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Family Games (NC-17) 
Written by December19 December 2010 | 65301 words
Chapter 3. Hunters and Prey
Days went slowly by, each intense and packed to the brim with things to attend to and worry about, yet at once exactly akin to the one before it. For the time being Faramir did not mind the repetitiousness though, for it gave him at least an illusion of security and stability to comfort himself on. And so busy his duty kept him that it was not until a few weeks had passed that Faramir, to his great astonishment, realised that aside from constantly feeling miserable and alone, he was actually rather pleased with how everything was going.
For one, no calamity had happened. Quite a few encounters with the enemy had taken place, some hardly worth a mention, others stretching into full-blown skirmishes – and not one of Faramir’s men had been slain or even seriously injured, whereas not one Orc that entered Ithilien had made it to the River. What scathes and cuts the Rangers did receive were light enough to be fixed back at the camp and not once did require the soldier to return to the City.
Admittedly, Faramir was aware the others did not approve of his ‘style’: too cautious, too on-the-safe-side, too wait-and-see, too let’s-think-everything-through, too prudent, too sensible. Captain Boromir, on the other hand, had always been more about let’s-kick-their-arse and tear-their-ugly-heads-off. Fighting for Captain Boromir was not only rewarding – it was fun. Captain Boromir’s hardiment was contagious, it filled the soldiers with the same belief in one’s inborn invincibility that the heir himself apparently entertained. Not to mention Captain Boromir would have managed to get the same work done with half the people in half the time.
Of course no one said as much to Faramir’s face. They did not even say it among themselves when he was out of earshot. They had no need to, for these were things everyone knew without speaking – everyone including Faramir himself. Yet from the very beginning he had resolved to do his job his own way. He would much rather be deemed cowardly and indecisive than get half the company killed in a feat of pointless boldness. Besides, the young man saw no point in trying to imitate his older brother, for he knew he would never come near reaching the sacred ideal, not in the men’s eyes, not in his own.
For goodness’ sake, he would not even be able to grow a proper beard like the rest of them. Much as Faramir’s hair was thick and glossy, the stubble on his cheeks and chin was still far too sparse to deserve anything but the razor – and the razor it got, first thing every morning. Let the men gaze on in wonder: he did what he could to fit in – but he would not stand to have them think he was going out of his way. Better to look like a boy than a boy desperately striving to be taken for a man.
And if anything, Faramir had to give the Rangers some credit for how they were dealing with the bitterness about this inferior replacement. They put up with him, bore their burden with stern dignity.
The men had too much maturity and self-respect to be petty with him or try to make his life unnecessarily difficult. They did not dispute his decisions unless for a very good reason, did not provoke or challenge him in any way, did not make a show of finding his presence unwelcome.
Their hostility was of the chilly, withdrawn kind.
Only one expression of disagreement with Faramir’s being there did they allow themselves, and a well veiled one at that. They did not call him Captain. He was ever ‘my lord’ and ‘your lordship’. Technically, there was nothing wrong with that, for it was one of the ways to address a man of his breeding – yet he knew well enough they did this on purpose, and knew why they did it. Every nobleman bore that title, even those who had never left the safety of the city walls, even those who were only five years old, and by calling Faramir ‘lord’ the soldiers paid respect only to his lineage, not to who he was as a man.
He had thought about this matter, and concluded he was fine with it. After all, the men obeyed his word, however unenthusiastically, they gave their honest opinion when asked for advice, and did not abandon him in the face of danger – and if they found a bit of consolation in reserving their commander’s proper title for their beloved Boromir, Faramir was not going to rob them of it. An open confrontation would be of little use in any case, for even if he got the Rangers to address him according to his rank every single time, his standing with them would hardly improve for it.
Thus days wore on, and springtide came to Ithilien. All living things awoke from their sleep, and the woods filled with birdsong and the sound of leaves whispering in the wind. The Rangers traded the cheerless drab palette of their wintertime gear for a somewhat more up-beat combination of various shades of leafy verdant and warm earthy brown, their cloaks no longer a faded dusty grey, but rather a velvety tobacco-green.
It was then Faramir decided time had come for another change as well.
Two months had passed without a single nocturnal visit to the camp, and not one thing had gone missing, and the young man could not quite make up his mind whether to be relieved or unnerved by this sudden development. Besides, he strongly suspected it was not that sudden at all, for the way it had perfectly coincided with his arrival as the new captain did not, in fact, seem much of a coincidence. And whereas at the beginning he had deemed the bizarre experience that had taken place on his first night with the men to have been naught but a trick of hid over-wrought nerves, now the young warrior was becoming more and more convinced something important had indeed come to pass back then.
In any case, he had come to feel they could once again make use of the original Ithilien base for the troops, the well-hidden cave at Henneth Annûn, instead of staying out in the open at all times. Faramir understood that from the rational point of thinking this was not a sound verdict, for if the unknown beast Boromir had spoken of was indeed a spy of the Unnamed – and what else could it be, really? – it was in all likelihood simply biding its time to trick the Rangers into relaxing and slackening their guard. Yet much as it may have been so, Faramir felt a strange certainty that the creature no longer wished them harm, if ever it had.
Thus on a clear sunny afternoon they moved, so now in the evenings the men returned not to the clearing, but to the water-curtained roughly hewn hall of stone, where they could eat at real tables and sleep in real beds. The configuration of the cave was such that it did not allow for a large fire to be lit, and therefore would have been frosty in winter, yet now that the nights grew ever balmier, the rearrangement brought nothing but comfort.
Apart from that, the days went on as before. The end of Faramir’s term was drawing nearer, and soon he would have to leave his post to return to the City for a couple of days to report to his father and lord. The young captain was beginning to believe that, unless Denethor were to be interested in the detailed description of the Rangers’ every brush with the enemy, he would not have all that much to recount to the Steward.
Then one day that altogether changed.
Soon after the morning meal was finished and the men departed to their appointed posts, Faramir received an urgent report of some highly peculiar happenings taking place in the forest. A large company of Uruks, all armed to their teeth, was charging through the woods, forfeiting all notion of stealth and caution. They shouted, and screamed, and swore, they brandished their blades and shot arrows, they stomped, and thumped, and trampled down every growing thing in their path. Much as this was generally unusual, most unusual of all was that their actions did not seem in any way directed at the Gondorian soldiers.
“Truly, my lord,” Belegorn who had witnessed it was saying to Faramir, the soldier’s face screwed up in puzzlement, “it looks like they are doing this with no purpose at all. Either they’ve stepped on a nest of those savage wasps – but ‘tis a little early in the year for wasps, isn’t it? – or they are playing tag. I’ve been serving around here for the past fifteen years, and I’ve never seen the likes of it… If they are having a bit of a quarrel amongst themselves, which does tend to happen given their foul tempers, then it must be one marvel of a quarrel…”
“Yes,” Faramir nodded thoughtfully, “I can hear it even from here. Well, let us have the men gathered, and we shall see if that quarrel could fit some additional participants.”
And so the young captain and his warriors followed the Orcs discreetly on their wild chase, waiting for the perfect moment to join the party – and also for their foes to tire out a little.
Eventually it became apparent the creatures were playing no game – they were on a hunt. And the object of their pursuit soon came into view. There was not much of it the men could make out, though, only a glimpse of a vague shape flickering through the trees now and again. It did not appear that much different from the Orcs, at least from the distance, except that it moved with lightness and agility none of them could even dream of. It ever outran and stayed well ahead of the crowd following it, and the only reason it could not altogether escape was that it was alone against what the Rangers had counted to be nearly three score, and the Orcs used that advantage well. They had spread in a wide curved line, chivvying their prey from the sides, forcing it to dart left and right, and double on its tracks, securely keeping it on some course they apparently had in mind.
Faramir had come to know the woods well by then, and before long he perceived their plan. And the order was made for the men to get at the ready, for the moment was approaching.
The Uruks drove their game into a large bare clearing that went slightly uphill for a couple hundred yards, then ended in a sheer drop of several dozen feet, thus making up one of the tall eroded banks of a broad albeit shallow creek, water gurgling nonchalantly on its rocky bed.
The Orcs cried in glee, for they knew of the precipice and thus considered their deal closed, since their catch had nowhere to flee else it would haul itself into the brook to its certain death – nowhere, that is, except up the trunk of the tall mighty oak standing in proud solitude sheer steps away from the brink, already sporting a lush merry attire of long wavy-edged leaves, light and soft in colour like the finest jade.
The shouts of triumph abruptly changed to curses and shrieks of rage, for the Orcs realised the error in their judgement too late: theirs was no ordinary prey, and, after ducking from what black-feathered arrows they sent its way, it leapt and easily caught on to the lowest branch of the tree, which was at least ten feet above the ground, and swiftly hauled itself up to disappear amid the bountiful foliage. A mere second later it fired back at its hunters, then again, and both its bolts struck true, this time evoking screams not only of spite but also of fear.
Although technically they had it cornered, the Orcs fell back, for neither one wished to perish getting their enemy down. They showered the tree with arrows, yet their aim was obscured by spite and leaves, which was soon confirmed by another retaliation, once again perfectly precise. Two more Uruks fell with feathered wood sticking out of their eye and throat, and the others scattered around the clearing, well aware what easy targets they made out in the open.
It was then that the Rangers struck. Before the Orcs could realise what was happening, their number was halved. Panic ensued: they had no enemy to assault in return, for all they got was green-fletched death flying forth from the fringe of the woods. A few bet on luck and tried to break forth by charging blindly through the trees, but were felled by the Rangers’ swords within seconds – but most merely stampeded around, some even falling down into the creek, and not one took a stance to shoot back at the unseen attackers.
Before ten minutes had passed, it was over, the wood once more quiet except for the hoarse groans of those Uruks unfortunate to have suffered such wounds that did not bring immediate death. Yet much as the soldiers of Gondor prided themselves on always having the decency to mercifully finish off their defeated opponents, now no one was in a hurry to step out into the clearing and set about the job, for first there was another business to attend to. It was impossible to tell with any degree of certainty what fate had befallen the creature that had recently been orcish prey – and whether it had any arrows left if it was still up in the tree, and still alive.
None of the men had seen it fall or try to make a getaway amid the general commotion, but then again, they were unsure what it looked like. In the few moments it had spent outside cover the Rangers had caught a few glances, yet that was of little help. All that could be told was that it was a being of about the same make as a Man, but it was all dark and strange in colour, either as though it was desperately, hideously dirty, or had a troll-like scaly hide. It seemed to have been wearing some sort of tattered rags, although once again no one was sure. For all they knew, it could now be lying dead among its foes, and the warriors would not even recognise it.
Several men staying on the watch-out for any sudden development, the others gathered to discuss the available courses of action. As various propositions were put forth, Faramir, his green mask lowered to his neck, kept looking over the battlefield in thought, and his eye fell on one of their injured opponents. The Ors was spread before the captain’s eyes some forty yards up the slope, lying in a half-sitting position with a large boulder propping up its back. He had a bolt planted deep into his thigh, and two more in his belly, so close to one another the shafts nearly touched. Yet still death would not take him.
He trembled and kicked convulsively with his hale leg, and squirmed in the gathering pool of his own dark blood. His clawed fingers were wrapped stiff around one of the arrows in his stomach, as he obeyed the overwhelming instinct to try and wrench it out despite the futility of the action and the insufferable pain it caused. Chest rising and falling feverishly, he wheezed and croaked, his already abhorrent features wrought into a mask of horror and anguish.
Faramir’s mouth contorted and the muscles in his jaws flexed, for the sight was verily sickening, both the Uruk himself and his beastly agony. The young captain had never seen such a large aggregation of dead bodies, and the overall view was enough to make a gentler man’s stomach turn, not to mention the smell – and now this one particular image on top of it all roused in him little but an overpowering desire to avert his eyes at once, and never look back.
Then suddenly Faramir wondered whether in that moment the creature envied those around it, already unshackled from their suffering, and whether the thick clingy stench of their – and its own – foul blood penetrated its senses.
And just like that, unobserved to the men around him, something vast and massive shifted and settled in Faramir. What he felt for his defeated opponent was not pity, not sympathy and definitely not regret – it was understanding. Not some intricate philosophical epiphany it was, but much rather the most primitive sort of understanding only possible, one that can be seen in the eyes of one animal watching another animal die, understanding that cannot be hindered even by bone-deep hatred. There was a colossal breath-stopping universality in what the Orc was going through, for all mortal things were destined to meet their end, and the specific manner of his departure made no difference – a wild beast could go this way, a Man could go this way…
And in that moment Faramir knew that for him to spare the Uruk its torment was not a question of decency, or military honour, or simply putting a stop to a repelling spectacle – it was something far deeper, something so crucial to his sense of self that he could not even put a name to it. He met now the force that would ever guide him in all his actions, and it felt natural and fitting to rely upon this guidance.
As the others kept speaking in lowered voices, he stepped aside and, not taking his eyes off the writhing Orc, reached back over his shoulder to pull a long arrow from his quiver.
The Rangers turned around sharply as the air was cut by the loud vibrating sound of the bowstring releasing the bolt. For a second they thought Faramir had spotted the stranger, but then saw the splayed Orc arch rigidly in one last throe and slump back limply.
For a heartbeat all was silent, and then a short forbidding cry pierced the grove, and it came from the old oak.
Faramir, shaking off the sensation of emptiness that followed the shot, raised his brows and commented evenly, “Well, this answers two of our questions: it is certainly alive and still up there.”
“I believe, my lord,” Dearmad said darkly, “that it also answers another question: this thing is in no mood to have any dealings with us. I may not understand its tongue, but that was an advice to keep ourselves out of its business.”
“Aye, so it was,” Faramir agreed with a thoughtful nod to himself, and turned his eyes to the tall ominous tree. He said no more for a while, and the warriors proceeded to debate amongst themselves how the situation could and should be tackled.
The Gondorian longbows could easily cover three hundred yards and more, and the oak where the stranger had taken refuge was little more than half that distance away, so, strictly speaking, it was well within their shooting distance even without them abandoning the protection of the trees. The dense foliage of the mighty tree, however, hid their target so completely no one could tell even as much as which part of the tree it was at. To get a remotely sure aim, they would have to come right up to it, which would give their foe just the perfect opportunity to discharge all the arrows it had, including many an Orcish one that were bound to have stuck amid the branches. Besieging it and waiting for it to pass out in exhaustion and hunger was hardly an option either, since for all they knew it could be one of those unnatural creations of the darkness that could sneak past their guard unseen when nighttime came.
And only Faramir remained standing aside, ever gazing towards the hill in deep thought.
At last the Rangers realised he was not with them, and trailed off to exchange puzzled looks.
“Lord Faramir, what shall your or–?” Dearmad began, approaching the young captain.
“You stay here, I should go talk to it,” Faramir cut him off decisively, and without as much as glancing back at the man already took a step forth.
“My lord, is that prudent?!” Dearmad exclaimed, putting a hand on his captain’s shoulder. “Had it been willing to surrender, it would not’ve gotten itself up in that tree. Anyway, had it deemed those Orcs its only enemy, it would’ve climbed down, seeing as they are all dead now. But no, ‘tis ready to shoot anyone who dares come near – hadn’t you heard its anger? I wouldn’t be much surprised if it proves malicious enough to try and slay at least one of us, even if at the price of its own life.”
Faramir looked at the man keenly. “It climbed up fleeing the Orcs, and I reckon it is staying there just in case. It must be very frightened, and weary, and likely wounded, and if I were in its place, I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry to get myself down and surrender to a crowd of armed strangers either. It wouldn’t be right to slay it without giving it a chance to explain itself.”
The older warrior curved his brow skeptically. “And may I inquire, does your lordship speak Orcish to hear out its explanation?”
Faramir smiled softly. “I don’t think such knowledge shall be required, Master Dearmad. Nor do I deem our opponent to be a renegade Orc. Now, please keep this safe for me,” and at that he proceeded to unfasten the belt holding his scabbard in place and hand it over to the much bewildered Dearmad together with the blade it bore. The others fell quiet and eyed him apprehensively as Faramir went on to entrust his longbow, his half-full quiver and both his daggers to the grey-haired Ranger, who was by then looking almost pleadingly at the captain. When Faramir went on to put his mask and cloak on top of the pile he was holding, the older man’s restraint gave way.
“My lord, please, if you are slain –”
“If I am slain, you shall take charge until Lord Denethor assigns the company a new captain,” Faramir replied calmly. “I know you have done this before, and I am sure you shall manage. And if indeed it should shoot, and I fall – only if I fall, Dearmad – then you and the men may go ahead and kill it to the best of your ability. But unless I am struck down you are to do nothing, just stand at the ready – no matter what happens – is that understood?”
Dearmad heaved a sigh of great suffering. “Aye, m’lord, what’s there not to understand…?”
Faramir nodded curtly and, pursing his lips, turned away from his men.
Just as he was about to leave the shelter of the grove’s skirt, the young captain caught Eldir murmur with forced cheeriness, “Well, like I always say: madness is a family thing. ‘Twas bound to come out sooner or later, if you just think of the fatuous things Lord Boromir used to do –”
“Oh, would you just shut up and hold this?” Dearmad muttered gruffly. “I need to have my hands free.”
Faramir grinned mirthlessly, and turned his will to focus on the task ahead.
Slowly he entered the clearing, pausing after each small step, his posture straight and undaunted, arms spread to the sides a little to show he carried no weapon.
Before he had covered a dozen yards there was frantic movement up in the higher branches of the oak, the foliage swaying madly, as apparently the hidden warrior changed position preparing to receive the intruder. For some reason it reminded Faramir of the badgered cat he had seen back in childhood, thrashing in senseless fright amid the thorny boughs of a tall acacia as it hissed and sputtered down at a pack of stray dogs barking at it from below – and he felt a sudden pang of pity for the unseen creature. When driven forth by the Uruks, it had leapt through the trees with such effortless ease, barely displacing a leaf as it passed, clearing bushes and little gullies with deer-like jumps – and now it had lost its grace, exhausted and on edge…
Faramir breathed out slowly, telling himself to keep his mind clear. His was a hopeless gamble, and he ought to harden his heart and be prepared to die any moment.
The man took another several steps, careful to avoid the numerous pools and trickles of orcish blood – and all movement stopped. Brittle anticipation filled the air.
Another ten yards or so, and Faramir was well within shooting distance for even a small poorly made bow.
One more deep breath, one more step. He looked intently, but could pick out nothing specific amid the thick leaves.
And then came again that sharp warning cry, urgent and imperative, yet just as unintelligible as before, although it did not sound remotely like any of the crude dialects of the Orcs.
Faramir stopped and raised his hands level with his face, open palms facing forward. Now, he knew, came the time to make his bet.
“I come unarmed,” he called loudly and articulately, “let me approach, and we shall talk.”
Dead silence was his answer, yet he sensed that it was not the silence of animosity, but the silence of great bemusement, and on the inside he smiled to himself even as a bead of sweat made its way down the side of his forehead. He had not used the Common tongue as he addressed his concealed opponent, he had spoken in the language the other Rangers sometimes used to whisper among themselves, thinking he would not understand – the same language that the Dúnedain folk had long ago adopted from the Grey-elves.
The longer the silence stretched, the more convinced Faramir became that he had done right. And at last he judged it was relatively safe to test that assumption and claim yet another foot.
At once another cry sliced the air, far more strained than before, almost desperate. But this time it seemed to the man he had discerned the words, a simple message sent in the same tongue he had used.
Stay back.
“I can do you no harm,” the young man reasoned, his grey eyes searching the impenetrable mass of green. “I only wish to talk. But let me come closer, else I would have to keep on shouting.” This was not the point, of course: if any good were to come out of this venture, Faramir would have to establish a proper contact with who the man was now quite certain to be one of the Elf-kindred, however far-fetched the notion seemed. Standing where he was the captain could hardly achieve anything, given he could not get as much as a glimpse of the other’s shape, even though it was obvious he, on the other hand, was fully exposed.
So Faramir assumed the most reassuring, benevolent expression he only could and moved another pace forward.
The ringing twang of the string, the rustle of the leaves, the shearing swish and the thick thud all came as one – the arrow quivered with the aftershock of impact, planted almost half-way deep into the ground not more than two inches from the toe of Faramir’s boot.
The man’s eyes glazed over as he strained his ear for any alarming sound from behind. Yet Dearmad must have remembered his word, for no reaction to the shot came from the Rangers.
Faramir swallowed and exhaled. Then he smiled, for he saw the fletching on the bolt at his foot was of a deep emerald hue, and knew this to be one of the arrows taken from the Rangers’ camp more than two months ago, and also knew he had been correct in his assumptions.
“You have made your point,” Faramir resumed his monologue, and was surprised to hear his voice sound so even and strong. “Now let me make mine. I have come to offer you a simple choice. You can do away with me now, and then the rest of my men – and I am sure you are well aware just how many there are – shall avenge me. Or you can let me come and speak with you, and perhaps we shall find a way to avoid any more deaths today.”
He waited for several minutes, yet no reply was made. So he did once more what he had already done many times that day. He stepped forth and prepared to meet his end.
Nothing happened. The threat was not carried through, and no arrow pierced his chest.
Enheartened, the young captain went slowly yet steadily on.
And then, as he came into the shade of the oak, Faramir saw him.
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Wow, December, I did hope that my request would go to you, I know you write so well… but I never expected to get an eighteen-chapter story! And how will I find the time to read it all, now?
Well, thank you so much, I’m sure I’ll love it, and I’ll start reading at once; but you might have to wait a bit for a full commentary…
— Nerey Camille Sunday 19 December 2010, 13:50 #