Chapter 4
Teleziel buried his face in his crossed arms and sobbed his frustration and misery. His father would be ashamed at his display. So was he. He was alone and frightened and confused. He didn’t know what else to do. A warm hand touched his arm and he looked up and immediately hardened his features.
Faramir sat across from him holding out a platter. “I was wrong to deny you food, Teleziel.”
Like a dog that has been whipped, Teleziel hesitantly reached out his hand and dipped his fingers into the warm vegetables. He scooped out a potato and brought it to his lips. He was unfamiliar with the spices, but the aroma made his mouth water. He chewed slowly, savoring the texture, afraid any minute that the handsome man might change his mind and remove the food again.
“I have ordered a hot bath drawn. I think it will help.” Faramir studied the tear-streaked face and red rimmed-eyes and his heart constricted. So much beauty mixed with so much pain and part of it was his fault. He did not understand the Haradrim’s need for pain. Perhaps Damrod was right; or perhaps not. Regardless, he couldn’t bring himself to be cruel to his prisoner. Surely whatever he’d already been through was punishment enough for whatever crime he’d committed.
Teleziel ate rapidly while holding the food platter on his knees. He nodded understanding, but did not waste precious energy on a reply. The food was good and the pains in his stomach lessened as he ate. When was the last time he’d eaten? The night he was raped he’d had rice and flatbread, the only fare the Haradrim ate when they were on the march. He paused. “How long?”
Faramir arched a red-blond brow. “How long ago were you left behind?” He could not bring himself to admit the facts aloud. “We watched you for a day before deciding that you were alone. How long you lay there I do not know.”
“Tell me the phase of the moon?”
“New, two days old.”
Teleziel set aside his empty dish and checked a sigh. His people had barely gone, then, when the Gondorians stumbled across him. Their patrols were far cleverer than the Haradrim gave them credit for.
“Captain, the water is ready,” Mablung said quietly.
“I could have you bound, Teleziel. I would prefer not to. Will you give me your word?’
“I have no where to go, Captain. I-“ he paused, searching for the word he wanted. “I am shunned. I am no longer welcome in my own home. I am completely at your mercy.” The admission was like cold water trickling over his back. He couldn’t deny it was the truth.
“Tell me why?” Faramir got to his feet and stepped back, giving Teleziel room to stand, ready to help if needed.
Teleziel froze for a moment, squatting against the wall then he pushed his way up and stood on his own. “I am different.”
Faramir allowed the answer to pass without pressing further. Different encompassed many things and he sensed that his prisoner did not wish to reveal his secret. Besides, what happened to him wasn’t relevant to the information they needed. Faramir reminded himself that Teleziel was a prisoner. He couldn’t coddle him or help him. He couldn’t wrap his arms around him and kiss him. He must remain objective. As he stared at Teleziel’s retreating back, he wondered if he could separate his duty from his sympathies.
Walking unaided and unfettered, Teleziel held his hands cupped around his privates and followed Mablung down a series of corridors that quickly left him lost; Haradrim did not live in caves. He entered a chamber that was even smaller than his. It was windowless and dominated by a small copper tub, easily carried by two men. Steam rose from the water. On a stool next to it was a cake of soap and a soft towel. He stepped into the tub and the water only came to his shins.
“You’ll have to make do with splashing the water over yourself and then lathering up. We don’t have many luxuries.”
Perched on the edge of the tub, Teleziel leaned forward and dunked his head, saturating his long black hair and splashing water over his neck. He’d always been told that Gondor was the wealthiest of nations—a whore who fed on the riches of the world, leaving her rivals poor and starving. Yet the simple life of the soldiers belied the tale. He retrieved the soap and began lathering his long dark hair.
“Teleziel, in a few days time, we will transport you to Minas Tirith, where you will be interrogated.” Faramir did not know why he had the urge to explain, but he did.
Slanting a look from the corner of his eye, Teleziel nodded. “We would have already gotten information from a prisoner and disposed of him. Gondorians are weak.”
Faramir’s eyes narrowed a bit at that. “You confuse humaneness with weakness. You were in no condition to answer our questions and we feared you too valuable a prize to risk when a few days wait would garner the same affect.” The dirt and grime sluiced away, revealing a strong, lithe body that was older than Faramir first guessed. He’d been able to ignore evidentiary proof of Teleziel’s age and think of him as a boy until now. There were scars from the bizarre ritual, but there were also marks from swords. “How long have you served in with the Haradrim army?”
Teleziel finished rinsing and took the towel. “I served with my father’s unit for 7 seasons. Before that, I served with my uncle. I am not a boy, I am a soldier.”
“A soldier without a country.”
The dark eyes flashed with parts anger and humiliation. “I am still Haradrim.”
“Will you answer my questions now, Teleziel, or at Minas Tirith?”
“What is this Minas Tirith?” His lilting accent gave an exotic sound to the name.
“The capital. There, you will face my father and his advisors and counselors.”
“Your father is the king?” Teleziel pushed his dripping hair from his face and stared at the scruffy captain.
“My father is the Steward. Answer my question.”
“There is nothing I can tell you that you probably don’t already know, son of the Steward.” He could barely believe that Faramir was the captain, let alone the son of a man of such importance. “Your father must have little faith in you.”
“Are you trying to provoke me?”
Teleziel paused, realizing that he had, in fact, been doing just that. But why? The captain had been kind to him, certainly far kinder than the Haradrim. Faramir’s kindness frightened him, a little. He did not know quite how to respond to it. So he baited and waited to see if the captain was as fierce as he sometimes seemed. “My father has one hundred men under his command. Some are his own sons, others are sons of his brothers, and even a few are the nephews of his wives. Most are men of his tribe, sworn to loyalty under him. They go to the Dark Lord.”