[Eorl of Rohan]

Fever is a terrible illness in that it destroys both the body and the living mind. The inflicted is forced to re-live the most traumatic of his half-forgotten memories, hereto locked away by the unconscious mechanism of mind to prevent misery and madness. Often this process is painful not only for the victim, but for those who are tending him as well. However, like all things beneath heaven and on earth, even fever-induced hallucinations may be surmounted by violent emotions the like of which Ferethor held for Rakin…

He had been whimpering and tossing about restlessly before he came in. Ferethor’s sleep, broken now and then in moans and mutterings, was interrupted at that moment by a creak of the doorway and a voice that he thought he recognized… Could it be Rakin? Consciousness flickered in and out. He would be suicidal if he thought anyone had seen him like this, and when it was that man… Come on, at least sit up, say something, for Eru’s sake, to reveal any weakness of his… Ferethor curled into a shivering ball, the countenance deathly pale, his breathing weak and punctuated with wet coughs that soaked his sleeve with liquid blood. There was his name mentioned, wasn’t there? Or was it just his mind playing tricks on him? It all made little sense to him. Overlapping all sounds and thoughts were the drip, drip, incessant drip of his blood, soaked up by the thirsty planks that thrived on pain and death and blood and… and… hate. A hard feeling, like a steel rod, and enough to jerk him to a brief awareness. The last sentence he caught was as follows – take him to my room. Everyone knew what that sentence meant, and for an instant Ferethor managed to capture a wisp of pity for Chakka. It disappeared as quickly as it appeared, though. In his profession, there was no room for anything other than the primal instinct of survival. Those who couldn’t rouse it died. Now it was time to try his limits –

“Oh gods, my dear man, no. No, myself and Chakka will enjoy a…a little drink together. And when she sun rises to her peak, then we’ll see if he’ll look me in the eye.” He heard, and it took a moment for it to register.

THAT was definitely Rakin. It is not certain that any other emotion would have roused Ferethor who was so far into the state of lethargy, but these last words were enough to snap the last ties to the unconsciousness that held him fast. Ferethor’s eyes opened, unfocused for a moment on the rough-shod planks that lined the ceiling of the slave shelter, wavering, like a half-drowned man recovering from the throes of death... Then he closed it for a moment in pain, and when he opened it again, it was the cold gray eyes of a man who could make a decision and act on it on the spur of the moment. And that was what he did.

When Chakka and the two others went out, it didn’t take long for Ferethor to slip a piece of plank in the sill of the door to serve as a wedge against the door closing completely. Then he was out – a bloody mess, certainly, and weak enough to cause little harm, but free. Now, if that trail of blood didn’t show, it would be a lot better to hide – there was no place to hide in this small ship, he knew, but he needed only to hide until he had Rakin pitted on his own spear. Although he wasn’t going to be able to when he was this weak – was there any place to go? Always go to the least place the other would think of searching for you. The answer immediately supplied itself. The sailor’s barracks. Half an hour later, before any alarm has been aroused – and why would there be an alarm, when Rakin has just been and the slaves still at the oars? – Ferethor had easily dispatched an unwary sailor, threw his body to the waves, and had slipped into the uniform with the very wholesome and natural intention to kill Rakin. The ship was big enough that no one would notice the disappearance of a sailor or the appearance of another – at least, not for something more than two hours hence. Therefore, no one took notice of the sailor-clad man leaning on the wall of the captain’s room, as if tired, with his eyes closed, and listening with mingled tension and curiosity. Rakin was inside – that much he could gather – but the sentences were fragmented and hard to hear.

He let his guard down after a while in his desire to hear more, confident that no one could hear him, another mistake that could cost him his life or not. But he was beyond caring.