A/N: Muahahahahahaha! Erm . . . sorry this is so short.
Chapter 2
Pain. It started as a niggling ache in his back, shoulders and wrists, uncomfortable enough to bring him toward wakefulness, but not irritating enough to bring him yet to full alertness. Absently, he attempted to stretch and turn onto his side, but found that he could not. The annoyance was enough to rouse him further, which rendered the pain in his arms nearly unbearable. With a gasp, Faramir opened his eyes and saw . . . nothing. It was black as pitch, and no matter how many times he blinked his eyes, he still could not see. But he did not need to see to know that he was not lying upon his back. Instead he was suspended by his wrists, with what he knew must be blood trickling down his bare arms, chest and back, soaking into the top of his breeches. He struggled to place his bare feet upon the ground but discovered he was hanging too far above it to give his arms any relief. His heart thumped heavily within his chest as he began to fully realize his predicament.
Valar! Where am I?
There was very little sound, though a soft breeze blew over his bare skin, chilling him to the bone, shudders wracking his battered form. But when the wind stirred the trees, and he heard a soft rustle of leaves, he fully remembered with a sinking heart what had happened to him. He grimaced at his own inadequacy, disbelieving how easily he had been captured. The orcs had closed in around him, and though he had managed to kill some of them and injure a few others, there had been too many of the filthy beasts to overcome, and though he had resisted them for as long as he was able, he had been quickly overrun by them. He struggled as they beat him to the ground, dread settling in his gut as filthy hands held him fast while others bound his hands together in front of him, and then, laughing at his distress, they had taken turns beating him without mercy, sparing no part of his body from their pounding fists and kicking feet. He had withstood much before he had finally blacked out.
It was of no comfort whatever to Faramir that the rain had at last stopped. Now that the forest was dark and so very silent, he was finding it difficult to keep himself from panicking. His shoulders felt as if they were being wrenched from their sockets as he struggled within his bonds, but for all of his trouble, the ropes refused to loosen at all. Eventually, his hands and arms started to numb. He was certain it was not a wholly good thing, and the absence of that pain afforded him very little relief anyway. Why was there no sound of orcs? He could smell them nearby, even over the scent of his own blood. Hanging alone in the darkness, his mind raced as he involuntarily awaited an unknown end, one that he knew would be probably be most unpleasant.
And it did not help to ease his mind that he would miss his appointed meeting time with the Steward of Gondor, though that seemed petty when compared with what he was facing now. Faramir knew that Denethor would be furious with him yet again. By the time Faramir did manage to reach the White City, he would probably be facing charges for being absent without leave. And, of course, Boromir would be worried about him. If Father would allow it, his brother might even come looking for him, if Boromir grew anxious enough. He prayed that this time Denethor would be more forgiving of his youngest son than he had been in the past, though he thought it very unlikely.
And high above him, a being watched and waited, curious about this Man's fate.
Chapter 2
Pain. It started as a niggling ache in his back, shoulders and wrists, uncomfortable enough to bring him toward wakefulness, but not irritating enough to bring him yet to full alertness. Absently, he attempted to stretch and turn onto his side, but found that he could not. The annoyance was enough to rouse him further, which rendered the pain in his arms nearly unbearable. With a gasp, Faramir opened his eyes and saw . . . nothing. It was black as pitch, and no matter how many times he blinked his eyes, he still could not see. But he did not need to see to know that he was not lying upon his back. Instead he was suspended by his wrists, with what he knew must be blood trickling down his bare arms, chest and back, soaking into the top of his breeches. He struggled to place his bare feet upon the ground but discovered he was hanging too far above it to give his arms any relief. His heart thumped heavily within his chest as he began to fully realize his predicament.
Valar! Where am I?
There was very little sound, though a soft breeze blew over his bare skin, chilling him to the bone, shudders wracking his battered form. But when the wind stirred the trees, and he heard a soft rustle of leaves, he fully remembered with a sinking heart what had happened to him. He grimaced at his own inadequacy, disbelieving how easily he had been captured. The orcs had closed in around him, and though he had managed to kill some of them and injure a few others, there had been too many of the filthy beasts to overcome, and though he had resisted them for as long as he was able, he had been quickly overrun by them. He struggled as they beat him to the ground, dread settling in his gut as filthy hands held him fast while others bound his hands together in front of him, and then, laughing at his distress, they had taken turns beating him without mercy, sparing no part of his body from their pounding fists and kicking feet. He had withstood much before he had finally blacked out.
It was of no comfort whatever to Faramir that the rain had at last stopped. Now that the forest was dark and so very silent, he was finding it difficult to keep himself from panicking. His shoulders felt as if they were being wrenched from their sockets as he struggled within his bonds, but for all of his trouble, the ropes refused to loosen at all. Eventually, his hands and arms started to numb. He was certain it was not a wholly good thing, and the absence of that pain afforded him very little relief anyway. Why was there no sound of orcs? He could smell them nearby, even over the scent of his own blood. Hanging alone in the darkness, his mind raced as he involuntarily awaited an unknown end, one that he knew would be probably be most unpleasant.
And it did not help to ease his mind that he would miss his appointed meeting time with the Steward of Gondor, though that seemed petty when compared with what he was facing now. Faramir knew that Denethor would be furious with him yet again. By the time Faramir did manage to reach the White City, he would probably be facing charges for being absent without leave. And, of course, Boromir would be worried about him. If Father would allow it, his brother might even come looking for him, if Boromir grew anxious enough. He prayed that this time Denethor would be more forgiving of his youngest son than he had been in the past, though he thought it very unlikely.
And high above him, a being watched and waited, curious about this Man's fate.