Rhûnnaro stood in the shadows, as close to the entrance of the Hall as possible. What sort of men would want to enter the belly of a rock? It made his skin crawl to think about it, and he remembered with longing the wide, open plains of his homeland. Pushing back the stray hairs that trailed above his right eye, his hand came to rest on the back of his neck. He sighed in resignation, watching the lines of slaves filter in to the Hall.
The intervening years of his service to the Dark One had not abated his repulsion to this yearly ritual. He had made his deal with The Dark One’s minions, to see that the land was worked, food produced to fuel the Dark One’s armies. He had made no deal to let the Shadow eat his spirit. Rhûnnaro fingered the small, turquoise horse on the thin leather thong around his neck.
‘Ghosts,’ he whispered to himself, looking round at hunter and hunted alike. ‘All ghosts.’ His dark eyes slid over the gathering, his face impassive. ‘Shadows of men.’
Though the slaves at times, at least seemed more substantial than the others . . .
[ April 10, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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