[Eorl of Rohan]

Ferethor had been awake for some time now. He had shifted himself into a sitting position, painful as it was, his back against the wood-paneled walls damp with mold and the dark breath of the sea. The chill of the darkness closed around him as if a burial shroud. He was almost thankful for the intense pain that seared his awareness now and then, a stark relief all the more brutal because he knew the reason for his fear - he dreaded being left alone with his memories. Linvail. No, control yourself. Not now. How had he come here in the first place? He raised his hand to the brow where a cold sweat of agony had broken out, and then he remembered. Faintly. He was released from his chains, after a skirmish with a guard that resulted in this - Here he wryly smiled - and thrown into this clammy confines of the slave quarters where he was left to recuperate as best as he might. Little chance of that. He had slept less than half an hour. Worn out as he was, there was something else that persistently demanded his attention - war.

Assuming that he was sane, e.g. not hearing imaginary voices, he had heard that war was afoot. Not the small raids, pirating, or some such, but a real war on a larger scale than ever before, against Gondor. The land of stone… What memories had he kept of his motherland? Minas Anor, twin to Minas Ithil, where he was born and raised. Its tall battlements. The massive harbors that sparkled with thousand dancing flames at every sunrise. The soldiers, strong and faithful. He remembered the sound of their swords clashing against their shields, the troops raising their voice as one in the ancient battle cries. And… His king. Telumehtar, wise and great, and remembering him, he again told himself that Gondor could not lose. But… If it does… What then? If he was free, at least he could throw himself upon the blades of his enemies and die a valiant death, even though there would be no one to sing of the valor of the last soldiers of Gondor. But here, bound by chains both material and invisible, the latter being the sea – nowhere to escape to even if he was free – what could he do? He asked himself this question again and again, although there was no answer forthcoming. What could he do, restricted in his every movement, alone?

Perhaps - Ferethor let the last sentence dangle unfinished as he involuntarily stole a glance in the other prisoner's direction. For there was another thrall, other than he, although he did not stir the whole time he had been here... Who was he? Liquid illumination seeped through the cracks in the boards, alighting for a moment on the closed eyes of the thrall before winking away. It was enough to reveal the features of his countenance. His name was what... Chakka? Could he use him to his advantage? Ferethor considered for a moment, and decided that this matter could wait. He had patience enough.

The most pressing of concerns was to assess his injuries. He gingerly ran a hand over his wounds, which had scarcely closed and bled afresh at his touch. Trivial. He had earned worse at their hands. But then, ha. The circumstances were different. The worst hiding that he could remember was when he stabbed their captain, Rakin, with a shard of his dead comrade’s bone – aiming for the heart, too, but he had blocked it in time with his wrists. If he, Ferethor Steele, remembered the wrongs done him, it was not likely that he would forget who gave him that jagged scar on his left wrist. His laughter was abrupt and brutal, and very short-lived.

Then, silence, his hand frozen over his shoulder wound, which was deeper than he had expected. A lot deeper. The guard’s dagger had knifed cleanly through his muscles, and laid the flesh open to the horrifyingly white shoulder-bones peeking through the torn muscles. Blood was welling out of it like a hot spring, frothing and bubbling, so that for no reason whatsoever he suddenly remembered a half forgotten rhyme – where the noldor slew the foamriders and stealing drew… His whole body was shaking with unexplainable cold. The scalding blood poured down his shoulder and stained the rough planks on which he crouched, making a rich, deep red stain that the planks soaked up gladly. His touch, he realized too late, had torn open the half-closing wound. A mistake. Should have been more careful. Too late. The blood disappeared into cracks between the coarse flooring, drip, drip, drip. Just beneath the slave quarters was the workplace itself, and the blood might be dripping down on their heads, the methodical, melodious drip, drip, drip… He was hallucinating, he knew, and tried to wrench himself away. But he had lost too much blood, from the whipping and now this. He couldn’t even move.

The persistent melody recurring over and over in his mind was the song of the kinslayers and the death of Felagund.