Note: Initially submitted to Teitho: Crossroads, September 2009. Second Place.

Pale-Faced Tark

The sun is high, a white inferno in the colourless vault of the sky. The God of Death surveys his realm; distant, merciless. He is the Lord of Harad, worshiped now only in secret. Still he rules our land. He gives life to the river-valleys, to nourish the crops that feed us all, vale farmers and desert-dwellers alike. Here, in the empty wastelands where no crops grow, he gives only death: death to those who defy him. He gives death to those too foolish to flee before him. He gives death to those too proud to hide from his pale face. He gives death to those deprived of that choice.

I sit in the shade of my hut on the edge of the village, as I have sat every afternoon for many years, and I weave my baskets. My hands are hard and calloused, thick with ropey muscle though the rest of my body has wasted away into the brittle sticks of old age. My left eye is all but blind, glazed with thick cataracts – a gift from the God of Death. My right eye is as sharp as it ever has been, but I do not need its clear vision for my task: my fingers know the work, and I do not even need to watch them weave the reed wands in and out, in and out. I am free to observe the world as I labour, and no one takes notice of me. I am a part of the landscape to them; as much a part of the desert as the broad flat stones or the wild scrub-bushes that are the only living things that thrive beneath the searing caress of our fiery master.

As always, I watch the cross-roads. The south road and the west road meet here, and long ago, in a time that even I cannot remember, this meeting of the ways gave birth to the village. First a well was dug, for the use of the travellers who walk this road. Then it became a place for the itinerant traders to camp and to haggle with one another. Soon it was a market, a gathering-place of the desert people, where they might exchange their poor goods for the necessities that their sandy home could not provide. One day, a trader grew weary of wandering. He built a house out of mud and clay. Many more houses were built. Intermarriage between families occurred. So the village was born.

Some days, no one comes down either of the lonely roads. We do not roam so far from our homes now, in these dark days. Our young men are taken, carried off to serve the Eye. Some say the Eye is the God of Death himself, come down to earth to devour our people. Some say the Eye is a mighty king, who will lead us to war and conquer the pale-faces. Some say there is no Eye at all, but that our sons will never return from the northern savannah where the great beasts graze. I do not know. I do not care. I am old and my sons are dead, slain by the pale-faces in the land of promise beside the Sea. I care for nothing any longer, save my baskets and the daily watching of the cross-roads.

There are days when the camels come, laden with spices or produce, or bearing young brides to distant towns where they will be given in marriage in exchange for many riches. Only the wealthy can afford to risk bandits and the rebels, to dare the roads with costly camels. More often I see a ragged family come over the horizon, emaciated donkeys frothing in the heat, naked children toddling along as best they can. A thin, ill-tempered wife or two, bony bodies wrapped in tattered veils. They always seek the same thing: water. In the desert water is dearer than gold; dearer than gems; dearer than blood.

The stranger at the cross-roads today would smite off his right arm for water, I know as I watch him. If I went to him, a skin in one hand and my old rusty saif in the other, he would take the sword and maim himself in exchange for the skin. There are many who would make that offer; there are many who have cause to hate him. This, too, is plain to see.

Some of those with such cause have left him here, bound to the pillory where the south road meets the west. I know the ones who have done it: rich merchants of the village, the nearest thing we have to leaders. He was taken yesterday, as he roamed the streets in the last hours of evening, begging from hut to hut for a little work, any work, that he might do for a measure of meal or a dish of rice. I watched him then as I watch him now, as I sat in my doorway soaking my reeds. His robe was cheap and dirty, but new: the hem had not yet been worn ragged, nor were the ill-made seams splitting. As the sun sank low and the night grew cool, he removed the scarf from his head, and his long dark hair fell about his shoulders. That was his mistake.

My people are not a heartless people. We are generous to the poor, and kind to the weak. Those who have much share with those who have little, and even those who have little share with those who have nothing, and no one would deny man or beast the use of the village well. But for this stranger, it was different. It did not matter that he looked weary from his days in the desert. It did not matter that he was obviously poor and desperate. It did not matter that his thin face and hollow cheeks spoke of long deprivation. No one would give food or work to such a one as he, with his pale face and his pale eyes and his pale teeth that bore none of the scars of our potent black drinks and our strongly-spiced food. When he removed his headscarf it was plain to all what he was. A pale-face. An enemy. A tark.

They set upon him three doors down from mine: five strong men in their middle-years. I watched, many watched, as they overpowered him and pinned him to the hard-packed earth. Angry voices demanded explanations: a name, his purpose, his place of origin. Moments ago the stranger had spoken in our tongue; strangely accented, perhaps, but fluent. Now as if he could not understand their words, he made no answer as they questioned him. He made no answer as they struck him. He made no answer as the rich men decided his fate.

Now he kneels at the cross-roads, his ankles bound together with coarse rope. His hands are bound too, before him. That is a small kindness: he can raise them up to shield his face, he can even crawl a short distance on the cracked earth. But not too far. A cord affixed to his melded wrists is looped and knotted around the ring of the punishing-post. He has been there, bound to our simple pillory, since yesterday evening. A short time, so it seems to me. It does not seem that way to him.

They stripped him of his robe before binding him, and tore away the strange garments he wore beneath. When he was clad only in the linen that wrapped his loins, they paused for debate. In the end, the last grimy garment remained, out of deference to the decency of the village women and the young girls whose innocence should not be besmirched even to punish a tark.

Naked through the cool desert night, he must have shivered, trying to draw his legs to his chest to retain his body's meagre heat. When dawn came and the God of Death rose, he had huddled there, miserable in the mounting heat while the sweat poured down his chest and his back and his pale, pale face.

Now his perspiration is spent. His body has no moisture left to spare. The pale skin is red already, baking in the sun in the heat of the day. By dusk he will be blistering and raw. His skin will slough off, leaving bare, weeping sores. Perhaps he will die: the sun-sickness is cruel. The God of Death has no mercy.

Only his pale face remains, sheltered from the sun by the curtain of straggled hair. His head is bowed, and his breathing is laboured. Through the greasy locks I can see his mouth. It hangs open as if he lacks the strength to close it. The lips are cracked, blood oozing sluggishly from deep fissures in the tissue. His tongue, dry and swollen, spills out against his pale white teeth. He was already thirsty when he reached our village, his water-skin twisted on his hip, wrung dry in an attempt to harvest the last drops of life-giving fluid. Now that thirst is beyond bearing, and the heat bakes away his body's last reserves.

He knows the torment of the God of Death.

When night falls they will set him free. Perhaps they will return his robe to him. Perhaps not. The tark must be made to understand that his kind are not welcome here. Spies of the North, enemies of our people. I think of the tales that came out of the west last winter: tales of fall of the Shipyards in the city of the loyal pale-faces who serve the Eye. Ships came by night, bringing fire and the sword. Many were slain. My sons, who many years ago went with their wives and their children to seek a better life in the fertile lands, were slain. The tark captain was a tall man, they say, with hair like the night and eyes that burned with the wrath of the God of Death. I close my eyes and imagine him, a pale-faced demon clad in black mail, his eyes twin orbs of shining white.

How different is that vision of destruction from the shrunken figure before me. His eyes, the pale colour of raw silver, are glazed and deadened with misery. They hold no fire, and the flesh around them is swollen and puffy from the heat. There are black bruises on his ribs from the beating, and a wound beneath his ear is dark with dried blood. In the morning, the small children gathered to mock and prod the helpless prisoner. Some threw offal, some threw small rocks. One little warrior, no more than four years old, hit his mark with more force than the others, and his stone is remembered on the tark's sun-scorched neck. He is a pitiful figure, bare and helpless beneath the burning eye of our god. He is no threat to anyone.

I hear voices, coming down through the village. High, eager voices raised in mirth. The young boys are coming to see the pale-face.

They are seven and eight and nine years old: too young to be stolen away into the armies, too old to lie down to sleep in the middle of the day like the babes and the women and the other old men. They are filled with vigour and they bore quickly. They do not fear the God of Death; not yet. He is their ally today. He is their partner in jollity.

One of the children carries an earthenware urn. As they pass me, his steps sway a little, and a dram of water sloshes over the rim, landing among bare brown feet. I nod grimly to myself. I know what they are doing. They have done it before.

They gather around the bowed figure, kneeling in the dirt. One of them asks, laughing, if the man is thirsty. He does not answer. He is not so far gone, perhaps, that he forgets the wanton thoughtlessness of children. He keeps his eyes upon his bound hands as the chant is taken up. Pale-face is thirsty. Pale-face is thirsty. Pale-face, pale-face. Pale-face is thirsty.

They pour a little water onto the road. It sings as it falls, splashing in the dust. The man's eyes dart briefly towards it, and he watches as the dry earth drinks it in.

The boys are disappointed. They had hoped for some more dramatic reaction. Again they spill the crystal fluid, nearer now to the captive. The man understands. He knows they will not give him water. His head bows a little lower, and now he shrouds his sore eyes against the next sparkling torrent to fall wasted upon the ground.

Frustrated by his lack of response, the boys jab at him with their feet, shouting derisive words that it would shame their mothers to hear. One lad dips his hand into the urn and flicks his fingers so that the drops fall on the reddened abdomen of the pale-face.

At last he moves. The feeling of water on his desiccated skin is more than even his stoicism can bear. Fingers made clumsy by the tight bonds scrabble at the droplets, chaffing away the dying skin. Desperately, afraid that he moves too slowly, the man thrusts his filthy fingers into his mouth, sucking noisily upon them. The sound is dry, fruitless. He garners no relief from his frantic action.

The boys roar with laughter, cheering and jeering. The young are cruel. They cannot understand his pain. They cannot imagine his suffering. All that they see is a pale-faced tark, bound and helpless, humiliating himself for their amusement like a tumbler on market-day.

They pour water on his back. The soft, keening sound that rips from his parched mouth speaks of two-fold torment. The agony of the cold fluid on his burns seers through every nerve in his body and robs him of coherent thought. It is simple pain: natural and even cathartic. It will also cool him and guard his life a little longer from the God of Death. But the primal knowledge of the water washing over him, pure and chilling, when he cannot slake his thirst nor even damp his lips... that is torture.

The urn is empty now. The game is over. A few attempts to elicit a reaction through pain fail. The pale-face is beyond pain. He knows only thirst, and the hatred of the God of Death. The children grow bored, and one by one they disperse. The last to go spits disdainfully upon the tark. I recognize him. His older brother died in the west when the Shipyards burned.

We are alone now, the pale-face and I. His breath is laboured. Sounds issue forth from his mouth, opening fresh canyons in his lips. His tongue bleeds. I do not understand the words, but I am old enough to know the tone in which they are uttered. Such things are forbidden here, since the coming of the Eye, but the wretched man is praying.

Perhaps he knows, after all, that it is the God of Death who causes his pain. Perhaps he thinks that he can obtain mercy by offering supplications. I am envious of him. I covet his courage. Fifty times the rains have come and gone since last I raised my voice in prayer, since last I called out to the God of Death in praise or plea. My tongue is silenced by my fear, by the fear of death upon the swords of the ogres of the Eye, the misshapen creatures who collect our youth and who have taught us their ugly words. Tark. It is a very ugly word.

The pale-face falls silent. I wonder if he has abandoned his last hope for mercy, or whether his thirsting throat cannot continue. He stares at his hands, head bowed low. He stares.

His eyes are no longer misted with desolation. There is fire in them now. They glint like true-silver in the sunlight. His prayer has not brought release from his bonds; it has not brought him water. It has brought him hope, and strength, and the will to endure. I know now that he will not be found dead at sunset. I know now that the burns will not slay him, either. He will survive. Somehow, he has made up his mind to survive.

I cannot remain here, watching his suffering. I lay aside my half-finished basket. It will wait until another day. I pick up my walking-stick and climb painfully to my feet, old bones protesting angrily. I stoop and gather up my drinking-gourd, still half-full. Unlike the young boys I understand the value of water. I do not take it for granted simply because our well has never run dry. I move to hobble around the house. I look back at the pale-face, kneeling in the dust at the cross-roads.

Before I realize what I am doing my shadow has eclipsed the God of Death. The man does not move, but his naked back tenses. I squat on rickety, fleshless hams. I hold out my gourd.

'Drink,' I say. I know that he speaks our language.

His whole body contracts. His head snaps up. Grey eyes, pale eyes, stare into my dark ones. They are made enormous by astonishment, by wonder, by hope. Yet his hands hesitate. He is unsure whether he can trust me. I might snatch the gourd away, or dash it from his lips. I thrust it further forward.

'Drink,' I repeat.

Swollen fingers manage to clasp the bowl of the gourd. He cannot lift his arms so high without tearing the blistering skin over his elbows, so he lowers his lips to the vessel. Clumsily he slurps up a mouthful of the life-giving fluid. He waits, though I can feel his fear, his knowledge of the danger of delay. In this moment of hesitation I might easily take the water from him, but if he drinks too swiftly he knows that he will sour his stomach and retch up the fluid. I smile to myself. He is not as stupid as most pale-faces.

I do not take the gourd. He drinks again. This time he empties the vessel, his bloated tongue searching greedily for the last priceless drops. His hands fall away, and I catch up my gourd before it can roll into the dust. For a little while, at least, he has been given a reprieve from torment, but I know it will return long before the sun sinks below the western sands. I am a coward. I am leaving him here to suffer. I cannot cut his bonds. I cannot defy the wishes of the leaders of the village. But I have defied the sun. Like him, I have defied the God of Death. I have given him water. At least I have done that.

I haul my old bones back up, clutching my staff with shaking hands. I am old. I am weary. The sun is too hot. As I trundle away from the cross-roads, a voice gives me pause. It is the voice of the pale-face, no longer taut with thirst. He speaks, and his words are hoarse and strangely accented, but fair and clear. He honours me by speaking in my own language.

'Thank you.'

Note: Part II was not submitted to Teitho. It was written as a companion piece to "Pale-Faced Tark" before the latter was edited for the contest. At the time it struck me as cruel to leave Aragorn in that predicament without some kind of closure. The second part is presented herein for the benefit of any who might feel the same way. Many thanks to Mirach, who convinced me this was necessary!

Appendix: The Price of a Life

The sun slipped lower, sinking slowly behind the village. The heat was still unbearable, but as he sat huddled against the pillory-post, Thorongil began to shiver. His thoughts were muddled and he could scarcely feel the pain of his burns. Fever was setting in.

How many hours had he languished here, helpless beneath the merciless sun? How many hours since he had taken the old man's water? How much more could his body endure?

He had only to wait for sunset. The man in the fine russet robes had decreed that he would sit here until nightfall, overriding the more temperate sentence of his blue-clad countryman, who advocated that he sit until noon. The other men, the rich men, filled with hatred of those of the race of Númenor, had quickly taken their lead from their well-spoken compatriot. Evening to nightfall... almost a whole day trussed up like an animal, wilting beneath the cruel desert sun. His heart grew cold within him. For one less resilient such a punishment might have been a death sentence. Without the dipperful of water and the sluicing that the boys had given him, the sun might have claimed even his life. He forced his eyes open against the swelling tissues of his face, and studied his lengthening shadow. An hour, maybe less. He could cling to hope a little longer.

This sun, this heartless southern sun... how could he reconcile the loving Sun that brought prosperity and sweet summer days to his home in the North with this fiery demon that robbed him of breath and offered only pain and misery? He knew it must be the same sun, for he had walked from Ithilien through Harondor and into these distant lands beneath its ever-mounting glare, and yet his bewildered mind could not accept the sameness. In this land they worshiped the Sun in awe and terror. The God of Death, the people called her. Now he understood why.

Footsteps. His pulse quickened. It was not yet sundown: they were not coming to free him. What fresh torment did they have in store? He dared not hope that it might be the kind old man, returning with water. He braced himself, attempting to rally his wits in anticipation of further mistreatment.

Someone seized the bonds about his wrists and began to fumble with them. Thorongil once more forced his sore eyes open, and a thrill of misery washed over him. It was the man in russet robes, his chiselled face unreadable and his eyes cold with loathing and disdain. He was untying the bonds – not cutting them, as an Elda or a Dúnadan or even an orc would have, but carefully working the knots free. Of course, Thorongil thought. It was logical: rope was made from plant fibre, and such plants needed water to grow. The intrinsic value of rope, like the intrinsic value of anything that needed water in its growth or making, was higher here where water was scarce. Perfectly good lengths of rope could not be wasted, even if it meant close contact with a reviled enemy. He wondered how many others had been bound with the cords now twisted about his limbs. Petty criminals, adulterers, maudlin drunks... perhaps there had even been others like him, guilty of no crime but the pallor of their skin.

Yet Thorongil knew that his own case was not so simple. Though to the eyes of the villagers he was nothing more than a begging tark, in truth he was something else entirely. He was not a blameless innocent persecuted for his appearance: he was a war criminal, though they knew it not. He had heard people speak, in the towns and villages far behind, of the sacking of Umbar. Many of the folk of this region had gravitated there, in search of a better life in the green spaces by the Sea. Many had found menial work in the shipyards or upon the vessels of the Corsairs – unskilled labourers, oarsmen, household servants. Many had been slain in the raiding of the Havens. Many more had died in the resulting fires. Many folk in this land had lost friends or loved ones to the pale-faces, in an assault that he had proposed and co-ordinated and led. He had not thought of the innocent when he had planned his venture. It had not occurred to him that there might be blameless folk dwelling in a fastness of the Enemy: simple, unhappy folk who had fled from a land oppressed by Sauron's minions, only to find another place equally under the influence of the Eye. He understood now their desperation, their fear and their pain. This was a land enslaved by darkness, and there were good people who dwelt here, groaning beneath the yoke of the Shadow.

The man released the last knot, and Thorongil's hands were free. He tried to wiggle his bloated fingers, and they began to tingle painfully as blood returned. The man in the russet robes was behind him now, working upon the cord that bound his feet. Alarmed by the knowledge that there was an enemy at his back, Thorongil tried to focus his attention on his hands, on rubbing his sore wrists. He swiftly stopped as the skin began to peel away beneath his clumsy fingers. He stared in horror as pale ichor oozed from the denuded flesh. Panic gripped him. He was covered in such burns. How would he be able to don his garments? How would he be able to move, to walk? They would not tolerate his presence much longer: how would he escape this place?

The last rope was withdrawn. The rich man strode away, back into the village. Thorongil remained, kneeling next to the pillory and trying to master himself. He was friendless and alone, all but naked in the gathering night, shivering with fever and desperate for water. His chest heaved violently and he had to force himself to breathe. He had to calm himself. He had to think rationally.

Rational thought was impossible. His head was pounding mercilessly, and the terrible, searing anguish in his throat blotted out all other concerns. He needed water! A cracking sob broke free from his fissured lips. Did they not understand that he needed water?

There was a well, in the village square. There was a well. He had seen it yestereve when he had come to this unhappy place. He had longed to draw water even then; cool, renewing water to bathe the dust from his face and banish the sands from his mouth. But his hunger had been more overpowering than his thirst, and he had tried to obtain food first. He hated himself for that weakness now. All this had happened because he had lacked the fortitude to bear for yet another day the gnawing of an empty belly. Now he did not know if he would ever eat again. All that he wanted was water, clean, cold, life-giving water.

Surely they could not deny him that. They did not wish to kill him, only to debase him and to make an example of him. Had they wanted to slay him, they would have done so already. Denying him water now would be nothing less than a decree of death, and that was not what they wanted, was it? Surely they would allow him to drink, if only he could reach the well...

If only he could reach the well.

He tried to stand, managing to lift one sun-scorched leg and to set his foot upon the ground, but as soon as he attempted to put pressure upon it, he gasped in agony. The soles of his feet were burned, red and glossy from long exposure to the unyielding light. His whole body quivered with horror. He could not walk! Even if he could find the strength, he could not walk. His head was swimming now, and black stars occluded his vision.

He needed water and he could not walk; therefore he must crawl. Slowly, painfully, he eased himself onto hands and knees. His shins were not badly burned, for he had been sitting upon them for most of the day. Still the stinging sand rasped against his dry skin as he dragged himself down the path that led past the house of the merciful old man. His arms quaked, and his hands trembled as he pulled his body forward, ranga by ranga, into the village.

At the sunset hour there were few folk about. It had been at this hour that he had come to the village yesterday – was it only yesterday? – hoping for a little food and an obliging wall against which he might set his back for the night, and for water, blessed water, to slake his thirst after long days of careful rationing in the desert. Most of the villagers were inside, eating their humble evening meal. There were few to see him, creeping through the dust like a wretched animal. Even had the streets been lined with onlookers, he would have been past caring. All that he cared for was to reach the well. He did not know how he would have the strength to stand, nor how his shaking arms could draw the water, but he knew, he knew that he had to reach the well.

It was so near now. Twenty feet... fifteen... ten. He looked up with the last shreds of hope, and felt them shrivel within him.

The man in the russet robes was standing between him and the ring of stones. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his dark eyes were fixed upon the tark in the dirt. Thorongil's arms gave way and he fell upon his stomach, grunting in pain as his blistered skin struck the ground. He tried to push himself up, but his hands could not hold his weight. He planted his forearms firmly against the earth and managed, somehow, to raise his head again. He stared up at the man, a desperate plea in his eyes.

Slowly, inexorably, the merchant shook his head from side to side.

Thorongil would have wept had he had any water for tears. How could they deny him this? Whatever he had done, however they had suffered, how could they deny him a mouthful of water? He knew the answer. He was less than human to them, his suffering easy to dismiss because his pale face branded him an enemy, an outsider, a tark. That the same brutal treatment might well have met a man of Harad in a small wayside town in Gondor filled him with sickening shame.

The hard-won determination that he would live, would survive to leave this hated wasteland far behind, began to slip away. Without water there was no hope. Without water there was only despair and a slow, agonizing death.

He cast about desperately, lest there might be some friendly face in this hostile country after all. There was no one. He was utterly alone.

He paused.

There, near the pillars where beasts of burden were bound while travellers drank, stood a stone trough. The ground about it had been pawed by many hooves and soiled by many animals. He could not see whether there was water in the trough, but his fevered eyes thought that they could glimpse a reflection upon the far side of the gutter: the last light of the day glinting off of fluid.

He glanced up at his tormentor, but the rich man stood, impassive, an inexorable barrier between Thorongil and the blessed relief of the well. If he saw what the pale-face intended, he gave no sign. Not knowing whether he would be denied even this, Thorongil forced his ravaged body to move. Minutes crawled by like hours, and his strength was failing him, but at last – at last! – he dragged himself over the last inches of filthy earth, and his fingers touched the hot stone side of the trough.

His hand crept up the side, as if the rest of his body could move no further without some promise of relief. Over the edge he reached, and felt only empty air. He pushed with one foot against the earth, drawing his body up so that his face was pressed against the stone. Further sank his arm. Nothing. Nothing.

Then he felt it with the very tip of his longest finger; a surface as smooth and impenetrable as glass. It was hot and hard and he choked on his despair, but as he tried to withdraw he pressed unwittingly against it, and it gave way beneath his fingertips.

Water.

The sound that tore from Thorongil's bleeding lips was harsh and inhuman. Caring nothing for dignity, he scrabbled with his legs and in a desperate surge of strength that he did not know he still possessed, he hauled himself up and lowered head and shoulders into the trough. His fingers clawed wretchedly at the water, trying to bring it to his lips. He succeeded only in splashing his face, and so he lowered himself further. Mouth and nose sank into the fluid, and he sucked at the water like a horse, like a dog. It was hot and stagnant, fouled by the spittle of donkey and ox, but it was water! Water! O, blessed water! He drank, gulping greedily at the unpleasant fluid, until at last he was obliged to raise his head and draw in a ragged breath.

For an instant there was hallowed relief, as if the healing hands of Estë herself had laved his brow and poured the mead of Valinor down his tortured throat. Then a dreadful realization struck him. In his desperation he had drunk too quickly. His stomach clenched and he retched, the priceless fluid burning its way back up and spilling from his mouth. He coughed and heaved and the edge of the trough bit painfully into his blistering chest. He slid backward, falling with a leaden thump upon the dirty ground. Anguish enveloped him and he knew no more.

lar

When he awoke, darkness was thick around him. He was shivering violently, his bare, wounded body ill-equipped to protect itself from the cold desert night. His thirst was a torment; his throat felt swollen closed for want of water. Yet his head was clearer than before. The chill of the evening had done something to mitigate the effects of the sun-sickness. The pain of the burns was terrible, but when he tried to raise his arm he found that he was able: some measure of strength had returned to him. Slowly, excruciatingly, he rolled onto his side and hauled himself once more over the edge of the trough. The water within was cooler now, for the night air had leeched away its heat. He cupped his hand and brought a little to his lips. Only a little this time, and his eyelids contracted in bliss. Though the water was sour and clouded with dust, it was all that he desired in the world.

With the next handful he bathed his aching eyes. A third cleared away some of the sand that choked his nostrils. He drank the fourth, slowly and cautiously. He splashed water on his burned forearms. He dribbled it down the back of his neck, where it stung the raw, oozing flesh. He drank again. Then he tried to draw up a handful to throw upon his breast, but he gathered only sludge. The trough was empty. What he had taken for an abundance of water, however dirty, had been no more than a puddle in the bottom of the trench.

He eased himself up and over the side, leaning against the stone. He was exhausted. He closed his eyes. His position seemed hopeless. He was ill and far from any aid. The three mouthfuls of water had assuaged his thirst a little, but he needed more, and soon. He had nothing with which to cover his blistered body, and he could not walk. When morning came and they discovered that he had not departed from the village, who could say what they would do to him?

But he was not ready to give up. He was no invalid. He was no pampered princeling, no stranger to hardship. He was a strong man, his lean body hard with muscle beneath the peeling skin. He had walked in many lands and served with honour the mightiest lords of Men. He had taken wounds that would have felled a lesser victim, and he had survived. A few days of enforced fasting and a case of sun-burn could not have robbed him of all of his strength. He was not going to die here, forgotten in the distant South. Somehow, he would marshal his energies. He would find water somewhere that was not forbidden to him. He would escape.

Such bravado was all very well, but more suited to the battlefield than to a situation like this. What he needed was clarity of thought and a little practicality. There had to be something, some small thing that he might turn to his advantage. He cast his eyes heavenward, towards the strange stars of this forgotten land. There was no Valacirca to inspire him, no North Star to guide him. Wilwaren could not be seen. But there was the moon: a fragile, waning sickle in the hostile sky. Its cool light brought some measure of comfort, and illuminated something on the ground near his feet.

Thorongil shifted carefully, dragging his body towards the mass. He reached out warily to touch it, and his fingers closed upon coarse, grubby cloth. Swiftly he sorted through the pile, taking stock of what had been left for him. Robe, headscarf, tunic, shirt, hose and boots: they had returned his clothing.

His empty water-skin was there also, but though he groped around he could not find his knife. Unarmed was as good as naked in such hostile lands, and Thorongil's stomach twisted with the first palpitations of panicked hysteria. He fought them back. At least now he could guard his body from the cold. It was the small thing for which he had been hoping a moment before.

He knew that he could not dress himself properly: he was too weak, and anyhow the heavy cloth of his own garments would stick to his burns and impede the healing. Instead he took the thin cotton robe and with much painful manoeuvring, managed to get it over his head. It settled about his waist, but the effort had tired him immensely. He slouched forward to ease the ache across his scorched back.

He could not walk tonight. Nor could he leave the village without replenishing his water-skin. His eyes found the shadowy mass of the well. It was unguarded now. It would be such a little thing to drag himself towards it, to work the pulley and haul up a bucket of water. Yet if he were caught, stealing water that had been forbidden him... The punishment for thieving was the same as that which he had just endured. Another day exposed to the merciless sun would kill him.

He needed to find shelter. He could make no claim upon the mercy of these people: that much was certain. He had no right to such mercy, and even if he had they would be loath to give it. He held them blameless in that, but his plight was a bitter one. Money might buy what pity could not, but he had no coin. His poor garments were worthless, and even if he had dared to part with his boots they were useless in such a climate as this, to feet unaccustomed to the confines of leather. He had nothing of value, not even his knife. Nothing of value...

Thorongil's hands trembled as he groped for his cote. The laces had been torn, and it was an easy thing to wrench the garment inside-out. His hands fumbled for the place where the left sleeve joined the body, clumsy fingers following the stitches – tiny ones made by an Elven tailor long ago, and larger, imperfect ones where he had modified the garment himself with a sailmaker's needle. He found it, the place where a hard mass was concealed in the heavy felled seam. His nails were cracked and ragged: useless for the task at hand. Instead he bent low and tore at the thread with his teeth. The linen fibres shredded and split, and he was able to pry the two pieces of wool apart. The article he sought came tumbling out, glinting in the moonlight as it landed in the sand.

Hastily he bundled up his clothing and his boots and the useless water-skin. These he tucked in the crook of one arm. He picked up the shimmering thing and curled his fist around it. With that hand and his knees for support, he began to crawl away from the trough, away from the well, up the path that led back to the cross-roads. His progress was slow, and he halted often to draw ragged breaths and to battle the rising thirst. At each hesitation he was forced to face what he was about to do; forced to contemplate the price of his life. Guilt like nausea washed over his body, and his blood ran cold, but it was a choice between this or death, and he knew that there was no choice.

He reached it at last: the one door that was less than hostile. He hated himself for this: that he would throw himself upon the one hand that had shown him kindness in this village, and cheapen mercy with a bribe. Yet here, too, he had no choice. Shame or death. He crept up the stoop and leaned against the post. With a shaking fist squeezed tight around cool metal, he knocked.

The door opened more swiftly than he would have expected. The bent figure looking down upon him held an earthenware lamp that illuminated a dark, wizened face and a shock of alarmingly white hair. The old man's eyes narrowed, but there was no surprise in them. Thorongil looked up, swollen eyes squinting in the light.

'Please,' he rasped, forcing out the alien syllables. 'Please, I need shelter. Two days. I beg you.'

The old man did not speak. He made no motion to close the door. He stood silent, looking down upon his unwanted caller.

'Please,' Thorongil repeated. Though he spoke the common tongue of Harad well, he knew only the rudiments of this local dialect. But his poor vocabulary was equal at least to this. 'Shelter and water. Two days. I will pay you. I will pay.'

He uncurled his fist, and his one treasure sparkled in the lamplight: silver and gold and brilliant, dancing green. 'My ring,' he breathed; 'my ring for shelter. Shelter and water. I beg you. Two days. Then I will be gone.'

The old man peered warily out into the night beyond the supplicant. Then he bent and plucked the ring from Thorongil's hand. The younger man flinched as a part of his soul was snatched away with it. He watched in desolation as the signet of his line was inspected carefully by the aged stranger. The twin serpents entwined. The crown of flowers. Green eyes glimmering, their stones cut in Valinor before the destruction of the Two Trees. For seven thousand years it had passed down the line of Elros, from father unto child, from mother unto son. Countless hands had worn it since first Finarfin's son tugged it from his finger; hands of lords and kings. It had traveled to the very seat of Morgoth, and survived the sack of Sirion, and sailed the Western Sea to dwell long in Númenor. It had passed into the keeping of the Faithful, and with the sinking of Atalantë it had been borne to Middle-earth upon the hand of Elendil himself. Into Mordor had it travelled, to be brought out once more, and it had come home from the massacre of the Gladden Fields unscathed, though all the hosts of Arnor fell. The failing line of kings had kept it, and even Arvedui had safeguarded it from harm ere he was lost in the waters of Forochel. Fifteen Chieftains had kept it through hardship and toil, and it had been given at last into the keeping of their descendant by the hand of Elrond Peredhil himself.

All of its lofty history had been distilled down to this. He, unworthy successor of the greatest heroes of Men, was casting it away for two paltry days of shade and succour. It was an ignominious end to a tale as long and enduring as any ever told.

Yet though it was dear, it was only a thing. Though he was unworthy to bear it, it was not worth more than his life. If he kept it and he perished, then his bloodline would perish with him. There would be no seventeenth Chieftain to inherit the Ring of Barahir, no Heir of Isildur to continue the ragged lineage. If he perished here, in this distant desert, no one would ever know where he lay, nor where the ring had been lost. He closed his eyes against his anguish and repeated his plea.

'Two days. For my ring.'

The old man grunted softly, and tossed the piece of jewellery carelessly onto the low table by the door. He bent and took hold of Thorongil's arm, tugging insistently. With an enormous effort, the exhausted man hauled his body over the threshold. The old man closed the door, barring it swiftly, and set the lamp down with care, next to the cast-off ring. He helped his unwanted guest to drag himself across the floor, and settled him on a woven mat in the far corner. Then with experienced hands he dragged the grimy robe from off the oozing body, tossing it after the bundle of abandoned garb. For a moment overcome with the pain of the burns, Thorongil hung his head and panted desperately into his chest.

The old man drew a gourd of water from a tall urn, and offered it to Thorongil. His hands were trembling too much to allow him to hold it, and some of the precious water spilled onto the packed earth of the floor. Dark hands took the vessel from him and held it to his lips. He drank cautiously, wary of inducing further illness. The old man dipped his fingers into the water and anointed the wanderer's fevered brow. Then he set aside the gourd and eased Thorongil back against a ragged cushion stuffed with some kind of dry grass.

Suddenly the last vestiges of strength ebbed from his limbs. As utter enervation surged up to claim him, Thorongil was dimly aware that his reluctant host had snuffed out the light.

lar

All the next day, while Thorongil shook with fever and struggled to stifle sobs of agony, the old man kept his distance. He crept near at times to help the stranger drink a little, but otherwise he sat on the far side of the room, watching with dark and inscrutable eyes while his hands wove his baskets. He made no move to offer comfort, but neither did he show any signs of open hostility. In his brief moments of lucidity, Thorongil could not fault his host's behaviour. After all, that was their contract: water and shelter in exchange for the ring.

When night fell and the little hut grew cool, Thorongil's shivering ebbed. The fever, he supposed, had broken, though the mat beneath him clung painfully to the weeping skin of his arms and his back. Desert nights were long, and the old man was sitting by the light of his lamp, still working noiselessly with the reeds. Thorongil lay still for a time, drifting in and out of consciousness, but at last he rolled onto his side and slowly, painfully, raised himself up. He sat upon the mat, perspiration dripping into his eyes.

Wordlessly, the old man laid aside his work and rose, leaning heavily upon his staff. He hobbled across the small room and held out the gourd of water. This time Thorongil's hands trembled less violently, and he managed to bring it to his own lips. With a curt nod of approval, the old man turned away, moving towards his fire beneath a hole in the mud roof. There was a cooking-pot hanging over the embers, though Thorongil could smell nothing from it. The old man took another gourd and filled it from the pot. He returned to his guest and offered the dish.

It was a colourless mush made of ground meal and pale beans. No spoon was offered, and so Thorongil dipped two fingers into the mixture, drawing up a little towards his mouth and licking it from his hand. It was tasteless and unsalted, as bland as the desert sands; yet it was sustenance, and he had made no provision in their agreement for food. This was a kindness, not a mercenary act. He looked up. 'Thank you,' he said softly.

The old man shrugged his shoulders and shuffled back to the fire, helping himself to the poor supper. Each ate in silence, but though he had not tasted food in many days, Thorongil found himself unable to finish the frugal helping of mush. Ashamed of his ingratitude he laid aside the gourd. The old man came to collect it, studying the contents. He clicked his tongue in the back of his throat and tipped a little water into the dish. Then he covered it with a scrap of cloth and returned it to Thorongil's side.

'Perhaps later,' he said simply. Then he picked up his stick and a small pot, and left the hut.

Thorongil's eyes strayed to the low table where the Ring of Barahir still lay, forgotten. Again he felt the twinge of remorse. He had been entrusted with an ancient heirloom, and not an heirloom of his house alone. It was as much the birthright of his foster-father as it was of himself. He had never asked how this treasure of the line of Lúthien had come to Elros rather than Elrond, but at this moment it seemed as if he was casting away something that did not belong to him.

Yet he knew in his heart that Elrond would understand. Though it was difficult to think of such things after so many years away from home, Master Elrond loved him, and had laboured so carefully to guard him from death. To choose survival over a silver bauble was the wise decision, and he knew that his foster-father would forgive him. That made the sacrifice no easier to bear. For nearly thirty years he had borne it, openly upon his finger or secretly on a chain about his neck or tucked carefully into a pouch or, most lately, concealed in the very fabric of his tunic. Without it he felt a nakedness that had nothing to do with his disgraceful state of undress. He stared at it for a time. It was only a thing, he told himself. A trinket, a trifle. Though he had lost it, it had bought him his life.

Weary beyond telling, Thorongil eased himself back down onto the mat. He was asleep even before the old man returned with fresh water.

lar

He slept through much of the next day, but when he awoke even briefly he drank. His blisters still pained him, and the skin where the burns were not so severe was peeling away like the scales of a snake. He was hot and uncomfortable and he itched dreadfully, but he knew the peril was passing. He ate the remainder of his mush, and the old man brought him water again and again.

Night fell at last, and the two days were ended. Thorongil carefully drew on his hose, though the points had been snapped in his violent undressing three nights past. He folded the tops down carefully about his knees. It was painful to haul his boots over his sore ankles and calves, but the soles of his feet were healed to the degree that they seared with itch, and not with pain. He had checked them carefully for fissures or blisters and found nothing: they were fit to be used. He struggled into the robe, and wrapped his head with care, draping the scarf carefully so that only his eyes could be seen. His remaining clothes he knotted together in his cote, and he filled his water-skin from the old man's urn. There were no further preparations to make, for he had no other possessions now. He was utterly destitute, bereft of his only belonging of any worth, but at least he was alive.

The old man watched him from his place in the corner. When Thorongil was at last on his feet, he bowed to his host. 'Thank you,' he said, taking care with the pronunciation. 'You are very kind.'

The old man stood up and took a bundle of cloth from one of his baskets. He held it out, and Thorongil took it, puzzled.

'Hard bread and a little cheese,' the old man explained. 'You will have a hungry road. My people do not trust the pale-faces. Keep the cloth over your mouth: do not be a fool.' He hefted up an old, brittle skin filled with water. 'One sack is not enough,' he added.

Thorongil nodded unsteadily, his throat tightening at this unexpected kindness. He eased the strap of the skin over his free shoulder, grating his teeth a little as it rubbed upon his raw flesh. He tucked the bundle in amidst his clothes. 'Once more, I thank you,' he said. 'I will not forget.'

The old man grunted, and opened the door. The darkness without was oppressive, but Thorongil welcomed it. Weakened though he was he knew that he could put many miles between himself and this place before the dawn. He stepped out into the night, looking back at his saviour. He pulled the cloth from his mouth and smiled with sore lips. 'Thank you,' he repeated. Then he covered his pale face again and turned to go.

'Wait.' The old man came hobbling after him, staff thumping against the sand. He seized Thorongil's hand and pressed something hard and smooth into his palm. 'It is of no use to me. No man should have to trade his only treasure for his life,' the old man said, and the inscrutable black eyes were suddenly gentle. 'Go, and remember we do not all hate without cause.'

Thorongil looked down as the dark hand withdrew. There, settled in the cup of his hand, was the Ring of Barahir. For a moment he was stunned, incapable of breath or motion. Then he turned, too late.

'Wait—' he cried as the door slipped closed. There was a soft thud as it was barred.

He stood there, open-mouthed with wonder, for a long moment. Unable to look at the ring, he closed his fist around it, unshed tears stinging his eyes. He turned his back upon the old man's door, and took the first unsteady steps away from the village. His mind struggled to process what had just occurred, as the heat of his hand leeched into the silver in his palm. He had much to learn, it seemed, about these folk who dwelt beneath alien skies, enslaved from afar by the Shadow. As much as he yearned for the green hills of home, and as much as he dreaded the next fiery sunrise, he knew his work here was not yet complete. He gathered his courage, fighting for mastery over his apprehension and over the pain already prickling up and down his blistered back. He could not submit to either.

At the cross-roads, he turned South.

metta

"One who cannot cast away a treasure at need is in fetters." – Aragorn; "Flotsam and Jetsam", The Two Towers; J.R.R. Tolkien.