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Reproach hath broken my heart; and I am full of heaviness: and I looked for some to take pity, but there was none; and for comforters, but I found none Psalm 69.20

I gave my back to the smiters, and my cheeks to them that plucked off the hair: I hid not my face from shame and spitting. Isaiah 50.6

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

Aragorn came to increasingly dread the visits of the burly servant whom he had come to think of as ‘the butcher’. They enjoyed reminding him that the man had been the official executioner during Denethor’s time and was a master of inflicting slow, excruciating pain.

The King was no coward, yet was unable to bite back his screams when such agony was inflicted on his increasingly damaged and helpless body. With his mind, he tried to reach out with his mind to Faramir, inwardly pleading with him to come and save him from his captors.

If his tormentors had expected him to beg for mercy and agree to their demands; they were swiftly disappointed. Aragorn’s will remained resolute and he never gave up hope that rescue would come soon.

Between the butcher’s visits, both the Lord of Lamedon and Dervorin of Ringlo Vale took great delight in punching him in the ribs, belly or groin, never sufficiently to cause any great damage but hard enough to inflict considerable pain. They laughed and spat in his face, while their chained and helpless captive struggled to suppress his cries of pain and frustrated rage.

On one occasion, frustrated that he had yet again refused to sign the document, authorising the marriage of his son to Elbeth; Fosco had pinioned his left hand to the floor, while Dervorin had stamped it repeatedly, crushing several fingers. They only ceased when he lost consciousness with the pain.

Always, there was the lurking fear that worse pain and humiliation lay in store. So far they had not removed any clothing, other than his shirt and had taken care not to cause any potentially fatal injury, but for how long? He could only surmise that maybe some deep-seated fear of what he symbolised held them back.

Hanna often accompanied Dervorin. She was usually armed with a knife, which caused Aragorn to shudder and fear for his manhood. However, she merely brandished it, telling him in great detail what she intended eventually to do. For the time being, she contented herself with grabbing his hair and beard and painfully pulling out clumps of them.

Aragorn became increasingly disorientated, having no way of knowing day from night in this windowless cellar. He suspected that they deliberately varied the times at which they came to ‘persuade’ him either to sign or seal the document.

Even his food and drink was brought at sporadic intervals. They now brought the water in a dish, rather than a cup leaving him forced to either spill half the precious liquid, or lap it like a dog, much to his tormentors’ amusement.

The confinement was especially hard to endure for one such as he. He was accustomed to cold and hunger from his long years as a ranger, but never confinement.

Even Minas Tirith, often made him feel enclosed; so a dark cellar was torment indeed, to one accustomed to the open sky and the feel of the wind in his face. It was only the mental disciplines Elrond had taught him that prevented him from panicking. Even using all his skills, he often felt he could not breathe, and would stifle without fresh air and the sight of the sky overhead.

He grew sore and stiff; not only from his wounds but also from lack of movement and the fetters binding him. It took a supreme effort even to reach the bucket when nature demanded and only his pride and sheer force of will enabled him to do so.

He grew steadily weaker as the days passed. They fed him barely enough to keep him alive while his lips became parched from lack of sufficient water.

He sustained himself with thoughts of the three he loved so dearly; Arwen with her tender smile, her passionate embraces, her musical laugh and her beauty both of body and soul; Eldarion, so tiny and perfect, growing by the day, who already smiled with such love at his doting father; and Faramir, the chosen son and brother of his soul, his closest and dearest friend. Together they had spent so many happy hours discussing their shared interests and plans for Gondor’s future, Faramir’s grey eyes, so alike to his King’s always filled with such love and devotion.

Faramir’s devotion towards him was humbling. His love had never faltered, even after his King’s misinterpreted command had led him to be almost beaten to death. Aragorn loved him all the more dearly once he knew the true depth of his loyalty and forgiveness.

With Faramir, he shared a bond as close and loving, as that of father and son. Aragorn continually reached out with his mind towards both Faramir and his wife, hoping the Thought Bonds they shared would alert them both to his plight, though Arwen alone was the most likely to understand what he was trying convey.

Her Eleven heritage meant she had a far greater perception than any not of her race were capable of. He continually stroked the white tree, she had so lovingly embroidered on the leg of his drawers, glad that he had at least something created with love, left to cherish in this dreadful place.

He had no idea of how long he had spent in this grim cellar. At times, when he was certain that none could hear and the pain was unbearable, he would weep in agony.

One day, or night, he knew not which, the door opened softly and a small figure carrying a candle came in.

To his amazement, it was a child, and not just any child but Elbeth. She started in terror at the sight of his chains and dishevelled appearance, but did not cry out, displaying an iron self-control, remarkable in one so young.

In her hand, she clutched a cup and a half eaten apple, together with a slice of bread from which jam oozed on to her small fingers.

“You have no need to fear me, Elbeth,” he said softly, blinking back his tears. “I will not harm you!”

Tiptoeing closer, she eyed him curiously, undecided whether to flee or remain. “You are the man who was kind to me when grandma died!” she said at last, setting the candle down. “They told me you were a bad king who wanted to hurt me and that you were being punished for that. I don’t think you’re bad now I know it’s you! I thought it was another king as there are lots in my storybook.”

“They told you a lie, Elbeth, I would never hurt you,” Aragorn replied, “I do not want you to marry my son, that is all.”

“I don’t want to get married. I don’t know why anyone does. Boys are so noisy and dirty.” Elbeth said scornfully, moving closer and wrinkling her small nose in distaste at the stench of the place.

“You should not be here for they might be angry with you.” Aragorn told her, knowing he should encourage her to leave, yet loath to lose the sight of a friendly face.

“They won’t dare be angry. I’m to be the Queen and then I shall chop off their heads!” Elbeth said haughtily. “They keep telling me that I am vital to their plan!”

Aragorn felt a pang of regret. If only he and Faramir had taken her with them a year ago, then this innocent would not be entangled within the rebels’ web of treason. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“I was hungry and went to find something nice to eat in the kitchen. They had venison for supper and it tastes horrid!” she explained. “They told me not to come here as ‘Lesser the Zerper’ was dangerous. Tonight I heard you crying and I was curious who ‘Lesser the Zerper’ was. I thought you must be a monster or something, but it’s only you! Monsters don’t cry!”

“I am Elessar, but I am no usurper, you can call me ‘Strider’ as it is easier to say!” Aragorn told her gravely. He noticed she was wearing only a nightgown and surmised it must be quite late. “You will catch a chill, Elbeth,” he said in a concerned tone.  “You should return to your bed.”

“Would you like this food, Strider?” she asked with surprising insight for a child, “I don’t think I’m hungry after all. There was nothing I could find but a sour apple and bread and jam. I wanted some cakes or maybe beef jelly!”

“Yes I am hungry.” he replied quietly. He was rewarded by having small fingers thrust the food into his larger ones. He had to force himself not to gulp it down. After what they had been feeding him on, no Royal Banquet could have tasted finer. He ate every crumb including the apple core.

“Did they hurt you?” Elbeth enquired, catching sight of his maimed left hand.

“I bumped my hand,” he told her, not wanting a child to know the horrors he had endured.

“Does it hurt a lot?” she asked.

“Not really,” he lied.

Elbeth looked unconvinced.

 “Have anything to drink too?” Aragorn asked, changing the subject. How he hated having to beg from a child but he was so thirsty.

“It’s only water. I wanted some milk.” Elbeth replied, giving him the cup, which he drained greedily before handing it back to her. Her small hands felt frozen now.

“You must go now or you will catch a chill,” Aragorn insisted, “Thank you so much. Do not tell anyone you have seen me or they might be angry with you.”

“I will visit you again. I like you better than I like them and I won’t tell!” Elbeth announced, bending to take the cup and then to his surprise, kissing him on the brow before picking up the candle and leaving as silently as she had come.

Aragorn could have wept again at this first loving gesture since he was captured. A naturally loving and affectionate man, he had greatly missed the love and warmth that he had grown accustomed to these past years. Even in the wilderness, there had been his horse that would nuzzle his hand in exchange for an apple or handful of hay.

Elbeth was true to her word and nearly every night, she would come and bring him food and drink, ignoring Aragorn’s pleas not to come too often lest she be discovered. Though had she had not fed him, he wondered how much weaker he would now be. Often, the food he was given by his captors was inedible even for one as famished as he. He assumed their aim was to weaken him so much that he would not know what he was signing.

Much as he hated the thought of a child spending time in a damp and dismal cellar, or seeing anyone in his condition with his face was bruised and splattered with blood, he did not know what he would have done without both her friendly little face, and the extra food and water.

He tried to hide his wounds from her under the thin blanket. Although, she asked no further questions, he suspected she had some idea of what they were doing to him as her small face was often puckered in distress when she saw him thus.

Despite Elbeth’s visits, Aragorn grew increasingly despondent when the days passed with no sign of rescue. He was certain that the bonds he shared with Arwen and Faramir would tell them he was still alive. Even here, he could sense them both in his mind and knew they could do the same. But, how could they ever find him? As he grew weaker, though, so did the bond, and he could feel his last link with his loved ones slipping away as his strength faded.

Yet, he had clung to hope until today. When Faramir had walked in, his heart had soared with hope that his loving and faithful Steward had come to rescue him, mixed with the fear that he had been captured too.

Then all hope had died in that dreadful moment when Faramir had struck him and spewed forth his hatred.

The blow, he had barely felt, but his Steward’s words and actions had broken his heart.

TBC