All was black, as it had been for a long time now. For quite how long Híthenér could not say for although lumps of stale bread and occasionally gourds of water were thrown down to him this was done with no regularity. He did not doubt though, that he had spent years in the pit. Once he had thought himself strong to have endured the darkness of Moria but now he saw what it was truly like to live in a world without light. He had thought it strange how the Avari, his wife’s kin, preferred starlight to sunlight though now he would have done with even the dimmest star in the sky. The experience was wearing him down, sapping his life force draining away his vigour. Stroking his chin he felt a few wisps of hair: an ominous sign for it meant that he was most likely entering the third cycle of Elvish life. Strange, since he was yet to reach his 7000th year, long before most Elves entered it. Mahtan, father of Nerdanel the wife of Fëanor, had grown a beard in his second cycle but he was a rare exception. Híthenér’s body was wasting away, though not as quickly as his spirit. There were times when he wished to perish and longed for the Halls of Mandos. In truth he could have easily starved himself to death without anyone taking notice yet there remained within him a shred of courage that still willed to atone for his crimes. As such he lived on, scrabbling round in the dirt or clutching his own body in a desperate effort to keep warm. Suddenly, a blazing light shot down from above. Squinting, Híthenér saw man carefully look over the edge of the hole. It was Arnubên, looking far older than he did when he threw Híthenér into the pit. The Northman turned his head to the side and nodded, and a ladder slid down the grime of the wall. Híthenér waited for a moment until he realised that no one was coming down. Still shrinking from the light, he began to climb the brittle ladder, the splinters of which cut and tore at his hands. The ascent seemed to take forever as the Elf worried about what fate awaited him once he reached the top. When he did so two warriors heaved him to his feet, bringing him face to face with Arnubên who stared at him with a mixture of spite and envy. Híthenér looked into his eyes, seeing that the egotistical madness remained but noticing something else: fear. “Don’t look too pleased Elf,” he said, half sarcastically. “The Orcs would have us march south with them; it seems they need our help to burn down a few farmsteads,” he looked sharply at his men and they grinned obligingly. “You’ll be coming with us. We hear that a few of your kind still dwell amongst the Downs and Giric thinks you could be of some use in our dealings with them,” Arnubên gestured to his left and it was only now that Híthenér noticed a tall Man standing in the doorway. His shoulders were broad, his beard thick and his hair long and tangled. Intriguingly, his name was most certainly not Adûnaic, suggesting he was not a servant of Arnubên but an ally, perhaps the warlord of a different tribe of Hill-men. “Indeed,” said Giric, “Elves act unwisely when they see their friends have been taken hostage.”
“Not that they’ll put up much of a fight anyway, seeing as their menfolk are more interested in weaving than war,” Arnubên commented. Were his situation any better, Híthenér might have laughed at this feeble taunt. As it was, he could only feel a sense of foreboding. While it would be wonderful to be out in the open air again an Orcish offensive could never be a good thing. The future looked brighter but it was lit by the flames of war.
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The Wrong Kind of Light
Submitted by Hithenair on June 30th, 2014
