Note: As per request - Eomund suffers.
Question: Is anyone else having trouble accessing chapters? I can't get my own story to come up on my home computer. I've asked 3 times that fanfic fix it, but so far nothing. I may have to delete the entire story and repost. Annoying!
Anyway, onward....
Chapter 6: A Debt
"Would you like another, your grace?" The serving girl, a blowsy thing past her prime with frizzled dark hair, leaned across Eomund's table, making sure her bosom was well exposed. She slid a knowing gaze toward the brown bottle in his hand and smiled when he glared moodily at her. "Come on, then, just a little more. Help you forget your troubles?"
Eomund gave a derisive snort and drained the last drops from the bottle. He hesitated, then gave her a nod and as if by magic his empty bottle was replaced by a full one and she gave him a grin. "Didn't think you were ready to leave just yet." She gathered up the empty bottles from the table and sauntered away, twitching her behind suggestively, unaware Eomund was looking down at the table, not her.
He took a swallow from the bottle, grimacing at the sour taste of the wine, and tipped his chair back to rest against the wall, leaning his head on the rough plaster. Forget his troubles? Not likely. His troubles traveled with him, he thought miserably as he took another drink. Five weeks of troubles. Five weeks and not a sign of Estel. Nothing. He had searched every cranny of Dol Amroth, and found nothing. No one had seen a young girl debark from any ships from Osgiliath. No one had seen anything. He'd gone back to Osgiliath, questioned the ticket agent again, but the man was adamant. The only young girl he'd seen that week with black hair and grey eyes had specifically purchased a ticket for Dol Amroth.
Eomund had searched Osgiliath again, he'd searched Pelargir, he'd searched every little village with a dock along the river. He had ridden the length of Lebennin and even crossed over the river to search some of the Haradric towns along the coast. She seemed to have vanished and that is what he had to write in every message that he posted from the governor's offices whenever he passed them. No sign, no clue, nothing. He banged his fist down on the small table before him, causing a brief lull in the conversation around him as the other customers gave him curious looks, then went back to their own business. Eomund took another drink and closed his eyes. And no word from Elboron. Meaning he still had no idea where Father was. Or how he was. He sighed, looked at the bottle in his hand.
He was not really a drinker. None of Faramir's sons were. He had never forbidden them, and the wine and ale flowed freely at holidays and special occasion. But the danger of dulled senses and addled wits had been mentioned in more than one instance and Eomund knew he was behaving foolishly. It was because he had gotten his hopes up, he realized. An old woman selling fruit in a small river town had spoken of rumors, young girls lured to Umbar, tempted with promises of easy work and good wages in the coastal city, only to find themselves upon arrival handed over to the mistresses of the expensive brothels the city boasted.
It was an old story. Eomund knew the King had made every attempt to clean out the seedier places in his kingdom, but Umbar was far removed from Minas Tirith and policing the entire city was not possible. Eomund had arrived there torn between his desire to find his sister and his fear that he would. A quick stop at the governor's office to request some soldiers from the regiment stationed there and he had started in, forcing himself to visit every known house in the city and a few on the outskirts. His credentials from the King and the grim-faced men accompanying him had opened doors wide, if grudgingly, but once again he had come up empty-handed. Of all the sad-faced girls he had seen, none had been his little sister, and along with his disappointment he had to admit he felt a sense of relief. At the end of two days the guards had been dismissed and he forwarded the usual terse message of failure to Minas Tirith, then headed for the nearest tavern, desperately seeking something to distract him from his disappointment.
Now, hours later, he gazed morosely at the bottle before him. Nothing. No Estel. No word from Bron, either about her or Father. And it was all his fault. Elboron hadn't said it, but Eomund knew what he had been thinking, that day in the throne room. His fault. His words that had hurt Father, hurt him so much that he fell ill, the hurt driving him to do the unthinkable, strike out at the King, the man Eomund knew his father loved beyond measure. And Father's behavior frightening Estel so badly she had run away. All his fault. How often Mother had warned him of his tendency toward spitefulness, his malicious temper, his meanness that he had made little attempt to control once he left home. Now his vicious, thoughtless words were tearing apart his family. He tipped the bottle and drank until it was empty, then motioned for the girl to bring another, knowing it would not dull the hot coals of guilt burning in his stomach.
Much later the tavern keeper approached him, pointed out it was late, he was the only customer remaining, suggested perhaps he would like a room. Eomund shook his head. He had a room, across town in a better part of the city, so he tossed a handful of coins on the table and made his way unsteadily out the door, never noticing when the three men he passed on the corner fell in behind him. He walked along the waterfront, the cold wind in his face reviving him a bit and the smell of the sea strong in his nostrils as he tried to collect his thoughts. Where to go next? He had no idea, and that frightened him, as much as he hated to admit it. What would he do? He was running out of places to search. Should he go back to Minas Tirith? How could he face the King and say he had not found Estel? He stopped, leaned against a post that jutted up from the dock with a sudden, sickening thought. What if he never found her? What if she was dead? How could he face his father? What if Father never recovered from the loss? The nausea that rose up in him was not from all the drinking he had done.
"'Scuse me, your grace?" A hoarse voice from the shadows and he straightened slightly, turned, was caught totally unprepared for the huge fist that slammed into his stomach, doubling him over and then catching him in the face to send him reeling backwards, crashing into the side of a building. Angrily Eomund pushed himself up onto his feet, feeling the blood dripping from his nose, and reached for his sword, but strong arms reached from behind him, pinned his own to his side, while the fist came at him again, this time smashing into his ribs, his belly, the side of his head. He slid to his knees and the fist was replaced by booted feet that drove viciously into his ribs, forcing the breath from him as he tried to curl into a tight ball. He coughed and gagged as the wine came retching up, splattering into the dirt and another crushing blow knocked him down into his own vomit. The silence of the men as they struck him made them all the more terrifying, and they continued their silent assault until finally Eomund lay unmoving and they dragged him into a dusty alley. Quickly they stripped him of anything valuable, his sword, his knife, the coins in his purse. The silver ring his mother had given him for his twenty-first birthday was ripped from his finger, shredding the knuckle, along with the finely wrought neck chain he wore that matched his father's and each of his siblings. The King's credentials were torn apart and tossed into the dirt by one man as another pulled the expensive silk cloak and tunic from the unconscious body, making certain to slash the small badge marked with a white tree from the breast, and a third wrestled the costly leather boots from Eomund's feet. In moments they had taken what they wanted, and their goal accomplished, the men melted back into the darkness, leaving Eomund still and silent, bleeding in the dark.
The next thing Eomund knew hands were gripping him. Hard, calloused hands and he struck out at them, knocked them aside as he reached for his sword, only to find it gone. He was lying face down in the dirt, he realized and started to struggle to his feet when the hands grasped him again, harder this time and when he fought against them his own hands were suddenly wrenched behind him and he could feel a rough length of rope being knotted around his wrists. "What – Who are you?" he demanded, trying to open his eyes only to find one was swollen shut and the other nearly so. "Let me go, I'm here on the King's business." Guttural curses were his only answer and he was jerked to his feet and dragged a few steps down to the main street before being heaved into the back of what he guessed to be a wagon. From his one eye he could see a burly man with a large club, who motioned for him to sit down in the straw that lined the wagon bed. Eomund faced the man, turning his head in an attempt to see him better. "I am a representative from the King – "
"Quiet!" The man with the club was not who had spoken, but he pushed Eomund down in the straw and the wagon lurched forward. It stopped several more times and each time another passenger was added until the straw-filled bed was carrying more than twenty men, some looking half asleep, others clearly drunk, two others like Eomund, covered in blood and bruises. All of them had their hands tied and it slowly began to dawn on Eomund they were prisoners of some sort. He tried twice more to speak to the guard, being ignored once and receiving a sharp blow from the man's fist the second time that sent a lightning flash of pain through his head. Finally he settled back to wait. Peering around him he decided it was just after dawn, the sky pearl grey with a faint yellowish tinge to the east. The streets, what he could see of them, were nearly deserted, although he was clearly still in the less respectable part of the city.
As they traveled he took stock of his situation. He'd been robbed, he discovered. Everything was gone, even his boots, and he felt stupid and ashamed. He had let his own self-pity send him to the tavern and it had led to this. Robbed, beaten, and headed who knew where. His head ached from the alcohol and the beating, and the sun that crawled up across the sky increased the pounding until he could barely think straight.
The wagon pulled up before a small ramshackle building without windows and the passengers in the wagon were ordered out, their movements hurried and encouraged by prods from the man with the club. They were hustled into a ragged line and pushed through the doorway, passing through a cramped room holding desks and chairs, and out another door into a large, enclosed courtyard. There they were once more lined up and Eomund could see a heavyset man seated at a table in the middle of the courtyard. His round red face was topped by a shock of fluffy white hair giving him a rather genial appearance until one looked at his hard, knowing eyes. Behind him stood a small group of men; some appeared to be average businessmen, but there were others among them, a fierce hard-eyed man, and a few brawny men armed with thick clubs, who appeared to be rather less respectable. Eomund stood quietly, hoping the queasiness in his stomach and the throbbing in his head would ease soon.
The white-haired man had a pile of papers before him and he wrote for a moment, then looked up and motioned the first man in line toward him. The man who had escorted them in pushed him toward the table and Eomund watched as the heavy man spoke and the other man answered. He strained to hear but the men's voices were low, the prisoner only answering in mumbles and vague head movements. With a grim smile the heavyset man made a mark on his paper, turned it so the other man could add something, then nodded and watched as he was escorted away to stand before the businessmen.
The same routine was followed with several other men until finally Eomund's hands were untied and he was pushed forward and stood before the white-haired man. He tried to draw his aching body up straight and looked at the man through his agonizing headache and swollen eyes.
"Drunk in public." The man looked down at a paper before him. "Thirty days."
Eomund could only look at him in confusion. "Sir?"
The man looked down at the paper again. "Loitering. Thirty days."
Faint understanding began to form in Eomund's mind. Was this a court? Had he been arrested? But courts in Gondor were presided over by a nobleman chosen by the King! He was in Umbar, true, but it was technically under Gondor's rule, surely this man was not the sort to be given that kind of authority. He glanced around him. Nor was this place one where a representative of Gondor's King would be quartered. He scowled at the red face before him as faint tendrils of understanding began to form in his mind. This must be one of the self-proclaimed magistrates he had heard rumors about; a man who controlled a part of the city, often with an iron hand. His word was law on the streets in his district, and even the King's men were hard-pressed to bring order to those areas held by some of the more powerful men, those who could muster their own form of an army in the seedier sections of the city. Still, Eomund could not imagine they would want to endanger themselves by interfering with an emissary of the King. He straightened as much as he could and faced the man.
"Sir, I am here on business for King Elessar of Gondor – "
"Gondor's a long way from here." The heavyset man gave him a scathing glance and looked down at his paper once more. "Public nuisance. Thirty days. How do you plead?"
It was a court! Or at least the representation of one in this lawless sector of Umbar. And he was being tried and sentenced, Eomund realized. He took a step forward only to be forced back by the man with the club. "I am here on the King's business!" he said again, glaring at the man behind the table, who merely shrugged. Eomund pulled away from the guard. "I have papers – " he stopped, realized he had nothing. His shoulders slumped. "If you will just contact the governor's office," he said tiredly. "They will vouch for me."
"The governor's office!" The white-haired man looked at the men behind him and they all laughed. "We don't do a lot of business with them."
Eomund could feel rage welling up in him. "I am sent by the King!" he said furiously, stepping toward the table again. "I am here on his request." A burly guard squeezed his hand around Eomund's arm and jerked him back from the table while the heavyset man looked bored. "Drunk in public, loitering, public nuisance. Thirty days each, that's ninety days. Or can you pay the fine?" The look in his face and the smile that played about his mouth said he knew the answer. Eomund glared at him.
"I was robbed, I have no money. If you will contact the governor's office – "
"Ninety days." The man signed the paper before him and turned it toward Eomund. "Your signature, sir."
Eomund laughed scornfully. "I'm not signing that. This is not a legitimate court and I refuse to sign. Or pay for that matter. I demand you take me to the governor's office."
The other man made a face that indicated he had little interest in Eomund's demands. "Ninety days, then." He nodded to the guard, who wrapped thick fingers around Eomund's, forced the quill between them and moved his arm so that a sloppy X was scrawled across the page. As soon as Eomund was released he reached out to snatch the paper, but the white-haired man was quicker and he pulled it across the table, his eyes narrowing as Eomund lunged at him.
"This is not a proper court," Eomund snarled. "You are not acting on the King's behalf and I will see to it that you are held accountable. You will –" The club caught him across the back of the head, knocking him to his knees and he fell forward, sliding off the edge of the table into the dirt, feeling the earth beneath him lurch and spin. Reaching out blindly he flailed about, searching for something to hold onto, trying to get his feet under him and groaning. "My father is the Steward of Gondor," he said in a desperate voice. "I am here on the King's business."
The white-haired man held up a hand, halting the next stroke of the club in mid-air. He looked down at the young man on his knees in the dust and then at his companions behind him. "His father is the Steward of Gondor," he said in an impressed voice. "He is here on the King's business." There was silence as they looked at each other; then they burst out in laughter and the man's hand made a motion that brought the club down across Eomund's head, sending him into oblivion.
Motion. The easy, rocking motion of a ship on water. Eomund could feel it beneath him and he lay still, letting the familiar movement sooth his aching head and muscles. He could hear men moving about him, the groan of the ship's timbers and the sound of the sails snapping above him. With a moan he blinked his eyes open, found himself lying on the deck of a ship, looking up at an old man with black hair and no teeth in his wide smile.
"You're awake, then?" He reached down and hauled Eomund to his feet, steadying him when he appeared to be ready to collapse once more. "Here, here, hold on." Moving Eomund's hand he wrapped it around a nearby rail. Eomund clutched at the railing, realized he was going to be sick and leaned over to empty his stomach into the blue water below him. There wasn't much and he shook as the dry heaves convulsed him and the old man patted his arm sympathetically. "Not used to the water, eh? Takes some practice."
"It's not that," Eomund grimaced, found even talking in a whisper sent the pain roaring through his skull. "They nearly cracked my head open."
The old man grinned in agreement. "That they did, lad. You've got a lump there the size of my fist, that's for sure."
Eomund let his head rest against the railing and felt the breeze drying the sweat on his face. It was a salt breeze, they were on the sea. He forced his head up and looked around to find he was on a small ship, apparently some sort of merchant transport, the deck was crammed with boxes and barrels of various types, crates and bundles and even several small cages full of chickens and goats. "Where am I?" His voice sounded weak and shaky.
"Somewhere between Umbar and Belfalas," said the old man cheerfully. "The Crescent Moon, which is the name of this fine ship, makes her run along the coast and upstream as far as Pelargir."
"Pelargir!" Eomund felt hopeful. If he could make it home…
"That's the turnaround of our route, last stop before we head back towards Umbar. We won't be there for a few weeks."
"Oh." Eomund's hopes evaporated. "What happened?" he asked tiredly. "How did I get here?"
"They carried you onto the ship, if that's what you mean." The old man cackled at the memory, then suddenly sobered. "If you mean how did you fall into the hands of Fat Seldaan, then I'm guessing you either got drunk, or someone knocked you in the head, robbed you and left you in the street."
"Or both." Eomund gingerly rubbed his head. "Who is Fat Seldan?" He looked at his companion through narrowed eyes. "And who are you?"
"Malvegil's my name, but most just call me Mal." Pale blue eyes crinkled up in a smile that Eomund vaguely returned. "And Fat Seldan – he's the man who sold you to Captain Radonath."
"Sold!?" The outburst brought fresh shimmers of light before Eomund's vision.
"Sold." Mal saw the horror on the younger man's face and tried to reassure him. "Not permanent, lad, not permanent. Just until your debt is paid off."
"My debt." Eomund's mouth twisted grimly. "An illegal debt, trumped up by an illegal court."
Mal shrugged. "Still, here you are, so that doesn't much matter, now does it?" He pointed his chin toward a tall, fierce-looking man with long dark hair standing at the front of the ship and Eomund recognized him from the courtyard. "Captain, there, he needed some extra hands. He paid for four men for ninety days, and you are one of them. Just do your time, boy, and you'll be released at the end."
Eomund stared at the captain, who stared balefully back before turning his face back toward the water ahead of them. "But it's not right. It's not a real court. You can't just arrest people and sell them into slavery." He spoke loudly enough that nearby crew members heard him and he got frightened looks from some of them, the other conscripts, he assumed.
"Service, lad, they call it service. Timed service."
"I don't care what they call it. It's not legal."
Mal nodded his head in agreement and cackled again. "You're right, lad, you're right. But," he swept his hand around them to indicate the empty sea. "Here you are."
The truth of the old man's words stung Eomund and he released his hold on the railing and stood up cautiously to see if the nausea was bearable. "Ninety days! I don't have ninety days. I am on official business for the King of Gondor." He saw Mal's skeptical glance and gave him an exasperated look. "I am! I am searching for a young girl."
"Ah, aren't we all?" Mal sighed with longing, angering Eomund.
"No, I'm looking for my sister, she is missing."
"Your sister?"
"She ran away from home, and I am looking for her, on the King's orders."
Mal's skepticism only increased. "Why would the King of Gondor care about your sister?"
Eomund looked down at his filthy breeches and shirt, his bare feet, could smell his own vomit and sweat. "My father is the Steward of Gondor," he said reluctantly.
A peal of laughter from the toothless mouth let Eomund know what his companion thought of his words. A few others nearby who heard joined in the laughter.
"The Steward of Gondor." Mal bowed low before him. "Pleased to meet you, my lord."
Eomund flushed. "It's true." He could tell Mal didn't believe him, and why should he? Why would the Steward of Gondor's son be picked up drunk in Umbar and sentenced to "timed service?" He chewed his lip sourly, decided to not waste time trying to prove his claim to the old man, and merely repeated his earlier statement. "I have been ordered by the King to find my sister."
Mal nodded seriously while his eyes twinkled. The boy was the best entertainment he had had in months! "And she is in Umbar?"
"I don't know where she is!" Eomund shouted at him, instantly regretting it as the pounding in his head increased. "She ran away from home," he continued in a quieter voice. "That's why I'm looking for her!"
"Ran away?" The old man's eyebrows lifted as if waiting for the rest of the story and Eomund looked away. How to explain the whole messy situation? "My brother - I – " He stopped, shook his head carefully. "It doesn't matter. My sister is gone, my father is ill – "
"Your father, the Steward?" Eomund ignored the jibe.
"And I am under orders to find her. I cannot stay here for ninety days. I will speak to the Captain."
Instantly Mal's face was tense. "Oh, no, no, lad, you won't. He's a hard one. You don't want to get on his bad side. Just stay out of his way, and do your time, and you'll be all right."
Eomund ignored the man's words and started across the deck, the pounding in his head causing his usual easy balance on a ship to desert him. "Captain?" He called up to the dark-headed man. "I need to speak with you." He ignored Mal's restraining arm. "Captain? I need off this ship, I am on business for the King of Gondor." Eomund placed one bare foot on the steps that led to the upper deck where the captain stood.
"Bothlan." The name was spoken quietly and instantly a huge man appeared by the Captain's side. He wore no shirt, and his chest and arms were hugely muscled and he stood on legs like tree trunks. Even his shaved head appeared muscled. Now he crossed his arms and gave Eomund a warning look. Eomund hesitated, but then called up again. "Captain!"
"Bothlan, five stripes." The words were spoken in a bored tone, the captain never even turning around. In seconds Eomund was helpless in the grasp of the huge Bothlan, his bruised body held firmly in the gigantic hands as he was pushed up against one of the ship's masts. He struggled futilely; saw the pitying looks from the crew as his face was pressed against the rough wood.
"Wait, I only wanted to speak to him." A painful cry was wrenched from him as his arms were wrapped around the mast and tied tightly by another crewman. Bothlan grasped the neck of his shirt and gave a sharp tug, tearing the garment from him and exposing his back with its fresh bruises. A strange, soft, snapping sound came to Eomund's ears but he could not move his head, so he could not see the flexible wooden rod that Bothlan raised and brought slashing down across his back. The captain of the Crescent Moon did not use a whip to discipline his men. A whip ripped the flesh from a man, tore him apart, and he either spent the next week in his bunk useless or he died. The rod was Captain Radonath's choice, a slim wooden shaft that left no doubt in a man's mind he had been punished, but did not keep him from his duty.
Eomund's initial sensation was the biting pain of the blow as it struck him, raising a long red welt across his shoulders. He grunted in surprise and pain and felt the sting begin to radiate across his body just as the second blow fell. The thin cane slashed down across his back and the pain doubled, tripled, and Eomund felt his legs tremble as a deep, burning ache slowly spread through every part of him. The rest of the ordered punishment followed swiftly, each stroke leaving a ghastly swollen weal across Eomund's skin and increasing the pain to a horrendous level. The fifth stroke opened up a gash across his right shoulder and he could feel the blood begin to trickle down his shoulder blade, warm and sticky. "Five stripes, Captain." Bothlan's voice was without emotion as he reached up and cut the rope that held Eomund to the mast. He sagged to his knees, felt Mal slip an arm under him, lift him to his feet.
"On your feet, boy," the old man hissed. "Or he'll whip you again for slacking off." Eomund gritted his teeth, forced himself upright. His blue eyes were snapping with fury.
"I am on the King's business," he said and unevenly pushed himself away from Mal. "I cannot stay here for ninety days!" He turned back toward the front of the ship. "Captain, I need to – "
"Bothlan. Five stripes." Again the words were spoken in a soft tone, as if the speaker were quite uninterested in whether or not his orders were followed. Bothlan instantly started toward Eomund.
This time Eomund fought hard, did everything in his power to escape the larger man's grasp. He twisted and struggled and bit, but in the end he was crushed against the mast once more, his arms pulled tight and tied with the rough rope. "I am sent by the King of Gondor!" he shouted angrily as Bothlan picked up the rod. At his words the Captain turned slightly and looked down at the troublemaker, noting the seething anger in the blue eyes. "Wait, Bothlan." The first mate paused and the Captain studied Eomund. "Gondor?" Eomund nodded and the black-haired man gave him a crooked, unamused smile. "Seven stripes, instead."
When he was cut down this time, Eomund fell nearly senseless to the deck, the bloody stripes vivid across his shoulders and back as he lay there retching and groaning. The old man Mal was ordered to revive him and he did so, splashing cold sea water in Eomund's face until he spluttered into awareness, thrashing and flailing while the rest of the crew hustled around the two of them, tending to their duties.
"Easy, easy now." Mal said, holding him steady. "I told you, lad. He's a mean one. And he hates Gondor. You're already in enough trouble. Just stay quiet and stay out of his way." He poured some of the salty water across the welts and Eomund gasped and jerked away.
"I am under the King's order!" His voice was a sob of rage and frustration. "I am searching for my sister! The King has charged me with finding her." He looked up into Mal's sympathetic face. "I have to find her," he said doggedly. "My father is ill and if I do not find her I cannot go back." He painfully got to his feet and turned toward the front of the ship, horrifying Mal, who hurried forward to step in front of him.
"No, lad, no." He pulled at Eomund's arm. "Don't do it, I'm begging you." Eomund said nothing as he slowly maneuvered Mal out of his path and headed for the bow. Captain Radonath watched him come, his dark eyes unreadable as the younger man approached.
"I am on the King's business." Eomund said with determination, his voice steady even as he stood straight with difficulty. The Captain's eyes shifted to his first mate.
"Bothlan. Ten more stripes for Gondor." The first mate nodded grimly and came for Eomund.
They cut him down afterward and Mal had two others carry the young man down to his own bunk, deep in the fetid depths of the ship, where he washed the blood from his back and waited for him to awaken, shaking his head in both exasperation and admiration of his stubbornness. "If he doesn't kill you, boy," he said softly as he washed the bloody welts, "I may end up liking you."
Eomund's knowledge of the sea and sailing ships served him well, and ultimately kept him from at least some punishment. It was only a few days before the sharp eyes of the first mate had seen that the Gondorian was no stranger to a ship and he had quietly reported as much to his fierce captain. Eomund could read the wind and the water, he understood the workings of the sails and not only was he capable of doing his duties, he usually had seen what they should be well before the order was given. The captain didn't speak to him, nor the first mate, but the word was passed to the officer who headed his watch and gradually, acknowledging his skill and experience, Eomund was given further duties and responsibilities, and he accepted them readily.
But he could not accept his situation, and whenever the captain appeared on deck, within minutes Eomund would be once again attempting to speak to the hard-faced man, trying to convince him of his identity, persuade him that forcing his service was not tolerable. The dark eyes of Captain Radonath never once rested on his new man; he would only look at his first mate and pronounce the punishment to be handed out and the huge Bothlan would pin Eomund helplessly against the mast until his arms were tied and then reach for the slim wooden rod.
By the end of his first month of 'timed service', Eomund had taken 68 stripes, and while many of the welts left by the rod healed quickly and cleanly, enough of the blows broke the skin that his back and shoulders were now criss-crossed with dull red scars and roughened with scar tissue and Eomund of Gondor was beginning to learn to hold his temper, and his tongue.
"This puts you over 70," Mal observed with a shake of his head as he smeared a thin greasy salve across the fresh welts on Eomund's shoulders. "Six stripes this time! Why don't you keep quiet?
Eomund grunted from where he lay on his bunk, his head pillowed in his arms as Mal rubbed the ointment into the broken skin. "All I said was I wanted to speak to the captain."
The old man gave him a wry grin. "Oh, that's all?" He gave a gentle slap to the muscular back beneath his hands and wiped his palms on his own filthy breeches, closed the tin of ointment and shoved it back into the small leather sack that held all his worldly possessions. Sitting back on his heels he studied the young man in front of him. Eomund was tanned from days in the sun, his long black hair pulled into a neat braid that hung down his back, black lashes framing dark blue eyes. Eyes that had lost some their arrogant gleam in the five weeks that he had been on board the Crescent Moon. Now the Gondorian straightened, stretched and looked at Mal.
"I am on the King's business –"
Mal quickly held up his hands as if to fend off a blow. "I know, I know." He stood up, offered a hand to Eomund, who refused and eased himself upright.
"All I want is to talk to him, explain why I should not be here, and cannot stay," Eomund said in a tired voice. He realized his continued attempts to speak to the captain only resulted in his continued attentions from Bothlan and the wooden rod but the idea of giving in and just serving his time went against his nature and he had not been able to bring himself to do it yet
"He doesn't want to talk to you, Gondor, why can't you understand that?" Mal shook his head at him and Eomund hunched over his knees and looked down at the deck.
Gondor. They all called him that, not by his name, and he could almost hear the sneer in most of their voices. He had asked Mal about it one night and the elderly sailor had leaned back in his bunk and looked at Eomund with sympathy.
"Lots of folks in Umbar hate Gondor," he had said slowly, as if lecturing a small child. "Because of the war. Most people lost someone in the war, a father, a brother, a friend." He'd clasped his hands across his knees and nodded his head up, toward the upper decks. "Captain lost all three, his father, his two older brothers, his best friend." Mal's face was grim. "That's why he hates Gondor; and you."
"The war?" Eomund had made an annoyed sound. "But why hate me? That was before I was born! I can't do anything about that."
Mal shrugged his shoulders. "People who are grieving do odd things. Grief can poison a man, change him. In some cases it destroys him, just eats away at him until he's only a shell of what he was. In others, it turns him vicious, violent, capable of saying and doing unbelievably cruel things." The old man was looking down at his hands across his knees as he spoke, didn't see Eomund's face blanch at his words.
"So, does that excuse him? He is still grieving? Even after almost thirty years?" Eomund's voice was soft, but Mal could hear the pain in it.
"Excuse him? No, lad, course not." He shrugged and looked at Eomund questioningly. "But it's who he is, now. He doesn't know any other way to be. How long would you grieve for them, your father? Your brothers?" There had been a long silence and Mal had seen a strange expression come over the younger man's face.
"The rest of my life," Eomund had said finally, his voice ragged, and the old sailor hadn't been sure but it looked as if the younger man brushed a tear away before he had raised his eyes.
Now, remembering that conversation, Eomund arched his sore shoulders and looked up at Mal. "But why won't he even let me talk to him?"
Mal smiled his toothless smile. "Because if he lets you talk, Gondor, he might have to listen. And if he listens, he might find out you are just human, like him. And he can't have that." With a cynical sigh Mal sat back down on his bunk and looked across the small space at Eomund. "He has spent his entire life hating Gondor, he can't take the chance of finding out you're just another man."
Eomund pondered Mal's words. He wouldn't call the old man a friend, he had no friends on this ship, the other crew members kept clear of him, most simply fearful that showing friendship toward the man the captain clearly despised might lead them to share his fate. But Mal, whether from true affection or mere curiosity, talked to him, treated him kindly, offered information and advice. It was Mal who had told Eomund that in the first month he had received more lashes than the rest of the crew combined. "Doing the captain a favor, you are," he had cackled in amusement. "The others are terrified, seeing how little it takes to get you tied up to the mast."
Eomund had not shared in the laughter then, and the memory still rankled. He frowned now at his companion. "I am on the King's business." He had said the words so often they had begun to lose their importance even to him.
Mal cocked his head at the younger man. "Listen to me, boy." He spoke slowly, trying to give his words more weight. "You are nearly halfway through your time. Be patient, because you are not going to get to talk to the captain, and you are not getting off this ship. Keep your head down and keep quiet." Eomund made no promises, but he mulled over the old sailor's words, turning them over in his mind.
He only managed to keep quiet for two days, for on the third morning, he sighted the outline of Pelargir. He could hardly believe the thrill that went through him when he saw the familiar outline of the city against the morning sky. He pointed out various buildings and landmarks to Mal as the ship drew closer and the old man, who had seen Pelargir countless times, indulged him and nodded appreciatively.
"You can almost see my house," said Eomund, pointing toward a clutch of buildings on a hillside that rose up from the harbor. "It's there, about halfway up. It's not very big, but it's mine. I bought it last summer." He was silent as he gazed at the city, then abruptly turned from the rail. Immediately Mal felt a twinge of fear.
"Don't do it, boy," he pleaded, following Eomund's decisive steps along the deck. "He won't listen."
"This is my home," said Eomund. "There are people here who know me, who can vouch for me. He can even send a guard along. I'm an officer in the Royal Navy of Gondor, Mal! My Captain will – "
"Gondor, your Captain is here," Mal said softly. "On the Crescent Moon, and he doesn't care." The aged sailor hurried along behind him. "He just wants you to do your job." He fell silent as they reached the steps leading to the upper deck. As if he had been expecting him, Captain Radonath was waiting for Eomund. Beside him Bothlan stood, meaty arms crossed over his equally muscular chest.
"Captain." There was the slightest quaver in Eomund's voice no matter how hard he tried to steady it. He gently shrugged Mal's restraining hand from his shoulder. "Pelargir is my home – "
Mal watched in amazement as the Captain did something he had never seen him do with a man on timed service. He held up a warning finger toward Eomund. "Not another word, Gondor," he said quietly. Even Eomund was put off stride by being directly addressed by the man who until now had acted as though he could see through him. He stopped for a moment, then plowed ahead stubbornly.
"It is my home city, Captain. I have people here, superior officers, who can assure you of who I am, pay my fines, whatever you wish."
The Captain stared at Eomund with unreadable, black eyes, then shifted his gaze to the rapidly approaching city. They would arrive in the harbor by noon. He turned to Bothlan. "Twenty-five stripes," he said.
Mal gasped and saw Eomund pale, saw him step back as Bothlan descended the steps. "No, no," he said in disbelief as the gigantic man reached for him. "This is my home!" He struggled as Bothlan clamped iron-hard hands around his wrists and pulled him toward the mast and he began to resist in earnest, jerking and twisting in every direction, trying to escape from the first mate's strong grasp. "Captain!" he called up to the hard-eyed man again. "I have friends here who will gladly identify me!"
There was no reaction, it was as if he had not spoken at all. Eomund frantically struggled against Bothlan. "I am on the King's business!" he cried out as he was callously pushed up against the mast and the first mate signaled to a crewman who leaped forward to tie his hands. "NO! You must release me! I am sent by the King of Gondor!" Eomund's words were a howl and the captain gave Bothlan a barely visible signal. Looking about him the huge man fixed his eye on a bundle of sails needing mending that was piled on the deck. As the chosen crewman finished tying Eomund's hands the first mate searched through the pile of dirty canvas. Finding a small piece of cloth he balled it up and shoved it into Eomund's mouth, effectively silencing him, then retrieved the slim wooden rod from its place above the main cabin door and swished it through the air once.
Mal saw the fury and confusion in Eomund's eyes turn to panic, as the first stroke landed. He pulled and tugged at the rope holding him in a hopeless attempt to loosen the tight knots, the muscles on his arms standing out as he put all his strength into the motion, the coarse rope cutting into his wrists until the blood dripped from them, but the knots held and the rod kept swishing through the air, and Mal saw the proud blue eyes close for a moment and a sob come past the filthy gag before Eomund mastered himself, swallowed back the sound and opened his eyes to stare at the captain in disbelief, unable to comprehend the reason for either his punishment or its severity.
Eomund watched the captain as long as he could while the whistling strokes of the rod were steadily counted off by Bothlan, even though he stayed turned away from him, watching the city draw nearer. He never turned around, but Eomund kept his eyes locked on him, thinking of Mal's words about how a grief could destroy a man, or turn him into a vicious, evil thing, and he hated the captain and wondered if it pleased him in some dark way to hurt another, if it somehow assuaged his grief for a few moments and suddenly the memory of his words to his father swam before him and in the few seconds between the previous stroke of the rod and the next Eomund understood.
He understood how his grief had begun to twist him, changing his sadness into cruelty, so that wounding another, his father, even with words, had been pleasing, and that because of his words his father's grief was destroying him, and Eomund cried out, not from the pain of the stripes, although that agony was already crawling along his spine and across his shoulders, but from the anguish that suddenly filled his heart and he was sick and saddened and shaking as the next stroke of the rod came down upon him.
Before him he saw the city of Pelargir, his city, come closer and closer, and the blows kept raining down, and he could feel awareness leaving him as the pain rose up like a flood and it covered him, smothered him, choked him, until at last his eyes rolled back and he hung senseless from the mast and still the rod continued to fall across his limp form as Bothlan counted off the stripes. When he delivered the last one he slashed through the ropes with a long knife and jerked his head toward Mal. "Take him."
The old sailor motioned for another man to help and they gently lifted Eomund's bleeding body and carried him down below to his bunk, where Mal tenderly bathed the torn flesh of his back. The wounds from three days ago had scarcely healed, and the punishing strokes Bothlan had landed today had laid open Eomund's back in several places, while the bruises that were already appearing were turning it into a livid mass of black and purple and green. Mal sucked his lips in around his toothless gums and looked down at the still face as he tended to him. "Ah, lad, don't let him kill you." He brushed Eomund's dark hair away from the bloody cuts in an almost gentle motion. "Don't let him kill you."
Eomund lay unconscious the rest of the morning, awakening in the afternoon to spend the night and all the next day in his bunk on his belly, sweaty and feverish and sick with the pain, while Mal looked after him. When the fever broke the next evening he staggered up onto the deck in the fading red light of the sunset to find the Crescent Moon's business in Pelargir had long been concluded and they were far out to sea once more, and he laid his head on the railing at the back of the ship and he wept.
To Be Continued...
Again - Thanks for beta'ing - PFaz, Clairon and Catherine Maria (pinch-hitter!)