Chapter 12
Faramir quietly rose from his pallet sometime around daybreak. His sleep had been fitful, interrupted by images that frightened him. He dreamed, as he sometimes did during the dark hours of the night, of Boromir. He always stood on the bank, watching is brother fall away from him. He called and called, but Boromir never seemed to hear him. The dream was different this time, for once he called out Boromir turned around, yet as he turned, the features changed until they were those of Teleziel.
And what, exactly, he thought sourly, did that mean? He knew what it meant. He refused to believe. He refused to acknowledge the stirrings in his heart. Faramir broke his fast with his men on honey cakes and mead, and then they men gathered their weapons and went quietly from the stronghold of Ithilien.
The team spread out, separating into small groups. Some would range far afield and hunt small game and gather wild herbs. Others would scout for orcs and other foul creatures tramping unsuspectingly through the woods. Faramir led the group that ranged farthest away, climbing from the mountains down to the valley floor where they would meet up with other soldiers and exchange news.
And what would he say of those visitors he’d had in his keeping? Nothing. He’d stay silent and so would his men. None would betray him, even if they were concerned that he was wrong. They were loyal first to him and then to Gondor. They trusted him. He only hoped his actions had not betrayed that trust.
They waded thought the tall yellow grasses, their clothes blending
in until only the most careful scrutiny would have picked any of them out. When
they reached the ruins of Osgiliath, Faramir allowed his men to rest while he
surveyed their last line of defense and assessed the intelligence gathered by
other groups. He rejoiced at the news that Rohan had not fallen and he wondered
if the Horse Lords would come to their aid. He wondered, too, when or even if,
his father would seek help from the Riders.
He doubted it for his father’s pride was equaled only by the sheer size
and scope of the White City. Faramir sent word to Denethor of the number of
enemy patrols spotted and destroyed. He left out word of a captured spy and
two little Halflings. Those reports would never be revealed.
He’d committed treason. Not once. Twice. His life was forfeit; as forfeit as the Halflings, who had no hope of completing their mission. As forfeit as Teleziel’s life. Despair gripped him by the heart and refused to release him as he stood facing Pelennor Field. What was all of this? What hope had Gondor of winning against those who were so bent on her destruction? Gondor’s mighty Captain-General would never again blow his silver chased horn and rally the soldiers to his call.
Faramir’s gaze swept over the river, where he’d last seen Boromir’s body. His brother would not have allowed despair to grip him thusly. He would shake it off and laugh in the face of death. Faramir clenched his fist and he raised it towards Mordor in silent defiance. He was not Boromir, but he was a captain. He was a warrior. He would die defending his country.
As twilight settled over the white glistening bones, Faramir led his men towards the hills.
*~*
Damrod and Mablung waited impatiently beyond the secret door beneath the falls. Mablung paced nervously while Damrod sat and smoked his pipe. They did not expect Faramir and those he’d taken with him to Osgiliath before moonrise, but still they were anxious to see their erstwhile captain.
Mablung growled at the delay and mentally chaffed at the wait while Damrod remained obstinately peaceful. They could do nothing beyond waiting.
When Faramir stepped through the portal, Damrod rose and took his pipe from between his teeth. Mablung managed to pause for a heartbeat, before pacing one last circuit, like a dog looking for a comfortable position.
“Captain, you should come to the prisoner’s cell.”
“You shouldn’t have left it until nightfall,” Mablung said, forgetting, or refusing to acknowledge his place.
Damrod overrode Mablung. “It makes the men nervous—seeing him like that,” he said diplomatically.
Faramir set aside his cloak and bow. “He is not our most pressing business. When I’ve supped, I will take care of it myself.”
“Captain,” Damrod cautioned. “It should be
now.”
“He’s been like that all day. You can’t just ignore him. Something
has got to be done.”
Knowing Mablung and Damrod were right did not make it easier. He wanted only to eat and sleep and forget. But he had a duty to the Haradrim. He had a duty to his men. “Come, then, let us deal with this now.”
*~*
Mablung and Damrod stood aside and let Faramir enter first without them. They were unsure of his reaction and they weren’t certain they wanted to witness it first hand. Besides, they’d come to learn that where the Haradrim was concerned, Faramir had a different agenda.
Faramir walked in alone and stopped in the center of the small room. He blinked for a moment, trying to make his mind work. Teleziel sat with his back to the wall, his legs folded and his bloodied hands resting upwards on his thighs. His pale face was serene and his eyes were closed so that his lashes seemed to fan out on his cheekbones. Dried blood smeared his chest and clotted on his face. The remains of his once long hair littered the ground in clumps. The knife sat by his knee.
Faramir breathed slowly until the dark eyes opened.