Chapter 12 - Grey dawn

The sun hid behind the mountains as the chill of the grey morning lay dew on the crisp grass and frost upon the leaves. Eight figures could be seen moving like ants along the bank of the mountains. Weighed down by supplies as well as exhaustion, their progress was slow and frustrating.

Faramir let his eyes roam over the scenery, glad that he did not mind the land as it was, bare and stripped of all its finery. It had a harshness to it, of course, but also an underlying strength. Watching the darkness flee from the hard dawn had given Faramir a kind of relief. Only an hour after Gollum's supposed attack, Aragorn had decided that since no one could get any sleep, they would press on through the night and rest when morning came. And he had been right. The stark light seemed to make the shadows of the dark fall away as though they had just awoken from a nightmare. And even Faramir's own vision, as terrible as it had been the night before, seemed only that, a vision. He was yet to tell Aragorn about his dream, for although he intended to, the man had enough to worry about.

Faramir heard a small pattering of feet and looked down to find Sam by his side. The Hobbit's legs had to work twice as hard to keep up with Faramir's long strides.

"Mr Faramir, sir?" he panted, quite out of breath. Do you think there'd be any chance of us stopping for a rest? Mr Pippin is asleep on his feet, has been for some time if you ask me. An' poor Mr Frodo, he's had no sleep either after that horrible creature came in the night. My feet are so cold they're numb! A short break would do us all a world of good."

"It is up to Aragorn," Faramir replied gently. "But I will have a word with him, if you wish."

"That would be right kind of you sir," Sam flustered, relieved that someone would listen to him and Pippin's complaints might be stopped.

The sky was still overcast and the weather bleak as ever when the fellowship finally stopped to rest. Faramir flung himself down upon the wet grass and pulled his pack from his shoulders. He stretched his shoulders to relieve the pressure of carrying supplies, as well as Pippin who had clung to his back for what seemed like hours. Aragorn had resisted stopping earlier, he was determined to cover a greater distance before it was fully light and they could be seen by unwelcome eyes. He had taken Frodo on his own shoulders while asking Faramir to take Pippin, who was smaller. Legolas and Gimli had shared out much of the mens' load between them but still the burden had been heavy.

Although he was deadly tired, Faramir feared to fall asleep. The visions of the night still haunted his thoughts, his brother's face foremost in his mind. What did it mean? Was it related to the sudden appearance of Gollum, or a separate warning? He realised he hardly knew anything of the creature. Perhaps if he knew more, he might find a clue to its meaning.

He looked around for Aragorn, meaning to ask him for information. Seeing that Aragorn was deep in thought, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed, Faramir decided not to disturb him.

A deep rumbling sound reached his ears and Faramir twisted to his right. Gimli lay comfortably on his blanket, the loudest snoring Faramir had ever heard coming from the Dwarf's open mouth.

Faramir looked over Gimli's body to where Legolas also watched the sleeping Dwarf, an amused smile on his face. Legolas was carving something, a small knife whittling away at the smooth wood. Faramir recognised what it was, the base of Gandalf's staff. Faramir had a sudden urge to snatch the wood away from the Elf, keep it safe from the knife. He frowned, wondering at the thoughts that plagued his mind. He could see why Legolas was cutting the wood; he was trying to make arrows. Each time the Elf sliced off a piece perfect for an arrow and began smoothing it, the wood rebelled and split. The frustration was clear on Legolas' face. Faramir did not want to say anything about the staff, he still felt confused and embarrased about the way he acted when he had given Legolas the base. Instead Faramir focused him mind back on Gimli.

"He snores loud enough to wake the dead!" Faramir said, resisting the urge to poke the annoying Dwarf.

"I sometimes think he does it on purpose," Legolas laughed, "just to annoy me!"

"I would not be surprised if you are right," Faramir smiled back. A sudden idea came to him and he rose to his feet and tiptoed past the Dwarf. He sat down next to Legolas and the Elf gave him a questioning look.

"The creature, Gollum," Faramir began, "you know of it, do you not?"

There was a slight pause before the Elf answered, "I do. More than I wish."

"Will you tell me of him? I wish to know what we are up against?"

Legolas looked uncomfortable. "There is not much to tell; he is a dark creature, full of malice and wickedness. He is small but not to be underestimated. Aragorn thinks perhaps that when he escaped from Mordor, he was let to go . . . on an errand."

Faramir was silent for a moment, thinking over what had been said. "Mithrandir said he may yet have some part to play in our journey. What do you think he meant by that?"

"I know not," Legolas said then added with a sad smile, "but perhaps he only meant to lighten my heart. He could see how my feelings of guilt were affecting me, perhaps he felt I would be more valuable to the company if I were not worrying over the past."

"Why would you feel any responsibility for what happened?" Faramir asked, "anyone could see the odds against the Mirkwood Elves surviving, let alone preventing Gollum's escape, were set highly against you."

"This, I know" the Elf sighed, "but still I regret the ill fortune that saved me while killing dear friends. And that the terror that has come upon us, upon Frodo, could have been destroyed when we had the chance."

"In my mind," Faramir began, "Gandalf says nothing he does not mean. Perhaps he is right about Gollum, he may not be wholly evil." Faramir did not like to believe that any creature could be fully evil although Orcs came very close. "Of course the death of your friends is to be regretted, but you should hold yourself blameless in the matter. If you had died by their sides, the Fellowship would not be standing, or sleeping in Gimli's case, where we are now. We would be in Isengard, watched over by Saruman. I for one am glad fate placed you among us."

The look on Legolas' face was hard to determine. At first Faramir thought it might have been gratitude, for having heard someone else speak so fully on his personal worries, then again he might have been offended Faramir had even commented. Faramir could not detirmine which. Elves were a strange folk, so intriguing, and yet they held a distance that was hard to break. Perhaps trust was all that was needed. Still, whatever Faramir did, he could not seem to gain Legolas' trust.

Faramir picked up his bow and quiver, trying to look as though he had a purpose in his actions. He reached inside his quiver to see how many arrows he had left. Five . . only five. The arrows that were not broken from the battle with the Goblins had been collected and divided amongst Aragorn, Legolas and himself. There was something else in his quiver, something that made his hand tremble even looking at it. The head of Gandalf's staff.

Faramir could not explain his feelings towards the object. It served as a memory of Gandalf, and also of how he was taken from them. But it was more than that, it had always seemed as though it were alive. Faramir could not help himself, he reached out his hand to touch the staff.

Darkness swirled about him, it was as though night had come and was swallowing him whole. His body still lay on the grass by Legolas and Gimli, his hand clutching the glowing staff, his mind . . . somewhere else.

Faramir opened his eyes. It was dark, slits of hard light shone through the jagged cracks in the roof. Where was he? Where was everyone else? He had promised himself not to fall asleep, not to return to the dreams, but if this was not a dream, what was it? He moved his head slowly, painfully. Every movement sent shards of pain rushing through his body and mind.

He looked down at his hands, again blood was upon them. He closed his fist, trying to block out the terrible fear inside him. Something about his hand worried him. The skin felt strange, little cracks criss-crossed his palm and he could see wrinkles on his usually smooth fingers. What was happening to him?

He raised his hand so as to see it more clearly, perhaps it was only a trick of the light. He unconsciously brushed a strand of white hair away from his face. White hair? He looked down and saw the white hair that grew from his face. Panic washed over him followed by a quick realisation.

"Mithrandir," he whispered, his whole body trembling at the realisation that he was seeing through the old wizard's eyes. There was a noise from somewhere near by and in a second Faramir was blinded by the intense light in the doorway.

"Gandalf the Grey," a terrible voice sounded from the figure in the doorway. It was Saruman...