Chapter 11
Forcing Teleziel’s chin up, Faramir gently sponged his face and neck before moving to his hands. When he tried to take one of them, Teleziel shook his head and trapped them behind his knees. “Please, Teleziel, let me wash your hands.”
Reluctantly, Teleziel drew out his hands and held them out for Faramir. He couldn’t control the tremors in his hands and he felt tears prickle his eyes. Angrily, he swiped at his face, smearing it again with blood.
Saying nothing, Faramir simply rewashed his face and then took his hands and dipped them in the warm water. “I have the cell swept for rocks so that you cannot cut yourself. I tell my men not to allow you anything that could be sharpened to form a weapon to use on yourself. I do this and they think I’m soft. They do not understand why it is I have shown an enemy such favor. They don’t understand why I don’t take you to Minas Tirith and dump you. To tell you the truth, Teleziel, I’m not sure, either.”
Teleziel put his hands in his lap and kept his head lowered so that the ends of his hair shielded his face.
Faramir set aside the bowl and drew out his pipe. “At first, I thought to keep you here and ask you to spy on your people for me. My men were not happy with the idea of having the enemy so close to us. They felt you would betray us at the first opportunity. I tested you and found that you did not lie so I resolved to go forward with my plan. Then last night, I watched you rip chunks out of your scalp and I resolved that you would go to Minas Tirith if I had to carry you myself. Today, I look at you and think ‘why?’ Why waste my father’s time? Why spare men to carry you to him? These things I tell myself because in my heart, I do not want to take you to the White City and have you subjected to more torture. You’ve already survived so much. But why should I protect you? Why should I risk my life and the life of my men for a boy—nay, a man—who destroys his own body?”
Biting his lip, Teleziel kept silent, knowing that Faramir needed to speak his thoughts aloud, just as he, Teleziel had needed to scream out his anguish.
“I listened to all you told me, even though it made no sense to me whatsoever. I believe what you say for my own experiences with the Haradrim say they are a harsh people. I believe you when you say that you felt like your whole life was a lie. What can I offer you? Death is all that I have at my disposal, however, I find it difficult to kill a broken man, even if killing him is a mercy to all concerned.”
Faramir drew on his pipe and the coals glowed brightly before fading. He exhaled and a stream of aromatic smoke wafted around Teleziel’s ravaged head. “Who are you, Teleziel of the Haradrim? Tell me why I should care.”
“I’m a soldier. I do not have the answers to your questions.”
“If not you, then who?” Faramir climbed to his feet and knocked his pipe out on his boot heel. He stamped the coals into the floor, leaving behind a black smudge. Reaching behind his back, he drew his dagger and he tossed it on the floor. “You decide, Teleziel.”
Faramir left the small cell, leaving Teleziel sitting on the floor in his own puddle of misery.
Damrod said nothing as Faramir stood in the hall outside the cell. He wasn’t sure giving the Haradrim a weapon was wise. In fact, he wasn’t even sure what it meant.
“Keep your sword handy. If he tries to escape, kill him. Otherwise, leave him alone.”
“Captain..”
Faramir turned wearily and stared at Damrod. “They will kill him in Minas Tirith. He can’t be trusted to help us. Let him choose his own path.”
In his cubicle, Faramir lay on his cot and stared unseeing at the ceiling. Boromir, dead. Frodo loose in the wilds with the enemy’s weapon with his gardener for a body guard and a gangrel creature for a guide. And, if the rumors he heard were correct, his own father was slowly slipping into insanity. Meanwhile, he played games with the enemy. He’d not asked all of his questions aloud. Some were too private to speak with words. He found himself drawn to Teleziel. He looked into the liquid eyes and saw the pride and passion and he wanted to taste it. He wanted to know if the long hair was as soft as it appeared. He wanted to see the lithe, strong body bent in a posture other than one of pain and submission. He felt guilty for thinking those thoughts, but he couldn’t seem to stop them. He couldn’t seem to harden his resolve.
Mostly, however, he couldn’t get past the pain and torment that showed when Teleziel thought no one was looking. What would it be like, he wondered, to live where you were not allowed to love whom you choose? Arguably, his father did not understand him and there were even times when Faramir wondered if his father loved him at all. Was Denethor disappointed in his younger son? Perhaps that was so. The one who’d loved him unconditionally was dead and his body floated away on the gentle river currents.
Did one have to leave so another could stay? Angrily, Faramir thrust that horrible thought aside.
How did it feel to live a lie? Faramir rolled the idea around in his mind but was unable to come up with a clear picture. He wanted to understand the Haradrim. He needed to understand. Part of this was to better know his enemy. The other part remained unspeakable; unthinkable.
At last exhaustion overcame his emotional turmoil and he fell asleep. In his dreams, he pictured Teleziel dressed in the grays and browns of the Rangers. The wide mouth turned up at the corners as he laughed and his dark eyes danced with mirth.
*~*
The knife lay only inches from Teleziel’s hand. He only had to reach out, barely stretch, to take it up. The handle was bone and the blade was finely made. He knew the edge would be keen. What would he do with it once he had it? He thought of all the times he’d drawn the edge of a blade over his skin and remembered the instant sting followed by the inner calm.
He picked up the weapon and held it close to his face, examining it carefully. It wasn’t fancy, as one would expect of a noble or a captain. The handle was without markings of any kind and the blade was smooth, without etching or design. So, he too was also just a soldier. This thought made Teleziel smile as he turned the blade this way and that.
Laying the blade edge flat against his palm, he pulled the knife over his hand and winced and hissed as a thin line of blood welled where the blade passed. He stared as the blood pooled in his cupped palm and then slowly tilted his hand so the crimson drops spilled out onto the floor. Faramir left the choices up to him. He could continue hurting himself. He could end his life. Glancing at the door, he saw the shadow of his guard and knew that there were limits to his choices.
Not that physical escape was a true choice. He knew he had now where to go. He couldn’t go back to the Haradrim. He couldn’t pass among the orcs—not even if he could, would he for he loathed the foul smelling things with all his heart and lamented his own people’s alliance with them. Could he go to Mordor as a free agent? Teleziel frowned and his distorted reflection glared back at him from the blade. No, he could not go to Mordor, for without his people, he felt no allegiance to the Dark Lord.
Running his bloody palm over his abdomen, he traced the scars with his fingers. Some he’d made, others he did not. He claimed that the marks on his skin were a sort of freedom. Now he had the freedom to choose. Life, as it was, or death.
Both spoke to him of endless finality. Honorable suicide or dishonorable life among the enemy. Who was the enemy? The Gondorians? The captain? His father and Imiro? The Dark Lord? Looking at the question from a different angle, Teleziel fond himself wondering if he owed anyone his allegiance. Left to die, the Haradrim forfeited any claim on the one they’d beaten, raped and then abandoned. The Gondorians saved him because he was an enemy; a useful toy to be sent to the White City where he’d face torture and then, most likely, death. A painful, slow death.
He didn’t want to die slowly. He didn’t want to die painfully. But was he ready to die quickly?
The blood felt warm and sticky on his chest and the smell, sharp and metallic, filled his nose. His blood. He shivered with revulsion and anticipation. Teleziel took a deep breath and raised the knife to eyelevel.
The captain had said to let him chose his own path.
The knife flashed in the pale lamplight.