Castle Part 2

Day 43, the castle

During the day Vlohiri had not much time to think about the strange behavior of the prisoner. Narana needed him to prepare the meal, the maids ordered him to carry water from the fountain to the room of the Lady so she could bathe, and a servant took him almost by his ears when he returned with the empty buckets. Then he had to sweep the servants’ quarters. He was glad when the sun set and the cook called him to the kitchen so he could eat. Many servants were present, hastily eating, drinking, and talking loudly about the visitors from the day before. Vlohiri took his bowl and, shyly, sat on the edge of a bench to eat and listen.

“Such a pity they left so early,” one small and stout maid said with her high voice. The others laughed heartily.

“Thought one would take you?” a servant called over the table. “Make you a maid in Rohan?”

“Rohan?” another echoed. “That’s where they came from? That’s far away. Must have taken them weeks to get here.”

“They were on a search,” a boy stated with a weighty expression. “For a friend of theirs.”

“No, really! And… how many did they find?”

“I would be a friend!” the stout maid said and another round of roaring laughter followed.

“No, a friend of theirs – they asked the villagers, too.”

“Yeah? And who should he be?”

“They said no name, just that he is tall, and lean, clad like a Ranger.”

“What would a Ranger look like?” Vlohiri asked shyly.

“Don’t know,” the other shrugged. “But he should have a brown beard, brown hair – well, it was no one here who looked like him.”

“The Lady was pleased when they left,” a young maid said. “To me it looked like she did not want to have them here in the castle.”

“Where did they go from hereon?”

“Why do you ask? Want to run after them?” They laughed again, and Vlohiri shrunk. “What should we care? They are gone.”

“Could have stayed a little longer,” the groom said thoughtfully. “They had beautiful horses…”

Vlohiri washed the dishes and swept the kitchen when all others were gone. He was tired, and the broom seemed heavier than stones. He finished his work and sighed deeply, putting the broom away. Though he wanted to go to bed there was still one task left.

“I want you to tell me whom you take that food to,” Narana asked him again when he put the bread and a piece of cheese under his jacket.

“It’s for someone who really needs it,” he replied hesitantly.

Narana’s face softened.

“You got a friend here, Flea? That is good. But it would be easier if you could bring him here.”

“No.” He shook his head and left the kitchen. ‘I would like to,’ he added for himself, ‘but there is a heavy, locked door between us.’ All the way he brooded over the word ‘friend’, unable to decide how a friend should be for him.

The guard on duty was lazily playing cards with a comrade, and Vlohiri would not have to bother about noise – he was so absorbed in winning the game that he did not care. But the boy had learned to be cautious. He always asked himself why Aragorn could not only hear him, but knew exactly that it was he. When he spoke his name, the prisoner rose. The boy saw his pale face through the bars.

“You should not risk this every night,” he said when Vlohiri handed him bread and cheese.

“It might not work every night.” The boy lowered his gaze for a moment. “Narana was asking me to whom I take it.”

“What did you say?”

Vlohiri hesitated, then asked:

“Are you not hungry?”

Aragorn breathed deeply, looked at the bread in his hand.

“The hunger I have does not arise from my stomach.” The boy questioned him with a look. Aragorn’s mouth twitched. “I had hope – for this long time I had hope. But now… it is gone.” He turned from the bars. “Thank you for the food, Vlohiri.”

“The riders came from Rohan,” the boy said into his back. “The servants talked about it at supper. They were searching for you, right?” Aragorn nodded slightly. “They looked for a tall man with brown hair and beard.” Vlohiri swallowed. “But they did not say it was the King they looked for. They said something about a Ranger.”

The prisoner looked back at Vlohiri, his eyes full of sorrow and despair.

“I once was a Ranger. For years I trod the paths in the North. From Eriador to Ered Michrin.” His voice trailed off. For a long moment the silence was undisturbed. “I have but one choice left. I have to attempt to escape again.”

“No!” Vlohiri exclaimed, and then gaped at the stairway, not daring to breathe. No footsteps. Only laughter from far away. He let go his breath and turned to the prisoner again. “If you try that again, they will truly kill you.”

“Then they kill me.”

“But…”

“I have fought for too long, Vlohiri, …too long and too hard to now suffer a life in a dungeon. I will not endure this for another week.” He coughed severely, turned and drank water.

“But how will you… I mean, the chains… you can’t…” Vlohiri’s head was swimming. He was tired, wanted to sleep, and now Aragorn announced he would prefer being killed than stay in the dungeon. Helplessly he raised his hands to the bars. “But… but the Lady would not sentence you to stay here forever.”

“I will not wait for my release.”

“But how will you do it? They do not even take the shackles off while you are here.”

“I do not know yet. But I have to find a way.” The boy gaped at him. “Go to bed, Vlohiri.”

“No, please, you cannot do this,” he urged. “Please, the Lieutenant… just don’t.” He leant his back against the door, stifled a sob and wiped his face the hem of his jacket. “Just don’t.” His voice was low, his chin dropped.

“Go.”

Vlohiri could not move. Did not want to. Something held him back – as if Aragorn would be stopped from his foolish intention if he stayed at the door. He did not know what to say to change his mind. He tried to think, but was too tired to. Slowly his eyes closed.

“Vlohiri!” Aragorn did not dare to shout at the boy, but quickly passed his right hand through the bars to grab his jacket before he could slide down. The handcuff cut in his wrist, his left hand was torn back, the chain clanked against the iron bars, a sound loud enough to wake the whole dungeon. Vlohiri woke with a startled cry, turned, pushed the hand away, and almost jumped back. “You fell asleep!” Aragorn hissed. Steps came from the guard’s room. “Now – hide!”

“But…” There was no time for arguments. Vlohiri made for the shadows at the end of the tunnel when Lanar ran down the stairway, a short sword drawn for attack.

His gaze fell into the darkness of the tunnel after he was sure the padlock was in place. Aragon hit the door with his fist.

“Set me free!” he shouted at the guard. “Right now! You’ve got no right to imprison me!”

“Be quiet or I will teach you to be quiet!” Lanar bellowed and, again, squinted into the darkness. Aragorn hit the door with even more force, a dull sound echoing from the walls.

“Tell the traitress to set me free – right now!” The following cough made him stop.

“I will tell her tomorrow that I had to gag and chain you to the wall to teach you manners!” After a last look to the tunnel’s ending he hurried up the stairs.

The boy left his hideout, weak-kneed, trembling. His heartbeat seemed to make the sounds like Aragorn’s fist hitting the door.

“Hurry!” Aragorn urged him, but Vlohiri could only stumble. “Go!” he said, his voice raspy, unable to stifle the coughing. “He will be back soon.”

“But you…”

“Do not worry about me!”

“I do worry,” the boy whispered, more to himself and carefully walked up the stairway.

* * *

            Day 45, Gondor, southbound

Two day-rides away from Minas Tirith Faramir searched for the advisor of his father. He knew from servants in the White City that the old man had left his home to live with his daughter and her husband south of the City to help them with the farm. They cultivated grape and corn. The wine from that vineyard was one of the best in Gondor. In these weeks after the war all people had started to restore their lands and needed every helping hand they could get. Faramir only had got a rough description of the farm, but peasants living nearby helped them to find it.

Here his name was well known, and he was greeted with respect. When he and his men dismounted the horses were brought to the stables, and the groom whistled in excitement upon seeing them. Faramir found the man, Haridis, who had served his father for a long time, in one row of the vineyard, where he inspected the roots and branches of a vine. He looked up. His face was haggard, but friendly, wrinkled and sunburned, but healthy. He smiled broadly with few teeth left and seemed willing to embrace the young man.

“Faramir, Prince of Ithilien!” he exclaimed laughing. “Well, it is a title that suits you well, my young Lord.” He stood erect for a moment, pressing his right hand onto his hip. “What happened to your arm?”

“I was stabbed,” Faramir said flat-voiced, unwilling to reveal the details, and Haridis nodded slightly. He understood the tones and undertones far better than anyone else. It had been his task and pleasure to work for Denethor in his long years of service. And he had always known when to hold back questions and wait until a better time for an answer. “But the reason why I come to you – I need your help, your advice.” He told the old man about his meeting with Nereghor and his son Nereonod.

“Yes, I have known of them and the ill fate of Nereghor’s son. Though your father would have wanted to forget about his brother’s existence, but that shall not be mentioned here.” Slowly they walked back through the vineyard. “But… as I see it, you are searching for members of your family you have not known before?” Faramir nodded slightly. “There are no more left from your mother’s side, and no more than a brother of Denethor’s, but…” He stopped and scratched his head. “If you really want to meet someone who is Denethor’s offspring you should ask Lady Saborian.”

“Lady Saborian? Should I have heard of her?”

“She lived in the White City with him. Or, to be correct, almost with him.” Upon Faramir’s questioning look Haridis explained, “Lady Saborian was married before, but her husband had been missing for long years. That is why she came to Minas Tirith. She wanted to be with other people, not alone in some castle far away. She and Denethor became friends. Ah, well, my Prince, you should have seen your father when she was close. He was another man. But… I will not linger on old memories. Forgive me. The Lady and your father lived near to each other, and when time allowed, they visited each other. A son was born to the Lady, and though I might be wrong I would assume that Denethor was his father. They were both very… reserved when it came to the subject. So, Faramir, I would advise you to find the Lady and talk to her. Maybe – even if her son has another father – she can tell you more about Denethor that any other man in the White City, including me.”

Faramir thanked Haridis and left the vineyard. He looked back from afar. It was so peaceful, inviting to sit down and enjoy the sunset in mid the autumn colored grass and the woods far away in the distance. His mouth twitched when he thought about the joy on the day of the coronation. All evil had been defeated. They had cheered and were overwhelmed by joy. A new life had begun for all of them, away from growing doom, away from sorrow and loss. Now it seemed that evil always found a way to survive and come back to torment those who had already suffered so much.

He breathed deeply, spurred his horse and rode back to Minas Tirith to inform Lady Arwen of what he had learned.

* * *

Day 46, the castle

The servants needed help so the boy did no longer work in the kitchen, but had to hasten all over the castle. Visitors were expected, and the rooms should be as proper as they could be. In the evening Vlohiri ate as heartily as all the days before. The work sucked all his strength, and when he reached the kitchen by nightfall he could hardly think further than the meal in front of him. He greedily ate what Narana put before him, and asked for more when he emptied the bowl. The cook watched his appetite with mixed feelings. She knew the boy was getting stronger by the day and he would endure the hard work, but still – he should not do it. He was only ten years old. But there was no one to contradict, and Narana knew that the servants would not listen to her pleading.

The boy belched soundly and, leaning back, asked for bread and carrots. Some maids, eating their own meal, laughed at him, but Narana did not.

“How can you eat so much?” she asked when she handed him bread, an apple and two carrots. “If you eat too much, you stomach will blow.”

“It won’t,” he said hastily, took the food and left the kitchen. He had seen something in Narana’s face that he would prefer to forget. She knew now that he did not take the food for himself, but did she know more by now? He would not tell her for she would forbid him to go to the eastern tower (as she had done before). But Vlohiri knew that every time Medros was not in the castle he spent his time in the mine watching over the prisoners. So it was impossible for Vlohiri to go to bed satisfied when he knew Aragorn was starving.

By now he knew the best time to reach the dungeon without meeting either guards nor gruesome boys willing to beat him up. Since the day he had started to work in the mine he had seldom seen them, and he was grateful. It would have been too much to be punished from two sides.

He evaded a drunken servant and made it safely to the last stairway. The guard was talking with a maid, and by the tone Vlohiri judged that they were not speaking about the people in the dungeon. In front of the cell he stood on tiptoe to call out for the prisoner. He got no answer. With his hands full he waited a few seconds, then put down the food and pulled himself up the bars to peer into the cell. He squinted. It was almost too dark to see, but when his eyes had adjusted to it he saw a body lying on the floor.

“Aragorn!” He let go for a moment, waited in silence if someone might come down the stairs. He would not know what he could do then. Grab the food and run? He would not make it far. Nobody came. Nothing moved. Vlohiri shivered in the cold. The first snow had fallen this morning, but due to his work he had not seen much of it. Again he grabbed the bars and pulled himself up to call the prisoner again. Aragorn stirred, moaned, then slowly turned his head, and Vlohiri could see hollow eyes in a waxen face, bathed in sweat. His hair and beard were filthy, full of straw, the clothes ragged, mere shreds. The prisoner was shivering convulsively. “Aragorn, get up,” the boy pleaded under tears, but the man only coughed. He had to do something! He could not stand here and watch the man’s misery. There must be something – anything – he could do to alarm the guards without giving himself away.

            Vlohiri gazed around. Truly he could throw a mug at the stairs and hide in one of the empty cells, but if the guards searched the dungeon thoroughly they would not miss him. ‘Think!’ he ordered himself while Aragorn coughed severely, trying to speak.

            “Go away,” he murmured weakly, “go… away.” But Vlohiri’s eyes filled with tears of sorrow and helplessness. He had to do something. If he walked away now he would not know if the prisoner survived the night. It was a bitter thought, and more tears welled up. “Go!” Coughing and moaning followed. Vlohiri had heard those sounds before, and he shivered even more. One boy had nearly died a week ago. He had sounded the same way. He knew that the cold and dampness of this place made some prisoners sick. Narana had told him that in the winter most people died if they had no warm fire and enough to eat.

The boy breathed deeply. A decision had to be made. One that no cook or maid would do for him. He would get help. But who? If he asked the guard he would truly be spanked for an hour for his disobedience. Or, worse, the man would call for Medros. Again Vlohiri would be punished – with the whip. He swallowed dryly. Peered into the cell again.

“Please, Aragorn, get up! The floor is too cold.” But the man did not stir anymore. Vlohiri grabbed the food and hid it in the next cell. Only then he took a closer look around. He had been here so many times. There must be a way… His glance fell upon the rear wall where the westwards tunnel ended. There was a slit. He had seen it before. It hit him like a hammer – he knew there was a door! He could just… His heart beat fast and even faster when he thought about the spiders, centipedes, and beetles by the thousands that lived in the darkness. He hesitated; let a few seconds pass. Another look at Aragorn made him swallow his fear. He was ten years old, after all. He should not be afraid to share the dark corridor with a legion of many-legged creatures. Again he looked around for a fitting object. An empty bucket lie toppled over near the last step. He nodded. ‘I will get help,’ he swore to himself and quickly searched for the mechanism to open the door in the wall. When he found it he slowly turned the door on its middle hinge trying to make as little noise as possible. At the same time he hurried, not knowing how long Aragorn would last. The thought made him double his efforts. He just needed a small slit, which he could close from the inside.

When he looked into the impenetrable darkness his heart sank. Again he had to wait, encourage himself. A torch lay on the floor. He grabbed it; a spider, big as his palm, quickly crept away. Vlohiri let out his breath, lit the torch with the other in the corridor and took it to the entrance of the secret tunnel. Only then he glanced one last time at Aragorn, took the bucket and threw it up the stairs. It came down toppling and turning, making a noise as if someone was run down the steps with heavy shoes. ‘This must be it,’ he thought and ran to the entrance of the tunnel. Silently breathing he waited another moment to make sure the guard had noticed it. Then, when he heard the clanking of cuirass and sword, he pushed the door shut, took the torch in both hands and hoped that he had done enough.

* * *

            Day 46, the castle, night.

Medros was not easily woken, and when he sat up to listen to the guard’s report his mood sank.

“I have to inform the Lady about it.” He knew that it was a bad time to pay a visit, but the decision was hers. He grabbed his trousers and tunic and headed for the west wing to wake up Nila.

The Lady heard the news with lips so tight they were bloodless lines in a red-cheeked face.

“Do you come to ask permission to let him stay in that cell until he does not breathe any longer?” she fumed when he had ended. “Is that what you want?” She did not let him answer. “Nila. Wake up Sadur! And send Lomac to the dungeon immediately!” The maid hastened out of the room. “Lt. Medros, did you not listen? I ordered you to take care of the captive. And I truly do not wish to see him dead during the first winter. Take Lomac with you. Make sure that he does what is necessary. And I will hold you responsible for the captive’s well being. Did I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my Lady,” Medros answered submissively, but could hardly keep from clenching his teeth. “I will see it done.”

He left the private quarters and cursed viciously. The same moment Sadur met him. Judging by his angry look he had heard Medros. The Lieutenant cursed again to himself for his sloppiness and bowed to the son of the Lady.

“My Lord, is it your wish to accompany me?”

“It is obviously my mother’s wish, and I will accompany you, yes.” They walked through the corridors, and Medros repeated what he had told the Lady. Sadur frowned. “He is sick, he cannot get up? Did you not see any sign of a sickness before?”

The inquisitive stare was too much for Medros.

“I am no healer, my Lord. I put the prisoners to work or see them locked up in their cells. I…”

“You know exactly what my mother wants, do you not?” Sadur cut him off. “How could you let it come to this?”

Medros clenched his fists, hoping he could keep his mouth shut. They reached the empty and quiet tunnel. The guard, who found the King, stood erect when Sadur entered.

“My Lord,” he bowed and stepped aside.

Sadur grimaced with disgust upon looking into the cell.

“He did not move?” he asked the guard, and the man shook his head. “Open up!”

“This might be a trick,” Medros warned him urgently. “He has attacked us before. Ask Bayonor – he was stabbed by him.”

“Look at this man, Medros,” Sadur replied mockingly. “Do you think he will jump up and attack the three of us? You cannot be serious. Again: open up.” Medros had a list of curses in mind and used them all – silently – while opening the squealing door. The prisoner did not move. Sadur entered the cell, took a look around. “Is that all the prisoners get?” He stood beside the King and saw his back slowly rise and fall. “Is that how you take care of the prisoners, Lt. Medros?” He shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the man on the ground. “He looks like he won’t last the night. I hope for you, Lieutenant, that I am mistaken.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Medros made way for Lomac. The healer, a small, stout man, older than any of them knew, murmured like sleeping into his grey beard. Fittingly he had not changed his clothing, and his nightgown swung around his bare ankles. Sighing about the odour, the hour, and the slimy hole in which he was sent, he greeted Sadur with a nod and knelt beside the prisoner. With his left hand he carefully touched the man’s forehead, held a finger under his nose and, with effort, turned him half on his side. With the cracking of his knees he rose.

“He is still alive. He has got high fever and, now, I cannot tell precisely, but… I would say that he will not last very long.” He turned to Sadur, let his chin drop, raised his eyebrows, and asked, “Are you sure you want to try and save him? I would say…”

“Can he be saved?” Sadur cut him off.

“Well, …” Lomac took his time, grimacing, looking around with open disgust. “Truly not here – not among this… dirt. It is cold in here, damp and… now, dirty. He is a prisoner, so why…”

“Tell me what is needed.” Sadur shot a glance at Medros, who seemed to dwindle.

Lomac sneezed and used part of his gown to wipe his hands.

“Take him out of this… place. He needs warmth, a bath and fresh clothes. Put him in a bed if available. Though I do not think he will make it through the night it is the only thing I can recommend. I will see to some herbs for a tea. But are you sure…” Sadur pierced him with his look. “I see what I can do for him. The fever is the first thing,” he mumbled with a look at the unconscious person on the ground. “If we can lower the fever he might have a chance.” He looked up to Sadur. “All right, then, take him to a place fitting and tell me. I will be in my study.” He passed Medros without a word and slowly climbed up the stairs, murmuring to himself the list of ingredients he would need.

Medros thought his lungs would burst if he did not utter his anger about what he just heard.

“My Lord, you do not truly wish to…”

“If you do not run to do what is demanded I will see you in the next cell tonight!” Sadur cut him off so viciously Medros’ mouth dropped. “There is a room upstairs with a fireplace. If we use it you do not have to carry the captive through the whole castle. Take two guards to carry a bed in this room.”

“But… my Lord…” Medros swallowed his obstinate reply and made an effort to sound submissive. He failed. “The room has a window with no bars, and the door..”

Again Sadur, now fuming with anger, cut him off.

“He will not go anywhere for the next days! He might not even live to see the next morning! And that is your fault! The way I see it you objected the Lady’s direct order! Now… if you could obey right now and do as ordered the captive might breathe a little longer!”

Medros did not dare to open his mouth again. He hastened up the stairway, woke up Lanar and Bayonor and together they prepared the room, using every curse they knew, combined in their wish to disobey, but unable to contradict the Lady’s order. They had found a bed with a wound iron head, a fresh sack of straw and a blanket. Lanar, carrying wood for the fireplace, spat on the ground.

“Now, this has gotten too far! If she wants him taken care of, why does she not take him to her quarters?” He cleared the fireplace and stapled from twigs to branches and got the fire going within minutes.

“Do as ordered,” Medros replied, but Lanar could see that his superior was all smoke and flames about the decision. He went to fetch chains and handcuffs to fasten to the head of the bed with padlocks. Bayonor closed the thick curtains to keep the howling winds outside. Turning he thought that the room where he lived with his wife and children did not bear the comfort the captive was now given. He could not dwell on his thoughts. The Lieutenant called them downstairs with a stretcher to carry the prisoner up. The guard at the cell said he had not moved, and when they lifted him, Lanar felt how light the King had become. Lanar and Bayonor carried the stretcher while Medros warned the guard at the door not to mention a word to anyone in the castle.

“Any disobedience will be punished,” he snarled, and the man turned pale, almost fleeing the now empty tunnel.

Lomac and Sadur entered the room a short while later.

“I told you he needs to be washed and clothed,” the healer said. Medros preferred to keep his mouth shut. Sadur had threatened him enough to make him worry about his position, but Lanar swung around.

“Do not try to tell me that we shall…”

“I want to see it done,” Sadur simply said and stared at Lanar and Bayonor. They both looked as if sentenced to ten weeks in the dungeon. “Go and fetch hot water, tunic and trousers – and make haste! He will be thoroughly washed before dawn or you clean the pigs’ barn for a month.” Bayonor swallowed down an obstinate reply and glimpsed at the King lying on a piece of curtain beside the bed near the fire. “And when you have done that give him a trim.” Now the young guard had to leave the room to not object. He almost choked.

Medros followed him, grabbed his arm and pulled him aside, away from other listeners.

“Now you do exactly what you are told,” he hissed, looked back over his shoulder and turned to Bayonor again. “The Lady made me responsible for his well-being. So, if anything goes wrong, or the healer is dissatisfied with our work, I am quite sure the Lady will find a punishment for us.”

“You mean, if he dies…”

“You name it. Now go.”

Bayonor ran to the fountain and returned with two buckets of water, which were heated over the fire. The healer had put his sober hand on the dirty breast of the prisoner and turned to Sadur, who was waiting silently, but as a menacing figure, at the foot of the bed.

“He is still breathing, and his heart beats steadily. If it stays like this…” He shrugged and glanced at Sadur, waiting for a harsh reply, but it did not come. Sadur but stared at the haggard face of the King and kept his thoughts to himself.

He had watched the King of Gondor on the field, fighting against the Army of Mordor, which was driven by Sauron’s evil will. He had seen what one man could give to his own army – strength, courage, stamina. Thought it was true that the King was in his way to become ruler of Gondor, Sadur would have preferred to fight this man openly, draw swords and cross them. But history would be changed in another way. His mother had made the decision without his agreement. Now he just had to wait until the next summer to claim the throne.

Sadur did not feel pity, but as a soldier he would always have preferred a quick death to a long decay. As his mother wished, he would take care that everything was done to save the King’s life. And he could not object that she was right: With the King’s return he had almost lost everything. Sadur had always done what his mother ordered him to do. He had been eager enough to be the strongest and most educated boy in Minas Tirith, and when he had returned with his mother to Deremonor he had again been eager to learn. This time the best sword fighters had trained him, and he knew a lot about warfare, armoury  and leadership. He was intelligent enough to see the threat a captured King brought with him. Even if the King of Rohan had left without finding a trace of his friend, there might be others to come. But there were places in this castle only the builders knew of – and he because he had learnt all about this castle while he had been a young man. His mother, too, had been a very good teacher.

Sadur stood and watched silently, but challenging the guards with his stare to see that they worked properly. He could read their faces. He himself would never have done such low work. The women were responsible for washing and dressing. But it seemed just that those men, who were responsible for the condition of the captive, now had to clean him. Sadur decided that he would take a walk through the rest of the dungeon and the mine to find out if other workers and prisoners were treated as badly as the King.

When Bayonor and Medros turned the King to his right side to take off of the rest of the clothing, Sadur made a step to get a closer look.

“What was the reason for using a whip on this prisoner?” he asked in a low, threatening tone. “Explain yourself, Lt. Medros.”

Medros clenched his teeth so hard it hurt.

“He was disobedient,” he then grumbled, but he knew he would not be allowed to leave it like that.

“You might explain that further, Lieutenant, for I do not see how a shackled and handcuffed prisoner can show any kind of disobedience.”

“He can.”

“Lomac, you will see after these wounds, too. I want them treated in the best possible way.”

“As you wish,” the healer said with a frown.

“And you have to keep quiet about this.”

“I already know,” Lomac replied, and they both silently watched the guards do their work.

* * *

Day 47, the castle

Vlohiri still shivered by the mere thought of the hidden tunnel from the dungeon’s empty corridor. He had come out near a mountain slope and had had the evil choice between a night in the tunnel or in the cold wilderness. He chose to stay where it was a little warmer, but the memory of the beetles and spiders, worms and other creatures creeping over his shaking body made him sick. He had no recollection how long he had waited, but when he returned to the dungeon Aragorn’s cell had been empty, and since that discovery he was worried.

He worked at the fountain during the day, almost too tired to pull up the buckets with water every time a worker came to fetch them, and when the shift was over, hurried to the kitchen to eat. Done, he realised that this time he would not need more food to take to the prisoner, but he went to the cell. It was still empty, the door ajar, and the foot chains lay on the floor. For the first time Vlohiri realized what the prisoners suffered. He himself did not live in a palace with feathered cushions and thick blankets, but he had it warm and cozy in the maids’ bedroom. Aragorn had nothing more than a load of straw and a blanket, which did not look as if it could keep a dog warm.

And now he was gone.

The boy stood in the corridor, listening to the burning of the torch behind him, and felt miserable. The tears streaming over his cheeks were more than just out of loneliness. He had failed Aragorn. He had not been fast enough to fetch help, and now the strong man with the grey eyes and the soft voice was dead, and he was more than alone. He felt guilty. He was ten years old, and the simple task of calling a grown-up to help had been too complicated for him. He had hesitated too long.

Vlohiri sobbed all the way back to the northern wing.

“Uh, now, look at him! In what kind of slimy mud hole have you been?” The boy was taller than Vlohiri and built like a rock from the mine – square, rough, sharp at its edges. He flexed his fists and sneered at the smaller boy with gleaming eyes. “Now, look here, answer me! Did you bath in the pigs’ stable?”

“Get out of my way,” Vlohiri said flat-voiced and blotted his face with his dirty jacket. He could still feel all the spiders crawling over him and shivered involuntarily.

“Get out of my way,” the other boy echoed mockingly. “Why should I, scarecrow? You want to go to bed? Not this way!”

“I’m tired, so leave me alone.” Vlohiri stared back, and a voice in his head asked why he was not afraid. The opponent was taller, older, muscled and too stupid to think that stepping aside would make both of their lives easier.

“You will be a heap on the floor in a moment.” He stepped forward to punch Vlohiri, but the boy blocked it with his left arm and returned the blow with his right. His fist connected heavily with the boy’s chin, and the taller boy sat on the floor with a loud thud. Vlohiri kept his surprise in check and ran through the corridor to the maids’ bedroom. Slamming the door shut he exhaled.

Then a small smile slowly found a way on his face.

* * *

Day 47, Minas Tirith

In the cold night the Prince could not find rest in his sleep.

He could hardly see where the dream had taken him, but it was dark there, cold, damp, full of strange voices filling him out. He was shivering for the mere presence of distress. He looked around in the gloomy darkness. There was a man sitting on a bench, hands and feet in chains. His chin had dropped on his breast, his brown hair was long and dirty, his breathing labored. Faramir wanted to step closer, see the man’s face, talk to him, but he could neither form words nor get any closer. It was like he stood on one spot that only allowed him to watch a single piece of a whole picture. The man on the bench stirred, moved his hands, and tried to steady himself when he slowly slid to his left side. The bench was too small; he could not hold on, but fell on his knees, then, with a pitiable moan, he lay outstretched on the cold stones.

Faramir could not help but only watch the unconscious person on the floor. He turned slightly, and within his glance there was a movement. Two slender hands clutched the bars at the door. He could not hear what was said, but he saw the terrified eyes of a boy when he pulled himself up. For a moment the face could clearly be seen – a lot of unkempt hair, sticking out ears, a small but long nose and small lips, slightly parted in shock and sorrow.

The man on the floor moved, but still Faramir could not see his face. Then the boy was gone, the man on the floor was quiet again. The cold and dampness, the feeling of dread remained.

Faramir woke breathing shallowly. The room he laid in could not have borne a greater contrast to the place of his dream. It had been an awful place, and he still shivered when he got up. His heart was beating fast. He went over to the window. The City lay in peaceful quietness, unaware of troubles. For a moment he watched the roofs in the clear white shine of the moon, trying to calm himself. Assuming the prisoner had been Aragorn and what he had seen lay in his future, he had to leave Minas Tirith, taking up the search in his own hands.

* * *

Day 48, the castle

As ordered Medros and Bayonor had washed the captive and dressed him in trousers while Sadur stood at the door, watching, growling. Medros knew he would report any occurrence to his dislike to the Lady. There was no use in arguing. Sadur had never contradicted his mother, and it was not to expect that he would do it now, even if he shared their opinion.

When the still unconscious King was put into the bed, Medros restrained him instantly with the handcuffs at the head. Sadur did not forbid it, but left the room. Only the healer remained, silently working at a small table. Bayonor was left to do the trimming while Medros was about to leave the room when Lomac stopped him.

“Tell the cook to do some broth – with meat, I would prefer. The prisoner needs something to strengthen him.” They locked eyes. Medros fighting to change the demand, Lomac to stress his pleading. The healer added flatly, “Please, see it done immediately,” and shook his head when the Lieutenant was gone.

Vlohiri was working in the pantry when Medros entered with Narana. He quickly evaded them as if he would be flattened by the Lieutenant any second, and stood, with a sack of flour, nearby to wait until the unhappy looking cook and the guard would be gone.

“A broth, yes,” Medros stressed, “and make it a good one. By order of Sadur.” His voice was strained, his face contorted with anger which seemed to break out of him a little with every word. “And see it done quickly, understood? He does not want to wait until tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course,” Narana answered submissively and put some vegetables into her apron. “I will send Flea for the chicken.”

“Right now.” Medros turned on his heal.

“Where shall I bring it?”

“I will get it myself,” the Lieutenant replied and left.

The boy gazed after him with wide-open eyes. He put the flour on the shelf.

“He brings a meal to Sadur?” He could not conceal his astonishment. “Why that? Is his servant sick?”

Narana shook her head.

“Don’t ask, Flea! Run to Dirina and get a chicken.” She turned. “I never had to do that,” she murmured stepping up the steep stairs. “Making a broth in a rush! Where have I come to?”

Vlohiri closed the pantry door and passed her with his young and agile legs. He heard her complaining about her age and the lots of work she still had to do without cooking a broth, and then he was outdoors, breathing the clear and cold air. He almost smiled. It felt good to be outside the castle’s permanent dim light. He always enjoyed the ways to the village, and even today when he had to hurry the walk made his heart light. He remembered the summer when he had helped the saddler sewing new snaffles for the horses. It had been so satisfying to sit in the sun, the needle and the leather in his hands, and he always thanked Narana that she allowed him to work outdoors. True, she would not have done it without the little lace of love binding her to the saddler, who needed a helping hand. But to Vlohiri it had been like a gift.

At noon the broth was ready, and Narana sent the reluctant boy to tell Medros. With his heart almost in his throat he left the kitchen, turned to the main hall, but could not find him. A guard sent him to the eastern tower. His heart raced now. Every encounter with the Lieutenant had ended as a disaster for him, and this would be the next to come. He halted when he heard voices.

“A broth for the captive!” It seemed to be Bayonor, and he did not sound sober. “Is that ever heard of!” Slowly Vlohiri crept nearer. “If it goes like that I want to be the next to be sentenced!”

“Why are you here?” a voice from behind hissed, and Vlohiri spun around, startled, and too afraid to find words. Lanar looked at him sternly. “Is there a reason, or did you steal yourself away from work?”

“No… no,” Vlohiri stuttered and shrank back from the guard until the wall was in his back. “I have to… I wanted to tell Lt. Medros that… the broth is ready.”

“Oh, right, yes.” Lanar still held him fast in his stare. “Go back to the kitchen. I will tell the Lieutenant.”

“Yes, … yes, of course.” Vlohiri jumped out of reach and did not stop running until he entered the kitchen again, breathless. Narana only looked at him and continued her work. Vlohiri found his mind racing like his feet had before. ‘A broth for the captive.’ He heard this sentence over and over again, and when Lt. Medros came to fetch the pot he decided to follow him. The voice of reason tried to make him stop. ‘It is madness – like to visit the wolf’s den’, but still he found his feet carrying him out of the kitchen.

“Go back to the pantry,” the cook called after him, but he did not bother to react. He pretended to have the same way as the Lieutenant. He even took a bucket and a broom and carried it down the corridor hoping that the maid, who put it there, would not miss it. Medros did not look back. He cursed in a low voice all the time and brought the pot to the eastern tower.

The boy fell behind, put down bucket and groom. From behind he heard a female voice, but could not understand the words. He did not want to be caught and hesitated to climb the stairs. He had been there before and knew the rooms, but most of the time they had been deserted. He strained his ears, tried to imagine which room the Lieutenant entered. Hidden in the shadows under the stairway he held his breath. The steps of heavy boots echoed away. He dared not to wait any longer and ran back the corridor to continue working in the pantry.

* * *

Day 48, the castle, dusk

Naturally he would be missed at supper – his stomach told him that he would miss some broth, too – but Vlohiri could not wait any longer. Already the sun had set, and it was dangerous enough to climb the outer walls of the castle at daylight. Without seeing where he set his foot or found a hole in the stone for his fingers it would be deadly. He climbed out of the window of the last room in the eastern wing, made it to the roof within five minutes and stood for a moment in the cold, gusty wind. The snow had been blown away, but still the shingles were slippery, and he carefully trod along the rooftop. Reaching the tower’s soft curving he paused for a moment, regained his breath, and slowly, deliberately set his right foot on a projecting stone, searched for a gap for his fingers and left the roof. The last sunrays cast their light on the tower, and the boy, shivering with cold, dared one step after the other until he reached the first window. He could not see inside for the thick curtains were drawn shut, but he could kneel on the windowsill and eavesdrop. Almost without breathing he waited. His hands and feet were numb within minutes. From the inside he heard a fire crackle, but no voices. Coughing and soft clanging, but no footsteps. It was risky, but he had not come this far to return to the roof without a look.

Slowly he pushed aside the curtain only a slit to peer inside the room. On the right side a fire was burning, and the warmth instantly lured him in. Nearby stood a bed a with a wound iron head. Chains were fastened with padlocks to the outer rods; he could see hands in cuffs, and brown hair on a flat pillow. On the far left side of the room a torch lit the space beside the door, which was firmly shut. Beyond in the darkness he could not see. But it was quiet in the room, so Vlohiri drew his legs over the rim and let himself down on the floor.

With two steps he bridged the distance to the bed and knelt beside it, the fire hot in his back, enjoyable, but nothing compared to the sight of the captive he had thought to be dead. A smile tugged at his lips, broadened, and tears of relief fell on the linen, with which the man was covered up to his chin. Aragorn’s face was pale and glistened with sweat. His lips were bloodless, hard to distinguish from the waxen skin. Vlohiri did not trust his eyes. For the time of their encounters Aragorn had been dirty, his beard and hair long and filthy. Now someone had washed him, trimmed the beard and changed his clothing. He looked like a different man. But at the moment it was of no importance. He felt great thankfulness to whoever brought this man up here. Aragorn’s breathing was labored and sounded as if stones rolled up and down his throat. But the boy only thought that Aragorn was still alive! He had been found and taken care of. He had not been too late. The night in the dark tunnel had been worth enduring. But he had not been released. The handcuffs would make it impossible for him to turn or get up. Gently Vlohiri touched the man’s clean forearm and wondered what had made Medros change his mind. Vlohiri thought this as possible as ore to turn into wine.

Aragorn stirred, moaned, and slowly opened his eyes. They lay deep in their sockets, and the fever got a strong hold of him, but when he looked at the boy he tried to smile.

“How did I…” He coughed severely, and without thinking the boy put his hand in Aragorn’s. The man held it fast, squeezing his fingers until the coughing subsided. He let it go and closed his eyes, too weak to keep them open any longer. Vlohiri shook out his hand, and sighed deeply. He knew that the change of rooms did not mean the prisoner would heal in a few days.

“I must go,” the boy whispered. Daylight had almost left, and he feared the way back alongside the wall in the darkness. “But I come back.” He climbed up the windowsill. He felt lighter than before, and the cold and the wind did not touch him anymore. He had not seen the shadow in the darkness.

* * *

Day 49, the castle

Tebenor had always loved horseback riding, but since the war was over it had not been necessary to stay in the saddle fifteen hours a day, and he felt sore all over his body when he reached the walls of Deromonor. He knew his greeting would not be warm the moment he revealed the truth, but the message was too urgent to leave it to one of his men.

The groom took the rein, and Tenebor limped up the stairs, groaning and cursing about the bad weather, his age, and the distance he had to cross. The guard on duty escorted him to Nila, who led him into the Lady’s private quarters.

“Greetings to you, my Lady,” he bowed and took off the cloak.

“What takes you here, Lord Tebenor? Alone? It might be dangerous to travel these days.”

Tebenor ignored the mocking undertone.

“My Lady, Beregor did not succeed in killing Prince Faramir.” The Lady’s face went pale. “I saw him in the White City. He carried his right arm in a sling, but he obviously is well enough to travel.”

“What news did he bring?”

“He met with Lady Arwen…”

“Is she still thinking her husband is alive?”

“The people mourn the King already, but as for her – no, my Lady, I do not think that she accepts him to be dead. Faramir got five riders with him. He will probably start his own search for the King.”

“Éomer has been here a week ago. There is no need for the Prince to turn into the same direction. He might ride north.”

“He might. But I allowed myself to set watchmen on the route to the west. They will keep you informed.”

“You mean, if Noratis fails me?” she sneered.

“Yes, my Lady, I do not think that Noratis can be trusted. To avoid punishment he might give us all away.”

“I can see in you eyes, Tebenor, that you would prefer action to waiting.”

“As long as Noratis remains on his lands he will be no harm to anyone.”

“We will see to that. We meet tomorrow morning to talk about Faramir’s unexpected turn up.”

* * *

Day 50, the castle

Vlohiri wished he was the ‘flea’ as they called him when he, again at dusk, for he could not spare time during the day, climbed the icy cold stones of the tower. He was glad they had chosen the room next to the stairs. In any other case he would have to climb half around the tower. He shivered at the mere thought to only see the barren lands somewhere under him.

With cold hands and feet, shivering and weary from his daily work, he sat again on the windowsill, ears open, hardly breathing, before he was sure that he could safely enter.

For the curtains were shut, the only light extended from the lively fire and the torch. Vlohiri hesitated on the ground, still able to climb back and disappear if necessary. But the shadows did not move and no voice spoke outside in the corridor. He had seen the smith in this area of the castle. He had carried a big eye and a lock, and since Vlohiri knew the room had had none before it was clear that Medros wanted to make sure the captive did not break his chains and run.

He knelt beside the bed, and this time he was rewarded with a feeble smile from Aragorn.

“Did you…?” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, shivering severely. “Did you tell the guard…?” he rasped.

“No,” Vlohiri whispered, “I threw a bucket up the stairs and hid.”

“That was a brave thing you did.” Aragorn coughed, his face contorted with pain. He pulled at the chains, raised his head from the pillow, until the urge subsided. Panting, he wetted his chapped lips. “Water… can you give me…?”

“Yes.” Vlohiri rose, searched for a small bowl to fill from the pot near the fireplace and gently lifted Aragorn’s head so he could drink. Putting down the bowl he could not wait to ask, “Why did they take you here? Was it Medros?” Aragorn shook his head slightly, almost closed his eyes. He was worn out by pain and the simple fact of being awake. Sweat poured down his temples. “Who else? It did not…” He stopped. Footsteps were drawing near. Without hesitation Vlohiri slipped under the bed.

The door opened swiftly, and Lomac entered, closed it behind him with a thud. He was whistling to himself when he got near the bed. Putting down the little pot he brought he smiled at the prisoner.

“Ah, you are awake. That is good. Now you drink and return to sleep. That is always the best.” More whistling followed. “The little bowl… oh, there it is. How did you get there, my bowl?” He filled it and helped the prisoner drink.

He spat it out immediately.

“It tastes awful,” the prisoner complained and coughed again. Vlohiri might have laughed if he had not been so tense.

“Yes, yes, that it might. But even if it tasted like horse piss you will drink it, and you shall not spit it out! No good behavior! Well, we can try it again.” The boy shivered. He knew it was getting dark quickly, and he had but no choice to return to his room in complete darkness – if he could make it that far. He was afraid of falling into the depth. He would be dead, he knew it, but the other option was to lie under the bed the whole night. The healer was slow, but persistent. Again he held the bowl to the prisoner’s lips and waited patiently until he had drunk. “Now, do I have to hold your mouth shut, or will you swallow it this time? Much better. Thank you. I do not like to have patients who resist getting healed.” He filled the bowl with some water. “Here, I know the taste is not the best.” The boy waited as if he was lying on smoldering stones, until the healer was satisfied. He returned to the little bowl – “How could you get on the bed, my little thing?” – and put a hand on the prisoner’s forehead. “Well, this will take time. Now, it might get a little better tonight.” He nodded to himself. “It is good that you rest.”

“Does not look…” He suppressed the coughing. “… does not look like I have a choice.”

Lomac giggled softly.

“Ah, yes, right. They are short, are they not? He will always do his work in the best possible way. I will see to that…. But first…” He exhaled and squatted beside the bed, “…you may come out now, lad.” Vlohiri froze in shock when he saw the grey-bearded face beside him, his long grey hair touching the dusty floor. “Do not look at me like this. The rumbling of your stomach is so loud I would have found you in the dark. Now, come, it cannot be comfortable down there.”

Vlohiri did as ordered. Slowly he got up, one moment facing the healer, who slowly rose, the next Aragorn, who frowned worriedly. He did not know what to say. He knew he would be punished and would not be able to come and see Aragorn again. He did not know what was worse.

“Do not… give him to Medros,” the prisoner pleaded quietly, his eyes almost closed.

Lomac stroked his beard with his right hand and cocked his head.

“Why should I not do this?” he said slowly, eyeing them both.

“He did nothing… wrong.”

“Now, now… he should not be here, right, lad?” Vlohiri was not even able to nod. His mind was racing if it was better to flee right now, but his feet did not move. “What is your name?”

“Flea… Vlohiri,” the boy whispered.

“Ah, you are Flea, yes, I should have thought so.”

“Why?” Vlohiri asked faster than he could stop himself.

“I saw you on the tower – some time ago. You are a good climber, Flea. Well, that goes by the name, I think.” He giggled.

“Please, do not give me away to the guards.”

“No,… I do not think that I will do that.” Lomac stopped the stroking. They both looked at the man on the bed. He had closed his eyes, and the regular though still raspy breath showed he had fallen asleep. “You might be of some help.” Vlohiri’s eyes widened with surprise. “Do not try to thank me now. It was wrong and it was dangerous what you did. There might have been someone else in this room when you climbed in.”

“But…”

“Not today, lad. Two days ago you had already paid him a visit, have you not?” Vlohiri’s face went pale. “Yes, I know. I sat there in the darkness. It is a quiet place to think, you know?” He took his little pot in the right hand. “Now I will go out. You wait.”

The boy’s gaze fell on the closed curtains.

“I will get out there.”

“No, you will not.” Again Vlohiri felt panic arise. Lomac exhaled loudly. “I let you help me with that patient, but there is one condition. You must enter the room through the door. I do not want to tell your mother that you fell off the tower.”

“All right. But my mother would not…”

“I know her,” he cut him off, and the boy was silent. “Now I will go out and see if the stairway is safe.” He pointed to the wall to tell the boy to wait there, while he opened the door, and peered into the corridor. Then he waved Vlohiri to come. The boy ran downstairs and was gone in seconds.

* * *