Faramir Fiction Archive

The Moon Has Waned (PG-13)

Written by Erfan Starled

22 August 2010 | 17300 words

Chapter Four

In the aging dark of night, two of the Harad Soldiers lay injured. One lay dead. Faramir and his men had been two days in captivity, with their direction veering persistently toward the Ephel Dúath and the upper reaches of the Poros, not west to the fords of the southern road. The derelict lands of South Gondor to the south and the walls of Mordor to the east grew nearer with every march and the rangers’ first attempt at escape had ended in ignominious failure. Faramir stood mute among the enemy, viewing the consequences and hiding his dismay.

His rangers knelt at sword-point, arrows ranged on them near and far, where higher ground gave vantage. The Southrons had rounded them up relentlessly, on their heels too soon to evade. Three of the prisoners were held apart, on their knees. All were bound fast save Faramir, their stolen weapons confiscate and returned to Southron hands.

Earlier, after midnight in a thick haze of heavy rain, Esgarin and Faramir had been the last to ease with all a ranger’s stealth from their night’s resting place. Behind them on the ground they left their guards unconscious. Before them fled their men as quietly, through trees which they knew thickened into widening, wilder forest, crossed with streams and blind gullies. Silent and swift, the two officers had followed after.

Too late in their flight had Faramir discovered his misjudgement of Hajiri’s caution. Silent they might be, but not wholly invisible, even in bad weather. Their camp-ground guards had been augmented by others unguessed at by the prisoners, in a more distant encircling watch and their alarm, raised loud and all too soon, had brought the rangers and their pursuers into violent conflict.

Faramir had not thought it possible to regret their failure more, until Hajiri came into view and he saw the anger in his swift stride, heard it in the steady, deadly stream of quiet words. Incomprehensible the litany may be, but it was not hard to guess at curses when one of Hajiri’s men lay dead, another dying, and the rangers who fought and felled them had been identified by Southron witnesses. That Hajiri intended lethal reprisals was beyond all doubt when he halted before the three separated men and swung his sword high over one of the prisoner’s heads.

“Wait!” Faramir spoke before he knew he was going to say. “Are you a murderer, to kill prisoners out of hand?”

Hajiri froze, outrage in every line of him from the curve of his up-stretched arms and high-held hands, down his taut back to his heel, every part of him poised for a deadly sweeping strike. Faramir had fought him once; he had no doubt that in those hands the fine-edged sword could behead a man with one clean blow.

“Will you go home washed in the blood of unarmed men? Men who are already at your mercy?” With no time to think, Faramir fell into the tones of rebuke he used for subordinates in need of reprimand.

Hajiri turned his head with what must surely be a glare at Faramir. Never had the blank anonymity of the Southron’s veiling head-dress seemed more ominous.

“And what mercy did your men show mine?” The coldness of his words coupled with his delay suggested he had not made up his mind. He still held his sword high. This was to be a trial, fast and bitter, in which instinct must serve to save men’s lives.

“They did a prisoner’s duty, in trying to escape,” Faramir said, steadily addressing the man he had shared bread with, the man who wanted to go home. “Loyal to their home, and their fellows. Your men failed in their watch, or their skill, or were unlucky in the fortune of war.”

Hajiri turned on him fully, fast and close, hostile even in the lowering of his sword. Every line of him spoke anger and contempt, though he said not a word.

Faramir held his ground and held his head high, his gaze fixed unflinching upon the other man. “We gave you no promise to come quietly. Treating us well does not make us your tame dogs to follow at your heel, obedient to orders for the sake of a scrap of food and fair treatment. You invaded our land. We resisted our captivity. It does not make us murderers.” In unthinking urgent appeal, his hand moved and he lowered his voice, “But if you execute them in reprisal or to intimidate the rest of us, you make of yourself a killer, not a soldier. Is that what you are, what you want to be?”

He hardly breathed. Had he judged rightly? This man was surely more likely to respond to a challenge to his honour than to any plea made for pity’s sake. The three prisoners at risk did not move a muscle, awaiting the decision stoically proud, at least in outer show.

Hajiri raked Faramir from head to toe, and then the other rangers, before vehemently shedding another string of bitter phrases in his own tongue directed at his men, punctuated by harsh chops of sword-hand and sword. Then he whirled away, striding off on his own.

The Southron force exchanged uncomfortable glances, visibly wondering whether one of them should follow him. No one did. Faramir was not surprised. Hajiri’s wrath had not been reserved for the rangers alone. Surely their unhappy guards had just been held to account, and harshly.

Weak with relief, Faramir stopped himself sagging and watched impassively as their captors finished binding his men one to another with rope and thong. They were completing their work when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He shook it off, only to be twisted around forcibly by one of Hajiri’s largest soldiers.

Wordlessly, the man tightened his grasp and pushed Faramir into a walk, away from the rest of the rangers. This time not even Esgarin said a word. His friend’s concerned eyes and his men’s followed Faramir, but no cries of protest.

Weary as he was, apprehension touched Faramir only to find that nothing happened whatever, save only the separation from his countrymen. Once set amongst those of the enemy not presently on guard elsewhere, no-one spoke to him, or molested him, or even bound him. They checked him again for weapons and bade him sit, monosyllabically pointing to a place between two of them, secured for the night in their midst.

Had it been worth the attempt? Was his judgement faulty? Faramir was too tired to think clearly. They had travelled far and fast with sleep on short commons and the aftermath of tension was hitting hard. they had survived, and there would be no escape tonight: for just this little while, until the dawn, he had no need to stay alert. He was barely aware of lying down.

In his stupor, he wondered where Hajiri was, remembering the sword upraised and the retreating swirl of man and cloaking garb. He lay listening to the familiar noises of a martial camp, with conversation, laughter and argument of soldiers around him. It could have been any camp of Gondor, except they wound words around him he could not decipher, and the ubiquitous smell of spices from their food which was wholly foreign. On the edge of sleep, he thought he heard Hajiri’s low tones.

That’s alright then, he thought, confusing the rumble with Boromir’s deep laugh, dreaming now. Later he cried out, trying to reach his brother across a divide filled with armed enemies wearing faceless masks.

“Hush. Your men are safe,” came the answer close by.

He relaxed, trusting the low reassurance absolutely. “Boromir,” he said, and smiled. All was well. He and his brother were together and everyone was safe.

He woke again, tangled and thrashing. Disorientated, he won free of the cloak Esgarin had insisted he keep, and peered around him through mazy exhaustion and the cloudy dark.

“Go back to sleep,” ordered a voice nearby. “Sleep and leave your troubles for the day, for the sun’s light. Dawn comes soon enough, even here.” The voice was not Boromir’s.

Faramir turned toward it. Hajiri was sitting as still as the rock beneath him, hands loosely clasped, back straight, quiet as the night among his sleeping men. Faramir let out a long sigh, of resignation and, a little, of relief. Hajiri was no longer the vengeful judge ridden by anger, but the man of calm reflection he had first met. The thought dissipated with his sigh, his tired grasp surrendering conscious care back to night’s oblivion.

The pre-dawn rousing of men found Faramir stiff and cold from more than rest curtailed too soon and the ground’s hard bed. Memory returned swifter than agility, after two long days of punishing speed and yesterday’s fight and failure. Under the eye of his impersonal guards, he wondered at another more confused memory. Had Hajiri intruded in his dreams or had he been sitting sentinel beside him, speaking words of quiet reassurance in the dark?

End of Chapter Four

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