DRAWING NEAR

Where the sun went:

Zuliman stood above Aragorn, his eyes seething with renewed hatred. Then slowly, as the shadow that grows with the setting sun, the air grew darker around the outline of the man. The ground began to shake beneath them and with it a new fear crept into the hearts of those who stood waiting. There was a tension in the air they had not felt before and they hurried to remove themselves from shadow and fear.

It hurt, but lifting his head Aragorn looked again, and saw. Grey skin seemed but inches above. Stretched across masses of muscle and bone it was thick and ugly, monotonous in colour and shadow. Legs were wide, blocking the vision, they too were massive and grey. For those that stood beneath it seemed as though night had spread, although the midday sun beyond was still strong. m

They were trolls Aragorn's still blurry mind told him. They could be dim, but deadly in their cruelty and sheer size. More lethal than the orcs, they might crush with a foot. Aragorn shuddered in the shadow, but would not allow the telling signs of dread to wash across his face. He would not show this man that held him in such contempt that he might hold fear over him.

Sador looked into the grey expanse of these newcomers and unlike Aragorn allowed the flood of his terror to infiltrate his face. His features contorted and he could barely keep hold of the axe in his hand, so much it shook. He, as most of the captives, had never before had reason to view a troll. To them they appeared fearful indeed. Hurriedly he moved his eyes back to the wall in front, and the slow sold movement of the axe. He did not wish to be singled out.

Zuliman's eyes, flitting from his prey for a moment, enjoyed the murmur of terror that spread across the faces of the captives. It was his favourite sound. In satisfaction he returned his eyes to the man on the earth beneath him, finding the eyes, clear and grey, like clouds reflected in water, returning his own steadfast gaze. In a moment he thought he saw a faint signal of recognition and deep thought flicker through the deep eyes. He strived to seem through them, but his vision was blocked by renewed hatred of the man. What must he do to break him?

Instantly the look was gone and blankness wrote itself once more across the man's face. Zuliman thought how curious the look had been. He was baffled and could not read it.

There had been silence for too long. The other captives were now openly cowering in the shadow of the mountainous trolls. Orcs appeared from the side lines, broad black whips were in there hands and they clicked them faintly. Thirty faces turned at once back to work.

Beneath his thick black cloth Zuliman grinned at their fear. Even as his eyes wandered his foot hit Aragorn's ribs hard and he fell forward. Nuth was behind him, feeding hatred.

"Back to work," his voice threatened, but Aragorn heard little, "or you'll pay tonight."

The whip came down upon his back, the crack ripped the air, then the skin. Aragorn moved slowly away, defiant in his speed. He knew what they threatened and he did not care. His head was full of heaving images, each fighting for precedence, which would win? Harder it struck and he lunged forward, fighting the air for a softer landing, but the eyes were there, bright and real, raven and grey, watching him… and as he fell forward again he reached out to them.

"Come and find me" he whispered.

So cold

Valar the cold of this place was unbearable! The distant sun, grinned in its chill, throwing down empty rays on the barren land. The elf had never been so frozen through, the cold stuck under his skin and to his bones. It was a chill, he began to think, that might never leave him. Already he felt scarred by the unnatural senses he gained from the place. He would not live long here; his heart might freeze. If he stood a moment in quiet, he thought, he could hear the slowing of his blood within his arteries, perhaps his heart slowed too. What was he without blood? Did this signal the beginnings of the end of humanity? Was this what gave humans their weakness – the bitterness of the senses? From here how far was there to fall?

Aragorn was beyond that he had always thought. His body was strong, his mind supple but stubborn, bent on right. Again the questions of survival jostled in Legolas' head. He felt he understood the pull on humanity, how much stronger the calls of evil must be for a being that felt so much. He was vulnerable. Here there were no rocks to defend him. In battle the elements would desert him, and, that much weaker, he would, no doubt fall too.

It had barely been twenty four hours since he had followed the creak of the black gate and peered in terror as it closed with them on the far side; the wrong side.

Arun's bright, bird orange eyes watched at every turn in the road, sweeping the empty dust plains on either side for orcs or worse. He could see rocks and in the distance a great tower black like a rotten finger against the fire of the sky. Unlike the elf his temperature fluctuated – this was hell he thought – I will burn from all angles. He wished to be free of the binding cloth around his face, that too suffocated him, as though the evil was closing in.

Their march had not ceased since the gate had closed behind them, eager to move away from the suspicion of orcish eyes. Without warning Arun came to an abrupt stop, turning on Zimran and pulling on the rope that bound his wrists so hard that he fell forward a little in the road. Zimran's moan echoed among the rocks intensifying the loneliness of the landscape.

'Where are we?' demanded the boy turning on the fallen man. His voice was loud and clear as if to dispel the demons of their journey with some clarity of mind. 'I can see nothing ahead, only grey stone. You said you knew where we were!' His eyes seemed to bore through the cloth around Zimran's mouth demanding answers of the silence. The voice was saturated with impatience, desperation and fear. The fear that comes from walking under the shadow of a nameless fear; unidentifiable, unbeatable.

He drawled, feigning calm. 'If you were not prepared for the journey, you should not have volunteered. The Road to Mordor is long and fraught with danger. If you are quick to anger, we shall soon die.' Then breathing a little deeper he set the bait, 'we could turn now, I still have some standing, we could leave this dead land and never return. The gate is still in reach.'

Arun struck out in fury, and his blows filled the air with their echoes. His knives were once again dangerously close to Zimran's neck and his worried eyes expressed his dread at the words he had spoken.

Panting he added, 'I meant that you are young. This is not a place for innocent blood to be lost. But if we are to continue there are many miles still to traverse' The eyes became a little colder. 'You will not find them without me.'

Legolas turned, it seemed as if he tried to smile sadly, but the muscles of his jaw were frozen and he barely managed the words. 'You speak poison my friend.' He spoke resignedly, bitterly like a man who has come to the end of his world, but does not like what he sees beyond. 'But you are our prisoner nonetheless and therefore bound beyond liking or reason until such time as we should let you go. We have saved your life, whether you should will it or not you are in our debt.' Having spoken he winced and then moved his eyes back to the horizon.

Arun began to threaten the man once more. But Legolas, eyes ever furtive, peered into the empty distance. Far into the reach of his vision, beyond the sight of man, he thought he saw a cloud. It seemed like a cloud of flies growing closer. As he grew accustomed to it, the faint patch of grey turned to recognition of dust. 'Yrch' he cried, forgetting in his haste the tongue of men.

'Yrch'

Legolas frozen heart began to pump his blood once more. It ran to his fingers and they tingled with fear. He jumped from the new life in his numb joints. Shaking visibly, his feet would not obey the call of his mind and he was barely able to stutter his warning. Arun turned from his anger and looked quizzically for a moment, barely comprehending what the elf had said. He looked into the distance but he did not see. Then like Legolas before him he noticed the flicker of dust in the air and panic rose in his lungs. It seemed that already they were filled with dust.

Zimran's careful fear turned to terror in his eyes and he pulled tighter on the ropes of his captors in a motion to run. In retaliation and fright Arun pulled harder on the ropes.

'I told you we must run,' Zimran shrieked at them in panic; at the fearful boy and the resigned elf. 'So eager to come… but boys and elves, do not think of consequences. No.' He seemed almost to cackle in his paroxysm of terror, 'But they insisted they must come. But none shall fight the orcs of Mordor should they choose to take us. They are deadly indeed.'

Legolas looked in desperation for somewhere to hide them, while Zimran's teeth continued to chatter. In his field of vision he saw; closer now and more deadly the tread of orcish feet; the low rise of rocks at the wayside; and the empty lands, flat and vacant that once might have held grass. Those days were in far memory indeed now and none but the eldest of the Earth might have seen those days – before the world was changed.

'So' the voice was dreaded and like the drop of a stone in silent water. In the vacancy afforded by thought the orcs had advanced further than they had foreseen. 'Three corsairs, all alone.' The thin deep growl taunted them for being off guard. 'And one bound I see. Treacherous the lot of you.' The eyes were amber and gleamed in menace. Legolas turned his head slightly to look away from the hungry eyes. 'Quiet aren't you' continued the slither of the orc's voice. 'What are you doing here without prisoners. Trespassing I think. Don't belong to any group I recognise.' The cruel, fanged, lipless mouth slid into a humourless grin.

Arun shuddered in the shadow of that grin. He felt vulnerable and without power. Impatient by nature he felt desperate to move, to use his dagger – but a sharp glare from the elf dissuaded him. He tried to deaden his eyes, but the furtive, fearful motions refused to be dispelled so easily.

'We are of the company of Zuliman,' the corsair repeated like a mantra. His voice a monotone which reflected no emotion, no fear – he had met the orcs of Mordor before.

The face of the foremost orc sneered slightly and he turned to the others of his group as if to give a meaningful look. Legolas glanced at his face, noting a faint glint of mocking and wondered what might be planned for them.

At last the words of the orc broke the silence once more; the dreaded silence filled with waiting, desire and desperation. 'In that case, you'd best come with us.' He grinned and his fangs dented the empty smile. 'We've been having some trouble with one of your lot. Seems they can't control him; if you know what I mean?' He repeated the meaningful look.

Minutes later Legolas found himself trudging, feet heavy and cold, after the doom of orc drums. Zimran was free, but he stuck close to the side of the man; ready at the first betrayal. Arun too never allowed his eyes to leave the back of the corsair – it gave him something on which to focus instead of the incessant tread of fear. They were coming closer; he could sense it. On the brink of his destiny he thought; there was no one left to fight.

Closer

He screamed.

He had no choice.

Blood spattered on the ground and he could not tell whether it came from his nose or his mouth. He loathed himself for weakness, for the betrayal of his senses.

Zuliman looked over the stained man beneath him and smiled, revelling in the sound of weakness so distasteful to his own mind, so pleasing in a slave. He nodded at the orcs around him, signalling the release of the man's bound hands.

The man lay, barely moving, eyes flickering in a painful spasm. Zuliman stood above him. Big and fierce as a troll now he seemed to the man beneath him, His eyes were full of mocking and fierce delight. He moved his foot until it pressed slightly on the blue and red chest of the man and leaned in closer in order to aim his threat.

'Only a fool admits his weakness.' His voice was quiet and muffled through the cloth but the man imagined the sharp white teeth which longed to bite. It was threatening too; thin and purposeful. 'That will teach you to make the work harder for others.' If his mouth had not been covered the cowering man was sure he would have spat.

It was with bitterness and a frantic fight for energy that he had finally fallen. Since the Corsairs had arrived life had become more unrelenting. Work ceased later and began earlier. Even the dust in the air, that burned the lungs, appeared to have increased. In the end he could not fight it but fell forward and his axe had fallen, knocking a tray of molten metal. The noise had been shattering.

Now, like caught prey he lay on the filthy ground. He did not gaze around him, but felt the eyes of the others burning into his flesh, behind their sheen of work. Their eyes would be fearful, mindful of their tasks, fascinated and terrified of the fall of another. It provided interest if nothing else, a mind numbing moment of intensity, dragged away from the monotony of rock and pick of the axe.

He had not yet looked over, and the man feared the reaction. He had been further away, digging deep into the farther rock. But now he was walking back.

The other man stumbled back across the great gash in the earth; before his eyes seemed to swim a puddle of red and blue. It took him a moment to realise that it was a body. Another moment to recognise that body through the mess of hair and blood.

'Sador' his cries were desperate. Dropping everything Aragorn fled to the prostrate body of his friend.

End of part XII