Hope you all enjoy some Saruman/Faramir interaction in this one ~

Agape4Gondor, thanks once more for your epic reviewing, has made me so happy to follow along your journey as you read the story - glad you've caught up :) Thanks also to obsidianj for the messages, so happy you're finding the story exciting ^_^

Chapter 47 – A trial too great

"Surely you knew you could be observed?" Saruman unclasped his hands as he entered and gestured Faramir to a seat. His voice was less imposing than previously, more sincere and even slightly amused.

Faramir lowered himself onto the spare seat painfully, keeping eye contact as he did so. "The mind tires easily," he said, silently processing what he had just discovered and trying to wipe any expression of it from his countenance. "It is always seeking stimulation; why else we still alive?"

The expression on the wizard's sharp-featured face was almost a smile, but his eyes remained as steel as studied his guest carefully. "You are correct. I lack intelligent conversation. Orcs have their uses, but they can provide little in the way of a challenge."

Faramir felt anger rise within him. "Your creatures have found sport with us. Are their games not challenge enough?"

Saruman ignored the question. "My Orcs tell me Gríma, son of Gálmód is slain." His ageless eyes showed no emotion or concern at the news, and to Faramir's surprise he brought forth game pieces, clearing the loose pages from the table with a sweep of his hand.

Faramir looked down at the board, tired of games and deception.

"He was," Saruman continued, "as Mithrandir named him, a witless worm, but he had his uses."

The wizard pushed the white pieces towards Faramir, taking black for himself and laying his board with an experienced hand. His fingers were white, almost matching the pallor of his robes, the nails long, and suddenly Faramir recalled the pain as they had bitten into the skin of his arms.

"You were taught to play?"

The swift change of topic made him pause. "Long ago."

Denethor had taught both his sons when they were quite young, representing the board as the scene of a battle. Faramir had taken to the game far more than his brother, but played rarely now that other duties had taken his time.

He forced himself to ask a question before the other grew impatient. "Why choose black?"

"I allow my enemies to make the first move."

Faramir nodded, expecting the answer. "The illusion of hope. A sound strategy, however unkind..."

Saruman smiled appreciatively. "I assume," he said in a different voice, "you will not willingly reveal who slew my servant?"

Faramir was quiet a moment, disconcerted by the wizard's mutable words.

"It was I." He attempted to meet the wizard's eyes with conviction as he claimed the deed, but instantly an acute burning flared behind his eyes and he dropped his gaze. He wondered at Legolas succeeding so convincingly to lie to the Istar's face.

Saruman sat back, regarding him. He became suddenly more aware of his own limbs. Worn boots and cloak torn and streaked with mud, the steady burn of wounds recently inflicted, even the strands of hair that had come loose and strayed now before his eyes, no shield from the Wizard's gaze.

"Your father taught you to play, did he not?"

At the words Faramir could not fail to think of Denethor. He did not often dwell on his father, yet in the wizard's presence his least pleasant memories seemed to be sifting to the top of his thoughts. "He did," he said, keeping his eyes on the game, not wishing to meet the hooded eyes.

The wizard continued as though unaware of Faramir's discomfort. "And you still look for his good opinion in all that you undertake, hoping one day to meet his expectations, hoping one day to match your brother in some small achievement."

Finally seeing an opening, Faramir took his bishop to the other side of the board with a sweep, removing Saruman's knight and setting it to the side of the board with a steadier hand.

He could feel the wizard's eyes on him, waiting for some reaction to the goading words. The emotions expressed were far less complex than his current state of his mind. They were, he suspected, those of long ago when he had visited Orthanc as a boy with his father and councillors of Minas Tirith. The wizard had seemed kind and wise then.

"You are wrong," he said slowly. "The sentiments you read are those of a child who stood on the steps of a great wizard and marvelled at his lofty dreams."

To his surprise the wizard laughed, and the sound was would almost have been pleasant if it were not for the sensation it brought with it: that of the earth falling away before his feet.

"I begin to understand what Mithrandir sees in you. You are quick witted, yet too high-minded and idealistic."

Faramir did not respond, it was a criticism often bandied about by his father.

"Perhaps I can teach you the dangers of idealism," the wizard said, and there was something in the words that made him wish to draw back from the table.

Making his point visually Saruman reached forward and swept Faramir's white castle from the board, replacing it with his own. "Idealism is to believe that all would sacrifice for you what you would for them." His tone changed. "Is it the Halfling you protect?"

Faramir had been waiting for the question and stayed quiet, thinking of Pippin.

"It was not the Elf," the Istar continued, "for he is still tethered. Who else would you stay silent to protect?"

"Teaching the dangers of trust and companionship through asking me to break faith is an unusual lesson."

"The lesson has not yet been given," Saruman said, without anger. "It is not only idealism in the worthiness of men I seek to dispel. What could not a great lord over men achieve in bringing learning and wisdom to a savage land? Petty skirmishes, war itself could be subsumed under a mantle of knowledge. But this may only be if I have the power to shape the world to my own ends. Would you not fight, one last time, for such a cause?"

Faramir felt the full power behind the wizard's voice; his breathing faltered and the rising elation threatened to consume rational thought. In his own struggle he understood the Riders of Rohan better.

He met the wizard's eyes at last, but had to wrench against the part of himself that yearned to fall in with the compelling tones. "I am fighting for just such a cause..."

"The one for which you fight is no scholar, no master of lore. He is a warrior, powerful in command and deed, but a warrior still."

Faramir struggled for words then, the force of the wizard's will driving all before it until he barely remembered his own name. "You paint images in which a man might willingly lose himself..."

He dropped his gaze to the board, and saw through blurred vision his knight and the white figure of his queen set beside it. His thoughts strayed briefly to another white lady and the haziness in his head lessened a little. "You describe only the highest branch of a tree," he said slowly, "you say nothing of what would become of those without the power or influence to better their situation. Show me the entire picture and then ask me again."

"The child I met long ago on the steps of Orthanc would have taken the hand I offer."

Saruman was regarding him with something akin to admiration, and this riled him more than all else.

"Perhaps, but I am a child no longer." He clenched his jaw against the trembling that threatened his resolution, and went on, "I would that Beren's hand had withered before he granted you the keys to Isengard. I see your dream for what it is: a veil to shelter your twisted desires and justify the darkness you willingly allowed to enter your mind."

The wizard stood and the table tipped before him, scattering the game pieces to the earth. His voice was no longer pleasant, but bitter and dangerous. "I have heard enough," he began, and it seemed to Faramir that his eyes showed an unearthly light. "Reveal to me the one with the blood of my servant on his hands."

When Faramir did not respond Orcs appeared at the tent entrance.

Prepare to move," the Istar said, "and take the man with you, I am tired of him. Let him walk behind the horses."

Faramir did not look at the wizard as the Orcs took him from the tent, closing his eyes briefly and already regretting his last words.

As they passed through the tent entrance the wizard called out one last order. "And let the halfling walk beside him, we will test the fabled strength of the little folk and see if an answer is forthcoming."

He shrank inside. It was not difficult to see that Pippin could never make the distance. The stamina of the horses and Orcs would far outreach that of a man, and a Hobbit even more so.

He wrapped his fingers around the small chess piece, the white queen, hidden in his fist.

They had come at night, grey horses through the silent trees of Ithilien. Merry had been borne off with them into the dark among the wounded, until the trees opened out onto the plains and the group of horses spread into a line, racing for the city. The dark shapes of mountains rose before them, a great row of giants marching west against the sky. The soldier to which he clung was unknown to Merry, and the wind against his face so chill that he did not ask whither they were bound. He knew only that he went where the lord Boromir went, now the only familiar face among these strange grave men.

It was later when he stared down upon the vast plains. He was alone, and had a painful awareness of being so. He dared not leave the chamber lest he become lost in the expanse of the city and never find his way back. Everything was tinged grey, a strange light spreading across the sky and shining through into the dark little room. It was not moonlight, nor indeed was it night! The darkness seemed to have spilled out of Mordor and be covering up the sun over the city.

He had searched for a candle but upon finding one could not find the means to light it.

He looked out upon the plains once more, seeing stirrings of black shapes before his eyes and feeling the prick of tears. The city was so large, and he so insignificant. What if he should be forgotten?

It was then he realised that the black shapes that had swum before his eyes were not the product of his own exhaustion, they were really there. There were small dots of red, also. Torches, he realised, hundreds and hundreds of torches flaring to life before his very eyes.

A cry went up from somewhere below, and it was taken up through the silent streets. There was a great rush of noise and Merry heard the banging of doors and the beating of drums. He stared, open mouthed as the torches revealed the expanse of the first wave of Mordor approaching!

He knew now what fear was. For all the time since their journey had begun long ago, he had walked blind! How could they have ever thought they could win against such numbers? He recognised his own fear, and knew at last that it was not for himself - but for Frodo, who walked into the very mouth of that darkness which now battered its breath against the gate of Minas Tirith.

He jumped up and ran to the door only to have it flung open in his face.

"Come!" A soldier grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him from the room. "You are called for, and I have no time to waste as your nursemaid. The city is under siege."

However brash the words Merry could hear the fear in the soldier's voice as he rushed the Hobbit along the stretching corridors. A child screamed, woken by the noise. The grey passages were endless and the thunder of boots against the stone merged with the beating of drums until Merry thought he would go mad.

After traversing a courtyard high above the city and a long paved passage way leading into the heart of the citadel, they came to a great polished door. It was opened and he pushed through it before he could even ask who he was called to meet.

All was suddenly silence, the sounds of the ensuing battle below dulled by the ornate stone walls. He turned slowly, staring up at the curved ceiling, his mouth hanging open without realising it. It rose many lengths higher than of men, with deep windows set between dark marble pillars and the stone shapes of men. It was larger than any building he had ever entered in his life!

"Approach."

The voice startled him so that he almost tripped on his own cloak turning around to see who had spoken.

At the far end of the hall, below the dais, stood a single figure.

"Why do you stand staring?" The man motioned for him to come forward impatiently. "The host of Mordor stands before our doors and might at any moment break through. Do you have such faith in wood and stone?"

Merry quickened his steps, rather alarmed at the prospect before his realised that it was only a figure of speech.

"In times past one might have trusted to strong walls and a stout defence. Yes, once it might have been so. In the days of my forefathers when war was war and not this insidious darkness that hides the very sun, bringing with it engines of fire."

The man bent over a figure, placing his strong yet weathered hand upon his brow. Merry recognised Boromir and realised that this man was Denethor, his father.

Denethor noticed the look on the Hobbit's face. "He is fading. What hope is there for Gondor should he perish?"

The strong salty breeze tossed Gimli's mass of hair before his eyes. The bow of the ship tilted beneath them as the two friends looked up over the dark Pelenor to Minas Tirith .

"We have come too late."

Gimli shook his head. "Nay. We have passed through a shadow darker than any that lies ahead, you have only to look behind you to prove it, though I will not look. Their presence freezes my blood. I have never been so afraid, and only by your will and friendship could I endure the journey."

Since they had passed the doors to the paths of the dead Gimli had felt himself within a dark dream, and only Aragorn at his side had held him steady to the road. He knew well why no man who had entered there had returned.

"The city burns," Aragorn said dully, his voice heavy with despair.

"But the gate holds."

Aragorn gripped the rail with white knuckles. "What madness holds the lords and captains of the city? Why are no defences set outside the city walls?"

Gimli ignored the feverish murmurs of his companion, for so it had been since they had come safely out of the shadow upon the river. Instead he sought to focus the man's mind upon what could still be achieved. "Will we meet resistance on the shore?"

"Nay." Aragorn shook his head. "The tale of our coming has been here before us and they have fled in their ships."

"The King of the dead has come." Gimli smiled though there was little humour in his words.

"And perhaps nothing more if we do not make haste!"

Tear stains traced through the dust on Pippin's face and his eyes blurred. His legs collapsed at last and he fell into the dirt. The sharp swipe of a whip into his legs made him jerk forwards but he knew he could not rise again.

Something passed behind him, shielding his body from the hot sun and harsh anger of the Orcs that were always at his back forcing him to walk onwards. His wrists were already rubbed raw and bleeding from the rope that tethered him to the horse. The animal had stopped, but seemed inpatient to move on by the way it shuffled its feet in the dust. It would have to drag him for his feet could no longer bear his weight.

"Stay your whips, more pain will not help him to rise." Faramir's voice, close behind him.

Pippin sunk further into the dark of his mind. The hard ground felt very comfortable to his sore body.

"Out of the way!"

The sun burnt down upon him suddenly again and his head was suddenly jerked upwards by a hand pulling his hair. He looked up into the face of an Orc, barely seeing the grotesque features. Then the hand was gone and he slumped back to the ground.

A harsh voice, "Give him more encouragement boys!"

"He has had enough. I will help him." Again Faramir's voice and shadow bending over him. He tried for his friends' sake to rise, to show that he was still fighting, but there was a dizziness in his head and blackness was encroaching upon his vision.