Chapter 22
Teleziel found that waiting was the most difficult thing in the world. The ancient ruins, although beautiful to look upon, were also sad in their dereliction. Once wide, gracious avenues now lay strewn with rubble and dust. Ancient columns ended abruptly and arches led nowhere. Crouched among the fallen rubble and shadows were men dressed in heavy metal armor bearing a tree etched upon the breastplate. Most of the armor was dull from constant wear and the water and mud and silt. He could only imagine what it looked like polished and gleaming in the sun. He hoped one day that he would be able to see the sight, but as the fog crept around his knees, he began to doubt he’d survive the first assault. The wounded had been sent across the wide plain to the towering city called Minas Tirith. From the distance, the stone structure seemed to cling like ivy to the side of the tall mountain, making Teleziel feel very small and useless.
At first, Faramir had tried to send him with the wounded column, but Teleziel had flatly refused, saying that he’d have to be tied hand-to-foot first. When Faramir begged, Teleziel almost gave in, then seeing Mablung’s sardonic smile, had instantly changed his mind and told his lover no. He would stay and fight—maybe even perish—with those who had given him life and, more importantly, hope.
And now he stood, braced against the remnants of a once graceful staircase, exhausted with traveling and tension and waiting. He stood quietly in the shadows and prayed to his fierce gods for Faramir’s life. He did not know if they would listen to such as he, for he was always told the gods only listened to real men. But now more than ever he felt as though he belonged and was brave and strong. Surely, he thought, as he stared at the rising mist from the river, that was enough for even the gods?
Orcs were crossing the river; Faramir could smell their foulness and his flesh twitched as if touched by evil. In the darkness, he waited, mentally picturing his men as they ranged in the best defensive position they could muster among the ruins. All they could do was hope that Mordor did not send all her forces and to buy time for the White City. As he was picturing his beloved Minas Tirith in his mind, he heard it, the faint splashing of oars on water and his insides tightened. So it began.
*~*
Teleziel’s arms ached and his fingers were slippery with gore. The smell of blood and orc foulness clung to his hair and his clothes. He fought with abandon, raising and lowering the heavy sword time and time again to cut through gray-green flesh and watch the light fade from greedy, inhuman eyes. Long ago he’d lost sight of Faramir or anyone else that he knew, for that matter. The shouting of men and orcs and the ring of metal on metal deafened him and among the piles of stone he lost all sense of direction as fog enveloped them.
He became aware of a trumpeting sound as the dawn sheered the fog with a pale rose glow. The light illuminated the scene and he flinched away from it. Corpses littered the dead city, men and orcs piled haphazardly upon one another as if a giant had, in a blind rage, scattered about his toy soldiers. Frantically, he scanned the bodies even as he raced towards the sound of the horn and shouts of “retreat.” One sentence repeated itself to him and his heart flinched. Osgiliath was lost. His poor beloved had gambled and lost and Teleziel only wanted to find him and offer him comfort. For who could stand against such overwhelming numbers as poured across the river? Surely the great dark mountain had regurgitated her inhabitants and spewed them on the banks of the Anduin.
Staggering on a bit of rock, the Haradrim fell face down in the dust and instantly felt something leap upon his back. A loud scream filled his ears and made them ring as he struggled to turn over and free himself from the claws gripping his shoulders and neck. Warm blood trickled into his eyes and foulness like a thousand rotted corpses filled his nose and the weight lifted from him.
“Teleziel?” Mablung stood staring at him with wide eyes. “Can you hear me?”
Gaining his feet, Teleziel glanced at Mablung’s gored sword and his smudged face and then nodded his thanks. “I heard the horns.”
“Come, let us flee before we are trapped.” Taking Teleziel’s arm, he led the Haradrim away, towards the clear call of the horn.
“Have you seen Faramir?” Teleziel shouted over the din.
“I lost sight of him….”
They both saw Damrod at the same time, surrounded by orcs that he kept at bay only with the speed of his sword thrusts. They jeered and laughed at the lone human with his failing strength and his back pressed tightly against the remains of a shattered pillar. As one, Mablung and Teleziel lunged forward to Damrod’s side and waded among the orcs, slicing and slashing a path through the press.
*~*
Faramir stood on a bit of rock and swayed as it tilted beneath his weight. Where was Teleziel? His eyes canned the bodies of the slain and the wounded and those still standing. Yet nowhere could he find his beloved.
“Captain, we must pull back now before we are trapped.”
“Yes, go!” Faramir climbed off the rock and turned his feet towards the center of Osgiliath, where much fighting had taken place. He couldn’t leave until he knew for certain of Teleziel. “Start ferrying the men over the river. I’ll try to find more survivors.”
The warrior was about to interrupt when Faramir suddenly leapt forward with a sharp cry and rushed through the smoke and clearing fog towards a lone figure staggering out of the gloom.
*~*
Denethor sat quietly in the hall and stared at the tiled floor. He’d already heard the reports and knew that Osgiliath was fallen. His son, the only surviving fruit of his loins, had failed him and now that fool of a wizard wanted him to light the beacons and call the Horse-lords. He wouldn’t call them, the arrogant breeders of horses, not for the love of Gondor or of the White City herself would he beg anyone for aid. His face twisted into a dark scowl as he sat and brooded.
*~*
He was barely recognizable beneath the torn rags and blood, but for the dark hair, close- cropped and gleaming like onyx. His luminous black eyes sparkled with tears that beaded his lashes and streaked his cheeks. He trembled in Faramir’s arms and his sobs were loud even in the din of screams and ringing metal. “Mablung..” Teleziel half sobbed and clutched helplessly at the metal straps of Faramir’s armor. “They…”
“Shh,” Faramir pulled at Teleziel, leading the Haradrim towards the line of retreating men. He needed no explanation for the look on Teleziel’s face told him that Damrod and Mablung had fallen. He could not imagine one surviving without the other any more than he could imagine life without his two friends. He thrust the thought aside for he had no time to mourn for two lost soldiers when all of Gondor lay in danger. Perhaps, when it was all over, he could find time to mourn his friends, all of them, but not now.
Slipping and sliding on the mud, Faramir and those who had survived to retreat gathered and climbed aboard wagons and astride weary horses. The strangely silent men were a marked contrast to the noise they’d left behind. Even the wounded—those whose friends had been able to stop and help—lay quietly.
Teleziel sat in a wagon with Faramir and laid his head on Faramir’s shoulder and tried not to cry. First to fall had been Damrod, exhausted by his furious last stand against the orcs. Mablung had watched him fall, of that Teleziel was certain, for he saw a slight smile play on Damrod’s face as he slipped down the column and his sword at last fell from his grasp. There’d been a mighty howl and then Mablung waded in among the orcs, swinging violently and efficiently as he stood sheltering Damrod’s lifeless body. Teleziel had tried to follow, but the orcs were too many and too intent on closing ranks around Mablung. His last sight of the noble Ranger had been of him standing protectively over Damrod just before an orc blade severed his head from his shoulders. Teleziel’s gods granted him a small mercy by dulling the memory of what followed.
A flask of tepid water was thrust against his lips and Teleziel automatically swallowed. He looked up through his lashes at Faramir and saw the lines of sorrow etched deeply on his beloved’s face. Gently, he reached up and stroked the stubble covered chin. “I am sorry.”
Faramir swallowed and his nostrils flared with the effort of holding back his own tears. His hand tightened convulsively on Teleziel’s shoulders and even though he knew his fierce grip hurt his lover, he couldn’t bring himself to lessen his hold. “It was hopeless from the beginning to think we could hold Osgiliath.”
“Perhaps we have bought time,” Teleziel said, repeating the lines Faramir often spoke. “They did not die for nothing.” Fresh, hot tears splashed over his cheeks and Teleziel’s grief transformed into white anger. “Why did Mablung behave so foolishly? He couldn’t save Damrod..he threw his life away…and we could use him now.”
Faramir kissed Teleziel’s damp temple. “They could not live without each other, Teleziel. It was better this way.”
The men made their way in small clumps and singly towards the vague outline of Minas Tirith. Fog still shrouded her base, but the great towers that climbed the side of the mountain were touched with dawn’s first kiss. Teleziel paused and stared in wonder at the city that rose high above the plain.
Faramir stopped and stared. “Minas Tirith.”
“Not even the might of the Dark One could tear down her walls,” Teleziel breathed, overwhelmed by the splendor.
Faramir laughed bitterly.