The boy, eight years old and slender, plucked a single note from the lyre. Pinching his lips together with trepidation, he dared take up his quill and jot the mark on a vellum, where it stood, rebellious and audacious against the perfect unmarked page. His fingers flexed and contracted, then reached out again, trembling as they set down on the strings. He inhaled, just once, just long enough for his eyes to soak up the dawn light as it came shyly into his bedroom, spilling in pale, glittering motes of illicit dust down on to the harshly scrubbed floor. And then his eyes closed, and the venturing young sunlight spilled into his mind where it sparked into song, and the song in his mind animated his fingers so that one note, then another, bled freely into sound, the notes rushing forth with such giddy speed that the dazzled boy struggled to remember to scratch them out. But finally, he sucked in his breath and sat in the crackling, rich silence, examining the page for all flaws… and there were none.
The music kept piling into his mind. It was as if the sunlight, and the little room, and the scent of the ashes in the cold fire, were all full of their own music. The boy had known this, somewhere inside him, but only this morning had he finally deciphered their language. Brimming with joy, the boy set aside his first page, then, surrendering himself to this magic, this unearthly alchemy he'd mastered, he turned it all to music: the roaring hounds chasing across a tapestry on his northern wall; the delicate flowers crushed under the pounding hooves of horses; the deer, sprinting on wings of air, in a mad dash from the huntsmen. He played for the hexagonal catacombs rolling in perfect repetition over his beeswax candles, he played for the swirling grooves and cracks of the oaken floor. And then, he needn't see anything outside of himself at all, the alchemy was in his mind, where he played into life dwarves and dragons, and princesses in high towers, and all of the vastness of the great open marches.
"Finnan! What is this noise?"
The boy plummeted from the realms of transformation, his lyre hitting the cold floor as he rose to his feet and stood, mute and paralyzed.
Lady Birchleigh scorched the floor with her footsteps as she swept down on her second son. She snatched up the lyre and held it at arm's length, noting the inferior quality, the rough construction. "Where did you get this?"
It was impossible to speak. Where before, sound had coursed through the boy's blood, he had suddenly become depleted even of its potential. Fingers snapped a breath away from his eyes, and he finally stammered, "Willem gave it to me."
"Willem! The carpenter's apprentice? Training you up to be a fool in a minstrel, is he? Perhaps you will go on the road and play for coins! Why not pick up a hammer and nails, then? At least it's a masculine trade, if you must lower yourself and your family so!"
"I am sorry, lady mother—"
"Sorry does not begin to describe you. As pale as milk you are, huddled in here! Well not today. Your father is going hunting, and you shall join him."
Finnan opened his mouth, but once having found speech, he now found there was no further use for it. His mother barked commands through the oaken door, loud enough to blow it down, and in came the servants, to bundle him into a huntsman's clothes, whereupon like a parcel, he was delivered before the imposing stone pillar that was his father. Lord Birchleigh didn't think much of the prospect of taking the boy along, but, the boy thought with relief, he could soon lose himself in the tumbling mass of hunters and horseflesh, and keep his own steady mount to the back of things where he might avoid further calumny.
Except, his older brother, golden curls backlit by the young sun, easy laughter ringing on the air, put a bow in his hands and said, "You've a good eye, little brother. Why don't you show them all?"
Had he a good eye? He'd not known it, but suddenly, a tiny possibility sparked, then crashed into Finnan's world, and as if he'd become some other boy entirely, he was riding towards the front, for even his old steady mount had become invigorated with hope. They galloped the marches, they swifted into the forest, and Finnan had come alive to feel the wind in his face. Where was the hind, though? The hunters had lost the track, and the forest began to close in, darkness eating the sun away as they approached the rising mountain.
And then, Finnan saw it. Not his brother, not Lord Birchleigh, but the boy who, beyond any belief of his own, did in fact, have fine eyes. The hounds began to whine, and the wolf slipped through the trees, darkness and light flickering over its black fur until it emerged, growling, flashing its fangs at Lord Birchleigh, then lunging for the closest hound, who died with a scream as the great beast snapped its neck.
Finnan could not explain the compulsion. It all occurred so quickly he wasn't aware of it, but there was the wolf, killing the hounds not a stone's throw from Lord Birchleigh, and the next thing he knew, the wolf itself whined and whimpered, and Finnan's arrow quivered behind its foreleg. The beast was killed, and the huntsmen cheered, and Lord Birchleigh himself cried out in astonishment, "That's my little lad, slayed the beast!"
The party dismounted. The hounds were called back, the hunters moved forward, circling Finnan's kill. One of the men said, "My lord…" and gestured down to the swellings on the beast's underside.
"Find them," Lord Birchleigh said, stalking into the darkness. Finnan followed suit, although he didn't understand why he was emulating his father, only that he was very sure he ought to. Then, the whimpering began, and a hunter cried out, "Here!"
The man held up a wolf-pup, brandishing it around like a torch. "Six of them, my lord."
The little creature had dark fur, as soft to the eye as a cloud. It mewled and whined and put out its little pink tongue, and Finnan hurried to it. He thought he might ask his father if he could keep one, just the little one?
"Put them to the knife," Lord Birchleigh commanded, and the huntsman, holding the pup in the air, swept a long blade from his hip.
"No!" Finnan shouted, but the work was done. The huntsman slit the pup's throat as easily as his father cut open a scroll, dropping the warm little body into a pool of blood. He reached easily for the next one.
"Father, stop him!" Finnan cried, tears springing to his eyes, rolling fat over his cheeks as he whipped his face from the little wriggling, crying puppy to his father.
Lord Birchleigh's lips curled in distain. His hand flew up to the huntsman, and he commanded, "Hold."
Finnan tried to smother his tears, pinching his lips between his teeth as his father stalked over to him, the pillar with eyes that now bore down on the boy, igniting him with fear and shame. Lady Birchleigh might beat the boy, but the Lord had no need. The eyes were enough. The boy withered in the prison of their stare.
"Finnan," his brother murmured, "We have to, else they grow big and kill the foals."
"Don't explain it," Lord Birchleigh said, "He's too big already not to know. What manner of man will he grow to be, if he can't stand a little blood? It's time that's done with. Sir Thurstan, give young master your blade."
Sir Thurstan frowned. "My lord?"
"Go on, Finnan, take the knife! These beasts are a scourge, preying on our herds, our herds that are our very lifeblood, sacred to Bema Himself!"
"I don't want to," Finnan choked. "I can't do it, my lord father, please don't make me!"
Lord Birchleigh screwed up his face, mimicking, "I can't do it! I can't do it! Bless me, what manner of son is this, such as burdens me, good sirs?"
Finnan saw the others turning away from him, sighing, groaning even, as he stood frozen in horror in the midst of their happy hunt.
The mocking grated down into a harsh growl. "Do it, boy!" Lord Birchleigh barked. "Do it if you are any son of mine, of Rohan!"
Finnan, sobbing, stepped forward, and took the knife.
The low waves broke gently over his bare feet. The beasts, or the whore, had taken his shoes as well as his sword, or else perhaps the river had stripped it all away, Finnan could not be sure. There was nothing ahead of him but the sea: grey, near flat today, bereft of any ship that could transport him away. Watching the sea, he felt a rare stir of treason in his heart. He could die here. It could all be forgotten, everything that ever was. The sun, hidden behind thick clouds, was setting at last, and Finnan didn't care if it ever rose again.
A scourge of cackling laughter broke behind him, and he spun to see a troupe of imps, bounding and tumbling across the sand. Gangly limbs, rolling strides, fangs flashing in dark faces. They pelted each other with sand, they wrestled over each other, running down into the sea and splashing about. Finnan grit his teeth. Their laughter scraped at him like claws.
But then, just behind them, he saw the mute boy, the one the whore had tried to pander to him. The boy watched the others, and something about the way he held himself at a distance made Finnan's chest tighten. He was surrounded by laughter, but it didn't touch him, and his own throat would never create it.
"Oi! Ja'lil! You can't catch any fish I bet, you pasty sun-loving cur-fucking mute!"
Finnan whipped about. Three orclings rushed out of the waves and pounded across the sand, seizing the youth. Finnan opened his mouth to shout a protest, but no sound came out. The orcs seized the boy and lifted him overhead like a plank, and whether the boy twisted or not, he couldn't escape. Finnan thought, they will drown him for sport. And still, he could not move to intervene. The boy was an enemy, he reasoned, the boy was a catamite, the boy didn't deserve saving…
The orcs threw the boy into the water, and all of the rest closed in on him, and Finnan was sure he saw claws flying… but then he frowned: they attacked Ja'lil with water, not claws. They dunked him down, they attacked him with vulgar names and foul insults, but they attacked each other too. Ja'lil splashed back. He leaped out of the water and landed on an orcling's back, and pushed him down, causing them both to go under the waves. Ja'lil and the orcling bounced back up to the surface, spitting water and sand. Ja'lil's head tipped back and his mouth was open, and the laughter of the others swirled around him and through him, until Finnan could no longer hear the silence of his disability, could no longer distinguish the boy's otherness at all.
"You're one sad fucker, Sirhani says."
Finnan turned in alarm once more. Ranthauk towered over him, silver eyes slit like blades.
"How does a sad, sorry fucker like you come to kill so many warriors?"
"Because it's too easy," Finnan hissed. He didn't care anymore, if Ranthauk killed him. But he'd not go down without a fight.
Ranthauk jabbed a clawed finger into Finnan's chest and said, "Every sad thing you feel in there, you do to others. At least when I kill now, it's for pleasure, or it's to save my clan. You kill to stop yourself from bleeding. But you never will stop bleeding, that way. So: Sad."
"Save your own 'clan', so that you can burn more villages, rape more women. Noble."
Ranthauk spread his hands. He tapped his temple. "My master was in here once, too. He is gone now. Now I fight to save my kind, so we can be free. Your master is with you still. Maybe he will always be. Do you even know his name?"
"I fight… I fight for the King of Men…" Finnan said coolly, curling his soul up into the barbed shelter of intentional ignorance.
Ranthauk laughed. "Sure you do. Come, Sad Bleeding Man. We've meat tonight, but it must be butchered."
"I'm not your bloody slave," Finnan spat.
Ranthauk's blade eyes widened. "Slave? If I needed you for a slave, you'd have been at my feet already. I've no use for you as my slave. But if you mean to eat with us, you can help us make the meal."
Back in the camp, some sort of smallish water buffalo was laid out. Finnan thought he'd be pressed to do their work, and had plans to resist even that, but the younger adult males all took a hand in the task, and Ranthauk put a knife into Finnan's hands. Finnan stared down at it for a moment, contemplating shoving it into the great Mordor Orc's belly. But then he sighed at the pointlessness of it, and carefully made his way over to the carcass. The Orcs looked up at him with half-snarls. But they knew he was Ranthauk's prisoner, and so they simply made space for him, so that he could squat down and help them with the work.
The Orcs tore into the flesh once it was cut, with a bestial abandon that turned Finnan's stomach. Finnan stood stone still, watching them with furious eyes: they'd tricked him, knowing he'd not stoop down and snatch raw meat to shove into his mouth. But then, he realized: there was plenty untouched. No one was going to hand him his dinner. But no one made to stop him when he seized a cut for himself, and so he turned and looked about for a fire.
"Come, Lord Captain," Sirhani called, beckoning from behind her fire with her bangled arm. Sighing, Finnan went to her. At his back, the Orcs, having finished mauling the carcass, began to make their own sort of merry, their barbarous tongue blending with Common speech as they exchanged boasts and insults. "Did you enjoy yourself at the water?" she asked, taking his meat and spitting it.
"I do not see how I should enjoy myself, enforced to remain amongst… my enemies."
"Ah, well," she said, clucking her tongue. "The gulls still cry, the waves still roll, there is perfume and salt on the air. We are lucky for this meat tonight. Ranthauk is a good hunter. A better warrior, but a good hunter. We might have remained here, but this place is too small for us, too little food, so we'll have to move on."
From somewhere in the roaring crowd, a drum began to sound. Finnan frowned, turning halfway to it. He couldn't discern the source, and he looked back to Sirhani, and asked, "Where will you go? Will you take me with you?"
"You'd like to know," Ranthauk said, squatting down beside Sirhani. The boy Ja'lil came behind him, to sit on the driftwood with his sister, and warm his hands by the fire. Ranthauk bared his fangs as he said, "You think you'll escape and tell the others, you'd like to hunt us down to the edge of Middle Earth."
"I'd like to know where I'll wind up," Finnan said, but then, behind him, the clear melody of a flute called out, and the roaring quieted. He glanced over his shoulder, frowning. The fires were orange stars in the blackening night, the dark figures around the fires had gone still. Finnan couldn't discern the player, but there were no other Men in the company.
"Does music displease you, Lord Captain?" Sirhani asked, her sing-song voice rising over the sweet notes of the flute. Subtly, softly, hands caressed drums beneath the melody.
Finnan looked back to her. "I… I did not know… Orcs don't make music. They only make instruments of… machines of…"
Sirhani laughed and leaned forward, over the insults piling on Ranthauk's tongue. "Do you play? Would you join them?"
The boy leaped up again, went into the firelit darkness.
"Me? Why should I? They wouldn't welcome it, and if they did, I surely don't play music. I'm no minstrel player!"
"Master forbids it, eh?" Ranthauk chuckled, and when Finnan glared up at him, he grinned and tapped his temple and said, "Aye…"
"They'd welcome you because Ranthauk has welcomed you," Sirhani purred, smiling at him. Ja'lil returned then, a small skin drum in his hands.
"Don't know about 'welcome'," Ranthauk grunted. "Make some music, tark. Curse your master and play your song, and then, once you're a rebel, then, maybe I'll think about letting you keep your life."
Finnan stared at Ranthauk, tight jawed, anger flooding over the churning in his guts. Beside him, the mute boy knelt down, smiling, and handed Finnan a drum.