Part IX
VENGEANCE
Rise above it
The heat of the day was like flies upon them, it stuck to their clothing creating a kind of glue with their sweat so that thick cloth moulded to the lines of the body becoming a second skin, not one that yielded but one that constricted. Deep in the chasms of Mordor Aragorn felt breathless with thirst, but there was no water, nor would he receive any answer but the beat of whip should he ask for any. It had seemed to him better to work, and not to question while despair held his mind and he saw no way out, nor could he cling to the frail blurs of his past, for they mocked him with their evaporating images.
Now he was different, in spite of all; the fevers that wrecked his body and told him each day would be his last and the schismatic pain of his shoulder that would not heal. Yet, beyond that he felt small springs of strength and rebellion rise up within him that he could not banish or push aside. It was not within him to submit to the lashes of evil however far he fell or to watch while others felt the dark oppression of punishment, uncalled for, unquestioned. He would not live like this but he would not die either so what alternative lay before him?
In the day with the thick clank of metal upon stone or stone upon metal, the endless traffic of industry that drained the strength and tore muscles like grass there was no space or silence in which to reflect or shape thoughts. Rather, the prisoners became mechanical in their movements, the circular motion of the hand with the hammer and the frightened blinking of eyes like prey that searched constantly, always evasive, for the hands of the Orcs that fell more often and with no mercy on those of lesser strength.
For the first time, since… he did not remember when (that too had blurred into a blackened past) Aragorn was aware of other things, than the interminable thud and grind of the tools in his hand against the unyielding strength of rock. He noticed the others that worked. On some he saw the faces blank and tired, ready to fall. Lines like the fletching of arrows scarred their faces and they seemed old, not in years but in sufferings, the lives of Mordor were irrevocably shortened.
For a moment he stopped. Rock before him stood imperishable and broad. Black as the bite of nails it was hard and firm, as though in communion with the Orcs that seemed to watch with glee for the failure of men; waited for the axe to slip in order to follow with the coaxing of leather and metal. Sweat made Aragorn's face gleam, even in the mouth like gloom of the abyss and it ran into the cracks of the scars; the salt was bitter against the soft tissue of new skin and stung. The bite of his axe was not enough and the force of his swings seemed to send blades of pain through his shoulder and his limbs that ached as the monotony of walls without colour. But the pain was not blinding, not yet. The rock was like teeth, or perhaps it was the bone that is gnawed upon and will break the teeth. In the end they snap, leaving gaping holes and blood, but the bone remains a constant; so it was with the rock of Mordor.
For a second his eyes journeyed, not like prey, but with careful precision for they alone retained the slight thrill of the freedom of movement. He saw that the eyes of the Orcs were not upon him. He wished to look upon Sador. His friend, who had until now been working within the free particles of the air, (they alone could move at will in the Shadowland) had been consigned to the stifling air of the underworld. His strength had been discovered and now he too suffocated beneath the veil of the Earth's shadow.
In the depth of the abyss even light itself seemed to escape from the rim, feet and feet above; further than the tread of feet it seemed, (it was all that could) and prisoners, even with the aid of lamps. were left squinting for vision. Aragorn's quick eyes, now used to the toil of stealth lighted upon a boy, no more than sixteen he would have guessed, no more than a child with the hair, flaxen like the golden halls of Rohan. He wavered on his feet; swaying like the slightness of a breeze in a forest, so weak he had become and his thirst was like the snap of dry twigs. Aragorn looked in horror as the Orc that watched this portrait of weakening struck out his foot in front of the boy, and even as he carried the metal he fell and metal shattered on the hard floor that welcomed him to its spikes. The crash broke painfully the bash of tools against rock, tore through the ears of all, though not as harsh was it, as the small cry that came after, of fear and hopelessness. In that cry all heard the question, what else is there to do but fall?
Stricken with the malice of such movements, a violent hatred of the Orcs and their ways welled up in Aragorn at once. His mind, moving faster than his body could, he tore towards the frightened boy, his vision filled with the eyes of the Orc that seemed to grin in deadly delight at the prospect of terror in the boy's eyes. A fire renewed itself within the ashes of his spirit and the fingers of flame seemed to burn within his heart. The Orc raised the whip towards the sky, seeming for a second as though he would hurl it away. From where the boy lay it seemed magnified in size as though it sucked in the width of the sky. Above him it was a scar across the clouds and then with a sudden swish, more like a roll of thunder in his terror, it slashed through the air. But the lash expected never came to slice his skin.
Fall For You
Moving on autopilot now, (his fury and anguish did not afford him time to consider) Aragorn threw his body across the boy, with the desperation of a man who throws himself from a cliff. In some ways the reckless decision was the same, for he knew that interference in the wrath of an Orc must come at some cost, yet he knew too that he was ready to face it. The subjection of the captives haunted him as much as his blank dreams and he hated his defenceless, helpless state.
The whip, like hail, flung itself against his back, snaking with the force of the lash, sliding through the sweat that lingered in streams. Flinching against the inevitable thrash of the leather against his tense skin he bit his tongue until it bled as the sharp edges found the familiar ruts of previous scars and skin that had begun to cover was once more broken not in lines but in meanders. The captives did not look, for to look was to turn the wrath on themselves, but winced in time with the shriek of the cord against cotton and skin. Fresh stains crept into the fabric of Aragorn's tunic but still he clung to the boy beneath, shifting slightly that his thin body might offer more protection. Through the pain they imagined he must cry out, but Aragorn had already suffered much and he would not give them the satisfaction.
The flick of the switch seemed like the toll of the bell, rhythmic and regular. It was more forceful now. What had begun as the amusement of cruel hands became fury against defiance and it took a weak sigh from the ranger to remind his tormentor that the others were no longer working but openly mesmerised by the rhythmic hacking of flogging, like the beat of a dance it was the only sound to be heard now in the dusty air that floated like a faint screen around the body, aroused by the beat of the whip.
"Get back to work, all of you, or it won't just be him that gets knocked to the floor." The words like a dart of poison were all that was needed. Like rodents they scuttled back to the tasks that spared them this at least. Aragorn was left barely conscious clinging to the boy that lay beneath him. With the precision of arrows the Orc spat upon his face, then catching hold of Aragorn's damp tunic drew the limp face towards his own. Aragorn winced once more at the thrust of putrid breath that lingered in his face like venom. Had he eaten he would have lost the contents of his stomach, instead he tasted bile. Words like the hail of the whip shredded his consciousness "I've not finished with you." He released the words like a bad taste, as though they could remain within his mouth no longer. The wrath of an Orc though easily raised is not easily settled. Then he let go and Aragorn's head fell to the floor, the bile of his stomach back to its pit.
The words fell like lead on the ears of those around him, heavy and deadly, words that stuck like sweat within their minds. But Aragorn would not quiver so easily. He was ready now. Let them come.
Footfalls in the shadows
Slowly, all energy seemingly drained from his body and with the strain of a man who must lift the Earth under him Aragorn raised himself slightly and rolled to the side. The boy lay where he was, fear still shone from his eyes, now wet with the salt of tears, his form scored into the dust underneath him. He looked across at the man, who had taken his punishment, now lying less than a metre from him, panting hard in the dull heat of the afternoon, breathing ragged as his tunic. For a moment, though released, he could not move; the fear of fate still within him. Then, realising that the Orcs had left, focused now on the others that had stopped in the silence of the scourging he moved slightly and subtly reached out his hand to the man he did not know.
Aragorn reached out, although the effort was almost too much and grasped the boy's hand lifting himself from the ground. The sigh of pain in movement echoed in the empty air around them and he listened as it reverberated in his mind. The cling of his damp tunic stung slightly against the flayed skin of his back and made him somewhat breathless when he tried to move. Nonetheless, with the boy's help, he raised himself to his knees. His eyes, flickering in the ache of stirring, flitted toward Sador whose eyebrows seemed to convey the message, "let me come to you." Aragorn shook his head in frustration. No! he thought, it would not do to have him dragged within the eye of the Orcs, to have them know of his friendship. For his own body he did not care, he was reckless now. But Sador, he who offered the candle, so fragile in his darkness, he could not risk the loss.
The eyes of his overseer were on him again now and too weak to stand another punishment just then Aragorn pushed his hands against the constant earth, then, putting his hand within that of the boy raised him too, bleary eyed with tears. "Go child," he whispered, his voice airy from his breathless rising. "Keep your strength with you. For the road ahead is long and there are many days as this to live." Then, without another word, he staggered back toward his rock face, lifted his axe as though it held the weight of his grief and began again to scourge the rock..
Evening came pouring navy blue sky into the crevices of Mordor, blotting the grey light that day offered. When they were brought the meagre offering of grey bread, bread that burned the stomach, punishing the body for consumption Aragorn tore it and threw half toward the boy, who sat a few feet from him with the other youths, bathed in the silence of hunger. For a moment the boy gazed across with hungry eyes, hungry for love Aragorn thought, but for now, bread would have to suffice. Such a sacrifice, even one so small was representative of that. Even this stuff, evil and black, that tore the teeth, rebelling against their own role, offered some form of nurture, some fortitude to survive the night.
He imagined he had been covert, moving when the backs of the Orcs were turned, but fate did not work thus it seemed. Nuth, it was who had seen the actions of the foolish man. He laughed bitterly to himself and jeered at the thought of sacrifice. Moving closer to the man he crowed, black like the bird, but without the soft feathers. "I wouldn't sacrifice myself so easily with noble deeds here. No point. It's each man for himself. Only a fool would do it. None of them would do it for you. What a waste." Then, grinning with sour delight he moved off, but his eyes were ever on the man in whose eyes burned the flame that wished to scar him..
Moving under cover of darkness that in between the shadows of Mordor came as a friend and not an enemy, Sador tended the scars of his friend ever aware of the passage of clouds across the moon, when he would be hidden from the sight of prying eyes. Dark hid from him the squint of Aragorn's eyes when the bite of ash (for that was all they had to cleanse) was too bitter, his back was black now, tinged with the fabric of Mordor, but it no longer ran red. Still, it was painful to lie and he had rather sleep sitting, arms huddled around himself against the cold. Icy fingers worked their way into the myriad of scars that decorated his back, painting his punishment for all to see. The hands of Orcs were not idle, for them it seemed torture was art.
Weary with exhaustion and hunger, weak with the loss of blood that slid from his back, Aragorn fell into a feverish half sleep. Like a snake he slid to and from consciousness and in his nightmares he could not tell whether he woke or slept, both were blocked with the visions of his pain. The blood within his mouth seemed to taste of the blurred images of taunting dreams and it was as though all his senses had become one and he heard the pain within his back as much as feeling it.
Gently, wishing to relieve even a little of the pain Sador placed his arms bound as they were around Aragorn's shoulders, drawing him to himself for the little warmth that human spirit might offer. Aragorn's form convulsed with shivers but slowly he seemed to become calmer as he felt the steady embrace of warm skin and he shook only as the sway of a flower in a gentle breeze. Sador could feel the tense shoulders and vertebrae jutting through thin cotton as the man relaxed into his grip and his shivers like sobs became less intense.
But sleep offered no rest for the bite of the wounds in his back would taunt him with movements, forcing consciousness back into his body. Waking for a moment he felt lost, whose arms were these that held him? He remembered arms slender but strong, but could not place them. Then, at first faint as fierce whisper and then louder as though they were already upon him Aragorn heard the fall of feet in the dark and the stones shuddered slightly in the disturbance of the earth. Someone approached.
End of Part IX