2. Branded

Tarannon looked around the cell he had been put in with disconnected distaste. The walls were dank and grayed with layers of grime. The floor was matted with years and years of filth and old, decaying straw. A slightly fresher pile of straw sat in the corner, presumably his bed. A tiny window was set in the middle of the back wall. Tarannon wouldn’t have stabled an animal here, but this was what he’d been given for the next two weeks. ‘Lord Denethor must have been truly furious,’ he thought distantly, and sat on the straw. He was in shock.

There was no way he could escape being branded- though this prison was one of the worst-maintained in the city, it was also one of the most secure. People didn’t take kindly to traitors, not when their pride for Gondor was so fierce. Once he was branded, he knew that he would have to go far to the North, perhaps even past Rohan, for no Man of the South would offer him any form of hospitality once he had been marked. Even if he reached the Northern Kingdom, he still might not be welcomed if the brand was recognized. He was doomed to live a lonely life indeed. His only hope now was that Beregond would find him before he was branded so he could say goodbye.

He was so lost in his despondency that the sound of footsteps in the hall did not disturb him, nor did the sound of the door unlocking. The booted foot that swung into his gut and caused him to double over, however, did.

“So nice to see you, Tarannon the Traitor.”

Tarannon looked up and his spirits sunk even lower. It was the last person in the world he wanted to see: the man who had landed him with the beacon-guard position in the first place. “Castamir!” he wheezed. This earned him another kick.

“No talking!” Castamir barked. The man grinned at him, showing crooked yellow teeth. “I have been assigned the duty of guarding the cell of the traitor. What a coincidence!” Tarannon scowled. Castamir had arranged this meeting, no doubt. “I am to ensure that nobody contacts you, and that you do not escape. I intend to do a good job of it. Who knows? Maybe I’ll do such a good job that I will be the one to brand you tonight.”

Tarannon spat at him from his kneeling position on the floor. Castamir kicked him again, this time in the head. Tarannon felt an explosion of pain and then fell to the floor, his sight blurring. Castamir’s laughter echoed in his throbbing head as the cell door clanged shut.

Tarannon lay on the floor for a while until the walls stopped spinning. He hauled himself onto the pile of straw and gingerly touched where Castamir’s boot had connected with his head; his fingers came away crimson with blood. He grimaced, and then heard his name being whispered from the window.

“Tarannon!”

He pulled himself up and walked over to the window. Beregond was there, standing in the cobblestone alley behind the jail.

“You should not be here! Castamir has been assigned to guard my cell- he has never liked you, either. You will be in trouble if you are found.”

Beregond looked at Tarannon’s pale face, worried. “You are bleeding.”

“Castamir,” he said by way of explanation. “Beregond, I am to be branded and banished.”

Beregond’s own face paled. “This cannot happen!”

“It has. I cannot escape it- Lord Denethor is too angry to forgive me, and this prison is too strong to break out of.”

“I am sorry, my friend.” A look of frustrated grief contorted his features. Tarannon knew he would be considered dead to everyone once branded. Death was preferable to this fate.

“I hoped that you would come so I could say farewell before…” he trailed off.

“When is it to happen?”

“Tonight, if Castamir has spoken true. Though,” he said, thinking aloud, “it is of little consequence. I will most likely stay in this city until I am dead.”

Beregond’s grieved look was replaced by one of suspicious concern. “What is that supposed to mean? You’re not going to kill-”

“No, I would not do that to myself." Tarannon smiled grimly. "I do not have the nerve. Mordor’s armies are coming to attack the city. If they breach the gate, and I am still in here with no weapon, then I do not think I will last.”

“But Rohan will come now,” said Beregond with a touch of irony in his voice.

Tarannon heard footsteps in the hall. “Someone is coming,” he said tersely. He found that he was holding back tears. “I will miss you.”

“We will see each other again, if not in this life, then beyond the circles of the world. Goodbye, my friend.” Beregond’s eyes were shining as well as he fled from the window. Tarannon flung himself on the pile of straw and pretended to be nursing his injured head as the jailor walked by on a patrol circuit.

As the day died, Tarannon’s fear grew. He had accepted that he was to be banished, but branding was perhaps one of the most painful ways to be marked. He was not certain what the brand looked like or where it would be placed, but knew that it would be obvious in meaning. He watched the sun set with dread.

Finally, he heard footsteps once more. There were two people by the sound of it, probably Castamir and the jailor. The cell door was unlocked and the two came in, each taking him by the arm. He pretended to be submissive and calm until they got out into the hall. Once outside his cell, he suddenly struggled against them and tried to run. Castamir gave a shout and two more guards bearing weapons appeared. Tarannon gave up on his escape plan as they pointed their unsheathed swords at his throat.

His escort of four led him to a room with no windows in the center of the prison. It was blazing hot inside; a fire was roaring on the hearth, and the iron brand was already heating up. There was a heavy wooden chair across the room, and leather straps were attached to the arms and legs. Castamir, the jailor, and the guards forced him into the chair, strapping him in tightly. Tarannon looked for the slightest bit of sympathy in the eyes of the jailor and the guards, but only found anger and loathing. Castamir gestured for the three of them to leave and locked the door behind them.

“They do not know what you did,” Castamir sneered. “They believe you to be some sort of terrible criminal. I do not know what it is you have done, and nor do I care. You are leaving the city, and that’s all that I care about. No-one else will care either, so get used to it- you will not be able to proclaim your tale of false innocence once you’ve been branded.” Castamir was met with a venom-filled glare from Tarannon.

Castamir forced Tarannon’s right hand palm-upwards and bound his fingers to the chair’s arm. So the brand was to be upon his palm. Castamir crossed the room and drew the now red-hot brand from the fire. It was in the shape of a T. ‘T for Tarannon the Traitor,’ Tarannon thought miserably as apprehension twisted in his stomach. He could feel the heat radiating off it as Castamir positioned it over his hand. Tarannon looked up and held Castamir’s face in his gaze and gritted his teeth in anticipation of the pain to come. Castamir plunged the brand downwards.

Tarannon gave a strangled yell as his hand seared with a white-hot pain. He could hear his flesh sizzling. It was agony. Castamir held the brand down until it seemed an age had passed, and then withdrew it. The acrid smell of his own burnt skin coupled with the pain caused him to lean over the side of the chair and retch. He hadn’t thought it would be so bad; his head reeled in pain, and he bit his tongue so hard that it bled.

Castamir cut the cords binding his fingers and then freed him from the chair. He unlocked the door and dragged Tarannon out of the room. Tarannon curled his hand into his chest and forced his legs to move, only wanting to lay down somewhere. His head was spinning, and he felt as though he was going to be sick again.

They finally reached the cell and Tarannon wobbled in, collapsing on the straw in giddy relief. Castamir locked the door and left him. It was only then that he allowed himself to whimper in pain and despair. He decided to see what the damage was and uncurled his fingers.

He felt nauseous at the sight of the burn. The lines were half an inch thick; a line ran vertically down the middle of his palm and intersected with a horizontal line at the base of it. If he was to extend his hand to someone, they would see a T on his hand and know him to be a traitor. He knew instinctively that he would never be able to use his hand properly again. The skin where the hot metal had touched was a livid, angry red. Large blisters were forming already, and a clear liquid was oozing from his palm. Tarannon groaned and tore a strip of his shirt off and loosely wrapped it around his hand.

So that was it. Now he was marked forever, and whoever he met would think that he had committed a terrible crime against Gondor. Curling himself about his maimed hand, he let tears of pain escape as he drifted off to a troubled sleep.