There was a smile on his face. His hands were folded together over his chest. The blankets were left unwrinkled, as if someone had tidied up and smoothed out the creases after he had lain down, pillow thoughtfully fluffed beneath his head. A large slice of cheesecake, smothered in strawberries with delicate chocolate flakes, had been set aside on the nightstand, the fork tines still glistening with syrup and saliva. Half of the dessert had been eaten, and half remained. A dollop of cream hung off the edge of the crust, and lingered there as the plate was lifted from the table. It hesitated, then slipped off and hit the surface with a plop.
The occupant on the bed, though staring up with open eyes, neither saw nor heard what happened, for he was already dead.
“Please do not eat any.” Thrangorn stood in the doorway, his eyes on the plate. “He made me poison it for him. He was too upset and refused to tell me why. But Master Duilin never returned.” The butler shifted his gaze onto Salgant’s body. “Master Duilin promised he would return after the initial siege. I can only assume he will not return.”
“No.” The soldier tossed the plate back onto the table. The strawberries slid off the now-tilted cake. “I doubt anyone else will be returning. I only hope that the few who escaped are not being followed.”
“Was the King with them?”
“No.”
Thrangorn’s expression looked grim. He gripped the towel that was in his hands tightly. “What of young Master Faelion?”
“Injured, and badly, but he was with those who escaped. As were Princess Idril, with Lord Tuor and young Lord Earendil.” The warrior opened his mouth, but closed it again. He was yet unable to discuss how exactly the refugees were able to escape. There was blood on his armor, and he had limped into the house due to a horrible injury – a burn – around his ankle. His hands were still thickly covered with dust, and the dirt was beneath his nails from the rocks he had gathered and dug out of the side of the mountain that he had used to bury...
“What of Lord Glorfindel?”
He set his jaw and shifted his eyes downward, unable to answer. Instead, the soldier leaned over and gently closed the lids of Salgant’s eyes. “We may yet be able to escape. The tunnel is narrow, but it held for those who left, and it held when I returned.” He walked away from the bed and passed by Thrangorn, who sighed.
“That was why he did it. Killed himself, that is.” Thrangorn turned away from his master and addressed the warrior, who had stopped a few feet down the hallway. “He knew that there was no way for him to get through the secret passage. I have no idea what he and Duilin planned to do—“
“They were probably going to hold out in the... the passages between this house and Duilin’s.” The soldier snapped his fingers. “Brilliant. We can hide there until the orcs have finished sacking the city.” As he hobbled down the hallway, he called out, “What supplies do we have?”
Thrangorn blinked and after a moment followed after the warrior. “Sir, what if the intention is for Morgoth to set up a base here? What if they never leave?”
“Then perhaps we can tunnel from the underground passages here to the passage that leads out of the city.” The soldier shook his head before Thrangorn could veto the idea. “No, that would take far too long.”
“Should we not try to make our way out of the city before Morgoth himself arrives?” suggested Thrangorn.
“Morgoth will not come soon; he will first be sure all have been destroyed or captured.” The warrior turned his head upon hearing the sound of someone or something knocking over the grand harp in the foyer of the House of the Harp. “Have you any weapons?” he hissed as gruff footfalls could be heard on the steps. Thrangorn reached down and pulled a dagger from his left boot. “Quickly; where is the passage to the other house?”
Thrangorn motioned for the soldier to return to the master bedroom. There was a tall, slender painting on the wall – a tiger, much like the one that was tattooed across Duilin’s back. Thrangorn ran his hand along the inside of the frame, until something clicked, and the canvas swung inside of the frame to reveal a stairway leading downward. The pair hurried inside as the footsteps closed in on them. Thrangorn shoved the canvas back into place as the warrior stumbled down three of the stairs, and caught himself on a railing. As Thrangorn descended down the staircase, he aided the soldier in reaching the bottom of the landing.
They paused once there, hardly daring to breathe as they listened through the walls to beds being overturned and cabinets being opened. It was brief; an initial search conducted to look for survivors and kill them. The actual sacking would occur much later, once the threat of hidden soldiers was taken care of. The orcs, once satisfied, left the way they came, swinging maces and clubs into the harp as they went, swords hacking into the ornate walnut.
“Do you have any idea where this lets out?” asked the soldier once the cacophony of clomping and distorted notes subsided.
The butler nodded. “Directly into Master Duilin’s office. Do you mean for us to go that way?”
“No. I want you to stay here and gather whatever supplies you can find and move them into the passageway. I am going to see if I can find any other survivors in the area.”
“I mean no disrespect,” said Thrangorn with the deepest concern, “but your foot looks rather injured. Are you sure you will be able to be of much use on it?”
“I managed to get back here, did I not?” The soldier softened his tone, realizing how harsh and defensive he had answered. “I will be careful. The pain is dull, and I could not live with myself if I did not do this. My training is greater than yours when it comes to fighting, I would wager.”
“It is, sir,” confirmed Thrangorn. “I am afraid that the knife I hold is more for show than anything else.”
“Then let me be the one to scout the area. I will check the lesser market, and the surrounding areas, then return. I know my own limitations,” promised the warrior, though whether Thrangorn knew it or not, the warrior was certainly not going to stop at the lesser market.
Thrangorn nodded. “Good luck to you, sir.”
“Thrangorn, you may freely call me by my name,” offered the warrior. “There are no lords here now, no captain nor any kings.”
“I beg your pardon, then, sir, but I never did learn your name,” said the butler, quite apologetically.
The warrior smiled and held out his hand. “I am Erestor. I spent some time in your former master’s play company.”
“Ah, yes, I recall the name now, sir. Erestor, that is. I do remember seeing your plays, but I never thought to read the programs. Master Salgant had so many of his actors over, and the cast changed over often. I regretfully know the names of very few of his friends and acquaintances – sir and ma’am worked well enough for me for many years. Well, you certainly know me,” stated Thrangorn matter-of-factly as he grasped Erestor’s hand. “I regret that while I am of no use in a battle, I am more than eager to oblige in the gathering of supplies.”
“Good man. I will return as soon as I am able.” Erestor curled his toes up in his left boot, which seemed to help chase away the pain somewhat, before dashing down the stairs and through the passage.
Unforgivable by Zhie
Story Notes:
NaNoWriMo 2009