Hannah's Back ; )
Wow! Thank you for all the positive feedback everyone! We both really appreciate it and are glad you're enjoying it so much! : )
As for Legolas' reaction to the Corsairs, that is actually a creation of Cassia's, (another LOTR authoress) she got Sarah and I interested in this Aragorn/Legolas idea with her and Siobhan's Mellon Chronicles series. In the first of that series Legolas is captured by men and that is when he has his terrifying experience with a Corsair. I highly recommend that series if you haven't read it. : )
Yes the Chapter 1 spoiler isn't exactly a spoiler, but we wanted to mention it just in case someone noticed ; )
*hands Halo a tissue* I'm sorry! Didn't mean to make you cry!
As to Legolas' sea-longing, Sarah and I went to great lengths to be sure that he was far enough up the river from the sea to avoid having a longing for it. In short he is over 400 miles away from the sea when they are captured (not counting the turns in the river) so we aren't too worried : ) But you are right, that would have been a big problem! ;)
That's just fine Cassia! We're really pleased to have you aboard! Hope you enjoy it!
Chloe, as I've told you before I'm sure your story isn't anything like Curious George so you can stop worrying ; )
Well everyone, thank you again for such wonderful feedback! It really makes our day!! Now onto the next chapter! : )
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Death or Despair
By Sarah and Hannah
(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries
available at the top of chapter 1)
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Chapter 4
Naraka
As they traveled further up the Langwell, the air began to grow chill, and the slaves in the hold began to wish for more bodies, rather than fewer, to help create warmth. A handful of days later, they finally reached the end of their journey and docked with a loud thudding that vibrated the masts. The sounds of ropes being thrown down, and Seregoer shouting orders filtering through the deck as the slaves finally realized they were about to see for whom they had been captured.
A gang plank was lowered, and most of the ship's crew went below, assembling the slaves into a line, linked one behind the other, and marching them out onto an ancient looking wooden dock. Legolas avoided the Corsairs' touch, but otherwise stayed outwardly calm as the line was strung out, and then halted on the gray banks. He would not let himself loose control like that again.
Standing at the head of the dock with Seregoer there was a man. Tall, hard-bitten as the frost covered stones around them, and with a scowl on his face.
"We ordered more, Seregoer. Half again as many more." The man's eyebrows rose, "You wouldn't be trying to cheat Lord Furnmorth, would you?"
The large corsair glared at the man, his fist clenching, "Do not insult me, Naraka! Lord Furnmorth knows that the Lhimlug is too shallow to carry the numbers he demanded. If she were not, you would not be receiving the slaves you see before you! Name me another Corsair who has the ship, or the cunning to run a slave chain all the way from Rohan. You wanted sturdier stock: now you have it. Straight from the lands of the horse lords!"
Naraka glanced at his men, whom Legolas could see standing a little further off, "The captain here paints a handsome picture, does he not?" His eyes snapped back to Seregoer, accusing, "Anyone with half an eye can see these are not all from Rohirrim stock."
Seregoer fingered one of the knives at his belt, his scarred face looking dangerous, "Some died on the way and I was forced to supplement them with others, but, as it is a long sail from the great sea, you should be grateful you have the ones that are here! If I had tried to fit in the amount you ordered, you might have even fewer."
Naraka seemed to be considering the point, so Seregoer added with a particularly ingratiating, and therefore, particularly repulsive smile, "Besides that, maybe you hadn't noticed the little extra bonus?" He gestured with one calloused hand.
Legolas looked straight ahead, but could feel Naraka's surprised gaze.
"An elf? Lord Furnmorth demanded strong workers, not pretty faces."
The captain was quick with his reassurances, "Elves are considered very strong, and if not, he might make a good house slave, eh?"
Naraka's disgust was evident as his attention returned to Seregoer, "Our lord is a warrior, not a soft nobleman. You would do well to remember that." Turning to one of his men, Naraka took a bag of gold and handed it to Seregoer with an audible chink. "There is your payment, we will take what you have."
The corsairs boarded the Lhimlug once more, and loosed the moorings, and Naraka rounded to face the slaves, his hand resting meaningfully on a long piece of braided leather looped at his belt. "I am Naraka, captain of Lord Furnmorth, your new master. You will follow." Turning, he left it to his men to get the line moving, and started up the rise. With a little stumbling as the captives became used to walking on land again, the long column started forward.
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As night drew on, Naraka had ordered the slaves into a circle and driven pegs into the chains to hold them in evenly in place, thereby keeping the prisoners from manipulating each others bonds. Lighting one fire in the center for all of them, the captain then left them, under guard, to keep warm as well as they could. Beyond the shelter of the long outcropping they were camped beneath, Aragorn could see faint swirls of snow beginning to drift down and he felt an icy current slide over him as a stray breeze darted through their shelter. Beside him, Legolas didn't even twitch; elves possess greater resistance to extreme temperatures than humans.
On his other side, Aragorn could hear a faint clacking sound: it was the boy from Fladweth, shivering in the strange cold, his teeth chattering. Glancing pityingly at the youth, Aragorn wished he could lean in closer to lend him some of his warmth, but the pegs were firm, and all he could do was murmur softly, "And how old are you, young one?"
The boy looked surprised at the question, but answered hesitantly, "I am but thirteen summers, sir, though I'll own I look younger."
Aragorn nodded, encouraged that the lad was not yet dumb with terror, "And your name?" he prompted, still keeping his voice low.
"Nethtalt, sir. My father is Diinen, across the circle there." He indicated a quiet man chained several prisoners down from them. "We are farmers. Or we were…" His voice drifted into silence.
"I am Strider and this is my friend Legolas," Aragorn introduced, smiling almost conversationally, and yet again causing the elf to shake his head in wonder at the young man. Never in his long life had Legolas seen anyone mingle with and gain the respect and friendship of so many.
Nodding his own greeting to the boy and his father, he peered out through a gap in the rocks, trying to see through the snow to wherever it was they were being taken. Aragorn, seeming to read his thoughts, asked aloud, "Do any of you know where we are bound?"
Surprisingly it was Diinen who spoke, "Mount Gundabad, or so I guess."
Legolas looked up, clearly startled, "Impossible. The orcs were driven from Mt. Gundabad by the dwarves centuries ago." The prince's voice was firm.
Diinen seemed to almost draw into himself; he was a small man and clearly not used to speaking aloud in company like this, "Aye, that may be, but Seregoer was combing up the Anduin for slaves nigh on a year ago, and it was said he sold them there." The man shook his head slowly, "I'm afraid I know not the truth of the matter, but those who informed me *were* reliable men."
Legolas frowned thoughtfully, his fair face intent, "I suppose it is possible that someone else has taken up residence there, now that the dragons have gone and Moria is but sparsely colonized. If true, though, this is troubling news." His voice was so quiet that Aragorn could only just hear him.
Kelegalen was questioning the quiet farmer, "You said Seregoer made this voyage a year ago?"
"Yes, but I do not believe he started as far south then as he seems to have done this time. Also, he took women and children then, and this time has only taken men."
Kelegalen's sharp gray eyes met Aragorn's, "I would say something went amiss with his first load. Would you not, Strider?"
Aragorn nodded slowly, "I would."
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Morning found them marching again, passing through areas where the snow had only fallen lightly so as not to loose speed. The sun was moving slowly across the sky, but it seemed pale and cold, not the same sun that passed daily over Legolas' home in distant Mirkwood. Far off at the edges of his keen sight the elf could see lines of dark rock to the west, marking the northern reaches of the Misty Mountains. To the east and even farther north he knew the Grey Mountains began, stretching on eastwards to the Withered Heath and the Iron Hills beyond, but unless the dwarves too had returned to their halls, there would be no one there. The peaks had been notoriously plagued by dragons in the ancient days, and it was said one could still see melted stone on the rising slopes, showing where the monsters had battled with each other, as well as the dwarves, in greed for gold and jewels and other marvelous things. The Grey Mountains had long hidden riches as well horrors.
Legolas kept a close eye on his friend, ever ready to help him in case he should loose his footing in his weariness. Aragorn however did not seem to be yet disturbed by the distance, proving that much time spent on journeys with elves and Dúnedain had built up his endurance. It was fortunate, for Nethtalt needed all the help that could be given him. The boy had seemed active enough, but the constant walking was beginning to wear him down, and his father was in an even worse condition. Legolas had guessed that Diinen, in spite of his work, was not a strong man, and he was proved correct at least three times that morning as the man continued to stumble. The elf feared that the farmer would not last the journey, let alone the journey's end.
Several hours later, the man fell, tangling up the chains of those behind him and nearly yanking Kelegalen's feet out from under him as he was pulled abruptly to a halt. Without even seeming to hurry himself, Captain Naraka strode down the miserable line, his eyes sliding along, hunting for the trouble. When he came to the prostrate form of the farmer, he simply stood for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice audible to nearly everyone, harsh and commanding, "Get up."
Diinen shifted in the snow, his arms trembling as he tried to lift himself, then his hand slid and he fell back again.
Without waiting to give the order a second time, almost faster than even Legolas could track, the whip at Naraka's side detached and snapped downward, flicking the man in sharp motion directly between the shoulder blades, and causing him to arch his back weakly in pain.
The slave line flinched. Aragorn made a half move as if to walk over and personally strike down the dreadful captain, but found the pale, restraining hand of his friend keeping him firmly in line and a whisper of elvish near his ear, "i neth edain, Aragorn." The boy! Turning forward again, the ranger just managed to grab Nethtalt as he tried to scramble out of the line.
The whip came down again, Diinen's back arching once more, and the boy's voice rang out in an anguished cry, "Father!"
Struggling to keep a hold of the lad, Aragorn looked around, wishing there were some way to stop this.
The lash sailed again, once, twice, a third time. Each in a precise movement, each landing in the same spot, until the farmer's plain gray tunic began to turn faintly red.
The slaves were no longer flinching simultaneously, they had nearly all adapted to it now, but Nethtalt was sobbing, trying to break free of the friendly arms that held him, crying his father's name again and again. Naraka never even seemed to notice. Legolas watched in sadness as the fallen man finally ceased to move except in small twitches. Glancing at the slaves, wondering if there were any chance they would revolt, he saw no hope: many had already accepted the chains that bound them, and those that hadn't were simply too weary. His eyes briefly caught those of Kelegalen, who was still jerking in reaction with each abuse, but not in time to the crack of the whip. Rather his face seemed to contract with each cry of the boy, his fists clenching and unclenching as Nethtalt's anguish echoed through the valley.
With an unexpected turn, the man of Rohan cast himself over the body of the fallen prisoner, catching two lashes before the stone-faced captain stopped, just as deliberately as he had begun. His light hair rippling slightly in the chill wind, Kelegalen raised his head and offered in a quiet voice, "I will carry him."
Naraka seemed to consider that for a time, then gave a sharp order, "March."
Struggling awkwardly, with his wrists bound, Kelegen managed to lift Diinen to his shoulders and continue on without slowing the line. Naraka himself traveled to the head of the line, then stood still, his eyes meeting those of every captive as they passed him, their faces drawn to his. One by one, they turned away from his gaze, terrified of the absolute certainty in his eyes that he controlled them.
As the ranger passed him, the captain's eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing in his very walk the defiance that hid in the young man's spirit. And when their gazes met, there were shards of steel in the dark haired Dúnadan's blue gaze. Holding the contact until the slave had completely passed him, he next came the one part of this purchase that he hadn't expected. The elf. And if the ranger's gaze had been defiant, this one was unnerving. This creature, the captain knew, had seen the world long before his own small cries had issued from his cradle. It's eyes told him of generations of men who had risen and fallen, and the swiftly disappearing shadows they had left behind. It's smooth face, and golden hair reminded him of his own comparative ugliness. It's very presence reminded him of his mortality. And he hated it. With an enraged flash in his eyes, he spat violently, the moisture spattering across the elf's cheek, but Legolas didn't blink. He returned the captain's gaze evenly, and then he turned his attention to keeping a firmer hold on Aragorn's elbow.
"Peace, my friend. Anger will not benefit you."
The Dúnadan glared fixedly at a point on the horizon ahead, but said nothing. Clearly, he would have liked nothing better than to take Naraka's head from his shoulders.
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It took two more days of steady travel to reach the sight of the mountain itself, and another day beyond that to actually reach it's feet. The crags were black, seeming to have soaked up the evil of the foul creatures that had inhabited it long ago. Still, though sinister, Aragorn felt a small sense of relief in seeing it: not only because it meant rest for his own tired body, but also because Kelegalen, strong as he was, could no longer carry Diinen as swiftly as before. Soon he too might collapse as the man on his back had, and Nethtalt as well was staggering along numbly, relying on the Dúnadan behind him to keep him moving.
Legolas in contrast was both fresh and, seemingly, much more worried. His fair face grew even paler as he saw ahead of them a large opening in the mountain's side, like a mouth waiting to swallow the slaves whole. Aragorn could hear a soft string of elvish falling from his friend's lips, one word recurring often, "Gathrod." Caves.
Under peaceful circumstances it would have been bad enough; Legolas' past experiences in underground alcoves would have been sufficient to chill even a dwarf, but this was somehow worse. As the opening loomed closer, Aragorn realized there were no other entrances or exits as far as his eye could travel up the face of the mountain, or around it's sides. Only a few air shafts and loopholes could be seen on the smooth surface.
Blinking at the sudden darkness, and sensing the stench of orc, long ingrained in the stone, rise up to meet him, he felt Legolas' faint shudder vibrate the chain as the last ray of light disappeared behind them around a bend.
TBC…