"Are they gone?"
These words crossed Henvain's mind for perhaps the hundredth time as he firmly pressed himself against the cold wall of the small cave, one hand tightly clutching his purloined Orc sword. He dared not voice it aloud, however, no matter how his heart was hammering; he could only gaze fervently at his Elvish companion, whose lithe form was crouched on the other side of the narrow opening of the tiny rock chamber that sheltered them both, and wait.
He swallowed and stared, thinking only that it was blasted hard to see his comrade's face. It was dim enough outside, what with the clouds masking the sun and twilight coming on, and the fact that the opening was barely large enough to allow both of them to squeeze in here was hardly helping matters. But they had had little choice when it came to hiding places along the road to Gondor.
Still, it was becoming easier to make out the Elf's features the longer they stayed in the darkness. Legolas appeared highly alert, although as worn out as Henvain was by the traveling and the pain of his injuries. His sight had improved a little, but it was his hearing that had saved them time and again from the Orcs who seemed to choose the absolute worst times to cross their path. Henvain had lost count of the times during their journey that the Elf had suddenly stopped moving, his expression as alert as a cat's, and whispered "Orcs!"
Then, it had been up to Henvain-who heard nothing but trusted Legolas' skills completely-to find a place for them to hide, and quickly, until the danger had passed and they could take the road once more.
So, as Henvain waited and wondered if this would be the time they'd be found, he decided that there was no question about it - he was definitely tired of this.
He had heard the Orcs go by - two of them this time, sounded like, and not particularly bright ones at that, though they hardly needed to be smart to be deadly - but knew that it was not until Legolas determined they were far enough away for safety that he could move again.
Finally he heard Legolas sigh a little and say softly, "They are gone."
Henvain sighed himself, much louder than the Elf, and quickly lowered the sword before his weariness forced him to drop it. Gasping in relief, he slumped against the cave wall. As the tension flowed out of his body, it was replaced by pain, the piercing ache of his injured knee, the various agonies resulting from their arduous journey. He winced but ignored the discomfort, for the most part; he'd gotten used to it by now.
"Thank the mercies!" Henvain groaned aloud as he closed his eyes, lying still for a moment as he caught his breath and willed his pounding heart to slow itself. "I don't believe I could have held this blasted Orc sword up much longer. I think it weighs more than I do."
"And yet you managed a good while," observed the Elf, and Henvain could hear the smile in his voice. "You have more strength in you than you know."
Henvain opened his eyes, looked at the Elf, and slowly slid the weapon back into his scabbard. "Thank you, sir," he replied wearily, scraping up just enough fortitude to appreciate the compliment, "but still, I'm going to find a good Gondorian sword when we get back to the City. If I'm going to fight with a blade I'd like to at least be able to lift it."
Legolas smiled again and blinked as he turned to peer outside. "We should rest here for a moment, I think, while we have the rocks to hide us," he suggested. "It has been long since we last took nourishment, and you should study the map once more while we still have light."
"Mmm," grunted Henvain in assent as he gingerly pulled the leather pack from his shoulder and set it on the ground before him. He wasn't sure how many hours had passed since they had stopped, but it certainly felt like it had been several at least. The pattern since they had set out three days before had varied little, comprised of walking as long as either of them could stand it, then collapsing for a few hours, eating, Henvain sleeping for a short while, then taking a few gulps of miruvor and continuing. The monotony of the walk was relieved only by the periodic and thoroughly unwelcome appearance of the Orcs.
Henvain unfolded the map before him, every joint hurting with the slightest motion. He pressed his lips together and disregarded it.
"I think we're just about there, sir," he said after looking over the finely-drawn figures for a few moments, his voice reviving ever so slightly. "One more half-day, I think, and we'll be to the Morgul Road."
There was a faint, dry-sounding snap, and Henvain looked up to see Legolas handing him a small piece of lembas bread. As Henvain accepted it, he saw the Elf nodding, a tight look on his fair face.
"That is well," Legolas said as Henvain took the morsel from his fingers. Then he fell silent and began to consume his portion.
Henvain eyed him with grave concern; the Elf looked so tired and pale. Well, of course, Henvain knew Elves were usually pale, but Legolas looked even more pale than he'd think normal, even for an Elf. But Legolas had shrugged off rest, insisting that his people could go for long periods without it. Henvain had no choice but to accept this - he knew little of Elves, after all, and he couldn't very well order a Prince about - but he still worried.
Now that was funny, Henvain mused as he solemnly chewed the Elvish waybread. Just last week the only care he had for the Elf was how he might use the friendship of one so highly placed to his own advantage. Now...well, he wouldn't say Lord Legolas was a bosom friend, but he had learned to admire him for more than just his title and rank. Lord Legolas really was a strong, decent fellow, and over the past three days had shown Henvain how tough Elves truly were. Most of the mistrust and fear he'd always felt about the Elves was gone now, replaced with respect and not a small amount of shame.
Silence fell for a short time, as they both ate and took meager drinks from their small store of water. Outside, the sun had set, and darkness was falling fast.
As Henvain put the map away, he heard Legolas say, "You should sleep now while you can, Lieutenant; there is a full moon tonight, and in a few hours we shall take the road again."
The soldier peered at the bright shaft of silver light now shining through the small mouth of the cave, indicating the truth of Legolas' words. Henvain hesitated and thought of Lord Faramir, although he knew he wouldn't last much longer without at least a little sleep.
"I-I think I can push on a little while longer, sir," he said, striving to sound as restored as possible. "For Lord Faramir's sake."
Legolas smiled again. "I fear your limbs may not be as strong as your will at the moment," was his gentle answer. "You are beyond exhaustion, my friend; I do not need my eyes to see this. Lord Faramir would be touched by your devotion, I am sure, but even more, he would not want you to suffer unduly on his behalf, however dutiful your intentions may be. It will serve neither of you well in the end."
Henvain's mouth twitched in a show of reluctance, even as his aching body screamed for the respite. It still didn't feel right. "Well..."
Legolas tilted his head up in his general direction, his manner light-hearted despite his evident fatigue. "I can make it an order, Lieutenant."
Knowing an insurmountable argument when he saw it, Henvain drew another sigh and slid carefully down onto the floor of the cave. "Yes, sir," he muttered, patting around on the dusty ground to make certain he wasn't about to lie down on any sharp rocks. "I'll be ready to march when you wake me, sir. A few hours is all I'll need, I'm sure."
"I shall speak to you again in a few hours, then," the Elf said. "Rest well, Henvain."
"Thank you, sir," Henvain replied, and turned his complete attention to getting comfortable. He sensed that being able to find rest on such an uninviting surface would be little trouble; he felt worn out enough to sleep hanging up on an iron hook.
Yet as he curled up and settled down, taking extra care with his throbbing leg, he found that sleep would not come so readily. The same had happened every time they stopped, as if his thoughts only had time to catch up with him when he was not moving. They had found him again, it seemed, and insisted on making themselves known before releasing him to the arms of slumber.
It was all so strange, he told himself as he closed his eyes. Never in a hundred years would he have ever imagined himself in such a position, with the life of two of the King's closest friends and Gondor's future in his hands. 'If only Faelor could see me,' he thought as he felt himself beginning to drift. 'He'd never believe it, never.' And a part of him sincerely wished his friend was there. As they had struggled along Mordor's roads and he had to think about the possibility that they might not make it, his thoughts often turned to those he had left behind, his mother, his comrades in the army. He even missed Turwaith.
And yet, he mused as everything around him began to fade away, what was even odder was the fact that as the days had passed, he had found himself less daunted by the awesome burden he now carried. At first he'd been terrified, certain he'd fail somehow and they'd be found and killed. Or he'd lead them down the wrong path, or miss something he should have been looking for. Doom had trod upon his heels with every step.
Still, they were very close to home now, and Henvain had found that when he turned his mind to what they had to do and just did it - did it, without thinking about what might happen or how he might make a mistake - it wasn't so bad. He was reading the map right, and getting on as well as he could on his injured leg, and guiding Lord Legolas along without getting him killed. It was very bewildering, this knowledge that he was capable of such things.
"Perhaps you were saved from that battle for a greater purpose yet unknown."
They were Lord Faramir's words, spoken many days before, and they came so clearly to Henvain's mind that he opened his eyes, almost expecting to see the Steward's kind face smiling at him from the shadows. But there was nothing, just the rocks and the dust shrouded in blackness, and after a moment his eyelids drooped closed again.
Strange that those words should come to him now, as if he had just heard them spoken, he thought. He had assumed, at the time, that the 'greater purpose' the Steward referred to was the honor and respect he would receive as a hero upon their triumphant return home. What other greater purpose could he ever hope to achieve?
He shivered a little and coughed, his thoughts turning darker as he reflected on how differently matters had turned out. He certainly didn't feel like a hero. He felt dirty and in a lot of pain and afraid and very, very tired. Now, the two powerful figures to whom he had looked for guidance and protection were relying on him to see them through. And he knew, somehow, he would. He was not sure where, exactly, this strength was coming from. He only understood that he saw his duty, and would simply put his head down and do it. He could figure the rest out later.
Lord Faramir's face came before him again, as it was on the day he had spoken to Henvain in the cave. He could see him distinctly, hear his patient, gentle voice, assuring Henvain that he may yet be able to prove his worth. The thought that he was suffering now in the merciless hands of the enemy twisted Henvain's heart, and it was not because he was facing the loss of the Steward's possible beneficence. Instead, it was the Steward's noble strength that moved him, the courage he had displayed in the face of evil. Such a good man did not deserve so cruel a fate. More than anything, he wanted to help Lord Faramir, and he knew there was only one way he could do so - by getting himself and Lord Legolas and the information they bore back to Gondor as fast as he could.
Only one more day, and they would be there. He'd make sure of it, somehow, and then they would set everything right again.
And maybe then Henvain could sit down, think for a good long while, and finally make sense out of it all.
For the moment, however, Henvain was content to leave such matters to the next dawn. At last his thoughts slowed, then stilled, and he felt himself slip away into blessed oblivion, there to stay until the time came to rise and walk again.
--------------------
Minas Tirith had fallen into its midnight silence beneath the bright spring moon. There were stirrings here and there, for such a great city could never fall completely quiet, but for the most part its wide and ancient streets lay still under the turning stars.
In her darkened chamber within the Citadel, Eowyn tossed fitfully upon her bed, striving to ward off the anxiety that had robbed her of any rest for the past ten days. Drifting uneasily at the very edge of the waking world, she sighed and frowned, trying to undo the knots within herself.
By habit, one hand stretched forth to where Faramir's tall form normally slept beside her. Her palm found only the soft, empty bed. Unwilling to be disappointed, even in her twilight state, she allowed her palm to rest there despite his absence, as if to touch him through the fact that he had once been there.
She could feel the hours pass, knew that she would soon face another weary dawn, but still it seemed that wakefulness would be her portion once more this night. After lying still for a long while, floating towards oblivion without ever crossing into it, she sighed again and opened her eyes.
The chamber was dim, the blue-gray shadows interspersed with gently sloping beams of silvery light streaming in through the open windows. A warm, light breeze scented with roses stirred the long curtains on the casements, sending their graceful folds to dancing within the moon's soft beams. For a while she lay and watched it, willing the tranquil sight to ease her mind and bring forgetfulness to the aching loneliness that consumed her.
Something stirred within the shadows of the chamber. She lifted her head a little and watched, unafraid but curious. It glided quietly towards her, coming swiftly into the dancing moonlight, and when the form became clear, she felt her entire being soar with joy.
It was Faramir, his handsome face beaming as he approached her, his long hair shining silver as he passed through the light. She lifted herself up, overwhelmed with happiness as she beheld him, longing to throw herself into his arms yet somehow unable to move.
He was by the bed now, and slowly he knelt beside it, his face very close to her. Tenderly he placed his hand over hers, and she felt herself tremble with gently violent emotion as she gazed at him. Yet as she studied his face, she was struck by how oddly he seemed to be looking at her. He was smiling a little, but his expression was mostly solemn, and a profound love such as she had never before seen blazed in his eyes.
She waited for him to speak, to explain his sudden return, but he said nothing, as if he wanted nothing more than to simply look at her. She found herself unable to utter a word, despite the numerous questions leaping now to her mind. The aspect of his countenance began to frighten her; there was undeniable love, as she had always seen, but something else abided there as well, darker and fearsome. In the dimness of the room, she saw tears glittering in the corners of his eyes.
Alarm began to creep into her heart, and she lifted one hand to his face, hoping it would soothe the nameless torment she saw there. Before she could touch him, a strange rushing sensation went through her, throwing everything in the room into a colder, sharper view, and with a shuddering gasp she came fully awake, her hand still reaching into the air.
She was alone.
Blinking, she looked about her as the world rebalanced itself, her hand dropping back onto the bed. A shiver ran through her as she realized what had happened; she must have fallen asleep without knowing it, and been visited by a dream.
A dream...Eowyn took a deep breath and sat up, clutching the sheets to her as she rubbed her face with one slender hand. Clearly, Faramir was not there. It had all been a fancy of her exhausted, worried mind. For a moment, she chided herself on being so foolish, then reminded herself that dreams of absent loved ones were common and no cause for shame. Both she and Faramir had often dreamt of those they had lost, as did many they knew. It was a sorrowful token of the times they had all lived through.
Yet as Eowyn settled herself back down into the bed, she thought of the dream, and suspected that it was no ordinary phantom of her mind. Faramir had seemed real enough to touch, and the intensity of his expression unsettled her to her innermost soul. She had seen so much there - resolution, weariness, perhaps pain, and above all, love. But she did not understand it at all.
After a few moment's thought, she rose and went to her wardrobe, removing a few articles of clothing from it and pulling them on over her shift. Sleep would not come soon, that much was certain; she needed to walk, and think, and soon her steps were directed to the pensive solitude of the moonlit courtyard below.
Quietly she padded through the Citadel's deserted halls, her steps echoing off the ancient polished stones. She passed only a few guards on her way, who simply eyed her with bored curiosity but said nothing. All was ghostly and still as she moved down corridors and stairways shrouded in blue-gray shadows, but she was not deterred by the eerie scene. It suited her mood perfectly.
Soon she was outside, and she breathed the air in deeply as she stepped onto the finely carved steps leading into the Citadel. The night breeze was cool, but it carried the heady fragrance of Ithilien upon its back. For a moment she closed her eyes, allowing its scent to overcome her, for it reminded her so strongly of her husband.
Then she opened her eyes and drew herself back to the world with a sigh, and traveling lightly down the steps, knowing where she had to go to find peace this night.
It was not far to the stables of the Citadel. As she neared it, she saw the solitary lantern that always remained lit at its door for those returning from late-night rides, and the single guardsman who kept watch by its door. It was a handsome structure, large and as ancient as the City itself, but Eowyn found herself frowning as she entered its courtyard, mildly displeased, as she always would be, that so much of it was made of stone. Wood was the only proper material for the home of the noble animals who lived here, not cold, hard rock, and she keenly missed the fine wooden stables of Rohan every time she visited their Gondorian counterparts.
However, she knew it was beyond her power to change such things, and smiled at the guard as she passed him on the way inside, satisfied in the knowledge that when their stables were built in Ithilien, they at least would definitely be made of wood.
A few lanterns were lit inside, casting their warm orange glow over the stalls and their quiet occupants. As Eowyn strolled down the wide aisle of the stables, she felt a long-familiar peace steal over her. The scents and sounds of the stable would always mean home to her, no matter where they stood, and she felt her soul ease with the gentle touch of many dear memories of Rohan and the better days of her past. She had practically grown up in the barns of Meduseld, and at times such as this, the brighter recollections of childhood far outshone the darker days. As she mused upon them now, she relished the remembered happiness that would forever accompany those memories, and embraced the peace they offered.
Her horse nodded in greeting as she came to her stall, and she smiled in reply as she undid the latch on the door and stepped inside. One hand went up to pet the animal's velvety nose, the hay crunching softly beneath the soles of her shoes.
"I see you cannot sleep, either," whispered Eowyn as she stroked the horse's nose and its dark, silky mane. How soft and warm her coat was, and Eowyn sighed as she leaned against the beast's head, one hand resting on its neck. "You are not used to the stone, I know," she murmured, as her hand lightly petted the animal's hide. "We shall go riding soon, I promise, when it is safe to venture again beyond these walls of stone. I would take you to Ithilien this night, if I could. I believe we would both find comfort there."
The horse nickered softly and blinked its large, liquid eyes at her. Eowyn sighed and stood motionless for a while, one hand continuing to glide over the horse's neck, her thoughts far away from the quiet stable.
Suddenly there came to her ears the clatter of hooves upon the cobblestones of the courtyard. Straightening in surprise, Eowyn looked up, wondering who else would possibly be awake and riding at this late hour.
The sounds of the shod hooves grew louder, and before long she saw the tall form of Prince Imrahil guiding his mount into the stable, his long brown hair flowing behind him as he trotted his horse to its stall.
He saw Eowyn the moment he entered, and in the glimmering lantern light she notice a smile cross his wearied face as he rode by her.
"Ah! Good evening, or good morning, to you, my dear," he said, his tone polite although he sounded quite tired. "Plotting a night-time escape?"
She returned the smile, walking to the nearby stall where he was dismounting. "Indeed not, Uncle," she answered lightly.
"Pity," he muttered, his nimble fingers beginning to undo the straps of his saddle once his tall form had solidly landed on the ground. "I was rather hoping I could escape with you, after all I've had to deal with tonight. It might keep me from committing some rather unwise acts upon certain very irritating persons."
His tone had become noticeably sharp, and Eowyn's brow knit with concern as she leaned upon the open stall door, her hands wrapped around its top-post. "What has happened?"
The saddle was loose now, and he carefully removed it from the horse's back. Having done so, he settled it in his hands and turned to her, heaving a disappointed sigh before speaking.
"The talks with the Haradrim have failed," he said quietly, his expression grave as he regarded her. "Aragorn has a few more ideas to try before officially ending them, but as of now the matter looks very black indeed."
Eowyn dropped her gaze, saddened at the news, mostly on Faramir's behalf. It had not been entirely unexpected, as Eomer had informed her every day of the negotiation's progress, but she had hoped for some way for her husband to return to more welcome news.
Imrahil stepped past her now, carrying the saddle to the rack close by.
"I have just spent many trying hours with Lord Tuornen," the Prince of Dol Amroth said as he walked, "for it is he and those of his mind, mostly, who have argued against allowing the Haradrim any further mercies. But he has proven most stubborn-" here Imrahil plopped the saddle onto its wooden home with a loud thump, raising a dusty cloud, "-and there will be no Council approval of the treaty without his assent and that of his followers."
He returned to his horse, giving it a pat on the head before unbuckling its bridle. "I fear Faramir will be be most sorrowed by this when he comes home," Imrahil continued, his tone and aspect solemn. "To see peace among all men of this region is one of his dearest wishes."
Eowyn nodded, leaning her chin upon the hands she had crossed atop the stall-post. "It will grieve him," she admitted, "but then I am sure he will strive all the harder to find success the next time." She smiled a little. "We both know he will not surrender so quickly."
Imrahil chuckled as he pulled the last of the bridle gently over the horse's head and folded it in his broad hands. "Yes, I do know that," he replied, striding over to a nearby storage trunk. "How I wish he were here! I have done my best, but I was not blessed with the wisdom and tact of my nephew. He very well might have had more good fortune than I, or the King."
"I am certain a future opportunity for peace will come again," Eowyn assured him, another smile tugging at one corner of her lips. "Then, you, Faramir and the King may all set your skills against Tuornen. His stubbornness will not stand a chance!"
The Prince laughed as he picked up a brush from the trunk. "A grand day that will be, indeed," he said as he went back to his patient mount and began brushing the dust from its coat. After a few strokes, he glanced back at Eowyn, his countenance now marked with worry. "Now that you have lifted my spirits, my dear, is there any assistance I may offer to ease your heart? For there is a certain sorrow about you tonight, even as you jest with me."
Eowyn sighed and shook her head. "Alas, that which may ease my heart is not to be found here, my Uncle. I long to see Faramir, but he is far across the mountains. I long to ride to Ithilien, to at least see our home and convince my heart once more that we will have a future there, but with the Orcs wandering the eastern woods, the danger is too great. I fear the King will never permit it."
"Hm." Imrahil frowned a little as he plied the brush, looking at Eowyn a few times as he worked in silence. She watched him sadly, wrapped in her own thoughts.
"I am afraid I can do nothing to bring my dear nephew back to your arms more swiftly," the Prince finally said aloud, when he had almost completed his task. "But a ride to Ithilien may not be impossible."
She lifted her head, her eyes wide.
He smiled at her, a hint of mischief in his blue eyes. "Well, am I not a prince of this region, with cause for concern over her safety?" he asked. "It is high time the area around your future home was once again inspected for any signs of Orc intrusion. You and I shall ride to Ithilien tomorrow, for there will be no further meetings with the Haradrim. We each have need to escape these city walls and breathe the free air, I believe, and I shall see to it that no peril threatens our venture."
The prospect caused Eowyn's face to brighten at once, and she stepped forward and took his hands, smiling with great relief as she said, "I would be so grateful, Uncle!"
"It would be my honor and pleasure, Eowyn," he replied, a warm expression on his handsome face as he regarded her. "Faramir has always been very dear to me, as are you, and I will do all I can to ease your burdens, for your sake and the sake of him whom we both love."
She found herself speechless as she gazed up at her husband's uncle, too overwhelmed by joy and anticipation to whisper anything other than, "Thank you."
Imrahil gave her a tender smile. "Return to your chamber and find rest for tomorrow; that will be thanks enough to satisfy me," he replied, and kissed her affectionately on the brow. "I shall send word when the arrangements have been made."
"I will," she answered, but as she bowed to Imrahil and gently released his hands, she knew it would be a difficult oath to keep. Once more she faced a restless night as she took her leave of the stable, but it would be a restlessness of a far more pleasant nature than before.
As she crossed the Courtyard of the White Tree, she felt her spirit soar within her. Tomorrow she would once more be able to ride free across the fields, the wind in her hair, the fresh spring breeze fanning her face. And soon she would be home, surrounded once again by the promise of the coming years she would share there with her beloved husband. She would be able to once more see it, and touch it, and know that it was real and would happen, and all dark dreams of other possible outcomes would be forever banished.
With a buoyant step Eowyn ascended to her bedchamber, anticipating the coming day with happy eagerness. Faramir loved Ithilien best of all the lands of Middle-earth; it was part of him, and she longed to be in its embrace once more, because it was so dear to him. It would almost be as if Faramir were with her again, murmuring to her once more the wonderful dreams of the life they would build there.
She hurried her pace up the stairs, as if that would make the time move faster, the expectant joy building in her with every step. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.
----------------
/Click, click, click/
The soles of the tall Haradrim's boots echoed long on the cold stone steps leading down into the depths of the ancient stone fortress. His stride was even and almost elegant, as befit the advisor to a Prince of Harad, and as Masrak descended the stairs his movements were as graceful as if he were approaching a full court audience. Behind him trailed another member of his race, a far less regal-looking young man in more simple clothing, carrying a variety of items and doing his best not to tread upon the long train that whispered behind Masrak on the dusty steps.
At length Masrak reached the bottom of the stairs, and he studied the small, dimly lit antechamber and the locked wooden door that faced him, and sighed. He detested this area of the fortress; it was frigid and filthy, fit for Orcs and prisoners but hardly for the man who held the ear of Prince Karil. Still, this was part of the duty he had long been sworn to, and if his presence here hastened the release of Gondor's choking grip upon his people, he would bear it.
There was a shuffling and grunting, and an Orc appeared out of the darkness, a huge, slobbering brute in leather armor. Masrak flinched and did not bother hiding his digust; the creatures lacked the sensibility to discern it, anyway.
At the sight of the elder Southron, the Orc instantly adopted a servile manner and bowed, despite the fact that he was much larger than Masrak and could have easily broken him in half.
"What is your bidding, my lord?" he rasped.
'At least it has the brains to show some respect', thought Masrak; aloud, he said, "I am here to interview the prisoner."
A scowl appeared on the Orc's face as one of his large hands reached for the keys that dangled from his belt. "Huh! Maybe you can get somethin' out of 'im. He's been dumb as a post with us."
This was not welcome news, and Masrak's scowl went even deeper than the Orc's. "You have had him for almost three full days now," he said sharply, watching with growing irritation as the beast slowly sorted through the many keys on the ring. "Do you tell me that in all that time, he has said nothing useful?"
The Orc looked up from its task and snorted angrily. "It ain't our fault, sir! We know our job" he insisted. "He'd be beggin' to talk if the Prince hadn't given us all those orders about this. He don't want the maggot dyin', or losin' his mind from the pain, and you know, that holds the boys back a bit."
In the latest in a long string of instances, Masrak cursed the fact that Karil's victory rested on the assistance of these brainless creatures. "The prisoner is of no use to us dead or insane," he replied in a completely unsympathetic tone. "Did our Prince not make that very clear?"
The Orc snuffled as he picked out the correct key and began to amble over to the locked door. "Yes, he did, my lord," he answered with a loud cough. "An' he'll get what he wants, don't worry. Like I said, we know our job. See for yourself."
He turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open, stepping aside. Masrak felt his skin crawl a little at the cold air that rolled out of the small room and pulled his thick robes a little tighter about him.
Looking at the servant who was standing mutely several paces behind him, Masrak said firmly "Wait here", then gathered up his garments above the dirty floor and entered the cell, followed closely by the Orc guard carrying a torch.
At first Masrak could see nothing; the entire cell was masked in blackness. Then the Orc stepped into the doorway with the torch, throwing the small room into flickering brightness, and Masrak was then able quickly find the object of his visit.
The prisoner sat on the ground across from him, his arms spread out and chained to the wall by the wrists with iron manacles. His head was down and resting on one arm, the face hidden by his long hair, his legs stretched out in front of him. So small was the cell that Masrak had come very close to stepping on the man.
As the flames of the torch became more steady, Masrak studied the prisoner. The Orcs had followed their orders and stripped him of all but his shirt, leggings and boots, and it was plain even in the dancing light that these articles were now badly torn and heavily stained with blood. He could see numerous whip-marks and other wounds on the man's flesh easily enough, but cared to inspect him no further than that. He had little interest in the brutal methods of the Orcs, only in their results. And it was evident from the prisoner's exhausted posture and physical condition that the Orcs, indeed, knew their jobs.
He cleared his throat and said in a loud voice. "Man of Gondor!"
He had no intention of using Lord Faramir's name; it was not an honor due to any captive of Harad.
The prisoner's head moved a little, as if he were suddenly waking, then lay still.
Masrak grit his teeth; he did not want to stay there a moment more than necessary. "Man of Gondor!" he said, louder. "You will face me."
There was a pause, and he heard the man draw a very long breath, as if bracing himself. Then, slowly, the head lifted, the hair matted with sweat and dirt parted, and Masrak saw two blue eyes looking at him from a bruised and gravely wearied face, blinking quickly against the light which surely must have been blinding to him. Soon the blinking stopped, and Masrak closely studied the man's now-even gaze. There was no madness there, he was relieved to see, but there was stubbornness, and no trace of the terror he was used to seeing in his prisoners. He sighed to himself; this man was not broken yet. Karil would not be pleased.
He took one step forward, closing his robes against the chill of the chamber, and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, another voice was heard, faint but steady.
"You are Karil's advisor," it said, and Masrak saw the prisoner raise his head a little higher and regard him calmly, as if they were meeting formally at court. The words were faint and slowly spoken as if with great effort. "I...saw you there, beside him, the day I was brought here."
Masrak knit his brows. "Yes," he answered, peering at the man with annoyance. How impudent he was, to address his captor before being spoken to. "I am Masrak, chief advisor to the Prince. You see much for one in your position, man of Gondor."
He waited for a response, but none came. Instead, the prisoner remained as he was, silently watching him, waiting. Studying /him/.
The elder Southron bent down now, keenly meeting the man's stare. "Then perhaps you see the wisdom of giving us what we seek from you," he said, his voice gaining the fine edge of a sword-blade.
The man looked at him for several moments, motionless save for a gentle trembling. Despite the chill, sweat glistened on the prisoner's face, and Masrak was satisfied to know that it could only have come from the exertion of bearing the terrific pain caused by the Orcs' torments. From his closeness the advisor could better see the Gondorian's many wounds, the deep bruises, the dull gleam of exquisite suffering in his eyes, and all of this gave great hope to his heart. Certainly beneath such affliction, he thought, the man would weaken now, and break.
But then the Steward of Gondor drew a deep breath and looked away with a shake of his head. The Southron scowled, disappointed. Clearly, sterner measures would have to be taken.
Reaching out with one gloved hand, he took the prisoner's chin and pulled, forcing the man to face him. In this attitude Masrak closely scrutinized his captive, as if the Gondorian were an insect pinned to a board. Yes, he noted, there was defiance still burning in those blue eyes, even through the agony. This was a fire that would have to be doused.
"For one claiming to have the gift of seeing, man of Gondor, you are most bitterly blind," Masrak intoned aloud. "I have met many of your kinsmen upon our battle-fields, and know the warriors of your race to be proud and stubborn, gripping every inch of ground to the last. But always they fell to our spears and arrows; always Sauron blessed us with victory, because we were stronger. It is the same here. Think not that you will gain the day by your refusal to yield. It will only win you suffering beyond description."
The prisoner's expression remained maddeningly calm as he looked at Masrak, and the Southron hated the tranquility he saw there. "It is not for myself that I do this, Lord Advisor," the man said in a quiet voice, the words still halting but spoken with unwavering conviction. "It is for my people, and yours, and the hope that one day our lands may join one another in the blessings of peace."
A smirk crossed Masrak's face. "That day will never come," he announced with complete confidence. "Not all of my people are as foolish as Adir. They remember your crimes against Harad, and yearn for the blood of your countrymen."
But grim resolution remained on the prisoner's battered face. "My heart does not believe that, Lord Masrak," he replied, with surprising firmness for one so weakened. "If your people were as eager to deal us death as you claim, Karil would have far more Haradrim, and far fewer Orcs, to man his forces."
The advisor glowered; the fact that so few of their brothers had heeded Karil's call had long troubled him, but he felt certain he knew the cause. "Our brothers wait only for a sign that victory against Gondor may be won," he answered. "Once that is accomplished, they will swarm to our side. You delude yourself to think otherwise."
The prisoner swallowed; Masrak could see great pain in his features, yet the man's gaze remained steady, the light of utter conviction battling the pain in his eyes. "It is not delusion; it is faith," he insisted, "and I shall never forsake that faith by lending aid to Karil's madness, nor by betraying my King and my land."
Masrak tilted his head back, narrowing his eyes. "Ah, but you will, Gondorian; you have no choice in that matter," he replied smoothly, hoping to see at least some fear in those eerily peaceful eyes. "Your choice is whether to speak it to me now, willingly, or utter it in screams later. Remember, you are at our mercy. There are none to save you, and your courage, however admirable, will result only in further pain. Death will not free you, for it has been forbidden to end your life. But you will suffer, and in darkness and ceaseless affliction you will spend the rest of your days. Is your King and land worth such a sacrifice?"
The words ended, and Masrak waited for some sign of uncertainty to cross the prisoner's face. The man was bound, cruelly injured, alone, and still he showed no fear. Perhaps he was mad, after all...
He studied the eyes again that so steadily peered into his own, and recognized at least a portion of the strength he saw there. The man had hope - for what, Masrak could not imagine, but he knew well that hope had to be destroyed if a prisoner was to be broken.
The Haradrim advisor bent in close, holding the man's chin firmly so that he could not pull away.
"Know this, man of Gondor: none of your allies will find here here," he said in a cold whisper. "Those who might have borne news of your fate to your people are dead. Even if one of them were to rise, they would never survive to return to their home. It is far to your land, and our people patrol the roads night and day. Beasts of prey haunt the sky and the earth; they would finish what our soldiers began. You are abandoned. Accept this, and end your foolish silence. You have no other hope of ceasing this torture."
Was there a flicker of hesitation, for just a moment? In the twilight of the cell, it was impossible to truly know. But no, the prisoner still appeared as willfull as before, staring at him with mute resolution, and Masrak felt a mantle of frustration settle heavily on his shoulders. This man had a soldier's spirit. A formidable obstacle to their ends, perhaps, but not an insurmountable one. Through their efforts, he vowed to himself, it would be soon be crushed.
He released the man's chin and stood, brushing the dirt off of his hands as he left the chamber, granting not even more glance to the prisoner.
"Lord Masrak."
It was the Gondorian's voice, hushed but audible, and Masrak looked at him now, wondering if he had succeeded in changing the captive's mind. The man was gazing at him, his expression one of respect.
The prisoner took a breath before continuing, his voice a little stronger now and charged with undeniable emotion. The chains binding him to the wall clanked a little as he pulled himself up to speak. "There is no reason for this," he said, a gentle strength in his quietly spoken words. "You know as well as I that Karil can gain nothing by attacking the lands of the West. I plead not for my life, but for that of your people and mine, that they may suffer no more from the ravages of war. You are the Prince's advisor-you must persuade him to forsake the path of violence he has set upon. We both know where it will lead him."
Masrak listened, his rage growing with every passing moment. He heard little beyond the first words, and when the prisoner had finished, he stepped forward so that he towered before him, peering at him with burning hatred.
"You say there is no reason for our holding you here, and standing against your people," Masrak replied, every word fraught with icy bitterness. "I have four reasons, man of Gondor - my sons, the last remnants of my blood, all dead upon your fields of Pelennor, their lives ended by the blades of Gondor and arrows of Rohan. Speak not to me of betraying my Prince, nor seek pity or mercy for your people. Rather, be assured that the suffering of the sons of Gondor shall not end with you."
Unable to bear the sight of the prisoner another moment, Masrak turned and hastened from the cell, his blood still running hot at the audacity of the man to ask forbearance of him. If he had had a sword upon him, the Gondorian's torments would have ended at that moment. But it was too soon for that.
"Told you he was a stubborn one," the Orc growled as he slammed and locked the door.
Masrak threw him a scowl as he shook out his robes, feeling his temper cool down despite the warmer air of the antechamber. "I do not recall that ever being a problem for the methods of your kind before," he observed, as he straightened. "Continue your efforts; I will return shortly. Our army will be ready to begin its movements soon, and the Prince will insist on having the prisoner broken before that time."
The Orc nodded. "Might be close, if we can't kill 'im, but I'm sure the boys can be counted on, sir."
"You may believe so," the Southron advisor replied in a critical tone, "but the Prince and I are nevertheless loath to take a chance on such matters. Upon his instruction, I will be sending men of our tribe to you, interrogators who are skilled in the Haradrim methods of withdrawing information from the unwilling. You are to follow their word in every matter, so that this business may be concluded as soon as possible."
The Orc seemed genuinely insulted at this, and awkwardly rubbed his large chin.
Sensing that having a dissatisfied Orc rabble on their hands would not be wise at the moment, Masrak added, "When this is over, the prisoner shall still be yours to dispose of as you wish, as was agreed."
At once the creature's face brightened, and he said, "Yes, sir!" with much enthusiasm. "We'll be ready for your men whenever you want to send 'em down. Might be a treat for the boys to see how you fellows do it."
"Very well," was Masrak's stern reply, and he beckoned to his servant before turning and climbing the stairs, grateful to be returning to the air and light of the world above him. There was some disappointment that the parchment he had brought for the prisoner's information had gone unused this time, but it faded with each step he took, replaced by confidence that it would be needed before long.
------------------
Faramir watched the advisor leave, and once the door had closed and the cold darkness enfolded him again, he leaned his head against his outstretched arm, heaving a sigh of utter exhaustion.
'If only they would be made to understand...' he thought sadly.
Pain lanced through every part of his body, as it had done constantly for the past...he knew not how many days. There was no way to discern the passage of time here, and Faramir had lost the reckoning. The routine in that time had not varied; they would spend hours interrogating him, then throw him into his cell to regain his strength for the next time. He had only just closed his eyes to rest, it seemed, before they came for him again, and so it had repeated. It felt as if he had been imprisoned at least a week.
Faramir licked his lips and swallowed, wishing for water. They saw fit to give him only enough food and drink to keep him alive, and no more, a few mouthfuls at most. Yet as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he willed it away; years of hard living as a soldier and a Ranger had fit him for enduring times of hardship and pain. Here was such a time, and thus he put aside all concerns for his comforts. There were more important matters to contemplate now.
He closed his eyes, trying to imagine how long he had been there. Henvain and Legolas would be almost to Minas Tirith by now, if they had not reached it already. He resolved to ignore the advisor's words of the perils they would face; both were strong and able, and Faramir refused to allow any notion that they would not survive. Despair would be the only result, and he knew it would be fatal to his spirit. Instead, he uttered a silent prayer to the Valar to safeguard their journey, and speed the armies of the West to stop Karil's army before it could do harm.
The pain assaulted him again, sharper this time, and he grit his teeth and rode it out, as he had done several times over the past days. His hands ached from the hours spent clenching them into fists as he withstood the torments of the Orcs, but he clenched them now once more, bowing his head and waiting.
He could remember but little now of what they had actually done to him. There were hazy memories of the snap and bite of the lash, endlessly repeated, but the rest was lost in a fog of agony that had seemed to last for years, mingled with the hideous shouts of the Orcs as they ordered him to speak. Afterwards, he remembered the Orcs smearing something foul-smelling over the wounds, most likely a primitive treatment to forestall his death from their infliction. The pain, however, remained.
The agony slowly eased, and he gasped, relieved but knowing that his anguish was far from over. In the utter darkness, his eyes still saw the Orcs' repulsive faces before him, laughing as they plied their cruelty, reminding him that he could end his suffering if he only did as they asked. Although his mind would not summon the details of his ordeal, Faramir well remembered that the Orcs would say such things mostly at the very height of his affliction, when such an offer would seem the most tempting.
This memory was very clear to Faramir; he could still hear the Orcs shrieking at him, taunting him with the even worse things they would do if he refused their demands. Yet to all their threats he forced a deaf ear, striving to keep his spirit strong, no matter how weak his body might be.
As it had several times in the past days, Faramir's mind examined his choices, and as before knew in his soul what his decision would have to be.
To end his torment by breaking and giving in to Karil's demands was unthinkable, and dismissed out of hand at once.
To give the Orcs false information might end his suffering, but it would also end his life, for they would not allow him to live once he had served his purpose to them. This was also unthinkable; in the deepest reaches of his heart, Faramir had sworn to survive this, and return to Eowyn and Gondor.
He had also sworn to endure until the army of Gondor arrived to destroy the threat now posed to the West by Karil's army. He knew Karil would not move until he had the information he wanted, and as long as Faramir remained silent, the Orc army would stay where it was, and where the map would tell Aragorn he would find it. If Faramir pretended to relent, Karil would act on whatever false information he was given. Thus, when the King arrived, Faramir would be dead, and Karil's army departed to regions unknown. Even if the armies of the West acted with swiftness to try and find them, they would be unable to prevent the Orcs and Karil's Haradrim followers from slaughtering all they found.
Even one innocent death was too great for Faramir to bear. So this notion was unthinkable as well.
There was also the way of reason, one Faramir would try until the pain and weariness robbed him of speech. It appeared impossible; both Karil and Masrak had closed their hearts to his words, a fact that caused Faramir far more grief than his wounds. Yet still he would make the attempt, try to make them understand that it was their own souls blinded by the years of Sauron's lies and hatred, and not the malice of Gondor, that kept peace from their lands.
And then there was the final path open to him, the road he had already been treading the past dark days. It was the way of great suffering and darkness, but it was also the way of time, time enough for Legolas and Henvain to find their way home again. Time enough for Aragorn to summon his forces and bring them here, to drive Karil to surrender or destruction, and end this threat to Gondor's lasting peace. Time enough, perhaps, for Adir to find some way into his son's heart, and bind his people with Gondor in ties of everlasting brotherhood.
Faramir looked through the thick blackness around him, down the dim, red road that stretched to the unseen horizon. This path would be the most dangerous for him, but at its end he saw a brilliance unmatched upon any of the other choices he faced. There lay Gondor, secure in its peace; there lay Harad, its arms laid down, its people enjoying the blessings of Gondor's friendship and assistance. And, brightest and dearest of all, there stood Eowyn, opening her soft, white arms to him, welcoming him home. And he could go to her then, unbowed and unashamed, knowing that he had endured all for the sake of Gondor and peace.
This, then, was his decision, the only one his sense of duty and honor would permit him to make. He would urge them to heed Gondor's offer of peace until they heeded him or his strength failed, or until Aragorn's army arrived to present their own argument.
He had only to endure, and wait.