Chapter 3
Faramir turned the rock over and over in his hand, puzzling
out the implications. He’d not spoken all his thoughts aloud to Mablung.
The idea was ludicrous. Why would any one wish to torture himself in such a
fashion? His only proof was the bit of rock, and that really proved nothing.
The blood proved even less. Teleziel could have bled on the rock.
The marks on his thigh told a different tale.
He placed the rock on the map and returned to studying troop movements. Soon Gondor would find herself squeezed between two armies and Faramir knew they did not have enough troops to defend the city, never mind the further borders. He had no time to wonder at the oddities of the captured Haradrim.
He picked up his hood and drew it on to his head. He had enemy troops too near Ithilien.
*~*
Teleziel watched the one called Damrod closely as he swept the floor bare of all debris. The rock dust was thick, but settled quickly when the broom grew still. What did Faramir suspect? He sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, hiding his sex, as picked at the scabs forming on his body until they bled. The sting was not enough. “Have you offended your master?”
Damrod looked down at Teleziel and noticed how he picked at his cuts. “What a strange question. The answer is no.”
“You have to sweep my cell.”
Looking around, Damrod was satisfied with his work and was certain Faramir would feel the same. There was not one sliver of rock any where in the small room. Admittedly, the request was odd, but it did make sense. The boy had been injured and enemy or not, he shouldn’t be left laying around in filth. “It needed to be done and I could be spared.”
“Does it not bother you to have to clean up after me? I am the enemy.”
“So you are.” Damrod answered. He indicated the blood smeared on Teleziel’s thigh. “Why have you hurt yourself?”
“It itched.”
Once Damrod left, Teleziel pulled the thin section of rock from beneath his lower back and turned it over in his hand. The pickings had been slim and he’d been pushed for time, uncertain of when the man might return. The piece was no longer than his index finger and thicker at one edge. He turned on to his side and lay with his back to the opening. Cautiously, he began moving the narrowest edge against the floor, grinding rock against rock. He paused ever so often to listen. He knew there was someone posted outside and that they could see him, so he had to work slowly and carefully. Only his arm moved in a small arc as he filed. Frequently, he blew away the dust and tested the edge with his thumb. He’d know when it was sharp enough.
*~*
Faramir took a platter of roast vegetables and bread to Teleziel’s cell and placed them beside the boy. “I did not know the Haradrim did not eat meat.”
“It is allowed only on feast days,” he eyed the food and his mouth watered. He did not want to admit any weakness to Faramir or any of the Gondorians and so he did not fall on the food and shovel it into his mouth as he would have liked.
Faramir pushed the platter closer. “Here, eat. Teleziel, tell me the truth. Did you put those marks on your body?”
The Haradrim looked into Faramir’s eyes and saw past the captain to the man beneath. He set his jaw and refused to believe he could trust this enemy.
“None of my men would do this and that leaves only you. If you’d wanted to make trouble, you’d have pointed to Mablung or some one else. Since you did not, I can only guess that you wanted to do this to yourself. What I cannot understand is why. Surely it hurts you? Or is that what you crave? Is it pain?”
Teleziel lay still, ignoring Faramir and the gnawing hunger in his belly.
Steeling himself, Faramir lifted aside the blanket and stared at the body beneath. He sighed when he saw a new set of marks. He pushed the blanket so that it lay to the side. “I will have to take away your blankets if you do not tell me the truth.”
Teleziel shivered. The cave was cool and he did not relish the idea of being
without covering, although the cold was only part of it. What could he say?
The truth would bring anger and with anger came punishment. He did not wish
to face punishment again. The last time was still too fresh in his mind.
“Mablung,” Faramir rose and turned to the door. “Remove the blanket and pallet. He is to have nothing.”
Mablung nodded once and then immediately moved to obey. Damrod joined him and together they heaved Teleziel off the straw mattress. Almost at once the carefully honed limestone blade fell out of the blankets and clattered on the stone floor.
“He’s making weapons, Captain,” said Damrod needlessly.
“To use only on himself,” said Faramir with a soft sigh. “As you like, Teleziel of the Haradrim. Sleep well.” Turning to Damrod he gave one final, gut-wrenching order. “Remove his food.”
*~*
Teleziel sat against the wall with his legs drawn against his chest. He hugged his knees and rocked back and forth, keening softly to himself. He shivered uncontrollably in the chill air and his stomach growled. He’d clawed at the scabbed over wounds until they bled and when they did not bleed enough he clawed them harder, tearing open his flesh. Even that wasn’t enough and he cried until his eyes ached. Faramir was wrong, he though. He did not relish pain; he relished feeling alive. All his life he’d felt as though he were half alive, only when he scraped at his own skin, drawing bright blood, did he feel alive. In control.
His life had never been his own. As the only son of his father’s head wife, he was expected to carry on the family traditions of serving in the army—preferably with great valor. And then, after many years and battles, he’d take his first wife. The girl, already known to him, was a child ten years his junior and the first daughter of his father’s fifth cousin. She was lovely, with flashing black eyes and flawless olive skin. Her hair flowed down her back like silk.
And the thought of mating with her made his stomach clench. What he wanted was not allowed among his people. He was an abomination. He was lucky to be alive. The Haradrim usually killed boys like him. The way he felt at that moment, he wished they had.
Why had his fellow Haradrim left him alive? The question circled and circled round in his mind until he thought he might go crazy searching for the answer. But one painful truth became clear each and every time. They thought he was dead, or so close that it did not matter. They left him brutally beaten and exposed to the elements, secure in their belief that he’d perish from exposure or a wild animal would come and finish him. They had not counted on the men of Gondor.
Now he was a prisoner. Trapped in a cold cell. Soon he would go to Gondor and he would be beaten and tortured for whatever information he had stored in his memory. They would keep him alive until his usefulness to them ended and then they would kill him.
New tears spilled from Teleziel’s eyes and clawed at his legs, digging deep furrows in his smooth skin. Not even that comforted him. Usually the pain brought him comfort and helped him focus. But not now. Now nothing helped. Even his limestone shards had given him only the barest relief. Those were gone, taken by the man who called himself Faramir.
From the door way, Mablung watched as Teleziel scratched and flayed his own skin with his dirty, ragged nails and he felt disgusted and dirty. What was wrong with the Haradrim that he would not hesitate to do this to himself? Mablung couldn’t grasp it. It made his skin crawl. Perhaps the boy had asked to be beaten and then the game got out of hand and in fear he was left behind. That was about the only reasonable explanation he could think of. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t really make himself believe that. There was no reason and no logic to any of it. Then, too, Captain Faramir may have been correct. There was no reasonable explanation at all.
“Tis pathetic to watch.”
Mablung jumped guiltily. “Aye. But we must if we are to discover his secrets.”
Damrod nodded and his brows drew close as he frowned. “Captain Faramir should see this. I will get him.”
*~*
Faramir sat in the common room where all the men gathered to eat and review orders or intelligence. Here most of the men slept or fixed bits of armor or sharpened their weapons. And here Faramir felt the most comfortable.
“My lord? There is something you should see.” Damrod leaned close to Faramir’s ear and whispered the words softly.
Faramir turned his head slowly and stared at Damrod and then quietly left his seat. He did not need to ask. The answers were already in his own mind and, if he needed confirmation, in Damrod’s face. The boy who’d begun to haunt him had one more secret to reveal.
He reached the small room and took his place behind Mablung next to the doorway and stared over his shoulder at the sight within. His heart fluttered painfully as he watched the young Haradrim rock back and forth, keening out his misery, while he scraped and scored his delicate flesh.
After a moment, Faramir could take no more and turned away. He walked some way down the corridor, motioning Damrod and Mablung to follow. When they were out of ear-shot he turned. “Obviously taking his home-made weapon from him did not do any good. I would hear your counsel.”
“Kill him now,” Mablung answered. “It will be a mercy to him and to us.”
Damrod disagreed. “He has some pain deep in himself that he knows not how to handle, Captain. Give him food and a blanket. If need be, give him his little bit of sharp rock. He cannot harm us with it.”
“Let him continue this..with that?” Horror edged Mablung’s voice.
Faramir had doubts. “What purpose, Damrod? He will kill himself before we can get any useful information from him.”
“He’s not killed himself, yet. And, if I may be so bold, you might as easily gather the information yourself.”
“Let us try again, then,” Faramir tried to keep the hopelessness from his voice.