(AN: One thing I always find difficult, apart from finishing the stories I've written, is finding a chapter that doesn't give away what's happening in the immediate story. Such was the case with this chapter before I came up with this rather generic one: and thankfully for the first issue, I have finished recording on my next album, so I will have a little bit more time between mixing in the evening to do some writing.)

(Here we get to one of the three chapters I was most looking forward to writing over the last few years I was planning this story. I have drawn from the Middle Earth Role-Playing Game to expand upon the Hillmen of Rhudaur, as well as some other more "recent" developments that I feel, while hopefully being free from obvious allegorical comparison, are nevertheless relevant to the story in question. Keep in mind what I said in my previous author's note about how much time has passed from the Last Alliance and the events of this story.)

Among the Hillmen

Aranarth's eyes slowly and wearily creaked open: he was not dead after all, but felt nearly done in. He moved but felt a firm, cold, implacable resistance everywhere he moved. As drowsiness departed his eyes, he saw iron bars all around him, then he cast his eyes down and gave a cry of alarm: an iron grate was all that stood between him and a long fall to the bottom of the cliff. He was in an iron cage suspended by an old chain over the side of the walls. He guessed by all of his stiff but still movable limbs that he had not been thrown off the side of the wall as he had feared. But a new fear began to enter into his mind: he was sniffling something terrible, his stomach was growling, and he was shivering. They had not slept in a warm bed under a roof since the Forsaken Inn, and the cold and rain was taking its toll on him. Now he was to remain up here for who knows how long.

The young man's thoughts turned inward. His chief concerns were for his brother Aradan: where was he? He did not see any cages on either sides of the wall where he hung, and when he called for him, a man came to his cage and poked at him with a spear until he was quiet: nor did the wretched little man answer Aranarth when he called out to him. With those fears still inflamed, and no answers to assuage his concerns, Aranarth thought of home. He wished that he was back there, but that only made his misery worse: he could not free himself, and if he had managed to kick the grate out of his cage, he would fall to his death or, at the very best, lifelong crippling. Yet that did not blunt the longing for Firiel's embrace and the gentle caress of her hand upon his head, and the warm smile of Arvedui.

Then his thoughts shifted back to his current condition. Why had Arvedui sent him and Aradan on such a hopeless venture that would likely end in their deaths? Had the eyes of the King's Tower failed to see this? Or had something even worse happened? Aranarth dismissed these wicked thoughts as only despair, but they remained in his mind, pushing persistently into his brain like a worm into an unfortunate ripe root.

For the rest of the day, Aranarth remained in his cramped cell, with no room to move or stretch his stiff limbs. He received no food or water for the rest of that day, and when evening came cold and damp with the onset of rain, no wrap or blanket was given him either. Thus he spent many unhappy days, shivering and sniffling with cold and hungry beyond reason, and only his thoughts to torment him as he drifted off into uneasy and unpleasant dreams.

At last, one night, the cage was pulled downward against the side of the wall and the grate was opened. Aranarth slid down and collapsed on a hard, cold, stone floor: he was famished from countless days without food and water and could barely stand. Before him stood Hwaldar, one of the hooded figures, and several other hillmen.

"I need you on your feet, west-man," said the chief. He gave an order to one of his people and they forced into his hand a cake of dry bread and an old skin of water. Aranarth drank the water and devoured the bread, his hunger almost overcoming the hardiness of the loaf. One he had finished both, at a word from the chief, two other hillmen pulled Aranarth up to his feet and tied his hands together with a rope.

"Please, have pity," Aranarth gasped. "I can barely stand."

Hwaldar did not reply, but gave another order to his men and departed. Aranarth was pulled mercilessly forward by the rope that bound his hands, and soon he was staggering after them. It was all he could do to keep from falling from exhaustion and weariness.

Out into the torch-lit castle yard Aranarth was dragged, where he found a company of men and women of the hill-folk armed and ready for battle. There were others of those dressed in black among them, but he could not see Aradan among them. To his surprise, he could hear that the Common Tongue was being spoken among them. Apparently the men in black were of different kind than the hillmen, and could only communicate with Hwaldar. To take his mind off of his suffering, Aranarth focused on what they were saying.

Some of the men in black were overseers from Carn Dum, who had come to Rhudaur for the tribute. They were not happy that it was less than the past several years: to assuage their anger, Hwaldar was taking them to one of the larger settlements to show them that the tribute wasn't as small as this garrison. Aranarth wondered what tribute they were talking about, for he had seen little in the way of food stuffs here in the camp and no riches of any size. Then suddenly it hit him, like a blow to the stomach. The tribute was of men, not of gold or food. And for why? What other use had Carn Dum for men but to bolster their hosts? And why did they need more forces except that they were preparing for war? He had to learn more: if his first mission was a failure, then at least he could escape and return to Fornost with news of the invasion to prepare them for the worst. Of course he hoped that he could free Aradan and that they both could escape, but first he would have to find him.

But all thought was broken by a sudden horn-blast. The men were now heading out of the fort, and Aranarth was dragged forward by his hands. They made their way down the narrow stairway along the side of the hill, going in single file, as the light of torches born by the hillmen led their way into the dark.

They traveled ceaselessly through the wilderness, with the torches and the moon as their only light. The howling of wolves and other doleful beasts filled the midnight air and the hillmen kept a ceaseless watch over their march. In the light of the torches, Aranarth could see figures racing past them in periodically. They never came close enough to threaten them, but the sounds and shadows made Aranarth fear of sudden attack. There was not much hope of a rescue in the event of an attack: they were too far from Arthedain to be rescued by them, and if it were orcs or trolls, they would kill him as well. Furthermore, he did not know where Aradan could be, and he was his only hope of survival in the event of an assault.

When morning dawned, the hill-men made camp in the woods and bound Aranarth to a tree. He was bound with his back to the tree and his arms pulled back around the giant tree's no hope of escape, even with Aradan at his side. As for sleeping, it was almost impossible to do in daylight stretched out against the trunk of a tree and exposed to the elements. But after a long time, Aranarth finally slumped down, closed his eyes, and surrendered to exhaustion. His dreams were filled with the sounds of wolves and imagined faces of orcs leering at him out of the darkness.

He was rudely woken up that evening by a wave of icy cold water crashing against his face. A hill-man was standing before him with another hunk of dry bread for him to eat. But rather than being freed long enough to eat it, the man shoved the food into Aranarth's mouth until he almost choked on it. He was not offered any water. While one was forcing hard bread down his throat, another hillman untied his hands and a third pinned a spear to his back while the second one brought the rope around and tied his hands together again. Without any more ado, he was dragged off as the host of the hillmen took off on another forced march. This continued ceaselessly until Aranarth lost all reckoning of days: they traveled at night and slept during the day, and his wearied and exhausted body merely adapted to the new conditions.

One morning, an exhausted Aranarth noticed that the ground beneath them began to slowly ascend: they were going up a hill. Though he was weary, hungry and thirsty, he kept himself alert: for he realized that the hill-men around him became very distraught. Something was wrong and he wanted to learn what it was, so he kept silent and watched the goings on as they ascended the hill. At the top, they came to a wall of wooden stakes, and a gate that was hanging ajar. The hillmen passed into the gate and came upon a small fortified village built on a hill. But there was nobody there to greet them, only a few mangy dogs wandering the muddy streets and several crows, who were chased off with spears by the hill-men.

Looking about, Aranarth beheld wooden huts all around him: nothing of stone-work could be seen, unlike the Dunedain whose houses and halls nearly rivaled the mansions of the Dwarves under the earth. Some of the huts had burned down and were lying in crumbled piles of ash and burned wood. But there were no signs of battle: no bodies laying in the streets, no dried blood, no signs of looting or ransacking. Several men of Hwaldar's company broke ranks and ran towards several huts: cries of despairing misery soon filled the air, followed by agonizing wails of pain and then silence. The sound chilled Aranarth to the bone, but when he asked what the matter was, he was beaten into silence by his guards. No further questions were asked that morning.

The hill-men made camp in the village, and tied their prisoners back to back against a wooden stake in the center thereof. It was the first time since being taken captive that Aranarth saw his brother Aradan. He was alive, but was sporting a good deal of wounds and his mail coat was gone. They did not speak to each other when first they were reunited, for Aranarth was exhausted from lack of food and the long journey and they were still under guard. Therefore they fell asleep almost instantly after they were tied up to the pole.

Days passed in the little village, and Aranarth and Aradan remained tied to the pole, captives of the hillmen. They remained under guard, who neither spoke the Common Speech nor permitted them to speak to each other. Without the rigor of travel to worry them, the brothers began to fall asleep with the darkness and rise with the morning: the latter which was aided by a rather nasty hillman waking them both with a splash of cold water and a meager breakfast. In addition, Aranarth paid special attention with his eyes, though his ears could hear and understand little of the hillmen's speech.

A little after their arrival, a great bonfire had been made near their pole and many bodies were burned upon the pyre. The acrid stench rising up from the blaze gave Aranarth little doubt as to what the hill-men were burning, though he had never before smelled the stench of burning flesh. He had heard stories out of the South, from the days of Gondor's might when there was much traffic to and from Arnor, and there were still preserved in the library at Fornost old tales of the Men of Darkness as the Men of Westernesse had encountered them in the days of their might. These people would burn their own kin, whether as sacrifices to the Dark Lord of Mordor or to ease the pain of a loved one's death by dying with them: it was a practice frowned upon by all the Dunedain north and south, and Aranarth had scarcely believed that any folk could ever resort to such despair.

Yet he smelled the evidence just the same.

Days after this grim scene, more and more hill-men began to trickle into the camp. Aranarth saw now several kinds that were not ready for war: women and children who had answered the call of their chief to rebuild the town. These wore clothes made of animal's skins, with feathers braided into their hair. None of these ever came to talk to the prisoners: even the most curious of their children would only stare at them in fear and suspicion, then run back to their parents' huts. Some of the nastier ones would take up handfuls of mud and throw them at the brothers or spit on them: such behavior was encouraged by their sires, who would dump refuse on them from their huts until they stank.

The men in black were also here, but in smaller numbers than the hill-men. They seemed to have quite an effect on the hill-men, which Aranarth could tell even without knowing their language. If one so much as appeared, children gawked after them, women hid their faces, and men bowed in respect. Some of them would perform tricks and games for the children, who would smile and clap at them. But for their sires, these men had a less wholesome purpose. Ever and anon, they would lead a band of armed hill-men out of the village: most did not return, but small companies would appear at times carrying goods of various kinds, as well as slaves, as plunder. What Aranarth had begun to believe, given his earlier eavesdropping, was starting to look very real and believable: the men of Rhudaur were being prepared for battle and war. The companies that returned were raiders, pillaging and looting the villages of Arthedain along the borders.

How many days the brothers remained in such a sad state, they could not guess. The days began to grow hotter, and the heat made them stink even worse than usual. Yet they remained chained and, seemingly, forgotten by their captors. Aranarth had fallen sick, and the guards refused to come near him. Such had been the custom among all folk in the past several years, save the Elves, ever since the Great Plague had ravaged the lands north, south, and east. Yet this was not wholly a curse, for now Aranarth and Aradan had an opportunity to talk to one another. One night, a rather successful raid had taken place and a great feast was being held in the great hut of the chief and only one guard remained to watch them.

"Brother..." Aranarth whispered. "Are you well?"

"I should ask you that question," Aradan replied. "You've been sneezing for so long, I thought you might die on me before we escaped."

"Do you have a plan?"

"I had one in mind the moment we were captured. They kept us apart until now, so I had to wait."

"Very well, I am listening."

"Just follow my lead." Aradan then began to make loud groans of pain, as though he were violently ill. Aranarth was confused at first, but a shush from his brother told him to be silent and play along. After several minutes of ear-grating noises, the hill-man guard rose angrily from his place and drew a short iron knife from his belt. He knelt before Aradan, pressing the knife to his throat, and growling at him in his own tongue. But Aradan had planned on this, and kicked the man in the stomach with his knee, then struck him in the head with his own. The man slumped over, dropping the knife, and leaving Aradan dazed with a bruise on his head. Desperately, Aradan bent his knees and pushed the knife closer to the pole.

"Grab the knife, brother, if you can," he whispered. "We will not have long to act and we must do so soon."

Aranarth's bound hands reached out as much as he could, his fingers brushing against the tip of the knife until he slid it into his grasp.

"I've got it!" Aranarth gasped breathlessly.

"Good," Aradan replied. "Now try to cut the ropes."

Aranarth pressed the knife against the cords and began pushing it up and down. It was much harder to cut than it looked; the cords were thick, Aranarth was not as strong as his brother, and his hands were so bound that he could not drag the knife to cut the cords with any great effectiveness. Minute by uneasy minute he dragged the knife back and forth, holding his breath for the moment when one of the many cords snapped and tension was released against their arms. At last there was a sudden rip and Aranarth exclaimed.

"Shh!" Aradan silenced. "Not so loud! You only broke a strand. Keep going until you've gotten yourself loose."

Aranarth gripped the knife tighter and dragged it back and forth against the ropes once more. It seemed no matter how hard or fast he dragged it, the cords cut no swifter than the first one. Yet they were being severed, bit by bit, and after much struggle, the ropes slipped off of Aranarth's wrists. He was stiff, sore, shivering, and sneezing loudly, but he rolled around and crawled over to Aradan's side. Taking a good grip on the knife, he now betook himself to cutting his brother's ropes.

"Hurry!" Aradan hissed. "The guard's stirring."

True enough, the hillman guard was groaning where he lay. Aranarth gulped and pressed harder against the cords: now that he was on his feet, he bore down upon the ropes in hope of cutting them sooner. But he was starved and sick, and his head was cloudy with fever and worry. It was coming near to the matter: the guard would soon be risen and would alert the camp of their escape. Stop him? It was possible, but he himself was unarmed, and Aradan, who might be able, unarmed though he was as well, to subdue the guard, was still bound. He was running out of time, and the ropes weren't cutting fast enough. If only I were strong enough, I might...his mind halted.

No, he returned. You're overthinking. Focus on getting these accursed bonds off of Aradan first.

At last the knife sliced through the last rope, and Aradan rose to his feet. He seemed to be better off than Aranarth: that is to say, he was healthy and firm-footed, even though he had still the bruises of the many beatings received. Aradan took off at a run, and Aranarth staggered after him. His limbs felt like lead, and his head was swimming: but he had to keep up with his brother, or else they would not escape together. How far it was to the gate he could not tell, for all distances were blurry and vague, sickly as he was now.

Suddenly there came a noise that chilled Aranarth's blood: someone was crying out. Turning around, he saw their guard had risen up and was crying out in their strange tongue. But he did not need knowledge of the hillmen's tongue to guess what was being said: The prisoners are free. They are escaping. The hunt was up, and it would be a miracle if they managed to escape now. He could not recall how far away the forest was, for only one thought was on his mind.

"Run!" Aradan cried back.

And run was precisely what Aranarth attempted to do; but also precisely what he could not do, try as he may. He was weary and sick and could scarcely move himself, even if all the hosts of Angmar were behind him at that very moment. Then, to his horror, he saw Aradan jogging back out of the darkness and place his arm under his shoulder, and lift him onto his feet. They were moving now, but only at a walking pace: as strong as Aradan was, he too had been starved as well as beaten, and it was starting to take its toll on him.

"No, leave me," Aranarth despaired. "It's no use: I am worthless, I will just slow you down."

"Don't talk, just run!" Aradan said through gritted teeth.

Another crow-like shouting in hillmen speech was heard behind them; and the brothers limped forward pathetically, desperate to pass through the gates if nothing else. Suddenly a rope was thrown about them and they were pulled face down into the mud. Above their heads the gate closed with a deafening crunch of wood against wood, and a dozen spears were lowered in their direction. Strong hands reached down and turned the brothers onto their backs, with their faces upwards. From the thicket of spears there now loomed the figure of Hwaldar: he was laughing.

"And where did you think you were going, west-men?" he asked. "You people act like you're better than everyone, yet you spurn our hospitality like dogs!" He spat at them.

"Even if you passed these gates," he said, gesturing with one hand to the gates behind them. "There are wolves and orcs in the hills at night, and trolls come down out of the mountains. You would have been slain before you crossed the Loudwater." He gave orders to his men, who brought new ropes and tied the brothers' hands together separately.

"Now, then," Hwaldar continued. "Your foolish escape attempt has convinced me beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are spies. Normally, I would take off your heads with my axe: but, I think not. I think that you are more useful to me alive than dead." He seized Aradan by the hair on his head and pulled him up close to his own face.

"I think that you know about the armies of the west-men," he said. "What their number is, where they are, and where your forts are located. Do be so kind as to tell me this, and I will forget that you spurned my hospitality." Aradan spat back at the chieftain, who punched him square in the nose and let him fall back into the mud. He now came to Aranarth, and lifted him up out of the mud and to his eye-level.

"And what about you, weakling?" he asked. "Will you be wiser than your escort?"

Aranarth's head was swimming even wilder after he had been thrown to the ground. But though he was exhausted, he was not willing to give up just yet. He forced his lips closed and said nothing.

"Oh, you're the silent type, are you?" he asked. "Well, that won't last long, now, will it?" He gave orders to his men, who took the brothers away from each other and into separate huts. Aranarth would not see his brother for a very long time.

The hut in which Aranarth was kept was a very poor dwelling by far, if it had been previously occupied. It had no windows, a bare earth floor, and not even a hole in the central thatch roof to let out smoke. Inside there was a single pole to which he was tied with his hands above his head: one hand straight up and the other below the right of the first, so that he could not reach his own bindings to free himself. Here he was left and promptly forgotten for days on end. All was dark and stuffy inside the hall, and the air was soon befouled; only the faintest glimmer of light through the thatch bundles or stave and mud walls gave him any idea of whether it was day or night, but that was of little comfort to him. Night came cold and utterly dark, save for the faint, orange glow of a passing torch held by a watchman on patrol.

For many unhappy days beyond count, he languished in this state, growing ever sicker and weaker. He seemed almost totally forgotten, for no one ever came to bring him food or water, and he long ago grew hoarse and weary from attempting to shout for help. No one answered his cries, and that made his isolation even worse. In such plight, his thoughts turned inward. He thought of how foolish and weak he had been, unable to act when the time had come: if only he had been stronger or quicker, they might have escaped. Aradan's words about the need of warriors and the uselessness of scholars came back into his mind to taunt him. But in response, he retreated back into the comfort of the familiar, the only comfort he had in the dark and gloom: thinking back on the stories he had been told of long ago. Of the great folk who had been put through dire straits and had come through, or for whom rescue had been granted them by the Powers; the Lords of the West, whom all the Faithful still revered. Earendil was one such story, for his tale, long forgotten in the span of time between the Elder Days and now, had a part in the founding of Numenor.

But there was another tale, one relatively more recent, and it dealt with Aranarth's direct ancestors. Amandil, the father of Elendil, had in secret taken a separate ship ere the foundering of Numenor. With him, it was said, went three beloved servants dearest unto his heart: first they passed eastward, as many ships did in those days of Numenor's pride and tyranny, and then turned about westward. Though the Ban of the Valar forbade the Dunedain from attempting to sail west, as Ar-Pharazon the Golden would soon do and so bring doom upon Westernesse, Amandil strove to do as Earendil had done and plead for clemency from the Lords of the West. So the story of Earendil had been preserved, albeit in a corrupted version, among the sons of Elendil. But no tale came back from the West of the fate of Amandil, nor, like Earendil, was there any sign in heaven or on earth that they had returned.

"Yet," Firiel had told him long ago, as she sat her eldest son upon her knee or tucked him into his bed. "The lore-masters say that Aman the Blessed One, whom the Elves call Manwe, answered the prayer of Amandil and sent a great black gale out of the West, wilder than any wind that Men had ever known. And it blew upon the nine ships of the Faithful, and swept them away onto the shores of this Middle Earth. And so were our people and our line preserved by the Lords of the West, even in the darkest and most hopeless hour."

As a child, it had filled Aranarth with hope; and as a man, it had brought tears to his eyes. No matter all the woes of time, the Lords of the West still had power to intervene in times of greatest calamity. So it was that Aranarth wept in his dark solitude, and, clinging onto such hope as memory could muster, prayed that the Lords of the West would not forsake him in his hour of greatest need. It became a chant, which he muttered under his breath, or in a hoarse whisper, whenever such dark thoughts befell him as before.

He would need all such help in the days to come.

Though his captors treated him poorly, they were under orders not to allow him to perish. After many hungry and thirsty days beyond count, an old woman of the hill-folk would come into his hut with food and water. If Aranarth had hoped for solace, or even from news, from one such as she, he was sorely mistaken. The women were as surly as the men, and spoke not a word to him. Once he had been fed - his hands were not permitted to be unbound, so it seemed - the old matron stepped out without a word, leaving him again lonesome and miserable.

His time was now spent reckoning from when the serving woman brought him food, though the dark time between their capture, their attempted escape, and the old woman's first appearance were still vague and unclear. At least nine times this woman had brought him food, and he was starting to grow a little stronger. His sickness remained, however, and he wondered if he had indeed caught the plague. This did not quite explain the treatment toward him by the hill-men: they were enemies, of course, and likely under orders not to speak to or render aid to him or Aradan in any way. Yet he found himself woefully at a loss when it came to the knowledge of leech-craft: there were such physicks in Arnor in these latter days, for the merciful hand of both mender and healer were never far from the evil days of war, yet it was never a thing which Aranarth felt inclined to study. Therefore he could not guess what made him sick, or how to better himself. It was said that shepherds had such knowledge, being wont to travel far afield with their flocks and so be quite out of reach of any leech. Yet the hill-men were not shepherds: from the time he had spent tied to the pole, he had seen enough of their craft to tell that the maintaining of their houses of mud and wood, the general repair of their own clothes, and the making of food, were the only industrious crafts they knew. They did not sew or plant, for they got all that they could need from raiding the Dunedain and Bree-folk.

There came a day, after the twelfth time the old woman had given him food, when there came men into the hut. At least four hill-men, short and deceptively thin with torches in the hands of two of them, and one very large, very broad figure hooded and cloaked all in black: Hwaldar was not with them. He removed his hood and Aranarth was surprised to see a face not unlike his own: dark-haired and with sea-gray eyes. Yet this man had seen many battles, and his face was lined with scars and cuts. He scowled as he looked upon Aranarth and then spoke in a deep, assertive voice.

"I am Zaphragor," he said, using an Adunaic name. "I am captain of the folk of Rhudaur."

"What about their chief?" asked Aranarth. "Where is Hwaldar?"

The large man laughed. "What is revealed here will be told to Hwaldar in due time. He has the goodwill of Carn Dum, and he has told me about you and your brother, young prince." He gave a command to the hill-men, who took a firm grip onto Aranarth so that he would not move as they untied his bonds and held his arms and legs outward. Zaphragor now strode towards Aranarth and drew from the darkness of his robe a cold knife which he brandished before Aranarth's face.

"Now, we shall discuss the armed might of Arthedain," he said in a tone which brokered no doubt of his intention. This was an interrogation.

"Never," Aranarth replied. Long suffering in the dark and sickness had not broken his spirit yet, not when he had recalled the tale of Amandil into his mind.

"As you wish," said Zaphragor. To Aranarth's surprise, he turned the blade on himself and drove its point into his own hand. Nothing happened, but the large man was grinning wickedly as he stepped back, drawing the knife from his palm. He placed the knife down, held up his wounded hand into Aranarth's view in the light of the torches born by the hill-men, and Aranarth's blood ran cold: before his very eyes, he saw the blood seep into his pale hand and the wound close back into a tiny reddish black scar.

The large man stepped back again and a powerful blow struck Aranarth in the stomach. He nearly collapsed onto his knees with the force from it: just how strong was this Zaphragor? The hill-men forced him back up onto his feet, and again he was struck with a powerful blow. Aranarth's head swam and his whole world was pain, yet he could feel that the large man was not hitting the same place twice: he knew how to punish, and that was his goal. Over and over the large man rained blows upon Aranarth, until he collapsed onto the ground, weeping and spitting blood from his mouth.

"You crack too easily, boy," the large man said, though he was only a few years younger than Aranarth. "I have not even expended all my power: your brother lasted much longer."

"Valar take you!" Aranarth gasped.

At this the man halted, a smile breaking his face. He gave orders to the men to bring the prisoner up onto his feet.

"Is that it, then?" he asked. "Is that why you're so damned stubborn? You think some Elvish power will save you from me?" He laughed. "The Valar do not exist, boy. That's a lie told by those damned knife-ears in Rivendell and Lindon to keep Men as their slaves. You are a blind fool, if you pray to the Powers of the West that are not."

"That's not true," Aranarth protested. "They do exist."

"Prove it, then," Zaphragor mockingly replied. "Prove that the Powers exist and I shall bow down to them." The large man made a mocking bow before Aranarth, and the hill-men laughed at the jest from their leader.

"What d-do you mean proof?" asked Aranarth. "It is all around us, is it not? What about the old tales?"

"Tales are naught but children's stories, lad," said Zaphragor. "Lies told by the Elves. If the Valar were real, wherefore have they not come out of the West to aid the race of Men?" At this, Aranarth let out a chuckle, and the large man drove a fist into his face that nearly sent him back to the ground. "How dare you mock me, boy!"

"My apologies," Aranarth replied. "You say that I am blind for my regard of the Powers, yet you speak in my ears the lies of the Dark Lord of Mordor. Who was he but a fallen servant of the Lords of the West?"

At this, Zaphragor laughed again. "Ah, yes, the Dark Lord. The great monster in the night told of by the Elves to scare the ignorant into servitude. But where is the Dark Lord, though? He is not here, is he? There is no proof!"

"He fell in battle."

"Almost two thousand years ago!" said Zaphragor. "No man can possibly live long enough to bear witness of such a fact, if it ever were true. Notice how you only hear of the Dark Lord from such things written by the knife-ears. They invented this Dark Lord to keep Men imprisoned to their lies."

"What of the orcs and trolls?" asked Aranarth.

"Who knows how such things came about?" asked Zaphragor evasively. "Made by the knife-ears, I would warrant; for all such cruel and hurtful things that have troubled the race of Men have their root among the Elves. There is only one power in this world, Dunadan, and that is the Lord of Angmar." At that, Zaphragor knelt down and lifted Aranarth's head up to the level of his eyes; his words now were lower and he would have sweetened them if he could.

"I am your only hope for freedom. Give it all up, boy: renounce the Powers of the West, they are nothing. Forsake the Elves, for they care naught for any mortal man. Your king has abandoned you, therefore abandon him. Tell me what I want to know, and the beatings will stop and you will be free."

Aranarth said nothing in response. His will was giving out, not only because of the fierce blows of the large Dunadan, but because of his words. Whether he had keen insight of his own, or whether he had some dark power, his words spoke to Aranarth's own private fears raised in captivity. The image of the wound closing before his eyes came back into his mind, and his blood ran cold. Where were the eyes of the King? Where were the Powers of the West? If he was in a terrible position, a prisoner starved, sickly, and wounded, the Men of Westernesse were in an even worse position: Gondor stood, if only on one foot, with a second branch of the house of Anarion ruling from the White Tower of Minas Anor, while Arnor was down to one crumbling province, plagued by raiders, disease, and an enemy bent on their complete and total destruction. And where were the Lords of the West, or the Elves for that matter?

But his own sense rebelled against these words. It was foolish to believe that the words of his parents and the lore-masters were all lies. The Eilenaer was proof that Elendil had lived, fought, and died: but against what, if not the Dark Lord of Mordor? And were not he and his brother, not to mention their father and mother, the living descendants of Elendil's sons Isildur and Anarion? Furthermore, it seemed the height of arrogance to dismiss all the old tales on account of their antiquity or their origin. A fire was lit inside of Aranarth now: he would not give in, no matter what this Black Numenorean and his hill-men thralls would do to him. He would live on in defiance against this faithless cur, if only to give credit to the Valar for his endurance and so give lie to his words.

Zaphragor seemed to understand his silence, and so he stepped back with a scowl on his face.

"If you will not talk, then you will die a slow and painful death," he said. "And the Witch-King shall raise you up to fight against your own people; and then what power will save you from his hand?" With that, he ordered the hill-men in their own tongue, and they strung Aranarth up once again and left him to his thoughts and his pain.

For slow, painful, pitiful days beyond count, Aranarth languished in the hut. He was given food as usual, but now they were significantly reduced; if he dared to ask for more, as he had the first time, the old woman hit him with her wooden spoon and spat in his face before departing. When the lights disappeared from the cracks in the mud hut, the hill-men and their leader Zaphragor appeared and the Black Numenorean would beat him again and ask the same questions. As time wore on to no end, the questions started to change. Instead of asking him about the armed might of the Dunedain, Zaphragor would ask him absurd questions with obvious answers, and beat him whenever he gave him the truth. Aranarth wondered about these questions, for they made no sense in his mind except to break him.

But he had already set his will on not being broken, on refusing to bend. He felt that his body might crack under such pressure and that he would tell them anything they wanted to know, but he determined that it would not be so.

One night, when the lights disappeared from the cracks in the hut, Aranarth was preparing himself for the inevitable visit from Zaphragor. To his surprise, he heard voices outside the hut. Most were in the uncouth tongue of the hill-men, which had always sounded like the harsh speech of crows in his ears, but there seemed to be a lot of shouting and what sounded like rejoicing. He hung his head: another successful raid against his people, like as not. Then, to his amazement, the door to the hut was opened and two hill-men walked inside: between them, held tightly in their arms, was a woman. She was as tall as the men-folk of the hill-men were, but would have only been accounted as small among the Dunedain: her hair was the color of ripe grain, and her face, though dirty, was fair to look upon, despite the gag in her mouth. The hill-men, none too gently, brought her over to the same pole where Aranarth was tied and, putting her in a seated position, bound her hands behind her back and against the pole. One of the hill-men said something, then the other one removed the gag from her mouth with laughter and walked out of the hut, closing the door after them.

Aranarth twisted himself around to see his guest. She seemed to be deeply distraught, with her head hung down and soft sounds coming from beneath: were they tears?

"Are you alright?" he asked her. "Did the hill-men hurt you?"

No answer.

"Pardon me, my lady," he added. "I have forgotten my manners. I am Aranarth, son of Arvedui, prince of Arthedain. I have been kept a prisoner of the hill-men for time beyond count. Who are you?"

Still there was no answer.

"Why are you here?" he asked, growing impatient. "What happened?"

Slowly she spoke at last, and her voice was full of sorrow.

"The wild men came down from the hills," said she. "They attacked my village: I saw my mother and father and brothers butchered before my very eyes! Then they took away everything they wanted, and I alone am left!" She broke out into new and mournful tears.

"Do not weep, my lady," Aranarth replied. "The eyes of the King are upon Arthedain: your family shall be avenged."

"The elders in my village always said those things," she wept. "And yet the hill-men keep burning and stealing."

"I am the son of the king, as I have said," Aranarth replied. "And by my father's honor, I swear that you and your family and village shall be avenged."

She sniffed loudly. "I thank you for your kind words, my lord, but you are a prisoner, the same as me. What weight have your words any more than mine?"

"Because we are not alone," he said. "My brother is kept here somewhere. We will break out of here together and return to Fornost, and you shall come with us. All will be well, I swear it."

"I do not believe your words," she replied. "Still, they give me comfort." She turned her head about to look up at him and smiled. "I am called Helegwen."

Aranarth breathed easier for a moment; it was good to hear a friendly voice after so long in solitude. Just then a thought crossed his mind; why would the hill-men, who had been trying to break him for so long, suddenly put someone else in the hut with him? And a Dunadan at that? Another terrifying quickly followed suit that he may have just revealed that he and his brother were going to escape to a spy.

"I must confess, my lord," she said. "The hill-men wanted me to spy on you." Aranarth froze: how did she discern his very thought? As of yet, he gave her no reply. "Do you say nothing to this?"

"How do you know?" Aranarth asked. "I can understand nothing of their speech."

"I can, my lord," said Helegwen. "I live near the border, and the people of my village have had trade with the hill-men in happier days. They said that an important prisoner was being held here, and that I was to gain his trust and tell them everything; if I refused, the men in the village would make sport of me. I will keep the nasty details unspoken, if you please, to spare your frail constitution." She was leaning over to look at her companion.

"I'm only a little sick, that's all," Aranarth retorted. Inside him he felt a second strength rising up in his bosom. For the long countless days of imprisonment, his only desire had been to find Aradan and flee with him. For the present, that had been enough; but it was starting to wane in him. He had not seen Aradan since they were both tied up to the pole in the middle of the village: he hoped that he was still alive, but had no assurances. Now there was someone who needed him right away: this woman, pressed between losing her own honor and betraying her people to death. He resolved inside now that he would never break, no matter what absurd things Zaphragor demanded he admit under pain of torture. Someone else needed him.

"You will not lose your honor, my lady," he said. "I swear it. You and me and my brother shall escape this place intact. Tell them whatever you want: make something up, try to make it sound credible. But hold out, no matter what!"

There was a cry from outside the hut, reminding Aranarth that he had grown too loud in his speech.

Whether Helegwen told the hill-men what they wanted or not, Aranarth could not fathom. He did not see her again for a long time, during which his illness continued. One night, while Aranarth was in such a sorry state, he was surprised to see Helegwen brought back into his hut, with a small pot and a wooden bowl in her hands. She sat before him and placed the pot down, taking from it a wooden spoon into which she ladled a stew which she then transferred to the bowl.

"What is this?" Aranarth asked, his words slurring with his illness.

"A simple stew," she replied. "The hill-men do not want you to die on their watch."

"I do not need their food," Aranarth stated. "I will manage."

"Don't be foolish, my lord," she returned. "If they wanted to kill you, they would have done it long before this."

"How do I know it isn't poisoned?" he asked.

Helegwen laughed, and Aranarth was surprised to hear such a noise in this dark and dreary camp. "The hill-men may be cruel to the Dunedain, but they are Men, not Orcs." She held out the wooden spoon, but Aranarth did not partake. With a frustrated groan, she put the spoon to her own lips and tasted it. After a moment or two of no signs of poisoning, Aranarth accepted the stew. The warmth went through him like the rays of sunlight, fueling the fiery determination within him.

"Do you still hold to your oath, Dunadan?" she asked. "That we will escape from this place?"

"I hold myself as bound to my word," Aranarth replied.

"Perhaps then I can tell you what I learned," she suggested, lowering her voice to a whisper. "For I have heard a great deal from the tongues of our captors, though they know it not." She gave him another mouthful of the stew. As he relished its warmth, she continued.

"I believe I have seen your brother," she said. "Here in the camp."

Aranarth almost choked on the stew in his mouth. After swallowing quickly, he hissed out an answer. "Tell me where he is!"

"You will never find him on your own," Helegwen returned. "All these huts look alike, and even if you manage to escape, you will be found out before you discover the location of his hut." At this, she reached into the bottom of her shoe and pulled forth a tiny knife; she told him that she had swiped it from the cook when they gave her the stew to give to him.

"Give that to me!" Aranarth whispered.

"Do you trust me?" Helegwen replied.

"What?"

"I can help you escape," she stated. "But you will have to trust me. If not, then your oaths mean nothing to me and you will remain here."

Aranarth did not give his decision much thought. He was in a hard place, to be sure, and longed for the sight of his brother, for freedom, and to return to Mother and Father: and she was a Dunadan, like himself. The long days of captivity had worked in him a disdain for his old life: the life of a scholar ill-suited for action. He had come to the grim realization that he would have to become a man suited for such evil days as these: a man of action and not of thought. And what better way to begin that rebirth but by this choice here? After all, what other choices did he have?

"Alright," he said. "I will trust you."

"Good," Helegwen replied. "I will leave this with you. It won't serve you as a weapon of any use, but you can cut your bonds with it, and those of your brother. Wait for the signal to leave the hut: if you go too soon, they will catch you and kill you, if not imprison you again." She placed the knife close to the pole that bound Aranarth's hands, then departed with the pot of soup before Aranarth could ask what signal he was to wait for.

He now betook himself to cutting the cords that bound his hands to the pole. It took him much longer than it had before, when he and Aradan had been outside: then he had some reserves of strength and was less ill than he was now. But it was just as dark as before, and he could feel himself drifting off again. Remembering that he had people waiting for him back home, and people here relying on his swift action, he betook himself again to cutting the ropes. Sometimes there would be whispering just outside the hut: fearing discovery, he would pause and wait for the voices to die down before taking up his task with renewed vigor.

At last he felt the pressure on his wrists give way as the ropes were finally cut. It felt good to move again after so long sitting still, however little he might do so. Now it was his frustrating task to wait until the signal was given: whatever that might be. Outside he could hear movement, but had no idea who was moving or what was going on: most likely it was the hill-men on their daily business. He knew that he had not now the strength to defend himself, if he should trust to luck and throw himself outside in a mad rush to escape. He would have to follow through with Helegwen's plan.

The sounds outside died down. For time beyond count Aranarth waited, his heart pounding beneath his chest as he waited for something: anything that might be the signal he was hoping for. At last there was a rap on the wattle wall of the hut: so great was the silence that this soft sound made him start with fear. Then in the silence of the darkness, he heard a familiar voice whispering to him.

"Five huts on the left side and you will find your brother," Helegwen's voice said. "Make haste while the hill-men are away. I shall catch you up outside the village."

Footsteps were heard moving softly outside the hut. Aranarth knew, or guessed, that this was his signal. He pushed at the wattle walls: in the darkness, he could not see the door. After much searching he found it, and discovered that it had been left unlocked. With eyes blinking in the light of torches and a distant bonfire, he took stock of where he was at now. He seemed to be inside a portion of the village which he had seen only a small part of before, when chained to the post. There were clusters of bowl-shaped huts made of earth and sticks all about him.

With no time to think, he went over Helegwen's words. Five on the left to find Aradan. Turning left, he began to count the huts as he ran past them as swiftly as he could. Ever and anon he would look over his shoulder, for some sign of the hill-men: but they seemed to be all gone. Had they all departed on another raid? There was no sign of Helegwen either: where had she gone in all of this?

After the third hut, there was a gap and he ran as swiftly as he could to the next cluster of huts, hoping that he had not made a mistake. His head was swimming and the lights hurt his eyes, after so long in the dark, but he came to another circle of huts. The first one he came to he called the fourth hut, then came to the one he hoped was the fifth. In the light of the torches, he could see the wattle door and pushed it open. To his astonishment, he found Aradan in the hut: bound, as he had been, to the central pole by strong cords. Aranarth went at once to release his brother and get him onto his feet. Aradan, he found, was in better shape than he had been: though his face was bruised and his lip was bleeding, he had not taken ill.

"Don't worry about me, big brother," Aradan replied in good humor. "I've had worse than this from our enemies."

"Come," Aranarth said. "We must make haste to depart! Now is our only chance!"

"Do you happen to know the way out of here?" asked Aradan.

"No," Aranarth replied, and let out a nasty cough.

"I do," the younger brother added. "Follow me."

Aradan got himself up onto his feet and the two of them began to run as fast as they could back towards the hut where Aranarth had been freed. They now began to follow the palisade wall, looking for its gate. Suddenly there was a bell heard clanging somewhere in the distance. The brothers started to run, frantically searching for the exit: Aranarth, ill as he had been, was lagging behind. A sharp whistle split the dissonant ringing of the bell and Aranarth felt a piercing pain in the back of his left leg, just below the knee. With a cry of pain, he fell forward onto the grass, unable to continue the escape: hunger, beatings, and sickness had been toll enough for him, but now he was wounded and could not move.

(AN: What has just happened? Well, it's better than the blackout fade-out that I [and Tolkien] are fond of doing. Poor Aranarth is dreadfully conscious through the whole painful ordeal.)

(No comments on why this took so long to come out, since you aren't here for that. Rest assured that I will try to get the next chapter out in a timely fashion. Now that I have gotten over this desert of inspiration, let's see how far we can go before we reach another one.)