I need a sword.
Three or four months later, Mirra found herself on a familiar path: roaming the forest beneath budding trees and springtime green. The air was crisp from a newly fallen rain; it felt refreshing in her lungs.
But there was the weight of her sword (or lack thereof), which lay lost somewhere among the acres of hewn bodies in the brown Azanulbizar valley. A stone dropped in Mirra's chest. Physically, her shoulder and side had healed, leaving modest scarring and little lingering ache, but the carnage was as fresh in her mind as though it had happened yesterday.
No, no more thought of that. She shoved the memory in a box in the back of her mind and set her mind to her new task: acquiring a sword.
True, she had gotten on fine without one so far. By keeping to the woods, away from society, no trouble had come to Mirra where her bow and knives did not suffice. But a little voice hounded her so incessantly that every so often, she was ready to throw down her pack and have a full-on argument with herself. Better safe than dead, it whispered. Better safe… Her teeth grit together and she harrumphed. It was right. I need a sword.
Her train of thought was suddenly broken as up ahead, a large wooden wagon clattered down the forest path towards her. It was pulled by two bobbing horses, and beside them strode two scruffy-haired men with shabby cloaks. Mirra whipped her head towards the bush bordering the road. Too late; they would have already seen her, so now if she did anything but stroll past casually, it would look strange and draw attention, attention she did not seek. Dammit. Bloody social conventions.
Atop the wagon's chair sat a slouching pinched-face man. Mirra suddenly found the brown crumpled leaves beneath her feet absolutely riveting. Do not meet his gaze. Do not meet their eyes and you can pass right on by.
"Mornin', miss." Damn. She raised her head with a weary sigh. The wagon had stopped and the thin man peered down at her with black eyes. One hand held a slack set of reins, the other a thin pipe which he sucked on loudly. Behind him lay a dirty gray canvas, beneath which laid several peculiar lumps.
"Or, m'lady, pardon me." The thin man smiled widely, revealing slick yellow teeth. "Was' a lady like you doin' roamin' 'round these parts?"
"Business that's mine to know."
"Ho ho, feisty, are we?" He let out a shrill hee-haw. "But I guess i's understandable; the's no tellin' what bad, bad things might be lurkin' in the woods, especially if you's travelin' alone, eh?"
At that moment, her eyes darted to the wagon; she could've sworn that a lump had just shifted beneath the gray canvas.
"Well?" The thin man gave her a look that for some reason made the skin on her back crawl an inch.
"Well what?" she replied.
"Aren't ya travelin' alone?"
She nodded her head automatically. Suddenly, a small prick in her neck.
Her nerves twanged and snapped like bowstrings; frantic fingers grasped for her knife. The forest tumbled and reeled all around her. She stumbled and with a thump hit the ground, a rolling sea of hazy red-black. All grew darker and ever smaller; she was dragged into a dark cave that whose walls she could not touch until – and Mirra did not remember the precise moment – the world vanished and the darkness swallowed her whole.
Heavy eyelids opening, immediately engulfed by a flood of glaring white. Knees aching hard ground. Hands lying limply in her lap, tethered by gnarled coils of rope rubbing her wrist raw. Every bone laden with iron, every muscle limp and languid. Her mind whirling in soupy fog. Heat rolling on her brow in oppressive waves. Everything swimming in warping shapes and swirling color; a thick veil laid over her eyes
Her silent screams to move, move, fight back, for gods' sake, proving useless. Heavy limbs refusing to obey, as if belonging to a stranger.
Trapped, not by rope and bindings, but by her own treacherous body, her own muddled eyes. Mirra was trapped.
Suddenly, overwhelmed by something yanking around her neck, sealing off her airways. The force dragging Mirra upwards onto scrambling feet. Red bursting before her eyes, the world reeling like a hot sea in flashes of black. Her brain shrieking, shrieking in tortured silence for air. Then releasing her, the force melting away as quickly as it had come over her. Heavy ragged breaths drawing in hot dry air. No more red bursts, but the haze remained. Her neck aching and tender, encircled by a thick, knotted rope weighing heavy against her chest.
Lifting her lolling head. Steep pitches of thatched roofs black against the blinding white sky, all around. A clamor rising from a vague mass of pale-skinned men, watching her with faces of stone. Beside her, swarthy men hanging heads of ragged black hair, with hands bound like hers, their backs bent like old pieces of leather.
A shrill call cutting over the chatter. The voice gnawing against her throbbing skull. A round, red-faced man standing before her and the other bound men, braying something about "our valiant men and boys abroad" – followed a rumbling roar of cheers – and "the savage men of the Harad" – met with loud boos and jeers. Words swimming in the shimmering air like strapping young men and a woman to boot, tamed and ready to work; just 60 silver pieces, oh, what a bargain this is, folks, yessir, step right on up.
Suddenly, a second yank around her neck and two hands roughly grabbing her shoulders to push her forth. The rope then slackening; recovering in soft heaving breaths. Pale-faced men approaching, chattering rowdily. Eyes studying, hands pointing; poking her arms, prodding her legs, pinching her flesh. Weakly wriggling to escape, to flee from the uncaring eyes and the hot sour breath and the stifling billowing sun above. No use; the grips too tight, the ropes too thick. Trapped, at the mercy of jabbing fingers and pitiless eyes like a yoked ox.
Sore jaws clenching. White-knuckled fists balling. A red, rolling sea boiling beneath her skin.
One man reached with fat, shiny fingers and fondled her clumped, mousy locks. He beheld her with beetle eyes, smacking his lips, curling them into a hungry sneer.
A squeal as Mirra's teeth sank into his outstretched hand. The taste of salt and animal muck burned her tongue. She released his hand and with bound hands, she delivered a quick double punch to the man's gut. A smirk of triumph as the man squawked and folded over in pain.
Two pairs of hands ripped her backwards and flung her to the ground. Three kicks landed in her chest, another in her lower back, and another in her head. Red bursts filled her eyes. An uproar up above, crying "hellhound" and "she-wolf" and "throw that thing back in its cage, will ya." Her legs cautiously coiling up as she spat out metallic blood. Black splotches swirling in and out of the pitching world. Every sliver of her saturated in unabating pain until it was all she knew.
Dimly aware of hands dragging her away like a sack of flour. Still writhing in defiance, each thrash met outside by a sharp blow, inside by acute spasms of pain in her ribs. Shadows creeping up, up, slowly eclipsing the blinding sun. The voices fading to a thin, far-off drone.
Thrown to the ground again. A small, involuntary groan as throbbing bones hit dirt. A powerful yank, the strongest one yet, pulling her up to her knees with sputtering gasps. Above her loomed the thin man, quivering with rage. Mirra spat at his brow; his sharp slap stinging her cheeks and leaving a ring in her ears.
"Bet'cha think yourself so damn clever," he sneered. Trying to concentrate, to make out his snarl through the waves of black. "Well guess what" – seizing the back of her head ferociously and thrusting it back – "you ain't done no such thing. Now you ain't worth a heap of pig shit."
The icy touch of a blade hovering just above her throat. She did not flinch. The thin man leaned his face in closer; her neck curled under his hot, moist breath. In her ear, he hissed: "Time to say goodnight, she-wolf."
There was no pain when something struck her temple with a hard blow, nor was she really aware of the surprised "Oy" when her head was released and her body floated down to the ground, which then disappeared into nothing and took her along with it.
As soon as her eyes next opened, Mirra snapped her head up in search of the thin man and his partners and anyone who dare sport with her. There was none to be found. In fact, she found herself lying not on packed dirt, but on cool crispy leaves in a forest clearing. In the place of heckling crowds and sharp-pitched roofs, there was undergrowth swishing softly and birds quietly trilling. Sunlight fell on her shoulders not in sweltering blows, but in gentle caresses of warmth.
"At last, you're awake." Mirra leapt to her feet with a jolt, only to buckle over as a heavy ache overwhelmed her. It thumped through her chest and throbbed in her head. She crouched low by a nearby bush; her legs were stiff but still ready to spring, primed for attack.
Mirra snarled at the owner of the gravel voice. A man, bearing a black beard and a blue cloak, sat twenty yards away in front of a small flickering fire. She was suddenly aware that it was dusk; the air grew cool and a warm purple settled upon the tall oak trunks.
"Dinner's almost cooked," the man grumbled, gesturing towards the fire; a golden, flabby bird rested on a spit over licking flames .He lifted his hood and for some reason, Mirra felt no surprise to see the face of the iron-eyed dwarf.
"Come," Thorin said. "You've been out cold for nearly a day now, you must be hungry."
The crouching woman gave him a startled look; her stomach let out a rumble. But she remained where she was, poised on the balls of her feet, glaring at him beneath a darkened brow.
Thorin frowned. "I won't ask twice. If you want food, lo, here it is."
Several moments passed and she still showed no intent of moving. Something in his jaw twitched, but he bit his tongue until his anger passed. Cuts and bruises bespeckled her face, and Thorin knew with a heavy sigh that beneath her tunic was a more vibrant, more ghastly array of contusions The Malar knew what hell she had endured of late. "Suit yourself," said Thorin. He removed the bird from the fire and dug into his meal, aware but paying no attention to the watchful set of eyes upon him.
After roughly two-thirds of the bird carcass was devoured, Thorin laid the rest in a leather cloth beside him. He looked over at the crouching woman; her eyes darted from the leftovers to him. Still she did not move.
"We've met before," Thorin said quietly. "I recognized your face in the market yesterday, from years ago." His gaze dropped and he shifted in his seat. "I made you a sword, and you saved my life."
For several long moments, there was naught but the pop of the fire and the whisper of the wind in the darkening forest.
"Mirra. That's your name, if memory serves me well." A cautious glance up, and for a split second, the cold seemed to thaw in her feral glare.
"It was by chance, you know, that I happened upon that mannish settlement." The word "mannish" provoked a growl from Mirra. "I had parted ways with my father and my people six weeks prior, to…attend to certain business of mine." He chose his words with care and hesitation, so as to reveal only what was necessary to reveal. "I journeyed south from the Dunland alone, towards Gondor. Most nights I rested in the forest or on the grasslands, until the night before last.
"It was growing dark and another night sleeping outdoors was nigh when all of a sudden I came across the mannish town. The thought of a hearty meal with ale and a bed…struck me as necessary in light of the journey ahead." His eyes turned hard with iron, as if daring an invisible audience to find fault in his judgment.
"At daybreak, I made to leave town, but on my way out, I came across a great crowd gathered at the market square. When I saw what they were looking upon…"
Thorin pursed his lips and closed his eyes and paused. The sun was long gone by now and night had fallen upon the wood. Orange firelight danced with shadow upon the weathered brow of Thorin, who suddenly seemed very old and very tired. It was though ten years, not four mere months, had elapsed for the bleary-eyed, leather-skinned dwarf.
"Slavery disgusts me," declared Thorin after a long, heavy silence. He fixed his gaze down away from Mirra. "Those men who beat you to a pulp, they got half of what they deserved." An idle finger ran over a small of set of blue marks on back of his hands. "You're welcome to stay for the night, seeing as you have nowhere else to go." And at that, Thorin stood up, pulled a burly blanket out of his pack, and rolled it out beside the fire. With a weary thud, armor and all, he sat down upon it, lying with his back to Mirra.
For several minutes there was a thick silence upon the dark wood, just the dying fire crackle and the hoot of a distant owl. Wood creaked and his ears perked a peculiar sound, the sound of Mirra quietly nibbling the leftovers he had left on the log.
The hint of a smirk crept on Thorin's face before sleep settled over his eyes.
Notes:
1. Slavery is totally not canon, but I figured since the men in Bree are so unsavorily portrayed in the FOTR movie and the men of Gondor and the East hate each other so that slavery is plausible in Middle Earth.
2. Money is canon.
Comments and critiques are totally welcomed!