Chapter 6

Faramir laid in his cell, straining his ears for any sound.

The door creaked open. The gruff voice of a captor echoed, "Your brother's coming. One squeak and he finds his greatest fear: your dead body."

Faramir was lifted up, standing on his unsteady, bound feet. The cold, sharp blade of a dagger rested against his throat. He whimpered, his fright speaking for him.

"One squeak…" the servant reminded him. "You're worth about one thousand silver coins to the Steward. That's all."

Faramir winced. He longed to see where he was through the cloth, discover why his brother couldn't see him. He felt his breathing quicken.

His brother was smart and quick.

He'd find him.

Boromir, with Beregond at his side, rushed through the pantries of the kitchen, to Cook's dismay.

"Faramir!" Boromir cried in anguish, his voice cracking. "Faramir!"

"My lord Boromir," Beregond hushed. "We will find him. They couldn't have taken him out of the city."

Boromir didn't listen. "Faramir! Faramir!"

"Faramir! Faramir!"

Faramir silently wept as he heard his brother call his name. He was hurting. Faramir never heard his brother so broken down, so helpless, so worried, so lost.

He whimpered.

"One squeak…" the servant reminded him, tightening his grip on the hilt.

Boromir tore the food from the pantry, bruising apples, bending cheese, spoiling fruits. Every time his brother was not behind the food, looking desperately at his brother, Boromir's heart broke all over again.

Along with his hope.

"No," Boromir moaned when all of the food was spilled on the floor. "Please. Please, no!" All he wanted was to feel his little brother in his arms, hugging him, never letting him go again.

Beregond came to his aid. "Boromir, we will find him. The pantry is just one part of this city. There are other places that Faramir could be. Let us check them."

Boromir bit his lip, held back tortured tears, and went with Beregond out of the kitchen.

Faramir slumped to the ground. He broke into tears when he heard footsteps leave the pantry. Why couldn't they find him? Where was he? A secret passageway?

He cried, shoulders shaking, tears slipping through his closed eyelids and blindfold.

Boromir, Boromir! Why didn't you look! Why couldn't you find me? Please try again! Brother, try again!

"You really are pathetic," the voice slithered. "Lord Denethor has done one right thing in his reign, putting you out of harm's way." He kicked the boy, smiling when Faramir groaned.

"I have to go. You'll be lonely once more. Good night. Have a good sleep."

Faramir winced and buried his head in the cobblestone of the floor. Was it nighttime already? How long had he been here? It had felt like hours, but had a whole day really passed?

He heard a rat scurry across the floor. It stopped suddenly, sniffing something, and then continued.

Faramir again pulled at the ropes, unmercifully. He would get free. He would show his father that he was a man, just like Boromir.

But he had to be alive to do that.

Boromir led the men along the houses of Minas Tirith. The women pulled children backward so that they would not disturb the business of the soldiers. Men guarded their wives, wondering why the Lord Boromir was heedlessly ransacking their homes, looking for something.

Finally, the frantic soldier bellowed, "Who is holding my brother?" His voice held more agony than any had ever heard.

Boromir desperately held back tears, looking through every nook and cranny large enough to hold a teenage boy. He scoured the attics, tore down walls, and pushed artifacts in closets aside. He had been searching for an eternity, it felt. The moon was now chasing the sun into the horizon. Where was his brother?

Why didn't his father care?

Beregond had been Boromir's only source of sanity. The young father had consoled Boromir, comforted him, and had aided him.

The search of the city was done. Boromir knew that loyal soldiers had searched the city just as thoroughly as he had, but his heart longed to search the whole city. He would not stop until he had found his brother.

Exhausted after his assigned fifth of the search, Boromir sat on the bench and buried his head in his clenched hands. He let a cry escape. The men would understand, wouldn't they? Did they think him less of a man?

"My lord, Boromir?" Beregond asked, above him.

Boromir looked up. "Yes, Beregond? Did we find him?"

Beregond shook his head. "No, my lord. But we will, I swear it."

Boromir only nodded and returned to his posture of pity.

He felt Beregond sit beside him. "I know that this must be exceedingly difficult. If I lost my little brother, I would show no mercy when I found those who touched him."

Boromir looked to the starry sky, his face alit with the glow of the fires lighting the streets. "You want to kill them."

"I'm sure you will. Those soldiers loyal to you and your father won't rest until he's safe back in the palace eating a hearty meal. Boromir, I swear over my place as a soldier of Gondor, we will find him. Alive."

Boromir nodded. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Beregond smiled, nodded, and patted Boromir on the back. "And when we do find him, I will see to it that his captors are delivered to you and your father."

Boromir thought for a while, and then spoke, "How do you feel about the wage not increasing for soldiers?"

"Truthfully, my lord, I agree with it. We have all that we need, and because of that, I will serve my lords until I die, as I swore. Those who break that oath are not worthy to fight alongside me in battle."

"But, your son will not get enough to eat."

Beregond smiled. "We may not receive as much as you do, but we will survive. Remember, each day we hope for the return of the King."

Boromir nodded and started laughing. "Faramir once told me, when he was very young, if the king came back in his lifetime, the first thing he would ask him was what took him so long."

Beregond merrily laughed. "As I'm sure we all will."

Boromir chuckled. "Thank you for comforting me, Beregond."

"As long as it is needed, my lord, I will be here."

Boromir again thought of his brother; his helpless, bound, gagged, frightened brother. "I will need it much more in the future, my friend."

Faramir awoke when he felt himself being lifted.

The man carrying him huffed, "Did you check the wall for the ransom?" The peppy voice proved that Cook was carrying him.

"No," a soldier growled, creaking something open. "Someone is watching it constantly. When a hooded man is there, he'll give three hoots of a barn owl. Then we'll give the boy back."

"Obviously our money won't come as quick as we thought. We kidnapped the wrong son."

Faramir winced as he was dropped. The floor felt wooden. Something creaked shut above him. He was in a box. He felt himself being lifted. He yelled, though he knew it was futile. He kicked the sides of the box, trying to find a weak spot. He needed to escape.

He let his senses tell him what sight, taste, and touch couldn't. He tried to, in his mind, create a map of the kingdom so he would have some idea of where he was, but he lost track when they slid him into a cart. He smelled meat, cheese…

The supply cart to Osgiliath! They're taking me out of the city!

He kicked the box more. He shouted through the gag more. When he was being shaken, he stopped, following the orders of the horrid kidnapper.

He listened to the horse's clopping in silence. They clopped down the streets of Minas Tirith, Faramir knowing that time was drawing short. He was being taken from his brother. He didn't care about his father, because he knew Denethor didn't care about him.

He realized for the first time how much his body was cramping from being bound for hours. It hurt to move. He longed to open his eyes, his mouth.

He heard a murmur outside of the box. "You, boy, you're going to hear voices. If you don't scream, you'll eat when we get to the place we're going. If you scream, I open the box and shove a knife in you."

Faramir felt his heart twist with fear. How could it not?

He stopped thinking when a painfully familiar voice and name again hit his ears.

"What is in the cart?"

"They are supplies to be taken to the men of Osgiliath, Lord Boromir."

Faramir longed to scream. He wanted his brother to know that he was here, so that this agony could be over and done with, but the picture of a knife silenced him.

"What are they?"

"Cheese, apples, meat, and the other usual foods milord."

"What is in the box?"

"A dead goat. The men requested it. They wish to prepare as they desire."

Faramir would've screamed. So that was how they explained the kidnapping of an unworthy, weak son! Boromir, please! Please! Please you have to notice! Don't let…don't let me…please!

Boromir's voice sounded, "Go ahead."

Faramir wept.

He kicked the box in frustration and agony. Was he not strong enough to let his brother know that he was alive and two times now right under his brother's nose!

He cried in the crate, mourning his weakness.

His father was right. He was stupid. He was a stupid, stupid fool.

And now he was paying the price.