Chapter 23
The grim faces all around Teleziel made his skin crawl as he walked the winding streets of Minas Tirith. The city lived up to her name—the white stone buildings rose like ghosts from the mist—and he couldn’t help being chilled to his marrow as he trod behind Faramir. Upwards they climbed, passing closed and boarded shops and men, dressed in armor similar to that of Faramir’s, standing quietly along the roads where they passed. The faces were stern, like statues, and their backs were rigid even if their shoulders slumped a little from their recent defeat. Faramir’s face was expressionless and Teleziel came to understand that his lover placed the mask over his face in times of crisis, when his emotions were in turmoil. Half the Rangers—perhaps less—had survived Osgiliath and the numbers of fighting men in Minas Tirith were not enough, Teleziel was certain of that now as he walked past men too old to bear weapons and boys not yet old enough to shave standing shoulder to shoulder and bearing whatever weapons they had.
So much pain and death, and for what? Teleziel wanted to duck his head. The Haradrim, heeding the call of their master, came to wrest from these tired men all they held dear: their homes, and families, small possessions of wealth. As he glanced around, he saw that they were like Haradrim; men who had wives and children and lovers. They laughed and ate and enjoyed watching the sunrise. And they faced their destruction calmly with a stoicism that stole Teleziel’s heart.
“Please do not let them fall,” whispered Teleziel between grief-stiffened lips.
“What?”
“I was praying.” Teleziel clasped Faramir’s cloak and held on tightly.
“Yes, Teleziel, pray,” Faramir looked up as he walked
and stared high at the tower where he knew his father waited. Pray for us, my
love. The words echoed in his mind and he wondered if the gods would hear or
if they were now deaf to the Men of the West.
Beregond stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched with a heavy heart as
Lord Faramir made his way towards the hall where Denethor grimly sat, as still
as the statues of his long dead ancestors and the great kings of Gondor. He
worried about his lord, especially now that Boromir was gone and Osgiliath fallen.
But he worried even more about Faramir. The young captain had too much weight
on his shoulders, weight that should not be his to bear alone, and yet, who
else was strong enough to shoulder it? Certainly Denethor could not for his
mind was turned inward and he saw the past glories falling away from him like
grains of sand. At Beregond’s side stood his son, Bergil. The lad’s
eyes were round with wonder as the long line of Rangers and soldiers climbed
higher and higher into the city with Faramir at their head.
“There he is, there is Captain Faramir,” Bergil’s arm shot out and his bony finger picked out the image of a tall man with a cap of red-gold curls.
Next to Bergil stood Pippin of the Shire and he gazed for a long moment at the man. He had about him the look of Boromir and, too, of Denethor. But there was something more to him that belonged to neither Denethor nor Boromir that spoke of something that Pippin could not yet put a name to. “He’s a handsome fellow. Who is that clutching his cloak?”
Beregond stared for a moment and then lifted his shoulders. “A soldier. I must return to my duties and I suggest you do the same.”
But Pippin wasn’t so certain of that and his sharp eyes picked out strange details that made no sense to him, but he felt certain must be important. He noticed that beneath the dented helm, the hair was short, and seemed unevenly barbered. In place of a full beard was a wisp of goatee of fine, dark hair on a complexion that wasn’t western. With one last glance at the stranger, Pippin went in search of Gandalf.
*~*
“You must not allow my father to see you,” Faramir led Teleziel to his own quarters. “If he catches sight of you, there is no telling what will happen.”
Teleziel stared around at the room with its wide bed and shelves of books and scrolls. A desk stood beneath the window that overlooked a courtyard where a dead tree stood. “I cannot hide in here forever.”
“Not forever, Teleziel, just until after…” Faramir allowed his sentence to dangle. There was no reason to tempt the fates. “I have to meet with Father and report on Osgiliath.”
He was interrupted by a knock on the door and then servants entered bearing trays of bread and cheese and some withered grapes. Another brought small basins of warm water.
“I’m afraid this is the best we can manage, my lord,” spoke the first as they placed their burdens down on the table.
Faramir smiled gently. “I understand. Please let the Tower Guard know that I shall wish to speak with my father shortly.”
Teleziel turned away from the tree and stared at the crest on Faramir’s breastplate. “What does it mean, the white tree and the dead tree in the yard?”
Faramir stripped and splashed some water on his face. Teleziel came forward and helped him with the buckles and straps of his armor and placed it to the side for a quick burnishing while Faramir explained about the White Tree and the missing heir. While he helped his beloved, he picked a little at the food. He was ravenous, but he was afraid to eat too much lest Faramir not eat at all. But it seemed that he need not worry, for Faramir rooted out the last of the winter grapes and he plopped them into his mouth before putting on a fresh tunic. With orders for Teleziel to help himself to fresh clothes and to rest, Faramir placed a light kiss on the Haradrim’s nose before departing for the audience with his father.
*~*
“Gandalf, I’m telling you there was something strange about him,” Pippin scurried with the long legged wizard to keep up.
“Pippin,” Gandalf said with little patience, “you are jumping at shadows.”
“He wasn’t from the west,” Pippin said crossly. “He had the wrong look about him. He was too narrow in the shoulder and his legs moved differently. And his hair, you should have seen it Gandalf, it was all cut off, right down to the scalp, but you could see the color still; black as a raven’s wing, just like his eyes.”
Gandalf stopped dead in his tracks and spun around so that he nearly tripped over Pippin. “You should be waiting on your lord, Pippin, not gossiping with wizards. And for once, keep your thoughts and observations to yourself.” Pippin stood gaping at Gandalf’s back as the wizard strolled purposefully towards the family quarters.
*~*
Mithrandir knocked once for politenes's sake and then thrust open the door. He stood tall and radiant in his white robes with his staff clutched in his hands. His blue eyes fixed on Teleziel and held the Haradrim trapped, much like a rabbit in a snare. “Who are you?”
The prisoner backed away from the old man. “I am Lord Faramir’s slave.”
Mithrandir titled his head and narrowed his eyes. The ‘slave’ was naked and his body was streaked with water from his washing. Every thing Pippin said was true. His looks were not western. His bushy brows drew down over the bridge of his nose. Who was this man, this…Haradrim?
“You shouldn’t lie to Mithrandir,” Faramir said from behind Mithrandir. “Who told you he was here and who else knows?”
Mithrandir watched as the Haradrim hurriedly dressed in Faramir’s clothes. “You’ve brought a Haradrim to Minas Tirith, Faramir.”
“I have brought my lover to Minas Tirith, Mithrandir. He fought long and hard at Osgiliath and I expect he shall do so here.” Faramir pushed his way into the room and took Teleziel’s hand and briefly squeezed it. He explained about Teleziel until Mithrandir was satisfied by both Faramir’s answers and Teleziel’s.
“You realize that when your father sees him, the lad’s life won’t be worth the price of a pipe full of Longbottom leaf.”
“That is why I would ask you to look after him.”
“Look after him? I am not a handmaid to mind the children while the parents are away.”
Teleziel’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I am not a child.”
“I’m going to retake Osgiliath,” Faramir spoke quietly, but both the wizard and the Haradrim heard him.
“No,” they cried in unison.
“Faramir what madness is this? Osgiliath is fallen, you must concentrate on saving Minas Tirith.”
“There is nothing but ruins and death on the river. Here, perhaps, we stand a chance,” Teleziel added.
Faramir looked from one to the other and his eyes clouded with fear. For the first time, Teleziel felt a cold hand wrap around his heart as he realized the fullness of Faramir’s burdens. “Lord Denethor is unhappy with our defeat. It is my duty to retake Osgiliath.”
“Folly!” Shouted Mithrandir.
Teleziel, however, had heard enough. “When are we do leave?”
“I will leave at dawn.” Faramir rose and placed his hands on Teleziel’s shoulders. “No, I cannot take you with me this time.”
Teleziel’s mouth opened in protest, but Faramir placed his fingertips over the sweet lips. “Mithrandir, Lord Denethor’s mind is made up. I—have defied him once by failing to hold Osgiliath. I cannot defy him twice. Please, will you leave Teleziel and me alone? I will speak with you again in the morning.”
Heartily aggrieved, Mithrandir thumped his staff on the floor
before turning to leave. He gave Teleziel and Faramir one last lingering look
and saw the way that the young Haradrim stared at Faramir. He detected nothing
from Teleziel except love and devotion. Perhaps that love that Faramir always
needed and craved was his at last. But was it too late for the captain? The
gods did not show Mithrandir the end of Faramir’s path. Sadly, Mithrandir
left the couple alone.