[Ealasaide]

Kaldir

Kaldir had fallen asleep with his back braced against the trunk of a large oak, his sword drawn in his lap. The last thing he had seen was Benia beside the fire, combing out her glossy black hair, the firelight sparkling off her silver jewelry. But neither sword nor beauty had proven able to protect him. Sleep had come upon him suddenly, dragging him down like an undertow into the nightmare realm. The corners of his mouth twitched downward as the torment began anew. The orcs closed in upon him with their whips and cudgels raised, yellow fangs flashing as they laughed at his pain. They had dragged him from where he had fallen at Raven Falls all the way to Mordor, a living spoil of war for the Master. He was not to be slain, but they could toy with him as much as they wished. And toy with him, they did. As he twisted in raw agony, their raucous laughter grew only louder. They were hungry. They wanted man flesh, but this one was not to be eaten, so they drank his Numenorean blood. Never enough to deplete him. Only enough to weaken him. If this one died, they would discover for themselves the true meaning of agony. The Master promised it. So they kept him alive.

In Mordor, the orcs were joined by Men, slant-eyed southerners with more than a trace of orc in their lineages. They came bearing fire and ingenious, insidious devices that burned and tore at his body. Even the orcs ceased their laughter when these ghouls appeared to drag him away from the back-breaking labor of the slave dungeons to wreak their horrible will upon his flesh. Kaldir’s body twitched against the oak as he relived the blow that destroyed his face. The reek of black smoke and his own burning flesh filled his nostrils. By reflex, his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. But the worst was yet to come.

Naiore. The first time he saw her, he had thought her a dream or a hallucination. His wrists were shackled behind him, and the shackles looped over an iron hook that dangled from the ceiling by a heavy chain. He had been left to hang in the smoky darkness of the torture chamber, shirtless, with his bare feet suspended nearly eighteen inches above the ground, his shoulders slowly dislocating from the weight of his own body. Blood dripped from his ears and eyes. By that time, he scarcely spoke. She came through the door like a vision, her elven beauty so serene and unreal, clad in a gown of the finest silk, her golden hair glowing in the hellish torchlight. She walked over to him and laid an icy hand against his face.

"Is this the one?" she asked.

"Yes," a voice answered behind her. "He resists us with a strength we’ve never encountered."

A cold smile curled on her lips. "He is a man of Westernesse, is he not?"

"He is."

She laughed melodically, and, with a touch that was almost a caress, pushed the dark hair back from his face. "Hello, Dúnedan," she purred, looking into his eyes. "Are you acquainted with pain? Perhaps you can tell me where fear dwells..."

"YOU KNOW, DO YOU NOT? HAVE YOU NO ANSWER FOR ME? PERHAPS YOU WILL TELL ME FOR WHOM YOU WORK. WHO SENT YOU? DO NOT ATTEMPT TO LIE, DÚNEDAN. I WILL KNOW." Kaldir jolted awake, the sound of her voice ringing in his ears, her icy touch lingering against the shattered bones of his face. Leaping to his feet, he raised his sword and spun twice, searching for the owner of the voice, the hand, but the only image to meet his eyes was that of Mrs. Banks, huddled by the fire, clutching a tin cup between her hands and watching him with wide-eyed confusion. Kaldir lowered his sword and turned once more, searching the darkness and surrounding trees for a glimpse of the Ravener. Seeing nothing, he finally sheathed his sword and moved in the direction of the startled hobbit lady.

He was still slightly disoriented. It had all felt so real.

"What is it?" whispered Gilly. "Is everything all right? Should I wake Miss Benia?"

Shifting slowly into the present, Kaldir shook his head. He could now see the slender shape of Miss Nightshade curled in a blanket just to the far side of the hobbit. With her cheek pillowed on her arm, she was sleeping soundly.

"No," he said, at last finding his voice. "It was nothing. A dream."

Gilly bent and put her cup aside. "Well, that’s relief. I must say you gave me a start, leaping up the way you did when it had been so quiet all evening."

"My apologies, Mrs. Banks."

"Perhaps you’d feel better if you had a bite to eat and a spot of tea. Miss Benia’s brought along the most wonderful black tea," Gilly continued, retrieving a pot from the orange embers of the fire. "The stew's a touch salty, but not having the right herbs, I’m afraid there wasn’t much I could do about that, but it’s thick and warm and would do a body good. Will you have a bowl, Mr. Kaldir?"

Absently, Kaldir nodded, his mind still trying to bridge the gap between past and present, dreams and reality. "Have I slept long?" he asked. When he initially sat down, he had only intended to doze for an hour or so, but the position of the moon above the trees told him he had slept much longer.

Gilly handed him the pot containing the remains of the stew. "I’d say we’re well into the third watch by now, Mr. Kaldir."

He nodded. "Again my apologies, Mrs. Banks. I had no intention of sleeping so long."

Gilly shrugged good-naturedly and followed the stew pot into his hands with a steaming mug of tea. "Really, I don’t mind. Like I said, it’s been very quiet and I’ve had a lot on my mind. I hope you don't mind I told Miss Benia to go on to sleep."

Distracted, he put the stew pot aside and took a sip of Benia's strong black tea. Without thinking, he raised his free hand and touched the scarred side of his face. A chill still lingered where Naiore's hand had lain. Her presence had been so real, her voice so clear. And near. Instinctively, he scanned the surrounding darkness yet again.

"Mr. Kaldir?"

Slowly, he turned and looked at Gilly. Still with one foot in the nightmare realm, he saw her with startling lucidity, the kindness inherent in her dark brown eyes, the silvery whisps of gray that shimmered in her light brown hair. But, on the ground beside her, a new edge gleamed on her little knife. He bent down and picked it up.

She watched him nervously as he turned the knife between his hands.

"Tell me, Mrs. Banks," he said at last. "How is it that a hobbit of the Shire would have such a close friendship with a woman of Harad?"