Hide and Seek in the Sand

Faramir took a deep drink from his water flask, poured some water into his hand and splashed it across the back of his neck.  Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, he looked around him, scanning the horizon.  Far to the northeast, mountains reared up from the sandy desert that the Rangers now found themselves crossing, while in every other direction the ground stretched out seemingly flat, dotted with small bushes and clumps of grass.  Faramir knew the flatness was an illusion, however, after three days of travel through the land of Harad.  The stony ground that appeared to be an empty plain instead hid numerous shallow dry washes and depressions, like the one that held the Rangers gathered behind him.  They were quiet, waiting as their officers scrutinized the path ahead of them from the lip of their small shelter.

"I went out about a mile," said Anduron, pointing toward the mountains.  "They have been through here, probably even earlier today."  He looked at Faramir, his eyes white in his grimy face.  "They are moving faster." 

Faramir looked grim.  "Because they suspect they are being followed?"

"No, my lord, I don't think so."  Anduron shrugged.  "Maybe they are just in a hurry to get home."

Faramir thought for a moment, then turned and called one of the Rangers forward.  "Isilan."  A man of about thirty with straight dark hair quickly answered his call.  "My lord?"

"You have been into this part of Harad before, yes?"  Faramir fixed his blue eyes on him, his intense gaze making the older man uneasy. 

"Yes, my lord.  About eight years ago."

"Well, tell us about it," Anduron urged him.  "What do you remember?"

Isilan narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.  "The closer to the mountains you go, the better the ground is, the further south you go, the sandier it gets.  There are little streams coming out of the mountains every once in a while.  The Haradrim have a sort of road, further up, we should reach it tomorrow.  Not a real road, with paving or anything, more like a track of hardened dirt.  It is not well-traveled, but there are the occasional merchants on it, sometimes they move soldiers across it."  He fell silent, then shrugged apologetically.  "That's all I remember." 

Faramir turned to his captain.  "Do you think they are making for the road?"

"It would make sense, they could travel more swiftly, if that is the direction they wish to take."  Anduron looked at Isilan.  "Which direction does the road run?"

Isilan pointed south.  "South, sir.  It doesn't go much further north, here."

"They have not moved south since they crossed the river," said Faramir.  "They are going east.  Perhaps they will not take the road, but keep to their current path, toward the mountains."  He pushed the hair from his eyes, reddened from the bright desert sun and the small amount of sleep he had been getting each night.  "If we can keep on through the night, using the moonlight, perhaps we can overtake them before they reach the road." 

Anduron gave his lieutenant an appraising glance.  He knew he was not sleeping and instead had spent most of the last three nights walking alone along the edge of wherever they set up their camp.  "My lord," he said, gently motioning Isilan away in dismissal.  "The men need to rest a bit."  He avoided pointing out that Faramir looked exhausted, too.  "It is the heat of the day, let us take an hour or so, get some rest, and resume later this afternoon." 

Faramir glared at him.  "That is another hour they pull ahead of us, Anduron.  We are getting close.  We must keep moving."  He saw the disagreement in his Captain's eyes and it angered him.  "I cannot let them get any further than they already are, don't you see?  You said you would support me."  He stopped himself, afraid he was sounding childish.

"I did, and I do, my lord," Anduron's voice was quiet and he laid a comforting hand on the younger man's arm.  "But the men must have the strength to fight when we find them, and right now, they do not."  He cast a glance behind him, drawing Faramir's gaze with it. 

They had cross the Poros River with twelve men, seven veterans who had spent some time fighting in Harad, Faramir, Anduron and three others who were determined to come along.  The others had been left at the camp in Ithilien, save for the best rider, who had taken Boromir's war horse and galloped to Minas Tirith for reinforcements.  Those who had come across the river were now huddled in the sliver of shade offered by the overhang of a large rock jutting from the sandy ground.  They had been following the faint tracks left by the Haradrim, which were growing fresher as each day passed.  Even the least experienced trackers among them were having little difficulty today finding signs someone had recently passed through the sandy ground.

Now Faramir looked at the men and saw their drawn faces, the lines around their eyes where the sweat had run through the dirt.  He wondered if his face looked the same.  They sat in the shade with the silence of men pushed to the limit.  Faramir stood for a moment, feeling the sun pound down on him, feeling the sweat running through his hair and down the back of his neck again, feeling the uncertainty of his young years and lack of experience, lack of sleep.  At last he nodded.  "Very well, Captain, I see your point.  We will rest and move out at sundown."

Anduron patted him on the back.  "Yes, sir."  He turned and climbed back down into the depression, leaving Faramir alone on the edge for a moment.  Faramir stared into the empty expanse before him, his eyes aching with strain.  "Where are you, brother?" he said softly.  "Where are you, Boromir?"

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"Where are you?"  Faramir's thin child's voice called down the darkened hallway.  "Boromir?"  He shivered slightly, suddenly not liking the game that he had begged his older brother to play.  At seven, hide and seek was still fun for him, a vastly entertaining way to spend a rainy afternoon, the thrill of finding the perfect hideout matched only by the delicious false terror when it was discovered by his brother, usually with much shouting and murderous threats.

But today, he had had to whine and beg before Boromir would agree to even a very shortened version.  It seemed twelve was an age far too old for enjoying the game, and Faramir had been informed that his brother would only play for a little while and then he had other, more pressing things to do.  Faramir was still unclear on what those things were, but had been assured that they were of vital importance.  Still, any time that his beloved brother would give him was to be enjoyed. 

Standing in the dim hall, however, while the rain poured down in sheets against the windows, his enthusiasm was rapidly waning.  He had hidden twice, only to be found in short order by Boromir, who had then announced it was his turn to hide.  Extracting Faramir's promise not to look, and to count slowly to the highest number he could think of, Boromir had crept away.  Faramir had counted past 150, lost his place somewhere in the 160's and decided he had counted far enough.  Turning from where he had pressed his face against the back of a large chair, he left the room where Boromir had found him hiding earlier.

They were in a wing of the Citadel that was used by visitors only when every other available room was taken, so it often sat empty for years at a time.  Faramir did not know if he ever remembered seeing lights in these rooms or the dust coverings removed from the elaborately carved furniture.  To him it had always been the dark, quiet, slightly sinister part of his home.  It had, of course, been Boromir's choice to play the game here. 

"It will make it more fun," he had coaxed Faramir.  "We can find all kinds of hiding places, plus it will be dark." 

"I don't like the dark," the younger brother had said petulantly, his lower lip sticking out.  "It's too scary." 

"I don't mean dark dark," said Boromir with exasperation, "it's afternoon, it won't be that bad.  Of course, I really don't want to play anyway…"

With the threat of no game at all, Faramir had quickly agreed to use the empty wing.  Now he stood uncertainly in the center of the long hall, feeling the faint tremble of fear starting up his back.   "Boromir?" he called again, his voice quavering in the shadows.  "Where are you?"  Hesitantly he took a step forward and opened one of the wooden doors that lined the walls.  He peered into the room, eyes squinted against the blackness.  Except for a bed and two tables, the room appeared vacant.  Faramir backed out and closed the door, jumping with nervousness as it thumped shut.  Unconsciously clutching the edge of his tunic he moved down a few steps and stood before the next door.  He could feel his heart hammering in his chest as he reached out a small hand for the doorknob.

With the soft click the door opened and Faramir looked around the doorway, trying to gather his courage.  The curtains in this room were pulled shut and it was indeed 'dark dark' just as Faramir had feared earlier.  "Boromir?" His voice was a whispered squeak as he forced his feet across the room. 

In addition to the requisite bed and table, this room also held a large cupboard, barely visible in the gloom.  Faramir stared at it, certain it was the perfect hiding place for his older brother.  Swallowing down his uneasiness, he approached the cupboard and wrapped his hand around the large metal latch.  Working up his courage, he gave a jerk and the door swung open with a ragged creak.  And something leaped out at him.

It was large and furry, brown, heavy.  He squealed in horror and turned to run, but the thing grabbed his legs and pulled him down to the floor.  Panicking, he screamed in stark terror.  "Boromir, Boromir!"  He kicked vigorously to get loose from whatever it was that trapped him, still calling on his brother for rescue.

Down the hall another door was thrust open and Boromir's worried face appeared.  The screams continued coming from behind the second door in the abandoned hallway.  Racing down the dimly lit passage, Boromir reached the door just as Faramir bolted out, still yelling at the top of his lungs.  He grabbed Faramir by the wrist, which ratcheted the screams up higher until he pulled him close in a reassuring hug.  "It's me, it's me."  Faramir collapsed against him, crying. 

Boromir leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor, still holding his little brother tightly in his lap.  "Shh, shhh, it's all right, it's just me."  The smaller boy buried his head in his older brother's chest sobbing.  Boromir said nothing, merely stroked his back gently and waited for him to quiet.  At last his cries petered out into sniffling and hiccupping and there was silence, only the sound of the rain still drumming against the ancient windows opposite them.  "What happened?" the older boy asked, feeling some of the tension drain from the small body in his arms. 

"I th-thought you were in the cupboard," stammered Faramir, looking up at him with enormous blue eyes, his fair hair tangled in front of them.  "I pulled the door, and – a – a monster…jumped on me."  He laid his head back on Boromir's chest, shuddering.  "It jumped on me, and I c-couldn't get away, and I yelled and yelled for you."

"Yes, you certainly did," Boromir smiled and held his brother a little tighter.  "But you did get away, didn't you?"  He felt Faramir's hesitant nod against his chest.  "And nothing has come after you, has it?"  Again the small head moving against him as his brother shook it.  "Well, then let us go see this monster."  He stood Faramir up before him, then got to his own feet.  "Come on," he said, holding out his hand. 

Reluctantly Faramir took it, hanging back at the doorway.  "It's in the cupboard," he whispered. 

Boromir walked across the room, feeling his arm being pulled behind him as Faramir stayed as far back as possible.  Reaching for the curtains, he wrestled his hand from the death grip Faramir had on it and pulled the heavy fabric open a bit, allowing in at least the faint light of the rainy afternoon.  Faramir's hands wormed their way into the folds of his tunic, clutching and sweating.  In the pale light, he could see the cupboard door was hanging open, and lying on the floor was an old, brown cloak made of thick wool, its fur collar tattered, the hemline torn and bedraggled.  Boromir bit his lip to keep from smiling.

"Is this your monster?" He looked down at his little brother, whose own face was a picture of astonishment and embarrassment. 

"I – I guess so – "  Faramir hesitantly walked forward and pushed at the ancient wool with his toe.  "But it jumped, I mean…" he looked back at his brother.  "I opened the door, and it jumped out."

"Hmm," Boromir tried to sound as if he believed this to be possible.  He walked over and opened the cupboard door wider, revealing it to be full of old cloaks, robes and moldy finery from bygone times.  They had been stuffed into every available nook and cranny of the cupboard until it bulged at the seams.  No doubt the brown one had merely been near the front, and Faramir's frightened tug had dislodged it.  "Well," he said, poking the cloak with his own toe, "you have killed it, it seems."  He bent one knee and knelt before his brother.  "Hail Faramir, Captain of Gondor, destroyer of fell beasts!"

Faramir's brows came together angrily.  "Don't make fun of me."  

Instantly Boromir was on his feet.  "I'm sorry."  He looked around the room, realizing how it would appear in the dark to a seven-year old with a vivid imagination, and remembering it had been his idea to play in this wing.  He picked up the dilapidated cloak and shoved it back into the cupboard, pushing the doors shut.  "Do you want to hide next?"

"I don't want to play anymore," Faramir sighed.  He hunched his shoulders, ashamed of his actions.  He looked up at his brother, misery plain on his face.  "I'm sorry to be such a baby."

"You are not a baby," said Boromir decisively.  He knelt again, this time to put his hands on the slight shoulders in front of him.  "You are a brave and true soldier of Gondor." 

"No," said Faramir.  "No, I am not."  His soft, child's jaw set and his brother saw his blue eyes grow hard behind the shimmer of tears.  "But one day I will be, and I will not be afraid, and I will – " he hesitated, searching for the bravest deed he could think of.  "I will rescue you from danger!" 

Boromir smiled, touched by his declaration.  He pulled him close in another hug, his hand running through the soft red-blond curls.  "I know you will, brother," he said as Faramir's arms crept around his neck to return the hug. 

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Faramir blinked back tears, remembering his childish bravado.  How easy things had seemed when he was seven years old.  He had been so sure that one day, when he reached the vast age of twelve, like his brother, he would be brave and confident of himself.  But twelve had come, and then sixteen, and now twenty, and he found himself still beset at times by doubts and uncertainties. Like now.

Today was the third day since they had crossed the river.  No sign of the Haradrim raiding party, save for hoof prints in the dirt.  Every day they were further from Ithilien, from Gondor, from the reinforcements that he hoped were even now on their way.  He thought of the men behind him.  He had not asked any of them to follow him, save Anduron, yet they had volunteered, demanded in fact, to accompany him.  Was he leading them to their deaths?  He had no fear for himself, knowing deep in his bones that the price of his life for Boromir's was an exchange he would willingly make.  To gain his brother's safety, to send him home to the White Tower was paramount.  For the Rangers, the life of the Heir was worth their own, but Faramir would feel more at ease knowing his own lack of knowledge about their enemy was not going to cause them to be killed here in the desert.   He pinched his fingers into the corners of his burning eyes, and suddenly realized Anduron had returned to stand beside him.

"My lord, come into the shade, rest a bit," Anduron's voice was low, persuasive.  "You will end up with heat stroke if you stand here all day."

Faramir nodded absently but did not move.  "Should I go back, Anduron?" He met the older man's surprised gaze.  "Should we go back to Minas Tirith and face my father?"

Anduron dropped his eyes.  "I do not know, my lord."  He tried to imagine standing before the Steward, giving his report, accounting for his actions.  He thought of his young lieutenant, ramrod straight in front of his father, explaining his choices to the flinty-eyed man who never seemed to be pleased by anything the younger son did.  It was not a pleasant picture in his head.  But how far could a dozen men move into Harad before they would become the hunted, not the hunters?  He guessed they had covered close to seventy miles in the three days they had been on the trail.  Even now they were too deep into the enemy's land for his comfort.  He looked back at his young lord and thought again how worn-out and weary he looked.  Not just the physical strain showed, but the emotional one, as well.  He put his hand on Faramir's upper arm and turned him toward the shady spot.  "Come, my lord, and get out of the sun." 

Faramir allowed himself to be steered into the shade with the rest of the Rangers, all of whom scooted over a bit to allot him a tiny spot out of the sun's rays.  Sitting down and leaning his back against the warm sand, Faramir closed his eyes.  He heard Anduron quietly send out a scout and urge the others to get some sleep.  He relaxed a little, forcing the thought of returning home to the back of his mind, and reminding himself that they were getting closer to their quarry.  Tomorrow, perhaps, they would have them.  He fell asleep trying to devise a plan of attack against an enemy he had yet to see.

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A gentle shake woke Faramir and he opened his eyes to see Anduron's face only inches from his own.  It was still daylight, but Faramir could tell several hours had passed while he slept. 

"My lord," Anduron's voice was hushed and excited.  "Ethanar is back, he says a rider is approaching."

Instantly Faramir was completely awake.  Getting to his feet he shook the sand from his clothes and stepped out from under the rock to speak to the returned scout, who was drawing a crude map in the sandy soil. 

"Here is where we are," he said, placing a small stone in a circle.  "He is coming from the east."  Another stone was placed.  "Now, if we go around to the south, there are several bunches of grass here, and a low place."  He added sticks to the map.  "I think we can take him here."

"He's alone?"  Anduron asked him.  The scout nodded.  "You're sure?"  Again Ethanar answered affirmatively. 

"I watched him for a good while, you can see a long way here," Ethanar said.  "No one else is with him."

"Should we take him?"  Faramir looked at Anduron uncertainly.  "Maybe we should just let him go by." 

"Once he gets past he'll see signs we have been there," Anduron reminded him.  "Better to stop him now."  Faramir nodded, content to go along with the veteran soldier's judgment.  Quickly Anduron chose several men to go with Ethanar and set up the ambush.  They slipped away through the sandy scrub, staying low.  All the Rangers had purposely smeared their green cloaks with mud the first day they has crossed the river, and they quickly blended into the surroundings.

Anduron and Faramir crawled to the edge of the depression and strained their eyes to see if they could pick out the approaching horseman.  Only a thread of dust in the east gave any indication someone was traveling across the plains.  Turning their eyes south they could to see nothing to indicate anyone was moving through the scrubby bushes and grass.  They watched closely, but the distance and the dust made any hope of witnessing the actual attack doubtful.  They settled down to wait.

As they waited, Anduron passed the word to pull up the hoods of their cloaks.  At Faramir's questioning look he gave a small grin.  "It will help hide our faces and make us look more frightening.  There are only a dozen of us, we need all the help we can get."  Faramir nodded and returned a slight smile.

In a short while the attack party returned with its prizes, a fleet desert pony and a small, extremely frightened Haradrim.  Ethanar pushed his captive toward Anduron.  "Captain, it's a woman."

Anduron's face showed his shock before he quickly mastered himself.  He had certainly not expected this.  He pulled his hood back a little and stared at her.   She kept her head down, and he thought he saw her lower lip trembling.  She was tiny, barely coming up to his shoulder, and dressed in robes of deep blue, with a headscarf covering her dark hair.  When she did risk a look at her captors he could see her black eyes were wide with fright.  Her hands anxiously twisted and knotted each other as she stood before him.  Faramir came forward and stood beside his Captain, while the other Rangers stayed further back, silent, watching.

"What shall we do with her?" asked Ethanar.  "She's no soldier."

"No," said Anduron, "But she is not here alone on the plains, either.  There are others nearby, no doubt.  We cannot have her telling them we are here, especially if they are the ones we are following."

Without warning she threw herself at Anduron's feet, causing him to step back in surprise.  "Please, please, my lord, do not hurt me," she said, clutching at his boots. 

Anduron gaped at her in astonishment before he regained his composure and bent to pull her to her feet.

"Lady, do you understand me?" he asked in surprise.

"Yes, yes," she nodded vigorously.  "I speak the Westron tongue."

"What are you doing riding across these plains alone?" Faramir asked the question, but she looked at Anduron and he saw her hesitate before she answered. 

"Just riding.  I live near here."

"You are lying, lady," Anduron said, using the most sinister voice he could call forth, hoping he could frighten her into cooperating with him.  She bit her lip but remained silent.  He went on with his act, "Why shouldn't we kill you?" 

He could see the tears welling in her eyes.  She was not very old, and her terror was quite evident.  Her hands worried the metal bracelets she wore, clicking softly.

"I can bargain," she said softly, her voice trembling.

"You have nothing of value to us," Faramir made his voice harsh.  Anduron was pleased to see he understood the charade and was playing his part.

"I have jewelry, my rings," she said desperately, starting to pull them off. 

"We have no need for baubles," said Anduron with a sneer.

"My h-," she faltered, but swallowed and went on.  "My horse."

"If we wanted horses, we would have them." Faramir's voice was dismissive.

Her shoulders slumped in resignation and defeat.  Taking a breath, she raised her head and faced Anduron.  "I have myself." 

He pursed his lips as though he were considering her offer.  She hurried on, her voice shaky.  He saw how frightened she was and felt slightly guilty about his behavior.  Still, he needed any information she might be able to give him about what lay in front of them.

"You may do with me as you wish, if you will let me go, afterward."

He laughed as cruelly as he could.  "I can do with you as I wish no matter what, lady."

She did start to cry, then, quiet, hopeless sobs and Anduron knew Faramir's natural gentleness would not allow him to go on with the pretense.  Throwing back his hood, Faramir stepped forward and took her arm kindly.  "Do not cry, lady," he said reassuringly, "we are not that kind of men."

Shushuah looked up at him and gasped, her black eyes widening as she took in his bright blue ones and his fair red-gold hair.  Without hesitation she knew and she returned Faramir's grasp with her own tight grip.  "You are the younger brother – you are searching for the man with green eyes!"

TO BE CONTINUED