Sarah here! To quote SpaceVixen: thanks for all the yummy feedback! :)
Hurt Legolas and Aragorn? What makes you all think we're going to hurt Legolas and Aragorn? Why, we're about the most harmless writers any hero could hope to have! *catches everyone looking at her with skeptical expressions on their faces* Well, nicer than some people. A few people. Nicer than Cassia. *nobody bats an eyelid* Will you quit looking at me like that?!
Hope you caught Olivia okay, Chloe! And as for what you said about us all having our own pet peeves: you're very right! As it happens, you've been one of mine since you first learned how to talk. Don't worry though, you're quite amusing to have around, and you give great feedback, so there's no chance of me selling you to the gypsies! They won't take you back anyway... ;)
Thanks for all the praise on Nethtalt! The poor boy needs all the encouragement he can get. :(
Well, Spanish was always one of my worst subjects, but I think I got the gist, Emmithar! Thanks! Legolas... pass out... *pulls out best poker face*
e: The elves of Mirkwood and Rivendell would indeed notice the absence of two of their citizens, but the wandering habits of our heroes, and the distances between the two places are such that information takes a while to get around. As for them noticing the kidnappings in general, the elves (especially of Mirkwood) always struck me as rather too busy trying to hold their own borders to bother with what is going wrong beyond them, especially concerning men, with whom they don't associate much anymore. And no, Furnmorth has no idea who he's just brought in to his fortress (cue ominous music), and as to whether or not he'll ever find out... well, this story has already been written in full, so that's already been decided, but what did we decide...? You'll just have to see! *smiles winningly* I'm so glad you're liking it! :)
And now here's a bit of a long one… *gulps* Maybe I'll just go hide while you read it. *takes off*
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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 7
Revelation and Disaster
Meals were passed out twice a day to the slaves — in shifts, like everything else. The meat that was brought in was only given to the orcs, though they never mingled with the slaves while they ate it, fortunately. Instead, the slaves used a rubble strewn antechamber off of the foundries to eat in, collecting in groups on the boulders which had fallen from the ceiling long ago. Not a very comfortable place to supper in, but there were no complaints.
None made aloud, that is.
//I've seen better food left on the roadway through Trollshaws.// Aragorn thought dully, sorting through the days rations, which mostly appeared to be of the root and tuber variety, with some hopefully non-poisonous fungus on the side. Only the sort of thing one might expect from a mountain fortress this far in the north.
The ranger was sharing his seat with Bronadui, the young man he and Legolas had met the day they arrived. He was chewing away with, if not enjoyment, then at least energy, taking brisk drinks of water to wash it all down, a small quirk at the corner of his mouth. Aragorn had considered for a time than the man had finally fallen over the edge reason after months of forced labor, but eventually came to realize that what he was seeing was Bronadui's form of defense against the horrors of his new life. The young man refused to take it all in, allowing himself to stay at least partially sheltered in oblivion. Whether he did it purposefully or not — and Aragorn suspected the latter — it sometimes gave him the appearance of callousness, or even insanity, but at least allowed him to be a fairly decent companion. Certainly much better than Helkhmorn. Still, he wished for Legolas, or even Kelegalen: someone he actually needed to speak to. With only eighteen days in which to devise some sort of plan, they could not afford to waste any of it. But they were still working, and the only person in the room that he had ever really spoken to before, besides Bronadui, was Stavhold, over nearer the chamber entrance.
Even as he looked that way, there was a slight stir amongst the slaves: someone was coming. When the first of the guards entered, there was a scramble to get out of the way, and several slaves became tangled with one another, causing a few to fall. The slaves farther towards the back of the chamber also shifted, trying to make room for the migrants, and generally adding to the noise.
Still, even with the echoing rustle of bodies trying to avoid collision, the rolling thud was easily heard.
Aragorn rose to stand on his boulder, craning his neck to see what had happened — and then he froze. Stavhold, in the general commotion, had been knocked to the ground just in front of the group of men, and as Naraka had walked in, perfectly certain that the slaves had already recoiled at the rumor of his coming, his foot had caught on the fallen slave. The result was to land him hard on his chest in the loose gravel that coated the floor. A shocked silence followed, awe at the toppling of the feared captain stealing all words and freezing the slaves where they were — walking, half standing, turning.
Scrambling to his feet in what he obviously hoped was an imposing and deliberate manner, Naraka, Captain of Mt. Gundabad, nearly shrieked an order, his 'noble leader' veneer curling back to reveal his ugly temper in full. "SIT."
Everyone instantly found a place and sat in it, whether it was a rock, or merely the floor. There was no disobeying the captain when he was in this mood. Almost no disobeying. Aragorn was still standing, a virtual island in a sea of submission. Naraka, however, was too absorbed in the object of his embarrassment to notice. Stavhold was still on the ground, pinned now by Naraka's boot planted in the middle of his back. Without even a word, his face covered in rage, the captain set about spending his fury on the helpless man of Rohan, kicking at him again and again with his iron shod feet, landing blows in his side, battering and lashing repeatedly at his head. Viciously and mercilessly meting out punishment for his humiliation.
Aragorn, his blood heating in his veins, had slipped from his rock and begun to make his way forward when the beating started, but he was so far back in the crowded room that it was difficult to maneuver. Before he was even within half a dozen strides of helping, Stavhold had already been laid out helpless and gasping on the floor, and Naraka had raised his foot for a final blow, one that would most certainly break the man's neck.
"Captain."
The word carried much further than one would have thought possible, since it was neither a exclamation, nor a sharp order. Naraka became suddenly still, his face flattening into an unreadable expression, his foot lowering slowly to rest beside the half conscious slave's bleeding face.
In the entrance stood Lord Furnmorth. His face was calm, his bearing, as always, stately and assured, his clothing in perfect order, his sense full of the certain knowledge that his kingdom was completely under his command, and his eyes — as hard as hammered steel and as furious. Naraka almost flinched at the undiluted anger in his superior's eyes.
"Captain, I must speak with you in my chambers. You will meet me there." The words were smooth, like spider's silk. Very nearly concealing the dark, venomous monster that lurked at their center.
Naraka bowed. "Of course, my lord," he murmured, and left the room. Furnmorth followed the man's exit with his eyes, but not with his head, turning his attention back to his damaged property when the captain's footsteps had echoed away. He frowned, just noticeably.
Even as he watched, a tall, dark-haired young man pushed violently through the last of the slaves, dropping beside Stavhold and carefully turning him onto his back. The damage was severe, but it mostly involved the man's face, though blood was seeping through his clothes at other points as well. If nothing else, the man would probably loose his right eye, and maybe part of his ear as well. There was blood everywhere.
Furnmorth's frown deepened as he gazed at the ranger: this slave was not supposed to be here without leave. There was another rustle amongst the slaves as some in the back, thinking from the silence that the guards had left, started to rise, but Furnmorth's command brought them back down. The defiant slave paid the order no heed, still trying to mop the blood from Stavhold's face. And up above him, Furnmorth's green eyes narrowed to harsh slits, the fury they now held equal only to that which filled the eyes of Melkor when he first discovered that Ulmo was beyond his control, and the sea would not obey him.
Then, as if to confirm the comparison, the dark-haired slave raised his head and gave him a look that was half scorn, half anger, "You should find a way to manage your captain better."
The words were foolish, and Aragorn knew it, but his ire was too great to suppress. He waited for Stavhold's punishment to be brought down on himself and almost wished for it, but Furnmorth was not Naraka. He had not built up his great designs by being petty, or by wasting his time on those things which were below his notice. However, he *had* done so by being in control. Signaling a guard, he watched with apparent composure as his underling clubbed Aragorn hard upside the head, sending him crashing into the loose stones, and leaving a raised and bleeding lump on the side of the ranger's head.
As Furnmorth turned to go, he cast one last look at the slave who had defied him, to find the slave still looking at him, his hair matting where the blood trickled out. His blue eyes were unmoved.
//He will likely need to be handled at a later date, to prevent him from causing trouble, but for now he is one of the few slaves still in good condition.//
Furnmorth never wasted resources.
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Wasted resources… Striding down the passages towards the upper parts of the mountain, Furnmorth did not bother to slow for anyone, they all moved from his path. Seldom was the lord of Gundabad visibly angry like this, and the less of it his soldiers saw, the better, in their own opinion.
Naraka actually trembled when the chamber door slammed open to reveal his lord, standing perfectly still in the doorway, his hands resting easily at his sides as if he had never lifted them to the handle. "My lord." The captain bowed, hoping that perhaps some of Furnmorth's anger had cooled. It hadn't.
With one step, Furnmorth was in the room, and his hand was clasped around Naraka's neck, his fingers pressing firmly into the man's windpipe as his commanding eyes met the captain's cowering ones. "Never again, Naraka." He hissed softly, slowly cutting off the man's air. "*Never* again. If you fail me in a like manner a second time, if you loose for me even one more slave through your foolish behavior, I will personally divide your body and feed it to the army for extra rations. Can your mind accept that much?"
Naraka choked, his eyes bulging slightly as he fought for breath.
"Good."
Letting his subordinate fall, Furnmorth stalked down the hall, the sounds of ragged coughing, and his billowing cloak following him around the corner.
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"Strider, what happened?" Legolas demanded as his friend returned to his cutting block. The bleeding had stopped, but the ranger's hair was still dark and tangled where he had been struck, and his eyes were smoldering.
"Stavhold was beaten." Aragorn said shortly, picking up his cutters and going to work.
"And you?" Leoglas pressed, eyeing the ranger's head.
"No, not me," Aragorn replied briefly. "Furnmorth struck me for speaking out of turn, but it does not pain me anymore, so do not worry yourself."
"What about Stavhold?"
"He will live," the Dúnadan's face was stony, "but he will be weak, and I have no doubt they will order him to work again tomorrow, even if they *are* intent on preserving their workers." There was a hiss of steam from the cooling pools, emphasizing his bitter statement like an exclamation point.
They returned to their tasks as a guard looked their way, and Legolas allowed himself a brief moment of worry. Aragorn had crossed Furnmorth, and whether sooner, or later, that would most certainly cost him. Legolas only hoped the price would not be too great.
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The next day found Naraka again striding through 'his' domain, but there was no doubt amongst the rest of his men over who was truly in command.
Avoiding the captain all the same, the elf returned to his cutting block with yet another breastplate and set to work again, a faint *cchhing cccchhhhiiing* marking the progress of his cutters as they shaved away at the steel. A grunt of disgust caused Aragorn to risk a look away from his hands, just long enough to catch a matching look of aversion on the elf's face.
"What is the matter now?" He asked, almost acerbic.
Legolas continued to cut, shaking his head in wonder, "Strider, this armor isn't fit to use as protection against the *rain*, let alone arrows."
Aragorn grunted, "All the better, wouldn't you agree?"
The elf was almost talking to himself, "I could never stand putting work into poor material, and this… one arrow through the fastening hole here and you would pierce the wearer right through the throat. A squirrel could do better with tin."
"Just work, Legolas. There's no room for artistic elvish craftsmanship in here."
Detecting a faint note of humor in his friend's tone, the elf's heart lightened. He had not wanted the young man to know how ill he was beginning to feel, and had been distressed that it was evidently showing so clearly. The events of the day before had only compounded the young man's anxiety, but if Aragorn could still goad him, all was not yet too dark.
//But oh, for a bit of real light!// His hands shook even more today than formerly.
Laying aside his completed breastplate, Legolas walked over to the slowly diminishing stack of freshly molded pieces and selected a new one, hefting it easily enough, and stepping back to turn around. The side of his knee grazed a jagged edge that was protruding from the mound and he pulled away, fighting irritation with himself for being careless, and feeling a small trickle of blood stain his leggings. The movement would not have been a difficult one for an elf, even with a burden, to make, and he nearly managed it without trouble, but just as he was reaching perfect balance again, another slave brushed against his back. Stumbling suddenly, his tired body unable to handle the extra disturbance, Legolas took a step to compensate and strayed into the path of a second slave.
The two collided, the breastplate nearly flattening the man as Legolas lost hold of it completely, and the man's own burden, an iron cauldron, falling to the ground with a clang, splattering it's contents across the stone floor and partly over the elf's legs.
White hot agony coursed through Legolas, scorching like flame, and then continuing on beyond all description. Putting his hands down to pull himself away, his left hand suddenly blistered into searing pain also, driving all reason and all thoughts from his head. All thoughts except one. "STRIDER!"
Aragorn had not paid much attention to the echo of the collision; sudden noises were common in the foundries. Then the sound of a scream followed, and the scream was his own name. Leaping from his seat, the ranger dashed swiftly between the terrified slaves to the place where the breastplates had been piled, to find his friend writhing on the ground in agony, his legs and left hand clearly burned, and slowly cooling metal splashed all over the floor. The new slaves stood absolutely still, their minds numb with horror at the spectacle. The old continued work. This was much less daunting than the *last* incident.
Pulling his friend swiftly away from the burning pool, Aragorn felt fear rise in him as his friend gasped and cried out again and again, struggling with the pain that was flowing all through him. Again and again he called the ranger's name, sometimes in the common tongue, sometimes in elvish, his mind seeming to find no other outlet than the one word.
Slowly he began to calm, apparently trying to contain himself, and his jaw clenched visibly as his body shuddered with reaction and shock. Aragorn held the elf's good hand, fumbling in his belt pouch for the last of the medicine he had stored there, hoping for something that would at least grant his friend sleep—
"What is the meaning of this?" A cold voice demanded, the tall form of Balkhfiren, Naraka's lieutenant, appearing as if out of no where at the edge of the circle. "Why are you no longer working?"
The other slaves did not try to excuse themselves, but instead turned back to their tasks. All except for Aragorn, who, for the second time in as many days, remained on the floor, and Kelegalen, who had pushed his way through from the mould workings.
"Sir," Aragorn ground out, trying desperately not to antagonize the lieutenant for fear he might refuse, "if you wish to avoid the loss of a — skilled slave, I can treat him."
Balkhfiren eyed him, perhaps searching for the defiance that Aragorn had shown Furnmorth. Then, though Aragorn could not tell why, he commanded abruptly, "Take it away. You have two hours." Turning on his heel, he left, his footsteps lost amongst the clanging noise that had filled the room once more.
"Here, let me help." Kelegalen stooped down as Aragorn shifted himself to lift his friend.
The ranger demurred, "You'll be punished if they find you away from your work."
"Let them." The man of Rohan was firm.
Carefully easing Legolas over his shoulder with Kelegalen's aid, Aragorn could feel the elf tensing at each movement, soft cries escaping his lips whenever his burned legs touched anything.
When the two men finally laid the elven prince gently on the slave chamber floor, they were not surprised to see him go limp, finally loosing all consciousness. His face was contorted and his hands clenched, but Aragorn had no time to dwell on it.
"Hand me my cloak, Kelegalen. We must work quickly." Tearing the green cloak into narrow strips, they cleaned the scorched legs as best they could and bound them, grateful that the burns, though incredibly painful, were not as critical as they had thought, and that the strips of cloth around the elf's hand had protected it from at least some of the metal.
"He will not be able to walk for nearly a week." Kelegalen shook his head, as Aragorn packed away the few herbs that remained.
The ranger disagreed, "No, a few days at most: elves heal much faster than men. His legs *will* continue to pain him for a long while, I fear, and his hand most of all, but I am grateful that at least it was protected enough that he will be able to draw a bow again when he returns home."
Kelegalen appeared taken aback at the Dúnadan's certainty, but Aragorn was too occupied with settling his friend in as comfortably as he could to notice.
TBC…