Faramir arranges Imrahil's 'escape'
Chapter 6 - The Escape Plan
Faramir disgusted himself. He did not deserve to serve Gondor, especially as a captain. Nor did he deserve his name or the honour which went with it; it was not true after all. So he decided that yes, he would take Imrahil to Denethor as soon as possible and he did not care what would happen to either of them once the Steward found out the truth, it would probably be much less than they deserved.
Concluding that Imrahil would be taken to Minas Tirith in a few days, Faramir got unsteadily to his feet. His head was pounding and he had to get some rest.
Slowly, he made his way to another part of the caves which was referred to as his quarters and sat down on the pallet which formed his bed. Not for the first time he found himself wishing that he might sleep on a comfortable mattress for once.
He knew from experience he would not be able to sleep with so much going on his mind, and so with a groan, he got back up to make a sleeping draught.
He drunk it down in one go before settling into bed, and found himself staring at the ceiling playing Imrahil’s confession over and over in his head while he waited for the drought to take effect.
‘What would Boromir do?’ he thought to himself as he drifted off to sleep.
Dawn came, and Faramir woke to find his headache gone but the events of yesterday still very much in his mind. Thinking back over the possibilities, he kept reaching the same conclusion, to send Imrahil to his father to be punished. ‘It is exactly what Boromir would do in this situation,’ he reassured himself.
Talking over his decision with Damrod, it was decided that the Prince of Dol Amroth would remain guarded until they could spare the men to escort him to Minas Tirith. Until then, they would continue their work as normal, there was too much to do to worry about prisoners as well.
At least, Faramir tried to work, but found he could not concentrate. There was not much point in working anyway; he almost certainly would not be captain for much longer and he could not help wondering what his fate might be.
Suddenly a realisation struck him causing him to come over nauseous. Boromir would know, and he would hate him for it!
Boromir had adored their mother, and he would never forgive him for tainting her memory. If Boromir found out, he would almost certainly never speak to him again, and would never look at him without disgust in his eyes, and for that Faramir would not blame him, but he would not be able to bear it.
Boromir could never know.
If they went to Minas Tirith, Boromir would find out the truth; he had to let Imrahil go, but how?
He could not be seen to change his mind, especially since he had been so sure this morning. Damrod and Mablung would suspect something, and they would not let the matter drop until they knew exactly what was going on. Faramir might be the captain, but he knew that his two main advisors did everything they could to ensure he did not make any poor decisions.
He let out a sigh and shook his head; the only way he was going to get out of this now was if Imrahil escaped.
Suddenly Faramir smiled, he had an idea which might just work.
Faramir spent the rest of the day planning exactly what to do to make sure his idea worked, if Imrahil escaped, he needed him to believe he had done it himself.
He loosened the knife in his boot and went to locate Damrod, who he knew would be preparing some food to take to the prisoner.
“Is that for Imrahil?” he asked, finding Damrod carrying a tray in the direction of the cave being used as a prison cell. “I will take it.”
“Yes it is Sir, are you sure?”
“I am going there anyway, I wish to speak to him some more,” said Faramir taking the tray from Damrod and walked to where Anborn was taking his turn in guarding the prince.
“Evening Anborn, everything well?”
“I want a few words with our prisoner. Will you make sure we are not disturbed?”
“Certainly Captain,” said Anborn looking uneasy, he had heard of Faramir’s head injury, and like everyone, suspected that Imrahil had been the cause of it, even if Faramir himself had denied it.
“Good evening Faramir,” greeted Imrahil as the young man entered. “How has your head been today?”
Faramir glared at him, he was still angry, wishing his uncle (no, his father) had never come to Ithilien and especially had never spoken his confession. He certainly was not in the mood to exchange pleasantries with him.
He sat the tray of food down on the table and knelt down to untie Imrahil’s hands to allow him to eat.
“Tell me about my mother,” he said after a few moments, pulling up a stool to sit down.
Part of him never wanted to hear the other man utter his mother’s name again, but the other part was desperate to find out as much about her as possible, especially since he could remember so little himself.
Imrahil looked surprised at the young man’s request, and thought carefully for a moment before replying.
“Finduilas was very kind and loving, she adored you and Boromir. She was not happy with Denethor and I begged her to leave him, but you were her world, and she would not go anywhere without you and your brother going with her.”
He paused for a moment to eat some food, and wondered what to say next. He did not want to risk upsetting Faramir further by speaking of anything too personal or his feelings for her.
“She was much like you, gentle and honest, yet strong and brave. She would have been very proud of the man you have become.”
With that he returned to his food and would say no more.
“Thank you,” said Faramir with a sad and far away look in his eye.
He knelt down again to retie Imrahil’s hands, ensuring the knife fell from his boot as he did so; the prince would need it to cut his bonds. He then retrieved the tray and left, returning to his men.
The men were just settling down to their evening meal, and the beer was already free flowing.
Now was the time for the second part of his plan; he felt guilty about doing it, but he did not want Anborn to come to any harm during Imrahil’s escape.
Faramir carefully added a sleeping drought to one of the tankards of beer and gave it to one of his men. “Take this down to Anborn, I am sure he would welcome a drink,” he said with a smile.
Now to sit back and hope.
What happens next?
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