It is a messenger from Minas Tirith, bringing news of Faramir's death at the hands of Orcs.
The Death of Faramir Denethorion[edit]
-Bell Witch 4 May 2006 00:24 (GMT)
Grima arrived at the Golden Hall shortly after the riders made their entrance. The messenger from Gondor was making his way to the front of the hall while his escort waited at the back. Observing them, Grima noted that they looked tired and unhappy—-beyond having had to ride in unpleasant weather. He could try and talk to these men later, if need be.
Having every right to be in the hall, he meandered in to hear the message directly. He saw the king’s nephew, young Eomer, out of the corner of his eye. The boy was just starting to get taller and his voice had not yet broken, but he scowled at Grima just the same, impertinent whelp.
“Fell news from Minas Tirith, Theoden King,” the messenger reported. His voice was clear but obviously sad. “Some days past a report reached us that Faramir, second son to Lord Denethor, had been killed by an orc patrol. As Gondor’s ally, we provide you with this information…” The message continued but said little of import.
No details, very curious, Grima thought. Is this Denethor’s solution to the embarrassing question of why he banished his own son?
The more he considered this possibility, the more sense it made. To banish the young man would have made him look cold and unfeeling but to have Faramir die might gain the Steward some much-needed sympathy. The man was brilliant politically and reputed to have been an excellent scholar, but was not particularly well liked.
Any idiot could be liked, and Grima knew it. Respect was something else, and Denethor had his. But Grima had Denethor’s son.
What to do with him?
Everyone thinks he’s dead and so no one will look for him. He must be kept out of the sight of those that would recognise him, but other than that I have few worries.
He wondered what it might be worth to ransom Faramir back to his father. Not that he’d want to pay much, of course, but what would it be worth for Denethor to not be caught out in such a horrible lie? Unfortunately, Denethor had nothing that Grima wanted and he had a position here in Rohan that he could not leave.
No, Saruman wanted him here and so here he would stay. At least he had some power and was gaining more all the time. Well, Saruman might have some idea of Faramir’s worth.
What was he, twenty? And already Captain of the Ithilien Rangers despite not being in his father’s favour. He must have earned the position most solidly to actually have had it given to him. So, a fine soldier. There were enough of those in Rohan.
He was strong and could go for a slave, but that would not gain him much. Slaves for mines sold cheaply: Faramir was worth more than that: he was educated, intelligent, and well-bred. If he’d been Eomer’s age, he’d have made a fine pleasure-slave down in Harad, what with the fair skin and grey eyes. Eomer would be better for that, being blond, and out of my way if I could manage it!
Grima decided to wait. He would talk with Faramir again, see what the man had to say about the announcement of his own death, and then speak with Saruman about the matter if he had to.
Grima made his way from the hall in no particular hurry. He had all the time in the world—Faramir would not be missed.
Faramir’s arms ached from being pulled so tightly behind him. The odd angle of the chair insured that he could not relax-—there was nothing to rest his head on. And his mind was racing like leaves in a whirlwind.
The mere idea that anyone would take him as a spy was confusing, outrageous. He could ride almost anywhere and people would know him—-not necessarily by name, but as Denethor’s son. No reasonable person would consider him capable of such duplicity, and Rohan was Gondor’s ally. It did not make sense. Grima, for all his oiliness, was an intelligent man and gave every indication of being a decent advisor to Theoden, if very different from all of the others. No crime in being different, and it was wise of Theoden to look for counsel from such an unusual source.
But what did he want with Faramir?
He was of no use to the man—-his own father would not pay for his return because he was banished. Well, Grima hadn’t known that when he was taken, so perhaps that was it. Not that this was much more logical than thinking of Faramir as a spy. No one could have known where he would go, since Faramir himself had no plan. Faramir cursed how tired he’d been the night before. He had not paid any attention to where he was taken though he didn’t think it was very far inside the gate.
No one here knew him save Grima and he had no idea at all where ‘here’ was. Some unknown building in Edoras. He could not get out of the ropes and he certainly couldn’t expect anyone to help him. When Grima came back, he would reason with the man. His reputation for honesty was known well enough and this would all be over quickly. He could explain about the horse and be on his way to… wherever. Perhaps he would go and see the Elves.
The door opened and two men came in. One of them had brought him here this morning but the other was different. It likely didn’t much matter. Their purpose was obvious—-one carried a mug and the other a plate with bread, cheese and meat on it.
“Breakfast, since you’ve not eaten,” the man holding the food said. “We weren’t told not to feed you, and there’s some left.”
Faramir sagged with relief. “Wonderful, and thank you,” he said, wondering if he was to eat here or if he had to go back to the other room. Likely here, since they’d brought the food here. Not much chance of escaping, but better than being stuck in this chair.
“You’re welcome, but you don’t get out of here. We were told not to untie you. Being fed is better than not eating at all, although the ale is going to be interesting with you tilted back like that.”
The man holding the ale snorted. “Well, if we can’t figure a way to give it to him, I’ll drink it.” He looked at Faramir and shrugged. “Nothing against you, really, but orders are orders.”
“I understand,” he said, heart falling.
At least there was food, even if it was humiliating to have to be fed like a child. He was able to drink about half the ale before the angle made any more impossible.
“You need to take care of anything else before we go?” One of them asked. “Don’t know when we’ll be back and no reason to be embarrassed.”
“In other words, you don’t have anything we haven’t already seen,” the other man added, drinking the last of the ale.
Well, that was worse than being fed like a child, but he felt better when it was over. His captors were oddly civil, obviously bearing him no personal malice. They were only following orders. Grima’s orders—-but why?
Alone again, he tried to pull at the knots with no more success than before. His shoulders were numb now and Faramir was beginning to worry how long he’d be kept this way.
Time passed, but he could not tell how much. An hour? Two? At long last there were footsteps outside his door again. It opened, and Grima came in. He sidled over to Faramir’s side wearing the oddest smile. The young man recalled how Grima had kissed him and tried to pull away but could not. The man purred into his ear, “How does it feel to be dead, Faramir, son of Denethor?”
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