To what Depths we must Delve - Part 1
Erfaron Sílûgnir, Ost-in-Edhil, Eregion, 1522, SA
In custody of Lord Celebrimbor after a violent brawl with another survivor of Gondolin
He was sat against the far wall, seemingly transcended to a state of cool repose. But there was something about the cold blue stars of his eyes. They froze all hearts that entered and observed him. More than one had made excuses to return before time to the floors above. But this one visitor did not. He was younger than the others, too young for a guard. Maybe a messenger. He stared openly at the caged Elf and did not trust himself to speak. So it spoke first.
“Are they charging an admission fee for entry now ?”
The healer stared, his mouth falling open with a gasp as the prisoner turned.
“You seem determined to get some grubby coins worth of a sight,” the assaulting opinion continued. “What ails ?” Erfaron sighed. “Have you never seen a Mole before ?”
“
I thought ..,” the youth swallowed, “
that is, I read they .. you, umm were all dark of hair.” His accusation sounded almost an apology.
“Dark of soul, you mean,” the prisoner scoffed. “Scribes will do anything to sound dramatic, particularly for the sake of those who never saw what is now written of.” A roll of bored eyes slowed the Eldar’s tone, so the explanation devolved unto condemnation. “If you spent months at a time in Anghabar, figure then if your hair does not happen to resemble the recesses of the sunless deep, as lore would then allege.” The justification birthed a pause. “You are still here ?” the guest was charged, as an invitation to depart.
“
I have just come from seeing the other elf who ... well, I am to change your dressings as well,” the young Elf raised his supplies in both hands as evidence. And a confession, that the other survivor had been tended to foremost.
“He is still with us then ?” the Mole lamented.
“
If he were dead, you would be expected to pay far more than an apology in compensation,” rallied the now righteous youth. Who had been born in an age long after it was tendency for Elves to slay their kin.
“Apologise ?” Sílûgnir took his back from the wall, and the healer recoiled, finding the opposite bars now as a wall behind him. “To him ?” the Mole spat at the floor between them, as though the disagreeable survivor of the House of Fountain was sat there. “After he spoke so derogatory of the grandson of Finwë ?”
“
The apology is to our Lord Celebrimbor, the only now living descendent of Finwë, for disregarding his law, his peace ..”
“They have said all this already,” the pale veteran waved one wrist dismissively, unmoved by all reason. “Leave if you have nothing new to offer. For naught yet has altered my opinion on the matter. I shall not apologise for defending those whom can not defend themselves. Only cowards would attack the dead, even with the ignorance of words.”
“
A coward would not volunteer to change your dressings,” countered the youth. “
But our Lord would not see even you to suffer needlessly ..”
“Yet here you are ..” the disdain was not subtle.
“
I must ..” the healer began anew.
“Change the dressings,” his ‘patient’ proved that he had heard. More than once. “Must you ?”
“
I should not like to have to ask the guard to restrain you,” the youth decided to recall who was in the wrong here. And who was supposed to be in control.
“Oh you really would not like that,” Erfaron agreed, though glanced idly to the strong chains stapled to the wall at either side, as though to taunt him, and ignored them, being that he was thankfully able to. For they had not impeded him. The smith lord was not needlessly cruel and had not insisted upon fetters. His attendant thought better of his bluff, and dealt out a threat more liable.
“
This may hurt some ..” he warned, edging closer, as though readying to tend a cornered beast, which was not far from the truth. Though the Mole was a very well-spoken beast.
“Why does that look as to frighten you more than I ?” Erfaron scoffed. “There is little you can do to .. ” a sharp exclamation which was not so well-spoke escaped him, and the patient drew his injured arm away from further such ‘treatment’.
“
I did say,” his healer almost smiled.
“You did,” the agreement did not sound at all agreeable. ”You think I brought this hurt upon myself.” the prisoner assumed.
“
We both know that you do not care what I think,” the healer mentioned, reaching for the affliction a second time. “
You don't even know me,” he added. And yet, in so doing, reminded the elder elf of a healer he had known, countless years ago.
“I'm bored,” the Mole admitted. “You are the first means of entertainment I've had all day .”
“
And here I thought you had no want for company,” the younger elf, applying his trade to a begrudging but less now mutinous patient, found himself more bold..
“I would not count you any kind of company,” he was informed.
“
And we are done,” the young healer sounded as though it had been an ordeal for them both. ”
Rest, be still. Let those stitches mend swiftly. And consider apologising. If you want the sword back ...”
“We are done, you said,” he was reminded, of who he was lecturing. The Mole shifted in his seat, and the healer, gathering his things, dropped some upon the floor. “So leave,” the prisoner demanded, as though he possessed the right. “You are not half so intriguing a distraction as I assumed,” a yawn supported the insult.
“
You want to never leave this place ?” the elf of Eregion backed up, his supplies seized up in a jumble in both arms. “
You're going the right way about it,” he declared, sliding the door back into it’s place, and recovering his safety on the far side of the bars.
“Do you want to never leave this place ?” pale eyes returned though the thin lips barely rustled, countering the warning with one of his own. “You are going the right way about it,” he repeated back the healer’s warning, turning it unto a warning of his own. And rose up to his feet.
The sound of the healer’s own feet flapping in their hurry to fly out, to safety, mingled with the laughter that the Mole echoed about the dingy room.
**********************************************
"Evil shall not be harnessed by laughter or fair song, whatever noble Lords might have you to believe. The world is a darker place than ever we once gave thought to imagine, and our labours to address such threat have likened us to adapt, wheresoever necessary.”
(Erfaron Sílûgnir, speaking to Menellote Silosse - his mother)
Igneous 'Iggy' Bloodbeard and Erfaron Sílûgnir
The Ruins of Ost-in-Edhel. After the Sack of Eregion, 1699 SA approx.
It was now eighty years since he had finally grown bored enough to speak up an apology. Eighty years since he had seen these cells. Since he had seen that same young healer elf, in this self-same prison. Of course the Lord Celebrimbor was no more lord than this was even a city any more. And healing was far from likely for anyone who now loitered in the wake of Sauron’s invasion.
The healer had looked better, and could not have likely looked much worse; having evidently took his own turn now as captive, at the pleasure of orcish interrogators. Ever since the sack of the city by Sauron's minions, those same fiends were eager, ever eager, to know of the 'elvish sneak ways' into the renowned valley refuge. The ways into Imladris. By the looks of the unfortunate healer, he had not obliged their requests, even if he had been aware of the answers which were sought. Or maybe he had. Orcs possessed little restraint where opportunity and resources both set at hand. They simply could not help themselves.
The result was .. Horrific. Eyelids cut off, ears removed, lips sliced. The interrogator sure can't have been too genuinely interested about receiving the answers to his croaking demands. But now his plaything had fallen beyond the ability to even bleat denials. So the Dwarf and his accomplice were granted the opportunity to inspect the damage done, while the interrogator found his frolics elsewhere.
“
This one still draws breath,”
Iggy noted, peering up at the trembling tatters of the not so young now healer. Drawing his great battleaxe to ready, the Dwarf presumed to shatter the chains which held the unfortunate soul. A hand on his shoulder stilled him, and saw the gruff warrior turn where he stood.
“Not for long,” the Mole diagnosed, tilting his head to better surmise the captive’s sorry situation. “And if he slows our missive then we shall ourselves fare no better,” he turned, and walked away from the beleagoured gasps of the mutilated healer.
“
You want to leave him here ?” the Dwarf sought to confirm what he could not completely believe he had heard. “
Like this ?”
“I do not want that guard to come back and find his meat stole. And risk his alerting the entire garrison that there must be an escape or some intruder,” Erfaron did not break gaze with his friend, who slowly lowered his weapon.
“
Sorry friend,”
Iggy clambered unto the great stone slab littered with torture equipment. “
Can’t be doing with it,” he swore to himself. And dealt a valiant blow over head from his stage, cracking the tormented healer’s skull like an egg with one sound blow. Brains bled from the fissures that dyed the honeyed hair unto a crimson crown.
Erfaron leant an eye back from where he was poised at the door. He dropped the firm line of his mouth and shook his head in disapproval.
“
Can’t say as they’ll think one of ours did that,”
Iggy crashed from the raised stone back down to ground, with a graceless landing. “
They’ll believe it one of theirs. And he wont go giving us up, even if he wanted to.” the Dwarf concluded.
“We are behind schedule,” the Mole let him know. And led the way through the dungeons, as one who was so familiar was able. Their scheme to bring down the entire foundations of the crumbling ruin upon it’s occupying army, depended upon it. And upon the strength of stomach that would not be stalled, no matter what. They had broken in, at great risk, and if they never wanted to leave this place … then to delay would be to go the right way about it.
