Dark Dreams

The next day the company rode hard across the plains – Gandalf leading them on the mighty Shadowfax, the two men and Legolas with Gimli on sturdy mounts borrowed from the Marshall of Riddermark. Finally, as the sun began sinking beneath the faraway hills, they reached the road leading through the mounds of the dead and on to the courts of Edoras.

“We must ride more warily from this point on,” Gandalf cautioned the riders. “Be careful what you say. Do not look for welcome here.”

“But the Rohirrim have long been our friends, Mithrandir,” Faramir protested. “They are oath-bound to provide aid to Gondor, as we are to them.”

“That is the way it has been, Faramir,” Gandalf said with a trace of sadness. “But of late the King of Rohan has fallen under Saruman’s spell. I cannot see how this has happened for my vision is clouded; something is hiding Théoden’s court from my sight. I urge caution as we approach the Golden Hall.”

His words echoed in their ears as they passed through the outer walls of the city. Suspicious eyes followed them as they rode, and Faramir felt strangely vulnerable. At last they came to the steep steps leading up to Meduseld. They dismounted, handing their mounts over to the waiting stable keepers before starting the long climb.

When the company reached the top, their way was barred by a large man in bright chain mail. “I must bid you lay aside your weapons before you enter, travellers, by order of Gríma Wormtongue.”

Aragorn turned quickly to Faramir as the young man gasped. All the colour had drained from his face – he looked as ashen as the day he was rescued from the mines. His knees seemed unsteady and Aragorn prepared to catch him, fearing that he would fall down the steps they had just climbed. But Faramir did not move. Ignoring the waiting guards, Aragorn lingered until Faramir steadied himself and met his eye. Not until the young man nodded slightly did the ranger hand over his sword.

Faramir unbuckled his own belt and handed it to the Rohirrim guards in a daze. *I must get a grip on myself,* Faramir thought. *I must be strong.* He had known this day would come – had even seen it in his dreams, much as he dreaded it. He looked into Aragorn’s questioning eyes and read the worry there. *I must be strong for him,* he thought, as he reminded himself of the older man’s words. *Wormtongue has no claim on me.*

After the travellers were dispossessed of their weapons, they followed Gandalf into the great hall. At the far end sat a bent and aged man in a golden throne. Faramir was overcome with pity as he looked at the once great King Théoden. He was no longer the mighty horse warrior that Faramir had admired years before. Now his face was pallid and wrinkled, and his eyes were cloudy as if covered by an opaque veil. Faramir started as he recognised the same soulless eyes that haunted his dark dreams. *He has been bewitched by Wormtongue,* he realised.

Faramir stood half-hidden behind the wizard, forcing himself to breathe as his eyes moved to the man sitting beside the king. Gríma was exactly as he remembered – the unearthly white skin framed by dark greasy locks of hair, the bloodless, thin lips that hid crooked teeth and that long forked tongue that had tormented him physically and mentally. Faramir knew each detail of the man as well as he would knew own own lovers.

*As you well should,* came the unbidden thought.

He felt physically sick. His reeling mind could not register what Gandalf was saying to the king, or Théoden’s reply. But his thoughts swirled into focus when he heard Gríma speak. “Why indeed should we welcome you, Master Stormcrow? Láthspell I name you, ill-news; and ill news is an ill guest they say.” The king’s counsellor laughed grimly then, the sound piercing the base of Faramir’s spine.

As Gríma stepped forward then to apprise the rest of the company, his pale eyes rested on Faramir. “Well, what do we have here?” He scurried over to him, and try as he might to move away Faramir could not budge. He felt as if he had been paralysed by the presence of his old enemy.

“My precious son of the steward, you have finally returned to me!” Gríma’s voice held a note of glee. “I never believed Lurtz when he said he did not eat you. It seems that I owe him an apology.”

“Go away,” he begged, as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut to block out the man’s presence. It had taken all of his strength to say these two words that now sounded infinitely small within this great hall. Still it was to no avail. The silky voice permeated his consciousness, filling his entire being with its insidious tones.

“Oh, no, dearest, I cannot do that. You belong to me now.”

Aragorn looked at Faramir’s frightened face. “Leave him alo –,” he started, but felt the words constrict in his throat.

“Silence!” Gríma commanded.

Faramir’s eyes flew open to see Arn stn straining to move, but not coming any closer. Their panicked eyes locked and Aragorn silently mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.” Then his face disappeared as darkness consumed Faramir’s vision, leaving only Gríma’s face before him.

“I have been calling for you, you know. Do you not still dream of Grí Gríma asked in a fawning voice that sent chills rippling through Faramir’s body.

“No!” Faramir was not sure whether he spoke aloud or not. It was all he could do to focus on the word – to register his protest against what was happening, no matter how ineffectual his resistance.

“Oh, but I know that you have,” Gríma continued, sidling up beside Faramir and stroking his cheek with his bony fingers. Faramir flinched at the touch, but could not pull himself away. He found himself mesmerised by the man’s sallow eyes. “I have dreamed of you, too. I cannot forget the taste of you, nor the pleasure I gave you. Now I have you again.”

“I – hate – you!” The words cost him a tremendous effort; Faramir felt weary and sore, as if his body had been soundly beaten. As he had felt in Moria.

“Your body never hated me, Faramir son of Denethor. Oh, yes, I felt you respond to my touch. You ed med me as much I wanted you. Your friends may believe that you were used horribly, but we know differently, don’t we?”

All of Faramir’s doubts began to resurface – the fear that he had somehow encouraged Gríma, the self-hatred from thinking that he had somehow taken pleasure from him.

“No!” Again the word came out only after a struggle. He wasn’t sure whether he spoke to Wormtongue or himself, but he saw a shadow pass over the waxy eyes. Somewhere deep inside he realised that his objections bothered his tormentor. Faramir’s resolve was strengthened and he repeated the word, more forcefully this time.

“It is useless to protest,” Gríma said, his breath hot against Faramir’s ear. “You cannot escape me again – you are bound to me.”

His last words reminded Faramir of something he had heard far away, in another time, before his thoughts were clouded. He tried to pin down the thought, but it was elusive. And each time he thought he had it within his grasp, a blinding pain split his head in two.

The obsequious voice whispered into his other ear now. “You gave yourself to me freely. And now you have come back to me of your own free will.”

*Free will.* There it was again – but what was *it*? Again Faramir clutched at the words, rolling them around in his mouth as he tried to connect them with the illusory images flickering through his anguished mind: a golden elf and golden trees, a strong man’s soothing arms around his shoulders, swirling smoke floating from the glowing embers of a longe. He. He could almost smell the pipeweed …

“You will have nothing more to do with these others. I have claimed you as my own.”

Wormtongue’s mouth was dangerously close to Faramir’s now. The young man fought to control the rising bile in his stomach. Suddenly from the depths of his memory he heard an unrecognisable yet comforting voice say, *He has no claim on you. What he did to you he did without your free will; you gave him nothing and you are not bound to him in any way.*

With a tremendous roar that emerged straight from the pit of his stomach, Faramir screamed “No!” He threw up his arms and pushed Wormtongue away; the surprised man fell at Gandalf’s feet, almost knocking the wizard over. Suddenly the darkness disappeared from his eyes and Faramir could see the anxious looks on his friends’ faces.

As if waking from a dream, Gandalf flung off his grey robes, revealing the shining white garb hidden underneath. “Enough!” he commanded. “So you are the forked tongue that has poisoned the ears of the king of Rohan.” He raised his white staff and Faramir heard rolling thunder fill the hall, followed by a lightning-like flash. Then all was silent; Wormtongue lay sprawled on his face before Gandalf.

Aragorn rushed over to Faramir, who stood staring at the man on the floor. “Faramir, are you all right?”

With a confused look, the young man turned towards Aragorn. “I – I don’t know – what happened?”

“We were all enthralled by the charm of Saruman’s agent,” Gandalf said calmly. “It is my fault. I should have known what to expect after seeing King Théoden. I am sorry, Faramir. Fortunately for all of us you had the strength to resist him.”

Gandalf approached the throne. The others could not hear what the wizard said to Théoden, but after a few moments the king rose and walked over to Faramir. The young man’s eyes had returned to the figure on the floor. It looked small and helpless now, just a thin, still body outstretched on the elaborate parquetry.

“You are very welcome in Meduseld, Faramir son of Denethor,” the king said. Faramir shifted his gaze to the king and saw that the brightness had returned to his deep blue eyes. These eyes now searched Faramir’s smoky ones and recognised the same suffering at Wormtongue’s hands. “Dark have been my dreams of late,” he continued gently, “as I suspect have yours.”

“Yes,” Faramir replied simply, bowing his head. He felt sorely embarrassed that he was not kneeling before the King of Rohan. Decorum demanded it, but he was uncertain his knees would support him if he tried to move.

Théoden seemed not to notice, though. He clasped his firm hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “It is over now, my son. You have proven yourself to be a great warrior. Rohan needs strength like yours in our friends if we are to triumph in the battles ahead of us.”

“Your fingers would remember their own strength better if they grasped your sword,” Gandalf said, beckoning one of the Rohirrim guards to bring forth the king’s neglected scabbard. With one hand, Théoden drew his mighty blade. Faramir’s heart filled with hope as he saw the man’s power return.

Then two guards grabbed Gríma by the arms and held him up before the king. In a burst of anger, Théoden raised his sword to strike him, but Faramir put out his hand to stay him. “Let him go,” he said. “Enough blood has already been spilt on his account. Let us not darken our dreams further, King Théoden.”

Théoden looked again into Faramir’s eyes. He saw grief there, and much suffering, but he also saw compassion. He smiled at the young man as he slowly lowered his sword. Taking his arm, he led him towards the throne as Gríma was escorted out of the hall and afromfrom Edoras.


TBC