Author’s Note (READ THIS FIRST):  This story is a gapfiller of sorts for my longer fic, “Ransom.”  If you haven’t read “Ransom,” this will make no sense.  Go read it.

If you have read “Ransom,” I’ve promised you a sequel, and while that story is progressing, this is not that fic.  This fic is set between Chapter 10 and Chapter 11 of “Ransom” and tells a story that wouldn’t fit in the longer fic, limited as it was by Hakim’s POV.  Here, I will explore Aragorn’s POV as well as Azzam’s.  I hope you enjoy!  This story contains violence and dark themes and is complete in two parts.

As usual, big thanks to Cairistiona for her work as beta.

Aragorn’s wrists ached sharply.  The shackles that bound them were made for smaller hands.  When Azzam had clapped him in irons three nights before, he’d left them looser than they were meant to be worn so as not to cut off Aragorn’s circulation.  Aragorn still wasn’t sure whether that could be attributed to the man’s mercurial sense of mercy or merely his desire for an undamaged slave by which he could derive maximum profit.  Regardless, three days and nights in chains had done Aragorn few favors.  His wrists were chafed and pinched from sharp edges.  With only a foot of chain separating the shackles, it was all but impossible to rest without putting pressure on the sore skin.

Not that rest was his objective at the moment.

He closed his eyes.  There was nothing to see, anyway—any moon was hidden behind storm clouds and he had not a single candle in his makeshift cell.  The only sounds were his own heartbeat and the steady drum of rain on the tiles high overhead.  He forgot about the pain in his wrists and ankles, forgot the lingering ache from the cut in his scalp, forgot everything except the feel of the bent wire he rolled between his fingers.  The lock pick slid easily into the keyhole of his left shackle.  He breathed slowly and made tiny adjustments—adding a bit of pressure here, a slight touch there, feeling for the mechanism that would cause the shackle to fall open.

For what felt like the thousandth time, the pick slipped and wedged itself in the casing.  Aragorn swallowed a curse as he pulled it free.  Patience, he reminded himself, but time was a necessary prerequisite for patience and his time had all but run out.  He cursed himself for not making good on his chance to escape three days earlier.  If he somehow survived this, he decided, he would tell no one the tale of how he’d been outwitted by a common goat herder and his son nor how a simple flash flood had nearly been the death of him.  Halbarad would never let him hear the end of it.

His dexterity, he admitted grimly, might be more equal to the task were he not so weary.  For night after night, these past few weeks, he’d slept little, and what rest he managed was disturbed by dark dreams.  It hadn’t been so bad before Azzam had chained him.  For weeks, he’d labored on the farm and simple exhaustion had guaranteed that his nights were undisturbed.  But, for more than a week, now, he’d been able to walk no more than six feet in any direction.  Bereft of anything useful to do with his time, worries had set in, no matter how hard he’d tried to resist them.

And the dreams had followed.  Dark dreams, full of blood and fire.  Now, though his skin nearly crawled with restless energy, his head felt sluggish and dull from too little sleep.

That line of thinking ran entirely too close to self-pity for Aragorn’s liking.  By force of will, he shook it off and pressed his mind back to the problem at hand.  The task would be harder now that he had to contend not with a single leg iron driven into the wall, but with paired shackles at his wrists and ankles.  He could neither run nor ride to freedom until he got the damnable things off.

But, if they came off, what then?

The question caused him more disquiet than it should have.  He had, without a doubt, worn out his welcome on this struggling homestead.  However much he might feel for this family and their difficult economic position, however grateful he might be to Azzam, who had saved him first from the desert and then from the flood, he did not owe it to them to go quietly into slavery and, likely, death. 

The painful truth was that he missed Eriador.  The pangs of homesickness, ignored for decades, now grew with each passing day.  Surely, he had done as much as he could—scouting alone through Mordor itself, learning much of the Enemy’s devices, braving the . . . creatures that dwelt there.  Surely he had done more than anyone could have asked of him.  It was time, at last, to fly back across the Misty Mountains to his own lands—to see again the harsh splendor of the Wilds he’d left half a lifetime ago.

And yet, something in him rebelled at the idea of fleeing back across the Haradwaith—of racing back to Rivendell or Fornost-Eden with his tail between his legs and only stories and rumors to show for two decades of work.

But, there was nothing more he could do here, surely?  Not for Harad, lost fallen Harad which had done the Enemy’s bidding for so long?

He thought of Hakim—the bright eyed, eager boy who wanted to see the world.  He imagined the inevitable slaughter that would ensue if Hakim ran afoul of any of the hundreds of Gondorian warriors Aragorn had helped train.  He felt his chest clench.

And, the Haradrim themselves were hardly the only victims in this burning land.  He thought of the nameless Gondorian captive who had died not so far from where he now sat—the man he’d been forced to bury in an unmarked grave.  A man with a family who would never know what had become of him.  It was too much to think of freeing Harad from the Shadow, but surely he could do something more for the slaves that languished here.  They were Men of the West—his own people.  Wasn’t it the first duty of a king to defend his own?

He banished his troubled thoughts with a firm shake of his head.  Unless he could get these accursed shackles open, he would soon be learning more than he wished to about the fate of slaves in Harad.  He could hardly expect to defend them while he was dragged in chains among them.

The creak of a door opening drew his attention.  Quick as a flash, he wrenched the pick from its keyhole and wedged it between the floorboards under his pallet of straw.  His brow furrowed.  Midnight was approaching, if he was any judge.  Hakim had long since left for his bed, and all the estate should be asleep.  He heard the scrape of a bolt and then light washed in as the door to his cell was pushed open.

A man entered, bearing a lantern and dripping with rain.  Aragorn squinted against the sudden light, but when his eyes adjusted, he was unsurprised to see Azzam setting the lantern down and lifting a hand to brush water from his chin-length hair.

Aragorn sat, unmoving, until Azzam met his gaze.  After laboring side by side with him for nearly two months, he had a decent grasp of the man’s character—enough that he knew to tread light and careful.  Azzam was essentially a good man—charitable to strangers, deeply troubled by cruelty—but he often let his heart rule rather than his mind.  He was easily frustrated, quick to rise to anger or fear, and possessed of the prickly sort of pride often seen in men who don’t realize how completely they are oppressed.

He waited until the other man broke the silence.  “I expected you’d be asleep by now, Dakheel.”

He shrugged.  “I am unused to confinement.  It leaves me restless.”

Azzam looked away uncomfortably, but his face hardened a bit.  “You’d best become accustomed if you mean to continue this folly.”

“If you will not see reason,” Aragorn countered quietly, “Then I expect I’ll have no choice.”

Azzam’s jaw clenched.  “My hands are tied.”

“My hands are shackled,” Aragorn responded more sharply than he’d meant to, “Yours appear quite free by comparison.”  It was neither true nor fair, and Aragorn knew it.  He had a home, a family, perhaps an entire kingdom only a few weeks’ journey away, all of it free of the Shadow.  Azzam, meanwhile, had no home but fallen Harad and was hemmed in with painful choices on every side.  But, as he sat in a makeshift prison cell with rusted iron digging into his skin, Aragorn couldn’t quite bring himself to be fair.

“We’ve talked about this, Dakheel.  You know full well the options available to me.  You know what I would choose, were it in my power.”

“Indeed, we’ve talked about this,” Aragorn allowed his voice to soften, “I thought we’d said all there was to be said.  Why have you come, Azzam?”

“Perhaps I’m not as willing to give up on you as you seem to be.”

“You’re still trying to save me,” Aragorn allowed a touch of amusement to lighten his tone, “Yet freeing me is a bridge too far.”

“It’s not in my power to save you or to free you.  Only your name can free you now.”

“Do you truly believe that?”

Azzam’s face darkened.  Aragorn sensed immediately that he had committed some misstep.  “There are no slaves in Gondor, are there?”  His voice was suddenly menacing.

Aragorn searched the other man’s face but, shadowed as it was by the lamp behind him, it gave nothing away.  He shook his head slowly, fighting a growing sense of foreboding.  “Not since its founding.”

“You think you know what you face.  You were brave in war, so you think it will be just the same.”  The man’s eyes flashed.  “You have no idea.”  He stormed towards Aragorn, his face suddenly furious.  “You think you’ll be allowed to keep your dignity?  Your nobility?”  Seizing the front of his tunic, Azzam dragged him to his feet.  Aragorn was too startled to resist.  “You think abuse will just roll off of you like water?  You have been coddled, Dakheel!  Compared to what the slavers will do, we’ve treated you like a prince.”

A hook hung from the ceiling a few feet away, suspended by a chain attached to some sort of pulley system.  Aragorn had never given it much thought—assuming that it served to hang animal carcasses for cleaning.  He realized his error only when Azzam seized the chain between his wrists, looped it over the hook, and cranked the lever in the wall.  “Do you want to know what real slavery is?”  Before Aragorn could even think about fighting back, his arms were drawn up above his head.  His shoulders strained.  His feet left the ground, and he swayed like a pendulum, scrabbling desperately with his toes as the chain between his ankles scraped against the floorboards.  Azzam let him hang there for a moment.  Then, he cranked the lever back in the opposite direction, lowering the chain enough that Aragorn could regain his footing and take the weight off of his wrists, though he could not stretch high enough to lift the chain off of the hook.

Azzam wedged an iron bar into the mechanism, locking the chain in place.  He met Aragorn’s gaze, his own face now strangely calm in the flickering light.  “You ought to know just what it is that you’re resigning yourself to, Dakheel.  It’s only fair.”  Aragorn didn’t respond, except to bring his head up and fix Azzam with a glare.  He knew full well the effect that look could have on the man—had used it before when conciliatory words were not enough to defuse tensions.  But, he also knew that that tactic had its limitations.  Sure enough, he saw Azzam pause, saw him waver . . . and then saw his face harden.  Azzam stepped deliberately around to stand behind Aragorn.  When he felt the man’s hands at his sides, pushing up his ragged tunic, Aragorn couldn’t help but to twist and struggle.  It did no good.  The shackles held him fast, and all he managed to accomplish was to lose his footing again, wrenching his shoulders and ripping open the skin of his wrists.  Meanwhile, Azzam easily lifted the loose fabric, rolled it, and pushed it over Aragorn’s head.  It settled across his chest and neck, exposing his back completely.       

Getting his feet under him once more, Aragorn twisted to face the farmer.  Azzam was unbuckling his belt.  Like most Men of Harad he belted his long robe with a broad leather strap wrapped double around his waist.  An effective lash, if Aragorn had bothered to think about it.

Aragorn forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly.  “This is madness, Azzam,” he said as calmly as he could, “It will gain you nothing.”

But, a desperate glint had entered the other man’s dark eyes.  “Malik,” he corrected sharply, “You’re so eager to be a slave?  You can start by showing the proper respect!”  At the last word, he spun Aragorn around and struck.  The strap caught Aragorn across the shoulder blades while his footing was still unstable.  His knees buckled and he had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out.  His wrists were scraped raw and the stunning impact across his back was quickly coalescing into a bright line of pain.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he swung from the chains.  After a moment, he heard a quiet sigh.  A hand caught his shoulder, stilling him until he could find his footing one more time.  For a moment, Azzam remained, steadying him with a hand that was surprisingly gentle.  “Just tell me your name, Dakheel.”  His voice held a tinge of desperation.  Resigning himself, at last, to the inevitable, Aragorn took a wide stance and set his jaw.  He clutched the short chain firmly to take the pressure off of his wrists.

After a moment, Azzam sighed again and pulled away.  “Then, I can do no more for you.”

At the next touch of the lash, Aragorn’s body jerked, but he did not fall.  He fixed his gaze on the rough brick wall just a few feet away.  There, the weak lamplight rendered two figures as sharp shadows.  Since Azzam stood closer to the lantern, his shadow was magnified, creating the illusion that he towered over Aragorn.  Another lash striped his back, but Aragorn was ready for it.  He did not even grunt.

“Nothing like taking a wound in battle, is it?”

As the next strike drew a line of fire across his ribs, Aragorn realized Azzam was right.  In combat, battle fever was usually enough to dull the pain of wounds.  The full toll was often not exacted until the battle was long over and Aragorn sat safe and sound in a healer’s tent.  He had the luxury of viewing battle wounds only as damage that could be repaired.

Though Azzam’s belt caused only minor and superficial damage, the pain—the hurt—it inflicted was inescapable.  There was no victory to be had here.  His pain would buy him nothing.  Hurt was the only objective and hurt was the only end.

“You can stop this, Dakheel.”  Azzam’s voice was strained, as if he were the one being hurt rather than the one inflicting the pain.  Aragorn had lost count of the strokes.  Something warm and wet trickled down his back.

He stumbled at the next strike.  Azzam paused, breaking his rhythm to let Aragorn regain his footing.  But, the next blow was no lighter.  “Tell me your name.”

A lash landed right along a line that already felt aflame.  Aragorn had to choke back a scream.  His whole body was trembling.  His knuckles were white where he clutched the chain.  This was worse even than the time when he’d let Azzam beat him with his fists.  At least then, he hadn’t been bound.  He’d known intellectually that he had no choice, but deciding to stand passive and take the abuse was nonetheless a decision.  He’d comforted himself with the knowledge that he could have stopped the other man at any time, had there been no other concerns.

His helplessness in the grip of the chains was worse than the pain.

Anger flared within him, sudden and overwhelming.  His arms strained as he pulled against the chains, but there was no give in the mechanism.  When a particularly sharp strike opened his skin, he let out a sound that was more of a growl than a cry.  He kicked out behind him, but Azzam was too far away.  All he managed to do was to overturn a bucket that stood nearby.  Through it all, Azzam did not react.  The steady, bruising rhythm of his strikes never altered, even as Aragorn struggled and fought.  At last, he was too drained to do anything but stand.

And before long, he did not have the strength even for that.  The ground seemed to rock beneath him.  He swayed.  The next strike knocked him solidly off his feet.  As he swung from his wrists, he could not quite stifle a groan.  He should get up, he knew.  He would . . . just as soon as the world stopped spinning.

Aragorn watched the floorboards swing beneath his feet and waited for the next strike.  It didn’t come.  He didn’t notice when the belt fell to the floor or when the other man stepped around him, but after a moment, the tension in the chain released and he fell heavily to his knees.  Trickles of sweat worked their way down his back, stinging where the skin was broken and mingling with his blood.  When he sensed Azzam squatting before him, Aragorn lifted his head and met his gaze.  The other man had been reaching for Aragorn’s manacled hands where they still hung from the lowered hook.  When he saw the look on Aragorn’s face, though, he visibly flinched and drew back.

For long moments, they were at an impasse.  Azzam did not meet Aragorn’s gaze or make any move to touch him, but neither did he step back.  Aragorn kept his head up and his eyes sharp and steady, though black spots were nibbling at the edges of his vision.  He kept Azzam at arm’s length by force of will, lest he discover the other man had some new cruelty in store.

At last, Azzam spoke without looking at him.  “It is over, Dakheel,” his voice was quiet, “You have my word.”

And Aragorn heard the truth in his words.  Reluctantly, his mind acknowledged what his eyes had already noted:  the obvious remorse etched into the lines of Azzam’s face.

He bowed his head and took a deep breath, trying to regain control over his storm of emotions.  What had been done could not be undone, he knew.  There was nothing to gain, now, by making Azzam fear him.  With the last of his strength, he forced his helpless rage down, to die a quiet death beneath a calm exterior.

When he looked up again, his eyes were soft.  Azzam hesitated a moment more, then reached up to lift Aragorn’s chained hands off of the hook.  Free of the hateful contraption at last, Aragorn swayed, but weathered, calloused hands braced his shoulders, not letting him fall.  As he had done before on more than one occasion, Azzam cupped the back of his neck and lifted a waterskin to his lips.  “Drink . . . easy, not too fast . . .”  Even so, he let Aragorn drink nearly half the skin before he pulled away.

“That was only a belt,” Azzam said quietly—almost sadly, “The sort of whip fathers use on unruly sons.  In a few days, your body will scarcely remember it.”

Aragorn’s head lolled.  He felt spent—utterly wrung out.  Even the lingering pain in his back paled in comparison to his weariness.  He let himself be guided the few steps back to his pallet to lie, face down on the straw.

“Slave drivers use horse whips.  They can strip the flesh right off a man’s bones.  I’ve seen it.”

Aragorn pillowed his head on his arms and managed, one more time, to catch Azzam’s gaze.  He saw something there that pulled him abruptly out of his growing stupor:  sincerity.  Azzam, he saw in an instant, truly believed that what he’d just done was for Aragorn’s own good.

Azzam still thought he was saving him.

Aragorn swallowed hard.  He had to do something, he knew—had to say something if only to dissuade the man from resorting to ever more drastic methods of persuasion.

Then, Azzam lifted a dripping wet rag and sponged gently over Aragorn’s back.  The water was fresh and cool and more soothing than it had any right to be.  And Aragorn decided.  This man was strange to him—full of pride and wrath with his sense of justice twisted and bent from years under Sauron’s thumb, but he had saved Aragorn’s life twice.  He would save it again if he only knew how.  He deserved at least a partial truth.

“Azzam,” he croaked.  The man of Harad made an encouraging noise as he continued his ministrations.  Aragorn swallowed.  “I could tell you my name,” he said at last, “I could give you one name and the Steward of Gondor himself would give you any ransom you asked for.  A name and a title, and even the Steward’s heir—a man with no love for me—would be honor-bound to seek my release.”  He ran his tongue along his lips, tasting blood where he’d bitten them without realizing it.  “But if a spy of Sauron heard the name I could give you, all would be lost.  You would be punished for giving me succor and for concealing my existence.  And I . . . I would be taken to Barad-dûr.  Where, if there is any mercy in the world, I would not long survive.”

A tremor worked its way up his body.  The other man placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Please don’t ask me again, Azzam.  Every time you do, it grows more difficult to resist.”

For long moments, Azzam was silent.  Aragorn knew he’d said enough; Azzam would not risk the wrath of Sauron falling on his family.

But, had he said too much?

“I looked to save you,” Azzam said at last.  His voice was now infinitely sad.

“I know,” Aragorn whispered.

For a moment, the only sounds were the patter of rain and Aragorn’s labored breathing.

“I am sorry, Dakheel, for what I’ve done,” Azzam whispered, his voice breaking, “And sorrier still for what I must do.”

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a slow breath.  “Under Shadow, all choices seem evil,” he said quietly, “I forgive you.”

And he was startled to find that he meant it.

TBC