Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Faramir and Denethor; i do not recieve any money from this.
Damana, Eonar, Nanaël and Roan, however, belong to me.
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"Get up!" The guard kicked a heap before him. The heap shuddered and a suffocated moan cold be discerned from somewhere inside the folds of the dark leather coat. "Stand up, witch!" The guard reached down into the heap and grabbed a fistful of charcoal black hair. He pulled the woman by her hair, forcing her up to face Denethor in front of her. She gasped, her face contorted in pain as the man brutally tilted her head back. Her hands clawed at the air as she stood on weak knees.
The sky was grey and a strong wind blew across the plateau on the top of the city of Gondor, where the little party had finally come to a stop. The cold air bit her face and made the tears in her eyes sting. Everything around them was silent, but for the howling of the wind, which flapped their coats in a ghastly sound against their bodies.
"You see, Nanaël, nothing can save you now. Not your witchcraft, not this demonic beast of yours - ", Denethor's oily face appeared before her eyes, a grim smile playing around lips, as he savoured the last part of his sentence, "nor my faint-hearted son."
She spat in his face. He wiped his face and grinned at her, displaying a row of yellow and cavenous teeth. "Is that all you got?" She did not respond but stared at him with blank eyes.
"Is that all you got!" Denethor's face went white with anger.
"I will not waste a spell on you. You are not worth it."
Denethors blow hit her hard and swiftly.
Farther down in the city the streets were crowded with people. Women with children, men carrying crates and bags, shop owners critically examining the new goods the traders had brought into town. A tumult of voices, talking, laughing, arguing. The ten riders steered their horses slowly through the crowds, greeting and waving at people at irregular intervals. They all wore relaxed smiles on their faces although their clothing and armour was battered and dirty and they seemed genuinely tired. All but the first of the troop. The young man's face was tense, his gaze fixed steadily upon the top tower of the city. He suddenly halted his horse at a crossroad to look at a tiny little house, which almost vanished behind a big shop selling vegetables and fruit. The door was shut but the windows were wide open, its dark red curtains flapping in the wind.
"Faramir." One of the rider stopped next to the young man, whose mesmerized gaze was still fixed on the curtains. He mumbled something. His companion leaned closer.
"Where is she? Why is she not here? I told her to - "
"Faramir, we should make haste. The winds have changed. A storm is coming."
The young captain of Gondor did not react. "Faramir?", the rider touched Faramir's shoulder, "Sir?"
He put spurs to his horse and rushed towards the gateway leading up to the top. His companion looked after him in, a bewildered and fearful look in his eyes.
"What is wrong?" Another of the horsemen drew to a halt at the crossroad. "Roan?"
"I do not know." Roan looked at his fellow rider, shrugging his shoulder, "His mind is clouded with trouble. I feel something terrible is about to happen."
Damana, Eonar, Nanaël and Roan, however, belong to me.
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"Get up!" The guard kicked a heap before him. The heap shuddered and a suffocated moan cold be discerned from somewhere inside the folds of the dark leather coat. "Stand up, witch!" The guard reached down into the heap and grabbed a fistful of charcoal black hair. He pulled the woman by her hair, forcing her up to face Denethor in front of her. She gasped, her face contorted in pain as the man brutally tilted her head back. Her hands clawed at the air as she stood on weak knees.
The sky was grey and a strong wind blew across the plateau on the top of the city of Gondor, where the little party had finally come to a stop. The cold air bit her face and made the tears in her eyes sting. Everything around them was silent, but for the howling of the wind, which flapped their coats in a ghastly sound against their bodies.
"You see, Nanaël, nothing can save you now. Not your witchcraft, not this demonic beast of yours - ", Denethor's oily face appeared before her eyes, a grim smile playing around lips, as he savoured the last part of his sentence, "nor my faint-hearted son."
She spat in his face. He wiped his face and grinned at her, displaying a row of yellow and cavenous teeth. "Is that all you got?" She did not respond but stared at him with blank eyes.
"Is that all you got!" Denethor's face went white with anger.
"I will not waste a spell on you. You are not worth it."
Denethors blow hit her hard and swiftly.
Farther down in the city the streets were crowded with people. Women with children, men carrying crates and bags, shop owners critically examining the new goods the traders had brought into town. A tumult of voices, talking, laughing, arguing. The ten riders steered their horses slowly through the crowds, greeting and waving at people at irregular intervals. They all wore relaxed smiles on their faces although their clothing and armour was battered and dirty and they seemed genuinely tired. All but the first of the troop. The young man's face was tense, his gaze fixed steadily upon the top tower of the city. He suddenly halted his horse at a crossroad to look at a tiny little house, which almost vanished behind a big shop selling vegetables and fruit. The door was shut but the windows were wide open, its dark red curtains flapping in the wind.
"Faramir." One of the rider stopped next to the young man, whose mesmerized gaze was still fixed on the curtains. He mumbled something. His companion leaned closer.
"Where is she? Why is she not here? I told her to - "
"Faramir, we should make haste. The winds have changed. A storm is coming."
The young captain of Gondor did not react. "Faramir?", the rider touched Faramir's shoulder, "Sir?"
He put spurs to his horse and rushed towards the gateway leading up to the top. His companion looked after him in, a bewildered and fearful look in his eyes.
"What is wrong?" Another of the horsemen drew to a halt at the crossroad. "Roan?"
"I do not know." Roan looked at his fellow rider, shrugging his shoulder, "His mind is clouded with trouble. I feel something terrible is about to happen."