At first, they asked the same question again and again: “Where elves hidden?” Sometimes their butchering of Sindarin changed, though.
“Hidden elves, where?”
“Elves hiding, where?
Even, “Elves where hide?”
I think I could have learned better orcish than their elvish.
They removed the gag over my mouth long enough for me to give an answer and I thanked them with a scream from my lungs. My efforts were always met with a stinging lash, a sword hilt to my head, or a kick to my stomach. This parley would go on for minutes at a time. Even when the questions changed – “How many at Thangulhad?” – I traded screams, never answers.
I could not mark the passage of time anymore. I could never tell night from day or one day from another day. I walked when they walked, and I slept when they camped. I think they questioned me every day…every few hours…but I never heard an answer to my screams. I didn’t hear the other elf they had captured. Only the blows kept coming. And eventually I stopped screaming. The days seemed endless. Despite having spent most of my life secluded safely in King Thranduil’s halls, I could no longer remember the last time I had felt safe.
Still, I didn’t give answers. But somewhere along the way, I gave away my courage…my courage to complain, my courage to yell for help, my courage to make any sound.
