In the Lengthening Shadow – chapter 2
(II)
Estel – hope
Prologue:
Legolas woke, his tunic saturated with rain, a wild rain, that washed all in its path and he had to climb to the trees for safety. The Orc, who now lay dead at his feet, putrid blood staining itself into the green of his tunic, a sour reminder of the word turned to shadow, had released him from conscious thought for many hours. He wanted to continue his journey, knew he should not waste a second following the trail of those who must have captured his friend and yet there would be no following the trail like this. The wind howled ruthlessly and he feared he would be lost. He shivered for comfort, but the branches would barely support him, as he clung to them through the gale. This was no place to make his rest and live out the storm. Shattered, the elf climbed down from the tree and fighting the wind and with the rain lashing into his face he stepped forth into the onslaught. His progress was slow, the mud would swirl around his feet and the wind tried to knock him back. Eventually he saw a gap under a hedge; he climbed under and hoped that he would not be drowned. Once there he covered himself with his elven cloak, that none who looked might see him and fell into a fretful sleep.
When he woke, the sun was gentle, not bold and burning, it peeped over the edges of the trees as if to apologise. Everything had been washed away in the storm. There seemed to the elf no trace of the trail of his companion. He knelt on the uneven ground, his knees sinking in to the soft soil, lifted his hands to his face, and groaned in despair; even his eleven senses would no longer help him. Grief took his heart and he began to wander, he knew not where, until looking up towards the lengthening shadows, evening began to seep between the tops of the trees, and the day began to steal away.
As dark approached Legolas realised his folly, and thinking only of the danger of being found on the ground, he climbed into the trees for comfort. The gentle breeze rocked him, allowing him the little comfort it could offer. In the rocking wind, he slept, deep, but filled with dreams and not with the dreaded emptiness, which had permeated his past night's slumber. His sleep was clean. He dreamt of Estel, they were at Rivendell, surrounded by the beauty of the last Homely House; Estel reached out to him, took his hands and guided him.
Legolas woke determined not to forget. He would follow his thoughts, and his dreams now nothing else would do. His light slumber spoke to him that Aragorn lay yet within the land of the living. How he knew not, but there was reason to hope, and that was all that was left to him at this moment. Legolas climbed down from the tree, stared into the morning and followed his heart.
Beyond the Black Gate
Life beyond the stark imprisonment of the black gate brought pain to the very thoughts of living beings, for those who lived miles from the edges of Mordor, the shadow grew in their hearts; for those trapped within the land of shadow themselves, bitter was the life they must now lead.
Having been carried through the gate, the sense of advancing evil had overcome Aragorn and he had trembled with fear, unusual in the ranger, in his weakness there was little else to do. Even, with little sight, and less recollection, he knew whence it was he was carried. His skin felt it; the creeping shiver, the dark tinge to the bare white flesh which drifted with terrifying speed across the body, perhaps it was the ash, perhaps it spoke of the shadow, which lay here waiting and watching. The land of Mordor spoke fear into the hearts of those who were carried there and the dust covered roads, where ash spat into the eyes as they fought for moisture and reflected the dense shadow and loss of hope that engulfed the soul. Having been brought thus far, and so sedated Aragorn remembered little but the daily toil of waking, dragging himself into consciousness and being surrounded by the dying foliage and Earth that bordered Mordor. In panic his soul begged the release that death would bring, the very air of this land, so bent on malice and shadow it was, would do worse than to kill him and he longed to leave. Pain had become his only memory. He did not remember a day that blood had not clung to his ragged clothes, or that he had not been kicked or beaten for the natural sluggishness prompted by the wreck of his failing body. Most of the time he felt he was falling, only to find himself jolted to his knees or to his feet by the threatening hands, dark in their gloves, that refused to carry him. Only the strength of the Dunedain that lay within him kept him from slipping into the darkness, forcing life upon him, even against his will and opposed to the loss of his memory.
Forced now to walk, as the horses had been taken, and his captors would not carry him, Aragorn found himself not alone, but surrounded by equally dejected, terrible figures. Their faces appeared haunted across with the grim cruelty of their experience. Eyes, that never left the floor seemed now dead from the sparkle of humanity, and the spirits, which might once have fought seemed to have left their bodies, the shells left alone on the Earth to endure the degradation and the gnawing evil; the entrapment, which the shadow required. What was this place and why were these people gathered thus? Within his tortured mind and scattered memories Aragorn could not recollect the possibilities, his memory was sore with visions of endless trudging and the evil that came to his dreams, was more than his sleeping soul could bear. He almost preferred the dark trance of his moments of wakefulness. His dreams were filled with fire and emptiness.
Even drugged within a stupor and in the last stages of his life, (as he thought), Aragorn knew he was not as they… spirit vivacious and strong lived alongside the fear in his eyes, and though he knew or recollected little of life before the shadow, he knew he should not be there and so he fought. He fought for freedom and light, refusing the ties which bound his so mercilessly, constricting his very veins he would run, if they did not hold him, even as the blood ran smoothly down his back in rivulets. His tongue alone, desperate for liquid, dry it felt, beyond the rocks of a river in drought, as though covered with the sand of the desert, held him at the very least bound to his captors; there was no water unless they administered. In this filthy land even the water begged for escape.
The oppressive drug, with which they had first overcome him, the smell of which, like tar burned within his nostrils and threatened to drag the contents of his stomach from his body, was administered in smaller doses now and yet to Aragorn, the tiny pinprick of the needle within the coarse skin of his hand, burned like ash of Mordor against his dry tongue, then they would draw out some of his blood and rub into his hand a dose of the deadening drug. He dreaded the deadening of his senses that it anticipated, preferring the sharp focus that the pain of daily movement brought; in darkness there was nothing….
For the sake of his desperation he had been whipped mercilessly, until convinced they would wish him dead he had sunk to the floor, the heap of his bones falling from one another, until blood leaked from his back, his sides, until lines deep as gullies scarred themselves across his chest. The cool drip soothed the dents that felt as though they reached his lungs and his cries, initially shameful to him, spoke to the ranger only of his continuing existence; while he screamed he lived. If only the flow would allow his life with it. In ruins his body demanded the mercy of passing on and cruelly its own strength denied it this escape, but inside his mind was on fire and Aragorn fought for the shape of the memories to answer the question – wherefore should he have lived?.
An Oblivious Prayer
As unconsciousness had released him for the time into oblivion, where the evil seeped only into his dreams, Aragorn's captors stood over the prostrate body, fallen against a rock at the roadside, hands bound together in front as though in prayer. The empty eyes slithered over the thinning body like snakes, taking in the contours, the strong sinews of the muscles and the noble, forthright forehead, taking in his difference, the strange air of power and torment, which clung to the body even in sleep.
Rishdak, the strongest of the men, whose swarthy skin, thicker than leather seemed to absorb the evil that flowed through the very ash on the roads and, whose mission it had become to keep hold of the young ranger, was become tired of the man. How could he control a heart so wild? No matter how weak he became, or how bitter his treatment, a renewed flame seemed to live in the man's spirit which they could not control, nor force to decay by rough treatment. If he was conscious the man was a liability. He growled viciously at his companions in anger; anger at his mission; anger the relentless strength of his captive. They should kill him now and be done.
He had slowed them considerably; firstly: they had drugged him so as to take all power from his limbs; therefore they must carry him across Middle Earth, until his limbs had become a burden for Rishdak. A body so strong, was worthy for the hard labour of the lidless eye, most slaves lasted not beyond a few weeks, when they felt their tormented spirits take wings, to release them from the dreaded nightmare of toil. Hard labour the could live with, the very evil they were forced to breathe, the rod of their captor's iron against their skin, only the strongest, though deadened inside, would survive. Though their demise mattered not to the iron minds of their overseers, it had been therefore necessary to bring many more slaves, sometimes more than it was possible to collect. As the shadow crept into the minds of men, they tended to stay closer to their towns or villages, hunting in groups, clinging to the sinews of companionship in the dark hours. Few ranged alone as this man.
Once again the man's behaviour, his feverish desperation to escape, his insolent determination to refuse subjection, had forced them to stop. "He lies near death…" muttered the grim voice of the Corsair, deep like a chasm of putrid water, rough as the stubble on his cheeks. "We cannot carry on like this. If we leave him he will die. If we wait to tend him, we shall be further days delayed. This one's life is not worth the loss we are making." There was a murmur of dark agreement. Others too felt the strain the relentless strength of the ranger, his utter determination and refusal to be broken had caused. They worked to keep him with them, either in his uncooperative behaviour or in tending him as they punished him the limits of his strength. Often they expected he would die; only to find they grey eyes, open and steely, if dulled, waiting for insurrection.
Zuliman, the leader, looked around him at the eyes; dark as the reflections of the cloth they bound around their faces, hiding their mirthless features, and saw the majority, angry to the core. There was a solid, shocking, fire burning in the dark coals of their pupils, and their iron wills appeared as pillars blocking his path, yet not so solid and staunch were they as he. He took in their anger and ignored them. His narrow mind had strayed from his other prisoners now, and even from those with whom he led them, ever deeper into the shadow. With the malice in his mind he saw the hope, the anguish and the fight left in this man, the strength in his gaze and his spirit's ability to outlive the appalling torture of punishment and the drag across this rotten land. He had forgotten the price he might get, instead the life that still danced within the man's eyes, within his thoughts when allowed, he took as a challenge and all he wished was to break the sight, to have the man kneel before him, not in worship, but in fear and submission.
Endurance
Aragorn woke to the angry groan of raised voices and wondered why his presence should always heighten their emotions so. Consciousness hit him like a rock and he jolted opening up the freshly covered wounds on his back. Their voices, their language, still fearful to him, gnawed at his senses, as though they were a nail scraped across slate. His eyes would barely open, with the fresh pain of waking. His limbs he found, once more out of his control and his scars burned as though he had been washed with so much acid. He did not know what they wished of him, or where they would take him. All he knew was that he was not the only one they wanted, there were others with him… and yet he had no chance to speak. The painful gag, so constricting, that rubbed the corners of his lips until they bled, and flung his saliva back into his mouth, was once again sliding slightly between his teeth As their notice, for now was on each other, in anger, he took the liberty of looking around him.
The other captives appeared to be strung along one rope, attached to each other, cruel fibre snaking its way around their wrists. Like dominoes they would fall if one fell, fates now harshly intertwined, like the very bind of the rope. They stood in the shadow of the rocks where they had been forced, eyes furtive, watching for any sign their movements were noticed. Most looked down towards the Earth now, as though they carried heavy burdens aloft, forcing their shoulders down towards the ground, heavier than the force of gravity. Shoulders, once proudly erect were bent from being pulled along, retreating from the terror of the whip. Eyes active though spattered with spots of colour as he tried to focus Aragorn tried to see the faces, all seemed grey and haggard as though evil seeped into their skin. Most were men, although at the back of the line were a few cowering women. Not all were strong; his captors, it seemed had taken, all they could find. There were two in particular he placed at no more than seventeen, fair of hair, who might only have begun to wield a sword, their beards still not full upon their faces. They particularly, seemed to huddle together, wide eyed with terror and desperation, as if they could offer some warmth and reminder of the life that they had previously led. It broke the ranger's heart to see such young ones huddled thus, oblivious to what awaited them, their minds already blighted of the light of past memories by the treatment they had suffered, where now lay the sun of their youth. He wished he could speak to them, reach out with some warmth of humanity; show them that even in this dark land hope might live.
There were men who might have been blond and fierce, of Rohan perhaps. Horse Lords of the Rohirrim, or a farmer from the outlying lands. There were some that seemed darker, though still untouched by Sauron's shadow, unlike their captors. They were shorter, swarthier men, without the manners or the life of the men of the west. Then there were those he believed of Gondor, a certain nobler bearing perhaps, not blond as the Rohirrim, but tall with what might have been a noble expression before the dejection and degradation of capture.
A face once more came towards Aragorn, interrupting his short reverie. It was the face of the one that dragged him, the face he most looked upon with fear. A stick crawled towards the closing wounds of his back, connecting with it, poking its way between his spine, finding the knots and the dents in his skin where leather had dug, once more compelling the ranger to jolt, his features in contorted pain. Noticing the movement, and the depth of the grey eyes once more upon him, Rishdak looked into the Ranger's eyes, and Aragorn found a burning hatred in the dark coals, reflected into his face. The man was burning with rage, a rage that his features, (those visible) fiercely exposed. Aragorn, recognised this look now, understanding little of the language, the features spoke a louder and harsher language, signalling that worse might be to come for him. Whatever the outcome of the discussion it could not have been good.
Aragorn felt the familiar agony within the largely unhealed wound in his side throb through him, as the sharp boot connected with the bottom of his rib cage. His chest now seemed to be painted permanently blue and grey, as the sky when the sun was hidden. Like the sky there were many colours hidden there and deep it went. The bruises loomed darker with the passing days and threatening, a stark reminder to the Ranger of what might lay ahead. "Ai Elbereth", he winced, and a moan tore from his constricted lips; "when would it end?"
Memento Mori
Legolas did not tire easily, and whilst the sun painted blessed circles of light and warmth upon his back his search was pleasant enough, although his spirits were dampened by the loss of his friend. Yet, in his heart, he believed he would know if Estel was dead, he would have known somehow, even if it was only a slight despair within his heart. The disappearance was inexplicable, but the very fact he himself had not been harmed, but merely drugged, suggested to the elf that perhaps murder had not been the intention. He tried to hope, and in hoping, however unconsciously link some of that hope to his friend, whence he might lie. Perhaps he did not want to believe; the man had come to mean so much to him, proving on every count that the unworthiness of men, so widely regarded between the elves as the noble lines of men had one by one, like stones in a river, fallen into darkness, had in some cases been ill judged. Raised by elves this one would always be different, and yet there was something else in the man. He seemed to force himself to be worthy, and was willing, in his desperation for approval, to destroy the reputation his people had claimed for so long, to sacrifice himself for any cause. Sometimes the elf worried he had so little regard for his own life, considered himself that much lower because of his ancestry, but in doing so raised his line that much higher.
Now he had no trail to follow, Legolas was uncertain of which path to follow, and yet somehow his instincts told him he must drive south, there was something in the air there, some sense which dragged him too, towards the shadow, as it claimed the lands around Mordor and the hearts of man, the shadow longed to encompass more sending out tendrils of evil, to draw life towards it, engulf and annihilate it.
Stopping at nightfall to rest, (he had travelled without it for several days) Legolas took out the ring of Barahir once again and examined it, fingering it, yearning for the finger that was once held therein. He clung to it, as though from it he could reach out and touch Estel. He took his rest now, always within the protection of the trees, the wild branches providing a screen, behind which he could watch, but was given the advantage of sight should an enemy advance. Alone, as he was, he must take all the watch he could, and fatigued, sometime he must run the risk of sleep.
Having finally trusted to the protection of the shades of night, the darkness as a screen saved him from all except those with the most vivid sight, Legolas allowed his mind to sink into the world of dreams, only to be sharply thrust back into the vivid intensity of reality, wakefulness and awareness by a movement on the ground beneath him. As though chilled by a winter breeze, the elf instinctively drew his grey cloak closer around him, as if enacting a protective motion. Perhaps the more he crawled within himself, the less he would be visible. Beneath him he saw with surprise the light of flaming torches, heard the crack of a whip. What folly was this when Orcs were afoot? In the gleaming light, blinding in comparison with the curtain like darkness Legolas saw three figures. One appeared completely in black, a whip in his hand, the others bound, with a look of horror etched into their faces. Legolas drew his bow, felt the tension in the string, and let fly an arrow. He heard the twang of his own bowstring and then held his breath….
End of part II