Chapter XIII

OVER THE KNIFE EDGE

Voice of the Valar

He was in their grip now and angry. Like an animal enraged, fear had left him. He writhed in their arms and it seemed to those who once more stared open mouthed that his limbs might be torn from his body in anger.

'Do not touch him' he heard his voice cry, as though he was detached from his own body, looking onward. 'Do not touch him, for I shall not rest until all lie dead. Fear this rage!' his eyes flared with the fire for which they hated him.

With these words it seemed that a new strength flooded up within him. He could feel it within his throat and within his hands. It tied his being together when his limbs could not. It allowed his voice to rage while his throat was dry as dust and hurt. Swooping low he forced himself free from their grip and felt his collar bone tear once more from its healing position.

He ignored the pain and leapt, in the second afforded by their surprise, to the side of his friend. In seconds his hands were covered in the blood of his friend and then, to his surprise, his own.

His arms were twisted from his friend's body and dragged behind him; his body had no choice but to follow. It followed too when his knees felt the hard leather grip of boots and were knocked from beneath it. With his arms so twisted he could not reach out to stop the fall. His cheek split as it connected with a shard of rock like thin glass, and blood, sickeningly warm clotted in the corner of his mouth. He hated the taste of his blood. It reminded him of weakness.

He felt sick. There was a boot in his stomach, or perhaps it was outside. It felt as though it was within. His body cried to wrap his arm, protectively, around his stomach but he could not. There was pressure, squashing his inside out.

'I warn you, kill me now.' His voice writhed, although his body could not. They had not silenced him yet. Feverishly his voice seemed to fill the void of Mordor and he wondered through his pain if Sauron himself might not hear his cries in the dark. 'If you do not I will escape again, and again and kill you one by one for what you have done. You can break me again… and again but I will never allow you to treat another man thus.'

He did not prepare the words; they seemed to have come from another time. They were the words he had buried inside him since they had carried him beyond the gate, until, no longer able to be contained, they washed out of him. To the other prisoners his words seemed like the song of Illuvatar, although none had heard that great song.

Zuliman leaned down until his nose almost touched that of the ranger; so close he could smell the blood that painted his face. War paint he thought. He sneered in distaste – at being so close to the blood of another. He did not touch the blood of his prisoners; that was to taint himself with their dirt. The man's face was dark with dust that he seemed he might not be clean, but his eyes were clear and grey, betraying the depth of his thoughts.

'So,' and behind his blank mask his sneer grew. Aragorn could hear the expression on his face caught in the corsair's voice. He whispered to intensify the threat; voice smooth like dark silk was so quiet it could have been but a breath of wind. It was for the ears of no others. 'I have at last found your weakness.'

Then, pointing at the fallen Sador he beckoned. 'Bring him,' he motioned.

Following in your footsteps

He felt sick. He hated the smell of their rotting, misshapen flesh; hated the thought of their fall to this. That it might have been possible for him to become like them. He hated that he must follow them, trudging, willingly to his death. He was near breathless with hate, it tried to engulf him, until there would be nothing left within his shrivelled soul, shrinking like rotten apple skin. That was what Mordor did to him. What space would be left, he wondered, for love, when he reached Estel?

Legolas' skin was already tinged grey from dust like all creatures that had to survive in Mordor. He seemed to have forgotten all around him, even Arun, the boy who had followed him so far. His hatred was the focus of all energy and he looked on nothing but the tread of his own feet, so light they did not create patterns in the dust. He could be lost here and none would know he thought bitterly, not even his footprints would give him away.

When night fell, they camped around the small fire Zimran had started. The orcs were not interested in the fire of men, for they felt no cold.

Legolas looked into the flames, as though searching for an answer. The flames were cold and offered no comfort. He thought he would watch and when the orcs slept he might kill them. But they were too many, and it was not worth the risk. Lifting his eyes for a moment he noticed that the boy had withdrawn into himself too. He did not look at their orcish guides, or at Zimran, who now roamed free. It had seemed to suspicious to keep him bound.

Morning came early, grey and cold. The orcs were sluggish, preferring to move at night, they had stopped for their human guests. A glint had been in their eyes as they noted weakness.

Legolas discovered an urgency he had not felt before rise within the very bones of his body. He knew instinctively that whatever happened, this would be the day that they found him. They had walked so many days, he had journeyed so many days in these lands of shadow, where elves no longer trod. But today they would go beyond the brink. His heart leapt at the thought of Estel. He had not been told, but instinctively he seemed to know that this was the trail that led to his friend.

Legolas' keen eyes delved into the distant mist of early morning.

Barely breathing

He could not speak, could barely breathe. Thick hands with coarse skin that irritated his own were clamped across his mouth. He screamed until his throat seemed to bleed within him, but no sound could be heard. He existed in a vacuum of pain. Fighting for breath they dragged him. When he refused to walk they dragged him by his knees. The skin became thin and raw and then ripped until he felt as though his bones themselves were being heaved across uneven ground. He fought to reach forward, to lunge from their arms, but their grip was now like iron rings.

A hard shove came from behind him and he found himself face to face with the grey dust. It flew up his nose and crammed between the fingers that silenced him. It spat into his eyes, which could not remain closed. It tasted sour.

Grey knuckles dug into his arms, forcing him onto his back. More hands – sawdust dry, as though separate from bodies came and clamped his face between them. Fresh blood ran where the nails bit into his skin. A new piece of cloth, saturated with the choking dust was shoved between his teeth. It was wide and he could not close his teeth around it. His jaw ached to cry out, or for teeth to feel one another. His lips were fixed in a silent scream.

His legs were bound. All the time he could hear scuffling surrounding him in every direction; muffled whimpers of another man's pain. He tried to twist his neck, tried to capture the scene around him – but the hands held him like a vice. He hoped his neck might break with the strain.

Lifting him they hauled him backward, still on his knees. Strong ropes, and wide were pulled around his waist and his arms were dragged further behind him as they bound him to a rock. The ropes were tight. They constricted his lungs until he thought he could not release the air trapped within. Then he waited, lips frantically trying to voice sounds and struggling against the bonds. They pressed on his lungs and his breath came hissing from around the edges of the gag.

Then he saw the cause of the scuffling sounds and his eyes widened with horror. The lids were the only part of his body; his surroundings, that he could still control. If all he could do was watch then he would watch.

Before him – barely able to stand and blindfolded stood Sador. No, he did not stand but faltered and seemed as though he should collapse. His hands reached for something he could not find and there was fear in the jerked movements of his bleeding limbs. 'Bellas' he cried and tears flowed like the blood from his back down his face, carving the dust. 'Where are you? Bellas….'

The cries broke the ranger's heart and he struggled more fiercely against the ropes hissed against his skin. The ropes burned a map of his terror across the skin of his chest.

Zuliman leant into him; 'Time we play a little game with your friend'. His eyes grinned with delight like the embers of a cold fire that refuses to warm.

Hide and seek

Zuliman clapped his hands softly and four orcs appeared bearing whips. 'Tickle him,' the corsair ordered. His eyes were black, and grinned like a blank wall.

Aragorn shuddered at the thought of what this might mean. His heart beat desperately within his chest and seemed as if it would explode from his ears. He was helpless – more so he thought than he had ever been. The pain of powerlessness bit in his chest and crushed his lungs. He thought he might suffocate – it might be over.

Silence – it jarred the air as all stood expectantly, waiting for their own movements or those of another. In those moments Aragorn questioned his being. He felt as though no longer a man, but an animal, small, scared and bleeding. He had no control, but the passion of despair burned within him. He was like a flame on the point of being snuffed. For the first time he was without hope…

His name… he knew his name. Hope! It invaded his mind like the scent of something long dead, found lurking in deep, dark corners. Wherefore should it come to him now? It branded him with an action he could not offer and for that he loathed, pushed it away out of his mind longing to be nameless.

Suddenly! A movement and a cry blurred across his vision. Jaws forced agape, he tried to shut his eyes against the scene forced upon him, but they were forced open and he lost the last of the control he had owned.

The end of a whip lightly tapped Sador's shoulder. He stumbled forward trying to gain his balance and seek out the taunting implement that he felt but could not place. Then again from another angle – another tap – so light it drew only the thinnest of red scars. Sador turned again, looping hands ahead, shaking as though searching for anything to hold on to. He was lost in the air and fearful. With each fumbling step another piece of the ranger's sanity and will to live slid from him – noiselessly to the ground.

Sador continued weaving through the empty air and countless waves attacked him from all angles. Aragorn remember the feeling, as though time and space had fallen away – all that was left a void of pain. Even the earth beneath the feet became unsteady. Lost so lost, until unconsciousness like a salve came to carry the body from pain and you fell into darkness. With no other choice the ranger lived the experience with the blinded man; felt every tear of the skin and joined the chorus of each cry.

At last the pain gave in and allowed Sador to fall to the earth, weary legs dropped from under in him and dust danced around him like a protective cloud. The torment for now was over.

Zuliman's voice slid into the ranger's ear, 'So…' He was defiant, slippery, like one who flaunts power. It was as though he could feel the ranger's shattered soul between his fingers, turning it over like coins. 'Will you see him suffer more? I can do it you know – push him to the edge and keep him there.' Then closer '…you of all know what a man can live through.' He spat into the ranger's eye and it stung. Aragorn, twisted with grief, felt nothing.

How did I become so numb?

When they released his hands and knees he simply fell to the floor. It was as though his spine no longer held his body but had fallen away in grief and he could not move. He tried to close his eyes but they would not move now – but stared out glazed in horror. He remembered and yet his mind was frozen. One picture invaded all his thoughts – the man who had given him reason to live now lay feet from him and it had been his own doing.

For a moment those surrounding him simply stood – transfixed the paralysed man whose body simply refused now to move. This, it seemed was what it meant to be truly broken with grief. The grey eyes seemed finally dull and emptied.

Zuliman was impatient. He understood the ranger's paralysis to be of choice – felt that the man still defied him. He should be docile now. Free to mould into the clone of a slave, like the dozens of others he had captured – eyes lowered and empty, no hint of a world beyond the pain of living. They eyes were dull and empty – but he did not believe.

'Get up' Zuliman demanded of the air. Aragorn did not hear the instruction, but his body shook with the tension that grew around him. He shook as though caught in the depths of a fever.

'Get him up.' Zuliman demanded again. This time the orcs moved toward the man.

Nuth kicked him in the stomach, he flinched slightly, but no other reaction showed on the man's face. He shook as before like a frail leaf in the wind. Grabbing his arms they roughly dragged him from the ground. It was difficult. His legs refused to stand but trembled beneath him, and would not hold his weight. Even with their strong arms they could barely hold him.

'Nuth was angry now. The man was clearly unable to stand.

'He's no good now,' the orc snarled loudly showing off the dark fangs within his mouth. His eyes were thin and threatening. 'He would have worked, but now you've gone and destroyed him.' Resentment poured from his mouth, 'look at him, like a baby – can't even stand.' He demonstrated by releasing Aragorn's left arm, which immediately drooped limply toward the ground.

This rekindled the fury inside Zuliman. These filthy orcs should never tell him how to treat his prisoners. Didn't he bring them fresh bait? Good for nothing dirty creatures, all they were good for was inspiring fear in the prisoners. But in the case of this man? They had failed and not he.

Zuliman came slowly toward the man who shook, taking each step like a careful thought.. Aragorn could not focus – even his eyes seemed to shake with the grief that tore him apart, piece by piece. He felt not as a person but as floating limbs, searching for rest. In front of him, he saw the tortured eyes of his friend and then a void. It was blacker and emptier than Mordor himself. There was nothing, he knew it now. Beyond here… there was no hope of another life. No Valar – nothing.

But there was something. The smell… the smell he feared. Like his hope it smelled like the dead. It smelled like the void before him. It was something he feared more than the loss of humanity itself. It was the loss of memory. He remembered the emptiness, the painful sleep of dark dreams.

He seemed possessed once more and writhed, snake like too, in the strong arms of the orcs. Blurred vision was better than no vision. He had none of the grace of a snake though, but trembled more in the recollection. Eyes, seemed as though they might burst as terror drained his body like his own blood.

As Zuliman held the vial over his mouth the man took the last decision he was aware of. He clamped his eyes and his mouth shut. Refusing even to breath, in his head he muttered prayers for death. He prayed faster than the language to voice them. 'Let me die he whispered, please, let me die. His chest thudded and his lungs were crushed. Once more his body betrayed him, enemy that it was. It released the air from his lungs and at the same moment the drug slid noiselessly down his throat. It passed drowning his cries and forcing him gasp for breath. He tried to retch, but it was gone. They forced his lips closed tight.

Dreams in which I die

He was without…. He floated in the dust above the scene and for a second he thought he had gone, dancing away in the breezeless air. He saw his body and the silent screams that interfered with his breath and left him choking and grasping for air. Then he was back, he could even feel their nails in his skin. They let go of his arms and he stumbled, trembling still. The drug worked fast. Like a poisoned dart it raced to his heart, rushing with his blood as his body completed its bitterest betrayal. He could not stand but felt his legs give way. He did not know what was behind but felt, even as feeling left him, the moment when his feet left the earth. There was a pit behind him, where they had dug for metal. It way empty, black and cold. He fell… He wanted to fall. For a moment it was exhilarating.

Aragorn felt his bones connect with the ground, and welcomed the crack which seemed to split the screams that came from above. In the clarity that it brought, eyes first time clear, through the vision of his pain, it seemed personified in the shape of Sador and of another that he loved. Beyond the pain and doubt he saw the grey eyes of that other, the fair hair like corn in harvest fields and heard the soft strength of the voice. Beyond that he saw dark hair and something sparkling beyond like the glimmer of stars. In the space behind his eyes, the soft voice spoke to him welcoming him to the place beyond pain, where he would no longer be dragged to movement. Dust spluttered in the air around him, forced from the ground with the bitter crack of his fall.

Then he felt the crushing weight of the troll on his chest and within his chest his ribs cracked like as though he walked on naught but twigs. The there was pain as though his bones had been torn apart, as though they ripped through his skin. His next breath seemed as though it would never come and he was buried in darkness.

Always a second behind.

Dust was spiralling in the air. It hid the action, as though the scene were about to be revealed. Momentarily Legolas believed that they had arrived in the middle of a war. His mind reflected the confusion of the scene in front. Orcs were running and men; men who appeared the reflection of themselves, faces covered, humanity denied. Figures darted, blurs to all but the keen elvish eyes of Legolas. Penetrating the dust there appeared to be an argument. There was a prisoner too, thick orcish wrists were clamped around the man's thin ones. Then the figure fell….

Legolas voice tore from his throat and it seemed that it had never spoken before. His feet moved before he had even thought and he charged toward the gathering dust. Now in the face of the truth he had run out of time to think. All he heard was the fall even as it split the very particles of the air itself he heard the fall. It seemed there was nothingness the world was empty and he was inside the body that fell. His stomach jolted as though he was thrown through the air himself and he retched with the dizzying sickness it released. For a moment he stopped, his body fought the movement he needed.

To the sides of his path orcs fell like leaves from an autumn tree, flimsy in the face of such fear; of such fierce love.

When the thud of the ground sounded – doom like orc drums his heart beat alongside. Still he raced as though the activity of his body alone could erase the past. He had felt… hoped that the fall would not end but somehow the ground would be gone. It was not so… In time that ran like all time does the elf reached the edge and peered over into the still air and the dust that began to clear.

End of part XIII