Chapter 1
“What do you want us to do with him, Captain?”
Faramir stared down at the limp form slung between the guards. His robes and hood were torn and bloody and the scarlet mask coving his mouth and nose had been removed, but whether by his men or someone else, Faramir did not know. The dark lashes fanned out over the high cheekbones and accentuated the bruises covering much of his face. His wide mouth grimaced even in sleep.
“Put him in the disused storage room with a guard. Make sure to treat his injuries. He will be valuable to us.” Faramir answered.
The guards nodded and took their prisoner away, leaving Faramir alone for a moment with his maps and plans and thoughts. The war against Mordor grew more heated with every passing day and, with Boromir away on a secret mission, there was no relief for Faramir or his troops. He thought of the Haradrim and frowned. Mordor’s reach was far more advanced than expected, but he was not surprised to see the easterlings recruited by the Dark Lord. Long ago they’d made their pact with him and they were men of honor, in their own warped way.
Patrols spotted the lone Haradrim the day before, but watched him closely rather then bring him back to the secret stronghold. They were not certain that he was completely alone. During their watch, he never awakened and Faramir doubted that he would. The bruise on his temple told a hard tale. Perhaps it was one of his own men or perhaps it was some other reason for the wound, but either way, the man was abandoned to die far from home or comfort. Faramir hardened his soft heart; the man was an enemy and, ill-treated by his own or not, was a prisoner of war.
*~*
The men retired after their evening meal and Faramir found himself alone in his cubby, a hollow in the rock walls with a curtain over the entrance that was all the luxury he allowed himself. He sat on a stool and smoked his pipe and tried to relax. Yet, try as he might, the day’s worries and responsibilities weighted his shoulders and he kept turning his mind to the war and Gondor. But mostly, he worried about Boromir.
“Captain?” Mablung’s soft voice carried easily through the curtain.
Faramir climbed to his feet and pulled aside the drapery. “What is it?”
“The prisoner is awake now.”
Faramir nodded and set aside his pipe. “I will see him.”
Together Mablung and Faramir approached the small room where the Haradrim rested. A guard stood outside the door speaking with another soldier.
“How is he?”
The second one respectfully inclined his head. “His injuries are not life threatening, although the knock on his head was most severe. I believe his own comrades did it to him. I cannot think why.”
“This could be a trap,” said Mablung.
“True. But our patrols did watch him and saw no signs of any of his fellows. Let us see if he will communicate with us before we decide what to do with him.”
“We should take him straight to Gondor,” said the guard.
“When we are certain that he has no one coming to look for him,” answered Faramir. “Then I will take him to my father.”
The guard moved aside and Faramir saw the prisoner resting on a pallet. He’d been stripped and only wore a thin blanket across his hips to cover him. His eyes were open and reflected almost black in the dim lantern light. The bruises on his face yellowed, adding a green cast to his olive skin.
“Do you understand me?” Faramir moved forward cautiously. He did not speak the Haradrim's language and had no interpreter with him in Ithilien.
The prisoner’s stubbled chin lifted a fraction and the mouth set into firm, proud lines. “I am Teleziel of the Haradrim. I have no fear of you, man of Gondor, or whatever torture you devise.”
Taken aback, Faramir stared for a moment at the man on the floor. The lilting voice and heavy accent only added to the sense of the exotic surrounding the Haradrim, but Faramir caught something in the voice that others might not have noticed. Hidden behind the pride was also a sense of sorrow. “You may not fear me or my men, Teleziel of the Haradrim, but you should. Your people left you to die in the wilderness.”
Something flickered in Teleziel’s eyes. “We do not wait for the injured.”
Faramir felt a little jolt and then something akin to a sudden epiphany. “Even when they inflict the wounds?”
Teleziel’s complexion turned a dull crimson and his jaw set stubbornly. He turned his face away from Faramir.
“I see I am right. They beat you and then left you to die. I wonder why? Have they so large an army that they can abandon their men at will? Or did you earn the beating you received?” As Faramir moved closer he saw the bruises and red welts covering the Haradrim’s torso and upper arms. Someone held Teleziel while others hit him.
The prisoner squirmed on his pallet. His thighs clenched and his hips stiffened. A low moan started in his chest, but he stifled the sound before it became a cry.
Faramir stood over his charge and frowned. His grey-green eyes roved over the battered body and he wondered how close to the mark he’d come without even realizing it. “Leave us,” he commanded.
“Captain,” Mablung began.
“He is no threat. If I need you, I will call.”
When the rest retreated, Faramir squatted on his haunches and cautiously lifted a corner of the blanket. Teleziel’s hands clenched at his sides, but he remained rigid and unresponsive. The bruising on the hips was worse. The marks were no longer red, but rather green-blue streaks and black splotches. There were knife marks on his thighs, perilously close to his penis. They were shallow, made with the weapon almost flat against the skin, designed to frighten and to hurt, but not to kill. Faramir’s eyes roamed Teleziel’s body and he noticed faint scars on his ribs and abdomen. Knife marks. Many of them were scarred over, indicating on-going abuse. How long, he wondered, had he been subject to beatings and cutting? Was it punishment or a macabre ritual?
“What was your crime that your own people felt the need to do this to you? Are you a traitor? A deserter?” Faramir did not expect an answer, nor did he receive one. “What cruel people you are.” He laid the blanket back in place. “My orders are to take all prisoners to Gondor for questioning. If you do not speak to me, you will speak to someone else.”
“I am Haradrim,” the voice quavered.
Nodding, Faramir clasped his hands between his thighs and rocked slowly on the balls of his feet. “Then you will go to Gondor.”
“There is nothing you can do to me.”
“No?” Faramir tilted his head to the side and stared hard at the man. Indeed, there was nothing that they could do to this one that had not already been done. He’d endured, even lived, and Faramir suspected that even he would have been hard pressed under the circumstances. “Your loyalty is admirable.”
The dark eyes flickered towards Faramir, searching for mockery. He found none. The only emotion he saw was gentleness and understanding. Mockery and cruelty he understood, however the kindness unnerved him. He gulped and tried to put on a brave face. “I am not a traitor.”
Faramir’s pale brows arched. “No? But you were left to die.”
The pointed chin set and the lips thinned.
Knowing he would get no further with the prisoner, Faramir stood and went out. “Make sure he’s given food and water. He’s probably no threat, but rotate the guards regularly, just in case.”
“When will we take him to Gondor?” Mablung cast a suspicious glance at the prisoner.
“As soon as we can spare the time.”
*~*
Teleziel lay on his pallet and stared at the ceiling where the shadows merged. Now that he was alone, he could relax. He disliked the idea of showing the Gondorians how much pain he was in; any weakness would earn him as much pain has he already felt. The healing bruises burned and the cuts itched as the skin knitted closed. He still throbbed where he’d been raped. How many times? Teleziel frowned. He lost count. Judging from the way he felt, they’d continued even after he’d passed out. In some ways, he was surprised to be alive at all. Normally, the Haradrim did not allow those like him to live. Why had they? Did they believe he’d die after they’d finished with him? Or had they thought him already dead? Probably the latter. He’d have counted himself lucky except for not knowing what the Gondorians would do to him.
Unconsciously, his hands groped among the debris on the floor. The smooth floor yielded little at first. After a while, his fingers found a sliver of rock and he smiled grimly.
*~*
Faramir returned to his cubby and settled comfortably
in his bed. Turning on his side, he closed his eyes and prepared to sleep. Yet
his mind would not quiet down and let him rest. He kept seeing the Haradrim’s
dark eyes staring at him behind his closed lids. Nor could he leave the problem
of the scars alone. Teleziel, if that was truly his name, seemed uncannily loyal
to those who’d hurt him. And for what? What would the loyalty gain him?
Or did he fear them even now? With those thoughts chasing through his mind,
Faramir drifted off to sleep as dawn painted the sky orange.