[Imladris]

Lira

Brows furrowed slightly, Lira watched cooly as Esgallhugwen dragged the injured man from the ground, her long fingers grasping his hair. Lira did not know what to make of her -- already she could see glimmerings of the Dark Queen flash through her words and treatment of the prisoner. Yet he had killed them mercilessly, and he would gladly watch them die.

With a shrug, she stood beside Esgallhugwen and glanced at Thoronmir. His jaw set, their leader regarded the prisoner as if determining the best way to break him, the best way to squeeze the needed information out of him. Physical pain would be useless, Lira was sure: the man was not afraid of death obviously. Though his eyes were pecked out by Corn, it had not in anyway intimidated him...instead, it had increased his hatred of them.

A stifled sob reached her ear, and she turned quickly. His face pallid, Anson was kneeling beside Gorby and patting him on the back. Gorby himself was curled in a tight little ball, his face covered by his tanned hands. He was no longer crying, but a little sniffle every once in a while escaped from him.

Gliding towards him, she laid a hand upon his head and murmured an elvish blessing. "What ails thee, friend?" she whispered.

There was a moment of silence. "I saw something terrible in a cellar," he said softly, turning his large, glassy brown eyes towards her. He blanched, and trembled. "It was as if men were tortured and bled to death in there."

A torture chamber the words echoed in Lira's mind. The legs of men broken in cleanly in twain, the smashed skulls, their jaws contorted in a scream. "Would you bring me to this place?" she asked gently.

His eyes widened, his mouth slackened, and his face tightened. Breathing quickly, he said, "Yes, milady."

Kissing him on the forehead, she helped him to his feet. His little hands clenched within hers as he led her to the cellar.

The air was still and heavy within the chamber as she stood beside Gorby at the foot of the ladder. The hobbit had insisted on coming with her, but he was pressed close against her and she could feel him tremble. It was as he had said: the alter, the whipping post and the manacles hanging upon the walls. Yet there was something else as well, off to the side.

Slowly she drew towards it and soon saw that there were two slabs of stone, about a foot high and a little more than five feet apart. Chains, with manacles at the end, were slung around the small pillars. A butcher knife rested upon the first of the stones.

"What is it?" Gorby whispered softly.

"I don't know." Lira stared at it and closed her eyes. Whispers touched her ears: a song of grief.

Weep for the tears of the innocent,
For the lives wasted and spent,
Cry for the torturous pain,
For the bodies of the slain.

Wash us clean from the crimson tide
That poured from a victim's side,
Whose body was cleaved by the blade alone
Upon this cold bed of stone.

Tears trickled down her cheeks as she saw a ranger lying upon the two slabs of stone, hands and feet shackled to the ground. A man, garbed in black robes, swung the iron rod and brought it upon his legs. A snap of bones, a shrill scream, a lingering echo.

With a shake of her head, she opened her eyes. Gorby was beside her, shaking her. "Let us leave," he said plaintively.

She nodded and followed Gorby towards the ladder. But at the foot of it, she looked back at the "iron bedm," remembering the dirge of the stones.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 1:29 AM February 08, 2004: Message edited by: Imladris ]