Pictor Ignotus
Chapter Twenty Five--To Never Be the Cause of His Pain
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One day prior to Legolas' return to the cell…
"Finwe!"
Turning away from the piece of wood he was whittling into a small bird, Finwe Oronra looked back at the fast approaching figure of his brother and his second-in-command, Valandil. "What ails you, Valandil?"
"Only doubts of my sanity, brother." Valandil replied grim-faced.
Chuckling, Finwe returned his attention to his wooden bird. "Then long-fed doubts they are. Our own father has been informing you of your…questionable state-of-mind for quite some time now. So, tell me, what is your true issue?"
Sighing, Valandil sat down next to his brother. "Forgive me, Finwe. My sense of humor is temporarily incapacitated. It is currently overcome with my sense of anxiety. You think to extract a petty trouble from me, but, I must tell you, nothing has disturbed me more."
His curiosity aroused as well as his concern, Finwe placed the small bird on the ground next to him and turned his full attention to his brother. "Then, again, I shall say, what ails you?"
Face screwed up with the effort of putting his worries into words, Valandil glanced over his shoulder once before turning back to his brother. "I had a vision last night."
"From whom?"
Valandil shook his head. "I can not be certain. I would believe it to be Eru if it were not for my own self-doubt, for why would he visit me?"
"It depends. What was the vision?"
"I never actually saw the speaker. He was but a shadow outwardly illuminated by the light of the moon behind him. But everything about him was mighty and terrible to behold. There was power in his very presence. He stood upon a rise of land and said to me, 'Valandil, yo--" An unknown voice suddenly broke his speech.
"You have been called upon for help at this hour." Lifting their heads up in the direction of the voice, Valandil and Finwe watched in astonishment as the young and vivacious Merenwen Silimaure, daughter of Amras, dropped from the trees like a veritable squirrel to land before them.
Finwe frowned disapprovingly at her. "Merenwen, when will you learn that it is highly impolite to eavesdrop on others?"
Merenwen returned with a winning smile and placed herself before them cross-legged. "I can not see how it makes much of a difference, seeing as how I received the very same vision last night as well."
Valandil started and narrowed his eyes on the slender figure standing before him. "You mean to say, you were given a vision as well?"
Merenwen sat down cross-legged in front of them, a mildly amused yet trouble expression on her face. "I would not call it a vision so much as a warning. A figure, like you said, obscured by streaming light, did appear to me and gave me this admonition: He said we were to turn around and head for Emyn Muil. He spoke of some of our kindred--that they had been taken."
Valandil nodded in agreement, "My message was much the same."
"But none of it makes sense to me, Finwe." Merenwen continued, "All of our company is accounted for. Not a one has fallen behind or been lost--at least none that we have been aware of…"
Valandil regarded her severely. "Unless…we have miscounted?"
Finwe shook his head. "Nay. I do not think it to be so. At each outing, we have watched our numbers and they are few. We left none in Emyn Muil--of that, I would place a wager. What else did this anonymous messenger say?"
Merenwen turned to Valandil who could only furrow his brow in consternation. "All else that I can remember is of a promise…" He stated unsurely.
"A promise?" Merenwen had apparently not heard this particular part of the message.
Valandil nodded his head in affirmation. "He told me that perhaps our search for that leader of inherent authority may yet be available to grasp."
They were all silent. Finally, Finwe stood and beckoned them to follow. "Come, we must not linger. Idleness now, when so obvious a mission has been set upon us, would be folly of the worst kind. Valandil, go, gather together a dozen of our of our best fighters--excluding those wounded from our last encounter. Merenwen, inform the rest of our company of our departure, giving only the vaguest of details you may depart as to our reason for leaving. Let them know only that fellow allies have been captured. At the latest, we shall be gone for three and thrice more days. Then, make our preparations as best they can be made. I do not yet know the extent of what we are to encounter, but I shall not go into a battle of any kind unprepared."
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Iorwen POV
I would not allow myself to be the cause of his death. Thus far, I'd managed to put him through all types of misery, and now I knew--better than I knew anything--that it was my responsibility to get him and myself out of the grasp of the ors. I had never felt so strongly about anything in my entire life. The determination that rolled over me was like the awakening crash of a freezing wave upon one's body. I knew the resentment within him now, whether he'd meant to make his feelings known to me or not. And perhaps I'd already known all along. All this time I'd felt guilty leading him through my world and hardly ever appreciating him for his help. He had been so lost there and now, because of my presence, he was lost even in his own world.
Being consumed with my mission, I set my plan carefully and laid in wait for my opportunity. That was perhaps the hardest part. All I could do was wait in the wavering darkness of the cell. I found myself glancing back and forth from the cell door and my companion's unmoving form. Finally, overcoming the reluctance that seemed to be controlling my limbs, I stood and made my way to his side. Kneeling down, I then sat and stretched out my legs next to his.
He was so thin. The baggy pajamas I'd bought for him at a time that seemed ages ago now, made him appear to be nothing more than a corpse. His skin was pale and of an unnatural pallor, blotched by bruises and gray in spots as though entering the decomposing process. Yet again, I found myself searching for vital signs. Thankfully, at the press of my fingers on his neck, a light pulse attested to his continuing life.
Looking upon him reminded me of a feeling I'd had during my childhood. I had taken a painting done by my mother, certain that I could improve upon its appearance. But it only worsened as I worked. Finally, when I realized what it was I'd done, it was too late. Standing back and examining it, I had been overwhelmed with guilt at the sight of the picture's malformed manifestation. My mother's masterpiece had been utterly destroyed by my own hands.
Now, looking down upon the haggard being that had at one time been so beautiful and preserved with immortal age I could not help but feel like some kind of a murderer.
My eyes traveled up to his ruffled blond hair and the small braids on either side of his face. For all the time I'd known him, I'd never seen him without those braids and the long one gathered at the back of his head. I could vaguely remember something about how the elves considered their hair to be a glory; its length and health being a show of their status.
Stroking back some of the strands from his feverish forehead, I wondered how far he'd now strayed from his traditional elvish life. I was even still trying to understand why on earth he was sick if he was an elf. From what I could recall, the only way an elf could become sick was if their true love died or if they lost all their hope. Was that it? Had his will to live been broken?
Feeling the hot pressure of tears behind my eyes, I pulled his head on to my lap and began to undo the frayed braids with careful fingers. Stroking my hands through matted hair, I began to slowly work out the knots and the dirt. I worked on those locks of hair for what must have been hours. With no brush to aid me, all I could do was use my fingers as the teeth of a fine comb Finally, when I was satisfied with my work, I began to rebraid the tiny plaits. I worked them as well as I could, my experience with braids limited to the ones I'd fixed in the hair of my plastic horses as a little girl. As I worked, I sang--a poem I'd written years before and put to music; very much so influenced by the trilogy I'd just finished reading: the Lord of the Rings. The irony was not lost on me.
I see them as stark white,
Against the blackness of my eyes.
There's nothing in this world,
I more fully could despise,
Such faces make the blood run cold,
And freeze the marrow in the bone.
The shrieks they emit like some anguish;
The sum of deaths they have sown.
No more can I take this cold pursuit,
The burden they follow just grows.
But though my heart feels laden,
I shall endure all these cumbersome blows.
Take from my grip this curse,
Laid upon me by friendly hands.
The enemy just grows stronger,
And I, weaker, from all their evil plans.
Such a small person to carry it,
Such a slow, futile journey.
My dear One, savor your summer,
For I know I shall not see many.
Blessed are those who endeavor,
Endeavor to end that which is wrong.
But I fear that this story shall only,
Be told through the ballad of a sad elvish song.
Adventure no more, is this,
But punishment for some unknown sin.
I now depart those whom I love,
With little hope of seeing them again.
O Faithful One who shall follow,
Guided by loyalty and love.
Together we shall traverse this death plain,
May Eru watch from above.
Though the ash choke and obscure us,
Our feet shall continue on.
The end waits so patiently for us,
With no path to lead us back home.
Bleeding hands shall fumble,
And grasping hands shall steal.
Now with no one else to aid me,
I shall end this turning wheel.
But upon the quarrel's ending,
He fell to doom in fire.
And I, lying half-dead 'pon rock,
Felt torn 'tween relief and desire.
A journey so hopeless now foreclosed,
The ending of a magnificent story.
But as legend fails, so shall I,
These heroes who triumphed o'er glory.
But remember, O ye who are now free,
Remember the sacrifice made.
For it has been satisfied for you,
That price which could not be paid.
As I was nearing the end of the third braid, I felt the soft and tentative touch of a hand on my leg, halting me in my work. Having closed my eyes as the last strand was laid, I opened them then to see blue eyes that had never lost their color gazing up into my own.
"Nani?"(mother)
I blinked in surprise. Mother?
He spoke again. But I could understand none of it. It was either Quinya or Sindarin, but I knew too little of the languages to be sure. I searched my mind for some phrase I might have memorized as an LotR fan girl years prior. Instantly, the words came upon me to say; words I was certain I'd never learned but was now certain I knew.
"Lle ume quel," (you did well) stroking his hair as I was sure a mother would, I repeated the words quietly, watching in pity as he began to fall back into his almost coma-like sleep. I could not understand why such a phrase would soothe him, but soothe him it did. As his eyes closed, I placed my hand on his cheek and kissed him lightly on the bridge of his nose. "I promise…I will not allow you to remain here. I will make it up to you. I will see you made into the prince of elves you once were. And when I have done that, I will leave you to your life, and I will never again be the cause of you pain…"
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Two days later
Hoshnak was tired of waiting. The commander had made him wait for so long to take the pointy-ear back to the dungeons. He had insisted that a dead elf was absolutely no good to them. Hoshnak begged to differ.
But now, the word had come. No more waiting. Everyday the elf bastards that had escaped their clutches were advancing further into the woods beyond. Armed with a fierce-looking scimitar and a malevolent smirk, Hoshnak and two of his workers made their way down the small dungeons tunnel that branched off the main corridor. Eager to reach their destination, the two unarmed grunt orcs went ahead of Hoshnak and stood next to the cell they were looking for. It was last on the tunnel, its door adjacent to the tunnel's ending wall so that it would not open hardly any more than 90 degrees. The door itself was little more than a crude oak circle cut from trees in nearby Amon Hen. A small grate allowed a generous amount of light to spill into the room beyond.
None of the orcs, however, were thinking of any of these things, so perhaps the next thing that happened was only inevitable. Stepping forward with the massive keys made by crude orc blacksmiths, Hoshnak set them in the lock and turned. All at once, a loud crack was heard opposite their side of the door, and the oak opening came flying out at a rate much too fast to be safe. In less than a few nanoseconds, Hoshnak found himself smashed between the door and the tunnel wall. His head hit hard rock and he fainted away like a finicky human babe. With the opening of the door, a blur of blue and black jetted out of the room, carrying in one hand a rusted plate with an edge that had been sharpened to deadly precision. Iorwen tackled the first orc she saw and before the startled creature could even make a move to remove her from his person, she slashed the edge of the plate along his neck once across and then once back in one swift move. The last orc launched himself at her, a notched scimitar firmly in hand.
Thinking quickly, the enraged human woman dodged the first swipe of the orc's blade and drew the harsh side of the plate along his unprotected belly. The orc stumbled and gave her a feral snarl that would have scared her to death had she not been overcome with some crazed battle fever. So, raising the plate again, she drew it along his neck just as she had the orc before.
Exhilarated with her unprecedented victory, she hurried back into the room to gather her remaining implements. Returning with a length of rope she'd fashioned from her already ruined pajama pants, she quickly hauled Hoshnak out from behind the door with some amount of work and set to tying his foul gnarled hands as tightly as she could, and using its end to make a kind of crude lead rope. Then taking a wad of cloth from one of the dead orcs, she stuffed it into Hoshnak's mouth. Satisfied with her work, she then went back into the cell for her last possession. Hauling Legolas' to his feet was no easy matter, but the strength she'd been gaining from all the constant travel in Middle Earth was no small help. The elf's barely conscious state was difficult to work with, but she'd been preparing for this moment for the past three days.
His eyes were barely open as she drug him out of the room to stand in front of Hoshnak. Leaning Legolas against the wall, she picked up Hoshnak's scimitar and slapped him across the face with it. Coming to, Hoshnak snarled in pain at the fierce slap and glared up at her.
"Off your ass, pig." Iorwen said, grabbing him by the collar and helping to yank him to his feet. She trained the scimitar at the point between his neck and shoulders.
Hoshnak gave her an evil expression that could have been either a spiteful sneer or a smirk. "What do you think you can with 'at, human?" He gurgled out from behind the cloth.
Putting on a brave front, Iorwen dug the tip of the sword into Hoshnak's jugular, causing blood so dark it was almost black to excrete like some foul pus. Hoshnak growled, but only shut his teeth together tightly . Iorwen bestowed a glare on him that would have wilted flowers.
"Silence, yrch," she said, remembering the word for orc spoken by Legolas in the Two Towers, "If you give me the opportunity, I shall gladly drive this blade into your neck, and then I'll watch in pure bliss as your body twitches like a speared fish."
Hoshnak only glowered at her from under thick black brows.
"Time to go." Prodding the orc in the back with the scimitar, Iorwen worked her way over to Legolas who was still leaning pitifully against the wall, barely conscious. Pulling one of his arms over and around her neck, she hauled him up. "Alright, elf boy, you've gotta help me out here. Please don't go to sleep again. I need your legs to keep up the pace. Okay?"
He made no sound, only lifted his leaden eyes until they were level with her own.
Nodding her head, Iorwen managed a small smile at the recognition she could see in his eyes. "Alright, Mr. Eros, that'll do."
Turning back to Hoshnak, she gave the orc another prod in the back of his neck, still holding the rope she'd fashioned and attached to his bound wrists. "Alright, buddy, lead the way. And you'd better lead us straight and true--no traps, got it? Or I swear to God--or, rather, Elbereth--I'll slit your throat before they even manage to catch us again."
Hoshnak made no sound, only made his way grudgingly down the tunnel; Iorwen right on his heels with Legolas following at his most capable pace.
The tunnels were about as complex and winding as they came. The uncertain, haphazard way of the orcs was apparent in every twist and turn Hoshnak dragged them down. And except for the occasional fiery orange light of a sconce along the way, light was as scarce for the orcs as much as a bar of soap probably was. They never encountered any other orcs; something that worried Iorwen rather than pleased her. No orcs now, usually meant plenty of orcs later. But she also wasn't one to turn down a convenient offer, so they continued steadily on through the tunnels, occasionally taking rests when Legolas didn't seem to be able to keep up. Iorwen, herself, knew that she had to be strong. She would push herself as hard and long as she had to if it meant getting Legolas out alive.
She kept a scrutinizing eye on Hoshnak at all times; not daring to trust him or let him out of her sight for a second. She knew the fool would be intent on stopping her sometime soon. There was no way he was going to go so quietly as he was. But at least with the scimitar at his neck, he wasn't likely to try anything stupid. Nearly ten minutes into their trek, Iorwen began to notice that the tunnels were widening and becoming less stuffy with stale air. It was gradually becoming easier to breathe, and their steps, she noted, were heading progressively upward. "You're doing well, orc. Take us to an exit and I'll spare your miserable life."
To Iorwen's delight, she could spy a natural light barely peeping through an opening a ways ahead. Picking up the pace, she hauled Legolas' arm securely onto her shoulder and resisted the urge to cry at the sight of light.
Then the smell hit her. The unmistakable stench of orcs assailed her nose before they'd even reached the broad cave at the end of the tunnel.
"I knew it!" she seethed, yanking back on the rope securing Hoshnak. "Loathsome creature! I now need no excuse to sever you from this life."
Raising the scimitar to strike the orc dead, she was suddenly halted when the unmistakable sound of a barrage of arrows reached her ears. Turning away from her captive, Iorwen raised her eyes to the passage ahead of her and watched in shock as two orcs came fleeing down the tunnel, heedless of her presence and brushed past her as though she were nothing. Behind them, the cries of orcs rent the air.
It was at this moment that Hoshnak chose his opportunity. Snarling, the massive orc knocked the scimitar from her hand and used his bound wrists to knock her to the ground. Unable to stop the assault of such a large creature, Iorwen tried vainly to knock him back, but could only struggle as he pinned her down. Even with his wrists bound, Hoshnak's hands were long enough to wrap around Iorwen's neck, and so he began to choke her, grinning as strangled gasps escaped her mouth. "Pathetic human," he gargled around the gag in his mouth, "Die n--"
Gasping, Hoshnak's eyes widened in realization as the tip of his own scimitar worked its way through his rib cage. Gargling blood, the orc toppled, revealing to Iorwen a very exhausted Legolas. Watching as Hoshnak fell, Legolas gasped for air and sat down slowly.
"I vowed…I would kill you…Hoshnak." He sneered and fell back against the wall of the tunnel.
Still incredulous, not to mention lightheaded from lack of air, Iorwen turned to look up the passage where she could hear shouts in a language she knew was definitely not of Mordor or of any other dark place. Too hopeful to believe it, Iorwen crawled forward to Legolas and took his face in her hands.
"Lle ume quel, Legolas Thranduilion. Lle ume quel…"
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:Well, there you have it. Now, let's see what happens.
-MusicalCharlatan