Sal woke, his chest throbbing in time to the beating of his heart, each
breath tearing at the wound and threatening to reopen it if he breathed too
deeply. He wished he could sink back into the blessed oblivion that was
unconsciousness, but pulled himself to a sitting position. The movement
caused pain to flare through his chest again, and he bit his lip to stop
himself crying out.
He looked at the wound through the tear in his shirt. The blade appeared to have slid across a rib, so there was no serious damage, but the cut had bled considerably. There was no red swelling as there had been around the cut on his arm, so he guessed it wasn't poisoned, but he had grave doubts about the cleanliness of the wound.
He then turned his attention outside, and saw that he was lying some distance below the road, shielded from view by boulders and rocks. He had been fortunate.
The thought reminded him, and he looked about urgently for his sword. It lay above him, where he must have dropped it as he fell. Fighting through the pain that obstructed his movements, he crawled to it and picked it up. It was undamaged, but the blade was stained with orc blood. Sal cleaned it as best he could on his shirt, and sheathed it again.
He leaned his back against a rock and closed his eyes, momentarily exhausted by his actions. He had to work out what to do next. He was alone now, with no king to give him orders.
King Elessar! What had happened to the others? Perhaps they had defeated the orcs and were even now looking for him. Or perhaps they had been captured. The thought was worrying, but not so worrying as the third possibility. That they had been victorious, but had carried on their journey without him. Abandoning him as punishment for his cowardliness.
Sal had said he would be willing to die by the king's side, but had proved otherwise. When his life had been in danger, he had fled like the coward he was. What could he do now? He had no food, no supplies, and no hope of finding his way home on his own. Even if he could get home, he was have to admit to what he had done. Shame burned Sal's heart. He had abandoned his companions and thought only of himself.
A new resolve hardened in him. He would find out what had happened to the others. If they were dead, he would seek to avenge them until he too died. If they lived he would beg the king's forgiveness. If they were captured, he would do all he could to rescue them, to make amends for what he had done.
***
Pippin woke slowly, his head throbbing. His wrists ached painfully. Once he cleared his mind of the fog of pain, he realised why. His arms had been tied tightly behind his back. He was somewhere dark, with a tiny amount of light creeping in through a rectangle of thin cracks. He guessed that was the door. With this dim light, he could see he was in a small room. He could see something near him. Something moving.
"Who's there?" Pippin demanded, fearfully. The something jerked, startled.
"Pip?" Pippin recognised the voice.
"Merry?"
"Where are we, Pip?"
"Prisoners of the orcs, I guess."
"It always happens to us, doesn't it?" Pippin smiled at Merry's weak joke.
"Yes, it does," he agreed.
"At least our chances are better this time."
"We did all right last time."
"I know," Merry said, "but this time we won't have to escape on our own. Strider will be able to come and rescue us." As they sat in their dark cell, Pippin didn't voice the fear they were both feeling, that perhaps Strider was in the same situation as they were.
***
Aragorn was roused by having a bucket of dirty water thrown over him. He had only a moment to come to terms with his consciousness when hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him forwards. His knees scraped painfully against the rough floor. He tried to pull himself free enough to stand, but the hands gripped tightly, and his wrists were bound behind his back so he couldn't strike them. He fought on as best he could, but for the most part his captors ignored him, dragging him onwards. As he struggled, a pain seared through his left leg. A jerk from his captors jarred it, and pain blossomed like a white-hot fire, blanking out his mind and causing red dots to swim before his eyes. A broken bone, he guessed, once the pain had dimmed enough to let him think.
Resigned that he would not escape, at least not yet, he took in his surroundings. He was being dragged through a tunnel, freshly hewn from the marks on the walls. The two who dragged him were orcs of the same breed as those who had attacked the company. Others walked behind as guards.
The orcs dragged him through a door, and dumped him on the floor of a large room, forcing him to kneel before an empty throne. He leg cried in protest, but there was nothing he could do. The orcs held him down, waiting for something.
Aragorn wondered what had happened to his friends. Were they captives here too? He thought back to the attack. Merry had fallen, struck over the head, and Pippin was either dead or unconscious the last time Aragorn had seen him. Legolas had still be fighting when Aragorn had passed out, as had Gimli. He hadn't been able to see Faramir for the orcs that surrounded them. And as for Salafir.
Aragorn had seen him flee from the battle. It would have been better if he had stayed in Ithilien. He was little more than a boy, and untrained. Aragorn should never have let him come on this quest. If the orcs sent trackers after him, he would have no way to avoid them and no skill to defeat them. He was certain to die, and Aragorn would be the cause.
No. Aragorn berated himself for giving in so soon. There would be some way out of this predicament, and if there wasn't he would make a way. It was not for a Ranger to give in so easily.
There was some hope, for himself as for the other members of the company. He had the hope that Sal had managed to escape the orcs. At least one member of the company was free. That it was Sal gave Aragorn greater hope, since he was certain Sal was the one Galadrial had spoken of.
Aragorn was jerked from his thoughts when the door was flung open, banging against the wall. He turned his head to see a figure, robed in black stride into the room, going to his place on the throne. Aragorn froze. He known this, yet it was still a shock to see. The terror he had been trying to prepare for since he had looked into the Palantir in Minas Tirrith was nothing compared to seeing this now. The face that looked down at him was one he recognised, though the eyes now burned red as though lit by fire from this inside. The expression was one that did not belong on that face, and it made Aragorn feel sick to see it. "Well, Aragorn," the figure spoke, mocking him with his friend's face, "it is a long time since I last saw you." Then he laughed at Aragorn's shock and disgust. Aragorn did not speak. He knew this was merely an illusion. It was not his friend who sat on that throne, looking down on him so scornfully. This man was not Boromir.
***
Author's note: I love evil cliffhangers. And remember, if you kill me or even just beat me into a pulp over this one, I won't be able to type up the next part. I thought it would be good to give a slight change of perspective for this chapter, as well as beginning to explain what's happening. Just not why or how.
He looked at the wound through the tear in his shirt. The blade appeared to have slid across a rib, so there was no serious damage, but the cut had bled considerably. There was no red swelling as there had been around the cut on his arm, so he guessed it wasn't poisoned, but he had grave doubts about the cleanliness of the wound.
He then turned his attention outside, and saw that he was lying some distance below the road, shielded from view by boulders and rocks. He had been fortunate.
The thought reminded him, and he looked about urgently for his sword. It lay above him, where he must have dropped it as he fell. Fighting through the pain that obstructed his movements, he crawled to it and picked it up. It was undamaged, but the blade was stained with orc blood. Sal cleaned it as best he could on his shirt, and sheathed it again.
He leaned his back against a rock and closed his eyes, momentarily exhausted by his actions. He had to work out what to do next. He was alone now, with no king to give him orders.
King Elessar! What had happened to the others? Perhaps they had defeated the orcs and were even now looking for him. Or perhaps they had been captured. The thought was worrying, but not so worrying as the third possibility. That they had been victorious, but had carried on their journey without him. Abandoning him as punishment for his cowardliness.
Sal had said he would be willing to die by the king's side, but had proved otherwise. When his life had been in danger, he had fled like the coward he was. What could he do now? He had no food, no supplies, and no hope of finding his way home on his own. Even if he could get home, he was have to admit to what he had done. Shame burned Sal's heart. He had abandoned his companions and thought only of himself.
A new resolve hardened in him. He would find out what had happened to the others. If they were dead, he would seek to avenge them until he too died. If they lived he would beg the king's forgiveness. If they were captured, he would do all he could to rescue them, to make amends for what he had done.
***
Pippin woke slowly, his head throbbing. His wrists ached painfully. Once he cleared his mind of the fog of pain, he realised why. His arms had been tied tightly behind his back. He was somewhere dark, with a tiny amount of light creeping in through a rectangle of thin cracks. He guessed that was the door. With this dim light, he could see he was in a small room. He could see something near him. Something moving.
"Who's there?" Pippin demanded, fearfully. The something jerked, startled.
"Pip?" Pippin recognised the voice.
"Merry?"
"Where are we, Pip?"
"Prisoners of the orcs, I guess."
"It always happens to us, doesn't it?" Pippin smiled at Merry's weak joke.
"Yes, it does," he agreed.
"At least our chances are better this time."
"We did all right last time."
"I know," Merry said, "but this time we won't have to escape on our own. Strider will be able to come and rescue us." As they sat in their dark cell, Pippin didn't voice the fear they were both feeling, that perhaps Strider was in the same situation as they were.
***
Aragorn was roused by having a bucket of dirty water thrown over him. He had only a moment to come to terms with his consciousness when hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him forwards. His knees scraped painfully against the rough floor. He tried to pull himself free enough to stand, but the hands gripped tightly, and his wrists were bound behind his back so he couldn't strike them. He fought on as best he could, but for the most part his captors ignored him, dragging him onwards. As he struggled, a pain seared through his left leg. A jerk from his captors jarred it, and pain blossomed like a white-hot fire, blanking out his mind and causing red dots to swim before his eyes. A broken bone, he guessed, once the pain had dimmed enough to let him think.
Resigned that he would not escape, at least not yet, he took in his surroundings. He was being dragged through a tunnel, freshly hewn from the marks on the walls. The two who dragged him were orcs of the same breed as those who had attacked the company. Others walked behind as guards.
The orcs dragged him through a door, and dumped him on the floor of a large room, forcing him to kneel before an empty throne. He leg cried in protest, but there was nothing he could do. The orcs held him down, waiting for something.
Aragorn wondered what had happened to his friends. Were they captives here too? He thought back to the attack. Merry had fallen, struck over the head, and Pippin was either dead or unconscious the last time Aragorn had seen him. Legolas had still be fighting when Aragorn had passed out, as had Gimli. He hadn't been able to see Faramir for the orcs that surrounded them. And as for Salafir.
Aragorn had seen him flee from the battle. It would have been better if he had stayed in Ithilien. He was little more than a boy, and untrained. Aragorn should never have let him come on this quest. If the orcs sent trackers after him, he would have no way to avoid them and no skill to defeat them. He was certain to die, and Aragorn would be the cause.
No. Aragorn berated himself for giving in so soon. There would be some way out of this predicament, and if there wasn't he would make a way. It was not for a Ranger to give in so easily.
There was some hope, for himself as for the other members of the company. He had the hope that Sal had managed to escape the orcs. At least one member of the company was free. That it was Sal gave Aragorn greater hope, since he was certain Sal was the one Galadrial had spoken of.
Aragorn was jerked from his thoughts when the door was flung open, banging against the wall. He turned his head to see a figure, robed in black stride into the room, going to his place on the throne. Aragorn froze. He known this, yet it was still a shock to see. The terror he had been trying to prepare for since he had looked into the Palantir in Minas Tirrith was nothing compared to seeing this now. The face that looked down at him was one he recognised, though the eyes now burned red as though lit by fire from this inside. The expression was one that did not belong on that face, and it made Aragorn feel sick to see it. "Well, Aragorn," the figure spoke, mocking him with his friend's face, "it is a long time since I last saw you." Then he laughed at Aragorn's shock and disgust. Aragorn did not speak. He knew this was merely an illusion. It was not his friend who sat on that throne, looking down on him so scornfully. This man was not Boromir.
***
Author's note: I love evil cliffhangers. And remember, if you kill me or even just beat me into a pulp over this one, I won't be able to type up the next part. I thought it would be good to give a slight change of perspective for this chapter, as well as beginning to explain what's happening. Just not why or how.