The Birch Forest

#1

„My lord?“

Faramir felt the man in front of him grow heavier, almost slip from his arms and out of the saddle.

„Captain?“

He pulled him up and closer and gently urged the massive black horse that carried them both forward, through a small, shallow river. They feared crossing running water, he had once heard. Whether that was true or not, a rivulet like this would likely not be enough to stop their terrible pursuers. Ghostly kings from ancient times, faithless warriors, wizards ambitious for power, cursed by their own greed and vanity to forever walk the in-between, the non-space between life and death, never fulfilled, driven on far past exhaustion by their treacherous master’s will.

Faramir had expected to come face to face with them one day, sworn enemies that they were, the worst that the dark lord who threatened his home and its people had to offer, but near the border and during battle, not like this, not so far from both Mordor and Minas Morgul, so suddenly at nightfall.

They had just made camp when the horses had gone wild and even Faramir had been unable to calm them. To avoid injury or worse they had been forced to let them run. His hounds had remained by their side, but as fearful and tense as he had never seen them before. Only moments later they had been attacked by a horde of orc. Yet, those had never scared their horses before nor his dogs and, fighting back to back, they had made quick work of them. They had not been many, merely scouts. Scouts for something much more terrible.

Before seeing them, he had felt them. It had been in air, in the ground and beneath. A soft rumbling, a creeping cold, the scent of death, the whisper of darkness. Then they heard the scream, as close as never before, piercing the night like hot iron, making Faramir’s heart miss a beat and his breath catch in his throat. His body had known nothing but the greatest urge to flee that he had ever known, but he had not been able to move, not at all, and on the other side of the hissing, struggling fire something had moved. There, in the shadows, moved towards them from all sides at once, a circle slowly but inevitably closing in. Even his dogs had fallen silent and not a leaf stirred on the trees.

He had been told so often that they had no faces, but he had seen their eyes. Those desperate, empty, and terribly hungry lightless flames, burning into his, into his mind, tearing open all closed doors, ripping out whatever they could reach, corrupting every thought, every shred and fiber of his being.

The next thing he knew was that he had drawn his sword and reached for a branch in the fire, to ward off biting cold and impenetrable darkness, just like his captain had done next to him. But to no avail. Just for the briefest moment it had seemed to him as though one of the Nine had drawn back a step. In the next its metal clad fingers had closed tightly around his neck, lifting him up as easily as a grown man would a child’s doll and discarding him just as easily, smashing him against a boulder with such brute force that it should have killed him instantly.

Perhaps that was why none of them had spared him another thought. Instead they had turned their full attention to his captain and the loyal dogs that did not move from his side, despite the sheer horror that they had to face.

Never had Faramir witnessed killing with such ease, with such utter disregard for life. He had been a hunter, a soldier, he had seen slaughter before, in battle and for food, he had seen death and killed himself. Yet, never before had he witnessed anything so cruel and at the same time so dismissive. Slicing and ripping a fighting, struggling, panicked living creature apart like one picks at dead wood out of boredom, letting it drop to the forest floor afterwards, to step on it while moving on because it is already forgotten, never held any meaning to begin with. Through mercifully numb senses and blurred vision Faramir had seen the desperate bravery of his beasts, giving their lives to protect his captain. They had been swatted out of the way like mildly annoying flies, butchered in a mere afterthought.

Only looking back he remembered crawling, dragging himself over muddy ground, flashes of images, of sensations, discontinuous and confusing. Maybe he had seen Boromir, being driven backwards, and the branch fall from his hands, dousing the flame, the last light. Maybe he merely thought that it had to have happened that way at some point much later. Everything was hidden in a blur, he had followed instinct rather than thought. In one last, desperate attempt he had reached for the reigns of one of their enemies’ mounts and pulled himself into the saddle, spurring it on to move between his captain and their attackers, reaching out and grabbing his arm, holding onto it for dear life. He remembered Boromir pressing one hand against his shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding there and dropping his sword to hold onto him in turn. Where he had found the strength to pull the older man into the saddle in front of him, he did not know. By the Valar, he did not know ...

The forests were silent now, a different kind of silence. The speechless silence after a storm that has left nothing but pain. The stars shone brightly overhead, watching them with indifference. Not a sign of the black riders, but also no path ahead. For the first time in his life Faramir had lost the way. He did not know where to and how far they had ridden and failed to find a new direction even with the night sky so clear, almost within reach.

„Boromir?“

His breath trembled and the sweat started to cool on his skin, the chill of the night seeped deep into his bones, still shaken from their encounter with what defied all description. Never had he wished so much for a human sound or even the smallest golden light from the cheapest lantern in the distance.

Or elven, he corrected himself bitterly, for an elven kingdom had been their destination, an elven voice had been what had called them there. Though, now he doubted that they would reach it. In this terrible night all hope seemed lost.

„I’m here“, Faramir replied when he finally heard his captain’s voice. As weak as it sounded, it was loud enough. Finally!

„Stay with me, my lord“, he added, urging Boromir to concentrate on his voice instead of giving in to the dangerous desire to simply slip into seemingly merciful darkness. „Sleep may whisper sweetly now, but it is luring you towards death. Stay awake. Stay with me, captain.”

He sat up in the saddle slightly, finding nothing but pale trees, dead once golden leaves, black in the night, and creeping mist in either direction.

„Keep your eyes open“, he asked of his captain. „Speak to me. Are you in great pain? You were wounded ... tell me where.” Anything to keep him too busy for sleep.

The stars above made him as dizzy is as the ghostly trees, pale white things, all the same. He tried to listen for any sound that could indicate imminent danger or a distant landmark like a farmstead, a road, a sheer cliff or a true river, maybe, maybe one of his hounds if any had made it, or even Berilorn. The soldier had left them to get some water for the horses, only moments before the orc had attacked. Faramir did not remember seeing him during the fight. He did not remember seeing him die or dead. Maybe he had escaped. Maybe he was still out there somewhere. Maybe ... Nothing. Just silence. No scent on the wind either, not even that of death.

Death. Were they even still alive? Or had they passed into the realm between life and death unknowingly, cursed to wander it forever, lost for all eternity? No, Faramir refused to consider the possibility.

„Just a little longer“, he promised Boromir, knowing with frightening certainty that he had to find help soon or the older man would not survive the night.

What else was there to do but to keep moving? Forward, just forward. If only it were that simple. Faramir could not tell if perhaps they had been moving in circles for a while already.

Boromir winced. It was so hard to keep himself from falling asleep. Every word Faramir said helped, in a way, it gave him something to focus on. Even so, talking was not easy, especially with his pounding head.
“My head.. and my shoulder.”
He groaned. Stay awake!
His eyes looked around. For he had realised..
“Where is Berilorn!”
He was uncomfortable, knowing Berilorn was not with them. His guard was supposed to be, and that worried him quite a bit.
Again sleep tugged at his mind, but he managed to keep it at bay.

Berilorn groaned where he was lying. All I wanted to do was fetch some water for Faramir, Boromir and our horses. He truly hadn’t gone far when the orc ambushed him.
He looked down at his injured leg. It was not going to be easy to get anywhere on that. When he saw the black shadows sweep past him, he was gladdened that they ignored him, or maybe they did not see him, since he was hidden behind a few bushes out of sight. The fighting sounds were an assault to his ears, and horses galloping away was not something he wanted.
He did however spot his grey horse going past, and whistled very softly. The horse slid to a stop, looking around for him. He whistled again, and the horse turned to look back where it came from, giving a loud neigh before trotting over to him, lowering its head to sniff at his hair.
Maybe the others were alive after all. His horse had clearly called to someone, but who. The Ringwraiths had fled, so couldn’t be them.

His head, too. It made sense. It explained a lot. It gave Faramir even more reason to worry and more reason to try and keep his captain awake and talking. Falling asleep with a head injury could even more easily prove fatal.

With a soft click of his tongue Faramir made the horse pick up speed, change from a walk to a gentle trot that would not cause the wounded man too much discomfort. The leaf-covered ground and the mist that surrounded them eagerly swallowed every sound.

"I do not know", he admitted when Boromir asked where Berilorn was. "He was not with us when we were attacked and may yet live." A fragile hope, but still preferable to none.

“I will take you to safety and a healer, at best”, he continued. “Then I will return and look for him, I promise.”

It was their captain’s safety that always had to take priority. He and Berilorn, as rarely as they saw eye to eye otherwise, agreed at least on that much. Faramir would have expected of the other man to do the same.

Then, suddenly, he heard something. Faint and distant, difficult to pinpoint its direction or distance through the mist, but so clearly there that his horse, too, reacted to it, giving a neigh in return and growing more restless underneath him.

“A horse”, he informed the older man in front of him. “Perhaps one of ours.”

Or one of theirs. As black as the one that he had stolen.

Having heard an answering neigh, the grey horse neighed again loudly, looking in the direction of the other horse, for a few moments before he lowered his head to look at Berilorn again.
"Go find them, Léofa, bring them here..." Berilorn patted his horse's nose.
The grey stallion snorted, before trotting away into the forest. At least his colour would show up amongst the trees, unlike the horses ridden by the Nine.