The Capture, and Escape of Andarne

((Document in process of being re-written))

(You unroll the scroll before you, and see a fine Elvish Script. It is written heavily, as if the author wishes to make a point.)

Even as I write this, my heart wonders if it is yet time...I know not, but my mind tells me so. Thusly, I shall begin anew...

(There is a fine Elf line across the page, seperating the text above from the text below)

My name is Andarne. I am the leader of a Sect of The Malledhrim. I am an archer by trade, but if you are reading this, then that much you already know.

The story I am writing of, did not happen in fiction. Nor a age ago, but it is an event within my lifetime. It is the tale...of my capture, my torture, and my escape.

(There is another fine line)

It was the year 2,341 of the Third Age....

I left my Newphews and Niece with Lady Galadriel, for their protection, and set out on a journey, to where, I never knew. I just had the urge to do so. Nevertheless, I travelled far, and wide, seeing many sights.

Ered Luin was my homeland, for a time. But it's fall happened all too soon, at the hands of Skorgim Dourhand. Exactly one year to the date, I set off for Home once more. But I was besieged by orcs, and was taken to their stronghold, deep in the Trollshaws. For many, many years they tortured me. Cutting, hacking, gnawing, biting and buring my flesh with their whips, swords and brands. I would have succumbed, if it were not for the timely intervention of my kindred Elves from Rivendell, cousins of my kind in Lorien. The saw me, lying almost lifeless on the floor, and swiftly bore me to Lord Elrond. I will always owe him a debt of gratitude, for it was by his healing, the worst of the damage was healed. The scars, on the more provinent areas of my body (face, chest, arms, legs) were healed, but I asked him to remove only the foul markings of the orcs from my back, leaving behind a rememnant that I should never let my guard down.

Following fifty years in Rivendell, I set out again for Ered Luin, to pay my homages to the Elves who died there. After doing so, I went South, to Celondim, where my true life in Middle Earth began. And, it is where I shall stop writing, for now...for I have given you the brief version of the tale.

(There is a fine line across the page once more)

Darkness, that is what I remember the most about the lair. The orcs pushed and pulled, stabbed and poked at me as they dragged me, half unconcious, through their halls. "Glob! Glob búbhost!" they would say to me, which pained my ears greatly; for it was the Black Speech of Evil. Then, my vision became a blurr. The hood that was over my head, was whipped off; and I could see little at first. But then, I saw my captors, foulest of a foul race. Tall, strong, and hungry. I thought I would not last the night. How wrong I was. Their leader, a fearsome creature they called Minalslak, would sit by me, asking of my homeland, secrets of the Elves, other things...but I did not yield, I never did. And each time he was met with silence, I was whipped or stabbed; not lethally. But enough to give me an idea of how vile orcs could be.

My first night, after the gruesome whipping, and orchestra of orc laughs, I was sent to a small cell, made of rotting wood, bones and filth. Alone, I sat, in the darkness and wept. Yes, I wept. I thought of my mother, and her Sindar blood that ran through my veins. I thought of my father, and his Noldor blood that flowed through my veins. I thought of my homeland, of the ancestry of Lorien. I thought of the three remaining members of my family. But in truth, it was the thought of defying the orcs that kept me going. I would defy them to the bitter end!

For many nights, this...routine followed. I was fed a disgusting concoction of gruel. And each night, the orcs would get angry that I would eat, or not. And each night, the orcs would whip me and question me, and each night...I would not yield. I even heard them conversing, wondering if I was fresh enough to eat, or should be done away with; as I offered no information at all. "The end approaches" I thought often, when I heard these words. But no, Minalslak their leader put a stop to the rebellious talks, sometimes by removing the talkers themselves.

One night, I remember there was a great quarrel. An excitement, of sorts. I saw, out of my cell's door, the orcs bring in another prisoner, bound and gagged, much like I was. His clothing made it apparant that he was of my kind. An Elf! I sat still, at first, until the Orcs had left us alone in the cells, then I whispered "Suilad, Eldar. Car-ú goe." to him, which means: "Hello, Elf. Fear not". He turned, and looked at me through the darkness, and I saw a horror. His left eye, was removedm the blood had since dried on his face as the wound healed. "I fear for myself, and for you cousin" he whispered weakly in our language.

For many nights, after each torturing, we talked in the night. I learnt his name to be Canadion of Mirkwood. He told me he was sent to speak with Lord Elrond, of a matter of trade. But was waylaid by the orcs, much like I had been. For many nights we talked. For many nights, we wept together, and some we wept for each other.

Several months after his capture, and about three years after mine, I saw Canadion be dragged out of his cell, off to the usual torture session, which we always bared. But, something happend that was different. The orcs were wielding blades, as they came for him. Quickly, they dragged him off, and I could hear his screams. Screams, that will haunt me for the rest of my days. Suddenly, I felt something drop onto my face. Like water, but warm. I lifted my hand to my forehead, and felt ill when I noticed it was blood. A tiny droplet of blood. Slowly, I looked up; and saw the orcs, with Canadion in their grasp above me; looking down. "This...is what will happen to you, Elf!" uttered the leader. Drawing his blade, he cut Canadion's throat; the blood poured down upon me. Then the orcs hewed the head from his shoulders, and thrust it at my face from the roof. "Look at his face! Hahaha!" they laughed, and I was ill...dreadfully ill. The blood reeked, but it's warmth was comforting at least in the cold. His body, they left above me to rot, and his head in my cell.

Two days after his death, I was taken to the room where I was to be tortured again. I noticed, in the stove, a long brand, and my eyes filled with fear. Ripping at my vestments, the orcs forced me down across the floor, putting their heavy feet so I could not move. Then, laughing as they did, they branded me. The pain was like liquid fire! I screamed, I yelled, I cursed. But only to be rewarded with laughs and taunts. They had branded me with the orcish sign for 'Fool'.

That night, I wept. I wept so hard, even the Orcs from several rooms away came to laugh. I wept for myself, and for Canadion. Canadion the brave, I have always called him afterwards. For weeks, the branding happened, on the exact same place of my body. Until, one night, something changed.

The orcs had been accustomed to my lack of resistance, so they did not hold me this night. A great mistake on their part. Slowly, as we walked towards the room, I began to observe them. The one to my left had a large earring, which could cause great pain. The one of the right limped as he walked. As we entered the room, and the orcs prepared to throw me to the floor, I leapt with great speed at the brander, ripping the earring from the guards ear, to which he yelled. I lept at the brander, wielding this earring which I dug deep into his eye. The yells of pain and surprise, from both the orcs and me were astounding. But, it was the yells from outside that confused me. Turing, I saw the door break open in a cloud of splinters, and Elves burst through; launching spears, daggers and arrows at my captors.

"Ai na vedui!" the leader cried, as he saw me; an image of horror, bathed in Elven, Orc and my own blood. I smiled slowly, then fell to the floor, falling into a blackness, devoid of dreams. I could hear them talking, I could feel one of them press his finger to my throat, and my chest. I could feel them lift me, and the gentle grace of wind's seductive touch on my cheek. But most of all, I felt free.

For two days, I remained in this slumber. Unable to open my eyes, unable to speak, unable to do anything but rest. Then, on the eleventh hour of the third day, I awoke to a sight of healers. Lord Elrond in front. "At last, you awake, my friend" he said to me, and I smiled. I opened my mouth to speak, but was stopped almost immediatly. "No" said the lord, and I obeyed. The healing was painful. I remember that the most. The salves they applied to heal the wounds, burned like the brands. The potions they fed me, hurt my stomach.

Weeks passed, and I could walk again. Lord Elrond was applying the last of the salves on my back, when he saw the cruelty that had been done upon me. "The scars will fade, with time; and medicine. What tortures you have been through, I can only imagine" he said to me. "No, you cannot" I replied. "Heal the brands, but leave the scars on my back. I wish them to be a reminder, to me...to others." Nodding, he applied the last of the salves, and I felt the dreaful pain of it heal. But, almost secretivly, he applied it to the majority of my back, and I could feel the scars heal there. I didnt resist, for he did leave some behind, as per request.

That is my tale, and I hope you, the reader, can benefit from it. learn from my mistakes. If you want a full account of my healing, I know little of the salves or potions they gave me. Ask the Lord of Rivendell for that matter. However, I shall stop writing; for my tale is told. And I weep once more at the memory...