(Continued from "A Finch's Beginnings: A Man Named Bên - Part the First")
By the time he reached the high point above the tombs of the dead in Imlad Balchorth, the adrenaline that had coursed through his veins since he stepped foot out of Carn Dûm had all but disappeared. He collapsed against the old but sturdy walls that encircled the small area, breathing hard like a man hard at labor. The yearling child held to his body by long lengths of cloth woven about him was awake and looking up at him with curious eyes; green like her mother's were - or was it 'had been' by now? She made no noise as she stared up at him, still somewhat subdued by the milk of poppy she had been given before.
It occurred to Bên, in that moment, that he knew next to nothing about this girl, though she was most certainly his own child. For the whole first year of her life she, and Averill by extension, had been kept mostly locked away within the tower of Carn Dûm, held under the power and malicious mercy of Erach and the Unsealed. The only proof he had ever had of her existence was the occasional messages from and secret meetings with Averill.
Looking at her now, he found himself amazed that she did not look as care worn and near to death as most unfortunate babes born into slavery within Angmar looked. Yes, she was rather thin for a baby her age, but it was clear that the Shadow had little sway over this child with no mother-given name, if it had any at all. A miracle or something else?
After awhile of contemplation, Bên looked away from her, lest he found the gnawing resentment within his chest grow to become unbearable. He settled against the wall and began to ration out the meager supplies Averill had collected for them. Here he would wait two days, as he had been instructed, until the majority of the escaped slaves who branched out in two directions from captivity were caught and killed and the insurrection all but quelled. And then, he would journey onward towards the dark forest to the south east...
The piercing howls of wargs could be heard all around him as he stumbled through the dark woods of Gorothlad. He now knew why this place was often called the Valley of Horror. In the darkness, even the gnarled and skeletal branches of the all-but-dead trees about him looked like terrifying, monstrous faces when looked at for too long. Thorns and sharp, upturned roots cut at his ankles and he cursed his ill luck when the child held to his body began to fight against the milk of poppy she had consumed, making a fuss in the way that small babes did when uneasy or frightened.
Had he not given her enough? Or maybe too much? Or, perhaps, she had gotten too used to it too quickly over a handful of days? He had already accidentally dropped some of the food meant for her along the way as he frantically tried to run from the howls and screeching of orcs and goblins that seemed to swarm the area like gnats.
Did the Unsealed know that the child was now missing? Did they finally discover the true reason behind the revolt? Had Averill been caught? Was she dead?
"Quiet... Just-- Quiet!" he whispered harshly to the child as he continued on towards the next destination - a weathered but tall tower rising up amidst the sharp slabs of grey rock, like a beacon of both dread and hope. Surrounding the tower on all sides were seven stone statues of kings bearing swords. It was a remnant of old Arnor, or so Averill had told him in passing. In another time, Bên thought, perhaps these statues would have been like comforting wardens, watching over them as they took shelter here. But now, there was something distinctly and unsettlingly stoic about the place. Angmarim and wargs would not come here, that much was certain. But, in his heart, he knew that this place was not a place of peace.
He sank to the ground near one of the statues and looked to the now crying babe. He felt something sharp and hot rise up in his chest and his features contorted angrily.
"Quiet! Just be quiet! You will get us killed! You will get me killed!" he hissed at the child who seemed to be shocked into silence, the only sounds of distress escaping her were occasional hiccups and the remnants of tears upon her cheeks. But even that did not soothe his sudden ire. "All of this for you. You have doomed us all. Your mother is likely dead now. I would not be here in this horrible place if it weren't for you. I wouldn't be here at all if your mother hadn't told me to. I hate you. I hate you! And I hate her and... I hate-..."
The dam burst as hot tears fell down his cheeks. What was he doing? How could he say these things to a child - his own child? But, he couldn't seem to help it. And, he reasoned, she likely didn't understand a single thing he was saying...
Time seemed to stand still as he felt something soft lightly pat his cheek over and over, accompanied by some indecipherable childish babbling that sounded uncommonly soothing. Through his tears he could see that the babe had managed to free one arm from her swaddle and seemed to pat at his wet cheeks in a rather clumsy attempt at drying them.
Bên eventually gathered his wits about him and pulled her tiny hand away from his face, tucking it back into the swaddle, letting out a long sigh. This, at least, seemed to calm the child as she resorted to quietly looking around, curious eyes taking everything in. Strangely enough, she seemed far less unsettled about their surroundings than he. Even the howls of distant wargs seemed to not perturb her at all as she looked up to the high points of the ring of king statues.
At least she was being quiet, thought Bên as he let his head fall back against stone with a thunk. He was far too tired to even think about what they were going to do for food. But, it would have to wait until what passed for morning in this land. For one night, they would shelter here at this forgotten and forsaken ruin and, then, the journey across the swamp would begin...
