Chapter 12
They were still holding hands when Mordeth returned, brandishing a flaming torch that made them wince at the sudden brightness. When the initial glow had worn away, and Faramir could see again, he saw that the dark man was scowling at him—not a good sign.
He jerked his head, and one of the guards grabbed his good arm and dragged him a little ways away from Éowyn. There, Mordeth began pacing back and forth, every now and then turning to stare thoughtfully at Faramir. His actions brought to mind his earlier questioning of Farothul and the other Gollum Hunters. Faramir could only wonder what was up.
"You," Mordeth said at last, "puzzle me, boy."
Faramir grinned slightly and lifted his chin.
"Delightful."
An ugly look flashed through the man's eyes and Faramir felt a flash of triumph until something struck his cheek with a sharpness that stung a second late. He tasted blood, and looked up to see Mordeth staring down at him with satisfaction. He then continued, as if nothing had happened.
"There is not much that puzzles me—and the fact that you, a mere youth, do, is even more puzzling still."
Silence. Faramir wisely decided against making another smart remark, and at last Mordeth spoke again.
"You are obviously older than your companions, Éowyn of Rohan and Amrothos of Gondor. Your coloring tells that you are of the same country as the other lad—but the sword you were wearing is not an article that a commoner would bear. So," Mordeth paused and locked gazes with Faramir, "you are a warrior. Not a knight—you are too silent and slender for that. Perhaps a Ranger—though it is not often one meets a Ranger so young as you—or nobility, then? The brother of this Amrothos?"
"Why are you so interested in my identity?" asked Faramir at last, quietly. "Will that make my death worth more—if you know who it is that lies dead by your order?"
A faint smile rested 'pon Mordeth's thin lips briefly.
"Are you so sure then, of your death? No, boy. I want to know because if you are something I do not know, then Mordeth, the man who knows everything and everyone, is undone."
Swiftly, he drew his dagger and held it at Faramir's throat, taking the youth by his good arm (which he twisted behind Faramir's back) and turning him to face Éowyn.
"If he himself will not speak, then perhaps the Lady Éowyn will tell us—if she wants this mysterious friend of hers to remain alive."
Faramir felt his breath coming quickly, but at last he forced it to slow. He was trembling in anticipation, in fear. Mordeth twisted his arm cruelly, and a strangled gasp escaped him. A few more minutes and both his arms would be broken.
A sort of sob echoed through the cavernous room, but it was not from him. Faramir wrenched his eyes up to meet Éowyn's, and saw the sickening horror written on her pale, dirty face. She swallowed, staring at him as if to beg reassurance or command, but did not speak.
Mordeth pressed the edge of his dagger a bit closer in a skillful motion that just sliced Faramir's skin and let drip a single stream of blood. Faramir gritted his teeth at the warm wetness as it trickled down his throat. This was no way to die—surely it would be better to speak!
But Éowyn spoke first.
"STOP!" she cried; there were tears in her eyes. "Don't kill him! His name is Faramir and he's from Gondor."
Abruptly the knife left Faramir's throat, and his captor released him so that he stumbled forward with a short cry. His hand clasped through his sticky neck, Faramir turned back to look at Mordeth, but Mordeth was not looking at him.
"Faramir," Mordeth hissed, staring at the blade, and then out into the nothingness of thought. "Faramir! The son of Denethor. On a mission with his cousin—and uncle? And brother, too. Of course he would not be without his brother. And why?"
Faramir began inching back, until he was very near Éowyn and could reach out and grasp her hand reassuringly. It was very cold, her hand. She held on tightly, but no tighter than he held to her. It was odd, but even in that terrible, terrifying moment, thrown in the darkness within the grasp of a madman who might just kill them both, a sort of peace at her hand in his and the rightness of it calmed him like nothing else could.
"To ask for aid in defending Osgiliath! Of course! The picture is now complete."
At last, Mordeth turned and looked them over. His dark eyes gleamed with triumph. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he had a chance, there was a shout from somewhere down one of the tunnels, and then more cries and the sound of running feet.
"Intruders!" shouted someone who raced into the light with a flushed, frightened face—the young man, Tornin. "They have breached our defenses at the North Entrance—a whole party of attackers!"
Mordeth cursed loudly and struck the wall with his torch. Sparks flew, and Éowyn and Faramir both shied backward from them. There came another shout, and then the sound of metal on metal. Éowyn gasped, and when Faramir turned to look at her, some color had returned to her pale cheeks.
"Éomer," she said breathlessly, eyes bright with relief and pride. "That was Éomer. I'm sure of it."
Faramir let out an uncharacteristic whoop of triumph and rose to his feet. More figures were rushing past them.
"To the stables! Let us take the horses and flee!"
"The Orcs! Where are the blasted Orcs to fight for us?"
The sound of swords clashing died out, and Faramir suddenly saw a flash of light, and a familiar face lit by the torchlight—his brother. Éowyn's brother was just behind him.
"Éomer!" Éowyn screamed, lunging for said brother, but as she and Faramir moved forward to meet the approaching conquerors, Éowyn let out a little shriek. When Faramir looked back to see what was wrong, he froze in horror—for Mordeth was holding his knife to her throat.
Faramir grabbed up a sword that had been dropped by one of the fleeing people and stepped forward. By now, Boromir and the others were quite close—just a few feet behind him. But they were all too late.
"Éowyn!" shouted Éomer, staggering toward her and raising his spear. "Let her go, you villain!"
"Stay back," Mordeth growled, increasing the pressure of the knife's edge on Éowyn's throat until she whimpered. Éomer froze where he stood. "Stay back or the girl dies."
Her brother gasped with fury, tightening his grip on his spear, but Theodred held onto his cousin's arm to hold him back. Faramir's sword was the closest to Mordeth's throat, but he knew that, even if he did kill the man, Mordeth might have just enough time to slit Éowyn's throat before he collapsed to the floor. He could not afford to take the chance that he could be quicker—especially since he was now suddenly very left-handed.
"It seems that we've reached an impasse," Imrahil said coolly, stepping past Éomer and lowering his sword-point slightly as he watched the dark man.
"Yes, it does," sneered Mordeth with a look of disdain, "Imrahil of Dol Amroth. But I will tell you this: it will not last long. One false move and the girl is dead. I will escape—make no mistake of that. It is merely the matter of the amount of blood spilled between now and the moment at which I am free of these lands."
He began backing up slowly, keeping a tight hold on Éowyn's arm. The knife never left her throat. Éomer's eyes were trained on his sister (he was cursing steadily under his breath), and his sister's eyes were trained on him. She mouthed his name and whimpered almost imperceptibly.
Éomer, Faramir, I'm so frightened. I'm going to die. He'll cut my throat and I'll feel the warm blood spilling out and then what? What is after death? Will it hurt? I'm so frightened.
"You're so awfully brave about everything." The words echoed in her ears. "I try to be brave, but sometimes—like right now—I don't feel very brave at all."
Silly, silly Éowyn. You had no business to be afraid then. Now, when you really are in danger, now you have a perfect right to be afraid.
Abruptly, she tore her gaze from her brother and saw Faramir staring at her. He looked perfectly calm, except that his eyes were watching her with ample fear in them—fear that brought back the words he'd said in reply.
"Neither do I. But I can pretend I'm brave, and then after pretending for long enough I convince myself along with everybody else."
It was that, that courage-in-the-presence-of-fear, that pretending to be brave when you know you can't really, was what made her lift her chin slightly and grit her teeth together. She wasn't afraid. She was Éowyn, daughter of Eomund and Theodwyn, and niece of Théoden, King. She gave Faramir one last look and then stared at Éomer as she concentrated on trying to figure a way out of Mordeth's grip.
"What must we do to save Éowyn's life?" Imrahil asked, watching the dark man warily. "Is your safe passage out of Rohan sufficient payment?"
Mordeth let out a chuckle that had nothing of humor in it and tightened his grip on Éowyn's arm.
"Don't be ridiculous. I'll be taking the girl with me—that's my assurance that I will escape. If anyone tries anything to hinder me…" he pressed the dagger in slightly, as he had with Faramir, and Éowyn felt a prick and then a slight trickle of blood. It turned her stomach, even though it hardly hurt, and she saw that Éomer was almost beside himself with rage and worry.
"If you want the girl to remain alive, gentlemen," Mordeth was saying loudly, "you'll remain where you are to the count of five-hundred and then return above-ground. If I make it safely to my destination—well then, you'll see the girl again. If not…"
He let the words trail off, perhaps intending to finish them or perhaps not. None of them ever found out, though, for at that instant something barreled through the darkness and ripped Mordeth's knife arm away from Éowyn's throat, and then shoving her far forward, out of the way.
Éowyn grunted in surprise as she landed on the hard stone, scraping her knee and palms as she tried to break her fall. Her mind spun with shock—had Gollum been her rescuer? She looked up at her would-be rescuers and saw all staring behind her, equally stunned, save Imrahil, who looked both stunned and furious.
Whirling, Éowyn saw that Mordeth was engaged in close combat with someone hardly taller than herself—but quite a bit taller than the creature Gollum. He had fair hair and seemed to be having a hard time keeping hold of the older man's arms.
In fact, when Imrahil shouted "AMROTHOS!", Éowyn couldn't have said it better herself.
She watched with silent, breathless fear as the two men grappled back and forth. Faramir and the others were moving forward now, but suddenly Mordeth twisted the knife away from Amrothos reach and stabbed. Éowyn gasped. Amrothos' face was frozen in a look of fierce hatred, but it was slowly replaced by a look of confusion. Letting out a croaking laughter, Mordeth withdrew his knife, and Amrothos crumpled to the ground. The dark man's blade glinted claret in the torchlight. Éowyn felt sick.
"So, Imrahil," the dark man said, as Boromir knocked the knife away and another man grabbed Mordeth's arm tightly. "A life for a life—perhaps not the trade you would have wanted, eh?"
Imrahil, who had knelt at once by his son's side, turned to look at the man who had stabbed his son, and there was murder in his eyes. He stepped forward, sword brandished high, like an avenging angel, a servant of justice—for surely Mordeth deserved death.
But he stopped just as his sword reached the other man's neck (no one tried to stop him from killing their prisoner) and glared at Mordeth with speechless fury. His teeth were clenched, and his jaw muscle worked as he attempted to regain his composure. Mordeth met Imrahil's gaze evenly—imperiously. At last, though, Imrahil drew a ragged breath and lowered his sword.
"No. Your death will come later. See that he is bound—will you, Boromir?—and take him back to Edoras for further questioning. Let Théoden decide what his fate will be."
Éowyn let out a shuddering breath. Mordeth's gaze jerked to meet her eyes, and she was bewildered by what she saw there, for there was no fear in his eyes. The man was surely mad not to be afraid now. Or maybe he was merely pretending not to be afraid.
Suddenly, someone grabbed her arm. With a yelp, Éowyn turned and found herself looking into the relieved, concerned, and very angry face of her brother.
"Éom—"
"Not a word," her brother hissed, dragging her to her feet and helping her back to the group of rescuers (she was still limping thanks to her twisted ankle). "Not one single word, you conniving little filly."
"Éomer, what on earth—?"
"Here," Éomer interrupted, eyes blazing, "I give you free run of the castle and—oh, hang it, of everywhere—and what do you do but get wrapped up in the only criminal organization in all of Rohan—almost get yourself killed!"
"Éomer!" Éowyn shouted, but instead of him continuing with his tirade, he grabbed her shoulders and nearly crushed her with a hug that told her just how worried he had been. At last, when the world was growing faint because she couldn't breathe, she gasped something like "Let—go!" and he did, drawing back and turning away to wipe something out of his eyes, muttering about the dust down here.
"And if you ever," he told her, holding her by the shoulders and shaking her to emphasize his seriousness, "try anything like this again, I'll be the one threatening you with a knife."
The knife. Suddenly Éowyn felt very pale again as she remembered the eventual use of the knife, and turned. Éomer grabbed her arm, but she dragged him over to the place where Amrothos lay. His father was staunching the blood-flow of the boy's wound with a ripped section of cloak, and did not look up when Éowyn approached.
Faramir was kneeling beside his cousin as well, his brow furrowed in worry. Éowyn touched his arm slightly, and he raised his eyes to meet hers.
"Will he be all right?" she whispered.
He shrugged helplessly.
"I don't know. We can only hope so."
Éowyn stared at Amrothos' still, still face and swallowed a sob. Brave. She was brave. And so was he.
"He saved my life," she muttered. "Twice, maybe. And did I ever thank him for it?"
She met Faramir's gaze, and he gave her a reassuring but somewhat despairing smile. It came to her, quite out of the blue, that she was alive. They were alive. And now there was nothing to fear anymore, nothing but joy and laughter and happiness ahead, though danger was always lurking in the blackness of the future.
They had just clasped hands when another voice, weak, pale, but very much alive, replied, "No, you didn't. But you might get another chance sometime soon, if you ever start speaking to me again."
Imrahil let out a cry. Amrothos' dark eyes jerked from Faramir and Éowyn's faces to that of his father, and he winced in anticipation for the storm of words that were sure to fly forth. Instead, however, Imrahil bent forward and embraced his son roughly, though still taking care to be reasonably gentle. In a gruff voice, he whispered, "Eru give me grace, boy. I thought I'd lost you."
And at that, Amrothos gave up struggling and just hugged his father back.
TBC...(in one last final installment...)...
