Chapter 3

Faramir had dangled by his wrists throughout the long night until the dawn finally came. He had been unable even to doze as his muscles shook with the strain of being trapped in such an unnatural position for so long. To help him pass the night a little easier, he had haltingly sung to himself, recalling in bits and pieces songs that he had known in his childhood, attempting unsuccessfully to soothe his own fears. When he wasn't singing, he prayed softly to Eru, making peace with his creator, expecting that he would be traveling to the Halls of Mandos soon, joining his long line of forefathers. For now, though, he had never felt more alone.

Ah, Boromir, forgive me my carelessness! If only I had not been in such a hurry to see you, all of this trouble probably could have been avoided. He prayed that his brother might find him before it was too late, though he didn't hold much hope for it now.

When the faint light of dawn finally arrived, he could just barely discern that he was in a very deep part of the forest, for the sun afforded very little light to this area. Though he was relieved to find that he was not blind after all, he was quite unhappy when a small group of dark figures at last returned for him despite the fact that it was now daytime. The ranger found, though, that he was now more angry than frightened by his predicament. In fact, he couldn't remember ever being more angry as these orcs, only six in all, stopped in front of him, sniffing hungrily at his bloodied body, as they spoke amongst themselves and laughed.

Faramir silently awaited his fate, straining to remain impassive. In the dim light, he looked up at his benumbed hands and saw that his bloodied wrists were captured within tight loops of rough, hempen rope that had been drawn over a sturdy branch. Then, glancing down, he saw in the dimness that his bare toes were hanging inches from the leaf litter upon the forest floor. Eventually his indignant gaze came to rest upon the orcs before him, and he listened to their harsh language for a moment, as they spoke amongst themselves, before he finally grew angry enough to interrupt their meeting. With his good foot he malevolently kicked the nearest one in the face, knocking it upon its backside.

"What do you filthy beasts want with me?" he angrily demanded, in a surprisingly strong and even voice, though he knew that he would dislike the answer when he heard it.

The orcs snickered and snorted at their unfortunate comrade, who was only now dazedly climbing up from the ground, but none replied to Faramir's question, though they briefly paused in their amusement as he spoke, glowering up at him as if they had only just noticed him, before they all began to laugh demoniacally, pointing toward him as if his situation was some very entertaining jape. As the orc that Faramir had kicked moved behind the Man, unfastening a whip from its belt, the ranger's blood ran cold. Faramir realized what was about to take place, but he refused to show any weakness before this pack of monsters. The laughter continued for some moments before the whip cracked, and Faramir's breath whistled through his teeth as the sharp edge of the leather made contact with the skin of his bare back. The lashing continued for many minutes as Faramir gritted his teeth and endeavored not to cry out, even as his body flinched with each blow as he twisted defenselessly within his bonds.

Blackness was closing in at the edges of his vision when the whipping finally stopped with the same suddenness with which it had begun. Faramir panted in the cool air, attempting to stave off unconsciousness, steam rising from his tortured skin. His arms and back felt as if they had broken from the strain placed upon them. The only sound in the still forest now was his labored breathing, as his blood and sweat mingled, dripping upon the leaf litter from the tips of his toes, soaking into the ground in the dim morning light.

"What do you want?" the ranger hissed from between his clenched teeth.

The orcs no longer laughed as his torment resumed. It seemed to him that the flogging would never cease, and indeed it might not have. Faramir didn't know either way as his vision fled first, his hearing failed second, and with it the crack of the whip. Finally the pain departed as well, leaving him alone within the dark safety of merciful oblivion.

"Father! Please, hear me out! I know that if Faramir remains yet unharmed, then he would have been here yesterday!" Boromir paced before the Steward of Gondor's personal dining table, trying to explain to Denethor why he thought that Faramir had not arrived in a timely manner, but his father was having none of it.

"Do sit, Boromir! You make me nervous when you pace like that. It is enough to give a person a severe case of heartburn as he tries to eat his lunch."

Boromir stopped pacing, tightly gripping the back of the chair across from his father's. "Your son is missing, and all you can worry about is your digestion?" Only this morning a riderless horse had arrived at the Great Gate bearing Faramir's belongings, but Denethor would not listen. Boromir ran his hands through his black hair. "Please, Father, let me go!"

The Steward of Gondor was eating a piece of rare venison, the blood running down his chin, dripping down the front of his dark robe. Boromir was nearly sick between his worry for Faramir and having to watch his father's poor table manners, when Denethor finally took a moment between bites to eye his oldest son coldly and say, "Ever have you two been close, but you must realize, Boromir, that your brother is an adult now, four and twenty, and a lieutenant in the Rangers of Ithilien. No longer will I allow you to chase after him upon a whim. Were he unrelated to you, he would be considered derelict in his duty and punished severely. I think it is past time that he grew up and accepted the consequences of his poor decisions."

Boromir sighed in exasperation, turned and began to pace once more.

"Boromir, sit. Now. Your steward commands it." The son scowled at the father but said nothing as he dropped down into the chair across from the steward's, crossing his arms across his chest, as he leaned against the back of it uncomfortably. Denethor poured himself some wine and then poured a cupful for his son that Boromir drained in one gulp. "That wine is for sipping!" his father scolded. "Your grandfather acquired this particular wine when he was but a newly-made steward! If you feel the need to gulp your drink, Boromir, perhaps you should send one of the servants for some ale."

Boromir tried to keep his tone quiet, hoping that if he took a different tack, he might be more successful in persuading his father that Faramir indeed required help. "Father, do you care so little for him that you do not worry though his horse has returned to the city with no one on its back? Would you be able to forgive yourself should Faramir be found dead along the road?" It pained him just saying the words, but he knew of no other way to get through to his father when he was in this mood.

"I would, Son, for if your brother were to be found dead along the road, it would only be because he had died in defense of Gondor." He took another bite of venison. "Unless it was due to another of those headaches that the little weakling suffers, that is." His brow creased in annoyance. "I had hoped that he might outgrow those." He waved his hand as if dismissing that thought. "Most likely he was thrown from the beast's back. He has never been the best of horsemen. Regardless of his current plight, it is not your job to search the roads of Ithilien for lieutenants. You hold the second highest rank in the Gondorian army, Boromir."

"Yes, Father, I know," sighed Boromir.

Meeting his son's gaze again, the steward said, "I forbid you to leave this city and my side, for we see far too little of one another as it is, my son. You cannot be spared to search for your errant brother." Denethor took another sip of his wine.

It was difficult not to shout. "If, as you say, I cannot be spared, though I do naught here in the city but keep you company while I am on leave, might I at least be permitted to send someone else in my stead?"

Denethor considered this as he bit into a juicy pear. "My, these pears are wonderful! You should try one, Son."

"I am not hungry, Father!" Gritting his teeth, he clenched his fists for a moment, almost slamming them down upon the tabletop before he mastered his anger. "Will you not answer my question?"

Denethor sighed and flung his half-eaten pear down upon his plate. "If I allow you to send another in your place, will you not speak of this to me anymore? I hate to see you so overwrought."

Boromir nearly choked when he heard those words, but he nodded his assent. Denethor smiled. "Then I shall permit it, but only as a favor to you, my son."

Trembling now with a mixture of rage at his father's aggravating indifference and fear for his missing brother, Boromir excused himself from the table and hurried from the room without a backward glance at the steward.

Denethor sat silently for some minutes wondering what sort of mischief his youngest had gotten himself into. With the arrival of the riderless horse in the city, he knew that he should feel some worry for Faramir. It was unnatural not to care about your own child after all. But while Boromir spoke of his younger brother with great emotion, Denethor felt nothing but annoyance that Faramir had once again been careless and was causing Boromir so much worry.

"Foolish boy!" he hissed in the empty room, shoving his unfinished dinner away from himself. How dare the little whelp do that to his Boromir? If Faramir was not already dead, then when he finally arrived in Minas Tirith, Denethor would make him wish for death.