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Chapter 6 - The Hasty Retreat
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The Faradrim didn't waste any time, not wanting to risk the chance being caught, or worse. They broke camp in a flurry of activity, packing the wagons and harnessing their horses quickly. Callin thought it ironic that, thanks to the elf's antics, they would be traveling with a much lighter load then had been planned; it had truly aided them in quickening their retreat.
They were but three days from the agreed upon meeting place and six days from the scheduled rendezvous with Daris. If all went well, the elf would be disposed of in time to meet up with his brother.
Callin swaggered casually toward the furious elf glaring at him from across the now disassembled camp, a crooked grin spread across his face and a large fur draped across his arm. Closing the distance between them, he said, "I believe I shall dearly miss your loving gaze this day," and with that, he threw the large skin over the elf to keep it from being seen then lashed the pole that held him to the side of one of the wagons.
Rúmil thought he would suffocate under the heavy, sweltering fur blanketing him which, combined with the choking gag cutting into the skin of his mouth, made each draw of breath a struggle. His wrists and legs below the knees were painfully numb, his shoulders and hips throbbing, and each jerk of the wagon sent ripping jolts of pain into his joints.
He tucked his head between his arms and leaned it against the side of the wagon, trying desperately to relieve the stress in his neck and back. Haldir would be furious when he learned of his carelessness, Rúmil thought with a wince. And Orophin…, oh, sweet, Eru. If he made it out of this alive, they would most surely kill him.
He'd had but brief encounters with the Edain and those had always been in the company of, or as he would often argue, under the protection of, Haldir. They were Gatherings of mutual benefit to share knowledge and wares, and those they had dealt with were, for the most part, of noble spirit. However, Haldir never failed to urge him and Orophin to be wary, to use caution, for in his travels on behalf of the Lord and Lady, he had become chillingly aware of the darker side of Men.
Rúmil pulled against the bonds that held him once more but there was no give; they had been tied too well. He clenched his hands tightly, ignoring the burning pain in his palms as he continued to berate himself.
'Foolish, stupid elfling!'
His thoughts suddenly went to Anendel, his friend for millennia. He was still unsure as to whether Anendel had been discovered, and he dare not ask, not wanting to alert the feredir to the presence of yet another injured elf. He would not risk his capture and hoped that he was still safe in the shelter of the trees.
'Elbereth, saes, let him be well.'
Wanting to put as much distant between themselves and the forest as possible, the Faradrim only stopped to make camp when the horses began to stumble in the darkness.
The captive elf was lifted from the side of the wagon only to be propped up again between the same wagon he had been hanging from and another, receiving no respite at all for his aching joints.
Callin pulled the fur covering his prize away abruptly, and Rúmil blinked rapidly, trying to gulp fresh air through the gag. Reaching behind the elf's head, Callin removed the cloth from his mouth, allowing him to catch his breath before tipping a water skin to his lips, and Rúmil hesitated only briefly before giving in to his burning thirst.
"So, my dear elf, you have yet to ask me how it is that I was able to come by your acquaintance."
"I care not," Rúmil whispered, as he struggled to keep his head upright.
Rúmil was only half listening to the man as he took in his surroundings. Even in the dark, he could easily determine how far they had traveled by using familiar landmarks. They had moved further south then he would have liked but were still relatively close to Elven territory.
Callin smiled evenly at the elf's brusque reply, but continued, "I'm actually surprised that the trap worked but work it did, and quite well I might add."
Grinning, Callin clasped his hands behind his back and began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"Hmm, I might have to try it again," and Rúmil stiffened slightly, thinking of Anendel as the man continued to prattle on. "Aye, I could perhaps find you a companion, a playfellow. Someone to keep you company when I'm too busy to spend time with you."
Callin continued to grin broadly, and, oh, how Rúmil wished he had an arrow to shove through his eye. The man's conceit was beyond reason.
"But the trap itself was not sufficient; you escaped that easily enough. You see, it was the toxin on the wire that actually ensnared you, pretty one."
Outwardly, Rúmil showed no emotion, refusing to give the adan the satisfaction of a response, but inwardly, his mind was whirling.
'Toxin?' Then he remembered the dew that he had seen coating the wire.
"We sometime use it on our snares. It prevents escape by calming an animal to stillness then keeps the blood from clotting so that it dies more quickly, causing less damage to the pelt," and with a dismissive wave of his hand, he added, "and it's kinder that way."
Rúmil's hands twisted in his bonds. What of Anendel? Was he dying? Was he still up in the boughs of the tree waiting for his return? What if he fell? What if he was bleeding to death while he was being carried further and further away?
"See," Callin pointed to Rúmil's roughly bandaged arm and hands, "your wounds still bleed, and this one…" and he leaned over and jabbed at the wound on Rúmil's arm, "…needs stitching. I guess I should do something about that. You're leaving quite a trail, and I wouldn't want you to bleed out before we reach our destination."
Smirking, Callin reached into his pocket to remove a small pouch, and said, "I keep this on hand in case I or my men accidentally get nicked while using the toxin. Even on the tiniest of cuts, it can be quite painful."
Rúmil watched warily as the man removed the dirty bandages then dipped his fingers into the pouch, sprinkling a bluish powder into the wounds on his hands and arm then back away, his eyes alight with anticipation.
At first, Rúmil felt only a slight tingling, which was actually a relief from the cold numbness in his hands, but then the wounds began to warm uncomfortably, and he squirmed slightly in discomfort.
He was beginning to think the Faradrim just had a ridiculously low tolerance to pain, when he was suddenly enveloped by a wave of liquid fire. His body began to jerk wildly, tearing already strained ligaments and sinew. Unable to hold back any longer, Rúmil let loose a blood-curdling scream that ripped through the air like an arrow.
Callin watched the elf's writhing body intently and laughed when his men clasped their hands to the side of their heads as the scream rent the air. After what seemed like hours, the elf's wild jerking finally slackened, and his eyes slid closed, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps as the pain followed him into unconsciousness.
Callin shifted slightly, becoming aware of the tightness in his breeches and sniffed; the elf's struggles had gone straight to his groin. Moving around the wagon and out of view of the men sitting around the fire, he took himself in hand while watching the still twitching elf in front of him. Excited as he was, it did not take long for him to find his release.
The sound of a carnal grunt caught the others' attention, and they snickered and nudged each other roughly as a flushed Callin popped up from behind the elf, casting them a silent warning. Callin glared at them for just a few moments longer before he leaned down and with an almost tender touch, began to stitch the elf's arm.
It was still dark when Rúmil once again became aware. His arm and hands had been rebandaged and the filthy gag shoved back into his mouth. His entire body felt weak and aching, and his head hung bonelessly from his shoulders. It was still hours before dawn, and the men were asleep around a small but brightly, burning fire. Well, most were asleep by the fire; his tormentor lay but a few feet away.
Slowly pulling his head up, his gaze drifted to the stars, his thoughts wandering amongst the twinkling lights. He suddenly felt very small and insignificant against the vast, sprawling beauty of the nighttime sky, and looking away abruptly, he searched for something else to occupy is mind.
A small group of fireflies drawn to the flickering flames of the campfire hovered cheerily nearby. He locked his eyes on them, watching their intricate dance. They flitted closer, clustering above him, and it seemed to Rúmil that they danced just for him. Lulled by the graceful ballet of movement, he drifted slowly back into reverie, the cold, dull ache that had awakened inside his chest easing a little in their company.
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Anendel awoke numb and woozy to a sparkling, purple twilight. He released a contented sigh, lazily admiring the awakening night, until a wet, sticky feeling drew his surprised gaze downward away from the stars to the wrappings on his chest and arms. They were bright crimson, soaked through with blood and with a loud, grief-stricken cry, the memory of what had happened flooded back into his mind.
'Rúmil!'
It was to his great relief that he found that he could finally twitch a finger, the hand soon followed. An arm followed the hand, and shortly thereafter, his feet and legs complied. Grimacing, he hastily examined the bandages around his chest while trying to figure out how long he had been out; it could not have been too long, for his wounds showed no signs of healing.
Still unsteady, it was morning before he managed to work his way out of the tree, slipping dangerously from branch to branch, lower and lower, until he fell in a graceless heap into the leaf litter below. He lay there for some time before he was able to bring himself to his hands and knees and crawling over to the tree that had veiled and sheltered him, thanked it for its protection. Pulling himself up, he swayed wildly and almost stumbled to his knees once more.
Now on his feet, he considered what to do next. Should he go in the direction that Rúmil had been taken? He knew that there was something wrong with him and that if he fell, help would never come in time. His only other option was to get help either from another patrol or from Caras Galadhon. He looked once more in the direction that the Faradrim had gone, praying to Elbereth to protect Rúmil. Taking a deep breath and gathering his strength, it was with great anxiety and a heaviness of heart that he turned and headed in the opposite direction.
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Sudden movement brought Rúmil back to awareness. He was again being covered and lashed to the side of the wagon. It had been barely dawn when the men had resumed their retreat, and as the day progressed, the temperatures under the fur climbed higher and higher. The men had stopped for brief periods during the day, but Rúmil had remained covered, hidden from view.
On the second night, Rúmil was denied the serenity of the nighttime sky when a blindfold was tied roughly over his eyes.
"I'm sorry about this," said Callin derisively, "but my men find your lovely eyes constantly glaring at them a distraction; you are making them uncomfortable."
The next two days were a painful, suffocating blur, relief from the covering coming only after the passing of Anor. Rúmil remained blindfolded and gagged and was given neither food nor water. He could feel his body weakening and his chance of escape diminishing.
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~* To Be Continued *~
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