Faramir Fiction Archive

The Moon Has Waned (PG-13)

Written by Erfan Starled

22 August 2010 | 17300 words

Chapter Two

“Esgarin!” Faramir’s heart lightened immeasurably to see his lieutenant alive. His men were indeed disarmed, and not too badly hurt all in all. Regretful and relieved he saw that none were missing: none had escaped but nor had anyone been killed. He walked toward a couple whose wounds were being tended, not by one of their own rangers, but by one of their captors.

An irritated growl met his approach, turning into a peremptory snarl when he knelt beside the group. The guards stepped forward. Faramir retreated before they forced him away at the healer’s behest. Some sentiments were universal.

Esgarin was waiting to embrace him, with one eye on the Harad soldiers, but no-one tried to prevent it. “You’re safe. I was sure, when I heard the sound of fighting just now, that you must have gone down. I thought —” He broke off.

“What?” said Faramir evenly, back in command of himself, if not his men and their destiny, his eyes on the injured and their treatment. The pungent smell of astringent met his nostrils and the cloth in the man’s hand was pristine white. He relaxed a little.

Esgarin gave him a little shake of relief. “That you would never surrender. That they would put an arrow in you, or stop you on a sword’s edge.” He looked Faramir over at arms’ length for a moment. “You are alright? Here, you should take this.” He unpinned his cloak and swung it over Faramir’s bare shoulders.

“My thanks,” said Faramir, accepting it after a moment’s hesitation. “They had a net.” There was a world of bitter regret in his voice. He bit his tongue. He would never hear the last of this from Denethor, if he ever saw his father again.

Prisoners of Sauron’s forces, they were as good as dead or worse, unless they escaped. Minas Morgul was not a city from which prisoners returned. Only the cries of unfortunate captives issued forth again, bitter haunts of the cold easterly winds, exacting a heavy toll of grief from patrols who could do nothing to aid them. That dire tower’s corruption furnished the nightmares of more than children’s sleep.

On the very thought, a trio of Harad guards intruded on the prisoners’ holding ground to converge on Faramir. He was on his feet before they even halted before him, gesturing for him to come.

“Hold up there! Where are you taking him?” Esgarin bulled his way into their path, though Faramir had already stepped in the direction they indicated. He had no desire for his men to see him dragged off by brute force.

To Faramir’s surprise, they refrained from pushing Esgarin out of the way, or worse. One of his escort gestured again, saying something in their own language, sparing Gondor’s speech from the tortured accents of their leader.

The other rangers took their cue from their lieutenant rather than their captain, massing protectively in the way. They had all approached perilously close to the perimeter of narrow-eyed guards, who brought their swords up, or their bows to the ready, arrows on the string.

Faramir raised his hand to stay any further movement. “You do me honour,” he started, surprising himself by his detached delivery, including the enemy with his eyes if not his words. “And yourselves, by this courage, wanton though it is. Now stand down, lest it become mere foolishness.”

So clearly unhappy were they, that he added what little useless comfort he could. “Even if it was avoidable, I would want to meet with their officer for what I can learn.”

Seeing them slow to move, he ordered more curtly, “Check the injured. Make sure they are not thirsty or need tending to make them comfortable. They will need to be kept warm too. And make sure all minor wounds are cleansed, and thoroughly. That healer may give you something for any deep cuts. Try asking one of the guards. Esgarin, look to it.” He could feel his own abrasions from the rope, and the cuts from the brush in his earlier wild run and he was sure his men would not make any show of injuries they deemed insignificant unless he or Esgarin insisted. He left unspoken that they would find their chance to escape.

Giving in, Esgarin ordered, “You heard him! Move yourselves!” and briskly shifted the rangers into retreat from the guards to lay down more cloaks for the worst injured, and to see about inspecting each others’ various cuts and bruises. Faramir, walking quietly onwards with his strangely patient escort to face the questioning he assumed awaited him, could at least be satisfied that for the moment his captured command were not going to bring slaughter down upon themselves.

“My name is Hajiri,” his pursuer and captor began, “and I want to know what you are doing here.” Faramir was beginning to expect the odd cadences, though as before he needed to concentrate to puzzle out all the words.

“Guarding the land.” It was safe to say that. Everyone knew it.

“How many men do you have altogether?” The Harad officer was sitting on the edge of a boulder, hands cupped between his knees, elbows on thighs. Every few seconds he looked around the area before looking at Faramir again. His eyes were all that was visible of the man himself, even down to his long hands, covered by an archer’s gloves, close-fitted in fine black leather.

Faramir shook his head slowly, tension building. “What are you going to do with us? What are you going to do with my men?”

Instead of an answer, the faceless questions continued in a voice that did not alter in volume except with its natural rhythm, carryover from a language far and foreign. Faramir, listening, answered not a word. How many men did he command? Where were his forces deployed? In how many parties? What range of land did each patrol cover?

Were the stranger not an enemy, Faramir might have thought those accents pleasant. As it was, he kept his own counsel behind a mockery of stolidity, and wondered how he had so easily been identified as being in command.

When his interrogator’s questions ceased, Faramir waited across the little space of grass, waiting too across the wider divides of cause, cloth and custody. He could feel his heart’s fast beat and the blood thudding in his veins but he kept each breath even and deep, reaching within for strength to face what must surely come.

When Hajiri moved it was to sit back, remote twice-over in the wood’s shadows behind his covering garb. When he spoke, it was in his own language to the escort and not to Faramir at all.

They led Faramir away. He looked back over his shoulder. The officer nodded, still seated, as if to acknowledge their parting. The soldiers returned Faramir, sick with anti-climax, to his men. He had found out nothing. Perplexed, he spoke a quiet word with Esgarin before settling down to take stock.

His dagger hand felt stiffly sore where the hilt had spun from his grip, but bruises would swiftly heal. Questioning required him alive, but the preservation of his left hand intact he owed to an aim strangely merciful, if arrogant. Mercy, in a man of Sauron’s forces? Restraint, even courtesy, in interrogation? And the guards had given him time to settle his men before he went with them. He had no answers, not even sight of the Southron’s face to divine his intent.

End of Chapter Two

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