Faramir Fiction Archive

The Moon Has Waned (PG-13)

Written by Erfan Starled

22 August 2010 | 17300 words

Chapter Six

Faramir’s hopes reposed unshaken in his men until late that night, when shouts and cries broke out. The clash of metal rang on the air, but to Faramir listening anxiously, the numbers seemed too many and the distance too far away to be his men engaging Hajiri’s.

While scouts swiftly despatched pursued their calling, Hajiri ordered the rest to form themselves into defensive rank which they did in formidable silence, equally prepared for attack, defence or flight. Faramir felt like a hunting dog with his ears straining for the least signal to launch himself into action. He barely took note of their precaution of binding his hands at his back once more. He would still be able to run.

However, as soon as the absent men slipped back to their commander to report with hasty gestures and low-voiced words, no time was lost. The fugitive company headed into the darkness, pulling Faramir with them. Their haste left the sounds of strife fading rapidly behind them — and with them Faramir’s hopes.

“A force of our Master’s,” Hajiri informed Faramir breathlessly when first they slowed to a walk, “are fighting men of your city who were lying in wait, it seems. Perhaps our Lord sent forces after us. Perhaps they were troops trying to avoid ambush on the road, even lured in chase far from it. In any case, your countrymen engaged them. If your own men have gone to investigate in search of you, I intend to be far from here when they realize their mistake. We travel fast.” He delivered the bad news succinctly without sign of satisfaction, and left Faramir with his guards to compose himself as best he could.

Faramir stumbled through the hours that followed, aided by a change half way through the night when Hajiri caught him out of a fall and slashed his wrists free from the ropes. “Don’t fight them,” he warned, tilting his head to the two soldiers appointed as guards. “I would be a dangerous man to cross tonight.”

Faramir knew his duty but he could also calculate his chances and they were slim to nonexistent in this frantic flight, close-guarded, out-numbered and unarmed as he was. During that endless night they crossed into the upland marshes of the very source of the Poros, which lay cupped between Mordor’s mountain walls to the east and an outcrop of lower hills to the west. Hajiri led them on, out of the Ithilien Faramir loved, until the rocks and pits of the rising climb forced them to wait for first light to dawn slow and stubborn in the sunless vale.

Hour after hour, they slogged through harsh brush and mossy, treacherous bog, where they sank knee-deep or more in places, before they emerged onto hard ground. There was a reason why the Fords of the South Road were so well-used. They rested only briefly before travelling on in wet clothes that stank as well as clung, until by mid-morning the wind had dried Faramir’s garments and it grew easier to walk. With every step, Mordor’s walls receded behind them. So did Ithilien.

That day they ran when they could, and walked when they had to, south and west through bracken and heather, heading around the last hills toward the plains. A brief rest in the evening saw them maintaining the punishing pace, alternately walking, jogging and running steadily on through the night.

Only on the second dawn did they stop for any length of time, by a stream in the scrubby, sunlit brush of South Gondor where everyone splashed water on faces and feet and refilled their water-skins. The soldiers drank deeply. Everyone was thirsty. Everyone was tired and Faramir was no exception.

He lay half-prone on the bank, washing his face, trying to readjust while catching his breath for the first time in hours. The clash of forces could have confused sign in all directions, especially if men had scattered in the fighting. He could still hope, but he was in all likelihood far out of reach of his men, his trail lost to them. Unless he found a way to extricate himself, he was now on his way into foreign lands as Hajiri’s prize.

He drank his fill of water, tended his feet, and beat his clothes free of some of the ingrained marsh-mud that had survived their flight. When Hajiri loomed over him, dismissing the two soldiers presently watching him, Faramir schooled his reactions. His thoughts were all of escape but there was no need to put Hajiri on his guard.

Hajiri reached for him and Faramir avoided the touch, remembering too vividly the last liberty Hajiri had taken.

Hajiri opened his hands to show in one of them a slim roll of cloth and a small box. “The ropes from yesterday — they hurt you when we ran, I think?” He took hold of Faramir’s arm and turned his wrist over to inspect the abrasions. “You’ve washed these? This will discourage infection. It will sting but it should prevent the rope damage turning bad and help the itching.”

“And lessen any scarring?” Faramir stared at him with hostility.

“You did not like what I said the other day. I hope we may come to understand each other better. Our customs are different but we are not the barbarians you have been led to believe.”

The long fingers deftly applied the warmed salve and wrapped cloth around each wrist.

“I am sorry for this,” said Hajiri, tapping Faramir’s arm above the rope burns. “I was not expecting such haste so suddenly.”

Oddly, Faramir believed his regret sincere. His wrists burned from the salve. Hajiri’s proximity suddenly angered him with his sympathetic understanding and Faramir’s own uneasy responses. “Are you done?” He stood up abruptly.

The men nearby looked over, immediately on their guard.

“Yes. Don’t get these wet. They will keep it clean.” He lidded his box and stared at it, revolving the dovetailed wood in his hand. “‘The fortunes of war are the vagaries of fate.’ You have this saying? I know you hoped your men would retrieve you. I am sorry.”

He walked swiftly away, leaving Faramir staring after him.

Despite the barriers between them, he believed Hajiri. His wrists stung, his whole body felt stiff from the long run, his feet ached and bled with blisters and cuts. None of it stopped the insidious sense of something in common with his gaoler.

Off-balance, Faramir drew on his shirt and took a place among the others where his guards gestured him to sit. He drank his share of their strange tea when Hajiri permitted a rare fire and he ate their food — fruit again and tough, dried meat, but enough to stave off the weary pangs of hunger. Then he lay on his side, dazed from more than the last days’ events and relentless leagues of travel. This chance to rest, so welcome to his body, dealt less kindly with his heart and mind. Worried about his men, worried about his whole city, even a Captain of Gondor could still fall prey to personal fears failing activity to ward him.

At noon they moved on. Once they cleared the hills, they turned south and a little east once more, keeping well away from the Harad Road. Even avoiding the smallest paths. Hajiri gave no sign of difficulty in choosing their way down onto the flatlands where the going was easier and the travelling faster.

One evening they stopped earlier than usual. The sun still offered one or two leagues yet of light and three men slipped from the little camp. Hajiri saw Faramir looking around, wondering what was toward.

“We cross out of your country tonight, if all is clear at the river.” Hajiri tilted his shoulder, as if to say something else, but turned back instead to his sentries to await the scouts’ return.

Crossing the Harnen proved an easy matter in the dusk, but Faramir hesitated in the water. Dwarf aspen strung themselves as voiceless sentinels along each bank, a graceful arcade of living tracery. Fog wisped off the water between them, subduing the lap of water and the plash of their steps. A creaking flight of late-homing swans emerged from the mist, winging with startling noise swift and low overhead.

In the odd quiet of their wake, one of the Southrons beside Faramir grunted at him over the delay, and Hajiri looked back enquiringly. Strange, how it was possible to learn to read a body’s language as one might a face. When Faramir stepped onto the grassy bank, Near Harad felt no different than Gondor underfoot, and still he felt strange. Never had this journey seemed more unreal.

End of Chapter Six

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