Pain.
The whip flashed before his eyes again, long strands of leather tipped with many black thorns. The leather looked supple and soft under the flickering torchlight, but it cut like the finest blade. Already, the whip was soaked with blood, glistening a stark crimson. The lash rose, and fell, and landed. The thorns dug in and tore open skin and flesh without mercy as the whip dragged across his back. Another spray of red. Aragorn hissed and shook, but still he refused to murmur a single word.
"Speak!" The man before him barked a command, sharp as biting steel.
"Speak, cur! Tell us what we wish to know, and you may be spared. Be stubborn to the end, and we shall tear every flesh from your bones ere you die."
The voice sounded impassioned, merely cold, cold and hard like the river of ice that flowed from the northern mountains. Anger and contempt there were plenty beneath that sheet of ice, though no malice, no vicious delight.
Then why this needless cruelty?
The whip rose, and fell. Rose and fell. His heart hammered in his chest at a disconcerting speed, answering to the irregular rhythm of the lash. And beneath the pain that threatened to tear endless screams from his throat every moment, he could feel the rivulets of blood crawling down his back. An unnerving feeling with a dizzying effect.
Aragorn found that he could think no longer. Every fiber of him was being torn apart, slowly and with care. He had lost count of how many times the lash fell; only know when to expect the next beat. He had thought and hoped the pain would numb after this endless pain, but it did not. Every lash sent a new wave of agony racing through him, and every wave of agony remained in him, building up rapidly, threatening to snap his back with its deadly weight.
Suddenly he felt the point of cold steel poised beneath his shoulder blade, and saw eyes. Dark, angry and determined eyes.
"Why do you refuse to speak?" The voice was quiet, yet still vehement.
He did not answer, could not answer, for lie would not suffice, and truth would be taken for lie.
Pain. Again. Pain he could not swallow and cage in.
The sword had suddenly pierced his shoulder, hardened steel tearing skin and flesh apart like paper. Blood flowed freely, a stark scarlet. It was enough to tear a hoarse scream from his throat.
"Speak!" The voice cried again, low and fierce, full of determination and righteous anger.
"Speak!"
The voice was now different. It sounded like his own voice, his own voice from long ago. Or was it really the same?
"Speak!"
Aragorn pinned the Haradrim soldier against the tree unmercifully, a dagger against the southerner's throat.
"Speak! Who ordered the ambush on our camp, to what end? And whither went the rest of your company?" His voice was cold, angry, and relentless. "Speak ere I slit your throat slowly and feed you to the crows!"
"Speak ere I slit your throat slowly and feed you to the crows!"
Was that his own voice also? It did not sound like it. It was said in the tongue of Harad, and he did not speak the southern tongue, least not then, when he would still say such a thing to a Haradrim. Yet the difference was minute enough for the two voices to merge, resounding in his ears as one.
Only silence answered him. Dark eyes glared back, fierce and furious as his own, eyes that threatened to burn him with their sheer intensity.
"Speak now!"He rammed the unfortunate captive against the tree, tearing a scream from the southerner, an enraged and defiant scream. The man remained silent no longer, instead barked a long stream of words in the Haradrim tongue. Aragorn hesitated for a brief moment. Perhaps this man spoke no Westron and understood him not? Had he been unnecessarily cruel?
The moment of hesitation proved enough to be near fatal. The Haradrim soldier lashed out viciously, throwing Aragorn to the ground. Aragorn was a seasoned fighter, and he recovered from the moment's distraction with an inhumane swiftness. It took a split second for him to find his firm hold on the dagger once more, and he did not hesitate to plunge the silver blade into the Haradrim's heart.
The Haradrim fell back, limb and unmoving. Death's pallor coloured his dark face, and his hot breath stopped short in his throat. Blood flowed from his wound, dying the many layers of rough fabric he wore harsh red slowly but surely. Yet his eyes were still open, still glaring with the same defiant anger and contemptuous hatred.
The same eyes glared at him still. They stole across the barrier of a different lifetime to glare at him still, burning with the same intensity. Those eyes were too full of preconceived ideas to see that he was attempting to amend his wrongdoings.
Aragorn found that he could no longer bear the torment. The pain was too much. When he was in such situations before, he always had emotions to live on; rage, defiance, and the wild wish to see ruin come to his foes. Now he had none of those nourishing feelings, only sorrow and aching memories that threatened to hasten the coming of his destruction.
"Speak."
Whispered the faceless apparition, light like humming wind, almost inaudible. He could not guess whether it was his own voice or that of his tormentor, though it mattered not. It was one in truth. The world about him was beginning to dim. Light and shadow blurred into one sheet of grey that was darkening rapidly.
And like greeting a long sought for friend Aragorn embraced the darkness.
Eyes.
He saw eyes when he looked on the waking world once more, dark, beautiful eyes, set in a delicate and youthful face. He had seen those eyes brimming with joy, or anger, or whatever youthful passion swift and fleeting, but never had he seen those eyes so sorrowful and forlorn, and so full of tears.
"Annem." He whispered hoarsely, straining all of his strength to reach out and cup the youthful face with his bloodied hand. "Please, do not shed tears."
The young prince of Harad snatched up his callused hand and held it tightly. The young man seemed no longer the proud prince of a proud nation, but only a fearful child needing something firm to cling on to.
"Taluya, Taluya!" The young man murmured in a trembling voice, now crying openly. "Please do not die, Taluya. Father did not mean this; we did not mean this, not this!"
Aragorn wanted to say something to comfort the young man, but he could not. Every part of him burned with pain, and even staying conscious was too much a strain on his feeble strength. The young man was still crying. Tears streamed down his face freely.
"You should never have come to us, Taluya." The young man said amidst tears with a rare bitterness. "I wish I had never come to know you! I wish you never set a single step in Harad! Why did you come to us, Taluya? Are we not your enemies?"
Those tear-filled dark eyes were looking at him with such sorrow and pity, such bewildered hate and uncertain love. Oh, those eyes! They were the same eyes that drew him to Harad many long years ago.
The little girl sitting in the midst of the bloodied field had beautiful eyes.
None knew when and how she came to be there, but all could see her plainly when the dust of battle had settled. She was kneeling beside a fallen body, hugging the unmoving corpse tight and crying openly. Tears spilt from her dark, beautiful eyes and fell to the barren field like rain. She did not seem to notice the darkening sky and the growing cold, or the tall soldiers from the north looking on silently. She only cried and cried, drowning in grief and wasting herself dry.
Aragorn could feel his heart pull, and it pained him. The pity in him moved him forward. He gently helped the girl up, holding her dark, fragile arms comfortingly, murmuring soothing words in Sindarian. He did not think he would be thanked, or even understood, but he hoped he could offer some consolation to the small girl.
The girl threw herself at him piteously and put her thin arms around him. She buried her dark head in his chest and cried into his bloodstained tunic. Aragorn was taken aback for a moment, but he allowed himself to ease and return the girl's embrace. The moment was so deceivingly peaceful that when the sudden pain pierced his back and forced the breath from his chest he could not imagine what transpired for a moment.
The intense pain spread through his body like a flow of liquid fire. He gasped for air and found that he could not breath. He could feel blood rushing out from his body rapidly, and leaving him in a panicked stupor.
A blade. Plunged into his back. And it could be no other than the fragile and frightened little girl washing his bloodied tunic with tears.
Already the world was growing blurry, and the colours were fading from land and sky. He could not even find the strength to push the girl away. Stumbling, he fell to his knees.
Slowly he raised his head and saw the girl looking down with dark, beautiful eyes still brimming with tears. Those eyes were laughing with triumph, yet crying with grief; they were filled with a vengeful hate, yet also a desponding apology. I hate you, for I must hate you, those eyes said, yet I could have loved you for your kindness. Fear me, those eyes said, and forgive me. Hate me, those eyes said, and love me.
Such eyes of ambivalence, Aragorn thought dimly before darkness took him.
Such eyes ambivalence, he thought dimly, looking into the dark, sorrowful eyes of Annem. Harad was, and still is, a nation of ambivalence, he thought.
What of Gondor then?
When he woke again he found he was in a hastily made camp, lying beside a roaring fire. The sky was dark above him, and it was quiet save some faint chattering of soldiers. He tried to rise, only to be stopped short by the incredible pain in his chest that stole his breath away for a moment. It seemed he must contend himself with only staying conscious for a while.
The slight movement was enough to draw a soldier near.
"You are awake, Captain Thorongil!" The soldier cried in an excited voice. "We were so afraid! The healers were worried about you. The gods be praised that you are awake once more!"
Aragorn looked up at the eager but still concerned young soldier and nodded his thanks. Slowly with a strange fear he asked, "What happened to the Haradrim girl?"
"Lieutenant Aloren shot her." The answer came indifferent, or maybe, slightly disgusted, also angry. "Serves her right, the treacherous southern wench. You treated her with nothing but kindness, captain, yet she…" The young soldier was angry enough to lose his words there.
So that was what Gondor had been and always would be: indifferent, disgusted, and angry.
The young soldier's words were lost to Aragorn, for he thought of the dark-eyed girl, and the news of her death put another knife through his heart. The death of this nameless girl grieved him in a way that he could not wholly understand.
It was her eyes, Aragorn decided, looking into the eyes of young Annem that held the same ambivalence. It was those eyes of Harad that drew him to the distant southern desert.
"Why did you come here, Taluya? Why?" He heard the young Haradrim ask once more.
Gathering all his strength, Aragorn smiled wanly at the young man.
"I came because your people drew me here." He said quietly. "Your people have beautiful eyes, Annem."
