#dagoras

23: Dagoras & lost and alone

(young) old man fight

11. Hiding from pursuers

Orthanc poked up above the mountains from this angle. The Wizard's Vale wasn't what it once was. Last he'd been visiting- scouting, poking his head in for a peek at how the Head of the Wizards lived- it had been a green place. A living place.

Now Dagoras hid in a graveyard. Trees and Ents and Rohirrim and Dunlendings had come and died. He'd been far enough from his camp when he'd noticed the signs. Footfalls started and stopped with him, dead branches crackled out of time with the wind. His knees told him he'd been crouching behind this rock for too long, but his instincts said not long enough.

It was not the first man- not the first servant of Isengard- that had been sent for his head. This probably wouldn't be the last. He had to hand it to Saruman. The Wizard kept an eye on his domain. Not much went on in the nooks and crannies of Nan Curunir that went unnoticed, including himself.

He thought back to the glorified kennel in the caves of Fordirith... Unfortunately, that was likely to be the kinder of the two prisons on his journey here. He was all alone- one of five scouts sent south from Tal Methedras- and couldn't expect help from Daervunn soon. They'd split up near the Rohirric encampment with different goals in mind. Now, he might be about to pay for that lack of caution.

Another twig snapped directly behind him. Directly, and clear on the other side of this rock. He didn't have a moment to lose.

Dagoras scrambled up and over his cover, knife drawn, and launched a surprise attack that would make Faeron cringe. It probably saved his life that he fell onto a crossbow and not a drawn blade. Now a broken rib, bruised jaw, and bloodied knife later, Dagoras fought the urge to sink to the ground and catch a breath.

18: Amarion & dangling upside down

How about 45 and/or 6? For anyone you want

6. Guilt/Blame 45. Bleeding/Out Of It an offshoot from this

He didn't want to be in Thuringwath, to begin with. Dagoras... he was long used to doing as he was told. Doing as he ought or thought he ought without taking too much time to second-guess himself. Aragorn was one of his oldest friends, and of course if the man he'd trusted his life to for so long sent him to babysit the White Company, well...

And then Gandalf had found that hidden pass. And then things went south.

He'd been in one of the first groups in, so he thought. Apparently, some of the merrevail had dragged victims in here before them, for there were scraps of Ithilien Green among the fallen. Dagoras understood a little of his Chieftain-turned-King's wisdom then. The odds he'd be brought to his knees in horrified recognition was much slimmer.

And, naturally, the trade-off was he was much easier to capture. He'd really disliked it the last time it had come about. There was such a thing as thinking too highly of his negotiating prowess. He' walked right into Lhe Lhechu in the hopes to secure... some kind of alliance.

Now he was being marched through some kind of fortress. Up some stairs, into a frankly terrifying structure of black stone and towers like spikes reaching up to flay even the sky. It was like something out of every nightmare. He wasn't too proud to say his knees went a little weak as the full horror of the interior opened up to him. No, he'd much prefer Lhe Lhechu to this.

It wasn't all torture and torment though. Sometimes they put their victims in holding before and between... things that made his stomach lurch. He tried to tell himself that he was an old man, that he had come on this journey at peace with the reality that it might be his last. But some things... His definition of 'fate worse than death' was broadening every step.

His hooded attendants brought him before a cell, unlocked it, and thrust him inside. Dagoras didn't bother with a quip or protest. This was the heart of torment in Mordor. They probably ate that stuff up.

Dagoras sighed and tried to take stock of his situation. He stopped short of examining the rest of the debris- what might actually be the personal effects of prisoners now deceased- when he saw what was definitely a body. Possibly still a living one, judging by the way it twitched.

He hurried to the back of the cell and crouched over the trembling form. This looked like a Man, at least mostly, though his new companion looked thinner and greyer than most people he knew. Not quite bone pale like the Nunrhoth that he'd seen but--

"Can you hear me?" He tried it first in Westron just in case, but was prepared to give it a go in Sindarin. Gently, Dagoras reached out toward a fabric lump he hoped was a shoulder and set his hand down.

His companion jerked away as if burned, before rolling on the floor and facing him.

"Halt and... identify yourself...."

Dagoras frowned. There was so much to take in... The bald head mottled with bruises, clothes little better than rags, a myriad of visible scrapes and then the splotchy red signs of as-yet invisible ones. Unfocused eyes. That was the sign that worried him most.

"Easy enough," he started, trying to sound like the gentlest, least threatening thing in this place, "my name is Dagoras, formerly of the Grey Company under Aragorn Elessar, currently of the White Company under Faramir, Prince--"

The man shuddered violently and despite his care, Dagoras instinctively reached out to steady him.

"Faramir...?" It was barely audible, but Dagoras caught it. And nodded.

"The very same. The prince. But, don't worry about that. Tell me about this." He gestured to the blood on the rag tunic. "It looks like it hurts."

The man looked down, as if seeing the blood for the first time. He might be in shock, not even noticing if his hand suddenly fell off. However, to Dagoras' continuing surprise, the perfect stranger clutched as him and leaned into him in order to sit upright. Without hesitation.

"No worse than I... caused this, caused all of this..."

"Caused what? Someone to build a temple to Sauron and torture people in it? I don't think so." Dagoras helped him up. He tried to rule out a head injury, but that was hard. The poor guy looked delirious or deeply out of sorts. Hurt, tired, confused.

"The fall..." he said, "...of Gondor."

Dagoras sighed. That he could assuage. "I see. Have they mentioned that, the fall of Gondor?" The man nodded feebly. He still held tightly to Dagoras' shoulder but uncurled most of the rest of the way.

"Here, I can help with that I think. While I tell you about it, can I look at that cut? This is a terrible place to get it infected."

He got a nod for his effort, and a hand moving the shreds of fabric hiding the wound. It wasn't too deep, but it was large. Not all of his things had been taken, just his weapons. Dagoras carried spare bandage with him out of habit, and had enough to at least keep this cut from the foulest contaminates in the cell.

"Lean on me, that's it." He helped the poor man sit up, still surprised he'd be trusted instantaneously. Maybe in a place as dark as this, it was too easy to tell friend from foe. "Gondor hasn't fallen, I can tell you that much." A hand tightened around the fabric of his sleeve. Dagoras took a breath.

"Not the whole. Osgiliath was overrun, and quite badly as I'm led to believe. It's reoccupied now, but in pretty bad shape." The fingers increased their grip. The wrong line to take, apparently.

"Don't worry. There are a great many people taking care of Gondor now, none of them Saruon. Try to rest. I'll keep watch. Don't think I can sleep here just yet."

The stranger nodded, his eyes already fluttering. Dagoras had the wherewithal to get another hand under him before he fainted outright.

41. Panic attacks (and tw for associated content)

Alone was easier, most of the time, as opposed to being around other people. This is it, this is the thing that kills you. It's here, and it's coming and there's no stopping it now. Other people often had tells that were hard to stomach. A raised eyebrow. Alternatively, a frown. Techeron's face would pinch and his brows would crease up while he fought back the urge to use the 'And what's making you think that?' he asked when schooling. It's over. Feel that? That's death. That's already here and it's not stopping for you.

When he was alone, he could lie down, press the heels of his hands into his eyes and counting his breathing. Sometimes for an hour, sometimes less. He would have a quiet place to cry or to be sick. Being sick... that was one of the worst.

You're already dead. You just don't know it. But you'll feel it. You're feeling it all the way to the end.

The worst one in memory was with an audience. Here's the rest of your life. You're the last one. What's it going to be like, however long you have left, to be without them forever? He'd been bound, standing, feeling his heart hammering into the wooden post while the Wizard cocked his head. Amused. You know what you saw before you left. Dead. That was the sound of them dying. And he's told you the ways it happened, some of them. Do you even want to think about it? Can you afford not to?

He'd blacked out that time. He'd wept, never more thankful that the fear always dissipated on waking.

But he didn't always have the luxury of sleep. It's not really over. It's a trick, just one more in the downward spiral. You're on borrowed time. At least now you won't be alone when it hits. Be on your guard, and maybe you'll see it coming, however much good that will-

"Dagoras."

Lothrandir stood just outside the circle of the fire. There were a few Ithilien Rangers with mugs of ale, Rohirrim with mead, and the appreciative exchange happening between them. Dagoras turned and found his face. He didn't frown.

"Lothrandir. Need anything?" he asked as if he couldn't guess.

"If I could tear your from the revelry for a moment-" he paused to look at the assembled company and grinned, "-We won't be long."

Dagoras sighed heavily, for the benefit of the assembly. Lothrandir saw the mug go down to the log seat unfinished, saw Dagoras' face steel a second before sliding back into unconcerned acceptance.

"Keep my seat warm, will you? I'm getting too old for cold nights." It meant nothing. Everything. Past the line of tents and behind the heavy trunk of a culumalda, Lothrandir pushed his face into his hands.

"It... it is over? The War? The generals, at least, please tell me something is ended--"

Dagoras' face seemed to droop in recognition. Not in resignation, or reluctance. Compassion. Pity.

"The worst of it, yes." He spoke softly even for their relative isolation. "If the evidence in the air isn't enough, the evidence in your heart either-" here Dagoras set a hand on his shoulder and Lothrandir held onto it right back, "-then we can trust Mithrandir. Frodo cast the Ring into the fires of Doom, and that much has ended things. You saw him too, did you not? He wasn't some trick of the light. Mithrandir, too, seems glad, and we all know there's precious little that causes that these days."

Lothrandir managed a laugh. His eyes stung, and his head hung there a moment longer while the words sank in.

"Tell me again, then." Dagoras spoke up after a moment. "Like you did in Pelargir. Name the fear, that I might know it and dispel it."

Lothrandir took a deep breath. "That... that we didn't really win. That I have.." He swallowed hard. Dagoras didn't interrupt. "...That I have you all back, and I'm going to lose you. That orcs are going to sweep down from that hill over there and cut us down to a man."

Dagoras paused to look at the hill. "It's a worthy concern, don't mistake me." He pulled Lothrandir to his side, facing the hill, but did not insist Lothrandir look. "It's wise to be vigilant, but our Ithilien cousins scouted the hill. They did find trolls- turned to stone- and a few orcs trying to scavenge their caches. Our friend took care of those. Every hiding place of the enemy on that hill has been scattered. Better yet, the Eagles have taken great delight in picking off stragglers. I think I overheard Gwaihir compare them to fleas."

Lothrandir laughed again, deeper, and Dagoras ran a hand down the back of his head to his shoulders, again and again. Lothrandir felt something like a skittish horse, but didn't move to complain.

"Thank you" he said.

"Come find me any time. Any time at all, Lothrandir." Dagoras continued to tend to him like a frightened foal without complaint. "Or, if I'm not there, try one of the others." Lothrandir stiffened, and he felt it. "At least sit with one of them. For a minute- I'm not asking you bare your heart." More quietly, he continued, "Radanir is much the same. You may bristle, but he will try to help in his own way."

Lothrandir remained still for the measure of a few more breaths. Then, he straightened. He clasped Dagoras' hand tightly.

"I'm needed on the field."

Dagoras reached out a hand for the dozenth time in an hour. There was the damp towel, damp hair, damp forehead. His thumb poked a nose, and Golodir twitched away. Golodir had been twitching, mumbling, and tossing around for the better part of a day. Dagoras could only hold him here for so long. Sooner or later, Golodir would regain his strength or his wits and try to leave. And there'd be nothing he could do to stop him.

"We've been posted here, cousin." Dagoras opened with this one again. Golodir had simply rolled over and gone back to sleep last time. Though, there was no guarantee he'd do it again.