The blows showered down on Híthenér, splitting his lip and bruising his cheek. “I’m asking you nicely Elf,” said Giric as his men pummelled the prisoner, “Where is the refuge in Meluinen?”
“I’ve told you,” Híthenér spat out half a broken tooth, “I know not where it is and if I did I would never tell you.”
Remaining calm, Giric nodded to one of his men who now knelt over Híthenér and drew out a knife. The Hill-Man chieftain had clearly been expecting his captive to give in quickly; he was decked out for battle in a great fur cloak and scale armour that nearly reached his feet. The kneeling man proceeding to make a series of cuts in the Elf’s leg, not deep enough to be life threatening but still causing Híthenér excruciating pain, the wool of his trousers scratching the wounds. Grabbing his hair, Giric yanked to his feet and, looking into is eyes, whispered, “It hurts I suppose? It can all stop now you know; my servants can wash your wounds, give you food and drink. So what’s it to be?” Grimacing, Híthenér shook his head firmly. Gnashing his teeth, Giric kneed him in the stomach and the Elf sunk to the floor. “Put him in a cage,” he instructed his men. Híthenér was hung in a net of rusted iron and as the bars dug into his back he contemplated the situation. Having engineered Arnubên’s downfall, Giric was now in sole command of the warband. Following the Ongbúrz they had marched through Rhunenlad before building fortifications on a hill named Dol Dínen. It was there that Híthenér now noticed two other cages to his right, and in them were two prisoners in rough woollen shifts. The one closer to him was a young woman whose eyes were closed. Despite the cuts and bruises on her face, he could see that her features were fine, almost too fine for one of the Atani. Suddenly, realisation hit him. “Merenien,” he said quietly, “Is that you?” She looked up and immediately gasped, her eyes and mouth wide open. “Híthenér, you live! Praise be to Nienna!” she turned around to face the other cage, “Losgardil, Losgardil! Awaken; Híthenér has come back to us!” The other prisoner roused himself and indeed, it was Losgardil that Merenien called to. The Elf-warrior seemed just as surprised, but remembered his manners: “Well met friend, I am glad that you live, though not that you are caged as we are.”
“I share such sentiment,” replied Híthenér, “Though at least we are no longer in Angmar; down here there may be greater opportunity for escape.”
“We may even be rescued,” Merenien said hopefully, “The Dúnedain will surely know of our presence, for they are tall and keen-eyed.” Híthenér frowned at this for he placed little faith in Men, least of all in the blood of Númenor. Losgardil also seemed unable to share in this hope, though he still appeared pleased to see Híthenér. Few in the company had trusted the newcomer who would not tell of his past, especially since he called himself ‘mist-man’. Despite their obvious joy, Híthenér did not doubt that his fellows would rather have met with Belorion or Nannorviel.
“We must think of some way to escape these cages,” insisted Merenien.
“I agree,” said Losgardil, “But not at this present moment. I can hear our captors approaching so we must be silent; if they discover that you are known to us they may twist it to their own ends.” The three Elves stopped talking for, as Losgardil had predicted, Giric arrived with several men. “Bring those two,” he said, pointing at Merenien and Losgardil. Híthenér cursed under his breath as his comrades were dragged off. Giric steeped up to the cage and, thinking Híthenér asleep began to quietly speak, his tone one of triumph. “All that stubbornness Elf, all that pain, it was all for nothing. “We’ve found where your friends are hidden and tomorrow we’ll murder every single one of them.”
All through the night and the following day Híthenér hung in the cage. No food was brought to him, no water even. His body still hurt from the torture the day before and he could begin to feel his strength ebbing away. He feared for the residents of Lin Giliath and even more so for Merenien and Losgardil. The Elven refuge was small as he remembered, lacking the warriors to hold off the Hill-Man assault. When the Men of Angmar returned he despaired, thinking they had destroyed the haven. Yet when Giric finally returned, he did not seem in good spirits. He had run ahead of his hearth-men, who could not keep up with his long stride. He came straight to Híthenér, before shouting, “Time for you to celebrate Elf!” he growled, all his previous nonchalance vanished. “You want to know why? The trolls of the forest got their first! They hardly made a good job of it; the buildings were barely scratched, the treasures within left undisturbed!” he shook the cage, making Híthenér cough violently. Giric turned away, speaking more quietly now but with even greater bitterness. “There’d still have been plenty for us, but now another party of Elves has arrived, too many for us to take on.”
“What did you do with the two who were here with me?” Híthenér asked, the words scratching his parched throat.
“What does it matter? They deserved death, just as you do,” he swivelled to face his prisoner once more. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be rich by now, the Rich-King of Angmar!” he spat out the joke, the following mad laughter seemingly transforming into tears of misery. “This morning I swore I would slay an Elf, so now I’ll do just that. Oh don’t worry, I’ll give you time to suffer, time to beg me to end you quickly. Drawing his long knife, he fumbled with the keys, trying to find the lock. Híthenér tried to push him off, but his strength was gone. He was still having difficulty with the lock when an expression of horror seized the Northman’s face. He coughed up blood, then sank to the floor revealing a goose-feathered shaft protruding from his back. Híthenér looked up, and saw a face he knew.
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Dol Dínen
Submitted by Hithenair on July 6th, 2014
