[littlemanpoet]

Mabalar woke to a familiar scraping sound. Târik was placing his food and drink before him; the door to his cell was unlocked and open.

"How are you, my lord?" the young guard asked.

"My throat burns," he grated. "Otherwise, I am well." Mabalar coughed from the effort of speech, which was becoming rare in the last few days.

Târik held the jug of water for him. He took it in his hands and lifted it to his mouth; but the chains caught him up before he could reach his mouth. An exasperated sigh escaped his lips.

"Allow me," said the guard, taking it from his hands and raising it to his lips. Mabalar drank.

"My thanks. How is my steed?"

"Well cared for. You may be prisoner, but your horse is treated like royalty."

Mabalar nodded, satisfied and not altogether surprised. "Tell me of Tar Miriel."

Târik looked over his shoulder. "Not now, my lord, others are near. I must go." The young guard was soon gone and Mabalar was again alone. He ate the meager food he had been given. At least it was not crawling with vermin. He had heard stories about the dungeons of Sauron; and maybe they were true; it seemed that Miriel must have something to do with his fare. So be it. He thought of Kâthaanî and Inzillomi, and wondered how they fared.