Nimoë staggered along behind her captors.  They had tied a rope around her neck and any time she lagged behind, the Man holding the end of the rope gave a hard yank.  Her body bruised, unable to breathe fully around the gag, Nimoë struggled to keep her feet, and her head.  She could easily have escaped into that place of nothingness that beckoned to her.  She remembered it well, from her captivity in Rohan.  Aside from the pain, she had found solace in the memory of Legolas, although at the time they'd been no more than friends.

As another yank on the rope choked her and the harsh fibers tore at the already bloodied skin of her neck, she turned her despair to anger, her fear to rage.  They were hurting Darion.  From farther up the procession, she could hear his cries, not only of fear, but of pain.  Still, even those cries were a reassurance.  Her son had been unconscious for nearly half of an hour after the attack.  Nimoë had been sure her heart would break from fear.  She could not lose Caldarion.

They had been traveling steadily east.  The trees grew thick and little light filtered through, but Nimoë was sure that it was nearing night.  Legolas would be missing them.  As soon as he realized they were gone, she was sure that he would send out search parties, but what was the chance that their trail would be found with any speed?  She could not rely on rescue. Not for her son.  She must be ready.

The men who had captured them clearly knew her, at least by reputation, or they would not have known to gag her.  Their speech was mostly unintelligible, guttural like Dwarvish, but certainly not derived from the same root.  Occasionally they used the Common Speech, but not often.  It was enough for her to guess at their identity and their purpose.  These were Easterlings, descendants of those Men who had fought with the Dark Lord Sauron during the War of the Ring.

They were a rough band, with ragged clothes and harsh actions.  More than one blow had been exchanged over who would guard the prisoners.  It had also become clear that they wanted her alive.  She'd heard the name "Elf-Witch," and her memory flew back to the last one to call her by that name, Grima Wormtongue.  He had spoken the words with fear.  The Easterlings spoke it with loathing, but a hint of respect.  They needed her power.

"Move your feet, Witch," her guard hissed, pulling again on the rope.  "We've got to make camp by nightfall."

Nimoë ached to raise her hands to her neck, to ease the chafing of the rope, but her hands were bound firmly behind her.  Caldarion screamed again and Nimoë felt tears seep from the corners of her eyes to soak into the fabric of her gag.

Camp, as it turned out, was more like a tiny town.  Rough buildings clung to the ground in an effort not to fall.  A large fire burned near the center, and the familiar smell of stewing meat filled the air.  Nimoë saw that there were no women, so she guessed this to be an outpost rather than a village.

Her body ached and her head swam.  She'd been knocked to the ground repeatedly, and the effort of keeping watch for any sign of weakness had worn her down to the point she could hardly keep her feet, but she forced herself to stand straight.  This was the home of the enemy, and she would not show weakness.

She was brought to the door of the largest building, which was covered only by a piece of heavy linen, and two men shoved her through.  She landed hard on her shoulder and the side of her head, as she could not use her hands to break her fall.

A low laugh echoed through the room.  "So, they have finally brought me the Elf-Witch.  I have waited long to make your acquaintance."

Nimoë struggled to her knees.  Before her, a giant of a man sat at his leisure in a carved throne.  His hair was the color of smoldering embers, and his eyes were so dark they seemed to hold no color at all.  What stole Nimoë's breath, however, was his face.

He bore the same massive handprint scar that had been seared into the face of Caldarion's namesake.

She sank back onto her heels.

"You recognize the mark, don't you?  Did it never occur to you that a master may have more than one servant?"

Nimoë shook her head in mute denial.

The man rose from his throne, towering over the Elf maid.  "I felt it happen, Witch.  I felt his scream as you ripped his hope for rebirth from his very grasp!"

Nimoë fell back in the face of his white hot rage.

"You will suffer for what you have done!"  He kicked out and Nimoë felt a shock of pain as his booted foot crashed into her ribs, sending her sprawling.  "Oh, yes, you will suffer."  One more kick, and Nimoë's vision blurred.  "But I need you conscious."  He spoke softly now, as if to himself.  "I need your power, to release my master from his imprisonment.  Somehow, I think you will resist.  But perhaps I have a way to convince you.  Guards!  Bring him!"

The linen door covering was pulled aside, and two Easterlings stepped inside, pulling Darion between them.  His face was bruised and dried blood trailed down from his nose, but he was not bound.

Nimoë groaned as she struggled to reach her son, pain lancing through her ribs.

"Nimi!" Darion cried, a note of hysteria in his voice.  "Darion scared!"  He rushed towards her, and Nimoë leaned forward, unable to wrap him in her arms, but wanting to give him what little comfort she could.

His little arms were a breath away when he was snatched up and tossed none to gently at the feet of the giant, who reached down and scooped up the boy.  Darion went stiff in his massive arms.

"A lovely boy.  It would be a shame if he were marred..."  With a motion so swift that Nimoë could hardly follow it, he pulled a dagger from its sheath at his waist and held it up to Caldarion's cheek.  The child did not flinch, seemingly aware of the gravity of his situation.

The knife pressed harder against his soft white skin, and then the giant gave a quick flick of his wrist, cutting into Darion's undefended face.  Nimoë couldn't hold back the scream deep in her throat, strangled though it was by the gag, and she threw herself towards the giant.

He laughed, a cold, mirthless sound, and pulled the knife away from Caldarion, who was weeping quietly.  "Oh?  You would rather that I didn't harm your son?  That is easily arranged.  All you have to do is release my master from his prison.  Give him your body as the willing vessel for his rebirth.  Do this, and I will see that no one harms a hair on this little boy's head."  He dropped down onto his heels and smiled coldly at Nimoë as she lay on her side on the floorboard.  "Do we have an agreement?"

She could no longer hold back her tears.  Darion!  Elbereth, no!  I cannot make this choice.  I cannot!  What must I do?

Her shoulders slumped and she nodded her accord.