The Vigil: Part Ten
An LotR A/U rated PG13 for violence.
Disclaimer: These are not my wonderful characters and I do not profit by their use.
My thanks to Jean.
::: :: ::: ::: :: :::
“Here,” Legolas turned his mount’s head and rode down the riverbank.
“The Anduin will get narrower but it will also become faster. We will swim across here. Once we are on the western side, we will leave the road for the wood.”
Aragorn did not speak, but concentrated on making it down the slope without letting Gilraen slide from his arms. He hoped that once they were over the river in Pelargir, the Elf might call a halt. He was wearier than he had ever been in his life and could not focus long enough to count how many hours it had been since he’d slept. The Vigil seemed not to feel the need for rest, or food, or tears. It seemed as though Aragorn had been staring for an eternity at the long tail of the Elf’s steed. As the Heir raised his head with an effort, Castamir looked back, his fine features drawn with fatigue. Meeting Aragorn’s eyes, the slave gave him a sympathetic look.
“Legolas,” Aragorn called, when they reached the other side. “We mere mortals must stop for rest soon.”
“I would prefer to be farther away before stopping,” the Elf said without turning around.
Castamir looked back again as they neared the trees and cried out in alarm. Legolas was already turning his steed, alerted by the bond between the Heir’s feo and his. He brought his mount up beside Aragorn’s and caught the Queen as the Prince slumped in the saddle.
“Change horses,” the Vigil said curtly and Castamir nimbly moved to sit behind Aragorn. “Give me the reins and see that he stays in the saddle.”
The Umbaran nodded his understanding of the Elf’s commands, wrapping his arms around the Prince. Castamir would make sure Aragorn didn’t fall, not from fear of the fair one, but because he was the Lady’s son. Queen Gilraen had treated the boy with more respect and kindness than anyone in his life heretofore. Ignoring the sharp, warning look the Elf directed at him, Castamir devoted his remaining energy to keeping Aragorn upright.
“Thank you,” Aragorn whispered.
“I thought you had fainted,” the boy said in surprise.
“Nay, it was merely a subterfuge to convince our good Elf to take some pity on us.”
Castamir hid his grin against the Heir’s cloak. As the lissome slave pressed against Aragorn’s back, the Prince felt the evening sun take on an extra degree of heat. A bit flustered, he held tight to the pommel and tried not to think about the effect the boy was having on him. The idea of two males laying together did not repel him, but he had never imagined himself as one of those sorts of men. It was taken for granted that he would marry a highborn maiden and provide Heirs for Gondor. There was no question of any other destiny for him; it had been decided long before he was born to wonder why things were the way they were. He was too curious for good wisdom, as the Steward was wont to say. It would be better for everyone if he simply did what was expected him. In the meantime however, he allowed himself to feel pleasure in the nearness of a warm, attractive body.
“Your Highness,” Castamir said, jarring Aragorn from a near doze. “We are stopping.”
The slave jumped down and hurried to help Legolas lower the Queen to the ground. Gilraen’s strong, beautiful features were serene, as though she floated upon the bosom of the Isen on the back of a giant swan. Aragorn spread his cloak upon the moss and tenderly lifted his mother to lie upon the sable velvet. Fervently, he beseeched the Valar to wake her from her sorcerous sleep, but her eyelids stayed down and her hand was cool and limp in his. When he looked away, he saw Castamir sorting the items in the saddlebags, but the Elf was nowhere in sight.
“Here,” Legolas said from close behind Aragorn.
Aragorn leaped to his feet, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.
“Good,” the Vigil said. “I was afraid you might be a coward.”
The Prince drew a deep breath to voice a hot retort, but it came out as a sob. Drawing another shuddering lungful of air, he tried again, but he was nearly at the end of his endurance. To his chagrin, he felt scalding tears well up in his eyes and overflow. Once again, he was reduced to weeping in front of the Elf.
“I… I am not a coward,” he choked out.
“Neither are you quick to act, when boldness is called for.”
Aragorn bowed his head in shame. “I am sorry. It is just that… I have never had to kill anyone before.” His voice broke. “It is… distressingly simple.”
The Vigil paused before he answered. “I had not considered that,” he said. “I beg your pardon. If I had my wish, you would never have the need to kill again. Are you well?”
“I cannot stop thinking about the man I robbed of life. He might be married and have children that depend upon him, that will wait in vain for him to return to them.”
“Your Highness,” Legolas put a hand on the Heir’s shoulder, and spoke warrior to warrior. “The man you slew was a soldier. He took vows to king and country to live or die in service. The time to think of a wife and children is before the swearing of oaths.”
“You will tell me that he knew the risks before he took up the sword,” Aragorn said. “But what if this was the only employment he was suited for?”
“I have no head for statecraft, as my sire is often pleased to observe,” the Elf said. “My answer to your question would be to learn a craft other than warfare.”
“It is not always so simple,” Aragorn launched into one of his favorite topics. He seldom got to speak for very long on the subject before the listener yawned or scoffed at his youthful idealism. However, the Vigil stood in respectful silence and weighed each of the Prince’s words carefully. Delighted, Aragorn elaborated on his dream of Gondor restored to her former glory, before taxes, when citizens tithed out of loyalty and love of their nation, and the troubling thoughts of the dead soldier were forgotten for a while.
“Masters,” Castamir called softly. “Will you have some food?”
Aragorn realized how hungry he was. “What do you suppose he means by food?” he asked the Elf lightly.
“The way fare that was in our saddlebags,” Legolas answered.
“You are so very literal,” the Prince said. “Do Elves not joke?”
“Of course we do, but when we do, we have the grace to be amusing.”
“I should stop trying to predict what you will do or say,” Aragorn sighed. “It is not possible.”
“At least you have gained that much wisdom,” the Elf said. “Go and eat. I will stand guard.”
The Vigil watched his charge walk away and the weary set of the Man’s shoulders made his heart ache with the need to comfort him. Resolutely, Legolas stood where he was, fingernails digging into his palms, and resisted the pull of the bond that grew stronger with every hour spent in the Heir’s presence. Moments ago, he had been a breath away from taking the young man into his arms in a fierce embrace. The echo of the wild longing that accompanied the desire to protect still throbbed in his groin. Legolas knew he was willful to a fault, but he did not know how long he could withstand this compulsion toward physical closeness. And he must for he knew in his bones that it would destroy them both.
“Master?”
The Elf gestured to Castamir to come closer.
“Do you not wish to eat?” the slave asked. “I have brought you some of the dried fruit.”
“Why do you see to my comfort?”
“Perhaps it is my nature, or my training, or the fact that you can keep me alive. Choose one, Master Elf, whichever it pleases you to believe.”
“You are not so young as you appear,” Legolas said.
“Nor am I innocent. Forgive my boldness, Master, but I know many ways to give comfort.”
“Do not call me master. It does not please me.”
Castamir looked up at the Elf from under his long eyelashes. “Is there aught about me that does please you?”
“Your face and form are very pleasing. I would enjoy topping you, but I am on sentry duty.”
“You are always on sentry duty, if you will forgive my saying it.”
“I am a slave as well,” Legolas held up the hand that bore the ring. “To this. Unlike you, I chose my fate.”
“Do you wish you could change it?” Castamir leaned closer.
Legolas inhaled the subtle scent of the herbs the slave used to wash his hair. “Of course. Who does not wish for the power to change his fate?”
Aragorn took a slow step backward, and then another one. When he was far enough away from the Elf and the Umbaran, the Prince turned and walked rapidly back to the camp. He had been a fool to think Legolas had really been interested in his dreams, or that the Elf would want to hear more about them. It was plain that Aragorn was an iron collar around the Vigil’s neck, and that Legolas would be rid of the burden if he could. As it was plain that Castamir wasn’t the least bit interested in Aragorn either. The young man’s cheeks grew warm as his imagination supplied him with vague visions of what the other two might be doing right now. After all, had the Elf not as much as said he preferred his own sex? And there could be no mistaking the Umbaran’s willingness.
Exhausted in body and spirit, the Prince sank to his knees beside the Queen. He took up her hand in both of his and brought it to his breast. Ruthlessly, he shut his dreams away. What significance could they possibly have while his mother lay bound under a sorcerous spell? He wished with all his heart that he could stop time for just a little while so he could rest, really rest for once. Since the moment of his birth, he had borne the responsibility for the welfare of the Kingdom of Gondor. Every hour of his life was accounted for and nowhere was there time set aside for what he wanted. There was only duty like an endless gray tunnel stretching into the future, becoming ever narrower until he was trapped for all time, a living martyr to his bloodline.
::: :: ::: ::: :: ::: ::: :: :::
As they walked, Faramir inclined his head to the Corsair King’s majordomo and accepted the gracious welcome to the palace. As he was informed that ruler could not see him today, Faramir caught a glimpse into the throne room they were passing by. The tall, cadaverous figure on the black swathed throne above a kneeling throng of supplicants was every bit as sinister and forbidding as the Steward’s son had pictured. He gave his attention back to the court official as they came to the end of the long hallway and stopped. The majordomo gestured to the doorway before them.
“This room is set aside for your use,” said the Umbaran. “Please be so good as to wait here until His Majesty has time for you. Refreshments will be brought to you and there is a couch you may lie upon.”
“Thank you. You are most gracious,” Faramir said with a small bow.
The majordomo ran an interested eye over the Gondorian. “My informants tell me that you were brought here by Captain Namir’s men. I am terribly curious as to your errand here.”
Faramir bowed again. “I am sure you understand that I cannot speak of my mission to anyone before I have seen the King.”
“I understand completely. Fortunately, I have no compunction about telling you that Captain Namir despises Westrons. If he returns to the City before you see His Majesty, your courier status may not be any protection.”
“I cannot believe that your King would violate the law of safe passage for heralds.”
“There are many spies on the roads these days,” the Umbaran shrugged. “Rest well.”
Faramir doubted he would get any rest as he entered the pleasant chamber and reflected on the majordomo’s warning. When he had taken this task upon himself, he had been hurt and angry with his father, but he had considered the dangers he would face and accepted them. However, he had counted upon those in power to honor the immunity of couriers. What had so changed in the ruling house of Umbar that raiders would risk war by abducting Gondor’s Queen, or would feel no compunction about flouting the accords that all civilized nations observed? These were questions that would have to wait; just now, Faramir was set on making an unescorted tour of the palace.
As soon as the long shadows merged into one and became night, the Steward’s younger son went out to the enclosed courtyard beyond his room. There were doors the other three walls, but Faramir ignored them. Moving swiftly to the south side of the little garden, he clambered up a thick hanging mat of vines. From the wall, he gained the roof and headed unerringly for the front of the palace, his heart in his throat each time he hid from a guard. His heart was pounding like the falls of Rauros by the time he reached the outer wall and crawled out on the portico roof. Seeing no sentries, he swung down, dropping the last three feet to land in a crouch. The stone of the porch still held the heat of the day as he scurried over them into the deep shadow of one of the bronze doors. Praying he had been mistaken, Faramir rose beside the prisoner chained to the portal. As he lifted the man’s drooping head, a smoking curse broke from his lips.
“Such language from our little scholar,” Boromir wheezed.
“What have they done to you?” Faramir gasped in horror. “I was not even sure it was you.”
“Now that you know; do you intend to do something? I am growing weary of hanging here.”
Faramir’s eyes filled with tears at this proof of his brother’s indomitable spirit. With shaking fingers, he examined the chains and the brackets they were attached to. Frantically, he searched his pouch for anything he could use on the iron fittings.
“It is no use,” Boromir whispered. “They closed the links with hammers. You cannot free me without waking half the city.”
“Then I shall. And I shall also demand that you be released.”
“Faramir, no. I have seen the King and he will not listen to reason. The practice of sorcery has been revived, and devils are offered tribute of the blood and souls of Umbaran soldiers. You see what they did to me. These are a people sunk far into evil.”
“I do not know what to do,” Faramir muttered, as he absorbed Boromir’s words. “I must think of a way to free you, but my wits do not avail me here. I cannot convince the iron to release you with a clever argument.”
“Brother,” Boromir turned his face to the moonlight and Faramir’s stomach rolled over as he saw the real extent of the damage done to flesh and bone. “It is enough that I am not alone in this hour. I am not afraid to die here, but…”
Faramir put his arms carefully around his brother as Boromir’s broken body was wracked by deep sobs. The young man was acutely aware of how their roles had been reversed and it was he offering his strength to Boromir. Faramir was glad to repay Boromir for all the times in their childhood when his older brother had taken his part, or dried his tears. For once, Boromir needed him, and Faramir made a silent vow that he would not fail. He would do whatever he must to stop Boromir’s suffering.
“Brother,” Faramir murmured in Boromir’s ear. “Could you walk were you free?”
“I would try,” came the answer, and Faramir’s heart sank even lower.
Even if a way could be found to break the chains, he would have to carry Boromir. And to where? Back to his room? To the stables, if he could find them? Down the streets of a city as large as Gondor and unfamiliar to him? He did not like any of those choices.
“Faramir? Have you a dagger?”
“I have a knife in my pouch, but it will be no use here. It is for cutting off wax seals and such. It would snap against this iron.”
“I do not want you to use it on the chains.”
Faramir drew back and looked into his brother’s moon silvered eyes. “You cannot ask this of me,” he said gravely. “I love you more than any living thing. I cannot end your life.”
“Look at me, brother. I am nearly dead. Have mercy and finish it.”
“There must be another way.”
“There is not, or you would have thought of it. You are the cleverest man I have ever known, little brother. You know that you must walk away from me and do your best to stay alive. Aragorn will need you at his side when he takes the throne. For it is clear to me that Gondor will soon be at war, and our enemies have allied themselves with the Dark.”
The tracks of tears glimmered on Faramir’s cheeks as he nodded. “I know, and it is bitter wisdom,” he said, reaching into his pouch.
Boromir lifted his head bravely and Faramir did not see the gore crusted cuts, the lumps and bruises left by stones, the raw, blistered skin or the dislocated limbs. He saw a Knight of Gondor, tall and proud, unafraid of his fate. Faramir put the point of the tiny blade under Boromir’s chin and gathered his courage.
“What are you doing there?” Someone said at Faramir’s shoulder.
tbc
Disclaimer: These are not my wonderful characters and I do not profit by their use.
My thanks to Jean.
::: :: ::: ::: :: :::
“Here,” Legolas turned his mount’s head and rode down the riverbank.
“The Anduin will get narrower but it will also become faster. We will swim across here. Once we are on the western side, we will leave the road for the wood.”
Aragorn did not speak, but concentrated on making it down the slope without letting Gilraen slide from his arms. He hoped that once they were over the river in Pelargir, the Elf might call a halt. He was wearier than he had ever been in his life and could not focus long enough to count how many hours it had been since he’d slept. The Vigil seemed not to feel the need for rest, or food, or tears. It seemed as though Aragorn had been staring for an eternity at the long tail of the Elf’s steed. As the Heir raised his head with an effort, Castamir looked back, his fine features drawn with fatigue. Meeting Aragorn’s eyes, the slave gave him a sympathetic look.
“Legolas,” Aragorn called, when they reached the other side. “We mere mortals must stop for rest soon.”
“I would prefer to be farther away before stopping,” the Elf said without turning around.
Castamir looked back again as they neared the trees and cried out in alarm. Legolas was already turning his steed, alerted by the bond between the Heir’s feo and his. He brought his mount up beside Aragorn’s and caught the Queen as the Prince slumped in the saddle.
“Change horses,” the Vigil said curtly and Castamir nimbly moved to sit behind Aragorn. “Give me the reins and see that he stays in the saddle.”
The Umbaran nodded his understanding of the Elf’s commands, wrapping his arms around the Prince. Castamir would make sure Aragorn didn’t fall, not from fear of the fair one, but because he was the Lady’s son. Queen Gilraen had treated the boy with more respect and kindness than anyone in his life heretofore. Ignoring the sharp, warning look the Elf directed at him, Castamir devoted his remaining energy to keeping Aragorn upright.
“Thank you,” Aragorn whispered.
“I thought you had fainted,” the boy said in surprise.
“Nay, it was merely a subterfuge to convince our good Elf to take some pity on us.”
Castamir hid his grin against the Heir’s cloak. As the lissome slave pressed against Aragorn’s back, the Prince felt the evening sun take on an extra degree of heat. A bit flustered, he held tight to the pommel and tried not to think about the effect the boy was having on him. The idea of two males laying together did not repel him, but he had never imagined himself as one of those sorts of men. It was taken for granted that he would marry a highborn maiden and provide Heirs for Gondor. There was no question of any other destiny for him; it had been decided long before he was born to wonder why things were the way they were. He was too curious for good wisdom, as the Steward was wont to say. It would be better for everyone if he simply did what was expected him. In the meantime however, he allowed himself to feel pleasure in the nearness of a warm, attractive body.
“Your Highness,” Castamir said, jarring Aragorn from a near doze. “We are stopping.”
The slave jumped down and hurried to help Legolas lower the Queen to the ground. Gilraen’s strong, beautiful features were serene, as though she floated upon the bosom of the Isen on the back of a giant swan. Aragorn spread his cloak upon the moss and tenderly lifted his mother to lie upon the sable velvet. Fervently, he beseeched the Valar to wake her from her sorcerous sleep, but her eyelids stayed down and her hand was cool and limp in his. When he looked away, he saw Castamir sorting the items in the saddlebags, but the Elf was nowhere in sight.
“Here,” Legolas said from close behind Aragorn.
Aragorn leaped to his feet, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.
“Good,” the Vigil said. “I was afraid you might be a coward.”
The Prince drew a deep breath to voice a hot retort, but it came out as a sob. Drawing another shuddering lungful of air, he tried again, but he was nearly at the end of his endurance. To his chagrin, he felt scalding tears well up in his eyes and overflow. Once again, he was reduced to weeping in front of the Elf.
“I… I am not a coward,” he choked out.
“Neither are you quick to act, when boldness is called for.”
Aragorn bowed his head in shame. “I am sorry. It is just that… I have never had to kill anyone before.” His voice broke. “It is… distressingly simple.”
The Vigil paused before he answered. “I had not considered that,” he said. “I beg your pardon. If I had my wish, you would never have the need to kill again. Are you well?”
“I cannot stop thinking about the man I robbed of life. He might be married and have children that depend upon him, that will wait in vain for him to return to them.”
“Your Highness,” Legolas put a hand on the Heir’s shoulder, and spoke warrior to warrior. “The man you slew was a soldier. He took vows to king and country to live or die in service. The time to think of a wife and children is before the swearing of oaths.”
“You will tell me that he knew the risks before he took up the sword,” Aragorn said. “But what if this was the only employment he was suited for?”
“I have no head for statecraft, as my sire is often pleased to observe,” the Elf said. “My answer to your question would be to learn a craft other than warfare.”
“It is not always so simple,” Aragorn launched into one of his favorite topics. He seldom got to speak for very long on the subject before the listener yawned or scoffed at his youthful idealism. However, the Vigil stood in respectful silence and weighed each of the Prince’s words carefully. Delighted, Aragorn elaborated on his dream of Gondor restored to her former glory, before taxes, when citizens tithed out of loyalty and love of their nation, and the troubling thoughts of the dead soldier were forgotten for a while.
“Masters,” Castamir called softly. “Will you have some food?”
Aragorn realized how hungry he was. “What do you suppose he means by food?” he asked the Elf lightly.
“The way fare that was in our saddlebags,” Legolas answered.
“You are so very literal,” the Prince said. “Do Elves not joke?”
“Of course we do, but when we do, we have the grace to be amusing.”
“I should stop trying to predict what you will do or say,” Aragorn sighed. “It is not possible.”
“At least you have gained that much wisdom,” the Elf said. “Go and eat. I will stand guard.”
The Vigil watched his charge walk away and the weary set of the Man’s shoulders made his heart ache with the need to comfort him. Resolutely, Legolas stood where he was, fingernails digging into his palms, and resisted the pull of the bond that grew stronger with every hour spent in the Heir’s presence. Moments ago, he had been a breath away from taking the young man into his arms in a fierce embrace. The echo of the wild longing that accompanied the desire to protect still throbbed in his groin. Legolas knew he was willful to a fault, but he did not know how long he could withstand this compulsion toward physical closeness. And he must for he knew in his bones that it would destroy them both.
“Master?”
The Elf gestured to Castamir to come closer.
“Do you not wish to eat?” the slave asked. “I have brought you some of the dried fruit.”
“Why do you see to my comfort?”
“Perhaps it is my nature, or my training, or the fact that you can keep me alive. Choose one, Master Elf, whichever it pleases you to believe.”
“You are not so young as you appear,” Legolas said.
“Nor am I innocent. Forgive my boldness, Master, but I know many ways to give comfort.”
“Do not call me master. It does not please me.”
Castamir looked up at the Elf from under his long eyelashes. “Is there aught about me that does please you?”
“Your face and form are very pleasing. I would enjoy topping you, but I am on sentry duty.”
“You are always on sentry duty, if you will forgive my saying it.”
“I am a slave as well,” Legolas held up the hand that bore the ring. “To this. Unlike you, I chose my fate.”
“Do you wish you could change it?” Castamir leaned closer.
Legolas inhaled the subtle scent of the herbs the slave used to wash his hair. “Of course. Who does not wish for the power to change his fate?”
Aragorn took a slow step backward, and then another one. When he was far enough away from the Elf and the Umbaran, the Prince turned and walked rapidly back to the camp. He had been a fool to think Legolas had really been interested in his dreams, or that the Elf would want to hear more about them. It was plain that Aragorn was an iron collar around the Vigil’s neck, and that Legolas would be rid of the burden if he could. As it was plain that Castamir wasn’t the least bit interested in Aragorn either. The young man’s cheeks grew warm as his imagination supplied him with vague visions of what the other two might be doing right now. After all, had the Elf not as much as said he preferred his own sex? And there could be no mistaking the Umbaran’s willingness.
Exhausted in body and spirit, the Prince sank to his knees beside the Queen. He took up her hand in both of his and brought it to his breast. Ruthlessly, he shut his dreams away. What significance could they possibly have while his mother lay bound under a sorcerous spell? He wished with all his heart that he could stop time for just a little while so he could rest, really rest for once. Since the moment of his birth, he had borne the responsibility for the welfare of the Kingdom of Gondor. Every hour of his life was accounted for and nowhere was there time set aside for what he wanted. There was only duty like an endless gray tunnel stretching into the future, becoming ever narrower until he was trapped for all time, a living martyr to his bloodline.
::: :: ::: ::: :: ::: ::: :: :::
As they walked, Faramir inclined his head to the Corsair King’s majordomo and accepted the gracious welcome to the palace. As he was informed that ruler could not see him today, Faramir caught a glimpse into the throne room they were passing by. The tall, cadaverous figure on the black swathed throne above a kneeling throng of supplicants was every bit as sinister and forbidding as the Steward’s son had pictured. He gave his attention back to the court official as they came to the end of the long hallway and stopped. The majordomo gestured to the doorway before them.
“This room is set aside for your use,” said the Umbaran. “Please be so good as to wait here until His Majesty has time for you. Refreshments will be brought to you and there is a couch you may lie upon.”
“Thank you. You are most gracious,” Faramir said with a small bow.
The majordomo ran an interested eye over the Gondorian. “My informants tell me that you were brought here by Captain Namir’s men. I am terribly curious as to your errand here.”
Faramir bowed again. “I am sure you understand that I cannot speak of my mission to anyone before I have seen the King.”
“I understand completely. Fortunately, I have no compunction about telling you that Captain Namir despises Westrons. If he returns to the City before you see His Majesty, your courier status may not be any protection.”
“I cannot believe that your King would violate the law of safe passage for heralds.”
“There are many spies on the roads these days,” the Umbaran shrugged. “Rest well.”
Faramir doubted he would get any rest as he entered the pleasant chamber and reflected on the majordomo’s warning. When he had taken this task upon himself, he had been hurt and angry with his father, but he had considered the dangers he would face and accepted them. However, he had counted upon those in power to honor the immunity of couriers. What had so changed in the ruling house of Umbar that raiders would risk war by abducting Gondor’s Queen, or would feel no compunction about flouting the accords that all civilized nations observed? These were questions that would have to wait; just now, Faramir was set on making an unescorted tour of the palace.
As soon as the long shadows merged into one and became night, the Steward’s younger son went out to the enclosed courtyard beyond his room. There were doors the other three walls, but Faramir ignored them. Moving swiftly to the south side of the little garden, he clambered up a thick hanging mat of vines. From the wall, he gained the roof and headed unerringly for the front of the palace, his heart in his throat each time he hid from a guard. His heart was pounding like the falls of Rauros by the time he reached the outer wall and crawled out on the portico roof. Seeing no sentries, he swung down, dropping the last three feet to land in a crouch. The stone of the porch still held the heat of the day as he scurried over them into the deep shadow of one of the bronze doors. Praying he had been mistaken, Faramir rose beside the prisoner chained to the portal. As he lifted the man’s drooping head, a smoking curse broke from his lips.
“Such language from our little scholar,” Boromir wheezed.
“What have they done to you?” Faramir gasped in horror. “I was not even sure it was you.”
“Now that you know; do you intend to do something? I am growing weary of hanging here.”
Faramir’s eyes filled with tears at this proof of his brother’s indomitable spirit. With shaking fingers, he examined the chains and the brackets they were attached to. Frantically, he searched his pouch for anything he could use on the iron fittings.
“It is no use,” Boromir whispered. “They closed the links with hammers. You cannot free me without waking half the city.”
“Then I shall. And I shall also demand that you be released.”
“Faramir, no. I have seen the King and he will not listen to reason. The practice of sorcery has been revived, and devils are offered tribute of the blood and souls of Umbaran soldiers. You see what they did to me. These are a people sunk far into evil.”
“I do not know what to do,” Faramir muttered, as he absorbed Boromir’s words. “I must think of a way to free you, but my wits do not avail me here. I cannot convince the iron to release you with a clever argument.”
“Brother,” Boromir turned his face to the moonlight and Faramir’s stomach rolled over as he saw the real extent of the damage done to flesh and bone. “It is enough that I am not alone in this hour. I am not afraid to die here, but…”
Faramir put his arms carefully around his brother as Boromir’s broken body was wracked by deep sobs. The young man was acutely aware of how their roles had been reversed and it was he offering his strength to Boromir. Faramir was glad to repay Boromir for all the times in their childhood when his older brother had taken his part, or dried his tears. For once, Boromir needed him, and Faramir made a silent vow that he would not fail. He would do whatever he must to stop Boromir’s suffering.
“Brother,” Faramir murmured in Boromir’s ear. “Could you walk were you free?”
“I would try,” came the answer, and Faramir’s heart sank even lower.
Even if a way could be found to break the chains, he would have to carry Boromir. And to where? Back to his room? To the stables, if he could find them? Down the streets of a city as large as Gondor and unfamiliar to him? He did not like any of those choices.
“Faramir? Have you a dagger?”
“I have a knife in my pouch, but it will be no use here. It is for cutting off wax seals and such. It would snap against this iron.”
“I do not want you to use it on the chains.”
Faramir drew back and looked into his brother’s moon silvered eyes. “You cannot ask this of me,” he said gravely. “I love you more than any living thing. I cannot end your life.”
“Look at me, brother. I am nearly dead. Have mercy and finish it.”
“There must be another way.”
“There is not, or you would have thought of it. You are the cleverest man I have ever known, little brother. You know that you must walk away from me and do your best to stay alive. Aragorn will need you at his side when he takes the throne. For it is clear to me that Gondor will soon be at war, and our enemies have allied themselves with the Dark.”
The tracks of tears glimmered on Faramir’s cheeks as he nodded. “I know, and it is bitter wisdom,” he said, reaching into his pouch.
Boromir lifted his head bravely and Faramir did not see the gore crusted cuts, the lumps and bruises left by stones, the raw, blistered skin or the dislocated limbs. He saw a Knight of Gondor, tall and proud, unafraid of his fate. Faramir put the point of the tiny blade under Boromir’s chin and gathered his courage.
“What are you doing there?” Someone said at Faramir’s shoulder.
tbc