[Imladris]

Gorby

I threw rocks and watched them with dull interest as they skittered across the ground and then landed in a small cloud of dust. Anson still leaned against the stone wall, eyes half closed, head downcast as he slowly stripped a wayward stem of its brown, crisp leaves.

I looked at the hurrying elves and men as they fanned across the dying greensward and stared after them longingly. No matter how unpleasant their search was, it surely wasn’t as unpleasant as loitering about an abandoned village on guard duty -- as if there was anything to guard against! With a sigh, I turned to Anson and said, “What about you and me go and explore a bit?”

Anson lifted his head and frowned. “But we are supposed to guard,” he said cautiously. “Besides, I don’t really want to go in there. The elves don’t like it.”

As usual, Anson was being responsible. Good old Anson. “Well, this guard duty really is a job for one,” I said. “If there’re any problems, just let me know.”

I tried to ignore Anson’s puppy dog eyes as I left and at the same time tried to smother my guilt and inflame the spirit of adventure. But as I climbed through the gate, stepping lightly on the ground, I didn’t really see why we were here at all. It was barren, deserted, brown. No life grew…even the weeds were dying which was strange for them since they can thrive just about anywhere to the dismay of any gaffer.

The brown skeletons of the weeds tickled my feet a bit, but that didn’t bother me really. It occupied me in trying to side step them and seeing if it would tickle me as much if I stepped differently. I imagined myself as a tracker seeking an unknown menace to society and that these weeds were his tracks and that if I stepped wrongly then the tracks would be mussed and I would loose my prey. It was quite unreal I know, but what else was I supposed to do?

My foot landed on something wooden. Then a low reluctant creak as I put my full weight on it and jumped. A hollow echo, a relieved sigh as I stepped from the wood and scraped the weeds away. I saw that it was a door to an underground cellar, more than likely. If it was a cellar maybe there would be a bit of decent food down there. But with our luck, the bread would be moldy, the vegetables shriveled and dry and the wine sour. I shrugged. It wouldn’t hurt to explore it. But the door was bound with iron and a rusted lock encircled the iron handle and a tarnished iron loop that was attached to the ground. Peering at the lock I saw that much of the metal had been eaten away and that it would easily break with a strong enough blow. I looked around for a rock and soon found one; it took only short work for the blows to break the lock.

A rickety ladder led into darkness and it took me awhile before I gathered the courage to climb down. I had to tell myself that even harmless cellars are dark and that the only danger they held was a spider contentedly spinning her web or else sucking the juice from an unfortunate fly. But not even those eight-legged creatures greeted me as I descended.

It was not as dark as it appeared: more brownish grey than pitch black which is what I had expected. I was in a large circular room paved with flat stones and the walls were lined with brick and in the center of the room was a large wooden post: strange, for cellars are dark and small with the solid dirt for walls. Also there were no bins of vegetables which was most curious for a cellar.

That was when I realized that I wasn’t in a cellar. A chill wind crept down my spine from the opening above and I hastily moved forward.

Something hung from the walls and clanked against them when the wind blew. I crept towards the hanging things and touched them: made of cold iron they were. Iron bracelets were attached to a strong chain: manacles stained with a brown that was not rust. I dropped it and shuddered. I knew that it was dried blood.

Making my way towards the wooden post that stood guard in the center of the room, I saw that a whip with nine leather strips hung from it. Shards of glass stuck from the leather and at the bottom broken chunks of pottery were attached. Beads of sweat dropped down my forehead as I imagined a warden, a mocking laugh upon his twisted lips, jeer and shout as he brought the cat o’ nine tails upon a shackled prisoner’s back; I could hear the agonized screams as the pottery and glass tore his skin into ragged ribbons, saw the blood running down like crimson rivers, staining the stones; I saw the iron manacles cutting into his wrists as he writhed in agony. I turned hastily away and saw a stone table draped in shadows out of the corner of my eye.

I didn’t want to go look at it, but a budding curiosity bid me go on. Slowly I crept towards it not knowing what to expect. I almost wished that I would find crumbling plates and scattered silverware upon it…what else would a table be used for? But who would eat in this hole of death and suffering?

The table was smooth, clean. A lean, long, dagger laid in the center. The silver skulls upon the dagger leered up at me. Strange writing was carved deeply into the stone and I wondered what it said. Shackles were at the foot and head of this stone table. I gasped and wondered why a man would be bound upon a table….some sort of torture maybe.

With a sob, I stumbled from the underground chamber and clambered up the ladder as fast as I could. Slamming the door down, I put a rock upon it and ran back towards Anson.

“What did you find?” he asked.

I glanced at him, wondering if I should describe it to him. No. He did not need to know, did not need to see it -- he could not bear pain or suffering.

Turning to the prisoner, I rearranged the bandage which was beginning to slip. Then I asked, “Who are you?”

Silence. The man curled his lips and spat at me. I leaned over and I whispered, “I saw the underground room and I saw the blood and the cat o’ nine tails and a strange table. What was it for?” I stared at his bandaged face, imagining his cold brown eyes.

A broad smile grew upon his face -- a cold smile as if he gloated over me. “You did, did you? Was there a dagger upon it?”

I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see. “Yes.”

“It was a sacrificial table,” he said in a whisper. “Men were put upon it, and shackled so they could not struggle. Then maybe their brains would be beaten out, or their heart ripped out with the beautiful dagger you saw and the priests held it, the heart still pumping, in their hands and --”

“Enough,” I tried to shout, but it came out as a mere squeak.

“Oh, but there’s more,” the prisoner said, with a soft smile. “You see, the priests leech you, suck the blood from you until no more comes out. And the blood is caught in a flagon which is sent to --” the prisoner stopped here, a satisfied smile on his lips. “You see, hobbit maggot,” he said in a whisper, “you’re still alive when they’re bleeding you, and they make it as painful as possible. And as they lay prone on the alter, their faces contorted in pain, you can read the dread as they feel their life and hope slowly draining from them; you can see, nay taste, their fear as they realize that they are dying and that not one can come and save them.”

Without answer and ignoring his hollow chuckle, I turned away and huddled against the wall, shuddering. I couldn’t get the images out of my head. I buried my face into my hands, trying to drive them away: I tried to think of flowers, but their petals dripped with blood; the sky was stained crimson; men with sacrificial bludgeons and knives lurked in the shadows of the Old Forest. I tried to think of Anson, but he was bound upon the table. I gasped and cried wishing that I was back home in Buckland alone with my pipe and sister.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 8:57 PM February 04, 2004: Message edited by: Imladris ]