Written for the “Doom” challenge at Tolkien_weekly.

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During the searing day, they carried their burdens in silence, hurrying onward under the whip. But later, the prisoners talked softly in the darkness, for none of these black-haired men knew their tongue.

They spoke of simple things--of galloping through the grass as it bowed before the wind, of resting where clear water washed the flat stones. Of the first glimpse of home above a distant ridge.

Reaching through the bars, each gently searched for the other’s face, until the black muzzles brushed together. Dead to their Riders and kindred, at least they two could share this evil doom.