Sword and Arrow

Chapter 36

Faramir crouched in the bushes, his cloak concealing his body and making him seem to meld with the greenery. The Northern Rangers were known far and wide for their camouflage, but the Rangers of Ithílien could pull it off as well. A deep hood left his face in shadow, and one hand rested on the quiver at his hip while the other one held his bow.

According to his spies' reports, a party of Haradrim was rumored to be coming soon. He and his Rangers had been waiting in the brush for nearly two hours now, tense, ready to spring into an ambush whenever the party might come through.

Then he heard it: the sound of marching, many marching feet walking in unison. The sound of horns came with them, and also the call of an animal. It was an animal he had seen before, only once: an annabon, a huge animal with a near-impenetrable grey hide and long, jagged yellow tusks. The Haradrim called them mumakil - a harsh name for a harsh and brutal beast.

The horn sounded again as the marching got closer. Faramir waited in anticipation, his fingers twitching near his quiver. His men were scattered throughout the dense undergrowth, wearing cloaks like his and carrying bows and quivers. The warriors and soldiers of Gondor's armies wore armor and gleaming swords when they waged war against Sauron on the battlefields, but Faramir and his Rangers waged a secret war here in the lost lands of Ithílien.

When he could clearly see the army marching past them, Faramir raised his hand, the white of his palm pale against the greyish bushes, and closed it into a fist. Immediately, men stood up from in the leaves and arrows whistled their way into the thick of the Haradrim army.

Faramir also let loose his arrows, taking only seconds to determine his aim before releasing the arrow, though every shot made its mark. He carefully aimed toward the man steering one of the annabon. His grey-feathered arrow hit him in the chest, and the Haradrim man tumbled off the annabon, falling into a dense clump of trees.

As Faramir squinted toward the trees, he caught a trace of movement - not a movement the dead man could have made. Signaling to his men, he sprinted through the forest, his bow at his side, ready to shoot down any threat that could appear.

In the end, what appeared in the stand of trees was not the least bit threatening. Faramir dispatched two of his men to capture the strange creatures that were trying to run away as he inspected the fallen Haradrim soldier lying on the ground.

Turning away from the fallen soldier, Faramir surveyed the two captives. They looked to be adult males, but both were barely reaching above his waist. They had thick, curly hair and both wore identical cloaks, patterned with a grey and green that seemed to shimmer, with pins shaped like emerald leaves.

"Wait!" one of them - the blond one - exclaimed. "We're innocent travelers!"

Faramir softly laughed to himself, shaking his head. "There are no travelers in this land," he said darkly. "Only servants of the Dark Tower." It was true; ever since he had left Minas Tirith with his men, the only other creatures they had seen were orcs, Haradrim, and Easterlings. None had been to friendly, but then again neither had they.

"We are bound to an errand of secrecy," the black-haired one said, struggling against his captor. "Those that claim to oppose the enemy would do well not to hinder us."

He spoke with an air of importance and confidence, though his eyes betrayed the confusion and fear that he felt. Faramir studied the speaker, his hood hiding part of his face.

"The enemy?" he asked. Turning away from his two captives, Faramir turned the dead Haradrim over with the toe of his boot, studying his pale face, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. Heavy black eyebrows rested over his eyes and his face was framed with black curls. The Southrons dressed strangely - their armor was adorned with golden decorations, and it looked to be made of a strange kind of leather - not at all like the heavy metal suits of armor that the soldiers of Gondor fought in.

"His sense of duty was no less than yours, I deem." Sometimes, after battles and ambushes, Faramir would feel this. This absence of emotion, the impending doom of the inevitable darkness, the unending eternity. He shook his head slowly. "You wonder what his name is, where he came from, and if he was really evil at heart. What lies or threats led him on this long march from home. If he would not rather have stayed there in peace."

Faramir wished he could have stayed home. He wished he was not born in this time; that he and his brother had lived when the great kings of Gondor still ruled. That his father had not sent Boromir off all the way to Eriador when Gondor needed him, when Faramir needed him. He often wondered how many of the Enemy's servants were really evil. Whether the orcs were really evil. Did they too have families? Did they have brothers they cared about, and daughters they loved? Were they also persuaded into their cruelties by threats and bribes?

Faramir looked up at his two Rangers. "War will make corpses of us all," he said hollowly. It was true, it was inevitable. What could he, son of the Steward though he may be, do against the might of Mordor? How could his small ambushes and ever-decreasing party of Rangers stop the steadily increasing armies of Sauron? What little good there was in the world, what little love still existed, could not prevail against the huge forces of darkness and evil that threatened the Free Peoples. How could a flower's bud stand against the storm?

"Bind their hands," he ordered. He would not risk anything by letting these strange creatures go unchecked. They insisted to be opposing the Enemy, but any servant of the Darkness could perform such deceit. No, he would not risk his father's wrath - and the destruction of all he loved - by making such a small mistake as taking pity on a creature.

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Short chapter today, but here's a new story that's opening up! Faramir's point of view will, hopefully, be a lot of self-doubt and angst. We love that stuff here!