Despite the distance rumble of thunder, I hear the sound of hoof beats. Only two are here with me now preparing a meal, several others are hunting for game. Soon most will be distracted by the approaching strangers. Just my hands are bound and although a disadvantage, it is not enough to keep me from running.
"Boromir, over there," Faramir pointed. "Smoke rising beyond those trees. Perhaps we'll find shelter there for the night. Should we go there?"
Barely lifting his head, Boromir grunted and Faramir hoped it was agreement. He searched for a path down to the river bank. Coaxing both horses forward, he glanced back at his brother. Face drawn and pale, cloak soaked deep red on his left side, hands white-knuckled on the saddle, Boromir's strength was waning quickly.
They splashed across and rode up the riverbank into the trees. Faramir turned to speak words of encouragement, but a flickering movement caught his attention. Before he could find its source, a man jumped down from an overhanging branch and grabbed the bridle of Faramir's mount. Both horses startled and Faramir reached back to steady Boromir, with no time to draw his sword. It would be a futile gesture, he thought despairingly, there are five already, with more, I think, still hidden. Please, Boromir, please take charge, for I am uncertain what to do.
"We are unarmed," Faramir called out, hoping his voice did not betray his apprehension. "My brother is grievously wounded and we seek only shelter and perhaps some healing herbs, if you have any."
The men stared silently at him, waiting, neither relinquishing the horses' reins nor lowering their swords. Well-trained soldiers, Faramir thought, although loyal to no king, else in these woods they would wear the colors of Rohan or Gondor.
"We have food to share," Faramir added, hoping this would make their decision easier. Still the men stood, so Faramir waited as well, one hand on Boromir's shoulder, the other raised in the air, wondering what Boromir would do if he were able.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out of the shadows.
"He has been captured and returned to camp," he said to the men on the path and several faded silently back down the path. He turned to the two men on horseback. "Strangers, what is your business here and with us?"
Brigands, Faramir guessed, one of several bands of thieves who roamed the forests between Gondor and Rohan. Because they preyed mostly on wealthy travelers, leaving the farmers and poor alone, these bandits had much support amongst country folk and often, with their help, evaded patrols. Important, then, not to reveal their royal identities and hope they would pass for commoners.
"I am Faram and this is my brother Borom." He winced at the lie so obvious to his ears and prayed this man wouldn't question him closely. Boromir would have done this so much better. "We are traveling to Gondor and were set upon by orcs back beyond that mountain. My brother was sorely wounded and he is weakening, so our pace is slow. We need to rest, to eat, and attend his injury before setting out again."
The man nodded again. "I am Dregan. You are welcomed to stay with us tonight."
He motioned them to follow, turned on his heel and disappeared into the trees. Two men flanked the horses on the narrow path, swords still drawn, and the brothers were led by the third bandit further into the wood.
Faramir had to admire the hide-out. Set at the foot of the cliffs that lined the river, there were solid stone walls behind, a curtain of trees in front and only one rather hidden path from the river. If they had waited any longer to light their fire, Faramir was certain he wouldn’t have seen the smoke against the darkening sky. He quickly looked around. Ten or twelve men, counting the ones that escorted them here. The camp had a rather permanent feel to it, Faramir noted, wooden-framed shelters set up against the cold and rain, a stone ring for the fire, firewood stacked to the side. Not a roving band of thieves, then, but a more settled one, very successful at what they did.
Dregan stood with several men across the fire, but gave a quick wave to the others to hold the horses and assist their visitors. Faramir dismounted and reached up to pry Boromir's fingers from his saddle, trying to ease him down without touching his side, staggering under the near-deadweight of his big brother. Men moved in to help him and they laid Boromir on a hastily arranged bed of pine boughs near the fire.
Faramir wished again, as he had so many times over the past two days, that Boromir had never been injured. He longed for Boromir's imposing physical presence, his calm bearing and his reassuring confidence. Faramir was comfortable following orders, not giving them, and he wasn’t yet ready to have it any other way.
He hoped he had made the right decision to stay with these men. While he was kept from most things by his father who deemed him too young, Boromir was good about including Faramir on light tours of duty and with the soldiers while they were within the city's barracks. Because of that, warrior company, if not the battlefield, was familiar to him. Faramir relaxed slightly at the familiarity: the camp fire crackling, swords being sharpened, short barks of laughter and low conversations. Even the punishment of one of their band was not new to Faramir; he glanced over in idle curiosity. Stripped to the waist, the man's bound hands were quickly attached to a hook in the tree. Not the first time this has happened here, thought Faramir, as it is in any camp, under any command.
The leader unhooked the wide leather belt from his tunic and snapped it in the air twice. "Fifteen lashes for your disobedience and an extra for running." His voice carried around the fire.
Do you really think that a whip across my back gains my obedience? That an extra stroke ensures I won't run again? Your hold over me requires iron chains and a constant guard. Extract your punishment but know that you touch only my body, not my spirit, and I will be free of you soon.
The men looked on impassively as the rhythmic thud of the heavy belt striking the man's back echoed off the stone cliffs. Faramir marveled that he cried out not at all, only his hoarse exhalations could be heard. When at last the fifteen lashes had been meted out, the man seemed to hang only by his wrists. The leader lifted the man's foot and with one smooth motion, opened it up from toe to heel with a short, brutal slash of the belt's heavy buckle.
Still nothing more than another harsh gasp. What hard men these bandits are, Faramir thought, to take such punishment without a sound. A slight movement from Boromir captured his attention and he worked to make his brother a little more comfortable.
Now that punishment was over, the men disbanded, some setting out cook pots on the fire, others gathering wood and filling waterskins. The food was quickly prepared and Faramir coaxed Boromir into swallowing some bread soaked in broth and drinking a little cool river water. But he drifted off again and there was still the wound to re-bandage. That was going to be painful and it would go all the more easily if Boromir were not awake.
For all that they were bandits, the rough company was enjoyable and generous. His mind eased a little more. I've done the right thing; Boromir will be proud, will find me worthy, Faramir smiled to himself.
When the meal was finished, some left, perhaps for night watch, while the others made themselves comfortable around the fire and took out pouches of pipeweed and flasks of wine. It was now quite dark and Faramir feared that Boromir would go the night without help.
"I wish to clean my brother's wound before he sleeps tonight. Have you healing herbs or clean linens?"
Water that had been simmering over the hearth was set beside him, along a small pile of cloth strips and a bag of dried leaves.
"We have a healer, Faram." Faramir started at Dregan's voice coming from the shadows of a shelter. "But some men shy away from his kind for fear of spells."
"I welcome any aid for my brother," Faramir said, puzzled; granted, he was sheltered in Gondor but he could think of no race men feared. "I need help to bind the wound. I shy away from no one."
From the shadows, the leader emerged into the flickering firelight, a smaller figure in his grasp, the man who had been beaten, Faramir was quite certain, despite the dark. Dregan's arm shot forward and the healer landed hard on his knees on the other side of Boromir's body.
You presume much to think I would heal a man. I would kill the lot of you, you most slowly for every time you lay hands on me.
Faramir gasped. "An elf?"
Yes, stupid boy, an elf. An elf who would slit your throat if I could reach the dagger in your belt. An elf to be the last thing you see before drowning in your own blood.
Elves rarely ventured outside of their own lands and Faramir thought he could count on two hands the number of elves he had seen in his lifetime. To his recollection, the few he had seen were tall and imperious, pristine and radiant – none of which this elf was: disheveled, naked to the waist and barefoot, streaks of dirt on his face. Still, Faramir was fascinated.
"Odd to see an elf outside his woods," Faramir stammered, unable to take his eyes off the elf, wondering why one would join this company of men. He tried quickly to recover so as not to offend the elf or his hosts' hospitality. "I hear tell that elves have a gift for healing and I am grateful for his help."
Ah. He is no soldier, too soft, too intimidated by mere bandits. He speaks well, has the look of nobility, wears a richly embroidered tunic. Wealth and position make men no less stupid, but does provide them with the means to accomplish things that a bound elf might use.
The elf shook the hair from his face and leant dangerously far over Boromir's body. Faramir raised an arm to protect his brother but inclined towards him, fascinated despite himself. The elf was now so close that Faramir could see the wildness in his eyes. "Help me," he croaked in a hoarse whisper.
Stand up and insist these common thieves to release me to your ownership. Rich men always demand things for which they have not worked; it would come as no surprise. From you and your wounded companion, I can easily escape. Your hands are not made for beatings and whippings and binding in chains; your kind always have another to do distasteful tasks. Yes, one night with you and it would be the last you'd see of an elf. Help me!
Faster than Faramir could comprehend, Dregan grabbed the elf's hair and jerked him to his feet. Holding him by the noose around his neck, the leader dealt him several vicious backhanded slaps. The elf's body rocked with the blows and surely would have hit the ground but for the rope pulled tight in the man's hands. He waited while the elf, unsteady on his feet, regained his balance. Staring defiantly for a moment, shaking, the elf's gaze wavered and fell.
"He has yet to remember his place without assistance," Dregan said. "He will help you now without trouble."
You will die a most slow and painful death, perhaps as my slave and then we'll see how well you remember your place. I help these men not because you command it but because they are my means of escape.
At a nod, one of the bandits brought forth more rope, pushed the elf to his knees and tied his ankles tightly together. Faramir could see that his foot still oozed blood from the cut across his sole and he wondered if the elf would be allowed to attend his own wounds.
Despite his eye swelling rapidly, his lip bleeding and his hands shaking, the elf was undeniably beautiful. Faramir watched as he carefully and quickly loosened Boromir's tunic and lifted his linen undertunic, looking only directly at what his hands were about, never at the faces of any of the men, barely at the body he worked on.
Ugly men, with their hairy bodies and thick, bunched muscles like wargs – all strength, no grace. I can barely look upon them; it is difficult to touch them at all. They are all the same, no better than animals. Better to watch only my own skin, my own bones and muscles.
Together, he and Faramir gently washed away the blood to examine the wound by the torchlight held above their heads, tilted to keep it out of Boromir's eyes. The gash started under Boromir's arm, slashed across his rib cage and looped back towards his hipbone. The elf quickly made a paste of herbs and water and packed the wound, laying linen over it with graceful fingers.
If you die, all the better. One less on Middle-earth. I care not for any man but for the one who proved his goodness and honor to me long ago. You probably killed him for his impropriety.
The elf and Faramir realized simultaneously that Boromir's short sword was within reach. Faramir reached it first, but Dregan still wrenched the elf up by his hair and held his struggling body in an iron grip. Two men lifted Boromir so that Faramir could finish winding strips of cloth around his torso. Though he remained unconscious throughout, Boromir's face had lost some of the tension and perhaps his night would be comfortable.
"My men will bring him to the shelter. He will rest easier there."
Faramir stood, wiping his hands. "Thank you for your help," he said to the leader. "And for that of your elf."
The man nodded. "Go to the river and wash. We will watch your brother." He turned to three men. "Take him, too. Wash him clean and bring him to me."
The men nodded and grabbed the elf under the arms. Despite his bound ankles and his wounded foot, he struggled against their strength, emitting those same odd hoarse cries. Faramir followed the men to the river, still strangely affected by his encounter with the elf. He gratefully peeled off his dusty clothes and waded into the cool water.
The full moon gave just enough light to see the men throw the elf into the water, snickering when his attempts to swim away were thwarted by their hold on his tether. Without regard for his beaten back, they scooped up handfuls of river sand and scrubbed his skin, then removed his light leggings and rubbed sensitive parts even harder. Faramir finished his ablutions and stepped closer, drawn by the elf's skin, luminous despite the dark bruises, and his odd, muted cries.
The elf writhed and twisted but against three large men, it was a futile struggle. Faramir experienced an odd thrill; it was akin to watching a horse being broken for training or a wild animal trapped, awaiting its fate. They dunked him to rinse, holding him underwater long enough that Faramir thought they surely must drown him.
Would that you kill me here; better that than being in your company. But if three of you cannot do it, then there is always a chance none of you can, despite your number, and my long life will mean my suffering never ends. You should be unable to detain me, and yet, and yet, I am still here. I have not escaped from you.
It is a battle in my mind each day to remain strong and defiant, to remember who I am and where my home is, to keep the darkness from my heart. In a fair contest, I would be victorious, but as it is, I am constantly cold, always hungry, never unbound or alone. Elbereth, am I the price paid to keep Lorien safe, free of bandits like these?
Finally the men dragged him onto the riverbank and it was clear the fight had gone out of him. He looked small and cold, shivering in the moonlight and trying to maintain his balance. The largest man picked him up, unclothed, like a sack of grain and threw him over his broad shoulders, striding back to camp. The other two picked up clothing and gave Faramir a linen cloth to dry off with.
"Does he never talk?" Faramir asked, hoping his tone did not seem overly curious, as he dressed.
"Well, he might want to," laughed the smaller of the two, "but you see that rope around his neck? Dregan done that. It has a knot on the inside, held tight against his throat. He can't talk loud, can't scream, can't call out to anyone. Dregan's clever like that."
"Can't swallow well neither," said the other. "Eating and drinking depends on how Dregan's feeling at the time, whether he loosens the knot. No deep breaths either. Don't know why he runs every chance he gets. He never gets far."
"Has he been with you long?"
"Well, don't know. Six, eight moons, would you say? Dregan came back with him one day back around harvest. Didn't say how he caught him, just brought him home and started training him to help us." The smaller man was definitely willing to talk but as they approached the campfire, the larger man gave him a warning look.
He got in a few more words in a whisper: "Seems slow to learn, though, no matter how often he's beaten, he resists Dregan at every turn and keeps trying to run. Dregan wants to keep him, but some day he'll just lose his temper and that elf will die."
Faramir nodded, still puzzled and not a little disturbed, not at the elf's captivity exactly but at the strange feelings it stirred in him.
The brothers had been given the shelter next to that of Dregan's, their packs brought in and beds made ready. It was large enough to stand in, with sheepskin-covered pallets and wool blankets to ward off the chill, surprisingly fine for a bandits' shelter in the woods. Boromir slept comfortably, breathing deep and regular.
The camp was quiet, the fire banked against the oncoming thunderstorm. Faramir sank down under the warm blanket. His eyes fluttered shut but his mind was filled with images of the elf and not a few disquieting thoughts. Yearning to possess such an object. Envy that another did. A sense of entitlement that imbued the line of Stewards for generations. Exotic creature. Like a rare jewel or an intricately engraved sword. I want him. Boromir gets the kingdom; surely one elf is not too much for me to ask for.
Moments later, he was rigid in his bed, straining to hear sounds from the leader's shelter over the nightwind and the soft patter of rain.
The elf was being beaten again. Blows slow and hard, not hurried, as though Dregan knew he would not be interrupted. His low, harsh voice rose and fell, punctuated by the elf's pitifully hoarse gasps.
Faramir twisted under the covers but what his ears couldn't hear his heart could imagine: the leader's large hands on the elf's slender body. A moment of silence, then sounds of a different sort: skin slapping against skin, satisfied grunts from Dregan, silence from the elf. For Faramir, growing hard under the covers, excited and only slightly ashamed, it was sweet torment, and sleep was a long time coming.
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