[Lalwendë]

Tarn held his knife close to the Elf’s throat. He could feel a cold, clammy trickle of sweat running down the throat of his captive, and he tightened his grip as he felt his arm slipping. The filthy blade was close to the Elf’s skin, so close that he could cut that throat at any moment, should he choose to do so. But Galhardir stood before him with the oar, looking at him with murderous intent.

He didn’t want that thing to hit him again. The stitched wound on his ear had reopened and he could feel the blood trickling down the side of his neck; stars flashed before his eyes and he struggled to stay focussed.

“Let him go!” the younger man shouted at him. Tarn’s attention suddenly snapped back into place as he heard the words. Galhardir, shouting at him? Tarn remembered the days when he was a youth, desperate for a home and food, and he had been caught stealing by Galhardir’s father; he had never forgotten the boy, not much younger than him, running out with excitement to see his father punish the thief.

“You’re in no position to demand anything,” Tarn snapped, knowing that this time, he had the upper hand against Galhardir. Feeling the Elf wilting in his grip, Tarn issued an ultimatum. “Now, I’ll give you two seconds; drop your oar or the Elf dies.”

Galhardir dropped the oar, unable to do anything other than what Tarn told him. The Elf begged him not to, too late. Now Tarn was fully in control. He edged towards the oar and kicked it away. It fell with a clatter down into the hold where Galhardir could not reach it. With a glimmer in his eyes, Tarn nudged the Elf forwards; he moved meekly, held under his fear of the foul blade. The other man’s eyes grew wide in panic, as Tarn and his hostage came closer.

“I am no fool,” said Tarn, his voice strong and calm. “I know that if I so much as turn you will knock me down or jump on my back.” He felt the Elf trembling as though he was willing Galhardir to do just that. “You are the fool. If you hadn’t interfered then you would have been free. As it is, I’m afraid you will have to do as I say, or your friend here will die in a pool of his own blood”.

Thinking quickly, Tarn moved closer to Galhardir. It satisfied him to see the boy who had been so pleased to watch his punishment to now be shaking with fear and uncertainty. Tarn was filled with hatred for the man. He had all those things which Tarn had wanted, family and comfort, all the things which he had been forced to replace with greed and hatred. He wasn’t going to let this man prevent him from taking this Elf hostage. He had plans.

Tarn motioned to the hold. “You can get down there,” he said through clenched teeth. “You can get in there and you can stay there. You can sit in the dark, all alone like I used to do.”

Galhardir edged towards the hole in the deck, not taking his eyes off Tarn for a moment. If this was what he had to do to keep his friend alive, then he would do it, but he hoped there was some way he could get out of there; he couldn’t just leave Annu to Tarn’s whims. The hold was dark, and there were no steps leading up to the hatch. Galhardir crouched down, and lowered himself over the side, dropping out of sight.

Tarn immediately kicked the cover over the open hatch, and moving awkwardly to one side, he reached for a heavy barrel, and attempted to drag it over the deck towards him. He wanted to push the barrel over the hatch, to make sure Galhardir did not get out again. He had just remembered where he had kicked that oar. As he reached out with one arm, the other gripped even tighter about his captive’s neck, he heard a quiet yet anguished noise come from the Elf.

“The mist,” was what he said. Tarn stopped what he was doing, struck by these words. He looked about him for a moment, expecting to see a bank of sea fog rolling in, but he realised it was something only the Elf could see. His body grew limp, and Tarn realised with horror that he was about to die. Confused thoughts raced through Tarn’s mind. He ought to have felt pleased, but he did not. It was as though the grief of the Elf was dragging his own spirit along, as though where the Elf was now going, Tarn was going to come there too. He felt a sudden void open in the pit of his stomach, and tears started to prick his deep blue eyes. With horror, he pulled the knife away from the Elf’s throat, and dropped his ailing body to the deck.

Backing away as quickly as he could, his eyes wide with terror, Tarn clutched at his chest and sat down, gasping for air.