Part VI
INTERLUDE
A voice in the darkness
….wearily Aragorn answered, then delving deeper "Or else it is lost beyond memory, for of it I have no recollection. Sometimes I see eyes of my past and they are the happiest days. Other times, I think perhaps there was nothing before this; no eyes. And the bodies I see were placed there not by memory but by the threat of evil that taunts my very thoughts. I cannot name these eyes or these faces, but slowly, a little with the rising of the grey light each morning they appear less vivid" A he ended, his voice, soft like the brush of grass no longer seemed to address another, but sang softly. It was as though he addressed the darkness, his captors or perhaps life itself and memory, dredging it, forcing it up from the shadows. For he could speak, openly at least and though others might hear him, the sound of his own voice, soft but within hearing was a spark of strength within the ranger. It was something else that now they could not deny. Through the folds of darkness, skin soft, he did not see the surprise on the face of the newly acknowledged Sador. He felt some kind of trust with this man although he had little knowledge of him; perhaps it was the perception of the human skin that had lingered with him for so long, a cool soothing balm in the midst of the burning evil of rope and Iron.
"Bellas, I will name you then," relented his partner voice that thrust itself in friendship through the darkness. "Strength," and for a moment he paused as though the darkness had come between them. Aragorn held his breath for more response, begged for the reassurance of the voice in the darkness.
Then, it peered once more, like the sunlight he vaguely remembered peering good morning over the thin spines of tree branches. "Your words speak of the terror of darkness and I have seen what you suffer, and I do not know a man that might have lived through what I have seen. Yet there is still strong spirit in you." Then, as though it was but a last breath of wind, he added as an afterthought, "All must be named for else they will lose fight to continue." Then a snake like lash slung itself between them, hissed against the revealed skin of Aragorn's shoulder where the ruins of his tunic lay in strands like weed across scarred skin. All fell silent, unwilling to be responsible for the pain of another and thereafter nothing seemed to stir..
Dance of Death
When morn came it was like the ashes of a fire long burned out, cold, dark, and dusty in the grim light. The sun never peered over the mountains that like iron bars fenced in. Black and grimacing they threatened to close in on you until there was nowhere to flee. As the red glow, and shadow like intensity of clouds formed overhead, Aragorn awoke from a diminishing sleep. Now without the drug of the corsairs he felt more aware, but his stupor had at least spared him the dreadful blur of dark dreams. He closed his eyes and saw fire but the flames were black, Faces, mouth less and expressionless surrounded him, and only in a tiny corner, barely perceptible when sleep took hold could he hear the voice that had named him strength. While sleeping he believed even these words too as nothing more than an evil dream, sent to torment him with echoes of normality, of life beyond soulless eyes and dark rocky roads that like spiders crawled into the never ending distance. The infinity frightened him too. In nightmares, this land had no limit, a road thick with dust and dead skin, crawled sluggishly into the setting shadow of either direction; and no escape showed itself. Yet the voice, whether good or evil, pounded strong.
Life now fell into a slow and deadly routine. Like a dance the prisoners played their parts; partners in their own downfall. They were constricted by the movements forced on them by those who held the drumbeat. It played painfully slow, spoke doom like the sound of Orc drums deep within the mines of the world. The prisoners were raised at dawn from the stifling grip of sleep, that held them mercilessly in evil dreams for the few hours rest they were allowed. Eyes were prized open by the grab of ruthless hands, even before the groan of light drew them from solitude. Then the glare of Orcs, the putrid smell of breath and skin which fled from their bodies, permeated the senses, stomachs rolled like seasickness, and fear in waves crashed like breakers several metres high.
Breakfast was worse, as though thrown under by the waves the stomach would seize and thrash. Even the Orcs hated the stained, grime like bread that was forced down the throats of the prisoners, maggot bread they called it, spitting out the words as if they tasted of their own smell. If the prisoners refused to drink, they were forced to rough knees, and denied breath through their noses until like drowning collapse was inevitable, mouths were forced open and like blood the foul liquid slithered in the throat. Others, desperate for release, would deny breath themselves to a point beyond the force of the Orcs, instead thick boots crashed into their stomachs until gape shaped mouths made pain filled O's. The thick dark like mud liquid found its way to their stomachs too, and like the rooting of evil it sustained, even strengthened some and yet not for their own work or benefit, but for their domination by others; the very body became a slave to the dark poisons of the forces of evil
Then with no rest and no wash work began (there was no water for washing, it fled the black land like light). Long and arduous it was from the first inch of light that crawled through the darkness into the sky, until the stars gazed over their backs and in the air the particles were cold like the breath of first frost on the grass. In thin tunics, ragged like rock faces from toil, there was little to protect from the gnawing elements; the ice like fingers that seemed to reach through the pores of cloth, piercing skin with needle like blades of ice. The fingers of cold were like the nails of Orcs, biting, threatening always to take more, perhaps your life.
Some worked above the ground, armour was to be made it seemed, like swarms of ants there was a never ending demand. Piles of swords flat and sharp like weeds, with a hook on the end to drag skin from bone, appeared from the ground grew like the flood of a river – sudden and bursting as banks broke. Metal appeared, grey and swarthy like skin, none knew where there were such supplies, or why such a demand was required. The shadow seemed determined to suck the very goodness from the Earth itself. The metal was hard and cold, brutal against unprotected skin it cut where it could.
Others, less fortunate, were denied even the weakness of the fresh kiss of the air. Below the Earth, where slanting stone pushed vision of the sky beyond the sight even of eyes squinted to tears, air suffocated. Hot as breath, it seemed to burn with the flames that licked the fingers that held the metal, burning through skin like paper, even skin hard and gnarled with toil. Here weapons took shape, the sharp tooth like hooks of the swords appeared from the dark liquid, that made the stomach turn in remembrance of the stain of liquid forced in mornings. It slithered into the moulds; metal took shape like the slide of evil into the dark places of the world. Worse still, there was the greed of the search for metal. Great axes, heavy as men must be lifted. Like whips they lashed the defenceless rock, dragging crumbling stone to unforgiving Earth, stone that should have remained buried. Metre after metre the axes dug for perhaps a few inches of metal, the glint of which like gold was the prize that all sought, for it brought with it the promise of peace. If found, the Orcs would target you less, the nightmare might subside, however slightly and for a moment, all that was wanted was the glint of metal; life forgotten.
Heat and cold relentless, overtook the body until it shook with indecision, it did not matter which. Skin hardened to wrinkles, and when fatigue took over, when nightfall had long since passed like the cloth which quietens a caged bird, the nerves cared not for the bite of cold. Instead tinged with blue like the feint of dawn bodies begged sleep, until eyelids were hauled over weary eyes and oblivion obliterated the numbing tingle of frost.
At my side
Like venom the steam that rose from the gaping mouths of the land was tinged with colour. Sometimes like blood it was red; like that which escaped the body; a thin mist now, as though that was all that humanity was shrunk to. Other times it was black and Aragorn thought it was ash, or perhaps the remnants of the souls of those that slowly disappeared kept so long from the sun, beneath. They might search a better place or like condensation disappear into the wind and be blown away across the fences; perhaps it was the only means of escape.
"Bellas", he whispered in the dark, when even the pleasure of human voices had forsaken him. When his mouth released the word like a salve he knew it was true.
In the freedom of darkness, the man with the voice had reached with his worn hands, bound with iron to Aragorn's own and had torn cloth. In the swirling secrecy of night he had bound the shoulder, holding the bones that moved apart like the branches of trees. Faithful as the night, that appears no matter what he lay at the side of the man, shared his warmth, all that he had to give in the world. And like strength he was Aragorn returned it fiercely, as he did all things when once more there was something to love. When waking the voice of his friend played strong between the shadows of his fractured memories. He did not know who he was but he existed and others too, like him. The shadow, even in this wretched land had not completely taken hold.
In the day he was careful to draw no attention to the warmth that existed between the two. Fearing that any friendship that seemed to grow in the withering air of Mordor would be cut down, denied to the ruin of all, he hid it, like a flower budding in the night, hidden behind a rock in dense woodland like a candle in dark places. When the breath of night was felt on their faces they sank into the thrill of companionship, unquestioning in the desperation of their need.
As they lay side to side, (a week now they had lain thus) the voice of his friend, gently brushed aside the silence of the air. Friend, it is strange how quickly we accept the name of such a bond, in such situations, where suspicion is replaced by fear of being alone, readily we take to those that show kindness. "Truly you remember nothing of your former life?" Aragorn sighed at the loss of hope the question rang with. "Truly nothing my friend," he declared wearily, releasing his hope into the night sky, allowing it to run away from him into the pale cold of the air. "Like venom there are shapes in my dreams that pierce me with their reality, and then sink into obscurity, I can only believe they are put there by such permeating evil. The visions lead me to trust nothing and I long for daybreak, despite the anguish of toil and the malice of Orcs. When my memories turn against me, there is nothing." "Bellas," reached the voice of Sador, softer than afore, "they are but dreams which turn to haunt you, and yet you wake to see another day. Perhaps they should not haunt but you should believe." "Nay," struggled Aragorn, "in my days I seem a man with no past and yet every line upon my face tells some forgotten tale. I have not the strength to fight the pain of day and the haze of night, only to discover that nothing remains, I am still without memory.
This is real. My past could tell whatever it liked."
With that he returned to silence and reverie; Sador to wondering. The man was more than what he had become, that he knew. He could see in the man's eyes, if allowed the possibility of strength greater than the sum of others combined, and in that strength, even this night, even in this land, he placed his hope of fight, of escape. He breathed in the strength that emanated from the very pores of this man, clogged by evil as they were, lived from its source, and nurtured it for future action.
At a late hour
There were hands again, caked with rivers of blood, dry as dust, that reached out but always fell back inches short of their target. He knew the lines of these hands, the contours of the knuckles and the bend of the wrist. He knew the arms, the faint scars, embedded in the skin like the creases of rocks, the dark protecting hairs. Yet these were not the hands he knew. He wished he could see beyond, that there might be light in the darkness of the void of his nightmares. Not even a candle would stay alight in the stifling fear that overtook him in sleep. Each night the hands seemed a little further away. Each night Legolas noticed a new river of blood.
"Find me" spoke the voice he remembered "…for the hour is already late."
End of part VI