Somewhere in Western Rohan, Some years ago
It was a cold winter morning. The snow was falling heavily on the straw thatched roofs of the little village. Grey clouds had been coming down from the white mountains for weeks, not easing the icy grip on the lives of the villagers. The world, it seemed, had embraced the numbness of the cold, and no sound was heard but the few drops of water, that came from the melting snow where the warm smoke of the fire left the houses.
The strange peacefulness was disrupted by two pairs of heavy boots, crunching through the snow, and dragging along a young man in rags. His face was beaten bloody and his hair filthy and matted. His eyes were half closed, his gaze empty, and his hands and feet tied together. Heavy hands opened the large door of the mead-hall as the two men with their prisoner arrived. A wall of warmth and thick air greeted them as they entered, the snow on their armour and cloak already melting.
The room was crowded with people, though no one said a word as the man was dragged over the stone floor, and thrown down before the wooden steps that elevated the seat of the thane. The old man remained seated and eyed the fallen creature with disgust. He raised one of his fingers slightly, his hand otherwise remaining calmly rested on the armrest of his chair, signalling his steward to commence the proceedings. The man, who had been standing behind his thane, and observed the entry of the guards and the prisoner with a slight smile, now stepped forward. The two guards moved to either side of the seat and faced each other, the prisoner in their middle.
The steward stood so everyone could see him, and then let out a last breath before with a loud and squeaky voice he announced "This man, has been charged and proven guilty of murder", his finger pointing at the broken man in front of him. "By the laws of this land and our king, the penalty for murder is death".
People nodded, and spoke in agreement. The man that was lying on the floor and did not move, was not loved by the villagers and many were glad to see him suffer, cursing him as the steward paused. He had come to the village in the summer as a day-labourer, as many did. Yet this man did not bear his father's name nor spoke of his mother, and people knew what that meant, so they made sure he would not feel comfortable in their village and move on sooner rather than later.
"As is custom", the steward continued, "he may chooses his way of death". The room went quiet, though the lifeless body did not speak. After a nod by the steward towards one of the guards, the man took the end of his spear and smashed it hard into the body's side. A grunt of pain came from the sack of rags that curled up, the hands moving to his beaten side. The steward, visibly enjoying the man's suffering, made a step closer to the body, feeling safe in his role of authority and having the guards by his side. He kneeled down next to the prisoner, gripping his hair and yanked his head up so he would look into his eyes. "How would you like to die, bastard?", the steward said loudly but in a voice of disdain.
The bloody face now opened his light green eyes, and stared at the steward's sneering face. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but all that came out was a gurgling sound.
"Speak up, or I will kill you here and now!", the steward threatened mockingly.
The man now looked straight into the eyes of his captor and with another gurgle spat a big lump in the middle of his face. The steward, caught by surprise, let the head go and staggered back, almost falling. As he stood back up again, he took out a cloth to wipe his angered face, and was ready to kick the lying man, as he recollected himself in an instant, and grinned, his mouth giving release to a set of yellow and crooked teeth. "The cord it is!", he proclaimed and signalled the guards to take the prisoner away, as he moved back into his place alongside the Thane, who nodded in agreement. The villagers cheered at the show that had been given to them, and loud talks arose again, as the two guards dragged the still lifeless body out of the hall.
*
His cell was dark with the only light coming from the sparse slot high up, where the roof met the window. The man sat in the corner, his eyes staring into the black. On the morrow he would die, he thought.
The cold was creeping through the walls and he shivered. He did not own much, and all he had was taken from him when they ceased him three days ago. All he wore now was his tattled under-tunic, so he drew up his knees and slung his arms around his legs, trying to keep the warmth in his body. He knew he could not do anything about what was about to happen to him. "Wyrd bið aræd", he thought – fate is inexorable.
He remembered the day they took him. They found him with his axe in his hand, blood splatters in his face and over his tunic, and the other man bleeding to his death, his face beaten out of recognition. He let out a sinister laugh, "Not the best way to plead for self-defence". It was though. At least for him.
He had been living in the stable of the inn, for he had no other place. During the day he was mostly inside the tavern for the warmth, or chopping wood for the fire and cleaning the stables to earn his stay. That night, all but one guest had left the tavern. He had gone outside to gather wood for the night, as he heard a scream.
The axe in hand, he entered the room and saw the wanderer in the corner. As he entered, the man turned around and he could see that behind him was the daughter of the tavern's owner. Without another word the man simply ran at him and he thought he saw a dagger flash in his hand. The next thing he remembered was two strong hands gripping his arms, taking the axe and dragging him out on the street.
His life, he thought, would end as miserably as it began. "Who would miss him?" His mother had died two years ago of a fever, and even before people scorned them. They lived in huts or sheds outside the town gates and moved places frequently, for the villagers never wanted them to stay for long.
He closed his eyes, thinking of the next place. He once heard a story-teller in one of the larger towns talking about it, though in his tales it sounded like a better place than this middle-earth could ever be. "Why doesn't everyone kill himself if the next place is so much nicer", he thought then, but maybe not everyone would go to the same one. He most certainly would not go to the nice one.
He suddenly heard screams. He stood up, and stepped on the stool he had been sitting on, trying to get closer to the slot to see or at least listen. But instead, he smelled. Fire. The whole village seemed to be in uproar. He could hear men running and women screaming. The flickering light was creeping through the slot and turned some parts of the darkness in a faint of orange. He went to the door and listened, but could not hear any movement from the other side. "They must have gone", he thought and started slowly banging against the door, hoping he could open it.
The air was becoming thicker. Smoke was coming through the beams. The fire must have reached the house he was in. He started banging on the door more frenetically. "How can this be?", he wondered, "Fire when snow is everywhere?"
Sparks were slowly eating their way through the thatched roof, and the beams started creaking as the heat consumed their strength. He started yelling for help, but no one answered. The sound of people was slowly overshadowed by the blazing sound of cracking wood. The heat became more intense, and the air unbreathable. He left the door, knowing there would be no way of opening it, and instead went back to the slot, gasping for air, and yelling with his last strength.
The entire roof was now ablaze and pieces of burned wood were falling on him. He realised it was hopeless and so he simply lay down on the cold stony floor, and slid under the plank bed. The last thing he heard was the breaking of the beam and the cracking sound as the entire roof came crushing down on him...
