Despite Faramir’s cruel betrayal, Aragorn could not bring himself to hate his former friend. Had not Faramir suffered dreadfully and almost died because of his folly but a few short months ago? He loved his Steward as a father loved a son and how could a parent hate his own child? In Faramir, he had believed he had found a kindred spirit and lifelong friend. His dreams had now proved to be nothing but a cruel deception. It seemed that a King could never choose a friend from amongst those who might lay claim to his throne. The crown and the power it bestowed was apparently too great a temptation for any man to resist. Aragorn had believed from their Thought Bond that Faramir bore him no malice over his time in prison. However, the rebel lords must have ignited some hidden spark of resentment that the Steward had suppressed, and then fanned the flames to entice him into their plot. Maybe if like Éowyn, Faramir had blamed him at the time and vented his fury upon him, this would never have happened?

He could hardly believe his own eyes that his once loyal and loving friend could be so fickle as to have become a traitor. If it had been any other, save Faramir, the King could have believed that they were dissembling and it were all part of some elaborate scheme to rescue him. Faramir, though, was incapable of even speaking a falsehood. No, it would be impossible for his Steward to engage in deception. Faramir could only have rescued him openly: most likely by force of arms with the King’s Guard and the White Company at his side.

Aragorn was also puzzled that since Faramir had betrayed him, he not used his King’s signet ring to seal the marriage document. Aragorn had once shown his Steward the secret of its design. He could only assume that Faramir had forgotten. It had been over a year ago since it was last mentioned.

He felt far more sorrow and hurt than anger towards his Steward. They were both now surely doomed; Faramir was as much a victim of their infamy as he was. The rebels would kill the poor deluded fool once he had served their purpose. His only hope for reconciliation with his former friend lay beyond the circles of the world now.

The King’s hopes of rescue had lain mostly with Faramir, the most well versed man alive in Gondorian politics and geography, as well as the most intelligent and loyal. Or so Aragorn had wrongly believed. It now seemed likely Faramir had even informed the rebels that he went unarmed to the Houses of Healing and was weakened after draining his strength from prolonged healing sessions over many weeks.

All that was left to Aragorn now, was to protect Arwen and Eldarion as best he could by refusing to sign the document. He hoped that Arwen would seek help from Rohan to protect her and their son and secure Eldarion’s right to the crown.

Aragorn sighed when he thought of Éomer, so hot headed and impulsive, yet a loyal and loving friend, who once healed of his head injury, had been full of contrition over his fight with Faramir. It seemed though that the young King of Rohan’s reservations about his brother in law had been all too perceptive. How ironic that Éomer, not noted for insights had suspected that Faramir was not as virtuous as he appeared to be!

The entrance of the ‘butcher’ interrupted Aragorn’s melancholy musings. Ominously tonight, the man carried a sharp knife and a brazier filled with heated coals. The Lords of Lamedon and Ringlo Vale followed together with Faramir. The Steward stared fixedly at the floor and refused to meet Aragorn’s accusing gaze. Hanna trailed behind them, giggling and clutching a knife of her own.

The burly servant placed a lighted torch in the sconce on the wall and retreated to the back of the cellar, a look of gleeful anticipation on his heavy features.

Aragorn wondered where Fontos of Lossarnach was tonight. Alone amongst the conspirators; he seemed to have little appetite for torture. He had usually looked away or suggested they leave the King more time to reflect. Aragorn almost pitied the young man. Married to Dervorin’s daughter, he seemed a reluctant rather than enthusiastic member of the group. He had never been left alone with Aragorn, as if the others feared the King might influence him to help him escape.

Dervorin was carrying a cattle brand while Fosco clutched the now familiar decree commanding the marriage of Eldarion and Elbeth, together with quill and ink and Aragorn’s signet ring. The two rebel lords reminded Aragorn of a pig and a rat in appearance. Dervorin, like most Gondorians was tall, but also very fat, with square features, a ruddy complexion and deep-set eyes. Fontos was much the same height but very lean with thin features and sharp eyes that darted nervously around him.

Aragorn tried to brace himself for the inevitable pain he knew that would follow their arrival.

The Lord of Ringlo Vale waved the parchment in front of Aragorn’s face. “Sign this tonight, Elessar and save yourself a good deal of pain. You can see that resistance is futile. Even your own Steward has turned against you!”

“I would advise you to sign,” Faramir said harshly. Still, he did not look at the King. Dervorin eyed him suspiciously. “Sign, you fool!” Faramir continued in a more menacing tone,” I would see my niece have her rightful place!” He aimed a half-hearted kick at Aragorn’s ribs.

“Shame on you, son of Denethor! I believed you once to be a man of honour, I see now that you have none!” Aragorn replied, looking directly at Faramir, noticing he was elaborately dressed in the colours of Rohan rather than of Gondor. The Steward stared fixedly at the floor.

“Why are you doing this?” Aragorn asked his Steward.

“You stole my birthright, took my rightful place, humiliated me and had me beaten in prison,” Faramir replied. “The Lord of Lamedon has offered me redress for my wrongs.”

Aragorn sighed inwardly. It was just as he had feared.

“This stubborn creature refuses to listen to reason. Words are a waste of breath with him!” said Fosco, punching the helpless prisoner in the guts as he spoke.

Aragorn flinched but made no sound. He glared defiantly at his tormentors.

Fosco nodded to the servant who came forward and snatched away the filthy blanket that covered the King. “We are taking this privilege away from you first, Elessar,” he said. “I warn you, your clothes will be next if you do not cooperate.”

“Let me try to persuade him!” Hanna said gleefully, brandishing her knife.

“Later, my dear,” Dervorin told her. “I promise you will have your turn.”

Hanna giggled.

Fosco nodded to the burly servant, who came forward, knife in hand. Without warning, he sliced it across the back of Aragorn’s injured hand. This time, the King was unable to prevent himself from crying out.

“Sign now and spare yourself further pain!” Fosco demanded.

“Never!” Aragorn replied, regaining his composure. He felt as if he could hardly breathe. His hand throbbed painfully. Never, though, would he betray his wife and child. Nor would he hand his people over to the rule of these miscreants.

“Why do you persist in your foolishness, Elessar?” Dervorin asked. “You have no more independence now than one of my cattle!” He plunged the brand into the brazier as he spoke. “As it seems you have not learned that yet, we shall have to teach you better than the Wizard and Elves who placed you over us did! Undo your shirt!  Branding you like one of my cattle should remove some of your delusions!”

“I take no orders from traitors!” Aragorn replied defiantly.

“You are the traitor by depriving me of my rights!” Faramir snapped, ”The claim of Isildur’s heirs was rejected by my longfathers but still you took the throne.”

“If I remember rightly, you were the first in Gondor to hail me as King, Lord Faramir,” Aragorn retorted. “You shame the ancestors of whom you speak!”

“Enough talk!” Fosco snapped, “I give you one final chance to sign, Elessar! We have treated you gently until now, but rest assured, we shall show you the true meaning of pain very soon. We will stop at nothing to make you sign the authorisation for the marriage. Proud and stubborn though you are, I promise you that we will break you.”

“Never!” Aragorn replied. “Unlike some here present, I keep my word.”

Fosco beckoned to the servant, who held Aragorn down while he bared the King’s shoulder.

“Perhaps we should brand him on the face?” Fosco mused.

“Better still on the rump, like I would any other animal that is my property,” Dervorin chortled.

“Why don’t you let me do it?” Hanna pleaded, an eager gleam in her eye. “I can think of a better place still!”

Fosco ignored her. He retrieved the now red-hot glowing brand from the brazier. Instead of advancing upon the helpless Aragorn, he turned to Faramir.

“Here is a good chance for you to begin to avenge your wrongs and show your commitment to our cause,” he said. “You shall have the pleasure of branding him.”

The King watched in horror. Surely gentle natured Faramir could never so much as torture a fly, far less one he had but a few weeks since professed his deep love for? Aragorn hoped that his Steward was at least ashamed of his cruel and treacherous actions. He noticed that he even wore the Ring of Barahir on his finger. To think that his once dearest friend was not only a traitor, but a thief as well!

"Do not destroy your soul as well as your honour, Faramir," he said quietly. If Faramir carried out this terrible deed, his sin would surely destroy them both.