A/N: This chapter and the next one are heavily reliant on Ursula Le Guin's The Tombs of Atuan, which was invaluable in helping me to imagine what the interaction between Elrond and Amtar might be like.
I would like to say a huge thank you to my kind guest reviewer, Daria. If you're reading this, I hope you enjoy the rest of the story. Thank you for your lovely words of encouragement.
One final thing to mention. Recently I have developed an interest in video editing, specifically 'vidding'. My first project, 'Vogue Elves', is now up on YouTube. It's very easy to find, and uses sophisticated and stylish clips (or at least that's my aim!) of Elves from The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, set to the song 'Vogue' by Madonna. If you have five minutes free and are looking for some light entertainment, please check it out. I hope you enjoy it!
Chapter 6: The Prisoner
Ikara came to her after the evening rites. 'It has been two nights since you captured the northerner. He must be close to death now.' Her eyes gleamed with a disquieting satisfaction. 'When two more days have passed, you will take one other priestess with you and dig a grave. Then you must bury him.'
Amtar did not look up. 'It will be done as you say, Ikara.'
She had not seen the prisoner since the day she had caught him. An hour or so before the break of dawn, unable to sleep, she had crept into the tombs, heading to a spyhole set into the ceiling of his cell. Holding her breath, she peered inside. The darkness was complete; she could see nothing. She had brought a shuttered lantern; in this place, far from the jewel, light was permitted. Very carefully she moved her hand so that the smallest chink of light escaped.
She almost gasped aloud; he was staring straight up at her. Somehow she must have woken him, though she had taken care to be silent. How was he not asleep? The hairs rose on the back of her neck. What magic did he possess that he was able to throw off the effect of her dart?
No matter. Awake or not, he was completely in her power. With his sword and armour gone, he was defenceless. She had taken his phial and his ring too; what remained of his sorcery without those talismans had not been enough to free him of the chains she had bound him with. Her fear faded, and her lip curled.
From below he gazed back at her impassively, his head tilted back so that his pale neck was partly exposed. For several long minutes they watched each other. The shivering of the flame in her lantern cast dancing shadows over the hollow of his throat.
At last, with a look of contempt, she shuttered the lantern completely and left.
An hour later she had reported the successful capture to Ikara. She described how she had used her dart to overpower him before dragging him to a cell and binding him in chains – but she had said nothing of his elven features or his magic. There was little point when in a few days he would be dead.
That day she devoted herself to her duties, but at night sleep eluded her. She found herself remembering his face staring up at her out of the blackness. Then she said to herself that he deserved his fate: he deserved death. He should never have strayed out of his green lands. She pictured him sitting alone in his cell, in complete darkness, slowly wasting away until only a corpse was left.
Over the next two days she found herself shivering at odd moments, and swallowing her food was harder than it had ever been. She could not stop thinking of his death, yet one more death for the sake of the jewel.
Now, two days after his capture, he must surely be close to dying, no matter his powers of endurance. She did not believe he would outlive the four days Ikara had prescribed.
Ikara was watching her closely. 'You must understand that he is nothing but a thief, a burglar. He deserves to die.'
Amtar looked up. 'I know. I will be glad when he dies.'
'Report to me when he is dead.' She made to leave, pausing to lay a hand on Amtar's arm, her voice weirdly unfeeling. 'You have done well, my child.' She left, and Amtar shuddered. She knew what she must do.
That night, while the other priestesses slept, she stole back into the tombs, this time taking a route directly to the prisoner's cell, carrying a water-skin.
He was weak, much weaker than she had expected. His eyelids barely opened as she stepped inside and dropped to a crouch beside him. He made to sit up, but then slumped back, exhausted. Carefully, she dripped water into his mouth, a few drops at a time, taking long pauses so that life returning might not kill him. The water-skin empty, she got to her feet. His head sank back into oblivious sleep. The iron band around his waist was still securely chained to the wall. With one last look towards his pointed ears, hidden under his hair, she left, bolting the door behind her.
That night she slept soundly, waking shortly before dawn to leave him water and some food stolen from the kitchens. Deep in sleep, he did not stir as she came and went. The day's chores went slowly, until at last it was night and she was able to slip away again, treading the now familiar path to his cell.
He was sitting with his back to the wall, his clear grey eyes still and watchful. His day-long period of sleep seemed to have fully cured him of his exhaustion and near-death state. She stood just in front of the door, where he could not reach her, and held up her lantern, watching him. Then she looked away. But there was nothing else to look at and soon enough she looked at him again. He had eaten the food she had left and must have used some of the water to clean his face and hands; the blood and grime were gone.
By the light of her lantern she saw the tattered state of his once fine tunic, and the worn-down soles of his boots. She had never seen a stranger before, and she could not help noticing the alien blend of fineness and strength in his face and body. She had only encountered a handful of men, all of them traders, and the thing she remembered most vividly about them was their beards. The elf looked as though he could not have grown a beard even if he had wanted to. But the agelessness of his face was still stranger than his lack of a beard. He sat still and silent, as though he were carved from stone, his expression dispassionate yet alert. And yet there was ever something hidden in his face, some depth of feeling and memory that both thrilled and frightened her.
She could not forget how quickly he had recovered from near-death; her heart was beating fast almost as if she were afraid. And yet he was chained and weapon-less; there was nothing to be afraid of.
His eyes did not stray from hers all the time she studied him. An intense feeling of foolishness spread through her. Setting her face grimly she put her lantern on the ground and straightened up again.
'Where do you come from?'
He took some time to answer, as though considering how much to tell her. 'From Eriador; a realm many leagues to the north-west.' His foreign tongue mispronounced the words, but they were clear enough.
'North of Gondor?'
It was the only name of a realm north of Harad that she knew.
'Yes. Are you a priestess here?'
'Yes.' Her eyes narrowed. 'Why did you come to this place?'
He said nothing. She could feel her face heating and was about to snap at him when he spoke. His voice, though low from disuse, was clear and melodious. 'I did not know it was here. I would never have found it had I not been lost, and in great need of water.'
'You're lying.'
His voice was calm. 'Why would I lie to you?'
'You think I'll set you free, but I won't. No matter whether you intended to come here or not, you can never leave these tombs, now that you have entered them.'
He lowered his eyes, and she felt a flash of satisfaction. Then he spoke. 'How did your people come to possess such a jewel?'
'It is not your place to ask questions.' Behind her cold voice, she seethed with insulted pride. His question had implied that the priestesses were thieves – when in truth there was no thief but him.
His eyebrow rose very slightly. Then he bowed his head. Despite the submissiveness of the gesture, he remained apart from her, as though her words could not reach him.
She felt an urge to shatter his indifference. 'Why are you here? Why have you left your green lands?'
He hesitated, almost as though he had not heard her question. 'I sought to wander, but did not heed where I went.'
'I thought Elves were supposed to be wise. Only a fool would wander without direction.'
'Perhaps.' His face was calm, but beneath it she glimpsed a deep sorrow. None of her taunts could disturb it; it was hidden from her.
A silence drew out. She had brought water with her, which she now placed before him. 'Drink, if you like.'
'You have my thanks, but I am not thirsty.'
She struggled to hide her unease at this reminder of his unnatural endurance. She drew herself taller, staring him down. 'You looked at the jewel as though you had seen its like before – but that cannot be. I know Elves are long-lived,' she went on fiercely, lest he thought her ignorant, 'yet it has been almost six thousand years since the War of the Jewels was fought.'
For a long moment he looked at her, as though he did not see her before him at all. Then he smiled quietly, saying nothing; no words were needed. Her blood turned to ice: how could anyone have lived so long? It was incomprehensible.
He was looking at her as though he could see every one of her thoughts, and understood.
Her face grew hot. She searched for something to say, something that would assert her power over him.
'You did not expect to see the jewel; or so you claim. Does it not amaze you that we have managed to keep it secret for thousands of years? With your death here it will remain a secret until the world is no more. No doubt you believe the jewel is yours. But you and your kind lost all right to it when you spilt the blood of kin over something god-given and pure.'
A shadow of grief passed over his face and an answering chill rose on her arms. She almost regretted her words: he must have lost kin himself in those wars.
At last he spoke. 'Perhaps it would have been better if your jewel and those before it had never been made.'
'Made? It was not made; it was given. The gods willed that it should be, and so it was. There was no making.' Her words were edged with scorn. 'You know not what you speak of.'
'I know even better than you, Priestess,' he said, his voice deepening.
'I don't believe you.' Her voice shook.
His tone softened. 'How can I expect you to? I am a stranger, a prisoner. Why should you believe me?'
His gentleness made all her earlier distrust flare up. 'Why indeed? Perhaps you hope to win my trust, so that I might give you the jewel myself. You think it belongs to your kind – but who has the right to guard it but us? We have protected it for nearly six thousand years, at the cost of only a handful of lives in all that time. If ever it were to leave this place, blood would be spilled anew, and war would break out. Even your kind – the wisest and fairest of all beings – have spilt kin-blood for its sake. That is why you can never leave – why it must never be known that this jewel still exists! Do you understand?'
His face had remained unreadable as he listened. Now he nodded silently.
She stammered, and unable to say anything more, she swept out of the cell, slamming the door's heavy bolt home so that the sound boomed down the passage. Let him think she wasn't coming back! Let him think he would die there. But in her mind she saw him watching her with that look that seemed to see all her deepest thoughts and fears. Hastily, she made the sign to avert evil and raced away through the darkness, heading back to the temple. As she passed through the Hall of the Dead a sudden yearning took hold of her. She had the phial – if she could only work its enchantment and see the jewel in all its glory just for a moment. She clenched her eyes shut and hurried past.