“Try not to struggle. The barbs will sink deeper the more you move.”
The prisoner felt his way around his confinement. He had become familiar enough with his quarters. The putrid smell was almost welcoming.
“The pain is always temporary. ”
The cell was too narrow to sit. An iron pit, its walls lined with rusted barbs, dulled from too much use. Even without the blood-crusted bandage over his eyes, it would be too dark to see.
“You survived another day. I prayed you would not. Focus on my voice. It is proof you yet live.”
With a breathless gasp, the prisoner leaned back against the wall. The blood flowing down his spine felt soothingly warm.
“My name is Morchandir,” the voice said, gently pushing away the mantle of silence. It was a comforting voice, gentle despite the harsh torments suffered by its speaker. It was a calming voice. It controlled attention without demanding it. “What do you remember?”
The prisoner offered no response. The voice sighed. “Each day they take you to the tower, and each night they bring back a little less of you.” The voice made a tiny etching on the back of a silver star. “This is night one hundred and thirty six.”
Something loose on the ground shifted, and the prisoner lost his footing; he stumbled, but no cry escaped his throat as the barbs ripped his flesh. “Mind your step,” the voice requested, “you stand on the bones of my kin.”
“My name is Morchandir,” the voice repeated. “Ten of us were ambushed in Annuminas. Three of us died fighting. The rest of us were brought here.” The voice paused, lingered, waited for recognition. “I have recounted this tale many times. What do you remember?”
“You were already here when they delivered us. You have outlived all but me. Tomorrow, you will outlive me, too.” The prisoner sunk on his knees. Trembling fingers traced his face, as if touching it for the first time. They recoiled in unspoken horror when they pressed on the bandage and felt unfamiliar eyes behind it. “What do you remember?”
The prisoner again did not respond, though the voice knew he tried. “We are in Angmar; where exactly I know not, but I remember when the starlight abandoned us on the long journey here.”
Far in the distance, a desperate cry echoed before it was silenced. They had become more sporadic.
“My name is Morchandir,” the voice once again confirmed, and its breath felt like a stray zephyr of Nenuial, caught in the prisoner's tangled raven locks. “Remember.”
“Remember,” the voice commanded, pleaded, ordered. It reached for the prisoner's rags blindly and pinned the star on him. “Remember me.”
Umbral aeons elapsed soundlessly.
My name is Morchandir.
