Faramir Fiction Archive

The Moon Has Waned (PG-13)

Written by Erfan Starled

22 August 2010 | 17300 words

Chapter One

South Ithilien

With rare self-indulgence, Faramir intended to take a moment to enjoy Ithilien’s early burst of spring and make the most of the present illusion of peace.

“Don’t get lost!” Esgarin’s admonition followed him. “And don’t get your bow wet!”

“You would be better off taking a bath yourself than playing mother!” Faramir, walking backwards, retorted grinning. He spread his hands. “And my bow is safely stowed behind you if you have eyes to see, blind old man! I’ve got what I need.” He swaggered a little patting his belt, hung with his dagger and sword, and left Esgarin laughing behind him.

Faramir, together with two-score of the men under his command, had just finished quartering one section of hills as part of Gondor’s close watch on Mordor’s influx of troops. This momentary quiet was no promising omen, not when clouds darkening in the east brewed the storms of war. Fewer incoming troops, and a flow of supply-wains grown regular rather than increasing by the day, did not constitute any lessening of Sauron’s threat.

Yet for today Faramir revelled in the swift hill-side stream, shucking layers of sweat and dust. Sunshine and the mossy breeze felt good on his skin when he emerged, dripping and chilled. He left off his shirt, first rinsing it out and then slinging the wet garment over one shoulder. With his weapons belt hanging from the other, his respite, invigorating and brief, was over.

After barely a hundred paces he heard a stone grate behind him. Off his guard, he turned and came face to face with black, slanting eyes narrowly framed between cloth and metal. The interloper straddled the path with an arrogance perhaps justified by the Southron arrow nocked and aimed squarely upon Faramir.

“Be still, and you will come to no harm. Your men are disarmed,” a thickly accented voice told him.

Faramir was already diving right, catching and deciphering the last words even while he dodged. A bush, near and thick, gave cover enough that the arrow whined past leaving him unscathed as he ran, crouching in the undergrowth. The words had stabbed their target far more surely.

While he dodged through the scrub, he threw away his shirt, drew his dagger and sword and dropped his belt in the dust. With a mighty effort of his lungs, he whistled as loudly as he could while on the run, a warning signal that would carry a mile or more. Circling back to the camp, he swore to himself too late that he would never again seek to use a stream to wash without taking his bow and quiver.

Winded, he sped round the rocky foot of a hill’s outcrop only to halt, quelling screaming lungs to a hush. Seven more soldiers of Harad blocked the path.

He pressed himself flat against the rock-face, listening to the loping tread of his light-footed pursuer slow and stop, far closer than he had hoped. A foot scuffed the dirt a few feet away and the enemy, bow drawn, came into view, too far away to surprise, close enough for Faramir to see black eyes measuring him.

“Do not —”

Faramir did not wait for the rest. With his dagger poised by its blade between finger and thumb, he aimed for the other’s underarm, counting on a guessed-at chink in armour, no matter how obscured by the head-to-toe cloth and leather. His weight on the balls of his feet, he flexed his arm with a fast in-take of breath for the throw.

Perfectly timed, the ready arrow sped unerring and disastrous to strike the dagger by its haft from Faramir’s hand.

“Stop this, now. You cannot flee me. You have nothing to gain — and I have your men.” The faceless soldier spoke with all the authority of an officer giving his men an order, expecting to be obeyed.

“Only your word for that,” shot back Faramir between breaths, catching at least the gist of the speech even while dismissing it in favour of charging with his sword.

His adversary swung neatly out of the line of strike, drawing his own sword in the same fluid movement.

“You are surrounded!” His attacker parried with his curved blade, light-footed. “There is no point in this. You cannot win. You will get yourself hurt to no good purpose.”

“Look to yourself, Southron!” Faramir brought his sword down a second time, only for it to clash and slide away from the other’s defence. He disengaged swiftly, prepared for a riposte that never came. Instead, a fall of rope shocked him into whirling around, tangled in mid-turn by the rest of the net cast over him.

His struggle against this new threat had him furiously cutting at the web, breath hissing through his teeth in his frustration.

“Stop your thrashing,” uttered the soldier. “You will hurt yourself and there is no need.”

Faramir slowed his efforts to something more systematic but just as futile, too proud to give up and too stubborn. He knew he was stupid with pride: the ropes, thin but stout, gave too much to yield cleanly to his sword. Cutting through one at a time availed nothing against so small a mesh and so many of the enemy.

That they wanted him alive was the thought drumming through his mind; it would have been the work of only a moment to fell him with an arrow.

Were all his men gathered up? Even one or two still at large could summon help, a few more, and they would lay an ambush and effect a rescue of their fellows. They knew this land like the backs of their hands.

The Southron came a little closer, warily but near enough to speak quietly and be heard. “Do you want me to order my men to tighten this net around you, like some animal in a trap awaiting the butcher’s knife? There is no shame in defeat when you are outnumbered.”

Faramir stared inimically into his opponent’s eyes between the veiling helmet and cloth. Unwillingly heeding the threat, clear enough for all its altered vowels and strangely mangled consonants, and unable to deny the truth of his defeat, he let his sword fall still at last. A soldier reached a hand cautiously through the net from behind to take the weapon’s hilt. With no choice left to him, Faramir gave it up reluctantly and watched it handed to his assailant.

The officer, for so he must be, ran a finger across the edge with a grunt of approval before sliding it through his own belt. His black and umber coverings seemed part of him rather than hampering him, the leather soft enough to give, the edge of armour outlined beneath making no noise: well-padded and well-designed, it had allowed all the graceful movements of the fight.

The Southron turned his head to the other men, hands on hips, and delivered a rapid patter of words. Cautiously, they advanced on Faramir.

He braced himself, but they effected his release and led him away, barely laying a hand on him beyond a weapons inspection of his back, his waist and his boots. They found nothing. His dagger lay in the dust and his sword already hung from his enemy’s belt, to his shame. He glanced back at the officer. The man stood so still that apart from the little breeze playing with his garments he might have been a statue on the path.

End of Chapter One

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/the-moon-has-waned. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!