These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain

Gott,

welch Dunkel hier!

O grauenvolle Stille!……

In des Lebens Frühlingstagen

ist das Glück von mir geflohn.

Wahrheit wagt ich kühn zu sagen,

und die Ketten sind mein Lohn.

(God, what darkness here! O stillness filled with horror!… In the springtime of my life, my joy has fled. Bravely I dared to speak the truth and chains are my reward.) Fidelio – Beethoven/ Sonnleithner

Warning – This chapter contains violence and may distress sensitive readers.

Heartbroken and racked by pain, Aragorn lay alone in the darkness lost in thought. He had long ago lost count of the days since he had been brought to this dreadful place.

It had all happened so quickly. One moment, he had been walking home from the Houses of Healing, weary but light of heart, after healing a young brother and sister who had been close to death from the fever. Then, he had heard footsteps behind him.

Taken by surprise, he had swung around in time to see several shadowy figures emerging from a dark alley and converging upon him.

He had tried to fight, but stood little chance, being unarmed and exhausted from the prolonged healing. He felt a sharp blow to the back of his head and then knew no more.

He regained his senses only to find himself moving in some sort of cart. His stomach heaved and his throat felt like parchment. When he tried to stretch his cramped and aching limbs, he found they were securely bound, the ropes wound around his wrists and ankles so tightly that they bit into his flesh.

A dirty rag had been stuffed into his mouth, which left him hardly able to breathe and rendered crying out for aid impossible.

As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he realised he was in a wagon loaded with grain. He could tell they had left the City from the feel of dirt tracks under the wheels and the silence outside broken only by the hooting of owls. As time passed, he became aware of the sound of water nearby and branches brushing across the top of the wagon.

After what felt like several hours of bumping along country roads, two men entered. They were well dressed enough to suggest they were retainers of someone of wealth and status, rather than flour merchants. They roughly blindfolded him before dragging him from the wagon.

He could tell that it was daylight now from what little light penetrated the blindfold and the sound of birdsong.

He was roughly dragged inside and carried through what he assumed to be a house, then hauled down some steps and into what felt like a cellar.

He could hear more men entering and felt them untying the ropes. He tried to struggle free but other hands were roughly holding him down.

“ ’e’s putting up a right fight !” one of the men complained.

“What do you expect? “ said another voice “I just ‘ope ‘is lordship pays us well for all the bruises ‘e’s given us!”

He then heard more footsteps suggesting that someone else had entered the room.

“Strip him and be quick about it!” This voice was educated and vaguely familiar.

They pulled off Aragorn’s boots and started to remove his clothing. He struggled furiously; kicking and punching out at them, ignoring the blows they rained down on him. He was becoming truly afraid now, but determined not to show it.

It was at least six against one, a struggle he was doomed to lose. Two men held him down, a further two yanked his arms over his head, while another pulled off his tunic and shirt. He could tell, though, they were taking care not to tear them, which slowed their progress somewhat.

Two men then roughly secured his arms to prevent him from lashing out, while two more unfastened his belt then grabbed his breeches and started pulling them off. He tried to prevent this latest indignity by lashing out wildly with his feet at the clutching hands.

Eventually, now wearing only his drawers, he launched a last desperate struggle; both to protect his modesty and to try to thwart what he now guessed they were planning to do.

He succeeded in landing a well-placed kick on the man who had hold of the leg of the material, which caused it to rip as he stumbled in pain.

The man yelped while another of them kicked his ribs hard in retaliation. Although, winded and in pain, Aragorn continued his desperate struggle against his assailants.

A voice said, “Leave it for now! Torn clothing could arouse suspicion and one pair of white linen drawers is much like another.”

He repressed the ghost of a smile, as it seemed that he had guessed rightly.

He shivered as he felt cold, damp stone under his naked flesh. He could feel gooseflesh forming across his exposed skin and the cold mustiness of the air made him want to cough.

He was dragged across the floor; the rough stone painfully grazing his back. He shivered again and could hear the man who had ordered him stripped, laughing at his discomfort.

He then felt them pulling a pair of rough breeches over his legs and forcing his arms into a shirt of equally coarse material. This time he did not struggle. He knew he would need more clothing than his torn drawers if he were to escape his captors.

Vainly, he struggled again. He heard an ominous clanking sound, and then felt the coldness of metal as manacles were secured around his wrists and ankles.

A further chain was attached to his ankle. He heard more clanking and the sound of a key being turned in a rusty lock. Only then, was the blindfold removed. Aragorn realised he was a prisoner in what appeared to be a disused wine cellar. A chain attached to his ankles secured him to a ring on the wall, leaving him only after to move a few feet.

The only furnishings were a rough, straw stuffed mattress and a metal bucket. There were only two men with him now, he recognised them all too well. One, dressed in servant’s livery was Denethor’s chief executioner, the other was Dervorin, Lord of Ringlo Vale.

The servant removed the gag and threw him down on the mattress, which provided little comfort to his aching flesh.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” he demanded of Dervorin, ”Release me at once, if you do not wish to die as a traitor!”

Dervorin laughed again. It was not a pleasant sound. “Welcome to your new home, my lord!” he smirked. “How pleasant, or otherwise your stay will be, is entirely up to you! A pity you did not save us all this inconvenience by authorising the marriage of your son to Lady Elbeth when we asked you nicely!”

“You are wasting your time!” Aragorn retorted coldly.

“I think not!” Dervorin replied, “Even one such as you, cannot be completely immune to persuasion and your obedient wife will feel compelled to follow her husband’s last wishes! It is the nature of her kind.”

“You cannot hope to succeed.” Aragorn informed him. “You are just one man against the whole Realm of Gondor!”

“You will be surprised at just how many have joined me, Elessar,” Dervorin replied smugly. “Most of the Council are now on my side. We are all weary of your highhanded ways, your measures to favour the peasant riff raff, and of how little you respect those that served faithfully in your name for generations! This plague which has struck us is most surely a punishment from higher powers for your misdeeds!”

“I have done only what is best for Gondor. You and your sympathisers are nothing more that common traitors!” Aragorn retorted, unmoved by this speech. It was beginning to make sense to him now. Dervorin was obviously the ringleader, rather than the Lord of Lamedon whom he had previously suspected. No doubt the other troublemakers in the Council were also involved.

“Enough talk, we will leave you to reflect, but first you have something we want, which I almost overlooked!”

The burly servant moved with surprising speed to pin him down, while Dervorin swooped and snatched the rings from the King’s fingers.

Beaten, chained and pinioned against the mattress, he was helpless to resist as Dervorin held up the precious items in triumph; the Ring of Barahir, the ancient heirloom of his house, with which he had first pledged himself to Arwen, the slender band he had given her on their wedding night after they had spoken their private vows of love and his Ring of State, used to place his official seal on documents with. If only he had not been wearing it, but he had been called to the Houses of Healing in haste. At least, he had turned it, so only the emerald was visible and it was unlikely they would ever guess how to use it.

Still smirking, Dervorin and his servant left him in the chill darkness. The King tried to contain his panic at being in such a small, enclosed space. At times, he felt enclosed even in his vast chamber in the Citadel, where he was free to come and go as he pleased. To be chained and imprisoned in a small, dark cellar was the stuff of his worse nightmares.

Although he was dismayed at the turn of events; initially Aragorn was able to calm himself, certain that Faramir would soon discover his absence. Whether his Steward would know where to search would be another matter, but surely his abduction could not have gone without someone seeing or hearing something.

He did fear, though, that the conspirators might attempt to pass some poor soul’s corpse as his, given the care they had taken and their remarks when removing his clothing. However, they were certain to show it to Arwen, and she would realise there was no white tree embroidered on the drawers and become suspicious.

The Thought Bond he shared with both his wife and Faramir was yet another advantage he possessed, that his captors knew nothing of. His loved ones would sense that he was not dead and in need of their aid.

He tried to distract himself from the choking darkness, by studying the clothing he had been given; breeches, which looked like those a servant had discarded, as no longer fit to wear and equally worn socks. The shirt however was a more curious garment, as it buttoned all the way down the front, rather than being laced at the neck as was usual, making it disturbingly easy to remove from a man in chains.

He had no illusions about what they might mean by ‘persuasion’. However, he believed that he was strong enough to endure whatever pain they might inflict. Agreeing to their proposal was out of the question. Not only would he be condemning his son to a loveless marriage, but no doubt, also signing his death warrant, together with that of his Queen and Faramir as well.

He foresaw all too well what would happen after the marriage had taken place. The rebel lords surrounding Elbeth would despatch Faramir as their greatest threat, then Arwen, when she opposed what they were doing to Gondor, then finally Eldarion, once he was old enough to have a will of his own. Aragorn vowed no matter what they did to him, he would never betray the ones he loved, rather would he give back the Gift.

He tried to rest and fell into an uneasy sleep, waking only when a servant brought a mug of water and some unappetising leftovers, barely fit for a dog to eat.

He was then left alone for long hours of waiting for the inevitable. The darkness was oppressive, as was the silence, broken only by the scurrying of what sounded suspiciously like rats.

The waiting ended when Dervorin entered his prison, clutching a parchment and his Ring of State. A servant carrying a horsewhip followed him.

“If you sign this marriage contract now, you will spare yourself a great deal of pain,” Dervorin announced, though not very hopefully. “We have taken care to ensure that everyone believes you to be dead, so do not hope for rescue!”

“I will never sign!” Aragorn replied determinedly.

Immediately the servant was upon him unbuttoning the shirt and sliding it from his shoulders before thrashing him repeatedly with the whip.

He gritted his teeth, determined not to make a sound, reminding himself that his was only a horsewhip, and not a cat of nine tails such as had torn poor Faramir’s flesh to ribbons but a few months ago.

In his mind he cried out, pleading with his Steward to come to save him. Yet, how could Faramir help him when he did not know where he was?

Eventually, they grew weary of beating him and the coarse shirt was pulled back over his shoulders. Bruised and bleeding, he was again alone in the darkness.

If that was all they meant to do, he could endure it until rescue came. However, there was worse in store, far worse.

TBC