This is a new game. He'd realized it shortly after the initial tug. He'd been cataloguing his wounds and his surroundings since consciousness found him, trying to determine -- not where he was, but when.
He knew by the aching in his ribs and the fire in his flesh that it was near the end. He could remember every bruise and every butchery session. He knew the face that went with every scar.
Only they weren't scars now. They were open, festering wounds. Oh, yes, some had scabbed over, some even healed entirely. He had been in their care... how long now? Weeks? Months? A month, surely. Maybe more. And they hadn't hurt him badly early on. He had been meant to live, at least for a while. Their treatment had been rough, but not until Angband had they begun the real torture. And by now, the frozen rain and septic dog-pen at Rivil's Well seemed a memory of luxury. His wrists, neck, and ankles were held with barbed iron shackles where once had only been ropes. The chains linkin arm with arm, with leg and leg were heavy, but not, overall, too impeding of motion. Melkor's minions had learned the art of torture to perfection, and they knew by now that with a victim so battered as Gorlim was by now, bonds preventing long strides or held the hands close together were more of an inconvenience to his keepers, who had to keep dragging him up and along when he fell. Longer chains would never have kept a healthy Adan from running with all his might, and fighting. But this Man had no more fight in him. Not in a way that endangered his wardens.
But it isn't until he is deposited at the Dark Lord's feet that Gorlim realizes when this scene must be.
No...
He thought Ruin might pull something like this. Maybe make him watch himself. Maybe spend a night in Angband. But never this. Never this night. Never this real, never this close to death.
Having lived through it once, a part of his mind was able to see now what he had been unable to see then: that even if they had released him, he would never have lived long. There was a fire in his skin of infection. His unclothed torso and legs had been left bare to the filth of his prison, and to its cold. His fingers and feet were touched with frostbite, though that was not yet threatening, for however cold the Master's heart, the stronghold must necessarily be warmed for the sake of his servants. But he knew his wounds were deep. He thought his left arm might be broken, or pulled out of its joint. He could feel broken ribs, his nose, and suspected the pain in his hand might also be a break. He would never fight again, not as he had. Not EFFECTIVELY. He would be disfigured to an extent. With the sickness in him, despite the natural resiliance of Beorning blood, he was no Elf, and had been starved to the last of his body's reserves. He had heard of such cases and knew he might never be able to father children, and might live with a weak heart and mind.
But live he must -- until the had of his enemy struck him a deathblow. He would not be defeated.
And as he stares up into the blackened eyes of Darkness itself, the pain of torture, the fear of Hell, all flies from his mind. He knows he has to do this for the ones who wait for him. And maybe once it was a woman and his kinsmen in the wood. And maybe now the names have changed, but the desperation is the same, the reason is the same. This is Gorlim the Unhappy. He does not wonder if his actions now might change some past outcome. He does not wonder if this night will leave different scars when he awakes. It doesn't matter. He is acting in the instant, as he had in that instant so long ago, and thinks only that he must respond, and fight, and never... never... never... let... go.
no subject
He knew by the aching in his ribs and the fire in his flesh that it was near the end. He could remember every bruise and every butchery session. He knew the face that went with every scar.
Only they weren't scars now. They were open, festering wounds. Oh, yes, some had scabbed over, some even healed entirely. He had been in their care... how long now? Weeks? Months? A month, surely. Maybe more. And they hadn't hurt him badly early on. He had been meant to live, at least for a while. Their treatment had been rough, but not until Angband had they begun the real torture. And by now, the frozen rain and septic dog-pen at Rivil's Well seemed a memory of luxury. His wrists, neck, and ankles were held with barbed iron shackles where once had only been ropes. The chains linkin arm with arm, with leg and leg were heavy, but not, overall, too impeding of motion. Melkor's minions had learned the art of torture to perfection, and they knew by now that with a victim so battered as Gorlim was by now, bonds preventing long strides or held the hands close together were more of an inconvenience to his keepers, who had to keep dragging him up and along when he fell. Longer chains would never have kept a healthy Adan from running with all his might, and fighting. But this Man had no more fight in him. Not in a way that endangered his wardens.
But it isn't until he is deposited at the Dark Lord's feet that Gorlim realizes when this scene must be.
No...
He thought Ruin might pull something like this. Maybe make him watch himself. Maybe spend a night in Angband. But never this. Never this night. Never this real, never this close to death.
Having lived through it once, a part of his mind was able to see now what he had been unable to see then: that even if they had released him, he would never have lived long. There was a fire in his skin of infection. His unclothed torso and legs had been left bare to the filth of his prison, and to its cold. His fingers and feet were touched with frostbite, though that was not yet threatening, for however cold the Master's heart, the stronghold must necessarily be warmed for the sake of his servants. But he knew his wounds were deep. He thought his left arm might be broken, or pulled out of its joint. He could feel broken ribs, his nose, and suspected the pain in his hand might also be a break. He would never fight again, not as he had. Not EFFECTIVELY. He would be disfigured to an extent. With the sickness in him, despite the natural resiliance of Beorning blood, he was no Elf, and had been starved to the last of his body's reserves. He had heard of such cases and knew he might never be able to father children, and might live with a weak heart and mind.
But live he must -- until the had of his enemy struck him a deathblow. He would not be defeated.
And as he stares up into the blackened eyes of Darkness itself, the pain of torture, the fear of Hell, all flies from his mind. He knows he has to do this for the ones who wait for him. And maybe once it was a woman and his kinsmen in the wood. And maybe now the names have changed, but the desperation is the same, the reason is the same. This is Gorlim the Unhappy. He does not wonder if his actions now might change some past outcome. He does not wonder if this night will leave different scars when he awakes. It doesn't matter. He is acting in the instant, as he had in that instant so long ago, and thinks only that he must respond, and fight, and never... never... never... let... go.