Farielle floated in darkness. A little ways away, not far she knew, was the long green island where elves sang, but she couldn't find it. She ran through the blackness, huge heads painted red and white chasing her, tearing off mask after mask; veil after veil as they came. The masks and veils spun in the air, barring the way. Farielle edged closer to them, and they turned into knives, all flashing in some hideous light, stabbing her. Stabbing Lord Alphros.
Sometimes, she remembered that it was the drugs. It was only a dream. Sometimes, she thought she heard people speaking; thought she stood or walked. But mostly, she ran, trying to escape the night and find her way home. Hadn't someone said they would take her home?
(Rath Anwarmen, Near Umbar)
Perhaps a mile to the northwest lies the great fortress city of the Corsairs, Umbar. Numerous evenly spaced towers set into the wall look out over the the countryside. From here, the tiny silhouettes of guards atop the great outer wall can just barely be discerned. The outer walls are huge, and a huge ditch lined with palisades surrounds them.
As the sun falls, a small group of men comes south from the city; two of them are pulling a cart. Once around a small rise, so that they are hidden from anyone watching from the walls (no matter if they couldn't be seen clearly from this distance), they stop and wait. It is not long until dusk, and two men start to unpack the contents... Eventually, a board is pried up, and a person, entirely covered by a robe and hood, is half-helped, half-pulled out of the cramped hiding place.
It is not long before another group of men draw near, arriving from the east over the wide dunes. This party seems well-used to treading the sand, and a pair of horses are brought in tow, presumably for ferrying baggage as not a man among them rides upon their backs as yet. A dozen or so, dressed in the fashion of the desert, they stop a good distance from the unpacking party, and two of their number stride forth boldly.
Thus does Lojrul, Steward Regent of Desert Tower, of the savage folk of the Sand, approach these visitors from the city; an armed fellow at his side. "So, then," says he, "who of you is the mysterious Vain?"
They look at each other and shrug. "He ain't here," says one, and grins. Behind, one man roughly steadies Farielle while she gains balance from muscles stiff and cramped from the ride. Her hooded head turns blindly towards the voices, then droops.
"Ahhh," replies Lojrul, his eyes fixing upon the speaking man and not yet darting to the hooded woman of Gondor. "Such courage by your fearless leader, eh? Thus I know I am dealing with a true lord, and not some thief of the night..." As the sarcasm drips from his tongue, Lojrul shrugs then, and adds: "Very well. You are to release this woman into my protection, I understand?"
The men only smirk at Lojrul's words, but the one who seems to be the spokesman nods, albeit reluctantly.
Striding forward then, Lojrul ignores the men, seeking the figure of Farielle, ere he arrives before her. He reaches out and parts the hood – it is indeed the right woman. "It is I, pale lady: Lojrul. Do you remember me?"
Farielle's head turns again at the sound of his voice, then stops and drifts back to staring straight in front of her. She has always been slender, but beneath the hood, her face is thin - almost gaunt now - with great shadowed hollows around her eyes. One of the men keeps a hold of her upper arm - to keep her from trying to run? To hold her up?
Studying the girl's features for a long moment, Lojrul then nods and curls a lip as he looks to the captors. "Starving her, eh? The Lady will not be pleased when she sees what has become of her prize. Come, Farielle," says he then, reaching for her wrist, even as his companion steps forward with the seeming intention of taking the place of her crutch.
"We fed her!" protests one of the men. "She never ate nothin', less we nigh shoved it down 'er! It's..." Another digs an elbow into his ribs and he shuts up abruptly.
More hands take hold of the girl, her wrist, her arm again, but she hardly seems to notice. She seems to be trying to stare at one nonexistent point in the air; her eyes make little sliding darts to this side and that, only occasionally fixing on an actual object, but always return to the same location - straight ahead. Beneath his hand, Lojrul might feel a fine, faint tremor.
Indeed the Desert man seems to take notice, for he squeezes her wrist firmly but not unkindly, and leads her forward. "Do not worry, paleskin lady. I am here to aid you. Soon you shall know cool air and shade once more, not to mention water and bread..."
A tiny frown wrinkles Farielle's forehead, and she looks down at her wrist. Interesting. There is a hand there, where she has felt it... her gaze runs up Lojrul's arm and end on his face, and she stares at him for a few minutes as he leads her away from the other men - then she looks away again. A moment later, she flinches from nothing, throwing her arm up - or trying to; it is held by the other man. And again, with an effort of will, she subdues herself and returns to staring fixedly ahead of herself.
The tribesmen waiting to the side for Lojrul's return peer and squint at the woman's pale skin, caught at whiles as she is directed towards them, and many a glance is sent among them with interest. But still they say naught, not stirring from where they stand, even as the Steward Regent guides Farielle into their midst.
Strong hands lift the girl up, and place her atop one of the horses. Lojrul himself, meanwhile, turns back to the men, and his smile turns wolfish; a feral gleam in his jet gaze.
"Now," says he, "what to do with you fellows..."
Farielle doesn't struggle. Indeed, it seems all her strength is going into /not/ reacting. But when she finds herself sitting on a horse, she seems to brighten a little; become a little more a part of the world around her - for a tiny almost-smile moves her lips, and after a moment of hesitation, she reaches to touch the horse's neck. But still, her motions are tentative and uncertain - like she isn't sure the animal will still be there by the time her hand reaches its skin.
A few snarls rise up at Lojrul's words from the carde of captors, and one of them steps forward brandishing his sword. "The agreement was to hand over the tark, and then all would be done. Vain would be glad to hear of this going without a hitch, wouldn't you say?"
"I care nothing for what Vain wishes," growls Lojrul to this, and as one the men of his party fan out, outnumbering the others by two-to-one. More swords are drawn, and the Desert worthy sneers across the road to the captors. "One of you may live to take my message to him, and it is this: do not meddle in the affairs of the Eye's true servants; they shall not thank you nor spare you in turn. Vain's presumption has earned him a death by my blade, unless he can find me worthy enough payment to avoid it."
As the men of his group step forward, Lojrul sneers anew. "Now... choose which among you will be the lucky fellow to live..."
Later, the men and the two horses they lead, along with Farielle, move away, seeking the sanctity of Umbar once more. Behind them, dead on the bloody sand, are all the men who brought her out of the City – save one.
...
Morning breaks over the Corsair City, a chill wind reminding the folk of Umbar that winter is yet upon their coasts. The desert may little heed the changing of the seasons, but here in the Bay the sea spray leaps as though a rainy breeze into the air.
So it is that within the Desert Tower, many of the servants and guardsmen with little to do can be found in the Kitchens; warming themselves by the ovens and waiting out the wind's cease. Half are tall, lighter skinned folk in Desert livery, while the others seem summoned from out of the dunes; dark, burnished skin clasped in burly tunics.
And in their midst a litter has been prepared for Farielle, brought into the Tower only this very morning at Lojrul's order, and space has been cleared for the cooks to offer up anything that might rekindle her appetite. They press her often, but not unkindly with snatches of Westron, but for the most part the staff of the Tower simply gaze with interest at this strange-skinned woman.
Farielle seems strangely jittery - all her muscles are drawn tight as bowstrings, and they twitch and jump randomly. The girl herself is doing nothing but sitting as still as possible, her hands clasped tightly in her lap to keep them from moving. It seems she is trying to keep her eyes focused unmovingly also, but her gaze darts about nearly as randomly as the muscle twitches.
Since being brought here, she has eaten nothing and said nothing, but now she swallows, and tries her voice. It is steady, but little more than a whisper. "I am thirsty." She waits to see what response there will be.
The guard now escorted in is in the livery of Seaward. Khaan looks about, and then settles a grim-faced stare on Farielle. "So the rumors are true," he says.
Meanwhile the cooks chatter amongst themselves and nod, and it is not long ere a jug is passed to their hands; water splashing from its lip. They offer it to the girl, watching her closely as the majority of the guardsmen look on.
But at Khaan's entrance, more than a few eyes dart his way, and among the tribesmen especially a tension runs through the room. "Who is this?" asks one tribal man, stepping forth with a scar along his cheek. "The lord said keep her under close watch. This doesn't look like it."
"Do not worry, Raheeb," says a new voice then, and Lojrul can be seen in the doorway, not far behind Khaan. "This man is expected."
Farielle watches the jug being passed towards her, hesitating a minute before reaching out to take it. Her hands tremble faintly - almost imperceptibly - but she manages to lift it a little, then bends her head to the lip. She must be very thirsty, drinking as though she hasn't seen water for a week. Strange words wash around her and she ignores them.
"Haradaic Expected?" Khaan twists to look toward Lojrul. "Haradaic Well...with the rumors, I suppose so, yes. How is she? Where did you find her?" he says, then speaks slowly to the woman in westron, as if talking to a child. 'You are well, Lady? Unhurt?'
'Drink slow!' urge the cooks to Farielle, shaking their heads at the woman likewise as though scolding a child. 'Small gulps. Make better than big gulp.' One of them fetches up a plate which is offered hopefully to the pale face of the Gondorian.
"Haradaic She seems drugged still," says Lojrul to Khaan in the meantime, and he shakes his head. "Haradaic It would seem the villain kept her in a stupor during her captivity. But, she shows few sighs of physical harm. We found her where Vain's men sent word to find her, and found them also..."
The girl finishes finally - not as though she wants to stop, but as though she has drunk so much she can't drink any more. She looks at the jug, then moves to set it down; her eyes go longingly to the plate, then dart around the room again before she shakes her head.
Those words - they are in Common. Before she can stop herself, Farielle looks around to see who has spoken... but before she sees Khaan, she has dragged her gaze back to the spot of nothingness she seems so focused on.
"Haradaic Yes, she does seem drugged. For how many days now? How long until she has healed? And Vain's men..you found them? Where are they?" Khaan watches the woman again, then continues, 'Lady Seaward would like her back.' He folds his arms across his chest.
'Of that I have no doubt,' answers Lojrul, and he nods. 'The girl is hers to claim, of course.'
A sniff, ere: "Haradaic Though I do not handle my charges lightly. I will not speak a word against the quality of her Ladyship's guardsmen, still less her Serpent Guard, though it seems the girl requires some measure of security. I will not release her into the custody of one man, regardless of his skill. When she is better, I shall have my own Tower guard escort her personally, with you at their head."
But then his eyes narrow, and he looks to Khaan curiously. "Haradaic It still amazes me that her Lady's Serpent Guard were not at hand to watch over the pale-skin. Or was it they who were overcome by Vain's men? My own warriors dealt with this Blood of his, and they seemed well trained themselves; by the standards of Corsairs, at least."
"Haradaic Did I say I was here to collect her single-handedly?" Khaan scoffs. "Haradaic I would not be so foolish. But I will inform my Lady that the woman is here. And I assume safe."
"Haradaic As for the circumstances of her abduction, I was not on guard during the time and if you have criticisms, you can address them directly to the Lady Eruphel. I am not here to speculate."
"Haradaic As you wish," nods Lojrul, with a curl of his lip as he looks to Khaan. "Haradaic Your business here is ended then, guardsman, is it not? Unless you yourself wish to look the woman over? You will understand that my men's blades will be at the ready if you try to harm her."
A sniff, and a meaningful glare. "Haradaic I offer greater protection that those held within Seaward, I can assure you of that, and for all I know Vain was working with someone within your Tower..."
"Haradaic The Lady Seaward will decide these matters," Khaan says. "Haradaic I will just convey information of the woman's return to her. Though it seems to me that perhaps your boast of guards here in your tower should instead be turned to your security out of the tower."
A snarl at this, and Lojrul's eyes harden. "Haradaic Aye, news travels fast, I see. Though the death of my Steward is no laughing matter, guardsman. I shall find out who is responsible, I promise you that. That such a man and his regent should fear for their security within the walls of Upper Umbar is cause for alarm, would you not say?"
"Of course it is extremely dangerous," Khaan says, switching to the common tongue as the discussion heats up. "And I would say that the Lady Seaward would agree with you on this. Likely, even, you may have her help in finding the culprit. So. May I convey your message that you have the would-be Queen and that she is..." he eyes the girl..."safe."
The cooks proffer the plate again, pushing it all but underneath Farielle's nose, and when the girl turns her head resolutely away, they consult among themselves and replace it with a different plate on which is something else - perhaps more tempting.
While the two men argue in Haradaic, Farielle ignores them successfully, though the louder tones seem to trigger more little muscle-twitches. But Common again... she doesn't turn her head this time, but when Khaan says 'Queen', she bows it a little, staring down at her hands. The food is - not quite ignored, she surely is hungry - but still refused.
The cooks chatter on, scratching their heads but glancing ever toward their Steward in case their orders change. Lojrul himself replies to Khaan in the Common tongue with a nod: "That would be a good message to take, yes. She is welcome, as ever, within these halls, as she has made me welcome with her own."
He sniffs then, and looks over to the woman of Gondor. "With luck, she will have regained some weight and color by then."
Striding forward then towards Farielle, he watches her features carefully.
Someone blocks some of the light. If Farielle were not already so tense, she might stiffen against Lojrul's gaze. Steadily, she keeps her eyes on her hands - except when something only she can see drifts past, and her gaze follows it automatically. Until she realizes what she is doing, and pulls back to stare at her hands again.
The cooks continue to hover, but Lojrul waves them away and lowers to a crouch to continue to study her face. "Can you hear me, pale lady?" he asks of her.
Farielle's eyes flick up to Lojrul as he speaks, then around the kitchens again before returning to the man's face. There is a long pause. Cautiously, the girl reaches out to touch his arm or hand, if he will let her. If he is really there to be touched...
The Steward does not move, letting her fingertips explore as they will, though he continues to watch her eyes. "If you can hear me, speak to me?"
Tap. Tap. Farielle barely touches Lojrul - only enough to assure herself someone is indeed there. Then in the same disused thread of a voice, she says, "I can hear you." Another flick of gaze about the room - are there any strange reactions? Does anyone stare as if she talks to the air?
And stare they do, but more in wonder at her skin than her strange actions. Still, her every motion is studied by the men of Desert, and Lojrul himself nods with a fresh sniff.
"Good. I can hear you too," he replies. "Are you hungry?"
Farielle has committed herself to talking to this man, be he real or apparition. She nods, one dip of her head.
"Good," he says again, and sniffs. "What do you want to eat? Can you tell me that?"
"I don't want..." Farielle hesitates, her eyes moving to a point near Lojrul's ear. Then she blinks and visibly forces herself to refocus - another darted look around the kitchen. "Is he here?" she asks, very quietly.
"Is who here?" asks Lojrul then, after a long pause. "The man in the mask?"
Arms still folded across his chest, Khaan comes up to listen to this.
A long pause, then the girl nods, once.
At this the eyes of Lojrul narrow, and he sends a glance behind him to Khaan, rising up to his full height again. "I think we should have quieter surroundings for news of this masked man."
He nods to a couple of guards, who reach down and take hold of Farielle's litter. The cooks he quickly commands to bring one of each of their dishes with them, and one warrior is tasked with carrying the water jug.
"To my study," he finishes, and the servants quickly set about their errands. To the Seaward guard the Steward of Desert then says: "You may join us, unless you are not here to speculate?"
The guards lift her easily, but Farielle's hands fly off her lap to grip the edge of the litter. Moving - or rather being moved - apparently affects her precarious balance. Adversely.
"I will follow for now," Khaan says, coming along with the group.
Nodding to Khaan, Lojrul then turns to grunt a few words in Haradaic to the guards, who release their grip upon the litter. He says to the woman: "My men will lead you somewhere quieter, pale one. You have nothing to fear."
And with that one of the guards offers his arm to Farielle.
Farielle has shut her eyes, but she opens them with the litter stops moving. A hand is waiting and she stares at it blankly for a long minute - waiting, perhaps, for it to vanish or grow tentacles. When neither of these things happen, she takes it, and stands.
As the guard stands ready to stabilize Farielle, Lojrul watches her once more for a few moments, ere he says: "The masked man is not here, pale lady. He cannot harm you any more. Whatever he did to you, it is over. Will you not eat?"
Another look side to side. Fearful, hesitant. But these are different men - a different room - it is not dark. Perhaps they are true, the words she thinks she has heard. But if they are not - if Vain is there, still, somewhere waiting for her refusal... Farielle shudders convulsively. But there are women here, too, and not just men. And hadn't she seen them dead? Or was that just another vision. She didn't know; had no way to tell. But from somewhere, buried deep for survival, a tendril of hope weaves its way into her mind.
And at last, Farielle says, very quietly, "I don't want to see things anymore." That wasn't quite refusing to eat. Perhaps they wouldn't tell him.
Understanding dawns upon Lojrul's brow, and he nods slowly. "Then you do not have to. Perhaps you should rest first, until your eyes see only what is real again. My men will lead you to a bed, and you may eat or drink whenever you wish to. I shall come and speak with you later, when you are better."
This said he nods to the guards, who begin to gently lead the poor girl away.