Kindness of an Enemy Hand
Dusk was falling as Shushuah entered her father's tent. She hung one of the lamps she carried on the elaborately worked bamboo stand near the door, and approached him as he sat at his work table surrounded by the usual piles of dispatches, maps and other important papers. In one fluid, graceful motion she knelt at his feet, rose and pressed her cheek to his in greeting. "Good evening, my Father," she said in a soft voice, placing the other lamp on the table before him.
Al-jur Dhan absently returned his daughter's greeting. "Good evening, 'Shuah," he returned without looking up from his paperwork. Shushuah began moving some of the papers, piling them neatly. That caught his attention. "What – don't move those," he said peevishly, retrieving them from her grasp. "I need those."
"It will soon be time for the evening meal," said his daughter, continuing to stack the papers on the edge of the table. "We need a place to eat." She gathered several large maps in her arms and turned to put them on a small trunk nearby. It was then she saw the sleeping form of a man sprawled on the floor. "Oh!" she said in surprise. Placing the maps on the trunk she stepped cautiously across the rug-covered ground and looked down. She turned back to her father. "Who is this?" she asked in a quiet voice.
Dhan put an elbow on the table, rubbing his forefinger across his upper lip. "That is a son of Gondor, 'Shuah, some of the spawn of the north. What do you think of him?" His black eyes gleamed with curiosity as he watched her reaction.
Shushuah had never seen a man from Gondor; never seen anyone not of the race of Harad. Now she knelt down and studied the man before her. She would guess him to be in his twenties, a trifle older than she. His skin was pale, and; "His hair is strange."
"Many in the north have hair that color," said Dhan, "Some have hair even lighter than his, nearly the color of gold."
Shushuah's mouth thinned as she pressed her lips together in suspicion, wondering if her father was speaking the truth or toying with her, mocking her ignorance. She turned back to examine the captive more closely. "He is wounded," she said, her eyes taking in the various injuries, "and someone has beaten him."
"Jekarr caught him," Dhan returned evenly.
Shushuah considered this, noting that her father had not said his second-in-command was responsible for the injuries. She decided not to press for further information and instead said nothing for a long while, examining everything about the foreigner with her sharp eyes. His face was scratched and bruised and crusted with dried blood, some of which still oozed slowly from his nose, while the wounds on his leg and ribs had bled enough to trail across his body and leave dark wet spots on the rug beneath him. Almost every part of him that Shushuah could see had some sort of mark evident on the pale white skin.
His back was pushed up against the support pole of the tent, with his legs folded partly under him, the injured one not held as closely as the other, while his hands were pulled behind the pole and tied together, keeping him from leaning too far one way or another. His head lay awkwardly to one side, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Shushuah was tempted to reach forward and move it to another spot, but hesitated, wondering what her father would think. She was spared having to decide whether or not to do it by his sudden startle as he awoke. He jerked slightly and his eyes opened wide for a moment before the heavy lids slid back down halfway, giving him a dazed, bewildered look. His brow wrinkled in confusion as he looked at her.
Shushuah drew back in astonishment. Green eyes? Eyes the color of new leaves as they appeared on a barolive tree? She looked to her father for explanation, noting that he had risen from his cushion and now stood above her. "His eyes…" she said faintly.
"Yes, what do you think of that?" She could tell he was amused by her surprise. "Some of their people have blue ones, too, or a pale brown." He gave a laugh that held little humor. "Some of them are darker, but by and large they are an odd-looking race."
Looking back at the prisoner, Shushuah saw those green eyes fill with alarm as her father spoke. The muscles of the man's throat rippled as he swallowed hard and forced himself to look up, then his gaze faltered and fell back to the floor. Her father grunted in approval.
"You are learning, aren't you?" he said, reaching out and patting the fair head with his hand before it was jerked away angrily and the young man clenched his teeth and raised his strange eyes to Dhan's again. Dhan said nothing, only let one side of his mouth curl up in wry amusement. "Yes, a prince." He said softly.
Boromir let his eyes close for a moment, both to shut out the sight of the Haradrim general and to try desperately to remember – anything. He remembered leaving the Ranger camp, riding through the woods, seeing dark faces in the trees. After that only broken shards of memory, fighting, a searing pain in his hip and thigh, being flung over a horse's back, dumped in the sand. The man with black eyes speaking, and pain, like a living thing, biting and tearing at him. Talk of killing and Faramir – his heart beat wildly for a moment before the rest of memory surfaced. No, it had been a lie, a trick to learn his identity. He rested his head back against the pole behind him, feeling the tender lump there. When had that happened? Where was he?
"He is a prince?" Shushuah asked, watching as he struggled to orient himself.
"He is the son of the leader of Gondor."
"What are you going to do with him?" She was almost certain she knew the answer before the question was out of her mouth.
"He goes to the King," said Dhan, "and then, perhaps, Mordor."
The green eyes flew open as the captive recognized the word and Shushuah felt a pang of sympathy at the look of horror on his face.
"Pardon me, my Master?" The guard who always stood outside the tent flap looked in. "There is a messenger here for you, sir." A slight man wrapped in a dusty cloak peered over the guard's shoulder.
"Send him in," said Dhan. He looked down at Shushuah. "Give him some water, and something to eat." He returned to his seat at the table. "See if you can clean him up, if you want." He waved the messenger in to him.
Shushuah rose immediately and went to the water skin at its usual place in the rear of the tent. Pouring a cupful, she returned to the prisoner and gently lifted it to his lips. He drew back and she could see the uncertainty in his eyes. "It is water," she said in an encouraging voice. Speaking softly so her father would not hear, she whispered the word in Westron. "Water."
Boromir looked at the girl, mystified. Who was she? How would she know the word for 'water'? The black-eyed man's voice was murmuring quietly now, speaking to someone at the other side of the tent and Boromir felt his insides quiver as he listened. He was afraid. The sound had made his blood go cold seconds ago, and even after he had made himself look upward into those pitiless black eyes, he had been unable to keep from dropping his gaze. Only the man's condescending pat on his head had angered him enough to let him meet his eyes once more. His body and mind were tense with fear, and he hated himself for it.
"My lord," the girl before him said faintly, again in his own tongue. She offered the cup again. "It is water." She spoke once more in her own language, loudly for her father and the other man to hear. "Water, come now." She looked at him, trying to reassure him with her eyes and a smile.
Hesitantly, Boromir leaned forward a little and let her raise the edge of the cup to his mouth. The cool water slid across his tongue and throat, easing the parched membranes and washing the taste of blood from his lips. He drank it all, letting her tip the cup as he swallowed the last precious drops. She smiled at him and went to refill it. He drank all of that one, too, and when he finished he let his head fall back against the pole again and breathed out a sigh. He closed his eyes, feeling his heart fluttering in his chest and the dizziness in his head. He must be close to done in if he felt this badly upon awakening, he thought. He had lost a lot of blood, he was sure of that, judging by how he felt and the amount of it he could see smeared across his body. Every bit of him hurt, it was only a question of degree. His ribs and head were merely a dull, burning ache, while an experimental shift of his leg brought the pain in his hip roaring back to full strength. He groaned and tried to concentrate on remaining still, feeling the weariness already beginning to creep back over him.
Shushuah returned the cup to its place, noticing her father and the messenger were now intently pouring over a map the newcomer had produced. She could see her father's brows were knitted together and his questions were sharp and short. The smaller man was trying to answer him, but Dhan kept interrupting, his voice irritated, until at last with an exclamation of anger, he snatched the map and a letter from the table and stalked from the tent, trailed by the cowed courier. "I have to speak with Jekarr," he threw over his shoulder on his way out. She bowed her head to acknowledge his words. Going to the back of the tent, she picked up a deep bowl and with a quick glance at her charge, who had not changed his position, she slipped out of the tent flap.
At the side of the tent she filled the bowl with warm water from a black waterskin hung there, watching the last streaks of red fade from the sky. The strength of the sun assured any desert traveler with the right knowledge an unending supply of heated water. This skin had hung all day and the water was hot. Returning to the tent with her bowl, Shushuah took a small cloth and returned to the Gondorian, exactly as she had left him.
She did not realize he had dozed off again until the unexpected touch of the warm water on his face caused him to wrench away from the wet cloth in alarm. Shushuah pulled back in surprise and consternation as he was brought up short by his bound hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said softly, seeing his face turn ashen with agony as each wound was re-opened and the pain renewed. He hunched there for a moment, his face drained of color, and she waited, regretting that she had caused him more hurt. When his breathing steadied, she soaked the cloth again and once more touched it to his face. This time he sat motionless as she tried to remove as much dried blood and grime as she could without scrubbing too hard at the scratched flesh. He regarded her through his unusual green eyes as she used the washcloth with careful hands, brushing back the soft, blond hair to reach all of his face, repeatedly rinsing and cleaning his cuts and bruises.
Boromir tried to put his mind into working order. His light-headedness had caused him to drift away in the few moments the woman was gone, only to be awakened by both the shock of the water and the crushing pain that had followed his sudden movement. Now he could do little more than sit quietly and try to form a coherent thought. When he finally did so, it was merely the conviction that nothing had ever felt as good as having his face washed by this woman. Her hands were soft and tender as she took care to cleanse each cut thoroughly without causing further pain. Her black eyes were narrowed intently as she tended to her duty, every once in a while shifting back to look into his face as if checking for a reaction. Her fingers moved through his hair and found the swollen lump there, causing him to flinch. "I'm sorry," she said quietly in Westron, looking sideways at him as she rinsed her cloth.
She was younger than her patient, tiny and petite, with dark, dusky skin. Her long hair was covered by a scarf tied around her head that hung down to her waist, but the few hairs that escaped were black and curly. Her eyes matched her hair and were slightly tilted at the ends, as if she had just finished smiling. The bright robes she wore, a mixture of blues, covered her completely, so that only her hands were in view, although her wrists were circled with bracelets of metal and ivory and several brilliant rings graced her hands. She continued with her sponge bath, moving slowly down Boromir's neck and chest, always keeping her touch feather light to avoid hurting him.
Rinsing her cloth again, she noted the water in the bowl was now cloudy with blood. "I'll be back," she said, hoping he would understand, and went outside to replenish it with fresh. It was dark out, now, and with the heat of the sun gone, a chill was in the air and a cool gentle wind was blowing. Shushuah took a deep breath. Why wouldn't he answer? Was she saying the words wrong? If she could just get him to speak before her father returned…
As she slipped through the tent flap, she noticed that this time he was sitting up straighter, his eyes on the flap, looking for her. She smiled again in greeting and resumed her position before him as she turned her attention to his ribs, trying to wash all of the sand and dirt out of the jagged gash torn across them, feeling him tense and cringe away involuntarily. He groaned under his breath several times, but said nothing. She looked around her a moment, wondering if there was anything in the tent that could be used as a bandage, but could think of nothing. She would look for something later, she promised herself, sure that a covering of some kind would help keep it cleaner, and at least staunch the blood that still trickled down his side.
Her smiles had cheered Boromir more than he could have ever imagined. They were the only friendly gestures he had received since his capture and he held onto them like a lifeline. Still, a warning sounded in his mind, pushing its way through the fog and confusion. He knew nothing of her save that she was linked somehow with the Haradrim general. Her kindness might all be a ploy, another trick to fool him into lowering his guard. That would not be too difficult in his present state, he knew. He tensed, trying to overcome a sudden wave of pain that licked across him as she examined his ribs once more, her fingers gently pressing against the bleeding gash.
"Mistress?" A hesitant voice from the front of the tent let her know the servants were arriving with the evening meal.
"Just put it on the table," she instructed them, standing up and motioning toward it as a thin older woman carried in a tray with steaming dishes and bowls on it, followed by a small boy bearing another similarly loaded. They placed the trays where she directed and bowed, leaving on silent feet.
Resuming her work, Shushuah gave the man another smile, then took a breath to get her courage up and moved to his side to examine the hip injury. She knew it was the worst by the amount of blood that had soaked his breeches and pooled beneath him while he slept. Now, she tried to pull the blood-soaked cloth apart where it had been torn, getting a glimpse of bloody, shredded flesh and greenish black bruising. Her fingers brushed across the wound, a simple examining touch, but even this drew an anguished moan from her patient. Quickly looking up, she saw his face twist with agony. She pulled her hand away, once more appalled that she had caused him hurt, but then looked back at the hip. It was ghastly-looking. She tried again to pull at his breeches so she could see the entire injury, but he gave a deep moan and hitched himself away from her. She looked at him in dismay. "I must clean this," she said in a firm voice, wondering whether she spoke to him or to herself. Reaching for his breeches once more, she realized she did not know if she had spoken in Haradrim or Westron, so she repeated the sentence in his tongue. He looked at her, pain and fear plain in his strange green eyes.
"Please, don't," he whispered.
Shushuah halted her hand's movement toward him and stared in shock. He had understood her earlier attempts! She slid her gaze toward the wound and then back to him. "My lord, you are hurt," she said slowly, hoping her accent was not too bad. "I need to cleanse this wound or it will turn foul."
He met her eyes and she could see he was already worn out between loss of blood, his earlier treatment and her clumsy nursing attempts. She realized he was probably close to reaching the limit of what he could take today.
"Please," was all he said.
She considered, then nodded slowly, allowing him to relax for the moment. "We will do it later." She gathered up her bowl and cloths as he slumped against the post in relief. She slid them under her father's work table and then sat down before him again.
Boromir was ashamed of himself. He should not have spoken, should not have let her know he understood her words. But having his injured hip poked and prodded had brought back the memory of the earlier, rougher handling. That had unnerved him, and before he realized what he was doing, he had spoken, no, he had begged. He felt shame; and a sense of giddy relief. She would not hurt him anymore for now. That was enough. He felt his tense muscles loosen slightly, only gradually realizing she was watching him.
"I am Shushuah," she said softly.
The Gondorian seemed to think before shifting his gaze away and staring at the back of the tent for a moment. He knew what she was hoping for. Looking back at her, he shook his head apologetically, wincing at the sharp pain it produced. He had already let her know he understood, but he could not risk giving his name. "I cannot," he said in a quiet voice.
Shushuah nearly clapped her hands with joy. He was talking to her! At least, he was talking enough to tell her that he could not tell her anything. She noted he had used the word 'cannot', and she took his meaning to be that he would not allow himself. She nodded as though she had expected as much, which in truth she had.
"My father already knows who are you, my lord." She saw his expression change as she spoke.
"Your father?" The look of alarm she had seen earlier when he had heard her father speak crossed his face. He was suddenly anxious, wary.
"My father, Al-jur Dhan, General of the Great Army of Harad, favored cousin of Tal-man Kith, King of Dalania, of Near Harad, most beloved of the King." She recited the titles that always seemed to accompany her father's name, wondering if they would mean anything to the foreigner. He listened but showed no recognition. "My father says you are a prince, the son of the King of Gondor."
The blond man gave a slight, strained smile at that. "Not a prince," he said in a voice she could barely hear, "Not a king."
"Well," Shushuah searched her memory for the correct word. "The ruler, the chief, perhaps king is not the right word. But there is a leader, and my father says you are his son."
He nodded slightly, but whether to acknowledge the truth of her words or merely that she was speaking, she did not know. He let his eyes close and let out a soft grunt, shifting against the post, and they sat in silence for a moment. She was wondering if he had fallen asleep again when he raised his eyelids and stared at her, catching her in his odd emerald gaze.
"You speak Westron." It was a statement, not a question, his words slightly slurred with fatigue.
"One of the men in the troop taught me," she answered, "but my father does not know. He would be quite angry, as he thinks Mohem is a bad influence and I should not be near him." She saw him fading into sleep again. "My lord?"
"Hmm?" His eyes opened as mere slits.
"My lord, I must look at your wound, please." She retrieved her bowl, hopeful the water was still warm, and slid it closer to him. He tensed again and groaned as she grasped his ankle and pulled his leg straight. "I will try not to hurt you."
He gave her a look that said he knew she would not be successful in that, but made no effort to pull away as she put her hands on the bloody fabric once more. She pulled hard, feeling it tear slightly in her hands, and hearing his stifled moans as she did so. When enough of the wound was visible, she soaked her cloth and wiped gently. But here the wound was swollen and tender, and the entry hole of, she guessed, an arrow, was surrounded by discolored flesh, the bruises covering the entire hip, an area larger than both her hands spread out. No matter how gentle she tried to keep her touch, he jerked and moaned and ground his teeth. Twice she heard his whispered plea, "no, don't", but he said no more after that and she continued. At length she realized there was no exit wound, that some part of the arrow or arrowhead was still buried in him. She bit her lip, knowing this was dangerous; the leather bindings that held the arrow heads onto the arrows, the wooden shafts themselves, all were prime agents of infection in the wound.
"Who pulled this out?" she asked him, worry in her voice.
"Soldiers," he panted, his voice faint.
"But not the arrowhead?" He did not answer, but she already knew. Something was still in this wound; something was keeping all his nerves on edge and causing intense pain with any movement. Something that was already beginning to fester.
"I cannot help this," Regret and fear were clear in her voice. "When we get you to Dalania, the healers there can take care of this." She counted quickly in her head – probably at least eight days to the city, too many, too many for her. "My lord," she spoke urgently, suddenly afraid for him. "My lord!"
No answer came from him, he was insensible again, his head back in the same awkward position she had first seen it. Steeling herself, she used his unconsciousness to clean out the entry hole the best she could, knowing warm water would do little against whatever was in there. He whimpered quietly but did not awaken. As she worked, she examined the bruises. Whoever had administered the beating he had taken had purposely concentrated on this site, she was sure of it. The idea of what a strong blow would feel like to those already frantic nerves made Shushuah cringe. An errant thought went through her head about who might be responsible, but she ignored it. When she finished, she pushed the bowl under the table again and regarded her prisoner. His brows were furrowed and he was murmuring in his sleep, his body pressed uncomfortably against the wood behind him, his hands still tied tightly around the pole.
Shushuah hesitated only a moment, then bent and worked at the knots in the rope binding his hands. They were tight, and the rope was rough, she could see where it had already rubbed raw places on his wrists. At length, however, she had the rope loosened and pulled the limp hands forward, barely catching his sleeping form as he slid sideways. Carefully she eased him down onto the ground, her hand smoothing his blond hair without realizing it. She laid him on his side, regretting that this put his cut ribs against the sandy rug, but it kept the tender hip elevated. She brushed back his hair again and this time let her hand linger for a moment on his cheek, searching for the first signs of fever. He felt cool, however, and she was encouraged. Perhaps it was not as dire as she thought. Maybe the men of Gondor were not susceptible to fevers. She looked at her hand, dark against his pale face. Strange looking, foreign, an enemy, yet she found herself drawn to him. How else to explain the fact that he now slept here freed from his bonds? How else to explain her already growing concern about his health? She shook her head as she considered her own foolishness, then went to eat her supper, her eyes never leaving his sleeping form.
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Boromir stood before his brother, in a strange city. He did not know where they were, but the city had long been besieged, its buildings and streets ravaged. Faramir looked tired and worried as he leaned forward and gave his brother a hug and a gentle kiss on the cheek, then turned and walked away through the ruined streets. Boromir tried to follow, but someone was holding him back, their hands preventing him from following. "Wait, Faramir!" he called, "wait!" But his brother kept walking, never looking back. Boromir struggled against those who held him. "Wait, brother!" He turned. "Let me go! Release me, I say…" He called again to Faramir, "Brother, wait!"
He opened his eyes to find Shushuah holding him down, her dark eyes full of concern. "My lord, it is a dream. Wake up." She pressed him back against the rug. "Shhh, it is a dream."
He relaxed a moment, feeling his heart gradually slow from its frenzied thumping. Struggling to sit up he realized his hands were free and his head was pounding at the same time. He drew an unsteady breath, starting the pain back up in his ribs, and rubbed his face with his hands. He hated feeling like this, weak, helpless, sick. He did not even have the energy to be angry, he thought irritably. He suddenly realized the woman was gently rubbing the back of his neck where he sat hunched over. "Just a dream," she said softly. "Your brother is safe."
It took him a moment to sort her words through his tired mind. "What?"
"You called out to a brother," She spoke in a comforting tone. "I am sure he is safe."
"He will come for me," said Boromir suddenly, the knowledge coming with startling clarity, something he had known in the back of his mind that had only crept forward while he slept. Faramir would come for him. He knew it with utmost surety, though he could not say how. His heart shrank within his chest to think of Faramir crossing the desert, risking, probably losing his life to search for him. Their father would be devastated to lose them both. Boromir covered his face with his hands and let a sob escape from him. He had never felt so helpless and alone in his life.
"My lord." Shushuah's gentle voice came from behind him where she was still rubbing his neck with a comforting hand. "Can you eat something? It will help you."
He shook his head, but she moved away from him, going to the table and bringing back a wooden plate with meat and some sort of cooked grain on it. "Try, my lord, it will help." She gently pulled his hands away from his face, pinched off a tiny bit of meat and held it before him. "Just a bite," she coaxed.
He reached out, feeling the stiffness in his shoulder muscles, and took the meat and put it in his mouth. "Good," said Shushuah. "A little more, now." She offered him another small piece which he also ate. "There." She went to put the plate into his hand, but noted that he was extremely unsteady and changed her mind, laying it on the ground before him. "Eat what you can, you will feel much better." She went to the back of the tent and poured another cup of cold water, bringing it back and handing it to him. "Drink this, you need water, you have lost a great deal of blood."
He ate and drank silently, realizing what she said was true. He had had nothing to eat since a morning meal with the Rangers, yesterday? Today? He couldn't remember. The food was odd, spicy, but it filled him, and would help him regain some strength. He glanced around the room uncertainly. "How long - ?"
"You weren't asleep very long, less than an hour," she said, noting his search. "My father is still gone." She had poured herself a cup of water and was sitting near him, watching him eat. "Your brother, he is younger or older?" He looked at her in confusion. "Your brother," she reminded him, "you were dreaming of him." She saw him hesitate and tried to reassure him. "I will not tell my father."
Boromir only heard half of her words, he was trying to remember the answer to her question. Was Faramir younger or older? He should know this! He concentrated on bringing his thoughts together, trying to ignore the swooping dizziness. At last he found the answer in his dazed head. He was the elder, which meant Faramir was the -
"Younger," he said.
She nodded. "I had a younger brother," she said, her eyes becoming distant. "And an older one." She looked into her cup when she saw he was listening. "There was a great sickness in our city last year. Many died. Both of my brothers, and my mother." Her voice faltered. "That is why I travel with my father. We are all that each other have left." She drank from her cup and frowned. "But he is not the same. Losing them all changed something in him, he-" She broke off, deciding this was not for the ears of a stranger. "He loves me, I know it. He just forgets sometimes." She changed the subject. "Does your father the King love you?"
Boromir reached up to rub his head with a shaky hand. "…not a king…" He seemed to think hard for a moment. "My mother died - long ago." He wanted to say more but it was taking a tremendous amount of energy just to keep his thoughts together. She looked down the plate and was pleased to see he had eaten most of the food she had put there. He picked up the cup and was drinking again when Al-jur Dhan walked into the tent.
In mere seconds he had taken in the scene, crossed the tent and thrown Boromir to the ground, his body weight holding him down as the injured man cried out. "What is going on here?" he demanded of his daughter. Shushuah had leaped to her feet at his arrival, and was now pulling at his arm.
"Don't, my Father, don't hurt him. He was not doing anything." She was imploring him with both her voice and her eyes. "You said to feed him and he could not eat with his hands tied."
Dhan looked at her with anger and disbelief. "Let him eat off the floor like the dog he is," he said with disgust. "You are a foolish girl. He could be dangerous."
Shushuah looked down at the blond head crushed into the sand by her father's hand, the face rigid with fear and twitching with pain. "My father, look at him, he is hurt – "
Dhan got to his feet, took a handful of hair and jerked Boromir back to the wooden post. Pulling the Gondorian's arms back as hard as he could, he retied the knots, not caring if the rope bit into the flesh. Boromir gave a little cry and Dhan slapped him as he stepped around the pole. Pointing his finger at his daughter, Dhan spoke with measured tones. "I do not ever want to see him untied again, do you understand me?"
"Yes, my Father," she answered in a whisper, looking past him to see Boromir's green eyes fixed on her, letting her know he was grateful for her kindness. They filled with something close to terror as Dhan whirled around to his prisoner.
"And you," he planted a vicious kick in the sensitive hip, bringing a scream from Boromir. Grabbing the blond hair once again, he pulled Boromir's face up and glared at him. "I'll kill you if you touch her." His threat was spoken in Haradrim, but easily understood by his captive, now shaking with fear. Dhan released his hold and Boromir immediately lowered his head and curled his body against the pole, shuddering. Another strategically placed kick from the general brought the food he had just eaten retching up into the sand, and reduced him to muffled sobbing. Shushuah felt the tears gather in her eyes, and she fled to her sleeping couch nearby, pulling the dividing curtains around her.
Dhan stood for a moment, breathing heavily, listening to the sound of weeping coming from his daughter's bed, and the stifled cries of the captive before him. Crossing to his work table, he piled a plate with the food still waiting there, spread out a large map and the messages he had received earlier, and began making battle plans.
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TO BE CONTINUED