Hope everyone is enjoying these new chapters. Thanks again to Agape4Gondor again this week for all the lovely reviews! Was particularly nice on my birthday to receive some nice feedback. Hope you enjoy this new chapter ~

Chapter 46 – A hidden truth

The red light of sunset woke him, and Faramir lay still for several moments, gazing toward the East. His back and sides raged with fiery pain, and he wondered how he could have slept at all. It could not be long now before they reached Minas Tirith, two, maybe three days at most. His heart ached to see the white tower once more and for this torturous journey to come to an end one way or another.

All was strangely quiet. Legolas lay sleeping, or perhaps unconscious, beside him. Pippin was not in sight, but this did not worry Faramir greatly. After it was clear Pippin was not the bearer of the weapon of the enemy, Saruman had considered the Hobbit beneath his notice. Pippin was allowed some freedom, and some spent some of it in the Rohirrim camp, talking to the men held under the wizard's thrall and attempting to break through to them with words.

Pippin had seemed disquieted of late, and Faramir suspected something more than their dire situation was on his mind. The Hobbit's eyes strayed often to the Rohirrim tents, and some secret knowledge he had discovered there seemed always to be on tip of his tongue.

Saruman's tent at their backs was dark, perhaps the wizard too was making a visit to the men of Rohan, perhaps renewing the words of persuasion and valour he had bestowed upon them in rallying their forces in Edoras.

Just as Faramir propped himself onto his elbows to gaze down at the fire he could see in the riders' camp, a small hand suddenly covered his mouth. Pippin quickly came into view, the Hobbit's breath coming in great heaves. He held a small rusted knife which glinted scarlet in the setting sun, and as Pippin took away his silencing hand, Faramir grew more concerned at his wild eyes and a fresh double gash across the Hobbit's chin and chest.

'What has happened?" he breathed, as Pippin went to work on slicing through the bindings holding his wrists and then his ankles. As the Hobbit sawed away at the cord Faramir leant forward and turned Pippin's head a little so he could see the Hobbit's new wound. "Who has done this?"

"I promised not to tell," the Hobbit gasped. "But you must come and help... I tried to help but," he held a hand to his bleeding chest and took a great shuddering breath.

"I will come." Faramir pulled himself stiffly to his knees, feeling all his hurts complain once more as he did so. He went to shake Legolas but the Elf did not stir, and seeing the new blood drying at the side of the Elf's head he suspected him to be unconscious.

He pursed his lips, wondering whether there was anything he could do for Legolas now that his hands were free, but Pippin's forceful tug on his arm drew him away. He turned and followed the Hobbit, squinting into the red sun that lit their way. Ducking between the shadows of other tents, Pippin led him to a tent at the very edge of the Rohirrim camp.

At once he could hear stifled cries from inside, and a voice easily recognised.

"...watched for days. I would know your eyes amid a thousand men..."

The sound of fist striking flesh was unmistakable, and at the sound both he and Pippin began tearing at the tent opening.

"...waiting for some mistake, for you to be alone."

At last they tore the tent fabric back, casting dull light over the two struggling figures.

Grima had pinioned a woman to the ground, trapping her writhing body beneath his own. A short bladed sword remained in her outstretched arm but Grima was tearing at her wrist with bony fingers to try and loosen the grip on the weapon.

Catching sight of Pippin around the curtain of his greasy hair he merely snarled at the Hobbit, "Back for more, halfling? I thought I had given you enough to remember me."

As the man spoke, Faramir caught sight of the lady's face and drew a short breath. Golden hair spilled beneath her and there was blood on her lips and bruises on her neck where the Dunlending had held he down. He felt his heart twist. Above all else that she should be here! Eowyn.

Upon catching sight of Faramir her eyes widened and she increased her struggles, more hopeful now of escape. Grima turned back and bashed her across the face. Her head was flung back against the ground and she cried out, but kept her hold on her sword.

Faramir lost no more time in driving all his weight into Grima's side and throwing the man off her. Wormtougue let out a guttural moan as he rolled, taken by surprise. He had thought the Hobbit the only challenge to his conquest.

Despite his surprise, Grima righted himself quickly, the narrow fencing blade that had already wounded Pippin in his hand. "Step aside, son of Denethor." Grima's eyes were dark with desire as he looked to Eowyn who held a hand to her bleeding mouth. "Do not interfere in this. Go back to your Elf and lie quietly like obedient dogs until Saruman decides your fate."

The words rankled and Faramir could not help but recall their last skirmish when Grima had thwarted their appeal to Theoden. Flinching, he took a small step backwards to avoid Wormtongue's quivering blade. Grima was no warrior, but he himself had no weapon and his reflexes had been dulled by many days of captivity.

"Pippin!" Eowyn held her arm out and Faramir saw gratitude and affection in her bright eyes as the Hobbit helped her to her knees. He was relieved to see that apart from the bruises to her face, Eowyn seemed unharmed. She was still in riding clothes but her hair fell free about her shoulders, as though Grima had surprised her in removing the disguise she had been wearing.

"Stay on your knees where you belong, woman of Rohan." Grima moved another step closer. "There are many hours left in this night."

Grima's slack jaw and hot breath turned Faramir's stomach and he took his chance, lunging for Grima's sword arm, hoping to twist it back on itself. He succeeded, wrenching the blade out of the shocked man's fingers, but could not sustain the motion, his own shoulder giving way at the crucial moment. Grima regained a hold on the hilt, dragging it down so that must let go, then driving a sharp knee into Faramir's chest.

He doubled over, breath knocked out of him. Warm blood blossomed from healing wounds and he gasped for air, unable to rise.

"Leave him!" Eowyn's voice, panicked.

Grima stepped slowly passed him, closer to Eowyn and Pippin. He felt the blade trace along his back as he shuddered and struggled to breath. "You asked me once, son of Denethor, what price Saruman paid for my services." Faramir managed to lift his head slightly, nauseous not only from the blow to his chest.

"Perhaps now, my rightful prize, my white lady..." Grima levelled his narrow sword to Pippin's throat. "Perhaps now you will realise that all your resistance has only caused harm for those you love. Remember Theodred..."

Eowyn looked up at him, and there was such hatred in her gaze Faramir was surprised Grima did not back down. But beneath her hatred was fear also, and her eyes betrayed her as they flickered to Pippin.

Grima lowered his sword slightly, seeing defeat in her face, and grasped her chin, bringing her face to his.

Faramir flinched, the pale man's blade now rested against Eowyn's bared neck. He could not lie still and watch this.

Pippin scrambled up from ground, clutching up the candle from the side of the tent and throwing hot wax into Grima's bared arm.

With a last burst of strength Faramir lunged forward in time to grasp the man's sword arm and bring it back clear from Eowyn's throat. At the same time Grima gave a cry as Eowyn's blade plunged into his chest.

Pippin cried out with shock as blood sprayed from the wound.

Grima gave a gurgling cry and fell back, and Faramir gasped as the dead weight of the man fell full upon him.

Eowyn sank forward onto hands and knees, short sword now red with blood still in her hands. She shook and did not take her eyes from the body, as though he might rise again and pursue her.

Grima's death cry had shattered the quiet of the camp, and with the candle extinguished Faramir could see flickering torches approaching through the tent material, and could hear the baying of wolves

"They have heard us," Pippin whispered, and the Hobbit looked as though he could not endure much more of this night. "They are coming from all sides."

The new danger was clear. Pushing Grima's body from him and dragging himself over to Eowyn, Faramir gently pried the bloodied sword from her grasp. Her fingers were clenched so hard about the hilt that it was difficult to remove them. Holding both her hands in his he looked her in the face and she met his gaze steadily at last.

"Faramir," she said softly.

"He is dead," Faramir with the finality he felt she needed. "He will pursue you no more. There is nothing more to fear."

Pippin's huff of breath highlighted that there was much yet to fear.

Faramir recalled her strength in Edoras, and her care as she tended his own wounds, and did not relish the thought that their positions had been reversed this night.

"I followed the army", she said. "I hoped to find an opportunity to free you. And my people."

She had clearly seen enough not to be caught under the wizard's spell. Saruman's rousing words had not touched her heart as they had the rest of her people. "Do you know what will happen if they find you here?" his voice broke slightly as he asked it, but he pushed on, "You must regain your disguise."

She still hesitated in taking the helmet and cuirass he pushed into her hands. "They cannot kill me, the riders would rise up against him."

"Saruman's voice is poison, your people are not in their own minds."

"Please, Eowyn," Pippin begged, and for his sake, Faramir thought, the lady pulled the armour over her chest and hid her telling face and hair from sight.

Faramir looked about the tent and found her sword resting there. He pushed the hilt into Eowyn's slack hand, bidding her rise and take position by the door as though to hold them prisoner.

"I would stand beside you," she said softly through the helmet, and he wished he could see her face. "I would make the stand you have made and not hide in the shadows."

"Nay," he said, "There is nothing to be gained and all to be lost by showing your true face to the wizard."

"It could only make things worse," Pippin sighed, for looking down at the body of Grima.

Something prodded Legolas' shoulder and he woke with a start, eyes flying open to the sight of three men standing over him. It was dusk, and he felt dazed, his head aching from some blow he could not recall.

"Who are you?" he asked, and his voice was hoarse.

They were men of Rohan, their chain amour and deep green cloaks silhouetted against the sky. The one who had just prodded him with the base of a long spear stepped forward. Unlike his companions he wore no helmet, his dirty blond hair blew in the light breeze and stern eyes flickered between Legolas and Saruman's empty tent behind him.

"Where is the son of Denethor?" the rider asked, and Legolas suddenly realised he was alone. Dread flooded him. The ropes that had bound Faramir lay severed near by. Where could his companions be? Surely if they had been freed he would be free also.

"Where is he, Elf?" the man said, and prodded Legolas with his spear once more.

Anger flared within him. That these men could push him like he was a sack of grain...

Sweeping his bound legs into the man's feet, he brought him to the ground easily.

The surprise on the rider's face as he fell heavily was some satisfaction, but the snickering of his two companions more so as they helped their friend to his feet.

"I know not," Legolas said at last, feeling there was no harm is saying as much. "Do you come all this way to join the Uruk-hai's games?"

The men had the grace to look abashed. It was clear they had witnessed the Orcs' brutality.

"We came to find out the truth," one of the other riders said defensively. He sounded young, and was clearly afraid to show his face. "We have been speaking with the halfling."

Legolas knew Pippin had been at work in the riders' camp, attempting to spread the reality of Saruman's treachery.

"And what truth is that?" he murmured, still somewhat aggravated.

"We do not know," the younger man said, his voice confused. He shook his head as though to clear it. "But something feels amiss. There have been deaths... Grimbold.. and Gamling... those who questioned our riding forth... and it is hard to believe..."

The helmet-less man spoke once more, clarifying their thoughts. "The wizard has been a friend to Rohan, we do not deny it, but Gondor have long been our allies. We hoped the son of Denethor could tell us the true situation in Gondor. Could the Steward really have taken up with the enemy to save his own people?"

"Free me," Legolas said suddenly, hoping to spur them into action. "Untie me and I will find Faramir, you will have your answers."

They eyed him warily, almost as suspicious of the Elf as they were of Saruman himself.

Legolas sighed, appealing instead to their kindness. "There is no escape for me from this place; we are surrounded by orcs and wolves in their thousands. But if we are to live but a little longer I must find my my companions."

The youngest men hesitated another moment, but then lifted his visor and moved towards the Elf.

His hand was at his belt to retrieve his knife when Legolas sensed the movement close by. He cried out a warning but it was too late. Bound as he was, he could only watch as the thick black arrow slammed into the young man's chest, tearing through the thin chain mail.

He turned his face away as the other two men were slaughtered in the same fashion, blood spraying across him.

Uruks appeared, their crossbows slung over mountainous shoulders, and laughed to see that he had turned away from their carnage.

Then he heard a familiar voice. Pippin!

The Hobbit was being carried along by his wrists amid several great orcs that were moving toward him. Faramir was there also, held bodily so that he struggled to walk.

"Mellon nin!" Legolas cried as they approached, desperately wishing to know what was happening.

Faramir made eye contact and opened his mouth to speak, but was shoved onwards before anything could be revealed.

Legolas' sharp eyes caught another shape in the orcs' hold. A dark-haired man slung as though lifeless between them. There were not so many dark-haired riders amid the Rohirrim, and he wondered at the man's identity.

Pippin was suddenly dropped half on top of him, and Legolas wished briefly that Hobbits did not eat quite so much as his legs were crushed beneath the weight. The orcs left them there and marched on towards Saruman's tent. The Elf and Hobbit remained quiet until they knew they could not be heard, then Pippin told all.

Faramir shivered as the chill wind slithered in through the open folds of Saruman's tent and touched the damp skin of his face. The enclosure was some comfort against the wind but it had been constructed swiftly in a crude fashion, so that it might be dismantled when the army was ready to move on each day.

He remained on his knees for some time, keeping his eyes fixed on the door lest Saruman surprise him. His mind worked over all that had happened. How would the wizard react to the murder of his servant? How hard would it be to keep Eowyn's name hidden, to keep her face and voice from his thoughts?

But he realised this was an opportunity they had not yet gained; he had the chance to see what secrets Saruman concealed.

Dragging his eyes away from the doorway, he surveyed the objects upon the small table without much success. His hands were free yet they shook with exhaustion as he moved over and carefully pried open a large wooden chest to peered inside. A cloth wrapped bundle of weapons lay there. His own sword and bow of Lorien shining dully in the light of the single candle called to him hopelessly.

Another glance at the doorway showed only the silhouettes of the orc guards that had brought him there. Breathing shallowly, as though the wild beating of his heart would give him away, he stood and ran his eyes over the other objects lining the boundary of the enclosure.

The wizard's staff leaning against the canvas wall attracted his notice for a moment, but the other sides of the tent revealed nothing of interest. Then his eye fell upon a small chest, ornately carved. He moved towards it, barely breathing as his heart sounded loudly in his ears.

Closer scrutiny revealed dark fabric draped over a small spherical object. Hesitating, he sunk to one knee beside the chest. A low humming sound was emanating from beneath the thick material, and it was somehow familiar to him.

Himself as a young child climbing the steps to the tower and peering in at his father's door.

Denethor bent over, eyes closed and hands grasping a shiny black orb. The eeree light had frightened him, yet it had been difficult to draw away.

He had considered it a dream, but now he was not so sure. He had thought on it afterwards, and remembered too the kind Mithrandir's songs.

Seven starts and seven stones. And his many tales of Numenor...

He did not dare touch the thing, but his mind was stirred by possibilities.

Covering up the orb lest Saruman know he had glimpsed it, Faramir sifted through the items on the table. A few sheets of paper, marked with ink in swirling letters of a language he could not understand, and beneath these a small slab of stone set in a checked pattern for chess.

"Surely you knew you could be observed?"

Faramir stopped breathing, the sudden ache of fear making his chest contract. It was a moment before he could draw the courage to rise to his feet, turning to face the wizard.