Part 3: Trapped

Éomer paced the squeaky wooden floor, his brow furrowed as he thought through the situation. He still could not believe the two Halflings had so completely outwitted him, and if there was one thing he hated, it was being made to look like a fool. His only consolation was that Faramir had fallen for it as well.

Oh, he had tried to leave. But throwing his weight against the door in an attempt to break it down had only succeeded in making his shoulder sore. And now he was still trapped in this accursed tower with the one man he least wanted to spend any significant amount of time with. Well, perhaps not the one man; he certainly preferred Faramir's company to, say, Wormtongue's. But still…

This was definitely not turning out to be one of his better days.

The sound of a heavy creak followed by a crash and a muffled curse from somewhere overhead startled Éomer out of his gloomy reflections, and he glanced up to see Faramir pulling his foot out of a newly-made hole in the platform that encircled the interior. Faramir quickly backed away from the hole, scowling as he impatiently pushed his dark hair away from his eyes.

Éomer frowned. "What in Béma's name are you doing?" Faramir motioned for him to wait as he looked out of one of the window slits. After a moment, he moved to a different one, carefully testing each step before putting his full weight down. "If you break your neck up there, I will not take any responsibility for it," Éomer called up, rolling his eyes. Once again, Faramir motioned for him to be silent as he quickly moved away from the window, much to Éomer's annoyance. He gritted his teeth slightly, feeling even more annoyed at how untroubled Faramir seemed by this situation.

He did not speak until he had climbed down and moved closer to Éomer, and then it was with a lowered voice. "Merry and Pippin are still out there," he said.

"I saw them run off, Faramir," Éomer said, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Yes, but only to the other side of the tower. When you spoke, they looked up; I saw them from the window." Faramir motioned towards the ladder, and added with a hint of sarcasm, "If you do not believe me, you can go see for yourself."

Éomer scowled. "No, I will take your word for it." There was no way he was climbing up on that rickety platform. "So in other words, they can hear everything we say."

"I believe so. At least, everything spoken at a normal volume, which means they would also hear any attempt to leave." When Éomer gave him an odd look, Faramir added, "I am certainly not planning on staying here until they feel like letting us out."

Faramir was surprised to see the slightest hint of a grin tugging at the corners of Éomer's mouth. "Neither am I." Just as quickly, the smile faded, and they fell into an awkward silence. After a moment, Éomer turned and resumed his pacing. Faramir shrugged and began silently studying the room.

There must be something in this accursed tower that will help, Éomer thought. He spotted a bunch of wooden crates stacked up against the far wall, and began opening them up in hopes of finding something that would help him to open the door. The first box was empty, as was the second. The third held only the rotted remains of some food, which Éomer quickly pushed aside in disgust.

Faramir, meanwhile, had finished his silent inspection of the room. The windows were too narrow for him to climb through. The hole in the roof could work, but only if he could find something to serve as a rope—and if the condition of the platform was any indication, he could not trust anything he found in this place to hold his weight. It looks like the door is the only option, he reluctantly admitted as he walked over to the door.

He knelt down, carefully studying the hole where the latch had been, then drew a knife from his belt. He attempted first to stick the blade in the latch-hole, but it was too wide. He then carefully began sliding it between the edge of the door and the frame, thinking that perhaps if he could find what was keeping the door shut, he could find a way to unlock it. He quickly realized that he had overestimated the width of the crack; the blade quickly wedged in the door, and his efforts to pull it out nearly landed him flat on his back.

Across the room, Éomer opened the last box in his pile. It was also empty. He groaned in frustration, then tossed the box behind him. It landed with a loud clatter before falling onto its side. Faramir glanced over at him again. Then, both men turned as they heard Merry's voice from the other side of the door. "What are you doing in there?"

"Nothing," Faramir and Éomer said simultaneously.

"I haven't heard any talking, and you'll get out of there a lot sooner if you at least try to work this out," Pippin said.

"How fast can you run, Merry?" Éomer asked, ignoring Pippin. "Because as soon as I get out of here…"

He did not have a chance to finish his thought before Faramir interrupted, "Once they realize that all four of us are gone, you know they will suspect something and come looking for us. It will be much easier on everyone involved if you just let us go now."

There was a pause on the other side of the door, as if the hobbits were having a hushed conference, then Merry answered, "You had better start talking then."

"Merry!" Faramir groaned. The hobbits did not answer. He shook his head again. "This is ridiculous!"

Éomer turned and glared at him. "Why did you cut me off like that?"

"I did not think death threats would be the most effective way of changing their minds," Faramir answered, glaring back.

"Your method did not have such great results either," Éomer muttered, then kicked one of the boxes in frustration. It skidded across the floor and fell into the hole; he could not help feeling a grim satisfaction as he heard it crash against the stone foundation.

Faramir decided to take the chance of turning his back on Éomer. The man was positively infuriating at times, and Faramir was quickly losing his temper. He needed to stay calm if he was going to figure a way out of this. He quickly resheathed the knife, thought for a moment, then unclasped his cloak pin. A few fumbling attempts proved that the pin wasn't quite long enough to reach the other side. He leaned forward as he reclasped his cloak and studied the door again.

A few minutes later, Éomer suddenly appeared beside him. He lowered his voice as he asked, "Now what are you doing?"

Faramir glanced up. Éomer looked curious, but for the first time that Faramir could remember, there was no open hostility in his eyes. He wondered at this, but said nothing about it. "If I can find something strong enough that is also thin enough to fit in this hole, I may be able to open the latch from this side," he said.

Éomer looked at him skeptically. "Are you sure that will work?"

"No, but do you have any better ideas?" Faramir bit back the temptation to point out that Éomer's escape attempt had not worked very well at all.

Éomer sighed in frustration, running a hand through his fair hair. "Not unless you are looking for about a hundred different ways to kill a hobbit," he grudgingly admitted; he absolutely hated the thought that he might actually need the Gondorian's help to get out of this. "What did you have in mind to use?"

"I will see if I can find anything," Faramir said, feeling equally reluctant to admit any uncertainty in front of Éomer. He walked over to the base of the platform and began looking around. Éomer silently moved to the opposite side of the tower and began searching as well.

They worked in silence for quite some time; the only sounds were the small thuds as they shifted the empty boxes and the rain as it drummed on the roof and spilled onto the platform from the hole in the ceiling. Faramir had managed to move four of the boxes when he heard a crashing sound behind him. He looked around, and saw Éomer picking up one of the remnants of the crate he had just smashed against the wall. Even though it was obvious to him that Éomer was at least as frustrated as he was, it still took all his effort to stifle a laugh. But as long as he was going to be trapped in a confined space with the King of Rohan, it would definitely be in his best interest to avoid doing anything to arouse Éomer's temper.

Éomer noticed Faramir watching him and trying not to laugh. He stiffened for a moment, then turned away. He was uncertain as to why he had thrown the box against the wall; he had not yet found anything that might possibly help, especially since every box he had looked in so far was empty, and his irritation had temporarily gotten the best of him. After a tense moment, Faramir stood up and walked back over to the door.

Éomer clenched his jaw as he watched. How can he stay so calm all the time? he wondered. It would be easier to provoke a rock. Although, he realized, as headstrong as his sister could be, perhaps that was a good thing… Éomer quickly shook his head. Stop it, he told himself firmly. He had more important things to think about right now, like how to get out of there. And perhaps another hundred ways to kill a hobbit.

He looked down at the remains of the crate he had smashed. The nails sticking out of it did not look like they would quite be long enough to reach the latch. But perhaps they did not need to be. An idea began to form in his mind as he used the flat edge of his knife blade to work one of the nails out of the board. This had better work, he thought crossly. The confinement was obviously starting to get to him.

After studying the door for a few more minutes, Faramir sat back against the wall and closed his eyes. He needed to think. There had to be something in this place that would work.

The sound of a heavy crash made him open his eyes just as something hit his arm lightly. Éomer was standing by the wall, a splintered piece of one of the boxes in his hand. Faramir flicked the fragment of wood caught on his sleeve aside, feeling annoyed. "What are you doing?" he asked. This time, Éomer did not reply as he began sorting through the remains of the box.

Éomer could feel Faramir watching him intently as he picked up one of the longer splinters. Then he pulled a thread from a frayed edge of his well-worn traveling cloak and began tying the fragment to the nail to lengthen it. He glanced over at Faramir once, and almost grinned as he watched the other man's eyes light up in understanding. When he was done, he walked over to Faramir and asked softly, "Will this work?"

Faramir took the contraption and looked at it. Though a little on the thick side where the thread bound the wood and metal together, it was plenty long enough to reach the other side of the door. "It might," he said. After only a moment's hesitation, he added, "Thank you."

Éomer grunted noncommittally. "Just get us out of here, Steward." This time, the derision that usually accompanied the other man's use of the word was missing, to Faramir's surprise. He nodded and jumped to his feet.

It took a bit of maneuvering to get the contraption in the hole, and Faramir found it difficult to concentrate with Éomer pacing behind him, but the crude lock-pick was more than long enough. As Faramir fumbled around, blindly trying to find the latch, he realized that the lack of conversation would arouse the hobbits' suspicion again. And, he thought with a wry grin, a little bit of intimidation probably would not hurt. Raising his voice to a level where he knew the hobbits would be sure to hear—but not so loud that Merry and Pippin would realize what he was doing—he asked, "What exactly were you planning on doing to Merry?"

Éomer stopped pacing and his head jerked up. "What?"

"You told Merry he had better run once you are free of this place," Faramir said, glancing back at the young king. Éomer still looked confused, and Faramir jerked his head towards the part of the wall where the hobbits' voices had come from.

Éomer just stared at him for a moment, then smiled a little as understanding dawned on him. A diversion. "I cannot let something like this go unpunished. He is a knight of the Mark now, and conspiring against his king could be considered grounds for treason."

Faramir turned back towards the door, but kept his voice louder. "I believe that you are right. Pippin is sworn to the service of Gondor as well, and these actions hardly befit a guard of the Citadel. What would you propose as an appropriate punishment?"

Éomer's grin grew wider in spite of himself as he thought that he might actually enjoy this conversation. "I was thinking that tying them behind Firefoot and letting him drag them around awhile might work." Faramir snorted in a rather undignified manner. "Why? What would you do?" Éomer asked.

"The punishment should fit the crime," Faramir said. "Are there any half-rotted barns in Edoras that we could lock them in?"

"The dungeon might work better. I can say from personal experience that it is rather uncomfortable down there," Éomer replied, scowling a little at the memory of his somewhat recent imprisonment by Gríma.

"I have heard hobbits live underground though. They might not mind that so much," Faramir pointed out, after regarding him curiously for a moment.

Éomer opened his mouth to argue, then paused. He had a point. "Whatever we do should be completely humiliating for them. What would embarrass a hobbit?"

Faramir shrugged. "I would not know. Shave their feet, maybe," he said without thinking as he focused on the latch.

Perhaps he has a sense of humor after all, Éomer thought wryly as he was suddenly struck by how absurd this entire situation was. The thought combined with the mental picture of Merry squirming in protest as he tried to shave the Halfling's feet made him burst out laughing; his laughter grew louder as Faramir jumped at the sound and dropped the lock-pick. For a moment, grey-blue eyes stared at him warily. Then Faramir apparently decided Éomer had meant no ill will, relaxed and smiled a bit as he resumed his attempt to pick the lock. Éomer thought for a moment about what else would bother a Halfling, then added, "Or we could swap their ale with water from the horse troughs."

This time it was Faramir's turn to laugh. "Or one of those horrible brews the healers come up with. Some of those are even the right color."

"Or better yet, we could have Éowyn cook a special meal for them," Éomer said.

A look of confusion crossed Faramir's face. "What is so bad about that?"

Éomer grinned wickedly. "Obviously, you have never tasted my sister's cooking."

Faramir laughed, then caught himself, a guilty look crossing his face, followed by an awkward look. He still felt uncomfortable talking about Éowyn around her brother. Éomer also clenched his jaw slightly, suddenly remembering what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

Faramir silently began working on the latch again, then his eyes widened slightly as he heard a soft click. He pushed a little on the door and felt it move. Instantly Éomer was at his side, looking at him quizzically. Faramir nodded and pushed a little more, wincing at the squeak. Éomer quickly spoke up loudly, saying, "Or perhaps we could just throw them in a river somewhere. Although in this heat, they might actually enjoy that."

Faramir grinned; Éomer had given him just enough time to push the heavy door open wide enough so that they should be able to squeeze through. "Or we could…" he dropped his voice low enough so that Merry and Pippin would think he was planning something truly awful, then added, "Go around from the other side. And try not to make noise out there. We do not want to alert them." Éomer nodded, then followed Faramir out of the decrepit tower.

"Wait," Éomer whispered as Faramir pulled up the hood of his cloak and began to move away. He turned, automatically pushing his raven hair away from his eyes as he looked at Éomer questioningly. "We tell no one of this morning. Agreed?" Éomer finished.

"Agreed," Faramir said, noticeably relieved, and the two men quickly parted ways.

It took all of Éomer's effort to move quietly as he crept around the side of the building. As it was, he had to move very slowly to avoid stepping on stray twigs. He arrived just in time to hear Pippin asking, "They wouldn't really do any of those things… would they?" The two hobbits were standing with their ears pressed against the wall, their curls hanging limply and dripping from the rain. He almost stepped out from his hiding place among the bushes, but spotted Faramir, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. Éomer silently protested, but then reasoned that Faramir did have more experience with ambushes.

"How could they?" Merry asked confidently.

"We'll have to let them out eventually," Pippin pointed out.

Merry frowned; apparently he hadn't thought of that. "I don't think they would…" he said slowly.

Faramir glanced over at Éomer and nodded slightly, then a deadly serious look crossed his face as he stepped out from behind the bush he had been crouching behind. "No, of course we would not," he said. Both hobbits visibly jumped at the sound, then looked over at Faramir, wide-eyed. Éomer took the opportunity to step out into view, resting his hand casually on his sword-hilt. Pippin slowly backed away from Faramir, jumping again as he backed right into the horse-lord. Merry turned, his face going pale at the dark look in Éomer's eyes.

Faramir stepped a little closer, and the hobbits backed against the wall. "I think you have some explaining to do," he said quietly.

Merry and Pippin looked from Faramir to Éomer and back nervously. Then they bolted. Éomer lunged forward and almost managed to get a hold of Merry, but slipped on the wet grass and stumbled to his knees as the hobbit broke free. Faramir had more success with blocking Pippin's escape, but as he struggled to remove Faramir's grip on his arm, he cried out, "You had better let me go, or else…"

"Or else what?" Éomer asked, glaring at Merry as he stood up again and brushed himself off.

"Or…" Pippin thought frantically for a moment. "I'll tell Éowyn about this." Faramir unconsciously loosened his grip a bit, and Pippin wrenched his arm free and followed Merry.

"Wonderful," Faramir muttered sarcastically as he turned to Éomer. "Do you think they will talk?"

"Not if they want to live," Éomer muttered darkly.

Faramir eyed him coolly. "It would cause a great deal of difficulty if either of them comes to harm at your hands," he pointed out.

Éomer opened his mouth to argue, then realized Faramir was right; there was no way he could get revenge without the others wondering why. "So we are still trapped," he groaned.

-------

The morning improved little from there, nor did the days that followed. Though his men attributed Éomer's foul mood to the visit with Aragorn and the other men of Gondor, his frustration slowly began to spread to the rest of the Rohirrim and tempers very short between the men of the North.

Merry had attempted to approach him a few times, but a few murderous glares had been enough to send Merry scurrying off; he kept to his post during the day and fled to the relative safety of the Gondorian encampment in the evenings. He had not seen Pippin at all since it happened. And he had begun pushing the pace of the journey as much as he could and still show his uncle the proper respect—the way things were going, he could not reach Edoras soon enough.

It was not until the third day after the tower that Merry decided to take matters into his own hands again. Éomer was sitting around the cookfire with Éothain and some of his other friends, swapping battle stories in an attempt to lighten the mood while waiting for their supper to cook, when Éomer heard a tentative voice behind him ask, "My lord?"

Éomer turned to see Merry, looking obviously nervous. "What is it, Merry?" Éomer asked warily.

"I was hoping I could speak with you for a moment," Merry said, a determined gleam in his eyes.

"Not now, Merry," Éomer replied crossly.

"Yes, now." Merry crossed his arms and returned Éomer's glare as best as he could, though he was starting to look a little nervous. "It is important."

Éomer started to argue with him again, but Merry gave him a look that clearly said that if he did not comply, he was going to regret it. Éomer clenched his jaw as he realized that Merry had the upper hand; somehow, none of his men had yet learned of the tower incident, and he knew he would never live it down if any of them found out. I cannot believe that I am being blackmailed by a hobbit… he silently complained as he nodded and followed Merry to the edge of the camp.

Once Merry stopped and turned to face him, Éomer crossed his arms and looked down at the hobbit, who looked very nervous now. "Talk," he said. "What are you and Pippin up to now?"

"Pippin doesn't know that I am here. I…I just wanted to apologize for the other day," Merry blurted out. "We should not have done that, and I'm sorry."

Éomer stared at him for a moment. He had been expecting an interrogation about why he and Faramir had failed to resolve their issues rather than an apology, and he was a little caught off-guard. But it seemed that the hobbit was genuinely sorry. Éomer took a deep breath and sat down on the ground so that he was eye-to-eye with Merry. "Apology accepted," he said. Merry gave an audible sigh of relief, which quickly ended as Éomer added, "But you still have some explaining to do."

Merry sat down beside him. "It was my idea," he confessed, still not really looking at Éomer. "But I really didn't mean to embarrass you. I just thought that if the two of you were forced to sit down and talk it out, you would be able to solve whatever the problem is."

"Merry, this is between me and Faramir. Why is it so important to you and Pippin?"

His head jerked up, and the hobbit looked him square in the eyes again. "For Éowyn's sake. Before you and Aragorn and everyone left for Mordor, you asked me to keep an eye on her, remember?" Éomer nodded; the hobbit had been the only one to remain in the city that Éomer thought his sister might be willing to confide in. "Well, I did. She was so sad when I was in the Houses of Healing with her. I tried everything I could think of to cheer her up. Sometimes it seemed like it worked for a little while, but it never lasted long," he added. "But then after we returned to Minas Tirith, she was completely different. Didn't you see how happy she was?" Éomer nodded reluctantly. He had noticed, and he had been truly glad to see that. "Faramir did that," Merry said softly. "Because he loves her. And that was what she needed."

Éomer scowled as he looked down at the ground. He knew everything that Merry was saying was true. But there was still something about this that really bothered him, though he could not quite figure out what it was.

"Éomer?" Merry asked, a note of concern in his voice.

"I am fine, Merry. You have given me a lot to think about," Éomer said. "If you will excuse me…" he stood up and walked off. He needed to get away from the camp for awhile.

-------

Faramir had gladly volunteered for guard duty that evening. He had always been able to get some of his best thinking done while keeping watch. And over the past few days, Aragorn and Imrahil had been constantly attempting to draw him out; it seemed they believed that his sudden withdraw from the others' company was the result of Éomer's near-attack during his last visit to their camp. Now, however, they were beginning to suspect that there was more to the story. He was glad to have a few moments away from their concerned questions. But the silence was broken when a familiar voice behind him said, "Lord Faramir?" He turned to see Pippin standing there, the setting sun adding a reddish-gold tinge to his brown curls.

Faramir was more than a little surprised to see him; an unspoken understanding had arisen that if Faramir left Pippin alone, Pippin would not breathe a word of what they had done to him and Éomer. As a result, they had been avoiding each other for the past several days—and the others were starting to notice. He motioned for the hobbit to sit down beside him as he set his bow aside, saying, "What is it, Pippin?"

"I'm sorry about the other day," Pippin said. "Are you still angry with me and Merry?"

Faramir smiled sadly. "No, I am not angry with you."

"Good," Pippin said, looking relieved. "I hate it when people are mad at me. It seems to happen a lot though."

Faramir could not help laughing. "And just how many times did you end up locked in a room with another hobbit, Pippin?" he asked.

"Just once," Pippin said, his face reddening slightly, as he changed the subject. "You really should talk to Éomer, you know."

"I know," Faramir replied. He was going to add that he could not while he was on guard duty, but decided to leave it at that. Then he smiled. "What did you get locked up for?"

Pippin's face reddened even more. "Fighting with one of my cousins," he reluctantly admitted. "We never got along before that."

"So what happened?" Faramir asked.

The hobbit looked up at him and grinned sheepishly. "He's been my best friend ever since."

Merry. Of course. Suddenly the Halflings' actions made more sense. Faramir smiled gently. "I know that you and Merry meant well, Pippin, but it is not that simple between Éomer and I." Pippin looked at him questioningly, and Faramir added, "For one thing, you are not hoping to marry Merry's sister."

Pippin opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, then reconsidered, and the two fell silent. Finally, he looked up at Faramir again and said seriously, "I hope you can work this out, Faramir."

"So do I, Pippin. Thank you." The hobbit stood up to leave, and Faramir added with a smile, "You will have to tell me more about what you and Merry did sometime."

Pippin's usual slightly-mischievous smile returned to his face. "I will. Goodbye!" Faramir could not help grinning; Pippin's irrepressible cheerfulness was one of the things he liked best about the hobbit. Then he picked up his longbow, setting it across his knees as he concentrated on the darkening landscape once more.

-------

Éomer wandered around aimlessly for awhile, trying to clear his thoughts. He was just getting more frustrated though, the more he thought about it. It had been startling to realize that he was no longer angry with Faramir. If he was perfectly honest, he had not been since the tower incident. He was even ready to admit that perhaps he had not been entirely fair in his estimation of the Steward of Gondor. All right, he grudgingly thought, more like entirely unfair. After all, it seemed that every one of his friends from both Gondor and the Shire had a great deal of respect for Faramir. And surely Aragorn would not have given him lordship of Ithilien if he had not believed the man to be trustworthy.

Still, it was a heavy blow to his pride to realize that although it had not happened in the way they had thought, Merry and Pippin's plan had worked after all. But not as heavy as the realization of what had been bothering him ever since the war had ended.

Though she had never said as much, and probably would have denied his having any part in it, he still could not help feeling that he was responsible for Éowyn's actions by not seeing the despair she had fallen into until it was too late. And then he had left her in Gondor to try to keep her safe, and still he had failed to help her. It had taken a complete stranger to do that. Perhaps, he thought, that was why he had resented Faramir for so long—it was easier than taking the blame himself for failing to protect her.

And, he suddenly realized, that was really what had bothered him about the Steward all along. It had nothing to do with Faramir himself. The thought pained him deeply; he and Éowyn had been close since childhood, and especially after Théoden's decline had begun. She, along with Théodred, had been his greatest ally in trying to minimize Gríma's influence over their uncle. Indeed, she had been the first to suspect that the king's advisor was, perhaps, the cause of his strange reluctance to act in defense of their land and their people. She had paid dearly for it; because of Wormtongue, he had been so close to losing his sister. And now, so soon after getting her back, he was going to lose her again.

He was startled from his thoughts as an all-too-familiar voice called out, "Who goes there?"

Éomer glanced around, trying to see his surroundings in the dim light offered by the crescent moon. He finally spotted Faramir, standing on a slope slightly above him, an arrow held to his bowstring and ready to fire.

Normally Éomer would have come up with some kind of sarcastic response, even if meant in jest, but he was not in the mood for it that night. "Éomer," he finally answered.

The bow lowered, but Faramir still stood as if he was eyeing him warily. "What are you doing here?"

Éomer hesitated before answering. What was he doing there? He had not even realized that he had walked so far; he was closer to the far edge of the Gondorian encampment by this point. He quickly tried to come up with an excuse, but nothing came. Then he clenched his jaw in determination. This had gone on long enough. "I think we need to talk," he said quietly.