Faramir thought long and hard about the name he had been given- Ihem. He had no idea what it meant, or why it had been assigned to him, but it was ill-fitting in a way that he could not abide, like a rope slowly tightening around his middle, cutting into his flesh, at first uncomfortable, then painful, then agonizing, then fatal.
They escorted him to a tent smaller than the rest, presumably for the rest of their slaves.
He grit his teeth.
"Better slave than dead," he had been told, but such words were no comfort, merely an affront to his pride as a lord of Gondor.
"I am no slave," he told himself, hands clenching at his sides. His sense of duty would keep him until he had repaid what debt he earned, but no further.
If they then tried to detain him, well, he supposed he would live or die fighting for his freedom. The tent flap pulled aside to reveal six men seated quietly, resigned to their fates.
It took his eyes a moment to adjust as the tent closed behind him, but he realized with a thrill of hope that four of the men before him were Gondorian- though their gray eyes had lost the spark of strength that shone in the Numenorian line.
"Men of Gondor," he whispered, kneeling before the closest. "Our time is at hand," he said, reaching a hand out toward the next.
They greeted his hope with laughter, bitter, derisive, and hopeless. "You'll learn, friend," said another man, taking his hand. "Our time is done. At least our masters are gentle favored and serve not the enemy. Take heart in that, for you shall get nothing more."
"They mean to release me," he said softly. "And I mean to take you all to your homes. No more shall you live as slaves. Tell me your names."
"I am called Rimmach," said the first man, but Faramir glared at him.
"Your names," he insisted. "Do you even remember the gift of your forefathers that proclaimed your identity? Sons of Gondor, I bid you remember your strength."
"I remember well enough," Rimmarch said bitterly. "I remember that it is broken, that my name will only bring a flogging if it is overheard."
"Your masters are gentle favored?" Faramir asked mockingly, his fury rising.
"Better than the city-dwellers," the second agreed.
Faramir suppressed a sound of disgust. "I'll not use the title they bid me take and I will bleed as much as it will take to show you true strength if it takes my last breath."
"Then die sooner so that our rations will not decrease," Rimmarch urged him. "You bring only trouble."
"Hold your tongue," Faramir snapped. "Be silent, all of you, and harken to me. Your pain nears its end, but not if you cling to your cowardice."
"And who are you to silence us, sir? You asked our names but haven't given your own," said the fourth, who had thus far been silent.
"I am Faramir, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, and Captain of the Rangers." His chest burned with anger and new determination. "Tell me again that you have abandoned your people and your hope," he said, the edge of a warning creeping into his voice. "Or tell me your names."
The fourth man considered him closely. "I'll match you, my lord. For as long as you can hold, I shall refuse the name they gave me. I am Coruen, I was once a captain of the third company of knights from Minas Tirith. It is for Lord Boromir that I now defer to you." He paused. "I take it that… he has passed. Lord Denethor as well?"
Faramir nodded, pushing the newly formed lump in his throat back down.
"Then our people are without their leader," Rimmarch pointed out. "We are better off here. Gondor has already fallen."
"Not so," Faramir began.
"Then," Coruen interrupted. "It is all the more pressing we see our Steward returned."
"Gondor has found her king," Farmir finished. "The enemy has fallen. Sauron is no more. I bring not a feeble hope, but a certainty."
"I will follow you," said the second man, gaining a glare from Rimmarch. "My name is Nelarion."
Rimmarch had a look on his face, the sort of expression Faramir had seen on Denethor before trouble followed. He put on a smile, and clapped the two who had joined him on the arms, though it tugged his wounded side to do so.
"We shall see an end to this," he said. "Though we may suffer before it comes."
Faramir woke shivering in the night, too cold to go back to sleep, he turned onto his uninjured side and tried to conserve as much warmth as he could.
The touch of threadbare cloth on his shoulder drew his attention back from the miserable conditions for a moment and he realized that Coruen was awake and trying to help him.
"Take it," the older man whispered and Faramir gratefully tucked the blanket around himself. "I don't think I'll sleep tonight anyway."
It wasn't much better, but it allowed Faramir to at least doze in restless snatches through the rest of the night.
The light of a lantern woke him at last before dawn as a man entered the tent, barking orders in Haradric.
Faramir went to stand, but the man pushed him back down, presumably saying something like "not you." Nevertheless, the steward was determined not to be left behind and stood again.
"He says you're injured," Nelarion said. "He says you must stay."
"I am not one to shirk my share in this burden," Faramir insisted. "I want to begin making payment toward my freedom."
"My lord," Coruen said pleadingly. "You'll recover faster-"
"And be indebted longer? I think not."
The tribesman began to speak again and then motioned for the door, clearly impatient as Nelarion explained the situation, flinchingly, as though expecting retaliation for speaking.
"He says you can come," Nelarion said at last. "But if you do not keep up, I will be flogged."
Faramir's stomach turned. "I will not be the cause," he said firmly, following them out of the tent. "I swear it."
The work was hard. Before the sun came up, there was no shelter from the cold, and once it had risen, there was no escape from the heat.
Not only were the chores difficult themselves, more so with the hole in his side, but they also had to be done on the move, carrying great packs of things as they went from camel to camel, fetching and carrying, and repairing textiles as needed, and all this knowing he was walking further and further from the reach of his home, his freedom.
"If nothing else," Coruen had joked in passing. "You'll sleep tonight for certain."
By the time they stopped for the evening, Faramir could barely hold himself up, but he pressed on, head down, following the instructions of his fellow prisoners.
"Ihem," a voice called.
It took him a moment to remember the name was meant to be his.
"Ihem!" It was Eshati calling.
The rank of his captor made no difference.
Faramir ignored him, and the yelling became increasingly furious. He had been expecting retaliation and the strike to his head was hardly a surprise, but it sent him sprawling, spilling precious water into the sand. His side and knee pulsed with pain, but he sat up with little reaction to right the pitcher and continued to work, still ignoring the call until Eshati took his shirt front.
"You answer when I call you," he said.
"You called for me?" Faramir asked innocently. "I must not have heard you."
"You heard," the man insisted and Faramir smiled disarmingly.
"I am certain you never called my name," he said pointedly.
"You speak without respect," Eshati said accusingly, shaking him so that Faramir gasped in pain. "When you are well enough, you will pay for it. You will not be spared forever."
"You have forgotten, Eshati, that my station is above yours. I am not your slave, I am merely working to repay the debt of my keeping, a thing which was forced upon me. Were I not sympathetic to your trouble, I would not stoop to even this. Do not push me or I shall force you to take my life for the trouble- or perhaps die trying," Faramir warned him, speaking quietly so as not to be overheard. "I take no pleasure in stirring this conflict between us. Leave me be, and you will find I shall be no trouble."
"You dishonor me with your action- ignoring command, forsaking name. My men will think I am weak, let you be impertinent," Eshati hissed.
"I do not forsake my name," Faramir insisted. "I cling to it, and it is for this you resent me."
"If you put such foolish ideas into the minds of the others, I will hold you responsible."
The corners of his lips pulled into a smile despite himself. "We both know they are my people, not yours. It is appropriate that I should be held responsible for their actions."
"We see how long you think this when you are broken."
He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Perhaps," he said slowly, but the smile did not fade from his lips. "If I should not have the strength to see this through, I do hope you will forgive my failure."
Eshati clearly was unsure how to respond to such a statement.
Faramir was neither boastful nor pliant, was cooperative, yet defiant. The younger man was enough to confound even the wisest tyrant in the east lands.
"But if you keep at this foolishness, I will be forced to raise hand to you before your body is healed enough," the chief warned, suddenly.
The steward just smiled again, apparently unbothered. "I expected as much."
"I take no joy in such senseless violence," Eshati said, as though defending against some sort of unspoken judgment.
Faramir felt a twinge of irritation at the statement.
The man had admitted that what cruel punishments he employed were senseless, but still insisted upon their use.
"What familiar words. How many times I have heard their like," Faramir remarked, the smile vanishing from his face as he turned to resume his work, currying dust out of the coats of the camels. "I expect they are as persuasive to you as to me. If I may make any request of you, let it be this. Do not try to justify your acts to me- it makes no difference. It is your word that commands the whip, and nothing you pretend to feel will change that. Your apologies won't lessen its sting, your sympathy will not prevent the shed of blood."
"You are strange Westerner, Ihem," Eshati said consideringly. "From most, such impudence I would reward with pain."
"My name is Faramir- and I do not mean to be impudent," he said with a slight shrug. "I am sincere in my request, though I should point out that if you feel the bite of your conscience for how you plan to correct me, perhaps your behavior is the one that needs amendment." He couldn't prevent himself from flinching as the blow fell on his shoulder, the crack of Eshati's staff ringing out loud and clear as a rebuke, but his work did not slow. He merely smiled again and murmured praise to the camel for being a good mount and staying still.
"You ought not antagonize Eshati so much, my lord, you'll just be hurt more. There will be plenty of that without looking for it," Nelarion said, applying a cool rag to the swollen, angry bruise that was covering most of Faramir's left shoulder.
The steward sat uncomfortably clutching at his shirt, trying to hold up the unlaced fabric enough to conceal the scars that marred his back like tree bark.
"This would be easier if you'd just take your shirt off," the other man continued.
Faramir shook his head. "It's cold," he said lamely.
It was a poor excuse given the extent of the bruising, but even still, he could not face the shame of being seen.
Coruen sat down in front of him and folded his arms. "Forgive my overstep, my lord," he said dryly. "But we all have scars."
Faramir couldn't quite understand the words at first, and felt his face begin to heat as they sank in. "But- how did-"
"You're not the first to try to hide the wheels. I didn't think you would have come under the lash before, though now that I think of it, I had heard you were captured once."
The steward shuddered. He hadn't thought of his captivity in a long time.
It had been when he was a young soldier, green as dew and eager to please his older brother, who was already captain of their unit. It hadn't taken more than a week for Faramir to develop an abiding hatred for orcs- and then it had been over. He had never seen Boromir so angry- or Denethor so apathetic.
But no, the scars he was hiding were more shamefully acquired- forced on him by his own sire.
"Yes," he said, drawing his mind back to the present. "I suppose you're right." He didn't want to show the marks any more than he had, but to continue hiding them might give insult to his fellows, all of whom had felt the bite of the lash as well. He forced himself to let go and the cloth sank to the ground with the last of his dignity, drawing a gasp from Nelarion.
"Hush," Coruen said immediately, though he rose and circled around to look at the old wounds for himself.
Faramir flinched as a rough set of fingers gently prodded his mutilated flesh.
"You have bled for us," Coruen said softly "Not once, but many times, for all the living and dead. This cannot be the work of orcs alone," he said and the steward dearly wished the older man would be silent. "Tulus, come here."
"And why?" Rimmarch asked. "To see a man who has been flogged? No thank you, I'm quite familiar."
"Tulus," Coruen insisted, and his tone brooked no argument. "Come here."
The shuffling of cloth told Faramir that, grudgingly, Tulus was coming closer.
"This man has suffered at the hands of his own people and still fights for us," Coruen continued. "Look on his scars. We should all be ashamed that so little has broken our spirits. Are we not men of Gondor, the last of Numenor? Give him your names. Follow him, I urge you. We may again see our homeland, or at last come to the stars in the attempt and be free in death."
Tulus pulled away again. "There's no glory in following a boy to his death. Prince or not, Steward or not, I'm not ready to die in torment."
"Then let me swear to you protection. Follow me," Faramir urged, his voice soft.
Tulus was quiet for a while, but at last spoke again. "I'll think on it."