Of Treachery and Trust: A LOTR RPG

[Lexicalized]

The wind howled and screamed like an angry beast, tearing across the plains of Rohan with unyielding fury.  The night was dark and the sky enveloped in ominous, black clouds.  Horses twitched and stirred restlessly in their stalls as lightning danced on the near horizon.  

Lightning flashed on the sloping hills of Rohan, illuminating for the briefest moment the thin figure of a woman on horseback.  She sat astride a big, black beast of a horse, as still as the sky was turbulent.  Her chin was elevated, her dark eyes ablaze with some curious excitement.  She felt alive and on fire, provoked by the storm.  The wind tore at her long, dark, dark hair, whipped at the edges of her cloak, tugged on her dark steed's cascading mane and tail.  

Suddenly, her burning reverie was disturbed by the barely audible sounds of hoofbeats behind her.  The stallion beneath her tensed and arched his proud neck, smelling the wind.  Lightning cracked, revealing the Rohirrim guard that was fast approaching.  

The girl on her horse heaved a sigh, a long mournful sound.  For a few moments at least, she had believed she was alone in the world.  Alone with the turbulent night.

The Rohirrim guard jerked his horse to a halt next to her, bowing his helmeted head in the night.  

"Lady Arayn, I bring word from King Eomer.  He requests your presence with utmost haste in the Golden Hall.  A vistor comes from Gondor, bringing a prisoner who they say is nothing but a traitor..." the guard hesitated, his face barely visible in the night, "...and, the king did not bid me tell you this, but the traitor says he speaks for the orcs who hide in the mountains."

Arayn's interest was immediately peaked.  Her disappointment at being disturbed flew away with the wind that whipped her face.  Thunder rolled and lightning flashed once more, and then the skies opened up and the rain began to pour down in sheets.

"One request, sir, and I will come with you," she yelled over the noise of the storm.

"Aye, m'lady?"

"Race me back!"

She didn't say a word to her horse; she didn't need to.  The beast reared up and then bolted forward, his powerful body stretching out parallel to the ground.  The rain soaked Arayn's skin, streamed down into her eyes and blinded her, but she didn't mind.  Laughing aloud, she buried her face in the horse's mane, so close to the animal that the two made only one dark form in the night.

[Wolfchild]

Rain fell so thick and fast that the single black raven which glided amongst it was prematurely forced to land. A deep rumble sired by vengeful, howling clouds made even procession on the ground difficult, but the animal needed no warning- it was prepared for such eventualities. As lightning seemed to vent hatefully towards the Fangorn Forest some hundred miles away, the shape of the bird grew; it's midnight feathers disappearing into tan colored skin whilst a body emerged, limbs growing before his new deep amber eyes, finding themselves clothed in filthy rags of poor and pitiful quality. As happened so many times before, he felt the rope-like tendrils of hair brush past his neck and crawl over his shoulders before stopping when they had reached his chest, finished in small beads to give the unfamiliar dreadlocks some sort of redeeming feature. Finally he watched as markings upon his arms bled through his bare skin, settling eventually whilst the silver ring grew around his sodden fingers; a simple band of the metal, as undecorated as its owner.

He had seen the Rohirrim, but their conversation would have been difficult to hear even if he had stood directly by their horses. The wind joined in with the disapproval of the skies, drilling rain into the bog-like mud ferociously, whilst what appeared to be a barefoot vagabond took a heavy step into the vice of the earth, grimacing not as the squelch threatened to take his body if his feet were the first to be devoured. Dangerous as it was, Tlurmin proceeded with his aged knowledge of the area, and followed the tracks embedded in the earth where the ground had been torn in passing. Little did he need them however, for in the brief second that his eyes gazed upward, the lightning revealed the hill ahead, and the silhouette of gloried Edoras, bastion of the horsemasters.

[Lexicalized]

As the night storm continued to rage, Arayn's horse wound it's way up through Edoras.  Neither horse nor rider need see the path, for both had trodden it so many times as to be able to do so blind. 

Lightning flashed as the black stud jogged into the sheltering arms of the stable which housed the grandest of horses--the steeds of royalty.  Arayn tossed her hood back from her face, laughing lightly and shaking her head hard.  Water sprayed from her face and hair, to her great amusement. 

Nearby, a Rohirrim soldier stood ready to assist if needed.  He knew better than to reach for the stallion's unbridled head.  The horse would stand for few other than Arayn to touch it. 

Arayn swung down off the horse and released the beast to stride into its stall, shaking the water from its coat much as she had done.  She patted the horse's nose affectionately and nodded to the solider before stepping away. 

Her mind turned now from the random abandon of her youthfulness to the seriousness of what was about to come.  A traitor, the Rohirrim guard had said.  Speaking for the orcs?  She snorted aloud at the thought as she wove her way up through the Golden Hall.  How preposterous...there couldn't possibly be a shred of truth to the story...but...

Still, she couldn't help but feel a surge of curiosity as she stepped to the door of the throne room.  Pressing her still soaked figure against the heavy, wooden door, she swung it open and stepped into the midst of a heated discussion.  Her eyes flew about the room, quickly taking in the scene before her.

Her father sat forward in his thrown, his pale face a shade or two closer to an angry red, his eyes burning.  Beside him, her mother was seated in his shadow, her eyes dark and large and shy as they always were.  And before her father was perhaps the most interesting persons present.  Three or four Gondorian soliders held securely a scruffy, dirty looking man with blood stains on his face and neck.  Also present was Faramir, looking somewhat old with his quickly greying hair.  His features were gentle and pleading, however, without a trace of anger.

All conversation came to a sudden halt upon Arayn's entrance, and all eyes turned quickly her way.  Arayn bowed in return to the respectful bow sent her way by Faramir and the Gondorian soldiers, but her eyes fell primarily on the filthy stranger.  He looked up at her, one eye half swollen shut and bruised.  There was a flame of defiance in his sky blue eyes as he looked at her.  She stared right back at him, noting subconsciously how he failed to bow.   

"Father," she murmured, her eyes still on the prisoner, "...you sent for me?"

[Wolfchild]

Though the distance had been naught but a few miles, the time taken to walk it was hindered in every way possible, and the difficult terrain did little to approve Tlurmin's appearance when at last he approached the wooden palisade, to the wayward glances of two fully armored Rohirrim. They each sported shields which covered three quarters of their bodies, emblazoned in a silver design that wrapped around a cantering horse, and to hand were great polearms crowned with sharpened metal blades. They looked unaffected by the merciless weather. Intimidating glances were exchanged with the new body that came ever closer, who seemed to have swam through the weather, let alone walked- but to this end they held a faded glimpse of sympathy for him. He, like the poor of past times, could chose his surroundings no more than he could choose his own way of living. A pauper was a pauper, as the saying told.

"You there! Do you seek shelter in the lands of the Rohirrim? I know not your face from recent years, yet I feel that I should somehow. What name do they give you, for I cannot let you pass unknown?"

Tlurmin smiled through lips that had not spoken true words for many a dark year. With a gentle and almost mirthful expression he announced "I am known as Onen, sir, distant friend to a small family here, though my purpose of visit is to converse with King Eomer, for which I come hastily to tell of the times."

The guard looked suspicious for a moment, but his face lightened at the mention of his master's title. "Go forth then, and seek a fireside, 'lest we forget our place and join you. Curse this storm- great wars themselves have caused less anguish. Bid our regards to the King."

Tlurmin passed them slowly, hearing the dull pat of his feet in the ground, followed by a gust of wind that bore the scent of horses.

[Insane_Monky]

Goarfen stood with open eyes, taking in all he saw.

"I'll give you this spear head for tha' two loaves of barley."
"Aye, it seems fair enough."
Goarfen handed the man the two loaves, seeing the hunger in his bent body, and the desperation in his eyes. The lanky man handed over the silver spear head.
"Where did you find this," questioned Goarfen?
"On the dirt, near the edge of the field."
The end of the field? These fields in Rohan stretched for miles in every direction.
"Just lying there?"
"Yes, and a dead horse."
That made sense to the stout dwarf. This spear head had belonged to the man he was looking for. He placed his right hand on his chin, stroking his dark beard as he thought. Maybe this would lead him onto the path again. Maybe this would be another link in the chain.
"How long had the beast been dead," the dwarf asked?
"Maybe three days at most," slurred the man.
Maybe meeting this homeless man had indeed been a good thing.
"Peace be to you," said Goarfen as he mounted his seasoned pony. He had no more use of him. The man ran off in no particular direction.

The dawrf tossed the facts around in his mind again. He knew the horse must have belonged to Helbon. Helbon was a spy, who worked for little pay, who's expertice Goarfen's father had hired to get information from the men of Rohan. Information that wouldn't be shared freely with the dwarves.
However, the dwarves hadn't heard from Helbon for three weeks. Other dwarves had looked at the situation optimistically, but Goarfen knew, he didn't know how, but he knew that Helbon had been captured. Why? By who? Would he freely give the secrets of the dwarves to the captures? Goarfen hadn't waited around to get the answers. He headed out on Goonfle's back in search of the spy the very next morning. His faithful pony hadn't been very pleased, and neither had Goarfen, but he knew he must get to the bottom of this.

Maybe Goarfen had assumed the worst.

[Wolfchild]

There seemed to be great flourish in and around the Golden Hall, with soldiers who were not required to man the gates pacing quickly towards the glimmering structure, whose flags danced mirthfully with the wind. Tlurmin had intended to blend himself in with a crowd of peasants, but found the prospect of what lingered in the home of the King much more alluring, and made his way to the entrance, knowing that he risked a great deal in doing so.

"Only soldier, relative, and close friend of the King are allowed past these doors" he was told, instantly.

"I am Onen of the Seventh Beacon, sir. Friend is my nature."

"Your clothes tell me you are not" the guard scowled.

"Then I would ask you look again" breathed Tlurmin, a brief edge of order in his voice. The guard did so, and thought what he saw a trick of the eye- for without any obvious change, the uniform of a beacon warden cast itself upon the stranger, and all trace of his muddied journey had disappeared with the blink of an eye.

"I am Onen of the Seventh Beacon. Remember it." Tlurmin extended his hand to touch the shoulder of the guardsman, sealing the simple trickery that had worked to his satisfaction. The man seemed confused, feeling unexplainably drowsy. With no further questions, 'Onen' was allowed to pass.

He suppressed a wide smirk as the scene of the Golden Hall unfolded. This was what caused such uproar, and as if certifying it, there was the woman from the moor, stood before King Eomer with a concerned expression. His attire remained in its false state of uniform so as not to draw attention from the main spectacle; the pitiful man who was clearly less of a Rohirrim than he was. 

[Lexicalized]

At Arayn's question to her father, the stranger twitched slightly.  Arayn wondered if he had not known her relation to the King of Rohan, or what exactly the hardly visible movement translated into.  Her eyes bored into the stranger's, determined not to be the first to turn around.  Fire rose in her chest and danced in her eyes when the man would not look away.  What a rude creature. 

Still, she could not stop the curiousity from eating at her from the inside.  Her father had not yet responded.  She could feel his gaze on her.  Wanting an answer more than a victory in a staring contest, she moved impatiently and turned to stare at her father.  She did not wonder that he had called for her--despite her mother's protest, Arayn had, upon becoming an adult, quickly become her father's right hand "man."

"Father?"

Her father's eyes scanned the room quickly, as if making certain no one was present that should not be.  The only beings present were the visitors with their captive stranger, a few Rohirrim guards, and the royal family of course.  Finally his eyes turned back to her, his face slowly losing it's angry tint and becoming only solemn.

"You know well enough of the orcs," her father said, spitting the word out like some rotten taste in his mouth, "which cower in their filthy holes in the Misty Mountains.  You've seen first hand, my daughter, their cruelty and treachery.  Will you testify to the truth of that statement in the presence of these men?"

A frown wrinkled Arayn's brow, darkening her already black eyes.

"This is true, Father, but I don't underst--"

"Tell them!" her father barked suddenly.

The frown deepened, but Arayn turned to Faramir, the Gondorian soldiers and the strange captive.

"My father speaks the truth.  I know not why he asks for a reptition of the facts concerning the slime which stain the Misty Mountains, but if any one doubts the evil that there dwells--I will be the first to attest to it.  For two years I hunted the vermin, night and day, day and night.  I went into their holes; I saw their evil first hand.  I watched them prey on the innocent, free peoples of Middle Earth, heard the screams of those tricked into their twisted orc hands.  On one occasion I happened upon a group of ten or more orcs torturing a young girl hardly older than ten and one.  I know--"

"You know nothing!" the captive suddenly screamed, lurching forward and struggling in vain to break free from the chains that bound his wrists.  Rage was splattered all across his dirty, blood stained face, but something softer and stranger mixed with that same rage in his swirling blue eyes.   Something...

Something like hurt?

The Gondorian soldiers which held the man responded quickly to the attempt to get free.  The soldier on his left struck the man a heavy blow which sent his exhausted frame spiraling to the floor.  The soldier on his right proceeded to kick the man sharply in the ribs repeatedly. 

Arayn, although she had no reason to like the man, could not stand by and watch them kick a man that was on his face on the floor.  She flew at the soldiers and her voice cracked through the room.

"Enough!" she yelled, her face inches from the Gondorian's face. 

The man started and jerked back.

"M'lady, he tried--"

"I care not what he tried, soldier.  To strike a captive dog is bad enough, even though he deserve it--but to strike a captive dog when he lies helpless on the floor is a trick which only a filthy orc should be allowed," Arayn calmed herself and took a half step backward as the captive started to move.

She spoke, calmer now, to the same soldier.

"You are a mighty soldier of Gondor, one of the noblest of kingdoms on the face of Middle Earth, my good man.  Maintain your honor then, and don't strike the dog which cannot even move to avoid the blow."

[Wolfchild]

The captive was unwilling to speak before he had been brought to the King, and even less so as dawn bled though the mantle of its windows. Clearly what Gondor had already leeched from him was the extent of their knowledge, and to bring it to Eomer was not a poor effort to retrieve more, but to show that the enemy was getting information which was not simply the work of eavesdropping; rather the treachery of someone on the inside.

With quick understanding Tlurmin recognised he was but a step away from being the in the same position as the prisoner before him. This did not bring fear in his heart, but did give him the forewarning he knew was the result of a lapse in caution. This was the hanged man that the cards had spoken of. The sign that would tell him to turn back before his mission had seen light. He must persevere...

He moved slowly into the shadows, but no eyes could be spared to follow him, for all were on the obvious in the centre of the Hall. A raven hopped from them within moments, and the light touch of wiry feet tapped against the ancient floor before rising to the rafters.

[Lexicalized]

The filthy captive inhaled sharply, drawing Arayn's gaze and focus away from the Gondorian soldier she had reprimanded.  Arayn turned slightly, her eyes, black as the midnight sky and sharp as the lightning that illuminated it, to the captive.  She stared once more into those azure eyes.  She could not read the soul that hid behind those eyes--she could not tell what thoughts whirled in the mind of the captive man.  She did, however, see a sudden gleam flash in the man's eyes. 

Where once the man had slumped in his chains, he now straightened to his full, and somewhat imposing, height of six foot and some odd inches.  His eyes flashed and suddenly there was something noble about his voice as he spoke, rough though his words were.

"You talk of honor and valor, do you, lady (for I know not your name)?  You speak of honor, I say again, then maybe you will differ from the other slime--"

The captive's words were cut off by a sharp blow to his ribcage from the guard on his right.  The man flinched slightly and glared at his captor, but did not protest verbally.

"Halt, let him speak--" Arayn began.

"Arayn!" her father growled, "Will you defend our enemies?  Will you give ear to the foolish and venemous words of those who seek only the destruction of our people?"

The anger that rumbled in her father's voice, and the disappointment contained therein, caused Arayn to flinch.  Still, her mind turned over what the captive had been saying--and what he had been about to say.  She once more returned her eyes to the captive, stepping slightly closer to him.

The smell of orc flesh and filth wafted into her nostrils, and it took everything ounce of strength she possessed not to wrinkle her nose or shudder.  Still, she stood still, her feet planted firmly apart, her eyes never leaving the captive's. 

"What you mean to imply, stranger, is that we live lives filled with supposed honor, yet our pride will not allow us to do what the greater man would do--and that is to hear your story out?  This is what you meant?"

"No need to use such pretty words, lady," snarled the captive, "the simplest of truths is that you, who claim to be so far above the orc kind, show yourselves to be on our 'level' by refusing to hear me out.  Your guards torture me in hopes of finding the hiding place of my people, but will not listen to the message I bear from them.  What wisdom is this?  What justice is this?  It is none.  You lie through your teeth."

Arayn's temper, surprisingly, did not flare, but almost everyone else in the room expressed some form of rage.  The hall was hot with flaring tempers and flashing eyes, and it was now Eomer King's turn to leap to his feet.

"Traitor!  You are a disgrace to the race of men.  Your people?  Your people?  The orcs are no more people than the dark is light.  You sully the name of mankind with your words and your actions.  Why should we listen to such treachory?  You would lead us into another dark era.  You would bewitch us with your smooth words, coax us with lies, have us to believe all is peace and charity--and then the moment we least expect it, you unleash the full filth of the orc kind upon us," here the King paused, his eyes ablaze with rage, "I change my mind, traitor, you deserve to be called one of them.  In allowing yourself to be called one of them, you disgrace all that is good and pure in this world and deserve to die just as they do--quickly and with no mercy."

Arayn stood speechless.  The whole court stood speechless.  No one moved as the King and the traitor stood face to face, neither backing down.  There was no sign of submission in the captive's eyes, no sign of intimidation in his square, set jaw or cruel, unyielding eyes.

"Take him away.  Chain him and set the guard upon him.  He does not move.  Tonight we will discuss his fate, but if all goes as Eomer, King of Rohan, deems right, he will hang before the sun's rising tomorrow."

The guards moved immediately--Gondorian side by side with Rohirrim as they had become familiar with since the war of the ring--whisking the captive away and leaving Eomer King alone with his wife, his daughter and Faramir, prince of Ithilien...

And none of them noticed the Raven that flew from the window unseen and unheard...

[Wolfchild]

The raven glided to the stock that held the captive by iron bonds so close and forcefully to its bloodied chest. The strain of being held up by the talons of such infinite clasp gave in grip alone a deepening red welt, for which the desire to be free from did carve bloodily into the wrist. Although the prisoner was not willing to be weakened in the face of his enemies, it was an ongoing test of endurance to bear the insufferable pain.  Consoled only by the thought that soon it might all end, he kept the face of bravery unaffected to all who spared a glance. His blue eyes bore down upon the lands of Edoras, world of the Rohirrim and their weakened knowledge, sullied only by the noose that was the winds sparring ground.

A sly accent began in the captive's mind from nowhere but the recesses of his inner thought. "Greetings, Svika." it whispered. The soul that resided there had no possibility of answer, but looked for a moment fearful. "The rat has been caught, they say."

Tlurmin sighed, continuing "I see they have not broken you yet, but a vagabond lasts nowhere beyond its own lands in this age. Not unless you have plenty to keep you in good number, and we all know that Rohan seldom allows that when the eastern wind carries new waves of doubt in its ever vengeful midst. There were times before this when my people were just as confined as yours are now. As ours still are now. When your struggle with rope comes to the inevitable, I'll honor you with blood. And though we are not the same, Dunland will avenge those sacrifices made by this falsest of Kings." The words echoes, as if breaking their time to emerge as an echoing whisper. Svika, fearing that he was turning mad, mouthed through his blue lips "W-who ar-re you?" and received a near silent

"Look to your left."

There was the raven, amber eyed, feathered in a black darker than midnight. Cawing like laughter, it tilted it's head to meet face to face.

[Lexicalized]

Svika stared into the amber eyes that laughed at him, his mind racing.  He struggled to make sense of what was going on through the ever thickening fog of pain that clouded and slowed his thinking.  Blood slowly dripped from numerous wounds, but most unbearably from the broken skin caused by bonds made too tight.  Every move brought another blast of pain shooting through his body. 

It took much of his fading strength to keep from crying out.  Four days he had been in the hands of the Gondorians--four days of torment.  Much abuse.  Flogging.  Scourging.  Anything to get him to talk.  He wasn't allowed any sustenance, and hardly any thing to drink. 

Even the strongest of men crumble when they are denied food and drink.

He blinked rapidly to clear the fog from his eyes, still staring at the bird.  Perhaps he was going mad.  Perhaps he should just close his eyes and let his fate come.

Never!, his soul screamed in his mind, the lives of my people depend upon me.  The burden of their need falls upon my shoulders alone.  A little longer.  The raven.  Perhaps the raven...

"You hate the men of Rohan?" Svika whispered hoarsely, feeling a little strange talking to the bird before him. 

It was hard to breathe with the chains cutting into his chest.  What he wouldn't give to suck in all the air his chest could hold...

"I don't suppose...you could..." Svika gasped between breaths, "get me out...of this...swine hole...?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For many long moments after the captive was escorted out of the hall, only a heavy silence filled the air.  The Gondorian guards had left with the prisoner, the guards of the Rohirrim had been sent out, and now only Eomer King, Faramir the Prince of Ithilien, Lady Arayn, and Lady Lothiriel, wife of the King, stood still in the hall. 

Faramir stared blankly at the floor, mulling over the problem that had fallen upon Rohan and Gondor.  Eomer sat stiffly in his throne, his eyes still burning and turning to each present in the hall--daring any of them to defy his already expressed opinion on the fate of the stranger.

Lady Lothiriel looked only pale and tired, her almost translucent skin in sharp contrast to the thin, straight locks of midnight hair that framed her face.  Her head rested lightly against the throne, near her husband's arm.  She looked for all the world as if she longed to be anywhere but in that hall at that moment.

Lady Arayn was the only one who met the steely gaze of Rohan's King--her father.  Seeing no other challenger as yet, Eomer spoke to her, his voice echoing in the hall.

"You would defend the traitor?  You would spare his life, hear his treachery and seal the doom of our people?  I thought," thundered the King, "I had taught you better than this, my daughter."

Arayn never flinched, at least not on the outside.  A slight frown twisted her lips downward.  Tempted to abandon her position, she stood silent a moment, weighing the consequences of any decision she would make.  Perhaps her father was right...perhaps to hear the words of the traitor was to step right into his trap.  The people of not only her kingdom, but also that of Gondor's, lay in the balance.  It was they who would suffer if she chose wrong.

What of honor?  What of true justice? 

The voice that whispered in Arayn's head was that strong sense of all that is good and right in Middle Earth.  She had been taught as a young child to hold to the highest values of honor, justice and truth.  She had talked with the King Ellessar and learned much of these values.  She had seen those same values played out time and again in Lady Eowyn's life.  Even her father, when not filled with rash anger, had taught her much of the pride and honor passed down from one man of Rohan to another.

How could she deny all this that she had learn and come to believe with all that was in her?  These weren't merely some vague values--they were a part of her, a part of what decided her path in life. 

Yes, she believed the orcs to be evil.  Yes, she believed this was merely a form of trickery meant to deceive them...yet, she could not deny the stranger's claim to at least being heard out.

Her eyes rose to meet her father's head on once more.  She found the mettle within, the mettle he had taught her to have.  You fight most ardently for what you believe most passionately.  There was no angry fire in her eyes when she spoke, only a renewed and deeper resolve.

"You taught me well, my Father.  You taught me to fight for justice and honor, and never to back down when you believe with every ounce of strength within you that you are right.  I do not ask that we do as this stranger wishes.  I do not even ask yet that we spare his life.  All I ask is that we hear his story first.  Do not hate me, my Father, for my words.  I only stand by the values I have learned my whole life through."

[Wolfchild]

"Yes..." Tlurmin's voice crooned, "I loathe this feeble race as much as I know you do. Their tolerance for other races is obvious. Look at you, Svika...look at what they have done. Even before you are due to die, you are chained here like the beast they could not tame, and it is only the female who will struggle to have you heard. So reluctant are they...it is a challenge to even understand her words. Why? Why does she fight for you? They approach...

Tell them what you must, Svika. See if Eomer listens- he is a wayward King who laughs at you, overcome by his desire to see you dead. See us all dead, so that the world might fall to his rule. I'll free you, with time. But if Rohan still has not listened to your pleas by that hour, I bid you run- run as far, and as fast as the elements take you. These men are as good as dogs; earliest scent of freedom and they will track you down, sparing no moment of guilt or mercy My work still lies here. Keep strong."

Before there was time to respond, Tlurmin had flown from the stock, and returned to the roof of the Golden Hall, where he would watch as the scene unfolded. With beaded eyes he saw a large group, lead by Arayn, and tailed by Eomer, approaching the prisoner with uneven hearts. The maiden looked most determined of them all, and had resolute expression to suggest she would lead whatever inquiries brought them all there in such masses. Svika had barely finished staring at the place where the raven had momentarily stood when his eyes met the legion on its way to interrogate their humble captive.

Tlurmin's words echoed dull yet true, and the sharp wince as he tried to gain some degree of comfort made the unavoidable intervention fall further to reluctance.

[Lexicalized]

The group that proceeded down to the captive was a silent and all but sullen one.  Lady Arayn led the way, her steps confident, without a trace of hesitation in her face.  In her eyes there was a core of unyielding steel. 

She was doing what was right and she knew it. 

There was no stopping her now.

Pulling to a halt, Arayn stared at the two Rohirrim guards which stood by the captive's cell.  With wide, darting eyes, they quickly moved aside, one opening the door.  The loud screech of rusty metal rang through the room. 

The captive looked up sullenly at his captors, slowly turning his gaze from one face to another before it landed on the lady who stood at the forefront.  He struggled to inhale the oxygen his body needed, his chest hindered by the chains that bit his flesh.

Arayn stared at the bloodied man, a frown wrinkling her brow at the pain flashing in his eyes.  The chains were too tight. 

"Loosen his chains--allow the man to breathe or he shan't be able to speak."

The guards glanced hesitantly at Eomer King, but when Arayn cast a glare their way and the King said nothing to stop them, they obeyed quickly.  The chains were loosened and the captive's sides heaved unhindered, drawing in air with an air of relief.  He took a moment to catch his breath, the blood still dripping from the cuts on his chest, wrist and face. 

Finally his eyes returned to the lady captor, a gleam of rebellion flashing in his eyes.

"What a noble creature to show mercy for such filth as I," he snarled sarcastically, "what is it you require of me?  And if I give it not, will you then rebind me, only the more tighter for my resistence?  You men and women of Rohan speak of honor and justice, and yet you bind us like dogs, and strike us when we do not do as you please.  You tame horses well, this I will not deny, but there is something in the heart of man which will not allow him to be tamed."

"Silent, fool," Arayn growled, "you know nothing.  I came hence to hear your story.  I stepped in to save your life, and yet you speak words of hate and wrath.  Speak, tell us why you carry a message for the filt--...for the orc kind.  What can make a man do so?  You must have wisdom enough to see that we cannot understand why you speak for those who have always been the enemy of our people."

Svika stared at the woman.  There was a slight flicker of anger in her words, probably more that of being offended than anything else, but there was also something like compassion in the lines around her lips.  He opened his mouth to speak, but his story was so deep.  It meant so much to him.  None of them would understand. 

Suddenly his eyes filled with tears as he thought about those who had saved him, raised him, and only ever cared for him. 

"Though you pretend to have wisdom and understanding, lady of Rohan, you will never understand the story of my life, or the reasons why I bare the message of the orc kind.  It is something beyond your comprehension, because your hatred of our kind will not allow you to comprehend.  And if you, who dares to give me a chance to speak, will not understand, how then can those who hate everything I am, those who stand now behind you with hatred written in every line of their faces.  No, to them I will never speak."

Frustration swelled in Arayn's chest.  She turned to glance at her father and those who stood behind her.  The captive was right--they were hardly maintaining their composure.  The truth that her father would never really listen to the captive struck Arayn with the man's words.  She nodded slowly and turned once more to the captive, in time to catch the wince of pain and exhaustion on the man's face. 

Of course.  He was chained in such a way that he could not sit or lay his broken body down.  There was no sign of water or sustanence.

"Guards, bring the man some ale and beef.  With respect, father, I ask that the rest of you leave us.  The man speaks truth--none of you will yet hear his tale.  Make sure his chains, and then leave us."

[Wolfchild]

The food and drink was brought, but it soon dawned upon Arayn that there was no way for the captive to consume them; or at least no method that would not involve the liberation of his wrists. In any case, it seemed the prisoner did not want it, although he must have felt the pain of hunger and dehydration within. Instead Svika only gave the plate a stinging sigh, hanging his head and remaining silent.

Arayn felt a mixture of pity and contempt. She was supposed to, in her heart, loathe every essence of the man before her- his morals and way of life demanded it- but to see him and watch his slow decline felt as much torture for her as it did the captive. This was not the way Rohan should operate. But in their years of war and betrayal, no man or woman in Edoras had the measure left to allow compassion for old enemies. Though they strived to open their hearts, it became increasingly difficult to truly mean it.

Svika cared no more for talking either. It left the place uncomfortably silent as Arayn considered what better way to gather information without seeming relentlessly interrogative. So much and so little could be gained from the approach, but even without her position she wanted to know more about him. Already she realised that this was not the anarchic brigand that her father, amongst others, assumed. He spoke with a learned tongue and a civil heart- used, of course, in his aim to unite once sparring races.

No wonder his tone had grown fouler. He was a messenger; proof of what could happen with understanding and commitment to peace. The enemy, on the other hand- why, they had made every effort to fill the role themselves.

The shock set in her before a surge of regret brought strange maternal desires.

"What's your name?" she asked, with no incline of anger nor forced query.

Finally, she began to talk as a friend.

[Lexicalized]

Svika's head came up slowly at the woman's words.  He heard the change in her voice, and when he looked upon her, saw the same change in her face.  There was no anger, no stubborn pride of the Rohirrim, no flushing hatred on the young woman's features. 

Only something like sympathy and compassion.

This threw Svika offguard.  He had been prepared for interrogation, hatred, words of rage spat from mouths of hate...But compassion?  Understanding?  Would they actually listen to him? 

Pride swirled in his chest.  How dare she feel sympathy for him?  He was not a poor maimed deer, but a man, full of strength and vivid life.  He needed no pity. 

But...

The open note in her voice, the curious light in her eyes...

Svika struggled, not against the ropes that bound him, rather at the conflicting emotions and thoughts within.  Almost without his permission, his lips moved.

"Svika."

There was a silent paused.  He gasped for air once more and stared her in the eyes.

"They call me Svika."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arayn had watched the man's face as he dwelt in silence.  He had learned well how not to show any signs of emotion--she could not tell if he fought against her still in his mind, or whether he would bend and speak.  All she could do was sit and wait, watching his jaw work and his eyes flash.

But then suddenly he had spoken, almost as if it were against his will.  Svika.  His name was Svika.  A good start. 

The man licked his parched, cracked lips and Arayn was moved once more by a crashing wave of compassion.  She fought it for a moment, but when his eyes dropped from hers and fell to the pitcher of water at his feet--beyond his reach--she moved quick as lightning, but graceful as the horses of Rohan.

She poured a mug of water and almost timidly approached him.  For some odd reason, it felt as if she were approaching a fettered wild beast.  She moved silently to him and his eyes met hers.  His hands still bound, the proud wretch could not hold the mug.

Arayn, her face slightly tinged with scarlet, slowly eased the cup toward his lips.

He jerked away suddenly.  Arayn flinched.

"I don't need your pity, wench, nor your mercy.  You look at me as a maimed and trapped rabbit, but I am all beast.  Strength has and will course through these veins, and should I choose it, I could end my struggles and my pain quicker than you could think to stop me.  All it would take is to slam my own head into this stone floor.  Save your pity for the fowl you hunt."

Now the compassion of the Lady Arayn was deep, but still she maintained some of her father's fiery blood within her.  Such words stung like the adder's bite, stirring up within her a certain degree of righteous wrath.

"Will you bite the hand that tries to aid you?  Will you slay any chance you have of being heard?  You come bearing a message that none will hear, and when, perchance, you come upon one who will listen, you snap at her fingers.  I do not offer you my pity, for I see the strength that the ropes barely hold back.  Do not think I am a blind wench, for I see the muscles that ripple under your skin.  Let loose, you could slay.  But you are not loose."

Arayn fell silent, having no more to say.  She stood, still in arms reach of the man, cup still cradled in her hands.  Her anger, though strong when fully stirred up, was not permanent, and she waited to see if he would rebel or speak quietly.