Post by Admin on Jan 8, 2021 1:42:23 GMT
Author: Linda Hoyland
Ranking: Tied for 2nd place
Summary: Faramir once escaped the pyre. Now he faces the flames for a second time.
Rating: T, for adult themes and mild violence and battle scenes.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything except my OCS. Any recognisable character belongs to Tolkien.
Characters: Aragorn, Faramir, Beregond, Damrod, OMCs
Aragorn wiped the blood from the blade and carefully sheathed Andúril. The rebel Southrons were routed. Their mangled bodies littered the battlefield while those that survived were fleeing into the distance.
The King sighed at the folly and useless waste of life. Most of Gondor’s former enemies now desired peace, but there remained factions of fanatical Sauron worshippers who refused to concede defeat or abide by the treaties sworn by their leaders.
He instructed his men to seek out the wounded that they might be tended and afterwards, bury the dead where they had fallen.
He then looked around for Faramir, but could not see him. Aragorn called to Beregond, Faramir’s captain who was heading towards him. “The day is won and at little cost to Gondor. Have you seen Lord Faramir?”
Beregond shook his head.” No, sire, not for some time. He was in the thick of the fight when I last saw him, but was holding his own. A group of Southrons attacked me, I was forced to defend myself, and I lost sight of him. I am looking for him now, sire.”
A sudden feeling of dread came over the King, but he simply replied, “I will come with you.”
Beregond urged his horse towards the far side of the field that bordered woodland. Aragorn followed, his keen eyes scouring the field for any trace of his Steward and friend. With each moment that passed, his anxiety increased. Was Faramir badly wounded or worse?
Suddenly a horseman approached them at a gallop. He reined in his mount once he caught sight of the King. “My lord!” he cried. “I have just come across a wounded riderless horse. I know the beast well. It belongs to Lord Faramir!”
“Damrod!” Aragorn cried now that he could see the rider’s face. “Quickly, show me where!”
“Over here, sire!” Damrod turned his mount around and headed back in the direction whence he had come. Ithilien was heavily wooded and the battle had been fought in a cleared area, which was now used for sheep rearing. The shepherds had fled with their flocks into the surrounding woodlands, which was where Damrod was now heading.
A great grey horse, instantly recognisable as Faramir’s, was pacing beneath the trees in an agitated fashion. Its fine coat was covered in blood. Of its rider, there was no trace.
“Wait there with Roheryn,” Aragorn told Damrod. He slid from his great war stallion’s back and crept towards the injured horse with the stealth that only a former Ranger could possess. Lunging towards the beast, he grabbed the dangling reins. The horse reared up, neighing frantically. Aragorn hung on grimly, speaking soft words until the horse quieted.
“What happened, Fain? Where is your master?” Aragorn asked more to himself than to the horse. He could see now that the steed had a deep and ugly wound on his hindquarters. Faramir must have been unhorsed when Fain reared in pain from the wound. Aragorn studied the injury carefully; it puzzled him. Sadly, injured horses were all too common a sight upon the battlefield, but their wounds were usually to their heads and necks. And where was Faramir? There were dead Southrons in plenty scattered around, but he had seen no man living neither nor dead in Faramir’s armour and distinctive gear.
Crouching to the ground, he looked around him carefully. Faramir’s great sword lay trampled into the ground. Aragorn picked it up. There were hoof and footprints a- plenty in the mud, but only one set of horseshoes with the pattern of Gondor. He followed the hoof prints. To begin with, they were random and blood dotted the ground between them, obviously made after Fain was wounded. Aragorn followed the trail to the edge of the copse. There were two especially deep marks here and a pool of blood. This must have been where Fain was injured and reared up, taking all his weight on his two back hooves. There was also an indentation in the ground where his rider had fallen and many more prints from men and horses. The King rose to his feet and called Damrod over. “Look,” he said. “It seems that Lord Faramir fell from his horse here and was surrounded by Haradrim who bore him away!”
He turned to Beregond who had now caught up with them. “Ride with all haste to gather reinforcements,” he told the Captain. “Lord Faramir has been captured. Damrod and I will track his captors and leave clear signs for you to follow. Also, send a message, together with Lord Faramir’s sword to Lady Éowyn and tell her what has happened. Tell her to remain in the city with her children. Ithilien might not be safe at present.”
Beregond blanched at the tidings as he took the sword from the King’s hand. “Should you not wait and gather more men, sire?” he suggested.
“Two may follow tracks more easily than twenty,” said Aragorn. “Every moment we delay puts Lord Faramir in greater jeopardy.”
Beregond did not look entirely convinced but simply replied “At once, sire,” and galloped away.
Aragorn swung himself back into Roheryn’s saddle and set off in the direction of the tracks he had found. “Keep a look out,” he ordered Damrod. “I hope you have not forgotten your old ranger skills.”
The two former Rangers painstakingly followed the tracks along a woodland trail, Aragorn frequently dismounting and studying any signs that his keen eyes perceived. He deduced that Faramir had been dragged a short distance to a large clearing, where a group of men and horses had been waiting and put on to a horse there.
“I know this area well, sire,” said Damrod. “We are not far from a little used road. During the war, the Southrons would sometimes wait to ambush us near it. Maybe they plan to take Lord Faramir to Harad?”
“Maybe,” said Aragorn. “The Southron leader has signed a treaty with Gondor, though. He would not look kindly on any of his subjects waging war upon us, much less kidnapping Gondor’s Steward! These men we are fighting against are rebels against their own leader as much as against us.”
“But surely they have taken Lord Faramir that they might redeem him for ransom?” said Damrod.
“I do not know,” Aragorn said grimly. “I do know, though, that we must get him back with all haste.”
The two did not speak again until they reached the road. Aragorn dismounted and examined the tracks. There were wheel marks, which had left deep indentations, suggesting a cart had been left there for some time and other marks, which suggested that someone, or something heavy had been dragged towards the cart. The two men followed the tracks until they came to a crossroads,
“Look,” said Damrod. “I can see hoof prints clearly here and the horses are heading south towards Harad.”
“The cart tracks are heading east towards Mordor,” said Aragorn. “It seems that the riders parted company with the cart.”
“Why go towards Mordor?” asked Damrod. “There is nothing there save rocks and ash, or so I have been told. Which tracks do we follow, sire?”
“Why indeed?” Aragorn replied grimly. “I like this not at all. We will follow the cart tracks as the signs tell me clearly that they placed Lord Faramir within the cart. If he were on horseback, he would surely have tried to escape or left some token for us. Come, Damrod, we ride East.”
Oooo
Bound and gagged, Faramir was tossed around the covered cart like a sack or grain as it travelled along the rough road. Every bone in his body ached from his rough treatment at the hands of his captors and his mouth felt drier than parchment. His armour had been removed and he was clad only in a shirt and breeches.
Worst, though was the humiliation of being captured thus, drawn into an ambush and carried off from the battlefield while his men were distracted. He flinched at the memory of poor Fain’s cry of agony. The horse had reared and thrown Faramir. Before he could remount, he had been hit on the head from behind and the next thing he recalled was waking up in this cart, trussed up like a chicken for market.
Cautiously, Faramir opened his eyes and examined his surroundings. The cart was full of logs, upon which two Southron warriors were sitting, watching him like vultures observing their prey. One was obviously a veteran of many battles ; he had a livid scar down one cheek and was missing an eye, the other was little more than a boy: his nut- brown skin unmarked and the contours of his face still rounded. Both bore the emblems of the serpent and the lidless eye upon their scarlet robes.
Faramir tried to calm his pounding heart. They were men who had abducted him, not Orcs. No doubt they planned to hold him to ransom; a ransom that the King would gladly pay. Then these men were rebels against the rule of the Grand Sultan. His men would free Gondor’s Steward once they knew of this whereabouts. His captors must be lunatics to risk the wrath of both Aragorn and the Grand Sultan. That was not a comforting thought that he had been captured by madmen. What did they want with him? Was it as simple as gold?
A cloud of dust blew through a gap in the side of the wagon into the confined space. Faramir started to cough. He could not clear his throat properly, though, because of the gag and started to choke. He started to flail around like a fish out of water as panic seized him.
The youth looked at him with startled brown eyes then got up and removed the gag. Faramir coughed and spluttered before thankfully breathing in lungful’s of air.
“You young fool!” the older man said to the boy with a curse. “What if he cries out?” He drew his dagger and waved it in front of Faramir’s face. “Call for help, tark, and you die!” he said in heavily accented Weston.
Faramir nodded. He was still coughing too much to speak.
“I thought he would choke,” said the boy in his own tongue.
“I doubt it, but we need him alive if the sacrifice is to succeed,” said the older man.
Faramir started in horror. He was to be a sacrifice? He tried to maintain his composure. These men had no idea he could understand their language. Maybe that knowledge would help him. He had no idea how, though.
“Why have you captured me?” Faramir asked, or rather croaked, once his coughing had finally subsided.
“We need you as a sacrifice to the Lord of Gifts, tark,” said the older man. He smiled for the first time.
“His spirit was carried away on the winds, he is no more in Arda,” Faramir croaked in reply.
The young man stared at Faramir again then fumbled at his belt and produced a water bottle, which he uncorked and held to Faramir’s lips. The water was stale, but tasted like nectar to the parched Steward.
The older man glared at this gesture of mercy before saying. “The Lord of Gifts was only vanquished because the sacrifice, which would have given him measureless might, was not completed, thanks to the wizard’s meddling. You father, tark, was obedient, for it is written in our lore that the Lord of Gifts will reign supreme when a father and son of high lineage offer themselves freely.”
“My father was no worshipper of Sauron!” Faramir retorted. “He chose the pyre so that the Orcs could not give him a worse death!”
The scarred warrior struck Faramir across the face. “Silence, tark! Did they not tell you that your father followed the sacrificial ritual that the Lord of Gifts used on the Star Island?”
Faramir did not reply. It was useless to argue with a madman. He tried to look defiant as he licked the blood from his lips.
Time passed slowly, yet at the same time too quickly as the cart rumbled onwards its destination. Faramir kept his eyes closed, pretending to sleep, partly because of a pounding headache and partly in the hope that he might avoid further abuse from his captors. When they finally stopped, the scarred man called to the driver asking him why.
“It grows too dark to see the road and the horses can go no further,” the driver called.
“Very well, but we resume our journey at first light,” said the scarred man. “We shall spend the night here in the wagon.” He prodded Faramir with his foot. “Wake up, tark!” he snarled in the common tongue, before addressing the younger man in his own language. “You had best take the tark in the wood to relieve himself. We want to keep him clean for the sacrifice. Don’t let him escape, these tarks are cunning rats.”
The two men half dragged, half carried Faramir from the cart, adding to his bruises in the process. The older man then loosened the Steward’s bonds sufficiently for him to place one foot in front of the other. They dragged him to his feet. Faramir could hardly stand and the sudden rush of blood as proper circulation was restored to his limbs was excruciating.
Faramir looked around him to distract himself from the pain. They were still in Ithilien. He recognised the forest of great trees that his forebears had planted long ago. He had assumed his captors were taking him to Harad, but this way led into Mordor. It seemed that they were planning to sacrifice him in Sauron’s former realm. Aragorn had garrisoned what was left of the Black Gate, but Ithilien shared miles of border with Sauron’s former realm, which it had not seemed either needful or practical to patrol.
The young man urged him forward into the trees and allowed him a little privacy behind a huge pine. Faramir toyed with the idea of using this brief moment of solitude to attempt to escape. He could hardly walk, though, impeded as he was by his bonds and stiff limbs.
“You are highly honoured, tark,” said the young man as he grabbed Faramir’s arm to usher him back to the wagon.
“Honoured?” Faramir could not help but sound bitter.
“You will be forever remembered as the great sacrifice that recalled the Lord of Gifts to life,” the young man said, in the kind of tone used to comfort a child.
“How can you be so certain?”
“The Lord of Gift’s high priest has pronounced it so.”
“What gifts did he bestow on you?”
“My prowess as a warrior and my very life.”
“It is the One who gives life,” said Faramir. “The Lord of Gifts no more created you than Mithrandir created me. What is your name, boy?”
“I am called Fikri,” said the young man. “You lie, tark. The Lord of Gifts gave us everything.”
“My name is Faramir,” said the Steward. “You could have even more if you accepted peace. Most of your folk have done so already. How many are attending this “sacrifice”?”
Fikri’s face hardened. “We do not surrender to tarks. Our comrades in arms and the elders of the faithful will all come to witness the rising of the Lord of Gifts. Do not think that you can escape! ”
They had reached the bend in the road where the wagon was parked. “Kneel!” Fikri ordered. “I must tighten your bonds again before Lord Zafir returns.”
By the time the older warrior reappeared from amongst the trees from the opposite direction to where Faramir had been taken, the Steward was again securely trussed up, though his bonds did not cut as tightly into his flesh as they did before.
Faramir was dragged back inside the wagon. His captors pulled food from their packs and ate, but he was not offered anything. When darkness fell, they wrapped themselves in their cloaks and slept. Faramir was left with his thoughts. They were far from comforting. Ever since his father had tried to burn him alive, Faramir had especially feared death by fire. He had been mercifully unconscious at the time, but for a long time afterwards, he had been haunted by nightmares filled with the stench of smoke and burning flesh. A horrible, slow, and painful death. He often wondered just how much his father had suffered. To think that he had been spared once from death by fire, only to meet the same fate years later! Faramir was no coward, but he was terrified. His stomach churned and his heart thumped at the very thought.
He did not want to die yet. He was not ready to leave Éowyn or his children, or the King he loved and served. He would gladly have given his life to defend those he loved or his beloved land, but to be sacrificed to a false god was a cruel fate indeed!
Then what of his father? Despite his defiant words, the Steward was troubled by his captors’ certainty that Denethor had offered himself as a sacrifice to the Dark Lord. Denethor had hated Sauron and all he stood for, but what if in his madness, he had turned to his old adversary. Would his soul ever find rest if he had?
The Steward shifted restlessly wishing that every bone and muscle in his body did not ache so. He needed to escape, but how? He was tightly bound and had no weapon. If only he could have left some sign for Aragorn to follow! It was futile to hope for rescue, though. It would be some time before anyone noticed he was missing in the heat of battle and Aragorn and Beregond would first scour the field for his body. Then they would no doubt assume he had been carried off to Harad for ransom and send pursuers in the wrong direction. With that far from comforting thought, Faramir finally drifted into an uneasy slumber.
000
Aragorn reined Roheryn to a halt. “We will rest here by this stream for a few hours,” he told Damrod. “Loth though I am to stop, the horses can go no further and we cannot see the trail in the darkness.”
“Shall I make a fire, sire?” Damrod asked. He slid from his horse and patted the sweating animal.
“Yes, our quarry is still way ahead,” said Aragorn. “I had hoped we would have caught up with them ere nightfall.”
“Maybe our reinforcements will arrive in the morning,” said Damrod as the two men tended to their horses.
“It takes time to gather men and supplies,” said Aragorn. “Faramir’s best hope of rescue lies with us.” He patted Roheryn and left the great stallion to graze.
“What do you think his captors want with Lord Faramir?” asked Damrod.
“I can think of several things, none of them pleasant,” Aragorn replied grimly.
Damrod soon had a cheerful fire blazing. The two former Rangers ate a meagre supper of dried biscuit washed down with water. They then wrapped themselves in their cloaks and settled down for the night.
Damrod almost immediately fell asleep, but rest was slow to come to Aragorn. He lay looking up at the stars. Could Faramir still see those same stars? Did he yet live? Aragorn shuddered then chided himself. Surely he would sense it if his friend were dead. How were his captors treating him, though? Was Faramir being put to torment? Aragorn could not bear to dwell on the thought. Inwardly he vowed to save his friend and Steward whatever the cost. With that thought, he slept.
0000
Faramir was awakened by the cart juddering to a halt. He had been lost in dark dreams of his father lighting a pyre on which he was lying. Denethor had cried out, “Sauron, take the son that is left to me as a gift!”
He could hear his captors talking about unharnessing the horses. Faramir realised they had reached their destination.
A few moments later, some men whom he had not seen before, started unloading the logs from the cart. Faramir shuddered. They were building his pyre!
A few moments later, Fikri and Zafir dragged him out of the cart and laid him on the grass beside it. Faramir blinked in the bright sunlight. A grim sight met his eyes. A group of about twenty men were gathered. Most of them appeared to be Southrons, but one or two had paler skin and grey eyes. Faramir assumed these were Black Númenoreans from Umbar.
A rough cart track formed a part of the long border between Ithilien and Mordor. On the Mordor side of the border, several of the men were occupied piling up logs on a makeshift stone altar. One pale- skinned man stood apart from the rest. He wore flowing robes of black and scarlet embroidered with images of a gigantic eye. He caught sight of Faramir and strode over to where he was lying. He stared at the Steward for some time with cold grey eyes devoid of expression. At last, he addressed Zafir. “So this is the tark who caused our glorious lord’s defeat?”
Zafir bowed low. “Yes, master. He is the son of Denethor, snatched from the flames by the cursed white wizard.”
“He shall not escape this time. Our glorious lord will be reborn in splendour from the flames in which this tark burns. A pity he is so scrawny, the fat ones burn better, but he will have to do. Mark him with the sign of the Lord of Gifts.”
“You heard the high priest, do as he says!” Zafir told Fikri.
The boy knelt beside Faramir. One of the others handed him a brush and a jar of blood coloured liquid, which he began to paint on Faramir’s forehead. It burned like fire. The Steward said not a word, but his eyes searched out Fikri’s. The boy faltered slightly in his task.
“Hurry up, boy!” the high priest snapped impatiently.
“I’m sorry,” Fikri muttered. He tore open Faramir’s shirt and daubed more of the substance across Faramir’s chest. The burning was worse than ever against the more tender skin. Faramir glanced downwards and shuddered to see that the symbol of the eye now adorned his skin together with runes, the meaning of which he could only guess.
The pyre was now complete and one of the Southrons poured oil from a jar over the wood.
“Place the sacrifice upon the altar,” ordered the high priest.
“Shouldn’t we knock him out first?” asked Fikri.
“Foolish boy! Do you wish to join him!” snapped the high priest. “The louder the tark screams, the more powerful the magic!”
Fikri looked decidedly queasy but made no further protest. Together with Zafir and two of the other men, they picked up Faramir and lifted him on to the pyre. They then piled more logs around him to enclose him like a cage.
The Steward vainly tried to struggle, but his bonds and the grip of his captors rendered his struggles futile. He could only watch as the followers of Sauron gathered around him in a circle. A small fire had been kindled. One of the men took up a torch and stood waiting to kindle the pyre.
The high priest raised his arms and intoned. “Lord of Gifts, mighty ruler, lord of Arda, hear us and harken. We offer you this sacrifice, the tark that rightfully is yours that you might return to us and rule resplendent for eternity!”
“So be it!” cried the others. “Let it be!”
Faramir’s stomach churned violently. He was about to die in the most horrible manner, sacrificed to a false god. “Valar, give me courage!” he muttered, more to himself than in any hope of his prayer being answered. He could only hope that Éowyn never learned of the manner of his death. He had wanted to grow old with her and see his children grow and thrive. He had wanted to help rebuild Gondor at the side of the man he had come to love and admire. Alas, his dreams were in ashes. Faramir laughed bitterly at the choice of word. All he could hope for now was that his death would not take too long.
The high priest began to chant in the Black Speech of Mordor. His followers took up the chant. When it reached a crescendo, the man holding the now lighted torch approached the pyre.
Faramir closed his eyes.
A loud cry rang out followed by a thud. Faramir opened his eyes again to see the torchbearer lying face down upon the ground, an arrow protruding from his back. The torch was entangled with his robes, which were now burning. Fortunately he was still some distance from the oil soaked pyre.
Faramir’s captors were thrown into confusion, looking wildly around them to see from whence the arrow had come.
“We are under attack!” cried the high priest. These proved to be his final words as another arrow whizzed through the air and struck him in the heart. A man brandishing a sword, then raced out from behind a rocky outcrop. It was Aragorn.
Faramir regarded him with a mixture of joy and horror. His lord had come to his aid, but he was heavily outnumbered. He yearned to live, but not at the cost of Aragorn’s life.
A dozen or so Southron warriors rushed towards the King, scimitars in their hands. Aragorn cut and slashed with Andúril, but he was surrounded. As soon as he felled one, another took his place. Arrows started to fly, picking them off before they could approach the King. Faramir took heart; knowing his King had not come alone. Maybe he would not die trying to save him.
Another group of warriors raced towards the rocks from whence the arrows were flying trying to stop the archer.
Fikri, who had been standing at one side, suddenly ran towards Faramir and clambered up the pyre, knocking aside the logs that surrounded the Steward. Faramir’s heart soared. Then Fikri drew his dagger. The Steward groaned inwardly.
To be so close to rescue only to have hope snatched from him again! The archer was preoccupied in defending Aragorn and could not help him.
This boy was after all an acolyte of the Dark Lord. Fikri’s blade flashed, but instead of cutting into Faramir’s flesh, he cut through the ropes that bound him.
Before Faramir could thank him, an arrow flew through the air and hit the boy. He fell forward with a sickening thud as he hit his head against the stone altar.
Faramir slowly and painfully sat up, his head reeling at this sudden turn of events. Fikri had aided him, but the unknown archer had concluded that the blade in his hand was for some sinister purpose. Now the boy was most likely dead for showing mercy. The Steward’s heart ached. He tried to see if Fikri was still breathing or not, but before he was able to, Aragorn cut down the last of his assailants and ran towards him.
Aragorn snatched him from the altar and half dragged, half carried him back towards the track that marked the border. The surviving Southrons gave pursuit, but the archer picked them off as they approached.
“You risked your life to come,” said Faramir as soon as he could draw breath for speech.
“Only just in time,” Aragorn replied grimly. “Are you much hurt, mellon nîn? Would that we could have found you sooner!”
“I am stiff and have a few bruises,” Faramir replied. “Nothing worse.”
“The horses are waiting in the woods,” said Aragorn. “Damrod will cover us. Those archery lessons you gave him were put to good use. He was telling me that you spent hours improving his proficiency with the bow.”
“Maybe, I taught him too well,” Faramir said sadly. By now, they had reached the clearing where the horses were tethered.
“How so?” asked Aragorn. He helped Faramir mount Roheryn before then leaping astride the horse himself.
“One of my captors cut my bonds and Damrod thought he was attacking me and shot him,” said Faramir. “He is most likely slain.”
“We dare not go back,” said Aragorn. “The Southrons are still pursuing us.”
“I know.” Faramir’s tone was both sad and resigned. He slumped against Aragorn as the pain shot through his limbs with returning circulation.
Aragorn urged Roheryn forward and the great horse sped on his way. Soon afterwards, they were joined by Damrod. His quiver was empty. “There are still some of them alive,” he said. “We should be able to outpace them as our horses are swifter.”
“Let us leave Mordor far behind us!” said Damrod.
They rode onwards until the sun was almost overhead, visible through the leafy canopy of Ithilien woodland. Every muscle in Faramir’s body ached, but he spoke no word of complaint. Suddenly they heard the sound of approaching hoof beats, as if a great company were coming towards them. Aragorn gestured that they take cover amongst the trees. To their great relief, once the company came into sight they could see that the riders wore the uniform of Gondor. Beregond was at their head.
“Well met, my friend!” Aragorn emerged from cover to greet the Captain. Faramir straightened up in the saddle.
“Valar be praised, sire!” cried Beregond. “You have Lord Faramir safe!”
Aragorn swiftly recounted all that had happened then asked Beregond to divide his men into two troops; one headed by the Captain to pursue any remaining Southrons and the other to accompany them to Emyn Arnen.
“Beregond!” Faramir called as the Captain prepared to ride away.
“Yes, my lord?”
“There was one amongst the Southrons who was little more than a boy. Grant him a decent burial if you find his body.”
“I will, sir. What if he yet lives?”
“It is most unlikely, but treat his wounds if he still draws breath. And take care, my friend, these Southrons are a savage bunch, dedicated to the worship of Sauron. ”
Beregond nodded and spurred his horse forward.
The others continued their journey to Emyn Arnen without further incident.
00000
“You have been fortunate, mellon nîn,” said Aragorn as he finished examining Faramir’s injuries. “I fear you will ache for a while, but your bruises and sore muscles will soon heal. I will apply a salve to ease the pain and mix you a draught.”
“What of these fiendish markings?” Faramir gestured to the mark of the eye standing out scarlet against the skin of his forehead and chest.
“Whatever dye was used burnt the top layer of your skin off,” said Aragorn. “It should heal without scarring, though. I will bandage the wounds so you do not have to look upon them.”
“I would not have my lady and my little ones distressed by the mark of Sauron when they return on the morrow,” said Faramir. “I would rather tell Éowyn first than have her walk in and behold me thus.”
“She is strong with the heart of a warrior, is your lady,” said Aragorn. “All that will matter to her is that you are home, safe and almost unscathed. Now lie still, while I apply some healing salves.”
The two lapsed into companionable silence. Faramir lay back against his pillows, thankful beyond measure to be back in his own bed. He closed his eyes and tried to drowse, but harrowing visions of his father engulfed in flames whirled around in his mind.
“What troubles you, mellon nîn?” asked Aragorn.
“My captors told me that my father intended both himself and me as a sacrifice for Sauron,” said Faramir. “I cannot believe such a thing and yet….”
“Your father hated Sauron and all that he stood for,” Aragorn said firmly. “His mind was twisted at the end, but it was fear of Sauron and what he and his minions would do that influenced his actions. So Gandalf told me and his words are to be trusted.”
“Yet I am told that he desired to burn like the heathen kings of old,” said Faramir.
“He meant only in the manner of his death,” Aragorn replied. “He feared bowing to me almost as much as bowing to Sauron.”
“What greater honour could there be than to return the White Rod to the King returned?” Faramir exclaimed.
Aragorn laughed bitterly. “I believe the Valar destined that honour for you, Faramir. To your father it seemed as ignominious as falling captive to some tyrant!”
“Never did a captive have more freedom!” said Faramir and smiled.
Ranking: Tied for 2nd place
Summary: Faramir once escaped the pyre. Now he faces the flames for a second time.
Rating: T, for adult themes and mild violence and battle scenes.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything except my OCS. Any recognisable character belongs to Tolkien.
Characters: Aragorn, Faramir, Beregond, Damrod, OMCs
Aragorn wiped the blood from the blade and carefully sheathed Andúril. The rebel Southrons were routed. Their mangled bodies littered the battlefield while those that survived were fleeing into the distance.
The King sighed at the folly and useless waste of life. Most of Gondor’s former enemies now desired peace, but there remained factions of fanatical Sauron worshippers who refused to concede defeat or abide by the treaties sworn by their leaders.
He instructed his men to seek out the wounded that they might be tended and afterwards, bury the dead where they had fallen.
He then looked around for Faramir, but could not see him. Aragorn called to Beregond, Faramir’s captain who was heading towards him. “The day is won and at little cost to Gondor. Have you seen Lord Faramir?”
Beregond shook his head.” No, sire, not for some time. He was in the thick of the fight when I last saw him, but was holding his own. A group of Southrons attacked me, I was forced to defend myself, and I lost sight of him. I am looking for him now, sire.”
A sudden feeling of dread came over the King, but he simply replied, “I will come with you.”
Beregond urged his horse towards the far side of the field that bordered woodland. Aragorn followed, his keen eyes scouring the field for any trace of his Steward and friend. With each moment that passed, his anxiety increased. Was Faramir badly wounded or worse?
Suddenly a horseman approached them at a gallop. He reined in his mount once he caught sight of the King. “My lord!” he cried. “I have just come across a wounded riderless horse. I know the beast well. It belongs to Lord Faramir!”
“Damrod!” Aragorn cried now that he could see the rider’s face. “Quickly, show me where!”
“Over here, sire!” Damrod turned his mount around and headed back in the direction whence he had come. Ithilien was heavily wooded and the battle had been fought in a cleared area, which was now used for sheep rearing. The shepherds had fled with their flocks into the surrounding woodlands, which was where Damrod was now heading.
A great grey horse, instantly recognisable as Faramir’s, was pacing beneath the trees in an agitated fashion. Its fine coat was covered in blood. Of its rider, there was no trace.
“Wait there with Roheryn,” Aragorn told Damrod. He slid from his great war stallion’s back and crept towards the injured horse with the stealth that only a former Ranger could possess. Lunging towards the beast, he grabbed the dangling reins. The horse reared up, neighing frantically. Aragorn hung on grimly, speaking soft words until the horse quieted.
“What happened, Fain? Where is your master?” Aragorn asked more to himself than to the horse. He could see now that the steed had a deep and ugly wound on his hindquarters. Faramir must have been unhorsed when Fain reared in pain from the wound. Aragorn studied the injury carefully; it puzzled him. Sadly, injured horses were all too common a sight upon the battlefield, but their wounds were usually to their heads and necks. And where was Faramir? There were dead Southrons in plenty scattered around, but he had seen no man living neither nor dead in Faramir’s armour and distinctive gear.
Crouching to the ground, he looked around him carefully. Faramir’s great sword lay trampled into the ground. Aragorn picked it up. There were hoof and footprints a- plenty in the mud, but only one set of horseshoes with the pattern of Gondor. He followed the hoof prints. To begin with, they were random and blood dotted the ground between them, obviously made after Fain was wounded. Aragorn followed the trail to the edge of the copse. There were two especially deep marks here and a pool of blood. This must have been where Fain was injured and reared up, taking all his weight on his two back hooves. There was also an indentation in the ground where his rider had fallen and many more prints from men and horses. The King rose to his feet and called Damrod over. “Look,” he said. “It seems that Lord Faramir fell from his horse here and was surrounded by Haradrim who bore him away!”
He turned to Beregond who had now caught up with them. “Ride with all haste to gather reinforcements,” he told the Captain. “Lord Faramir has been captured. Damrod and I will track his captors and leave clear signs for you to follow. Also, send a message, together with Lord Faramir’s sword to Lady Éowyn and tell her what has happened. Tell her to remain in the city with her children. Ithilien might not be safe at present.”
Beregond blanched at the tidings as he took the sword from the King’s hand. “Should you not wait and gather more men, sire?” he suggested.
“Two may follow tracks more easily than twenty,” said Aragorn. “Every moment we delay puts Lord Faramir in greater jeopardy.”
Beregond did not look entirely convinced but simply replied “At once, sire,” and galloped away.
Aragorn swung himself back into Roheryn’s saddle and set off in the direction of the tracks he had found. “Keep a look out,” he ordered Damrod. “I hope you have not forgotten your old ranger skills.”
The two former Rangers painstakingly followed the tracks along a woodland trail, Aragorn frequently dismounting and studying any signs that his keen eyes perceived. He deduced that Faramir had been dragged a short distance to a large clearing, where a group of men and horses had been waiting and put on to a horse there.
“I know this area well, sire,” said Damrod. “We are not far from a little used road. During the war, the Southrons would sometimes wait to ambush us near it. Maybe they plan to take Lord Faramir to Harad?”
“Maybe,” said Aragorn. “The Southron leader has signed a treaty with Gondor, though. He would not look kindly on any of his subjects waging war upon us, much less kidnapping Gondor’s Steward! These men we are fighting against are rebels against their own leader as much as against us.”
“But surely they have taken Lord Faramir that they might redeem him for ransom?” said Damrod.
“I do not know,” Aragorn said grimly. “I do know, though, that we must get him back with all haste.”
The two did not speak again until they reached the road. Aragorn dismounted and examined the tracks. There were wheel marks, which had left deep indentations, suggesting a cart had been left there for some time and other marks, which suggested that someone, or something heavy had been dragged towards the cart. The two men followed the tracks until they came to a crossroads,
“Look,” said Damrod. “I can see hoof prints clearly here and the horses are heading south towards Harad.”
“The cart tracks are heading east towards Mordor,” said Aragorn. “It seems that the riders parted company with the cart.”
“Why go towards Mordor?” asked Damrod. “There is nothing there save rocks and ash, or so I have been told. Which tracks do we follow, sire?”
“Why indeed?” Aragorn replied grimly. “I like this not at all. We will follow the cart tracks as the signs tell me clearly that they placed Lord Faramir within the cart. If he were on horseback, he would surely have tried to escape or left some token for us. Come, Damrod, we ride East.”
Oooo
Bound and gagged, Faramir was tossed around the covered cart like a sack or grain as it travelled along the rough road. Every bone in his body ached from his rough treatment at the hands of his captors and his mouth felt drier than parchment. His armour had been removed and he was clad only in a shirt and breeches.
Worst, though was the humiliation of being captured thus, drawn into an ambush and carried off from the battlefield while his men were distracted. He flinched at the memory of poor Fain’s cry of agony. The horse had reared and thrown Faramir. Before he could remount, he had been hit on the head from behind and the next thing he recalled was waking up in this cart, trussed up like a chicken for market.
Cautiously, Faramir opened his eyes and examined his surroundings. The cart was full of logs, upon which two Southron warriors were sitting, watching him like vultures observing their prey. One was obviously a veteran of many battles ; he had a livid scar down one cheek and was missing an eye, the other was little more than a boy: his nut- brown skin unmarked and the contours of his face still rounded. Both bore the emblems of the serpent and the lidless eye upon their scarlet robes.
Faramir tried to calm his pounding heart. They were men who had abducted him, not Orcs. No doubt they planned to hold him to ransom; a ransom that the King would gladly pay. Then these men were rebels against the rule of the Grand Sultan. His men would free Gondor’s Steward once they knew of this whereabouts. His captors must be lunatics to risk the wrath of both Aragorn and the Grand Sultan. That was not a comforting thought that he had been captured by madmen. What did they want with him? Was it as simple as gold?
A cloud of dust blew through a gap in the side of the wagon into the confined space. Faramir started to cough. He could not clear his throat properly, though, because of the gag and started to choke. He started to flail around like a fish out of water as panic seized him.
The youth looked at him with startled brown eyes then got up and removed the gag. Faramir coughed and spluttered before thankfully breathing in lungful’s of air.
“You young fool!” the older man said to the boy with a curse. “What if he cries out?” He drew his dagger and waved it in front of Faramir’s face. “Call for help, tark, and you die!” he said in heavily accented Weston.
Faramir nodded. He was still coughing too much to speak.
“I thought he would choke,” said the boy in his own tongue.
“I doubt it, but we need him alive if the sacrifice is to succeed,” said the older man.
Faramir started in horror. He was to be a sacrifice? He tried to maintain his composure. These men had no idea he could understand their language. Maybe that knowledge would help him. He had no idea how, though.
“Why have you captured me?” Faramir asked, or rather croaked, once his coughing had finally subsided.
“We need you as a sacrifice to the Lord of Gifts, tark,” said the older man. He smiled for the first time.
“His spirit was carried away on the winds, he is no more in Arda,” Faramir croaked in reply.
The young man stared at Faramir again then fumbled at his belt and produced a water bottle, which he uncorked and held to Faramir’s lips. The water was stale, but tasted like nectar to the parched Steward.
The older man glared at this gesture of mercy before saying. “The Lord of Gifts was only vanquished because the sacrifice, which would have given him measureless might, was not completed, thanks to the wizard’s meddling. You father, tark, was obedient, for it is written in our lore that the Lord of Gifts will reign supreme when a father and son of high lineage offer themselves freely.”
“My father was no worshipper of Sauron!” Faramir retorted. “He chose the pyre so that the Orcs could not give him a worse death!”
The scarred warrior struck Faramir across the face. “Silence, tark! Did they not tell you that your father followed the sacrificial ritual that the Lord of Gifts used on the Star Island?”
Faramir did not reply. It was useless to argue with a madman. He tried to look defiant as he licked the blood from his lips.
Time passed slowly, yet at the same time too quickly as the cart rumbled onwards its destination. Faramir kept his eyes closed, pretending to sleep, partly because of a pounding headache and partly in the hope that he might avoid further abuse from his captors. When they finally stopped, the scarred man called to the driver asking him why.
“It grows too dark to see the road and the horses can go no further,” the driver called.
“Very well, but we resume our journey at first light,” said the scarred man. “We shall spend the night here in the wagon.” He prodded Faramir with his foot. “Wake up, tark!” he snarled in the common tongue, before addressing the younger man in his own language. “You had best take the tark in the wood to relieve himself. We want to keep him clean for the sacrifice. Don’t let him escape, these tarks are cunning rats.”
The two men half dragged, half carried Faramir from the cart, adding to his bruises in the process. The older man then loosened the Steward’s bonds sufficiently for him to place one foot in front of the other. They dragged him to his feet. Faramir could hardly stand and the sudden rush of blood as proper circulation was restored to his limbs was excruciating.
Faramir looked around him to distract himself from the pain. They were still in Ithilien. He recognised the forest of great trees that his forebears had planted long ago. He had assumed his captors were taking him to Harad, but this way led into Mordor. It seemed that they were planning to sacrifice him in Sauron’s former realm. Aragorn had garrisoned what was left of the Black Gate, but Ithilien shared miles of border with Sauron’s former realm, which it had not seemed either needful or practical to patrol.
The young man urged him forward into the trees and allowed him a little privacy behind a huge pine. Faramir toyed with the idea of using this brief moment of solitude to attempt to escape. He could hardly walk, though, impeded as he was by his bonds and stiff limbs.
“You are highly honoured, tark,” said the young man as he grabbed Faramir’s arm to usher him back to the wagon.
“Honoured?” Faramir could not help but sound bitter.
“You will be forever remembered as the great sacrifice that recalled the Lord of Gifts to life,” the young man said, in the kind of tone used to comfort a child.
“How can you be so certain?”
“The Lord of Gift’s high priest has pronounced it so.”
“What gifts did he bestow on you?”
“My prowess as a warrior and my very life.”
“It is the One who gives life,” said Faramir. “The Lord of Gifts no more created you than Mithrandir created me. What is your name, boy?”
“I am called Fikri,” said the young man. “You lie, tark. The Lord of Gifts gave us everything.”
“My name is Faramir,” said the Steward. “You could have even more if you accepted peace. Most of your folk have done so already. How many are attending this “sacrifice”?”
Fikri’s face hardened. “We do not surrender to tarks. Our comrades in arms and the elders of the faithful will all come to witness the rising of the Lord of Gifts. Do not think that you can escape! ”
They had reached the bend in the road where the wagon was parked. “Kneel!” Fikri ordered. “I must tighten your bonds again before Lord Zafir returns.”
By the time the older warrior reappeared from amongst the trees from the opposite direction to where Faramir had been taken, the Steward was again securely trussed up, though his bonds did not cut as tightly into his flesh as they did before.
Faramir was dragged back inside the wagon. His captors pulled food from their packs and ate, but he was not offered anything. When darkness fell, they wrapped themselves in their cloaks and slept. Faramir was left with his thoughts. They were far from comforting. Ever since his father had tried to burn him alive, Faramir had especially feared death by fire. He had been mercifully unconscious at the time, but for a long time afterwards, he had been haunted by nightmares filled with the stench of smoke and burning flesh. A horrible, slow, and painful death. He often wondered just how much his father had suffered. To think that he had been spared once from death by fire, only to meet the same fate years later! Faramir was no coward, but he was terrified. His stomach churned and his heart thumped at the very thought.
He did not want to die yet. He was not ready to leave Éowyn or his children, or the King he loved and served. He would gladly have given his life to defend those he loved or his beloved land, but to be sacrificed to a false god was a cruel fate indeed!
Then what of his father? Despite his defiant words, the Steward was troubled by his captors’ certainty that Denethor had offered himself as a sacrifice to the Dark Lord. Denethor had hated Sauron and all he stood for, but what if in his madness, he had turned to his old adversary. Would his soul ever find rest if he had?
The Steward shifted restlessly wishing that every bone and muscle in his body did not ache so. He needed to escape, but how? He was tightly bound and had no weapon. If only he could have left some sign for Aragorn to follow! It was futile to hope for rescue, though. It would be some time before anyone noticed he was missing in the heat of battle and Aragorn and Beregond would first scour the field for his body. Then they would no doubt assume he had been carried off to Harad for ransom and send pursuers in the wrong direction. With that far from comforting thought, Faramir finally drifted into an uneasy slumber.
000
Aragorn reined Roheryn to a halt. “We will rest here by this stream for a few hours,” he told Damrod. “Loth though I am to stop, the horses can go no further and we cannot see the trail in the darkness.”
“Shall I make a fire, sire?” Damrod asked. He slid from his horse and patted the sweating animal.
“Yes, our quarry is still way ahead,” said Aragorn. “I had hoped we would have caught up with them ere nightfall.”
“Maybe our reinforcements will arrive in the morning,” said Damrod as the two men tended to their horses.
“It takes time to gather men and supplies,” said Aragorn. “Faramir’s best hope of rescue lies with us.” He patted Roheryn and left the great stallion to graze.
“What do you think his captors want with Lord Faramir?” asked Damrod.
“I can think of several things, none of them pleasant,” Aragorn replied grimly.
Damrod soon had a cheerful fire blazing. The two former Rangers ate a meagre supper of dried biscuit washed down with water. They then wrapped themselves in their cloaks and settled down for the night.
Damrod almost immediately fell asleep, but rest was slow to come to Aragorn. He lay looking up at the stars. Could Faramir still see those same stars? Did he yet live? Aragorn shuddered then chided himself. Surely he would sense it if his friend were dead. How were his captors treating him, though? Was Faramir being put to torment? Aragorn could not bear to dwell on the thought. Inwardly he vowed to save his friend and Steward whatever the cost. With that thought, he slept.
0000
Faramir was awakened by the cart juddering to a halt. He had been lost in dark dreams of his father lighting a pyre on which he was lying. Denethor had cried out, “Sauron, take the son that is left to me as a gift!”
He could hear his captors talking about unharnessing the horses. Faramir realised they had reached their destination.
A few moments later, some men whom he had not seen before, started unloading the logs from the cart. Faramir shuddered. They were building his pyre!
A few moments later, Fikri and Zafir dragged him out of the cart and laid him on the grass beside it. Faramir blinked in the bright sunlight. A grim sight met his eyes. A group of about twenty men were gathered. Most of them appeared to be Southrons, but one or two had paler skin and grey eyes. Faramir assumed these were Black Númenoreans from Umbar.
A rough cart track formed a part of the long border between Ithilien and Mordor. On the Mordor side of the border, several of the men were occupied piling up logs on a makeshift stone altar. One pale- skinned man stood apart from the rest. He wore flowing robes of black and scarlet embroidered with images of a gigantic eye. He caught sight of Faramir and strode over to where he was lying. He stared at the Steward for some time with cold grey eyes devoid of expression. At last, he addressed Zafir. “So this is the tark who caused our glorious lord’s defeat?”
Zafir bowed low. “Yes, master. He is the son of Denethor, snatched from the flames by the cursed white wizard.”
“He shall not escape this time. Our glorious lord will be reborn in splendour from the flames in which this tark burns. A pity he is so scrawny, the fat ones burn better, but he will have to do. Mark him with the sign of the Lord of Gifts.”
“You heard the high priest, do as he says!” Zafir told Fikri.
The boy knelt beside Faramir. One of the others handed him a brush and a jar of blood coloured liquid, which he began to paint on Faramir’s forehead. It burned like fire. The Steward said not a word, but his eyes searched out Fikri’s. The boy faltered slightly in his task.
“Hurry up, boy!” the high priest snapped impatiently.
“I’m sorry,” Fikri muttered. He tore open Faramir’s shirt and daubed more of the substance across Faramir’s chest. The burning was worse than ever against the more tender skin. Faramir glanced downwards and shuddered to see that the symbol of the eye now adorned his skin together with runes, the meaning of which he could only guess.
The pyre was now complete and one of the Southrons poured oil from a jar over the wood.
“Place the sacrifice upon the altar,” ordered the high priest.
“Shouldn’t we knock him out first?” asked Fikri.
“Foolish boy! Do you wish to join him!” snapped the high priest. “The louder the tark screams, the more powerful the magic!”
Fikri looked decidedly queasy but made no further protest. Together with Zafir and two of the other men, they picked up Faramir and lifted him on to the pyre. They then piled more logs around him to enclose him like a cage.
The Steward vainly tried to struggle, but his bonds and the grip of his captors rendered his struggles futile. He could only watch as the followers of Sauron gathered around him in a circle. A small fire had been kindled. One of the men took up a torch and stood waiting to kindle the pyre.
The high priest raised his arms and intoned. “Lord of Gifts, mighty ruler, lord of Arda, hear us and harken. We offer you this sacrifice, the tark that rightfully is yours that you might return to us and rule resplendent for eternity!”
“So be it!” cried the others. “Let it be!”
Faramir’s stomach churned violently. He was about to die in the most horrible manner, sacrificed to a false god. “Valar, give me courage!” he muttered, more to himself than in any hope of his prayer being answered. He could only hope that Éowyn never learned of the manner of his death. He had wanted to grow old with her and see his children grow and thrive. He had wanted to help rebuild Gondor at the side of the man he had come to love and admire. Alas, his dreams were in ashes. Faramir laughed bitterly at the choice of word. All he could hope for now was that his death would not take too long.
The high priest began to chant in the Black Speech of Mordor. His followers took up the chant. When it reached a crescendo, the man holding the now lighted torch approached the pyre.
Faramir closed his eyes.
A loud cry rang out followed by a thud. Faramir opened his eyes again to see the torchbearer lying face down upon the ground, an arrow protruding from his back. The torch was entangled with his robes, which were now burning. Fortunately he was still some distance from the oil soaked pyre.
Faramir’s captors were thrown into confusion, looking wildly around them to see from whence the arrow had come.
“We are under attack!” cried the high priest. These proved to be his final words as another arrow whizzed through the air and struck him in the heart. A man brandishing a sword, then raced out from behind a rocky outcrop. It was Aragorn.
Faramir regarded him with a mixture of joy and horror. His lord had come to his aid, but he was heavily outnumbered. He yearned to live, but not at the cost of Aragorn’s life.
A dozen or so Southron warriors rushed towards the King, scimitars in their hands. Aragorn cut and slashed with Andúril, but he was surrounded. As soon as he felled one, another took his place. Arrows started to fly, picking them off before they could approach the King. Faramir took heart; knowing his King had not come alone. Maybe he would not die trying to save him.
Another group of warriors raced towards the rocks from whence the arrows were flying trying to stop the archer.
Fikri, who had been standing at one side, suddenly ran towards Faramir and clambered up the pyre, knocking aside the logs that surrounded the Steward. Faramir’s heart soared. Then Fikri drew his dagger. The Steward groaned inwardly.
To be so close to rescue only to have hope snatched from him again! The archer was preoccupied in defending Aragorn and could not help him.
This boy was after all an acolyte of the Dark Lord. Fikri’s blade flashed, but instead of cutting into Faramir’s flesh, he cut through the ropes that bound him.
Before Faramir could thank him, an arrow flew through the air and hit the boy. He fell forward with a sickening thud as he hit his head against the stone altar.
Faramir slowly and painfully sat up, his head reeling at this sudden turn of events. Fikri had aided him, but the unknown archer had concluded that the blade in his hand was for some sinister purpose. Now the boy was most likely dead for showing mercy. The Steward’s heart ached. He tried to see if Fikri was still breathing or not, but before he was able to, Aragorn cut down the last of his assailants and ran towards him.
Aragorn snatched him from the altar and half dragged, half carried him back towards the track that marked the border. The surviving Southrons gave pursuit, but the archer picked them off as they approached.
“You risked your life to come,” said Faramir as soon as he could draw breath for speech.
“Only just in time,” Aragorn replied grimly. “Are you much hurt, mellon nîn? Would that we could have found you sooner!”
“I am stiff and have a few bruises,” Faramir replied. “Nothing worse.”
“The horses are waiting in the woods,” said Aragorn. “Damrod will cover us. Those archery lessons you gave him were put to good use. He was telling me that you spent hours improving his proficiency with the bow.”
“Maybe, I taught him too well,” Faramir said sadly. By now, they had reached the clearing where the horses were tethered.
“How so?” asked Aragorn. He helped Faramir mount Roheryn before then leaping astride the horse himself.
“One of my captors cut my bonds and Damrod thought he was attacking me and shot him,” said Faramir. “He is most likely slain.”
“We dare not go back,” said Aragorn. “The Southrons are still pursuing us.”
“I know.” Faramir’s tone was both sad and resigned. He slumped against Aragorn as the pain shot through his limbs with returning circulation.
Aragorn urged Roheryn forward and the great horse sped on his way. Soon afterwards, they were joined by Damrod. His quiver was empty. “There are still some of them alive,” he said. “We should be able to outpace them as our horses are swifter.”
“Let us leave Mordor far behind us!” said Damrod.
They rode onwards until the sun was almost overhead, visible through the leafy canopy of Ithilien woodland. Every muscle in Faramir’s body ached, but he spoke no word of complaint. Suddenly they heard the sound of approaching hoof beats, as if a great company were coming towards them. Aragorn gestured that they take cover amongst the trees. To their great relief, once the company came into sight they could see that the riders wore the uniform of Gondor. Beregond was at their head.
“Well met, my friend!” Aragorn emerged from cover to greet the Captain. Faramir straightened up in the saddle.
“Valar be praised, sire!” cried Beregond. “You have Lord Faramir safe!”
Aragorn swiftly recounted all that had happened then asked Beregond to divide his men into two troops; one headed by the Captain to pursue any remaining Southrons and the other to accompany them to Emyn Arnen.
“Beregond!” Faramir called as the Captain prepared to ride away.
“Yes, my lord?”
“There was one amongst the Southrons who was little more than a boy. Grant him a decent burial if you find his body.”
“I will, sir. What if he yet lives?”
“It is most unlikely, but treat his wounds if he still draws breath. And take care, my friend, these Southrons are a savage bunch, dedicated to the worship of Sauron. ”
Beregond nodded and spurred his horse forward.
The others continued their journey to Emyn Arnen without further incident.
00000
“You have been fortunate, mellon nîn,” said Aragorn as he finished examining Faramir’s injuries. “I fear you will ache for a while, but your bruises and sore muscles will soon heal. I will apply a salve to ease the pain and mix you a draught.”
“What of these fiendish markings?” Faramir gestured to the mark of the eye standing out scarlet against the skin of his forehead and chest.
“Whatever dye was used burnt the top layer of your skin off,” said Aragorn. “It should heal without scarring, though. I will bandage the wounds so you do not have to look upon them.”
“I would not have my lady and my little ones distressed by the mark of Sauron when they return on the morrow,” said Faramir. “I would rather tell Éowyn first than have her walk in and behold me thus.”
“She is strong with the heart of a warrior, is your lady,” said Aragorn. “All that will matter to her is that you are home, safe and almost unscathed. Now lie still, while I apply some healing salves.”
The two lapsed into companionable silence. Faramir lay back against his pillows, thankful beyond measure to be back in his own bed. He closed his eyes and tried to drowse, but harrowing visions of his father engulfed in flames whirled around in his mind.
“What troubles you, mellon nîn?” asked Aragorn.
“My captors told me that my father intended both himself and me as a sacrifice for Sauron,” said Faramir. “I cannot believe such a thing and yet….”
“Your father hated Sauron and all that he stood for,” Aragorn said firmly. “His mind was twisted at the end, but it was fear of Sauron and what he and his minions would do that influenced his actions. So Gandalf told me and his words are to be trusted.”
“Yet I am told that he desired to burn like the heathen kings of old,” said Faramir.
“He meant only in the manner of his death,” Aragorn replied. “He feared bowing to me almost as much as bowing to Sauron.”
“What greater honour could there be than to return the White Rod to the King returned?” Faramir exclaimed.
Aragorn laughed bitterly. “I believe the Valar destined that honour for you, Faramir. To your father it seemed as ignominious as falling captive to some tyrant!”
“Never did a captive have more freedom!” said Faramir and smiled.