Hannah…again ; ) Thank you everyone for the feedback on my chapter and our story in general! It's so sweet of you to give us such positive feedback! : )
I agree! Cassia's cliffy bug is *very* contagious but under pain of death I'm not allowed to blame it on her ; ) J/K
I make it my policy not to answer rhetorical questions…I wonder why ; )
Don't worry Chloe we aren't making you look bad intentionally :p actually since you have refused to let me read your story I may never know how good it is! :D
Hey Sio! It's so good to 'see' you! I'm glad you're enjoying it! I fear that I have a slight penchant for writing mush, which is not helped at all by my sister and co-writer's liking for reading/writing it ; )
Sorry about the cliffies Halo! Don't worry, these aren't really cliffies compared to--maybe I shouldn't say any more, forget it! Never mind! ; )
That's okay about the re-posts Valkyrie I know sometimes it gets confusing : )
Thanks again everyone! And now for 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 6
"I need sky, Aragorn."
Feeling the strain in his shoulder, still sore from the wolf attack nearly a month ago, Aragorn let the hammer fall on the helmet edge, flattening it a little more, and then shifted it and swung at it again. A third time. A fourth. Wiping the sweat from his brow, the ranger examined the edge one final time, knowing that any flaws could mean severe punishment. With a short nod, Aragorn threw the completed helmet towards the appropriate pile, feeling anger at the Furnmorth course through him. Not for himself, but for those around him. To the side he could see the other 'new' slaves, working in the dizzying heat, nearly dropping with fatigue from the past two weeks of steady labor. Here and there the ranger could see one stagger under their load, wandering too close to what would likely be a fatal fall into the molten metal, or the fires. Only a few, like himself, were still pressing on at a moderate pace; most, like Nethtalt, were near utter exhaustion.
//Nethtalt.// Aragorn's thoughts dwelt with momentary pity and sadness on the boy, now alone in this black pit. Diinen had fallen after only five days, never to rise again, and though the boy had wept long over the loss, now his face was blank with pain; his features as worn down as his small body. Where possible, several of the slaves had made an effort to lighten the boy's load, but hopelessness was settling in his eyes. //*Here you have either death or despair. There are no other alternatives or choices offered. And you can not stay alive depending on hope; it will only fail you.*//
*… death or despair…*
//It is coming true.//
Shaking free of the thought — bringing himself back to the present just in time to hear a sharp change of orders from one of the overseers — he wound his way through the other workers to the trimming blocks.
Legolas was already working there, his long blond hair pulled back behind him into a ponytail. Laboring carefully, so as not to remove any of his fingers by mistake, the elf was cutting the excess metal from the edges of a breast plate: spillover from when the steel had been poured into the mould. His hands were already bandaged with strips from his tunic, blood seeping through the soft green cloth. Tilting his head upwards to ease the muscles in his neck, he caught sight of his friend and greeted him.
"I thought you had been assigned to shaping, not trimming." Aragorn commented, picking up his own tools and beginning work on a second breast plate.
Legolas gave a faint shrug, "Naraka seems unable to decide where I am best suited. He continues to insist that elves are skilled with their hands and should be given difficult work, but what work is a mystery. So far I have labored at nearly every task they have, and was only just assigned this one. I would caution you to be careful, my friend: these cutters are unwieldy."
Aragorn took his advice, working slowly and meanwhile watching his companion out of the corner of his eye. Even as he looked on, the elf's hand seemed to shake slightly, as if with fatigue, but elves seldom tire within only a few weeks, even when laboring hard, so long as they have at least a little sleep — and the slaves were never forced to toil all night, for fear that they might all die before the work was completed. Now that he was paying attention, the ranger also noticed his friend's extreme pallor, turning his skin to an ash-like hue, and the way his breath was slightly harsh and ragged.
"Legolas, are you well?" Aragorn asked anxiously, actually pausing his work to hear the answer.
The elf looked up, his blue eyes tired, and rested his own tools for a moment. His shoulders seemed to slump, making his lithe frame appear smaller. He whispered, "I need sky, Aragorn."
The Dúnadan let out a breath. Of course, the cave had seemed oppressive to him, and he had longed to be home in Rivendell, gazing at the stars, but for an elf — and with the sense of evil in the very tunnels — it would be much worse. Enough to actually make one ill, if confined for too long…
"Don't give up, Legolas, we'll find a way out soon." Aragorn said, more pleading than reassuring, wishing he could believe it himself. He did not want to be alone in this place. Nethtalt's hollow eyes hovered in his mind.
Legolas was silent for a long minute, removing the last scraps of steel from his anvil and placing them in a sack to be reused in the moulds the next day. A strand of hair fell from it's binding and he pushed it away with wavering fingers, but it fell again. He rose to get another breastplate, only to be halted by Aragorn's hand on his arm.
"Please, Legolas. For your father, if no one else." //For me.//
The elf smiled wearily, his eyes, at least, not admitting defeat, "Have no fear, Strider. I will not soon give up."
The moment was over, and Aragorn went back to his work at least somewhat free from anxiety. For the moment.
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CRACK. With a sharp report, the clumsily made cutters snapped, sending a portion of the blade flying past Legolas' ear. Looking down at the tool, Legolas knew there was no hope of repairing it. Aragorn was not presently at his block, which the elf considered fortunate, since his friend would have most certainly made a stir over the close call, and if he walked quickly, he might even be able to get a replacement before the ranger knew he was gone.
Carrying the shards with him, he set out across the echoing cavern, walking lightly down the dividing wall that separated two of the cooling pools, so as to avoid the thicker and more dangerous traffic on the floor itself. On either side, steam rushed up in clouds as red hot metal met dark gray water, but the elf seemed not to notice, stepping over the sluice gate and nodding a greeting to Nethtalt, who was stationed there, to land just beside the tool makers. There were only four slaves working there, and all were busy, so he placed the remains of his cutters onto the pile for re-melting, and stood by to wait.
The sound of voices caught Legolas by surprise, as the slaves seldom tried to talk as they worked, but a minute later, he saw the explanation as the imposing form of Lord Furnmorth appeared with Naraka walking close beside him. It was the lord's habit, all the slaves knew, to make an inspection of the work being done at least once a day, so Legolas did not take much notice. But this time, rather than walking as they conversed, the two men paused to by the wall, and the elf's sharp hearing could easily pick out what they were saying, even above the tumult of the hammers.
"The tunnel is going slowly now that we have reached firmer rock," Furnmorth was saying calmly, seemingly unaware of the controlled chaos around him, "It will be at least another nineteen days before we will break through."
Naraka frowned, "All the armor should be complete by then, though we've had one or two setbacks. Slaves may be better for metal work than these orcs, but they are often clumsy."
"No matter. Even once the first troops leave, you will likely have an extra day to outfit those who will travel in the rear. The tunnel is quite wide, but not wide enough for them all to travel through it at once, and Gilthad is many miles away."
"Can we be sure the dwarves will not have had news of our plans?" Naraka's hand rested briefly on his sword hilt.
"We can. The dwarves seldom take notice of things beyond their halls, and Dorm is particularly of that bent. Do not worry, Captain, I have planned for all occurrences. Your task will be simply to take possession, and then we will all have our rewards, will we not?" Furnmorth smiled almost paternally, his strong features benevolent.
The only sign of Legolas' wariness was a slow narrowing of his eyes, but no one noticed.
"Most certainly, my lord." Naraka responded, his own face more cheerful. "And then who will ever rival the riches of Furnmorth, Lord of the Grey Mountains?"
The thought seemed to please the lord, but it did not appear to absorb him. There was much still to be done, and he would be the last to forget that. "Come, I intend to see the outcome of the newly produced orcs before nightfall."
Accepting his replacement tool, Legolas turned silently to go, his mind working carefully over what he had just heard.
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"So the dwarves have returned to Mount Gilthad?" Aragorn said thoughtfully. "I had heard that they had once prospered there, but believed the dragons had driven them away." He shifted his back against the cave wall, no longer noticing the noises and scuffling sounds that marked the orcs in the room beyond, or the echoes from the foundry far below that also carried through the narrow ventilation holes.
Legolas nodded in the dark, "You were correct, but with the disappearance of the last of the dragons, and the sacking of this mountain by Thrain II, it is not surprising that they should return, for they unearthed much wealth in the Ered Mithrin. I would guess that Furnmorth's men intend to dig their way into Gilthad secretly and take the dwarves by surprise, along with their fabled treasures."
"Then that is the reason for this." Kelegalen murmured from his own chosen resting place a little further away. "Wealth."
"So it would seem," Legolas agreed, "but it is unlikely that Furnmorth, whatever his designs may be at present, will hold himself to such small goals once he has the means for further conquest."
Aragorn sat up a little straighter, understanding where the elf was leading, "You fear he will become more greedy and set his sights farther south?"
"Yes. Erebor would likely be his next objective, as there are even greater riches there, but if he were to conquer that and Esgaroth—" The elf stopped.
"Mirkwood." Aragorn whispered softly. "It would be surrounded on two sides, and with Dol Guldor in the south, you would have only your western border secure."
Legolas nodded again, silently, his mind numb.
Aragorn frowned at the darkness, his brow creased in determination, "Legolas, we must find some way of stopping this."
The elf did not ask how. If his home was to be kept from a danger it knew nothing of, if the dwarves of Gilthad were to be saved, if the slaves were to be set free, then it must be done. There was nothing more to be said than that. Nothing more to be done than that. 'How' was a secondary matter.
TBC…