Híthenér hit the wall hard before crumpling on to the begrudging floor. The fresh scars on his back burned, scratched by his rough woollen shift. Híthenér’s chief jailer, Arnubên, had been in a particularly cruel mood, tearing at the skin more for his own amusement than for that of his honoured guests. All the same, Híthenér did not mind the physical torment so much; it was his only opportunity to learn anything of the world outside his cell. Over the years he had watched his captors age and eventually be replaced, allowing him to calculate that he had been a prisoner of the Angamarim for over seven decades. No, far worse was the solitude he endured, finding solace only in the memory of Hanniel, his wife. He doubted that he would ever see her before leaving the Halls of Mandos if, indeed, no greater punishment awaited the perpetrators of crimes such as his. After so many years in the ruined fortress of Urugarth, he believed he knew why he had been named Angamaranwë at birth; he was fated to die in the Iron Land. Urugarth, the brittle skeleton of a castle had been stormed by the armies of Gondor and Lindon a thousand years before. The hill-men who worshipped Melkor and Mairon had reoccupied it, attempting to emulate the now-extinct Men of Carn Dûm. The guard stood with his back to Híthenér, a few steps away from the bars and beyond the Elf’s reach. “They call you Zainabên don’t they?” he asked the man. He doubted that was his real name; Arnubên claimed Black Númenórean ancestry and insisted on referring to his retainers in Adûnaic. No answer came in return and so Híthenér tried again: “You have a family I suppose. It can’t be easy to raise children in this land.” He paused, but met again with cold silence. “Still, I imagine your masters pay you silver enough.” The jailer stayed quiet and Híthenér wondered whether he worded his sentences properly though he believed he had grasped a sufficient understanding of the local dialect. Suddenly, the guard turned around. With great caution he moved towards the cell until he was right up against the rusted bars. “They treat me like pig-soil,” he growled, his voiced tinged with a mix of fierce bitterness and apprehension of being overheard. “My daughter died last winter for the want of a few scraps of food and yet they sit up there now, gorging themselves on succulent flesh.” Sitting with his back against the far wall, Híthenér responded, “Well that is a terrible injustice, though you should be now be able to feed your wife and your remaining children?”
“I might have, though in a few days I’ll be moved to sentry duty and for that I’ll receive barely half the pay I get for this.” He began to talk faster, his anger pouring out with a hushed eagerness, “They don’t care if my children freeze, Arnubên wouldn’t stop to kick my son’s body off the road!”
“I see,” the Noldo said calmly, “And what means would you take to prevent this grim fate for your children?”
“Any!” replied Zainabên.
“Then I have a proposition for you: free me from this cage and I will take you to a hoard of silver that will buy your family a new life in the south. When my company roamed the Witch-realm we kept enough coin to pay the hill-men when the need arose. It was hidden well enough and I as far as I know it is still there.” Zainabên was not stupid, he knew that Híthenér had been building up to this. Even so, he was wary of his prisoner’s promises. “How can I be sure you’ll be true to your word, Elf? What’s to stop you bolting as soon as we’re past the city gates?”
“Well I’ll have to take a small portion of the money for my journey to Lin Giliath,” Híthenér explained, leaning forward. “I need it just as much as you.” Zainabên thought for a moment and seemed satisfied, but then he frowned again.
“And what’s to stop me just beating you until you reveal where it is?”
“Nothing,” the Elf conceded, “Except perhaps, that that’s not what you are.” He looked straight into Zainabên’s eyes and knew that while this man had been raised in the harshest of countries, he was not like Arnubên and wanted little more than to protect those he loved. After a short time thinking things over, the jailer made up his mind. “Agreed,” he said, “Now listen, in two days time Arnubên will feast his guests again and most of the guards will be in attendance in the great hall. I’ll come for you then and I’ll smuggle you out of the main gates in a barrel.”
“A clever plan,” said Híthenér, “But make sure your family is already beyond the walls by that time; it’ll only be more difficult to get passed the watchers with them in-tow.”
“That sounds wise,” Zainabên agreed, “Though any moment now the guard will change so we’d best be silent.” The Elf nodded and the Angmarim soldier returned to where he had stood before, a few steps away from the bars. The plan did not give Híthenér time to search for the other members of Belethoriel’s company, though he did not know where they might be held, if indeed they still lived. As he lay back hope, for the first time in centuries, filled his heart and he dared to think that he might return to Aman not as a sullied spirit but proud and tall at the prow of a ship, his eyes seeking for the first sight of his love.
