[piosenniel]

Orual’s post

The sun beat down on Dôranna Celebyavë's pale neck as she worked in the fields. She could feel the heat on her cheeks even in the shadow, and knew that she had burnt her skin again. She sighed, knowing that it would hurt terribly before the day was over. It had been many, many, many years since she had been captured, and she was no stranger to sunburn.

"A little slower and you'd be going backwards," the overseer shouted, his harsh voice ringing in her ears. The whip cracked over her back, and she stumbled, but did not fall. The overseer grunted. "Keep working, and go faster or you'll feel it harder."
Dôranna made no sound, but quickened her pace. She did not want to please the overseer, but she also did not want to be beaten again. She simply heaved a great, though silent, sigh, and kept working.

She fingered a fine silver chain on her neck, that her fiancé had given her. It, and a dagger, were all that she had left to remember him by. She sobbed at night over him, wishing to use his gift to end her life, but knowing that he would not want her to. Even in this life of servitude, she had some hope of seeing him again. In the Halls of Mandos, she had little.

"Melda," she murmured, beloved. Someday she would see him again.

"Enough talking!" the new overseer shrilled. Dôranna quieted.

She returned to her quarters that night, her back striped from lashes, her face and neck crimson with sunburn, and her body filthy with sweat and dust. It had been a terrible day, much like every other day lately. Her limbs were weak and her back felt like she had a thousand pounds strapped to it, and after her initial resistance she had fallen many times. Her knees were aching from the falls, and her hands were cut and bleeding from catching herself. She went onto her sleeping pallet and picked up the journal that she kept, with nothing but the day in it so as not to incur the wrath of her captors. Her ice-blue eyes filled with tears as she saw the date. "Melda," she cried, her voice tight with grief. Some Easterling yelled for her to be quiet, but her sobs continued. He came in and beat her, but still she wept. When they had become nearly silent, he left, shouting a warning behind him.

It was the anniversary of what should have been her marriage to her Melda, and she wept. She would find him again, she swore, she would find him and on this day, some year soon, she would marry him as she had promised.

She would escape.

As soon as she thought that she laughed derisively at herself. She thought that every year on this day. And on the day she had met her fiancé, on her birthday, on Midsummer's when she had been engaged. All of these dates meant something to her, and she always thought of freedom when they came. Freedom would come no more this anniversary than it did on any other that she had passed here.

"...but what do you think our chances for escaping the Hunt are?" asked one of the girls who shared Dôranna's room in a hushed voice.

There was a silence, and Dôranna was perfectly still. She never participated in the conversations of her roommates. "I heard tell that they're looking at Dôra."
"Not Dôranna!" the first gasped, then chittering resumed. But Dôranna had stopped listening, stopped breathing.

The Hunt? Why would she be chosen for the Hunt? Had she been performing that poorly? Hot tears ran down her cheeks. It was only a rumor, she told herself. And the girls were never very reliable. They heard things fifth, sixth hand. Not a one had any access to an Easterling who made that sort of decision. These girls were fieldhands like Dôranna herself, not house servants.

But on the other hand, if she was quick enough, maybe she could use the Hunt to escape...

She pushed the thought out of her mind, and tried to sleep. The Hunt would come later. And if she was chosen, then she would have to be rested. "Melda," she murmured once again, then fell into a restless, troubled sleep.