[piosenniel]

Durelin – slave of Mordor

NAME: Jordo

AGE: Older than 20

Race: Man of Gondor

GENDER: Male

APPEARANCE: Relatively short and stocky with dark hair and eyes, pale skin and a few freckles around his small nose. He has thick limbs, strong, muscular arms and legs from years of exerting work. His body has adapted to the lifestyle that has been forced upon him. His skin has grown rough and hard, his feet to the greatest extent, resembling those of a hobbit. His hair has been unkempt for too long, and has grown very coarse, but it remains curly and untamed through all abuses. It never grows far past his shoulders, though it has only been cut twice in his life. He is not allowed much in terms of clothing, but even orcs understand the dignity in covering certain parts of the body, thanks to their very few humane attributes. A basic body tunic composed of an unknown material is all that is allowed, and it is considered to be enough. The slaves are actually quite happy with such a small amount of clothing, as the heat from ever burning fires surrounds them as they work, though there is no sunlight. At night, or whenever they sleep, it is fiery and sunless as well, of course. It is always night in Mordor.

PERSONALITY/HISTORY: Born a slave, Jordo knows nothing but fear and obedience. He has lived as all but an animal. His mother tried to nurture the seeds of humanity within him to growth until her death several years ago. He has been told of how humans live and how they should be free, but it is hard for him to believe in even the existence of a human world. There has never been any proof of this, other than the stories his mother would tell. And he never had understood why she told them if they made her so sad.

After years of watching his mother in pain, too proud to cry out until the pain made her forget anything but, Jordo has determined that he must obey. He knows of some of this pain himself, though he refuses to believe that any of it reached the greatness of what his mother withstood. After watching his mother die in the hands of his masters, Jordo is afraid of pain above all else. And the greatest pain, he believes, is found in death. He knows; he has felt it, hasn’t he?

His name even reflects this situation, at least the name he relates with himself. His full name has been lost in the small capacity of his mind and memory. Most of his memories revolve around his mother, and ‘Jordo’ was what his mother had always called him. It is an abbreviation of his real name, but he is not aware of this. He is aware of very little, and even his speech is limited, mainly just because he is out of practice. Since the death of his mother, he has had little contact with real human. She had been one of the strongest of the past generation of slaves, the generation that had known freedom, and many had fallen under an orc sword, whip, or hand, never to rise again, before her. Jordo sees little but orcs and creatures such as himself, and that little is made up of monsters much worse than his taskmasters, as these terrors are taskmaster to them.

Jordo has come to understand that he is there to serve, to do as he is told, and he has made it impossible for himself to disobey. Luckily, though he does not see it as lucky, his mother has done enough to keep disobedience as a thought in his mind. He has ignored this thought for years now, though, and it has begun to fade from being at all a temptation. Jordo has even begun to think of rewards, the few and pitiful ones that are given to those who serve well. But the desire for these ‘treats’ always brings guilt upon him, as the memories of his mother tell him that this is wrong. Jordo has begun to be unsure of what exactly is wrong much less what is right. Truly, he has never been able to – much less had the chance to – seize either concept as truth.

~*~

Durelin’s post

Another scream reverberated in his head, and it shook his mind, thus shaking his entire body in a convulsive shiver. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he had no trouble recognizing that sound of pain, and who felt that pain. It was sad that he knew his mother’s scream just as well as he did her loving voice, but he did not understand this. Jordo knew he felt something, and it was so very uncomfortable. This was painful, in some way – he thought he understood ‘pain’ – but he wondered why he felt pain. Pain was a punishment, and he had been good.

Jordo remained curled up on the ground, listening to the screams for several moments, until a hand touched him softly on the arm. It was cold and rough, blistered and bony, but it still sent warmth running through him, knowing that this was not an orc hand. He pulled his head out from within his arms, and noticed that the world around him had grown silent. There were no more screams. His mother knelt next to him in the dirt and soot, her face showing no signs of pain. And Jordo’s eyes were dry. The world was so silent.

“Mama, I’ll be good, mama! I won’ hurt you mama, I’ll be good! They won’ hurt us, I’ll be so much good!”

“So very good, Jordo.” Her loving voice made him smile, even though she now spoke without her mind, as it was wandering in sadness. “What you do can’t stop them from hurting your mama, and I’d never want it to. You must let them hurt me, Jordo.”

“Never!” he cried, but still his eyes were dry. His mother smiled.

“If you truly mean never, Jordo, they will hurt you so much more.”

“What you mean, mama? Mama?”

There was no answer, and now he looked down at his mother as she lay on the ground. She lay on the ground, silent and still, and yet his eyes were dry. “Mama?” his voice cried out in an horror and a growing anguish that he could not feel.

“You let them hurt you, mama!”

Now the sounds returned to his silent world, though he could not determine what he heard or distinguish any single sound. A warm itchiness tickled at his cheek, and his hand reached up to scratch it. He felt a wetness, and with this feeling so many others returned to his mind, and he cried freely. The knowledge of where he was, and that seeing his mother had had to have been a dream, made his body shake in small sobs.

Metal ground and screeched, and they were the first noticeable sounds yet heard. He was alone, yet he was in the little room he had known all his life: his cell. And so he felt at ease. He dried his eyes. They were coming to get him, it seemed, though it was not time yet for work; he knew that. But he also knew that he had nothing to fear, because he had always been so very good. But it was not an orc that came for him, but a man dressed in the same garb as Jordo. In his hand was a set of keys.

“Come with me!” he whispered urgently, and Jordo was so ready to obey that he was silent as he rose to follow the man.