A/N: Hi guys, hope I didn't take too long to update--I have been busy lately (btw: I turned 15 last Saturday : ) ).
Lastly, I hope you guys enjoy the change of scene--I promise it'll tie in.
ROGUE
Chapter Six: Faramir, Ranger of Gondor
The man dismounted his horse, finally glad to be back within the walls of the city again. He and his men had fought hard, and as a result all were dirty and bloody—though a considerable amount of it was not their own.
Stable boys came out to lead their horses away, and this Captain Faramir gladly accepted; he was close enough to the Citadel to walk on his own.
The walk for him was not a completely unpleasant one: he usually enjoyed such walks anyway (though he was usually considerably cleaner); sadly, the thoughts that he was dwelling on were not as pleasant.
Yes, his meager forces had held out at Osgiliath, but the Orcan tactics were beginning to become much more cunning. Though they had managed to cut the main force of the orcs off from their comrades, the creatures had almost succeeded in surrounding them completely.
Denethor, the Steward of Gondor would not be pleased.
He approached the Citadel, and the guards recognized him almost immediately and let him in without a word of question.
The sound of his boots echoed on the hard floor, and Faramir could hear his own heart thumping loudly.
Finally, he approached the doors of the main chamber where he knew that his father would be. Again, the guards seemed as though they would let him in, and the taller one of the two nodded to the ranger.
"Lord Denethor is expecting you," he said with a slight smile, and with a nod to the other guard, they opened the mahogany wood double doors.
Faramir, despite the lump in his throat, managed to give a slight nod and smile of thanks to the soldiers before walking in.
The doors closed behind him. For Faramir, it was a foreboding sound.
"So you have returned from Osgiliath," croaked a voice from nearby.
Faramir turned his eyes in the direction of the voice just in time to see Denethor ease into an exquisite chair with a scowl on his face.
"Yes, father; we manage to repel the attacks," he said, trying to sound confident, but failing miserably.
"With ease?" Denethor asked sensing a chink in this story.
Even he heard Faramir's loud swallow.
"Not with complete ease, father, for it seems that their tactics are becoming somewhat smarter; but it was enough to destroy most of the orcs and send the small remnant running."
Denethor's scowl did not diminish. "I do not think it is so much that there tactics are smarter, but rather, yours are getting dumber and dumber."
Faramir took the insult in stride, at least outwardly.
"You will have to do better than this, if you want to even hope to fight the minions of Mordor."
"Father, with all due respect, our numbers…"
"Do you think that I care about your numbers?" Denethor asked, his tone rising. "I don't care about your numbers! I do what is best when I allot you your men; it is not about the numbers. In your incompetence, you fail to utilize them properly!"
"With all due respect, father, one hundred and fifty men can only hold Osgiliath for so long."
Denethor pursed his lips. "Leave me," he said coldly. "I have heard enough of your failure for one day."
With a heavy heart, Faramir left his father.
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Legolas was gagged again as they resumed their march. He could not see anything, nor could he speak to anyone, and though he could hear, that sense did not seem to do him much good.
Even though his legs began to ache, he was still forced to walk and it seemed grueling indeed. Thankfully, he still held a measure of discipline and pride, which stopped him from crying out or stumbling. No, he would not grant them that pleasure.
He was the Prince of Mirkwood; he would not be belittled by this group of wayward rebels, or so they seemed.
They walked for the better part of the day, and more than once Legolas could hear his captors talking to one another, stating that they were near to the camp. A part of Legolas was glad that their seemingly ceaseless walking would finally come to an end soon, yet another part of him dreaded going to the camp, where there would likely be sentries about, preventing all routes of escape.
Still, he held on to the hope that he knew the forest better than the back of his hand; he would outsmart these bandits one way or another. He just knew it.
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Faramir walked down the hall, not feeling very nice due to his encounter with Denethor, and the fact that he needed a bath badly.
He remotely hoped to find Boromir his brother, but had a feeling that he would not catch up with the soldier until later.
It was no secret that Denethor favored Boromir over Faramir, but amazingly, Faramir and Boromir were very close and did not let Denethor's disfavor of Faramir get in the way; but still, the fact remained and Faramir was often left wondering if his father loved him at all.
As he dwelt on these thoughts, he wandered to the library, arguably one of the largest libraries in Minas Tirith. He decided to get a book or two and take them to his bedroom so he could indulge in some much-needed reading in a little while.
In the library, he felt somewhat at home. Out of the three Hurin men, he had taken to books more them both of them combined. He could get lost in a book and allow his imagination to run wild—of course he was teased for this, and when he was a boy they called him a book orc—but now he did not seem to care.
As he walked in, though, he was stopped in his tracks immediately, for sitting in a chair with a large historic book (precisely the one that Faramir had come for!) was a young woman.
Her long blonde hair was very much past her shoulders, complimenting her fair skin; she was rather interested in what she was reading, and only looked up when he had advanced into the room.
Her blue eyes scanned the dirty ranger from head to foot, and poor Faramir felt unspeakably embarrassed.
"I—I am sorry for interrupting you," he began, running a hand through his red hair which was stringy from dirt and grime.
"No sir, you must forgive me," she said, standing to her feet. "I am only a guest."
"Guest?" Faramir asked.
"Allow me to introduce myself: I am Éowyn, sister-daughter of King Théoden of Rohan."
Faramir did well to hide his shock. "Forgive me for not recognizing you sooner, My Lady," he said, bowing politely. "I hope that you have found our library somewhat amusing."
"Yes, I have," she said with a slight smile. "I hear that Captain Faramir enjoys this library also; does he visit it very often?"
Faramir then blushed noticeably. She did not even recognize him!
Éowyn then noticed that his face had reddened considerably, and at that moment she realized her error. "Oh, you are Captain Faramir," she said, and Faramir was uncertain if that was disappointment he detected in her voice. "I would have recognized you were it not for…never mind," she said, extending her hand to him. "I was told by your brother, Captain Boromir, that I would like you very much."
Faramir's clammy hand shook her fair one. "I hope that I have not disappointed you very much," he said, very embarrassed to say the least.
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When they finally arrived at their desired destination, Legolas was led into a tent and was tied to one of the poles that supported it.
When he was quite sure that he was alone, the elf contemplated what to do.
He could not see, nor could he speak, and apparently he was fastened tightly to one of the poles; he considered shaking it until it collapsed, but then immediately thought of what he would do once it came crashing down on him, trapping him under and putting him at the mercy of his captors once again.
In the end, despite his endless thinking, he decided with much contempt, that the only thing that he could do was wait and hope that his captors did not intend to kill him anytime soon.
It took some time, but eventually he heard someone enter the tent, and the Prince held his breath, for the silence that ensued was enough to make his heart leap out of his mouth.
Finally he heard a male voice.
"Remove his blindfold," the voice ordered.
There was no reply, but in a moments' time, Legolas could see again.
He blinked to correct the blur, and in a moment or two his vision righted himself. The tent which he was in wasn't very large but it was spacious enough for one to stand or lay comfortably; he did not recognize the elf who had taken off his blindfold, neither did he recognize the blond elf who stood before him—at least not completely, for Legolas was certain that he had seen that face before; it was in the back of his mind…somewhere.
Turning to the other elf, the blond one said, "Leave us."
The elf left without a comment.
The elf folded his arms across his chest as he surveyed Legolas. Legolas couldn't help but notice that he was wearing armor, most likely forged by elves themselves.
"Do you know who I am?" Legolas asked, suddenly breaking the silence.
The elf nodded. "I am quite aware of who you are," he stated calmly.
"I do not think so, for if you knew who I was you would not hold me here! I am Legolas, a Prince of Mirkwood, son of King Thranduil. If you knew who I was, you would not be so bold, especially since you are in my father's wood."
The blond elf allowed Legolas to rant a bit before he spoke. "As I said before, I know who you are, Prince. As for my being bold, I highly doubt that your King's scouts will find you here."
"We are still in Mirkwood, are we not?" Legolas asked, gaining back a bit of composure.
"Yes," the elf said after a moment, "but not for long."
"Then where are we going? Where are you taking me?"
The elf seemed to be deciding whether or not to tell Legolas, but eventually, he made up his mind and told him:
"Gondor."