Tariq
Three days of constant care brought Elladan back from the brink of mortality. But it was a changed elf that recovered. Something important had gone from him. And so it was that he did not fight on the eighth day when he was bathed and anointed with sweet oils. He did not protest as they dressed him in fine silks and gold. He said nothing when the Mithril collar was placed around his neck and secured to a thick chain. There was no murmur when they took each wrist and bound them together with finely wrought silver cord. They painted his lips and around his eyes. They perfumed his hair and brushed the length of it till it shone. He knew, he knew without ever being told what his fate would be. He had seen it in the desert man's eyes when he looked at him. He had heard it in the eagerness of his voice when he spoke to him. He did not know if he could bear such a thing, but he had promised himself that he would kill this man and thus avenge his brother whose bones must lie somewhere out there in the desert, picked clean by scavengers and bleached to an awful white by the sun. The sudden anguish came from the depths of his being and the sob escaped his lips before he could stop it. But he was alone now, alone and waiting.
Ak'tun could feel his body grow warm as his servants bathed and dried the elf. His hands longed to touch the smooth unblemished skin and feel the fine muscles tremble beneath them, for you see, he had one abiding passion and the elf embodied the epitome of his lust. Many had passed through his hands. Some had survived, but most had died, for he was, you must understand, very demanding and they had been young and fragile. Not so the elf, he had proved beyond a doubt that he could withstand hardship and punishment. The elf would never grow coarse and ungainly, and most importantly it would live forever, certainly until the end of his days. As they girded the silken cloth around the elf's loins Ak'tun trembled. He could not wait.
000
It would be evening now and Gaedor would be stoking the fire in the Great Hall. The wine would be mulled and have just the correct tartness. There would be cooked meats and bread, sweet savouries and that awful sour treat that his father loved so much. Elladan usually served the wine preferring to drink his in the solitude of the garden than indoors. But he and Elrond would sit and talk for hours.
"Adar," he whispered as he woke from the dream into the stifling heat of his prison.
He coughed, for the air was stale and stank. His body was covered with sweat and he could smell himself. Never before in his long life had he been so miserable. If he had he could not remember it. He tugged lethargically at the thick and sturdy rope around his ankle, not with any real hope of escaping, but because it was something to do to keep himself from falling into a chasm of despair from which he would never climb.
After a week, or was it more, he had finally discovered a way out of this death chamber, but as fate would have it, the beast had chosen that very moment to return from his day's foray. With no more than a startled grunt the beast had fallen upon him with a growl. Elrohir had lost the fight before it had even begun. The weight of the creature knocked the breath out of his body and stunned him and up close the stench of the creature was even more unbearable. Choking and gagging, Elrohir had been dragged unceremoniously by the heels deeper inside the chamber.
For the first few days Elrohir had screamed and shouted at the animal, pulling and tugging frantically at the rope around his ankle. But the beast had ignored him, appearing only once every day to leave him a bowl of food and water. As time passed Elrohir had calmed and when the creature did appear he said and did nothing.
He rolled over onto his stomach, laying his cheek on the rough sandy floor. He began to trace idle patterns with his finger in the sand, he wondered if he would ever see the sun again. How could he hope to find his brother in the Great Desert if he could not even free himself from this creature.
Tariq, for that was the creature's name, watched the thing carefully until it fell into an uneasy sleep. It was such a puzzle this thing. Noisy and demanding, it had very nearly crawled outside to certain death. In fact Tariq had thought the thing dead when she had dragged it to her den, thinking to harvest it as food, but the thing had breathed still and Tariq, who was not an evil creature despite her appearance, had nurtured it till it had recovered. It was a energetic as a youngling, many times she had had to discipline it when it would not eat and tried to go outside. Outside, Tariq knew,was dangerous. Had not every one of her young ones been hunted and killed by the desert men. Even this creature had been hunted by them. She had recognized the blade in the creature's body and had pulled it from the wound herself, licking at the spot until the blood had stopped.
At first she had thought it to be man, but the scent of it was different and it spoke differently, not the harsh sounds that men normally made, but something softer, more pleasant. She wondered sometimes exactly what it was, but it was not really important. She would care for it as she did for her young, because it was pitifully weak. It should not be out there under the fierce sun, where the desert men could hunt it down. So saying Tariq shrugged her massive body and giving a great yawn curled into a great ball and fell asleep. She dreamed of the nights of coolness, when the winds ceased and the desert grew quiet and she could run free.
00
Veren walked a short distance from the group. The falcon circled once then dropped to his outstretched arm. He unrolled the scroll. It was a short note in Glorfindel's crisp handwriting. Elrond it seemed had finally gotten word of his sons' disappearance, was there any news.
News... Veren scowled disgustedly and crumbled the note in his hand. Not only had they no news but Aragorn had taken ill with fever. Hurriedly, he scribbled a reply on fresh parchment and rolling it tightly attached it to the bird's leg. He watched the falcon until it grew small in the sky. Sighing he returned to the camp fire where Aragorn lay on a bed of blankets and cloaks. He was in no mortal danger, for the elves in this company were skilled in the art of healing and war, but it seemed that an ill omen hung over their quest for in every village so far there had been no news of the twins. In one small town there had been a slave auction in progress as they rode in.
" Last 'o the season." they had been informed.
They had bought a young boy who was obviously from one of the border towns but the youth had not been among those last captured and thus could not help them. It seemed that the sons of Elrond had vanished without a trace from the face of Arda.
That night Aragorn dreamed a terrible dream. Heat suffused his body and his skin was slick with sweat. There was a terrible pain in his bowels. There was a monotonous movement, a movement that rocked him back and forth in a dreadful rhythm and drove him deeper and deeper into despair. He would have screamed but his mouth was smashed against folds of soft cloth and they ate the sound before it could be born. They was a guttural grunting somewhere near him, he could feel his body tremble, he could feel his soul cringe, but there was nothing he could do, nothing... but it hurt so, it hurt...
Aragorn began to wail long before the dream ended, and though Veren held him and comforted him, he would not stop.