Chapter 2

            With the stranger’s blade still resting against his throat, Aragorn watched as his weapons were taken from him, and six Orcs lifted the heavy branch from his body.  He cursed himself again.  His mission was too important to be, perhaps permanently, delayed.   Aragorn struggled to free himself from their grasp, but there were too many Orcs, and they held him firmly to the ground.  Aragorn watched as the man withdrew his dagger and stood over the Ranger’s wounded side.  He bent down to examine the wound but did not touch him.

            “Bring it over and prepare it,” he called to one of the idle Orcs.  Then, turning back toward Aragorn, he said, “I am Felnorvard, commander here.  It is only through me that you will receive care.  Your wounds are not threatening your life, and they will be cleaned but not here.” 

            Aragorn knew what it meant to have Orcs treat your wound.  If it was too damaged it would be cut off or cut out.  Everything else would be cleaned with dirty water and bandages and left to rot with infection.

            An Orc approached Felnorvard with a small bottle and cloth.  After pouring its contents onto the fabric, he held it over the Ranger’s mouth.

            Aragorn twisted his head in every direction possible but could not escape.  It was choking him!  Every breath he took sent fire through his lungs.  As his struggles increased, Felnorvard tried to comfort him by saying, “Be still or you will injure yourself further.  Just breath deeply.”  But Aragorn would not listen and only struggled more until he finally fell limp in their arms.

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            Aragorn regained consciousness when he felt himself dropped onto the still muddy ground.  “Remember your orders!  No harm or it shall be your head!” a voice said.  Aragorn slowly opened his eyes and at once wished he hadn’t.  There were Orcs everywhere, and he was their captive.  He had no idea how long it had been since he was taken, but the sun was much lower in the sky.  He closed his eyes with a heavy sigh.  Everything hurt.  His left leg and side were throbbing. His whole body was sore from the many cuts and bruises from the fallen tree, but his throat was by far the worst.  Every breath burned his lungs.  Swallowing was painful, and he dare not try to speak.  Whatever poison they had used on him had lasting side effects.  However, his hands, even though they were bound behind him, did not hurt. 

            Odd, Aragorn thought.  Usually, Orcs bound the hands so tightly that they lost feeling within minutes.  One thing more that I can use to my advantage.

            “So, you have finally woken up,” Felnorvard said as he led a group of Orcs to where Aragorn lay.  “I had hoped that you would be asleep for a while longer, but no matter.”  Aragorn struggled against his bonds to sit up but was restrained.  “I am here to treat your wounds, Ranger.  It is best if you stay where you are until I am finished.”  

            Felnorvard sat beside Aragorn’s leg and slowly cut away the torn cloth, revealing a deep wound.  As the Ranger watched, he grew more and more confused.  He had never heard of someone being treated this way.  The water was clean and several common herbs could be seen along with some Orc medicine.  Still, Aragorn thought as he struggled again, making Felnorvard’s job all the more difficult.  There is some deeper meaning to this, and they are still the enemy.

            Three Orcs laid their hands on Aragorn to keep him still as the man worked.  Something was wrong with the entire situation, and it made the Ranger uneasy.  Orcs didn’t heal wounds; they made them.  One of the Orcs brought a foul smelling drink to Aragorn’s lips, but he pulled his head away, refusing it. 

            “Drink, Ranger,” Felnorvard said, cleaning away some more of the blood and dirt from Aragorn’s wound.  The Orc held the bottle closer to his mouth, but he still refused to allow such an evil potion into his body. Orcs had made it, and they used it to heal their own.   The Orc turned to Felnorvard, unsure how to proceed. 

            This is most unusual! Aragorn thought.  Why do they not strike out against me?  With such claws, it would not be hard for them.

            “Force him to drink it.  But do not draw blood,” Felnorvard answered without looking up from his work. 

            The Orc looked back at Aragorn, as if uncertain how to continue.  It slowly reached down and took the Ranger’s jaw in its hand.  Aragorn jerked his head back, refusing to comply with the creature.  But that only made the beast angry, and it’s arm shot around the Ranger’s head, drawing him close. 

            “Do not tempt me, Ranger,” the Orc growled, leaning close to Aragorn’s ear.  “Drink.”  It dug its fingers between Aragorn’s clenched teeth and, with great struggle on both their parts, pried his jaw apart.  The Orc, then, forced the dark liquid into the Ranger’s mouth.  Aragorn tried to spit out the fluid, but the Orc kept its hand firmly over his mouth.  He struggled against the creature but was finally forced to swallow.  At once, the pain in his lungs vanished but was replaced by an ache in his stomach. 

            “Aragorn, you only make things worse for yourself.  Lie still and allow me to treat your wounds.  We have a long distance to travel, and you will need your strength,” Felnorvard said as he once again began cleaning Aragorn’s leg wound. 

            Aragorn kept very still this time.  Felnorvard had taken out his dagger and was using it to carefully examine inside the wound.  “There are still pieces of wood in your leg.  Infection will come unless they are removed,” the man said.  He turned to one of the Orcs and took the potion and cloth.  Aragorn began to struggle again, the memory of the drug still fresh on his mind.  Why go to all of the trouble of knocking him out again?  The last thing the Ranger wanted was to be unconscious in their presence.  Orcs made him nervous, and hospitable Orcs made him question and worry.

            “No,” Aragorn said, speaking for the first time since his capture.  Do not use such a foul potion on me again, he added silently.

            Felnorvard leaned closer to Aragorn, looking directly in his eyes.  “The wood must be removed and the wound closed.”

            “Then proceed, but I will remain as I am,” Aragorn replied coldly.

            “Very well.” 

            Aragorn took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and braced himself as Felnorvard began using his dagger to dig out the debris from his leg.

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            Night soon came, and at last the procedure was over.  The pain had been horrible, but Aragorn had refused to cry out.  Felnorvard had spent almost one hour on his leg and another hour and a half on his side. Now, both were clean and wrapped in cloth.

            “We will begin our journey again in five hours,” Felnorvard said, cleaning the Ranger’s blood from his hands.  “Sleep first and you will be given food when morning comes.”

            Aragorn was pulled to his feet but could not stand alone.  Loss of blood had made him weak and his injuries did not allow him to put pressure on his leg.  Orcs were forced to half carry, half drag Aragorn to the edge of their camp near a large tree.  They released their hold, and he slumped to the ground.  His arms were then bound securely, but not painfully, in front of him.  Aside from his two guards, he was left alone, but Aragorn had no intention of sleeping that night.  

            It was very dark, for he was on the outer layer of the Orc-camp, and everything grew quiet as the night wore on.  The forest was always silent when evil was about, and that night was no exception.  Aragorn was left lying flat on his back near the tree, and with nothing to look at except the stars above, he closed his eyes.  

            But he was doing anything but sleeping.  Thoughts were racing through his mind as he tried to understand his captors’ treatment.  There was nothing normal about anything that had happened.  Aragorn had seen many things in his years in the wild, and he had seen his share of battles against Orcs.  The recent events compared to nothing in his memory.

             He had nearly forgotten about his quest for finding the creature, Gollum.  Of course, Gandalf had warned Aragorn about strange activity dealing with the Enemy, however he had not been told exactly what it was.  I can not bring my heart to believe that this is what Gandalf meant, Aragorn thought.  He hinted to a darker evil, and I can only think that this whole affair is a false face.  And so the rest of the night passed uneventful.

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            Aragorn's eyes shot open, and he cursed himself.  He had fallen asleep, and now Felnorvard had his hand on the Ranger’s shoulder, waking him.

            “Do not look so surprised, Ranger!” Felnorvard said with a slight laugh.  “The herb that I applied to your wounds contained a sleeping agent.  Not many could have resisted its effects for long.  You were asleep for almost three hours.”  Aragorn slowly raised himself to a sitting position as Felnorvard handed him a plate of food.  “This is food that I eat, not from the Orcs.  I know you don’t want it, but one plate is the same as three cups of the Orc draught.  That is what will be forced into you if you do not eat.”  As he turned to leave, he called over his shoulder, “You have one hour to finish it”

            Aragorn started to dump the food on the ground in protest of his capture, but he stopped himself.  Staring down at the plate, he sighed.  A decision had to be made.  Not eating meant that he would have to drink the Orc's potion, but eating would mean submission.  But, perhaps feigned obedience would give him an edge.  Besides, the food looked and smelled good enough, so Aragorn swallowed his pride and quickly finished it, finally aware of his hunger.

TBC...