Onlya few minutes later, Miriel's eyes shot open. It was early morning. The sky was still grey, the rays of the sun having not risen high enough to break over the mountain peaks to the east. Her arms remained draped around Bregolas' lifeless body, to which she had clung while she had slept. Doing a quick survey of the immediate area, she saw many dead Orcs lying in pools of thickening black blood.
The Slayer remained seated there for several minutes, processing everything that had happened.
How swiftly one's life can change in only a few moments time, she thought gloomily.
She and Bregolas had come so far together. She wondered if she'd ever get over his death. Already, she felt an emptiness inside. Despite what Buffy had said, Miriel still believed that she had been cursed. There was no other explanation for the events that had transpired. It wasn't just the death of Bregolas that had brought her to that conclusion, but the whole situation that caused her to leave Minas Tirith in the first place. O' how she hated Denethor, for he was to blame for all her woes.
Get it together, Miriel, she told herself. Now wasn't the time to dwell on the hand that fate had dealt her. She had to be strong if she were to continue on her journey. If there was one thing that Miriel was sure of, it was that there was no turning back. She had to carry on.
She carefully eased out from beneath the warrior. Cradling his head, she gently lay him back down on the stone floor of the ledge. She sat on her folded legs, looking at Bregolas lying there with his vacant grey eyes staring above. No words could express the pain she felt seeing him there, dead, his body pierced and slashed in several places. Never again would she hear his joyous laughter that had always lifted her spirits when she felt sad.
Though they had their share of ups and downs along the way, Miriel would miss him terribly. He had been her friend, her teacher, her protector and her lover. A part of her felt guilty for not loving him as he had loved her. Though she had always cared deeply for him, she found it hard to call him husband. That whole scenario had not played out to her liking. Deep down, she believed that some malevolent force had driven him to do what he had done.
With a trembling hand, she reached out, closing his eyes. She thought that in doing so, perhaps he would appear to be sleeping like the lords of old. Alas, that was not to be, as Bregolas' blood soaked garments broke that illusion.
Miriel's hand slipped down to the warrior's cheek, which she cupped tenderly. His facial hair felt bristly to the touch, but the skin beneath was already cold. She hated the notion of leaving him there, surrounded by corpses of the enemy. Unfortunately, there was not enough earth to bury him, or enough stones to build a cairn. And to make matters worse, she knew that it was only a matter of time before the carrion-fowl and other beastly creatures arrived, eager for their morning meal. She was somewhat surprised that they had not yet come. Bregolas didn't deserve that. Despite his faults, he was a good man, a valiant man who didn't deserve to have his body eaten by any creature. But what could she do?
Her eyes shifted to the winding road above, half-expecting to see the men of Gondor popping up over the apex of the mountain. If she burned the warrior, it would alert the enemy, and that's the last thing she needed. She looked back at Bregolas' body, wondering what he would want her to do.
Flee, Miriel, she heard his voice say. Flee as fast as you can.
Inhaling deeply, she shuddered as she caught the first whiff of death on the air. She then leaned over Bregolas, whispering, "I'm sorry, my love," as she lovingly caressed the warriors cheek with her fingers. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I hope some day you can forgive me." She then kissed his forehead. "Farewell, my beloved. May you be at peace at last."
Miriel then clambered to her feet. She suddenly became aware of the throbbing in her side from having fallen off the ledge the night before. She paused, allowing herself a moment or two to adjust to the pain and to collect her thoughts. She eyed her and Bregolas' bags, knowing that she'd have to decide what things to take with her, as she could not carry them all.
As she stood there, she noticed the blood that had saturated her garments. Her breeches, in particular, seemed most soaked, the result of holding a bleeding Bregolas in her arms all night. The blood on the rings of her mail had already formed a crusty layer, and small chunks of Orc guts clung to the shirt like dried glue. Miriel tried to flick off the offensive pieces with her fingers, but that wasn't enough to dislodge the sticky innards from her mail.
Cringing in disgust, she found herself eager to remove the offensive shirt of metal rings. As she attempted to do so, she heard a tearing sound. One of the rings had apparently broken during the previous night's scuffle, and a jagged piece of metal had become snagged in her shirt, which ripped when she tried to remove her mail.
"Damn it!" she cursed. Miriel only had three summery tops and couldn't afford to lose one. She wiggled the sharp piece of metal free so that she could pull off her shirt of mail. Once she had removed her protective covering, she noticed the large rip running straight down the front of her bloody top. Her green shirt was torn too badly to wear.
Her eyes darted to their bags once again. Would it be wrong to take one of Bregolas' shirts?
No, she said to herself. He has no need for them any more.
Any movement increased the Slayer's pain. Groaning softly, she limped over to their belongings, stepping over the dead Orcs that formed obstacles on the way. Already, flies had begun to arrive, buzzing around the goblins. She glanced up at the sky. A single bird circled above. She knew it had to be one of the vultures, spotting the feast far below.
She tried to push those thoughts out of her mind, as she dug through one of Bregolas' bags. She pulled out a wrinkly green tunic. Though too big for her, it would be much better than the ragged garment she was wearing. Miriel pulled off her top and tossed it aside before doing a quick inspection of her injured side. Her skin appeared badly bruised, but nothing seemed to be broken. She considered herself very lucky.
After pulling on Bregolas' tunic, she glanced down at her breeches. They were literally covered in blood, from waistline to hemline. There was no possible way she could wear the warrior's pants, and the thought of wearing her own bloody garments for days made her sick to her stomach. The Slayer sat down, and pulled off her boots. She'd have to change into her black pants. She would still keep her soiled tan breeches and wash them the first chance she got. Surely, a river or springhead wasn't too far away. If she recalled correctly, streams generally originated at the feet of mountain chains. She'd have to consult the map, which had to be somewhere in one of Bregolas' bags, but she was almost positive that there would be a stream at the base of the mount.
One she had changed, Miriel grabbed the water skins, shaking each to determine how much water it contained. She would take all of them with her, as water was a necessity and the key to survival. She girt both Bregolas' and her own sword around her waist, deciding not to leave the warrior's weapon behind. She also took his knife, which had proved to be handy on the journey thus far. She strapped that implement to her leg, so that it would be easily accessible.
The food they had remaining, she would obviously bring, and after a quick debate with herself, she took the cooking and fishing gear as well. Though she had had no luck with fishing in the past, she thought that at some point hunger would drive her to try her hand at it again. She was also compelled to take the crossbow and quiver of arrows too. The tent, she determined, would most definitely be of use. The only thing she couldn't find was the map. It was not in Bregolas' bags, as she had assumed.
Her eyes shifted to the dead warrior. Was the map in one of the pockets of his breeches? She limped back over to his body and hurriedly checked his pockets. They were empty. Panic was beginning to set in. How could Miriel travel in unfamiliar territory without the aid of a map? How would she find water sources without it? It had to be there somewhere.
She hobbled around the ledge, checking under the corpses of the Orcs. Though she had exerted little energy, Miriel's heart raced, her breathing coming in rasps, as she looked under body after body. Finally, beneath a severed goblin leg she found the map, soaked with blood. She whimpered at the sight. Black blood covered nearly all the northern regions of the map. She wiped the parchment with a filthy hand, causing the ink to smear. Immediately, she felt her eyes stinging with tears. She stopped, wondering what she was to do now.
"Calm down," she said aloud, trying to compose herself. It's no big deal, she thought. I'm heading north. That's easy enough to do. I can do that. Maybe once the blood's dry I can scrape it off the map. Yes, that's what I'll do.
The sky began to grow lighter, indicating that it would not be long before the sunlight broke over the mountaintops. The Slayer had to get a move on. She planned to follow the same course that she and Bregolas had decided upon before his untimely death. She would stay on the road until she reached the forest below. Once she got there, she'd take to the woods, traveling parallel to the road so as to avoid any possible encounters with other travelers.
Deeming that it was time to go, Miriel gathered all her supplies. She heaved the straps of the heavy bags over her shoulders along with the half dozen water skins. Instantly, she felt the weight of her burdens. She stopped next to Bregolas' body before she left the ridge. In one hand, he still clutched her braid of hair, which had unraveled during the night. She then noticed the ring on his other hand that lay limply at his side. She kneeled down, picking up the lifeless limb, and slid the ring off his finger. She examined the piece of jewelry for a moment, looking at the White Tree etched in mithril set in the center of a black stone. The ring was a symbol of the Tower Guard of Gondor, and had been given to Bregolas by Denethor when he had officially become her personal protector months ago. She closed her fingers around the ring, slipping it into the pocket of one of her bags. She would keep that, not as something to barter with in the future, but as a memento of Bregolas, who had died while trying to protect her.
Miriel then did something that she had not done in some time - she prayed. She prayed to the Valar in the West, asking them to protect Bregolas' body from foul beasts. The Slayer then rose to her feet and looked upon the dead warrior for what would be the last time. "Farewell once again, my friend," she said before turning, following the path to the main road, and setting out on her journey alone.
Little did the Slayer know that the Valar did not hate her as she had come to believe, nor had they forsaken her. They would answer her prayer, preventing all creatures from defiling the warrior's body. In fact, the warrior would receive a proper burial the following day.
The trek down the mountain was much easier than the trek up had been. However, with all the additional gear that Miriel carried, her hopes of reaching the woods by nightfall would not happen. From where she had started, she guessed that she was about fifty miles from the forest. Unfortunately, with her injuries and now aching back, she was only able to travel about thirty miles before her body decided to quit for the day.
None too eager to camp on the road, she scanned the slopes to the north and south, hoping for some spot in which she could find some cover. To her dismay, she saw nothing, nothing remotely like the place she and Bregolas had camped the night before. She forced herself to plod on, all the while searching either side of the road for some place to hide.
It wasn't until she had gone a little ways further, and had glanced up toward the mountaintop, that she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, a grouping of rocks on the south side of the road. The enormous boulders formed a cave of sorts. It wasn't very large and there was no pathway leading to it at all. If she had not looked back up the road, she wouldn't have noticed it. The cave seemed the ideal spot to rest for the night. Her only problem was how was she to get to it. The rocks were slick, and though she was near the bottom of the road, the drop was still steep and perilous.
She stood there for several minutes, her eyes searching the road above and below for any other travelers. The area appeared deserted. A reluctant Miriel removed all her bags, placing them on the road. She wanted to see if it was even possible for her to reach that little hidey-hole and there was no way she could do that carrying all of her things. After a quick drink of water, she carefully began to climb over the rocks, praying that her feet would not slip, sending her plummeting below. As luck would have it, she managed to reach the cramped space. Now, all she had to do was bring her belongings with her. She would end up doing that in several trips, as the extra weight threw off her balance.
Though cramped and unable to lie down, the Slayer was able to lean against the rock wall and stretch her legs out. She ate a meager supper, and watched as the sun slowly sank in the west.
When the landscape lay covered in darkness, Miriel's uneasiness grew. Being in such cramped quarters, she figured she wouldn't hear much of anything, but that was not the case. To her, it seemed that the typical nightly noises sounded louder and much scarier now that she was alone. At one point, she could have sworn that she heard something coming down the road. Maybe her ears were playing tricks on her, but she thought she heard a beast of some sort sniffing the air not far from where she lay hidden. She was so frightened that she pulled out her knife, prepared to attack if some creature's head popped around the corner.
The night seemed endless, and Miriel constantly wondered what the time was. She could kick herself for not taking Bregolas' pocket watch. She figured she had no use for it, since time no longer had any meaning. It was such a small object that she could've found room for it in one of her bags, if not, her pocket.
Despite her restlessness, the Slayer briefly drifted off to sleep.
The moment Buffy saw her, she praised Miriel for continuing on her journey. "I'm so proud of you, Miriel," she said. "You can do this. I know you can."
"I've encountered a problem," the younger Slayer confessed. She and Buffy were standing on the road beside Miriel's hideout. She pulled out her blood-covered map, showing it to her mentor. "What am I to do with this map? How am I to find my way?"
Buffy took the parchment from the girl and examined it closely. She tried scratching the blood off with her fingernail, but the inky drawing had already become a blurred mess. "Well, that's not gonna work," the elder Slayer said. She thought for a moment before adding, "Hey! We're in a dream. Why don't you move backward in time, before the map was ruined and we can look at it together."
"Oh, alright," answered Miriel. She tried her best to go backward in time, but it didn't seem to work. She took them to several places in Middle-earth, none in which any maps could be found. "It's pointless!" Miriel cried out in dismay, bringing them back to the spot on the road from where they had started. "Now, I'm lost in the wilds of Middle-earth with no idea of where I am going."
"No, that's not true," responded Buffy. The sky was still dark, as it was when the young Slayer had fallen asleep. As the elder Slayer looked up at the star-speckled sky, a smile came to her face.
"What?" asked Miriel, noticing the pleased look on her mentor's face.
"I'm no astrologer, but I've learned a thing or two about stars." She shifted her gaze to her protégé. "We can thank Willow for this one."
"What? What are you talking about?" queried Miriel yet again.
"Look!" said Buffy, pointing to the night sky above. "Do you see that cluster of stars, the one that looks like a pot with a handle?"
"No," answered Miriel glumly. Though she often stared at the stars, she never saw those shapes that people always seemed to notice. To her, it just looked like, well, stars, grouped or ungrouped, she couldn't tell any difference.
The elder Slayer pulled Miriel closer to her side. "Look closely," she began again, pointing to the cluster of stars. "If you draw an imaginary line, connecting those stars it forms the Big Dipper. Can you see it? There's the pot and there's the handle," Buffy said, as she moved her finger from star to star.
"Oh, yes, I see it now."
"Now, see those two stars at the edge of the pot, not the handle, but the pot."
Miriel nodded.
"Those are the pointer stars. They point to the North Star, right there. See it."
"I… I think so."
"It's right there." Buffy said, glancing at the girl to make sure her eyes were fixed on the same place as hers.
"I see it now," replied Miriel.
"That's your guide. The North Star is what you need to follow. That star always defines due north."
The young Slayer let out a grateful sigh of relief. With a smile now adorning her face, she said, "I do not know what I would've done without you, Buffy. I thought I was doomed to wander Middle-earth aimlessly. Thank the Valar that was not to be."
"I can come through in a pinch," Buffy chuckled. "Who would've thought all those nights hanging out in cemeteries would teach me something other than what things can be used to kill vamps? I'm like the Queen of Knowledge," she boasted, proud that she was able to help her protégé and alleviate the girl's fears.
They both took a seat on the road. "Do you still think that I'll find my Watcher?" Miriel asked, somewhat skeptically.
"Of course I do," replied the elder Slayer. "And you never know, Miriel, he or she could be searching for you right now. Watchers have this weird way of knowing when a new Slayer's been Called, and how to find 'em."
"A she? You think my Watcher could be a woman?" queried the girl in surprise.
"Why is that so surprising?" answered Buffy, forgetting that women held so little power in Miriel's world. "There have been lots of women Watchers."
"I have never heard of any being a woman before. But then, I have read very little on the Slayer lore."
Buffy paused for a moment, pondering her protégé's words. "You know, the more I think about it, the more I'm of the opinion that you are the most powerful woman in your world. You're a Slayer. No. Let me correct that - you're the Slayer. The one girl in all the world with the strength and skill to kill vampires and all creepy, demony creatures that lurk in the night."
"Pfft," sounded a doubtful Miriel. "The world is a vast place, Buffy. I cannot believe that I am strongest at… well, anything, really."
"Bullshit!" protested the elder Slayer. "Once you get more kills under your belt, your confidence will grow. It's just gonna take some time. Experience breeds confidence." Buffy cringed. "Experience breeds confidence," she repeated with a groan. "Oh, God, I'm beginning to sound like Giles!"
Miriel laughed. "Well, you are acting as my Watcher. There's no harm in sounding like one."
"Tell that to my friends," she grumbled in disdain. "I'd never hear the end of it."
Miriel was comforted by Buffy's presence, even if it was only for little while. The young girl had been struggling to keep awake, fearing a possible ambush at any time. Suddenly, she jerked herself awake.
The sky was still dark. She remained hidden in her hidey-hole until the sky was light enough for her to climb along the rocks and back to the road. She then set off on her journey once again, gladdened by the sight of the forest, which grew nearer with each step she took. By mid-morning, she disappeared into the woods…
As soon as Miriel had vanished into the forest, the men from Gondor, who had been following her and Bregolas' trail in great haste, had crested the mountaintop. At the forefront was none other than Faramir, who had led his company of Rangers on the long journey from Minas Tirith. When the Captain of Gondor heard news that his sister and her companion had been stopped on the Old Forest Road by the Beornings, he had ordered his men to travel nearly nonstop in pursuit of the couple.
Faramir halted his company at the top of the mount, as he surveyed the road below him in hopes of spotting his sister. Unfortunately, from his position, he was unable to see any signs of life on the winding road. Not one to give up hope, he ordered his men to continue, believing it was only a matter of time before the Gondorian warriors caught up with Miriel and Bregolas. He had learned that his sister and her companion had been traveling on foot, and felt that he would be able to catch up with them swiftly since he and his company were traveling on horseback.
Miriel had consumed his thoughts since his meeting with the Beornings in Mirkwood. He couldn't help but wonder why she had left Gondor and traveled so far north. He found it hard to believe that it was merely so she and Bregolas could wed. They could've set up house closer to home. But then again, Faramir had noticed Denethor's possessiveness of Miriel. He still didn't understand why his father had refused to allow Miriel and Bregolas to marry.
Perhaps Denethor had promised her hand to some lord to strengthen the bonds of unity. Had he made some deal with Théoden of Rohan? Maybe his sister had been promised to Théodred, the Lord of the Mark's son and heir. He thought that was plausible, considering how very controlling Denethor could be, not to mention how much he relished power. Uniting the House of Húrin and with that of Eorl would definitely give his father more leverage over the smaller kingdom. The more Faramir thought about it, the more he believed that to be true.
As the men rode further down the zigzagging slope, they noticed a flock of birds circling high above. Some swooped down upon the rocks far below, causing others to scatter and to ascend into the air. Squinting his eyes, Faramir tried to make out what type of birds they were. However, the flock was still a long ways off, and he could not clearly determine what breed of winged beasts they were.
Onward they rode; the horses' pace remained slow and steady. If Faramir hadn't been so preoccupied with thoughts of his sister, he would've delighted in the view from atop the Misty Mountains. He had never been to the northern regions of Middle-earth for the threat of Mordor had always kept him close to home, patrolling Gondor's borders.
He fixed his gaze on the path ahead, refusing to allow himself to experience the beauty of the area. From out of the west a gentle breeze blew. When the cool air rushed against Faramir's damp skin, he shuddered.
"Are you alright, Captain?" asked a concerned Damrod, who rode abreast of Faramir's steed.
Faramir responded with a curt nod of his head. At that moment, the moment he shivered, the Gondorian Captain felt a sudden heaviness creep into his heart. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake that feeling. In fact, it seemed to intensify, the further they went.
The men continued to speak in low voices. Unlike their Captain, they were admiring the view. One of them pointed at the birds in question, announcing that they were indeed carrion-fowl.
"There must be something dead, down there below," remarked Mablung, gesturing toward the rock shelf below on the north side of the road.
The moment Faramir heard that, he raised his head. A feeling of dread instantly replaced the heaviness in his heart.
"What is that?" asked Damrod, who rode at the rear of his Captain's horse. "What is that glimmering in the sunlight?"
The men soon drew near enough to see the carnage. "They're Orcs!" exclaimed Mablung. "A couple of dozen by the looks of it."
"There's no doubting we're on Bregolas' trail now," chimed in Anborn excitedly. "Who else could hew so many of the enemy?"
The men had not yet seen the body of their fellow soldier.
"Whoa!" Faramir said to his steed, bringing the beast to a halt. He dismounted, following the path that led to the ledge. Several of his men followed.
"No!" said Faramir breathlessly, spotting his fallen comrade lying amidst the decaying corpses of the enemy. His pace quickened, as he leapt over the dead, eager to get to Bregolas' side.
The carrion-fowl flew off with the arrival of the intruders. The sound of their flapping wings and angry cries rang out beneath the midday sky.
Faramir's eyes swept over the carnage in search of his sister. He did not see her. When he reached the downed warrior's body, he immediately noticed the unraveling braid of hair clutched in his hand, causing the Captain to assume the worst. He collapsed to his knees, in shock.
A grief-stricken Faramir sat there for a few moments, listening to his fellow warriors' gasps of horror. Shouts of "Bregolas in dead!" seemed to echo against the rock face of the mountain wall to the valley below.
From behind, Faramir heard Anborn's voice shouting, "Search the area for Miriel. Check the crags below. The lady might have fallen from the ledge." He then took off with several of the men, hoping beyond anything that they'd find Miriel alive and well, trapped between the rocks below.
The Captain felt as if his heart had dropped to the pit of his stomach. Trembling now, he carefully tugged the hair from Bregolas' grasp, his eyes welling with tears as he did so. He knew it was Miriel's hair. In his mind's eye, the scene played out before him. He assumed the Orcs had taken his sister captive, and that Bregolas had fought them valiantly, trying to prevent them from taking her. In one last desperate attempt, he grabbed Miriel's hair, as the goblins tried to take her away. The beasts had then hewed off her hair, allowing them to take her hostage.
He buried his face in the long, dark locks, which still smelled faintly of her perfume. Tears rolled from the Captain's eyes. He was too late. If only he and his men had ridden harder and shortened their breaks, they probably would've arrived on the scene in time, in time to save both Miriel and Bregolas.
Mablung and Damrod stood behind their sobbing Captain. They, like all those in Faramir's company were devastated over the loss of both Bregolas and Miriel. Unlike Anborn, they had already concluded that they would not find Miriel, that she was gone, taken captive by the Orcs of the mountains.
Damrod skirted around his grieving Captain, wanting to take a closer look at the area. He went straight for Bregolas' bags, searching its contents, as the remainder of their company filtered onto the shelf.
"I am truly sorry, my Lord," said Mablung, placing his hand comfortingly on Faramir's shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Anborn and some others are searching the slopes below for Lady Miriel. There is still hope we may find her yet," he added in an attempt to be optimistic.
Faramir's anguish was great. The loss of his sister was far greater than that of any other, including his mother. He couldn't help but think of how frightened she must have been to encounter Orcs for the first time. Miriel had led such a sheltered life, having only heard talk of goblins, not seeing them in the flesh. The Captain clutched his sister's hair to his chest. He opened his eyes and through his tears, he looked upon Bregolas' lifeless body once again. He wanted to piece together the last minutes of the warrior's life with what little clues were left behind.
Drying his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, Faramir forced himself to stifle his tears. "They must have been caught at unawares," he surmised, his voice cracking as he spoke. "Bregolas didn't even have time to put his boots on," he added, looking at the naked feet of the warrior.
"It looks like the Orcs took his blade; it is missing. Curse them!" added Mablung bitterly, as his eyes surveyed the immediate vicinity. He then noticed something green crumpled up near the dead warrior. "What's this?" he said aloud, as he reached down and picked the item up. He shook it open. "It's a shirt." He and the others gasped. The garment was soaked with blood and had a large rip down the front. Judging by the size, everyone knew it had to be Miriel's and could only assume the worst after seeing that.
Faramir rose to his feet and took the shirt from Mablung. "This has to be Miriel's," he said in dismay. By the looks of it, she had been sliced by some type of blade. Though his heart was heavy with grief, seeing his sister's blood-soaked shirt brought several questions to mind. If Miriel was dead, then where was her body? And why was her top removed? The moment he asked himself that last question, a horrible thought came into his mind, a thought so heinous that Faramir suddenly felt nauseous.
He scrunched the garment in his balled fist. Seething rage had momentarily replaced his emotional distress. A part of him had come to believe that his original assessment was correct: that Miriel had been taken captive by the Orcs. But why? Why would they take her and leave Bregolas behind?
Once again, the horrific answer popped into his mind. He shifted his gaze toward the mountainside. His eyes scanned the wall of the mountains, wondering if Miriel lay hidden somewhere. Even in Gondor, there was talk that goblins infested the Misty Mountain in the north. It had been said that from this region, Orcs attacked the northern kingdoms of Middle-earth. That meant that their numbers had to be greater, far greater than the twenty-four men Faramir had chosen to accompany him on the journey. However, if his sister was still alive, he should attempt to save her, or die trying, as Bregolas had.
Mablung felt as if he could read his Lord's thoughts. "It is not possible for Miriel to have survived such a wound, my Lord," he said glumly. "Perhaps for a brief period, she… she endured, but the blood loss… " His words trailed off. There really wasn't anything else he could say other than she was dead. And at that moment, Mablung didn't have the heart to utter those words to his grieving lord.
Faramir drew a shuddering breath. Deep down, he knew that Mablung was right. There was no possible way that Miriel could have survived such a wound. An injury such as that would've killed even the stoutest of warriors. What caused the Captain great pain was believing that she had suffered terribly. As he stood there, in stony silence, he could almost hear her cries of despair emanating from the stones that surrounded them.
Tears filled his eyes once again. "O' Miriel, what was it that caused you to flee from your home?" he uttered under his breath.
"Captain!" then shouted Damrod.
Faramir turned his gaze to the warrior, who remained crouched by Bregolas' bags.
"These bags contain only Bregolas' things. Nothing here appears to be that of your sister's," he announced.
"It matters not," answered Faramir gravely. "Miriel is lost." In each hand, he clutched the last tokens of his sister. Those items he would take back to Minas Tirith and present to his father. He shifted his eyes back to Bregolas' body. "We will not leave Bregolas here to rot or for the carrion-fowl to feed upon his flesh," he said, glancing up at the sky. The flocks of birds circled above, waiting for the men to depart.
Faramir then stepped back into his role as Captain, ordering the men to gather Bregolas' body and the warrior's belongings. They would continue to travel to the base of the mountain, where they would give the Gondorian soldier a proper burial, Denethor be damned. Though the Lord of Gondor had ordered any that found Bregolas to bring back his head, Faramir would do no such a thing. Bregolas had fought to the death to protect Miriel, and for that, the Captain would show him the honor and respect that the slain warrior deserved.
The somber company rode on; nobody spoke until they reached the bottom of the mountain. On the south side of the road, amidst the hills, the Gondorian soldiers laid Bregolas to rest. They placed a large, oblong stone to mark his grave.
Eager to return home, the company decided to follow the East Road for a ways, before turning south. Miriel, upon hearing the clopping hooves of many horses, grew fearful, afraid that the men of Gondor had caught up with her at last. She fled to the north, running along the top of a ravine in the forest, and away from her kinsmen. Perhaps if the Slayer had remained near the road, she would've spotted her brother amongst the company, and her life may have turned out much differently then what fate had in store for her. Alas, none shall ever know.
A fortnight later, Faramir and company would return to Minas Tirith, bringing with them grim tidings from the north. Unfortunately, recounting the tale of their travels to the Steward of Gondor fell upon the young Captain's shoulders. While Faramir knew that the meeting would not go well, he did not expect it to be as bad as it turned out. Denethor grew wroth over what he considered his son's act of defiance.
"You were ordered to bring back the head of the traitor who had absconded with my only daughter," hissed Denethor from his throne. The Steward clasped Miriel's locks in his hand so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. "Not only did you fail to do as I had commanded, but you failed my beloved Miriel - your sister - with your cowardice."
"But, Father!" interjected Faramir, attempting to defend himself. "We arrived too late. Miriel was already gone - "
"Silence!" bellowed the Steward angrily, spittle flying from his lips. "You failed to search the mountains for your sister and left her to be tormented by Orcs." He lifted both Miriel's hair and her tattered, blood-soaked garment from his lap. "These are not proof that she is dead." Denethor's eyes narrowed as he leaned forward in his seat. "You've left my beloved daughter to suffer, and for that, I will never forgive you."
The Steward's words stung Faramir. It felt as if a dagger had been plunged into the Captain's heart. He fought back the tears that were rapidly forming in his eyes.
If possible, the wrinkles on Denethor's face deepened. He then coolly added, "Boromir would not have left the mountains without his sister. He would've fought legions of Orcs to save his only sister."
His cutting words had the desired effect on his youngest son. In the silence of the chamber, Faramir could be heard sniffing back his tears. He quickly wiped away the tear that had escaped from the corner of his eye.
Why must Father be so cruel when I grieve so? I did all I could, but it is never good enough, he thought.
"Leave me!" ordered the Steward. "Leave me until I call for you to return. Then I will pronounce my judgment on the son who has failed me yet again."
Feeling as though he had been beaten down, Faramir turned, and left the chamber.
Now, Denethor did not believe that Miriel was dead. His heart would not let him accept that. As soon as Faramir had gone, he took off for the Hidden Chamber in the White Tower. He felt that the palantír would show him Miriel's whereabouts despite the fact that it had not thus far.
Once he was locked away in his secret room, he pulled that black clothe from the Seeing Stone, focusing his thoughts on what he wanted to see. A smoky-like haze swirled within the palantír until it gradually formed into images. A horrific sight greeted the Steward, one which he would never have envisioned. A badly beaten and bleeding Miriel lay on a rock floor of some darkened chamber, naked. Orcs, scores of them, took turns raping her. Though no sound emitted from the stone, Denethor heard Miriel's shrill cries of anguish echoing in his mind. The last beast that pleasured himself with his beloved daughter arched his back (was that in pleasure?), his jaw widening before his mouth came rushing down onto Miriel's throat. His teeth sank into her flesh, tearing out her throat, filling the entire palantír with crimson.
So sickened by the scene, Denethor slapped the palantír from its stand, sending the orb rolling across the floor. He then fell to his knees, trembling. In his hands, he clutched the last two items of Miriel's: her hair and her bloody shirt. There was now no doubt that his beloved Miriel was dead, and that she had suffered horribly. The sight of that sickening display would send Denethor further over the edge, into the madness of grief.
Far below, those milling around in the courtyard of the Citadel heard the anguished cries of the Lord of Gondor coming from the windows in the uppermost part of the tower. They came to believe that news of Miriel's death had finally sunk in with the Steward. Soon, all in Minas Tirith would learn of Miriel's death, and word would swiftly spread throughout the rest of the kingdom, leading all in that nation to mourn the loss of one considered quite dear to them.
However, in Mordor, there was one who rejoiced - Sauron. His plan was working more splendidly than he could've imagined. Nothing could please the Dark Lord more than rewarding Denethor for his audacity by showing the Steward such graphic images of his beloved daughter. Not only had he managed to convince the Lord of Gondor that Miriel was dead, but he had pushed him closer to the brink of madness. In time, the Steward would plummet into the abyss of despair, courtesy of the Lord of Mordor, proving how weak men truly were.
Now, without having to worry about Gondor, Sauron could have a little fun with the Slayer, who was now alone in the wilds of Middle-earth, unaided by any…
