Milawyn

Upon entering the common room of the Prancing Pony late one evening, I was pleasantly surprised to see Izre sitting at one of the tables. I approached, asking permission to join her.

I felt countless arms pushing me through the crowd of Uruks who parted as I walked into the centre of the circle. As I reached the open space one of the Uruks at the front pushed me to the ground, I landed face down upon the dirt and rubble breathing in the damp which surround the cavern. I climbed to my feet, my eyes darting around the circle only to find that I was alone. The brutish merriment continued in the crowd from which something came soaring through the air, landing a few meters away from me with a soft clatter.

After the incident upon the surface, the atmosphere amongst the slaves below had changed dramatically over the past few days. Any hope, any vague sign of strength had been quickly extinguished in all of us, myself included. I began to dream of Mordevin, the dark-skinned Easterling who had tortured me all those years ago. Not since then had I ever felt so defeated and helpless. On that accursed day when I was set loose upon the world a broken man, I swore that I would never allow myself to fall into such a position again.

As we were herded out of the iron gates I was thankful to find that it was nightfall. I had grown used to the darkness, to be exposed to light after all this time would have surely caused me some form of injury. We were taken across the great circle along the centre path. I took a deep breath expecting fresh air, though it’s taste was no sweeter than the ash and smoke I had become accustomed to beneath the surface. Eventually we came to a halt, forming a circle beside an incomplete siege tower near the far eastern wall.

What I believe to have been several weeks had passed. Within the pits, it is impossible to tell just how much time has been spent. I wake within the barracks to the sound of the first horn, I work the forges until the second, and then we are escorted to the feeding halls to eat what the overseers named slop. Each mouthful is like chewing a corpse, the taste and smell resembles as much. On numerous occasions I gagged and spat it back out only to receive a whipping for good measure.

As I awoke in the chamber to the sound of steel scraping upon stone, a memory that I thought had long since passed returned to me. I remembered waking to a similar sound fourteen years ago when I was a prisoner of war in Ithillian. The band of Easterlings that captured us were vicious and cruel, the cruellest of them all being Mordevin, a man who still to this day haunts my dreams. I remembered the day that he found me again many years later, seeking to use my past fear to his advantage.