PART V

REACHING UNKNOWN LANDS

In the footprints of my father

Legolas stood in awe, as though at the foot of a mountain. In front of him rose the heights of the great White City of Men. Created by those of Numenor, in its heights appeared a majestic beauty that spoke of the influence of those greater than the present occupants. In the setting sun it shone as coral on an ocean bed, lit only by the beams that reached so deep. It spoke to him of greatness past and yet was bound with a great sorrow, noticeable in the gentle yellowing or thin cracks of its bricks. It was the first time Legolas had seen Minas Tirith, though he lived for over a thousand years of its life. He had heard tales of the fall of its kings but never had he been brought into such proximity of their fate. Rarely, until he had met Estel had he wandered so far south. He took a breath that extended to the bottom of his ribs, struck with the achievements of men. And of this Estel might one day be King, what a burden to bear. Legolas felt he understood for the first time the magnitude of the heaviness that must always dwell with Estel. He must go where so many of his race had been lost

Being daytime the gates of the city were open, although the effects of the approaching shadow already showed themselves in the city's tapestry. The gates were now fiercely guarded at all times; lengthening rows of steel helmets measured the tread of the shadow towards the shores of Anduin. Following arrival, there must be an interrogation. Looking into the eyes of the man who now stood before him, to Legolas it seemed he was on trial. They looked through the irises of his eyes, piercing the flesh and muscle as though they could view his thoughts. Guilt played on his mind, although he could not think what of, suspicions of the shadow were natural. The capture of slaves showed how far the evil already encroached on the lives of these people. Living under the very borders of shadow lands; they could not afford to allow caution to slip.

The inquisitor stood before them, old and ragged. Wisps of white hair threatened to spill from underneath his helmet, revealing to all his advancing years, preying on his sense of his own weakness. In fact his own belief in the growth of this weakness caused him to be extra vigilant; the threat of his age did not cloud his depth like eyes. With his mood they strayed in their colour. Now his determination pierced them, dark like metal in his investigation; immovable as stone. Or so he wished.

"What business have you with the white city, stranger of the North?" he delved, like a spade he dug through excuses, forcing their eyes from the ground. Legolas stood between their investigator and the boys like a shield from the prying eyes. Caught by the spear like questions of the man, he too felt like prey. Uneasy in the company of so powerful a city of men, and in his obscured identity Legolas remained hesitant in his answers. This was a method which puzzled the inquisitor. Awkward, Legolas replied. Like a foreign being he stumbled for his words. "My business is my own, I wish to enter the city from a wish to be better acquainted with its great and noble history." he stuttered uncertainly, hoping that flattery might win the trust of this man with such eyes. Still he wished to hide. He did not feel they needed to know more than this; he had given no reason for doubt. "If you are not more forthcoming, I shall have to detain you at the first gate," came the sharp reply as like spears the wills of the two beings clashed. Tension in the air resounded as they refused to crush one another. Legolas peered backwards at the expectant faces, wide with hope, for his wards and realised he must be forthcoming. They had suffered too much disappointment.

"I have come on behalf of my two young charges," he gestured, waving his hand in the direction of the boys. "They have informed me that their father dwells herein, and I must find him urgently. He is of the guards of the city." At this point, followed by a look of solid certainty and responsibility Arun now stepped forward. When he spoke his voice was thick as that of a man well into the years of adulthood, confident and implacable. Like a brick of the city he withstood the attack of the man's eyes, pupils as dense as those which stood above him. "I," he stated, words marched like the feet of soldiers on parade, slow and definite, "am Arun, son of Hellian of the third company of the citadel." This time there was no doubt on the face of the guard of the gate. But between the two, mutual like pillars of the same stone, there was recognition of equality and esteem.

Instead there came now the old man, and the child trying the garb of adulthood for the first time the familiarity of those who know such mutual empathy and respect. "I know your father well." The voice was like a smile, broad and inviting, desperate for approbation. "For I trained him, when first as a boy, younger perhaps than you stand now, he came to me and spoke of his intention to join the guard." He continued now, as if in a dreamlike removal to a happier age. "Others had contempt for his youth, and yet I saw in him, as I see in you now, the potential for such strength as my feebler body n'er imagined." Then as an after thought, or perhaps a further apology for his doubt, "you are much alike to him. I am Amandil of the gate." "Then my father spoke of you," rose Arun, who could now hold his place well in the discussion. Yet he equally desired such approval. "And highly he spoke. Do not reference such feeble powers, for I know that he stood in such awe of you as a child of ten approaches a goblin for the first time. These words he gave to me himself, although his visits have recently been rare."

For a moment, each stood within the mist of his own reverie, not wishing to interact with the world of the other. Yet each world threaded together, wove into a tapestry of the kinship of men. Legolas, and his strange apparel and accent of the north was for now forgotten in the passion of the moment of recognition and association.

"Know you where to find my father?" The question came now cold and desperate, like the first drops of rain in spring it seemed to ask for the hope of saviour. "Aye, he stands atop the walls of the city, above this very gate." The answer, positive as the sun, brought the end to their drought. Amandil summoned another guard who stood close. His eyes, gentler, greyer like soft graphite found their way through the heavy cover of his helm. This man was little older than Arun, Legolas deduced from the soft chin, not yet moulded by the entrenchment of the ways of the old. "Here is Simion," boasted Amandil with a touch of pride as though presenting a protégé, "also of the third company of the city." Simion, uncomfortable between the sharp nosepiece of the helm, shifted in conspicuous anxiousness, he had not long been assigned this post and he feared the charge of the shadow towards his land as a rabbit in an open field, unsure of which way to turn. "Simion, take these men to Hellian of the walls, he is a captain there. These are his sons. He must be released from his duty for the day." In self conscious silence, Simion beckoned them, and in equivalent hush Legolas followed his charges. In their own surroundings, among their own people, they now seemed to have gained the protection of himself and he felt all the discomfort of exposure. He was as alien to them as they seemed to him; his hood, a thin roof of material; all that seemed to lie twixt himself and discovery. As they ascended the stolid stone of the steps to the wall he considered the indelible mark of man. When the elves were gone, men would remain immovable as the sea.

Faithful Lantern

"It is night. The shadow rests and allows the moon to shine above, lantern in our darkness. There are stars that smile like the teeth of children, but do not bite. They watch us; eyes and I think if we moved they might follow, but unlike the lidless one they blink. I ignore the scent of the earth, bitter taste of dirt and metal that comes with it. In the wide expanse of the sky, spreads our hope and our strength. Only in the sky they cannot constrict us, for it is there to look upon wherever we stand. They cannot hide it here, or deny its existence, for like the struggle of good and evil it is steady in the world and offers balance. The shapes the stars paint are familiar and yet so distant in my blurred mind they might be of another world. Yet, if they are we can still see them; that other world, though far, is thus far within our grasp. If I squint they seem so close. I might reach out and touch. And, though I think they would burn, the sensation might bring pleasure, as does the pinch that drags from a nightmare. They are the certainty I have not fallen below the edges of the time. There are patterns that like memory do not make sense but speak of a great past. They shine enough to clear my thoughts, and yet hide light enough so that I cannot see the desolation of my situation. In starlight even this world in the dusk of its life (it lies closer to midnight than we think) gains an apparel of friendly darkness. The rocks lose their jagged edges, the haunted land its barren extremity."

Words poured from the mouth of the ranger like a song, as a prayer. Yet to whom did he pray or speak? The word's, barely audible, formed little more than a whisper, indistinct to the rough senses of the Orcs and yet it was perceptible to his close companions. The other prisoners wallowed in the strength and hope of the words; the recollection they brought of previous life and the certainty of the stars. They knew not if he spoke to them or to himself and yet they were glad of the touch of humanity the words released. Whether for their comfort or his alone they strengthened and night was not an enemy more terrible than the tread of the crushing Orcs, but as a friend it cradled them in its familiarity. They had not always looked upon it thus.

The end of the road

They had walked a day further, miles in which direction Aragorn knew not. Like a blindfold his drug induced stupor had left him unaware of the direction they sought and the sun held no bearing for them here. The shadow left none to guide. They walked or marched or stumbled, spirits tethered to one another now. When rope binds bodies and one falls, it is as though all have fallen, the fall of one symbolising the death of hope for all. They walked close, the ropes not taut between them but loose and welcoming and they could feel the breath of one another upon their necks, a familiarity only possible in prisoners so shortly after acquaintance. To be alone is to wither. Aragorn craved this touch of human life, like a breeze in the desert it brought comfort – all the world is not such as this; there are others behind. He now coughed from the drought of the land, felt the dust shake his ribs within his body, it nearly made him double and yet the movement might summon another three steps backward; steps he no longer wished to enforce.

Then, as sudden as nightfall that came upon them the fall of a curtain, blanketing them in the softness of the darkness; they were ordered to stop. The language was not understood but the barbarity was insistent, shrieked in the silence of the plains of fear. Peering through the thin curtain of darkness, Aragorn squinted uncertainly into the distance. There were no lamps and the moon, faithful lantern, was as yet in shadow. He saw, in blurred shapes, that there were others, dark like clouds in the mist of night. He could not see their faces but he could feel the force of their eyes on him. Another Orc throbbed toward them, little clouds of dust, whirlwinds to the narrow eye clustered around his feet. He stopped and began to hiss in a low voice to Nuth, their leader, whose gnarled hands, thick with biting nails had already become familiar with the contours of his prisoner's backs.

As they came closer Aragorn saw that there were more men here, backs bent to the point of cracking, eyes pinned to the ground. The hope of the sky, of the stars was lost to them. At last he could see their eyes, lids, three quarters shut, they were blunt and hopeless, colours dimmed to a perpetual grey. They sat in ragged rows, tied in one misery. Some, on the edges of the group seemed barely to register the arrival of the newcomers; others peered with mild interest, inspecting those that might come to replace them. It was they, whose backs, were bent less as scimitars, whose eyes, though narrow, still illustrated a corner of awareness; however shallow, however ephemeral it was there.

To their right there were deep pits, the bottoms beyond view. Like gaping mouths, toothless, expressionless they gnawed into the earth. In the dimness, they seemed as though they would swallow, gulping the little light that illuminated them. Aragorn tried to strain his neck, but was forced back in a shock of pain from his broken collar bone, and he drew back with a hiss of anguish. Beyond that there seemed to be some kind of stone-works. Though, in the density of the darkness, the lumps appeared more as rotten teeth, jutting at weird angles from the ground. What was this place? For what purpose had they been hauled here? Quizzical looks murmured on the faces of his companions, marred only by the tinge of a new fear, a threat unknown. And as they evaluated their fate, the new circumstance, so outside their realm of knowledge, there came a sharp tug on the rope that bound them. They were flung forward, heads narrowly escaping the clash of skulls in the shock of movement.

Feet, unwilling, rooted to the spot were heaved from their entrenchment. The drawing hands had no mercy; when they were slow, it heaved harder; Aragorn felt the cracked bones within his shoulder move once more from their contact and he heard the crunch as they dislocated. Yet he would not show the shame of a scream or even a moan. He must now keep his strength if only to give hope to the others. The hope given to him, by the moment of human contact, the kindness, warmth of the touch in the darkness of his nightmare, had not given way, and though his body was weak, Aragorn's spirit had once more grown strong. Even though he could not remember who he was, he knew that in his past there had been the same kindness that the touch had recollected. His limbs, his crying shoulder begged for the mercy of oblivion, wept for the rest of the longest sleep. He could not let his mind fall so, and in the haze of his thoughts, Aragorn constantly fought the fall to darkness; the hopelessness that threatened so often to overwhelm him. He kept within his vision, behind the curtains of his thoughts the vision of the grey eyes. They were kind eyes, fierce and loyal, they looked on him, with anger when he slid to despair but most of all he read in them the existence of something beyond this. In the reflection of the grey irises he knew that he had a past.

Viciously they were thrown down. It happened first because the first prisoner had walked too far.

Their fall formed a line in front of the ragged slaves, whose eyes, like Orcs still watched them. Landing in a heap, there came a murmur of winced pain, as all had suffered under the hand of the Orcs. Eyes closed as the jolt of landing muttered through him, Aragorn nearly lost his constant fight with the conscious world. He tried to move, but there was another kick in his side and he crushed cruelly into the prisoner next to him once more. Then hands came, as if from the air and cut the bands that tethered their hands, there was ache as blood, held back for so long, rushed along arteries to reach the released fingertips. However this mistake of freedom was not to last, for almost as soon as release had come, blood had reached the fingers, flaccid hands were roughly caught; then, bound by a dark chain; dark like oil it slithered around their wrists. Hands were viciously manacled, and blood was trapped once more. The thud of the manacles as they clamped around his wrists Aragorn felt as a jolt that pierced his bones. He was so connected to his body now that even a sound which came from elsewhere might cause his body to convulse slightly. Then came a second, third, fourth as once more they were joined in tethers, but this time their binding spoke the words prisoner, even more harshly than before. Ropes can be broken or sliced, but chains of thick metal, they are there to keep you to the same patch of Earth, hold you tight to the point of evil.

Then they were left, cold and alone. The iron, black like charcoal, coated the manacles and rubbed dark dust in circles on the grimy skin of the prisoners. The Orcs stood a few metres hence, always watching; and yet this seemed a breath like clear mountain air for those captured, for a moment eyes did not bore through skin and they felt the danger and the fear diminish. Aragorn's tense muscles relaxed into a weary heap and he aimed to sleep. Then in the darkness, a voice…

Nameless

"I am Sador of Gondor," came a delirious whisper in the dark. For a moment Aragorn thought he dreamt the contact, the warm breath of the whisper in the knife cold night air of Mordor. They could speak, he realised for the first time and a wave of almost breathless excitement shook through his weary bones. For so long all he had heard were the dreadful, thrashing words that the Orcs spat into the air or the threatening ugliness of the Corsairs. "Faithful," murmured Aragorn to himself, and he wondered if the name was well suited. "Who are you, stranger?" requested the voice once more rose the voice once more, careful and questioning desperate for familiarity. "For your voice is not that of the south. I hear no trace of Gondor or Rohan. You must be of the north." "I" spoke Aragorn softly as a wave of gentle despair rolled across his thoughts, "… am nameless."

End of part V