Chapter III: Of Peculiar Correspondences

Prisons of Minas Morgul (Month Unknown, 3014)

With improved meals came a sense of strange urgency on the part of Fielding's captors, which began with her relocation. The new cell was considerably larger, though not large by any standards outside of those found in an enemy prison. However, it boasted an old wooden bed, upon which was layered straw to serve in the place of a mattress. This was a blessing indeed, and a blessing miraculously free of fleas and lice, to boot.

Immediately following her relocation was an impromptu grooming, which was a bit more unpleasant and unwelcome. It involved a great deal of hair pulling and before she knew it, the tangled lengths of her tresses were gone, leaving only a soft, short crop. Thus ended her grooming, and she was left in silence.

Her more regular diet of bread and water had increased her recovery some, and she was now able to sit upright and alert without immediate headaches. The pain would still return gradually, and so each "day" after she awoke from sleep, Fielding practiced sitting upright a bit longer. Her next focus would be her legs, which still did not function exactly as legs should.

The urgency was short-lived, it seemed, and Fielding found herself in a slightly more survivable, but still quite empty, solitude. There were numerous transient ghosts that haunted the halls and cells of Minas Morgul, but none seemed strong enough to hold a conversation beyond repeated warnings, much less to manifest themselves to her.

Six instances of sleep and sitting practice later, though, Fielding finally met a full-fledged ghost. This one was obviously a beautiful woman before her passing, with long curls tied loosely into a braid beyond her shoulder blades. She entered through the left wall of the cell and paused, seemingly surprised at the new inhabitant, and perhaps more surprised that a mortal woman was staring directly at her.

"Hello," said Fielding. The ghostly woman started a little. "Sorry if I have disturbed something of yours. I didn't really have much of a choice, you see." In her experience, ghosts tended to be a bit territorial, so it was better to err on the side of caution.

"Thou hast disturbed nothing, except perhaps mine heart…" said the woman, holding a thin hand over her spectral chest. "I have not encountered many who do not ignore me these days."

Fielding realized then that she had encountered a particular type of ghost—one that often filled her with sadness. Several years back, she had come across a similar woman who did not understand why her children would not speak to her, and why mention of her name brought them to tears. This woman, at least, seemed a bit more blissful in her wanderings, however misguided they may be. The best action, in any case, was to ignore any references to the matter altogether.

"Well, I'm quite pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm…a new arrival to this…fair city, and I have found myself in need of someone to speak to, at least for a little while," said Fielding, desperately urging her fog-laden mind to keep up with her spoken story. But it was enough, and the ghostly woman smiled brightly.

"Wonderful, indeed. I am no stranger to Minas Ithil, having been raised here. I am called Vessë, if thou wishest for an informant on the happenings of here, Lady…"

"Fielding," she filled in politely, feeling a bit more at ease at the prospect of speaking with someone who did not wish to inspire a deathly fear in her.

"Fielding? I dost not mean thee offense, but that is a most unfortunate—"

"Nen, rather, is my name. Fielding is my surname, but I grew used to it in my line of work, which was not opened up wholly to the idea of women."

At this, Vessë seemed a bit relieved. "Ah. I shall refer to thee as Nen, if it wouldst not bring thee annoyance. And now, Nen, I must take my leave, for this is my hour to stroll about the gardens." She made for the door of the room and was about to pass through when Fielding stopped her.

"Vessë, wait a moment," she said, watching as the ghostly woman paused just short of the heavy wooden barrier to the room. "The king of this tower, what can you tell me of him?" An image of the Pale King rose again in her mind, in all of his fear-inspiring glory.

Vessë expelled an ethereal sigh, and would not seem to meet Fielding's eyes. "Our King is newly to power, but a man of great power and pride, to be sure. Thou wouldst be hard-pressed to gain an audience with him, unless thou wishest death, Lady Nen. He is strong but fears his strength is temporary, and kings of that sort are not to be reckoned with." With that, she faded and left Fielding once more to her thoughts, which now mostly concerned whether or not they were speaking of the same King.

The ghostly woman was a strange one. She spoke in an old Westron, punctuated by an unfamiliar accent, that no longer found its place anywhere in Bree-land. It was similar, Fielding mused, to the way in which the pale creature had interrogated her, and the thought brought her a chill.

At the very least, it did not seem as though she would find answers for a while in this dreadful place, but at least she had made a sort of acquaintance.

Her next meal of bread and water came with an unexpected item, which followed a gruff announcement.

"Letter," the Orc growled through the small food-door, and a folded letter fell through before the door was closed once again. Fielding, intrigued, passed up her food for a moment to pick up the envelope in her hands. It was a folded piece of heavy paper, stamped with an unpleasant wax seal of a moon and death's head. Upon opening it, she found elegant, spindly writing that after some squinting revealed itself to be in old-fashioned Westron. It was not a particularly elaborate letter, and simply bore the words:

Write of thyself, and return correspondence to thy captors when thou hast finished.

There followed no signature—only a long, blank space beneath the haunting script where she supposed she was meant to "write of herself."

The paper, initially intriguing, was now a bit frustrating. How was she supposed to write in return if she did not even have a pen?

And then, as if by Eru's own Providence, the food door opened again and a pen slid through and skittered across the floor to her knees, followed by a small inkwell.

"Forgot these," said the gruff voice. "Give 'em back when you're finished." Fielding reached to grab the inkwell, which was mostly dry but offered some material to write with. She flattened the peculiar letter against the cold stone floor of her cell and paused, wondering if this peculiar prompt was a means of entrapment. A test, perhaps? She sat for a while, simply eyeing the script at her knees. Finally, a spark of courage ignited her to lean forward and write her own words, which were considerably less impressive in appearance than those above them:

My name is Fielding.

She paused, thinking. The threat of the cold terror, though always looming, seemed far enough away at the moment, and with her returned energy she found herself feeling a bit insolent.

Thank you for the bread. I prefer it to worms.

With that, Fielding folded the heavy paper and slid it beneath the door, also placing the pen and inkwell within reach of the Orc when he returned.

Return he did, a small while later, collecting her correspondence and writing materials away to the mysterious person who had sent them. A thought crossed Fielding's mind that perhaps it was her ghostly acquaintance, playing odd games that had long since lost their meaning. But this theory faded when her next meal arrived. It was a bowl filled with mealworms, and Fielding recoiled immediately when she realized what had happened, retching from her already empty stomach. From outside the door, she heard a gruff sound like laughter, and a letter arrived again with her pen and ink. This was a new letter with a clean, unbroken seal that again bore a moon and death's head. When she opened it, she found the same elegant script, which now bore less kind words:

Fielding. Thou canst not afford to be insolent. Thy days of games and simple braveries are over.

Write.

Fielding dipped her pen slowly in the ink, feeling that her insolent bravery was indeed gone. A voice from behind her sent her heart racing.

"Do not play games that thou dost not understand, Lady Nen." Vessë had materialized again, worry written on her gray features. The spectral woman sat on Fielding's bed (or rather levitated just a bit above it) and peered over her shoulder to the writing below.

"And what games might those be?" Fielding asked, feeling a bit breathless from the entire ordeal.

"Kings do not play to the whims of children," said Vessë, avoiding the question nearly altogether. Fielding, having passed her twenty-and-second birthday, was not all too keen to be called a "child," but the warning and the bowl of worms served as enough to remind her that she was still a prisoner at the mercy of those who held great power, and not a guest. So this time, she dipped her pen in the small puddle of ink and scratched a more detailed reply:

My name is Fielding. I am a prisoner of Minas Morgul, and no brave soul for being so. My traveling party was routed by Orcs (she considered writing "your Orcs" here, but realized she had better not make assumptions) and brought here. I know not where they are, or if they are alive. I am neither a warrior nor a Ranger. I am only a humble deputy, strayed a bit too far from things peaceful and familiar.

Here she paused. Her correspondent certainly could not be asking for mundane details of her life, but…she remembered the pale creature's interrogation, and his concern for what she saw.

I see the Dead, though it is not a gift that has brought me much beyond unlikely companionship. I did not come upon it—it came instead to me as a child. Never has it brought harm to those around me, save for fear at that which is not understood. Beyond this, I can offer no more.

With suddenly shaking hands, she folded the paper and placed it once more by the door, making a strong effort to avert her eyes from the disgusting "meal" that was presented to her. Vessë was gone by then, off to her strange wanderings, and Fielding had nothing left to do but wait and fear. A while later, both her letter and the bowl were collected.

The letter, it seemed, was enough to appease her correspondent, for the next thing delivered to her door was once again a healthy piece of bread. This time, there was no letter, and Fielding wondered if perhaps she had told her captors all they needed to know. But after some time—three days at least—had passed, there arrived something entirely unexpected. Her cell door was opened fully, and she glimpsed both a small mob of armed Orcs (prepared for her to bolt, most likely) and a wooden basin filled with murky water, which was shoved into her room before the door was pulled shut again. This was followed by a simple command that again sent chills through her body.

"Bathe. Ye've got an audience with the King." Even through she door, she could here the snickers from the Orcs, and she knew that her strange experience with this accursed city was far from over.