is meant to scare foes away, but it only makes them easier targets. Soon afterwards it is they who are pierced.
Silence falls upon the glade. Only the hoots and calls of what sounds like very big birds can be heard distinctly.
Those are strange birds, Éowyn thinks as she watches them step into the circle of ruddy light. They have no feathers except for those stuck to the arrows in their quivers and the ones they try to recover from the dead orcs. Their faces are hidden under hooded cloaks.
One of them crouches silently close to her and examines her chain. A few strokes of a hatchet do away with it, and then Éowyn is free.
Free!
Free, at any rate, to stand up, stagger, and fall into the arms of the leader.
"Oops! I'm sorry."
"It's okay," he answers, and his voice is as sweet to her ears as the Orcish music was appalling. As he pulls back his hood, Éowyn feels her breath taken from her body.
The captain's raven hair cascades in rivulets on his shoulders and shines on the firelight with crimson liquid reflections, as though it had been chiseled from a piece of jet. The shadow of a beard darkens his stony yet kind features. He looks like a statue of a hero of old given colour and life by erotic magic.
And his eyes… Oh, gods, his eyes.
His eyes are fixed on her with an intensity Éowyn didn't know was possible.
She feels his strong muscles flexed under his garments and doesn't trust herself not to stagger again. She holds onto his arms, trying to not sigh too conspicuously. Her fingers wander as if with a mind of their own, exploring the white tree embroidered on his jerkin.
"I know who you are," she finds in herself to say. "You are the Steward of Gondor."
"That I am," he answers, helping her gently to her feet. "And I am also the Prince of Ithilien. And the Lord of Emyn Arnen as well." A deep bow accompanies his words. "Faramir son of Denethor, at your service."
"Wow. You're really a prince? And a lord?"
"Such are the titles as King Elessar has seen fit to bestow upon me." There's in his voice a reticence to sound too boastful that she finds endearing. "And you are…?"
"I'm so dirty."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Just look at me. I'm all covered up in dirt and mud and whatever." She feels suddenly inadequate about her state in such a dignified presence. "And I haven't had a meal in ages. And– Ouch! My feet are killing me!" She tries to laught it all off, blushing. "I don't look like the kind of girl you'd take home to your family, do I?"
"That I understood. Still, I would take you to my home."
"Would you?" She seems to remember he doesn't have a family anymore, but doesn't mention it.
"Certainly. I will be honoured to have you as a guest at Emyn Arnen until such time as you are ready to return to your own home. Can you walk?"
"Yes!"
"Are you sure? You just said your feet–"
"Oh, I'm fine. It's nothing really. You know how we women are. Always complaining and overreacting to little things."
"Being captured by the enemy is a little thing?"
"You're not keeping a lady waiting on purpose, are you?"
"Of course not! I apologise. If it pleases you to follow me…"
The way is hard and tiring, as Rangers favour trackless roads across the wild. Still, she makes an effort to keep up with Faramir's stride. Every now and then she hits a snag, real or imagined, and lets him hold her hand.
She's given some rations, and consumes them trying to not look unfashionably ravenous. The food is only hard cheese and stale bread, yet it tastes better than anything Éowyn has ever had. Partly because she's so hungry and partly because he has touched it.
She still has a moment's thought for her dwimmerlaik, but quickly dismisses it without any feeling of guilt.
It's all his damned fault, she says to herself. *He's not good for me. I should have listened to Éomer."
But then again, if she had listened to Éomer, she wouldn't be now Prince Faramir's guest.
Until such time, he has said, as you are ready to return to your own home.
The question comes espontaneously to her mind as she strives to walk next to him under the stars and the setting moon.
What if I am never ready?