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Crossed Paths
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When Mírian awoke she found she was slung over the back of a pony as it trotted along, relieved of her cloak and her weapons, with her wrists and ankles bound aching tight. Her only comfort was that thanks to the high collar of her dress the little treasure hanging from her neck had not been discovered. The going was supremely uncomfortable as her ribs and stomach and hips jumbled and bounced and hit against the saddle. She dared not lift her head, lest she be made to run at their desired speed, which she had little hope of matching, as the poor beast to which she was strapped could barely manage it even with constant whips at his legs. And so she traveled in this way for many hours running into days. But the Orc band went very fast, and though it did not feel so at the time, it was not long until they reached the safety of their conquered territory beyond the mountains.
In a clearing low on the northward slopes of the foothills overlooking the lowland forests of Dorthonion, the Orc company at last settled down. But as soon as Mírian was pulled off the animal and set on the ground, her gratitude for the halt turned to dread. For she saw that they had another prisoner who was now bound tight to a large dead old tree, enduring such torments with stones and hot sticks, and darts and short knives and arrows shot just so as to inflict hurt but not maiming and death. Mírian turned away, clasping at her mouth in horror.
"Aw, don't worry then," one of the orcs standing nearby grumbled at her, "we've saved some of the fun for you, too!"
Then she was brought forth as well. Mírian squirmed and struggled, but her bearers with their arms of fantastic strength just laughed. Quickly they strung her up by her wrist binding to a low bough of the tree to which the other captive was already bound.
"Careful with those two," growled the scratchy low voice of the captain. "Master'll wanna have his own go at 'em. Keep 'em both alive and in runnin' condition. But we can ease our speed a bit now, so both prisoners can enjoy the fun of settin' pace for us the rest of the way."
At that his grunts gave a good giggle, and with these orders of restraint the captors carried on with their evil treatment of the prisoners. Flashing a large knife up to her face they tried to question their maiden captive, asking from where she had come and to whom she was kin, assuring that the Master would soon discover all she knew without difficulty and would set curse to her in punishment for withholding the answers. Then Mírian was in quite a fright, fearing that from the depths of her mind Morgoth himself or one of his powerful servants would wrest the location of her brother and foster family. 'I must escape or die first,' she thought hopelessly to herself.
They asked if she knew the man they had tied to the tree. At first she was afraid, ready to fend for herself with the truth that she did not know him. But looking over she saw his suffering as he looked back at her, his fair face and fierce bright eyes reminding her much of Tuor, and for half a moment despite his dark hair she thought she looked upon her brother indeed. Her breath slowed as the pride of her house kindled the courage where it slept in her heart. Seeing her chance she turned on her interrogators, thinking perhaps she might bring on a swift death to spare herself from the ordeal to which they promised to bear her. Her eyes flashed at them, and she spat at the one standing closest to her. "Maybe I know him and maybe not," she hissed, "but I cannot see how it is any business of yours!"
The man's eyes widened astonished at the reply. He stared at her, and fear gripped him, though not for himself. For he knew she would pay dearly for such defiance, and pay she did. Her captors laughed heartily at her response, but to her dismay the leader kept his head. "Surely you are of the folk Master hates most!" said one who seemed to have taken charge of the questioning, as he wiped his face. "You have courage, maiden, I'll grant that. But we have ways to school you mortal brats in such insolence."
And so they proceeded to inflict their punishment. By the pride of her house could she keep her lips sealed as she endured the lashes of their whips. But then after a while suddenly they stopped, and their hoots and howls of laughter quieted down. Mírian should have guessed she could not be so lucky that they were already finished, but just then she was merely glad for the moment of relief. But they were far from done, and the captain she had injured earlier now came forward, carrying a long thin chain which he had set in the fire and bespelled with evil enchantment.
"Here's a lesson I promise you'll never forget!" he barked out with a laugh, and his comrades promptly resumed their awful clamor of shouting and jeering. And he cast it to the back, and the limbs, feet, and hands, even round the neck, and the scars from these strikes she bore for the rest of her days. These the girl could no longer bear in silence.
At last the man cried out. "Enough!" But at that moment she swooned, and it was his turn again. Thus for many hours were the two given their punishments in turns, until their captors at last grew weary of their fun.
So it was that deep into the night the rescuers Beleg and Gwindor came across the wrenching scene of the two victims asleep after their gruesome torments. The Man they found bound the tree with many cuts and burns of his own, and knives in the trunk all about him and pierced through his clothes. As Beleg worked to cut him loose from the tree, Gwindor took in sight of the much smaller figure hanging by the hands close by. He thought at first that he looked on a young male, either Man or Elf maybe, for the hair fell roughly shorn well above the shoulders. But looking around he saw the tunic was very long, and his heart froze when upon the ground he spotted a long thick golden braid. Stepping around he beheld the unfortunate young maiden who had been caught up in the sad fate of the Man they pursued.
"Valahiru!" he exclaimed in a whisper.
At this the young lady stirred and wearily lifted her head to look up at him, and she wondered if one from among her ancestors had come to usher her to the halls of Mandos.
"Have I died, Galahir?" she said, so naming him for the light of the West that shone in his face and gleamed in his eyes.
The question pierced his heart, but he smiled. "Nay, lady!" he replied. "We both live yet. I am called Gwindor, and here is Beleg. We are here to help."
Beleg came up with his great black sword, and looked on her with deep pity, and wonder and curiosity, for she seemed at first to be one from among his people. He cut the ropes at her ankles and her wrists, and her legs collapsed beneath her. But he brought forth a small flask and bade her drink. Taking a sip Mírian knew it to be the tonic of the elves, for straight away the weight of horror and grief and weariness on her mind and heart and body was lessened. Then she found that she could stand, so she carried Beleg's weapons while the two elves carried the large and heavy man to a safer spot in the woods up the hillside. Beleg saw the mortal girl had nothing but her thin whip-shredded garments to protect her from the autumn chill in those cold northern mountains, so he set his cloak about her also.
Mírian and Gwindor stood back and watched as Beleg prepared to free the other prisoner of his bonds. But the wind picked up, and as the elf went to cut the rope at his ankles, not far away lightning struck down, and the man's foot was cut. An instant later the mighty archer of the Woodland Elves of Doriath was run through the neck and fallen to the ground. Gwindor collapsed in fear, cowering at the rage blazing on the man's face, and Mírian dropped the great bow and shrieked in terror, her scream drowned by the following thunder as it boomed.
Mírian scrambled over to see if there was any hope to treat her rescuer, but saw that his wound had been fatal, and the kill instant, and his spirit already departed. For half a moment she looked up horrified at the slayer. Then she calmed, understanding that his torments had put him in a perilous state, and she sat back on her knees and bowed her head in silence.
As the rains reached them Gwindor mastering himself went and asked the man to help bury the slain elf. But the man now stood motionless, in a trance cast by his own horror with himself. So the escaped thrall went over to the lady and urged her to come and take shelter with him. Mírian stirred from her moment of shock and mourning, and followed him to the cover of a grove of pines close by, where she sat gazing in grief at the scene of the mortal Man standing over his slain friend, still as statues frozen in time, there in the midst of the terrible storm. But as she sat there by her new companion Mírian was calmed by the light of the high elves which emanated from him, and suddenly was overcome again with weariness, and she fell against his shoulder and was asleep.
