The War of Light and Shadow
By Freddie23
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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.
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Chapter 57 – Citadel Of The Host Of Stars
"Captain?"
Grey eyes, mostly shrouded by the blanket of the night, turned at the call, whispered though it was. No man in this cursed town would dare to speak above a whisper in the dead of the night when the forces of Shadow lurked all about the borders. Even thicker than the darkness, fear blanketed the town, thick and potent as the fogs that shrouded the riverside.
"Anything?"
"Signs, Captain, in the north quarter, but no actual hostiles observed."
The blonde head nodded once, sharply before he turned back to observing the river. "For now. Keep the watches. Remain vigilant."
"Yes sir."
"Ah, Captain!"
All startled, physically jolting at the sharpness of the loud noise cutting through the thick silence of the city. Rolling his eyes in irritation, the Captain turned to the ignorant child who had alerted any enemy close by of the presence of the watch.
Through teeth gritted in irritation, he demanded, "What is it?" in a harsh whisper.
"Um, you are wanted, sir, at the command post. The Steward wishes to speak with you, sir," the child no more than ten years old and with the privilege of being a messenger amongst the warriors, relayed the message then scurried away before the Captain could display his wrath.
"Thank you."
Gesturing bluntly to his fellow soldiers to wake over the watch, he sheathed his sword in one swift, practiced motion, and turned to leave.
The streets were quiet, deserted as expected, and dark but for the flaming torch he used to light his way. In the town, the people clustered together in the heart of the city where it was considered to be safest. No one but the soldiers would dare venture out after dark. Too many monsters threatened the night, even with patrols working all four quarters of the city in an attempt to keep them out.
Upon swinging open the door of the battered tavern currently serving as the command post, the captain handed his torch over to a waiting soldier and executed a brief bow. It was of little point though as the subject of his genuflection had his back to the door and did not turn at the entrance of his captain.
"You sent for me, sire?"
The Steward's head turned to the side at the sound of the voice but he made no further reaction. On the table before him were spread several worn maps, which were illuminated by a single candle burned almost to the end sitting at a crooked angle on a cracked saucer built up with wax. Several men, identified by their heavy black formal robes as members of Gondor's esteemed Council, averted their eyes from the captain even as he stood waiting for an acknowledgement.
"Speak," the Steward's rough voice commanded, loud and stern.
The councillors exchanged uncertain looks before one leaned forward, hands splayed against the table he leant on, mirroring the stance taken by his Steward.
"Orcs, my Lord, spotted in the south."
"I…"
"What say you to that, Faramir?" asked the Steward in a low growl, accusingly almost.
"My Lord, I cannot…"
"This must not be allowed to happen!" His hands banged hard down on the table, making all around jump in surprise.
Faramir, son of the Steward and Captain of the Gondorian Guard, such as it now was, let his eyes fall closed momentarily. Still early and already the accusations were flying. Hardly novel. Returning his once more steady gaze to his father, Faramir straightened his posture and hardened his resolve. He would endure this as he had done countless times before.
"Once more you have failed me." Around the table, the men shifted uncomfortably. They liked Faramir, respected him, they never enjoyed seeing him get so thoroughly beat up every day by his father, one who had neither any respect or time for his son.
"I will send a patrol in that direction right away."
"Yes," drawled the Steward bitterly. "You do that. And pray that it does not prove too little too late."
Pursing his lips to stave off any retort that was building up in his mind, Faramir nodded in a terse manner, offered a bow to his father's back then left once again. Not one report of Enemy activity or movement in the south of the city had reached the ears of the troops so how the Steward and his fusty council knew of it evaded Faramir. Still, he had been ordered to investigate and deal with the threat so he would obey. Maybe his father held no esteem for his son – his only surviving child – but Faramir respected Denethor and wanted so much to make him proud, to feel worthy of the title of heir to the Stewardship of Gondor.
"We're checking the south quarter," Faramir announced as he approached his men and all eyes turned from where they watched the river towards their fuming captain.
He did not wait for them to respond, simply turned and strode back away, knowing that his regular patrol would follow without the need for a formal command.
Never in a thousand years would Faramir say a bad word against his father. Better to stand in silence, take the criticism and quietly fume for the rest of the night whilst carrying out whatever pointless order was handed down to him. The time-honoured tradition between father and son would continue onwards, probably until the end of their lives.
Fortunately, the rapid pace he set through the dark, quiet city blew off some of his anger so by the time the group of Men approached the south quarter of the city where the reports of Orcs had come from, stealth had been restored to their movements.
Faramir drew his sword. He may have doubted the vague reports of Orcs but he was not about to take any unnecessary risks.
"Search the area," he whispered to his men.
At least once a week the patrols divided and swept the entire city for signs of Enemy activity so they were well practiced in the skills of searching their derelict town. Spreading out, they checked in empty houses and abandoned shops and dark alleyways, looking for any sign that Orcs were about or had been present recently.
"There's nothing here," sighed one man when, twenty minutes later, they reunited in what had once been the city square.
"And nothing has been here for a good while," another agreed.
"Sir?"
After sweeping his eyes once more around the square they were gathered in, Faramir nodded, sheathing his sword.
"You're right. This was a waste of time. Let's go."
The patrol fell into line and filed out of the square, the only noise the soft footsteps on dusty, cracked roads, rarely used anymore since people had abandoned the outer reaches of the city. So, when a high-pitched scream pierced the cold night air, all the soldiers startled, instinctively whipping out their weapons as they formed a tight defensive circle.
"Perhaps this quarter is not quite so secure after all," one of the vigilant soldiers noted dryly.
"Stay close together," warned Faramir in an urgent whisper. "I think it came from this direction."
He led them back through the streets, although they moved slowly and with caution that had been more lax before the terrified scream. A general direction was not enough in this case, so Faramir once again ordered his men to split up and search the houses. Each moved carefully, taut, waiting for some horror to leap out at them from the darkness.
So focused on the streets and doorways were the soldiers that one of them found the source of the scream quite by accident. He literally tripped right over it. Only when he regained his feet and made an effort to scrub the dirt from his trousers in the fervent hope that none of his companions had witnessed his clumsiness and that he could erase all evidence of such, did he look down and suddenly back away.
"Captain!" The cry was loud in the thick quiet of the town and the soldiers congregated rapidly, descending upon the square, following the sound of the cry to gather around the body of the murdered woman.
"What could have done this?" asked one of the men as another moved into a doorway to vomit, the smell of blood and death too much for his weak constitution.
Swallowing thickly, Faramir raised his eyes from the fresh kill and sighed, "I have no idea." Something so brutal had to be dangerous indeed. No mindless Orc could have done this. They were brutal in battle but did not savage their enemies thusly. Something altogether more dangerous was hunting in the city of Osgiliath. "We are not going to find anything tonight," the Captain decided, once more sheathing his blade now he was confident that the murderer did not linger in the vicinity. "No one walks these streets anymore so the evidence will not be disturbed, we can figure this out later. Let's go."
"What about…" one of the startled soldiers nodded towards the mangled corpse, laid in an ungraceful heap on the cobbled pavement.
"We'll return at first light."
The man nodded in agreement with his Captain. However much he felt for this poor innocent, he did not want to loiter on these dark streets with some sadistic killer on the loose. Whatever had done this likely would not return now. The unfortunate soul would remain untouched for what remained of the night. "Move out."
In silence, or as close to silence as was possible for Humans to come, they made their way rapidly back through the winding city streets. The whole time, they remained on high alert, fearful of the creature that prowled the streets.
"Just keep your eyes peeled for…"
Confusion ruled for a long moment as Faramir ran right into another solid body, almost crashing to the ground upon the unexpected impact. It was only a beat before weapons were trained upon the intruders within the city, however, and Faramir rapidly pulled away, relieved to find that he was in no way restrained, and drew his own sword again, squinting through the darkness to see what or who he had collided with.
"You should be more careful," warned a light voice.
Sword now in his hand, Faramir took in the sight of the voice's owner now that his eyesight had adjusted and his heart no longer raced so fast he couldn't breathe. He found that he was no longer so afraid for surely such a beautiful voice could not be the source of the hideous violence the soldiers had stumbled upon just moments before.
"Identify yourselves," he nevertheless snapped in demand, knowing that his duty to the safety of his town and its people took precedent.
"We come to you in peace."
"Indeed?"
A cursory glance told Faramir that there were six of them in total, not one of them from the city of Osgiliath for he did not recognise them. The one speaking was clearly the youngest but not by much. Dark hair, beard and grey eyes that although clearly weary were friendly enough as they watched Faramir and his men sizing him up. Another stood at his side, weapons held in such a state of readiness that Faramir knew that if he tried anything he'd be dead before his hand touched the younger man. Faramir would have guessed father but for the fact that he was only a few years older and looked nothing like the younger man.
The other four intruders stood back, kept their distance although they remained at the ready for a confrontation.
"You have a name?" Faramir asked tightly, his own sword held pointed at the man, unwavering despite his anxiousness. He might not have suspected them of murdering the unfortunate woman but that didn't mean they could be trusted. The Enemy was everywhere and walked in all manner of disguises.
"Do you?"
Narrowing his eyes, Faramir challenged stubbornly, "You first."
For a beat, the man seemed to be debating what to do, casting a quick glance towards the taller blonde man at his side. Then, much to Faramir's surprise – and the blonde man's disapproval, it seemed – the man lowered his sword.
"Aragorn. My name is Aragorn."
No lie shone in 'Aragorn's' eyes so Faramir answered likewise in truth, "I am Faramir."
"Good to meet you, Faramir."
"And your friends?"
Aragorn looked around at the others and gave a quick nod. Immediately, they all lowered their respective weapons, confirming Faramir's suspicion that Aragorn was their captain.
"This is Legolas." The blonde man. Pointing behind him, Aragorn then identified the others. "Kalub, Janor, Veron and Jecha." None made any sign of acknowledgement so Faramir also remained indifferent, merely narrowing his eyes in a subtle display of suspicion echoed far more blatantly by his own people who remained armed and ready behind him.
"And your purpose here?"
Once more, the man, Aragorn, cast a glance in the way of the blonde man stood sharply to attention at his side as if it were his natural instinct to turn to the other for guidance. Perhaps, then, this young man had not always been a leader. Indeed, he was young, so obviously inexperienced despite all the pretence to the contrary.
"We come to look for the defenders of Gondor."
"Is that so?" Shrewd grey eyes moved back to his lieutenant. "Or perhaps to pick off the innocent of my city?"
A frown, seemingly genuine, creased the brow of the man identified as Aragorn. "I beg your pardon?"
"The woman, slaughtered and maimed on these streets."
Aragorn as he called himself seemed to be genuinely distressed by the accusation. "We know nothing of what you speak," said the man after a while.
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
"So it is merely coincidence then that such an atrocity coincides with your arrival here?" the Faramir demanded frostily.
"Yes."
It must have been clear that Faramir did not believe this claim of innocence because Legolas stood taller, stiffer still, his hand drifting to where his blade now hung from his belt. Protectiveness fairly exuded from the blonde man. Definitely related, Faramir decided. Dangerous, indeed, a protective relative would always prove.
"I'm afraid that I am not so easily convinced. If you are indeed guiltless in this crime then you would consent to being restrained and go before the Steward to explain your presence here."
"This is how you treat innocent visitors to your kingdom?" asked the man Aragorn had named as Jecha. So thick was his accent, impossible to place, that Faramir had to work hard to even understand the individual words being spoken. No warmth was expressed in his voice. He did not seem particularly friendly towards those who travelled with him either. Most certainly not family.
"Your innocence has yet to be proven."
Aragorn considered it for a moment and then sent an almost apologetic look to Legolas before saying, "Very well. If that would put you at ease."
"Sir?" the accented man asked, taking a step forward.
"We are visitors here. We must do as we are asked if it would make our hosts more comfortable with our presence."
The simple statement seemed to be all the finely attired man needed, as he retreated back a step as a sign of obedience.
Faramir nodded, one Captain to another, although oddly Aragorn did not respond in kind. Inexperienced. Not a leader for any length of time and uncertain of how to behave around likewise authority.
"Restrain them."
Guards, cautious and yet with an air of false confidence, moved around their captain. They outnumbered the newcomers and each took one of the men by the arm so they acted as an escort to these people they didn't trust.
"You will be taken to the command centre where you will have an audience with the Steward," Faramir told them, taking the lead back through the streets.
"Why is it that whenever I go anywhere with you I always end up being bound by distrustful Men?" muttered Kalub under his breath to Legolas.
"It does seem to be a regular occurrence," the Elf agreed, although in this instance he might have preferred a show of dominance rather than surrender. Still, Aragorn had to make the ultimate decision and he was bound to follow.
"Your Steward," Aragorn tried to strike up conversation with the captain as he was led through the streets just behind him, "he is a fair man?"
Hesitation. Faramir had to be diplomatic when his sire was concerned and yet he hesitated in declaring Denethor a good, reasonable man because he could not do so with complete truth and confidence.
"I see," Aragorn mumbled, somewhat disheartened, before the captain could formulate an answer.
"He will judge you."
Not exactly the assurance Aragorn had been looking for.
As the Rohirrim and Rangers had approached the city of Osgiliath, sitting not far from the ancient White City of Minas Tirith now under the banner of Mordor, Aragorn learned more about his own broken line and how the Stewards had taken over guardianship of Gondor and its people. Little was known of their exact position and circumstances though. They knew nothing of the Steward's character, whether he was equitable or whether he would accept the tale Aragorn had to tell.
Nerves fluttered in Aragorn's stomach now. How would the Steward, keeper of the throne in lieu of the true king, respond to Aragorn's claims on said throne? With anger or relief?
He could not falter now though. Everything he had been through had been leading up to this very point – from Legolas' training of him to searching out the Rangers and eventually all other Free men, building his army to take back from the clutches of the Shadow this, his kingdom.
"What is this? Not Orcs," observed Denethor when Faramir entered and presented his find to the still deliberating Council.
"No, Father." Aragorn raised his head at this. Faramir was the son of the Steward. Why was nothing ever straight forward? "We found them in the south quarter, along with the murdered body of a young woman."
Denethor rose from his seat, locking gazes with the young man who must have been the leader as he had been positioned at the head of the group of prisoners.
"Spies," he declared without preamble. Murmurs of agreement went up amongst the old men around the table.
'Fair, indeed!' thought Kalub.
Aragorn answered with perfect calm and obvious sincerity. "We are not spies, nor did we have anything to do with the death of that unfortunate woman Faramir mentioned."
The suspicion shone brighter than ever in Denethor's dark eyes. "No?"
"No, sir."
"Then explain to me why you are here if not to spy on the people of Osgiliath."
"We seek out the Steward of Gondor."
Denethor's eyes narrowed further. "I am he."
"I am Aragorn, sir. This is Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, Kalub, Janor and Veron of the Dunedain and Jecha."
The stern Steward offered no welcome, his countenance not softening any at the introductions that Aragorn had rather hoped would help build trust. Nor did the old man give any indication that he recognised any of the names Aragorn had reamed off. Word of the exploits of the gathered Men had clearly not reached the ears of Gondor or its keeper.
"If not to slaughter innocent citizens of my city, why have you come?" asked the suspicious Steward after a brief pause during which he closely examined those men stood before him.
At this, Aragorn glanced around the room. It was filled almost to capacity with guards, prisoners and councillors; too many to say with confidence what he had to.
"May we speak in private, my Lord?"
Immediately, Denethor recoiled at the suggestion. Seldom did he do anything without the approval of his Council; that way blame for any mistakes would fall upon the whole rather than him alone. A handy tool to have when every man, woman and child in Gondor looked to him for guidance. It would not do for their mighty, trusted Steward to be held accountable for all wrongs that befell the kingdom. Therefore, to be left alone in a room with possibly dangerous men was the last thing he would agree to.
"You may speak anything before the Council," replied the Steward in a strong, flat voice.
Once again, Aragorn's eyes moved around the serious-looking members of what he presumed to be the Council to which the prickly Steward had referred.
"I do not think that a good idea. It might be better in…"
"Speak," boomed the man loudly.
Aragorn nodded once.
"Very well."
OIOI
"Get out!"
"My Lord…"
"Out!" screamed Denethor to the unfortunate young man who had been charged with bringing food to the incensed Steward. Wisely, the servant abandoned his task, beating a hasty retreat and taking the meal with him.
For over an hour now, the Steward had been furiously pacing back and forth in the council chamber. What he had been told had understandably not gone down well. And more people knew than just him. The whole Council had heard that boy's ridiculous claims and delusions. Everything, within the space of just a few minutes, had been thrown off kilter. A claimant to the throne. It was absurd. The line of kings was long broken. It could not possibly have now come back into being. No, it was simply not possible. Lies. It had to all be lies. Evil trickery employed by the Shadow to upset the balance and breed distrust within his kingdom. Yes, dark magic was at work here. That had to be it.
OIOI
"Well, that went well," dead-panned Kalub as the door to their temporary prison, an old boarded-up shop of some kind that stank of something dead, was locked by the guards who had just escorted them here after their meeting with the Steward. "I hate to say 'I told you so'."
"No, you don't," Janor interrupted as he rubbed his arm, which had been gripped hard enough by the guards to cause pain, probably in their haste to drag them away from the Steward before murder was put on the agenda.
"You're right. I don't."
"Would you two be quiet?" sighed Aragorn as he sat down in a rickety chair in the corner of the room.
Retaining remarkable calm given that they were imprisoned, Janor reasoned, "He did not have us executed on the spot for speaking of treason. That has to be a good thing."
"A silver lining? Never would have expected that from you," deadpanned Kalub.
"People continually surprise you, do they not, Kalub?"
"Constantly."
Janor, trying his best to remain as calm and collected as all but one of the others appeared to be, asked, "So, what now?"
It was Legolas who answered. "We wait."
"For what? Them to realise that execution is the way to go after all?" Kalub put in.
"No. We hope the Steward calms down enough to be reasonable about this."
The tracker scoffed, kicking angrily at an empty storage jar that lay in his way. "Sure. All he needs is time to hand over his kingdom to the supposed king."
"It is not his kingdom," corrected Jecha tightly, ever the champion of the royal line and its true place in Gondor. "This realm belongs to Aragorn and he has every right to claim it. And the Steward cannot stand in the way of that."
"And yet, here we are, locked up with the king of Gondor," Janor pointed out, gesturing at Aragorn.
"Yes." Jecha elegantly leant back up against the dusty wooden counter of the derelict shop, ankles crossed neatly over one another. "You have a point there. His welcome is indeed lacking."
"You tied us up when we first met," Kalub grouched.
"Really?" Janor grinned. "Interesting. You never told us that."
The Ranger flushed with indignation and embarrassment. "Well, I didn't think it was important."
"Important? Probably not. Amusing? Most definitely." Janor laughed out loud but the sound seemed so strangely inappropriate that he immediately regretted it.
"So we just wait?" It was once more Kalub who shattered the quiet, simply to disperse the tension that had built up between them all.
"Yes, we wait."
It was at times like this that Kalub wished he possessed the patience of his fellow Rangers. He had never been good at waiting. Even as a child under the protection of his foster family in Bree he was always on the move, always up to some mischief, driving the warriors around him to distraction as he sought to learn from them and join them. Many put-upon man had been grateful when Kinnale's predecessor, then Captain of the Rangers, had taken him under his wing and taught him the skills required to be a tracker.
Given his need to constantly be moving, the job had suited him and by the time Kinnale had taken up the mantle of Captain, Kalub had been indispensable to their mission.
Unfortunately, for all his training, skill and knowledge, his nature remained unchanged. Not one person nor instance they'd found themselves in had doused that need to move.
So now, as morning rose over the kingdom of Gondor, Kalub remained on his feet, pacing to the window and then back to the opposite wall in the hope that it might cure his restlessness. Only a crack in the wood boarding up the windows allowed light in, announcing the dawn, but unfortunately for the impatient Ranger, it was too narrow to see anything or anyone outside.
"You want to get some rest?"
Kalub looked up at the sound of the voice but it had was immediately obvious that Janor wasn't speaking to him. So, he resumed his agitated pacing.
"I'm fine," Aragorn answered. "Thank you."
"Really you should sleep," put in Jecha, who remained relaxing almost tranquilly against the shop's counter.
Aragorn wanted to protest that he wasn't tired but the thought merely conjured up a yawn, making the words pointless. He settled for, "I'm fine."
Silence blanketed them all once more. Only the same conversation would ensue if they spoke – how they were going to get out of this – and that had proved frustratingly futile because the same arguments led to the same conclusions, which were not at all helpful.
After another few minutes, Jecha moved away from the counter and walked to the window, interrupting Kalub's pattern much to the man's consternation, and bent so he could look out the crack in the wood.
"See anything?" Janor enquired even though Kalub had already reported that nothing of note was visible.
"Only the arm of one of our guards."
"Excellent. That solves all our problems!" Kalub muttered darkly.
Jecha threw the Ranger a dirty look then turned back to the window, saying dryly. "Your sarcasm is not helpful."
"I just wish they would make up their minds what they want to do with us."
"So you have said. But we cannot exactly hurry them along."
"Maybe Aragorn should insist upon seeing the Steward again? Try to talk some sense into him," Janor suggested helpfully.
"And say what?" Aragorn asked, looking up. "He did not listen the first time, pushing him to come to a conclusion could only make things worse."
"Worse than being locked up and left to rot?"
It was Jecha, once more having left the slim view of the outside to recline back against the dust-layered counter, who spoke in answer. "They could kill us out straight."
"That might have been preferable."
Legolas moved for the first time since their imprisonment, drawing up his long legs, which had been stretched out before him, and getting to his feet. "What about Faramir – the Captain? He seemed like a rational man. Comparatively."
"You think he might put in a good word for us?"
"Rather him than that Council of theirs," Janor contributed reasonably.
"Quite. I'd imagine them to be most unhelpful." A scathing report from Jecha who the others imagined would rather respect the fusty Gondorian council members who had sat quietly and stoically as Aragorn had informed the Steward of his place upon Gondor's throne and his obligation to step down. Upon seeing Denethor's reaction, the men on the Council had turned to one another and began talking in excited whispers about the revelation. Not one had dared to express an opinion and none had raised a voice to object when their proclaimed king had been arrested.
"Definitely should dispense with them once you take the throne."
Aragorn shot Kalub a scathing glance upon the remark, no matter how flippantly it was said. Any reminder of what they had come all this way to do still put him on edge. Duty weighed heavily on his mind and heart, even more so now he was in the heart of a kingdom that was rightfully his, regardless of the intentions of Gondor's temporary keeper who kept the threat to his rule safely contained.
Before any other could chastise Kalub for his thoughtless comment, the door opened and all irritation and arguments left them to be replaced with alert caution.
In the doorway, flanked by four armed guards, stood Faramir, son of their captor. Suspicion shone blatantly in light grey eyes as they swept unselfconsciously over the men standing watching him. He had not come here to gain trust.
After almost a full minute of just staring at one another, Faramir broke the silence by stepping over the threshold, taking what looked to be a bracing breath, and then announced with confidence associated with one held in high regard in his command, "We need to talk."
Contradictory to Faramir's declaration, silence followed. Neither side trusted one another. How could they reasonably? One side was come to effectively usurp the rule of Gondor whilst the other was unswervingly loyal to the Stewardship, bound by blood to the cause that had sustained the besieged kingdom through its trials.
Once Faramir had finished sizing up the opposition, regardless that they had remained eyeing him with open suspicion, he turned his head to the side and ordered his stern contingent of guards to leave and shut the doors behind them.
Although surprise registered on all four faces, the guards did as asked. They trusted their captain in spite of all the distrust and disappointment rained down upon him by his father and his Council.
It took a moment for Faramir to strike up a discourse between them. He seemed genuine in his words though, if not a little nervous and unsure.
"I am sorry about…this."
"Our imprisonment, you mean? That is easily rectified."
Grey eyes narrowed at the crimson-garbed man who had fixed him with a glare that equally communicated indignation, reason and calculation. This one did not like to be caged. In fact, Faramir thought, that of all the men caught in his father's net, the one with the pristine formal dress and clipped thick accent from distant lands seemed the most regal. Much more than Aragorn, the proclaimed king of Gondor. Perhaps if it had been this man, Jecha, Faramir recalled the unusual name, had gone before the Steward, Denethor would not have been so hasty in denying the claims and incarcerating those who spoke them. Indeed, no doubt Denethor would have quailed under the stare of those dark eyes. Faramir found that thought peculiarly pleasing.
"I'm afraid that I am not permitted to release you." No regret entered Faramir's tone, however.
"Why are you here then?"
"Kalub," Aragorn sharply snapped at the tracker's impulsive, ungracious question. Clearly, the Captain did not have to be there. Given that so far he had been the most rational person they had come across so far, Aragorn did not want to frighten him off with foolish, impetuous comments. Looking to a grateful Faramir, Aragorn asked calmly, "What did you wish to talk about?"
Now that the situation had settled somewhat, Faramir hesitated. Disobedience had seemed like a good idea when he had been sat before the fire considering it the night previous, but now that he stood on the brink of it he was rendered uncertain. The consequences could be immense for him and his people.
But he had come this far. It would be cowardly to swerve from this path now.
"You. I want to talk about you," he stated bluntly to Aragorn. "Tell me everything."
'Everything' was a big ask but then Aragorn in turn was asking a lot of the man he perceived to be a loyal subject of the Stewardship. He owed the truth to Faramir for his boldness in approaching him.
So, he told Faramir all of his trials to get here. The death of his father, his being placed in the guardianship of Legolas who had been charged with tutoring and preparing him. Janor spoke of the Rangers and their turning to his cause. No representative of Rohan stood amongst them but all the captives spoke highly of Eomer and his people and how they had been instrumental in beginning the gathering of the army to them.
Faramir listened patiently, occasionally interrupting the narrative with pertinent questions, determined as he was to gain as much knowledge as possible from this encounter.
Some of that which Aragorn told him seemed unlikely to Faramir and yet he listened with perfect patience and politeness. After all, he had come for this very reason, to give these men the chance his father had not.
When Aragorn had finished, leaving out nothing but the very darkest secrets that he felt Faramir was not ready to hear, the Captain stood in contemplative silence. He had imagined that if Denethor had listened to Aragorn's tale in full then he might have been more generous with his guests but, having heard the story, he realised that more likely Denethor would have cut them down where they stood or branded them completely insane
"Well..." Words did not come easily to Faramir. Questions, he had plenty of those. But there was the very real possibility that if he pushed for answers the sheer volume of information gained might just overwhelm him. Instead, he blew out a long breath and stretched his legs, simply for something to do.
Upon looking up, he realised that six pairs of eyes were watching him eagerly, waiting for some response.
Unfortunately for Aragorn and his followers, the Captain did not have anything to give them. So, putting the Men out of their misery for the time being at least, Faramir said, "I will think upon all you have told me."
"Captain Faramir," called Aragorn, halting the man's progress towards the door, "please, we need your help. We have come a long way for it."
The plea reached Faramir but he shoved his sympathy for their need aside and said, "For help or to overturn my father's rule and rob me of my birth-right?" Colder than he had anticipated but that thought, that selfish side, lived deep within him and came to the fore now. It was, after all, his inheritance that this supposed king threatened.
Aragorn startled at the reaction. This man, who had seemed reasonable when they had first met, had his own agenda and Aragorn realised that it was unlikely that it would fit in with his own quest. He shot a glance in the direction of his mentor but Legolas had been watching, observing this whole time and he made no reaction now. How Aragorn missed the days when the Elf would tell him exactly what to do and how to go about it. But, he had gotten them into this mess so it was up to him to see it through.
"Please, will you at least think about what I have said?" pleaded Aragorn in one last effort to endear Faramir to their cause.
Faramir seemed undecided even in this but after a beat, he nodded, a slow, thoughtful movement. "Very well. I will think on it as you ask." That at least he owed this man. For all his doubts, Faramir could not fault his boldness. A certain amount of respect had to be given to Aragorn for that.
"Thank you."
"Just once I would like things to be simple, for someone to say 'of course we'll help, tell us what to do'," Janor said after the door had closed behind Faramir.
"Chance would be a fine thing," muttered Kalub, disappointment that this meeting had not been overly productive obvious in his voice.
"He said he'd think about it. That's something," Aragorn added reasonably, at least attempting to see the bright side in all this.
"You think?"
Jecha paced gracefully along the width of the room and agreed with Aragorn, "I don't think it reasonable to ask for more from him. He did not even have to hear us out."
"So what now?" Janor asked.
It was Kalub who answered, a mix of annoyance and frustration. "Let me guess: We wait?"
To Be Continued…