This is another chapter I took out of my longer story I'm posting on ffnet and AO3. The story of a young boy on the Corsair ships and his POV when Aragorn's Company and the Shadow Host take over the ships.

Beta-read by the very dear Ruiniel – Thank you, my friend!

Thanks for every review, they are great gifts.

Warning for starvation and implied rape in this chapter.

Leyth

"Leyth! Come down, lad, come get your meal," Wali's powerful voice rose up to him, "soon, we're to sail, and you will need the sustenance."

Leyth sighed. From his position, perched on the ladder, he squinted down to where the insistent voice came from. But then he was distracted again by the wind and dipped his face into it, breathing deeply. He let his thoughts drift back to a time when all had been different.

"Come, lad, you cannot live from air and dreams alone. The wind will blow you down from there soon enough."

Wali's voice bore a warm, caring tone, and it was to Leyth as it reached up to him, cradling him, and with the surrounding wind, the ladder swayed gently. He took another breath, and let his mind float into memory…

… He had been a child then, and he had been happy.

He remembered the children he played with in their village. It was small, and they all knew each other. Sometimes he would roam with his friends outside. They would visit each other's houses, or all together they would come back to his. They helped their parents; simple tasks like cleaning the courtyard, or making fire, fetching water…they would follow their fathers and mothers to the fields. They worked, but their parents made it feel like a game. They would compete at who would gather the most beans, and then, at lunch break, they would play the game with the beans in the holes in the ground. Leyth was clever and often came out the winner. They would thresh the grains from the wheat. And, in between, they would play hide-and-seek, climb and jump from the walls; who would climb higher and who would run faster? They would play with the stones and the soil, dig grooves, pile up mounds and build their own little villages… the games were innumerable, they would never end, and he still remembered most. With his best friend Adil, he often led the goats to feed on the nearby hills. He loved the long strides, the peace and the freedom, and the talks and jokes he shared with Adil. They would return tired, with hurting feet. And they'd be rewarded for their help with a tasty meal crowned by dates or figs, fresh in the season and dried the rest of the year and then even sweeter.

How long had it been since he last savoured the taste of it…? How long had it been since he had spent a peaceful evening around a fire, clapping his hands to the rhythm of song and music, or listening to tales, tired and content after a day of work and games?

So often, when he was on the ladder or on the mast, the wind in his hair, the sails blowing, Leyth remembered. The sense of freedom he felt then was sweet, and it stung, for it was carried along with the wind, elusive, intangible.

The sudden voices on the ship startled him. He heard orders and answers, and saw the men in motion down on the planks. "Leyth, descend! Get to work!" a man barked up at him. It was Bashir, and his order had to be followed. Leyth flipped into motion and scrambled down the ladder. Bashir was already shouting into another direction, but shot him an admonishing glare. Leyth flinched and wheeled around to hurry to his task. His heart was in his throat, for he never dared fail an order given to him on this ship.

And while he set to work detangling the ropes, that day flashed back into his mind once more and took hold…

… the day when the foreign men burst into their village, armed with daggers and knives and swords, some curved some straight, some broad, some slim. But all were sharp, and the men were rough and violent. The people he knew were afeared. He remembered how they left all their work, all their games, at the menacing presence of the intruding men. The people slowly, cautiously, retired to their houses, in tense silence. But the foreigners chose some of the men of the village - the strongest. When they picked them out harshly, the men obeyed.

His father was among them.

Leyth waited in their house with his mother and his siblings, not daring to speak. Time seemed to stretch into unbearable tension. The air pressed down on them, hot and heavy, nearly unbreathable. Outside, harsh voices tore through its thickness. When his father finally joined them, his face was serious, and his voice raw as he spoke. He said they would give him a sword and more knives, to carry on him and to fight, and he had to go with the men. Leyth's mother cried. She did not want him to go. His sisters and brothers sobbed and cried and hung themselves to their father's waist, clung to his legs. They wanted to hold him back. Leyth tried to stay strong. He asked his father why he had to leave. His father just said he had to do this in order to protect them; if he did not obey, something bad might happen to them. Leyth asked more questions as tears burst from his eyes; where he would go? Whom, or what, he had to fight with those knives and swords they gave him, and when would he return? His voice broke into sobs.

His father answered his many questions with one soft, "I do not know." He held him fast, clasping his shoulders.

"You have to be strong, Leyth, you are the eldest. Be bold, help your mother, and when you grow older, protect her and your siblings." His father's strong hand cupped his cheek. It was warm and comforting, and so deceiving. Thick, heavy tears welled in Leyth's eyes and ran down his face along the line where his father's hand lingered. The tears were silent. Leyth repeated the questions. His father bent down and hugged him close, and Leyth hid his wet face in the crook of his father's shoulder.

From that day, the happiness of childhood had slipped away, never to return.

He tried to help his mother. In the village, they all supported each other. But all the strong men were gone, most of the fathers and the elder brothers, and only the aged, the women and the children remained.

They all worked hard. Their children's games had ceased. The laughter and liveliness had fled the fields. The rain had been sparse that year, as it often was. But this time it was different. The fountain, which had always provided them water in times of need – water to drink, to cook and to irrigate the fields – was now dry. It had never happened before. There must be another reason than just the scarcity of rain. They lost almost all of their harvest.

One day, a high-pitched, desperate cry woke Leyth. His mother hurried out of the house and when she returned, she told him the baby brother of his best friend, Adil, had died. The hard work and the lack of nutrition and water had left Adil's mother dried out of milk. She was going mad because she blamed the fault on herself, on her own weakened body.

His own grandmother could not walk anymore, her skin looked shriveled like old, torn parchment. Her eyes were dull, and she had no more the strength to wave away the flies that would gather at their crusted, leaking corners. Sometimes, when Leyth sat by her, holding her thin, bony hand, washing her eyes with a herbal infusion, she tried, but she was too spent to even smile. She fell asleep, and she did not wake again. Two other babies died soon after; one had been his cousin and the other, a friends' sister. Both of the same friend's grandparents had passed away just the week before.

Leyth and the other boys helped dig the holes, where the bodies were buried, wrapped in white linen. The sun was merciless. Their hands and arms hurt from the effort. Leyth remembered the pain spreading through him, how the sweat mixed with the tears, how he became dizzy, and his dry throat constricted and burned.

One day, when they were too worn out to even despair anymore, foreign men came into their village again. They appeared well-clad and formal, polite, surrounded by grim guards with weapons. They offered them gold, wanted to buy their dry fields and said they could provide food for them from behind the hills, which with the gold from the sale they could buy. The elders and the women retired for council, and when they returned, they tiredly agreed. What choice did they have...?

But Leyth felt like that day their land had been stolen.

The gold lasted for a few more months because the council shared the rations and they were used to scarcity. Families were split because many, like Leyth, went to work over the hills where the soil was richer. They worked hard from dawn to dusk, and they were allowed no breaks. They got their pay at the end of the day, but the few coins he received would have only been enough for one proper meal. All the same, he saved more than half, and ate only what he must, as to sustain himself into the next day without crumbling on the field.

Some of Leyth's friends were working alongside with him. They rose with the first light of dawn, and the work was silent and hard. They were not allowed to talk or to sing. When dusk settled, they would return to the barracks, exhausted and hungry. They would eat blankly and crumble to immediate sleep. It was then, mostly, that Leyth dug out the pouch he had hidden in the sand under his sleeping mat, slid the unspent coins into it, then clutched the pouch to his heart until his fingers hurt from the pressure. It was then that he allowed himself to weep and remember his mother, his siblings, his father, his cousins, his friends… and thought of the games, the laughter, the smiles, the joy he had felt in his simple and peaceful child's life. Only some few more days, some few more coins, he thought, as he hid the pouch in the earth under the mat once more. And then he wept himself into sleep, missing them all, missing the life he had lost.

Leyth stumbled and bumped into a firm, strong body. He lifted his face, eyes wide and fearful, his lips half-open, already stammering words of excuse. But it was Wali's friendly brown eyes that met his, and the man clasped his shoulder soothingly.

"Peace, Leyth," he comforted, but then with a stern undertone, he added: "Gather yourself, lest you bump into one of the others."

Leyth only nodded and made to scurry away. But Wali caught his arm and pulled him back.

"Here." He produced a piece of dried meat and a handful of bread from his pocket. "Eat," he hissed, squeezing his arm and glancing at him sharply, before letting go.

Leyth told nobody, not even his friends. He left the barracks at night. That evening, he spent all the coins of the day on food and water. He knew his village lay beyond those hills where the sun was settling every evening. He walked all night and all day. The food soon dwindled. But that was not the problem; the water was. The hills seemed to stretch endlessly. The second night, he slept for a few hours, so exhausted was he. He drank the last drops of water before he set off again. He had underestimated the journey, thought himself strong enough, and the way much shorter. But the hills stretched endlessly before him, and he hurt so badly!

But Leyth walked - because what would become of his mother if he died now? Who would protect her? – It was night when from above he saw the village. The moon shone, and it gleamed silver, unreal, like in a dream. It blurred and darkened and glimmered as he stumbled downhill. He tripped, and the pain slashed through him, but he scrambled back onto his feet only to trip and fall again soon after. He was weeping, he could not give up now when he was so close! He did not remember how many times he got up, how many times he fell, only that in the end he reached the village and there he collapsed. The entire world was shrouded in a dull ache, and then he knew no more.

Time must have passed as he became aware of a bustle of voices because he blinked, but the light was too bright. It hurt his eyes and shot spikes into his throbbing head. He closed his eyes and did not open them again, as he felt himself being hoisted up by several arms. The surrounding voices were agitated. He could not move as he was jostled along and then laid down carefully. Only much later did he wake. Water trickled down his sore throat, blissfully moistening his mouth. And as he blinked his eyes open, the beloved face of his mother stared back at him. He was back in their little house. And his mother hugged him, and cried in both relief and grief.

His loving mother.

Leyth had just finished the last bite of meat that Wali had slipped into his pocket when a heavy silence surged from the dark water and crept to cover the ships and the harbour. But high above, the still wind blew, rippling the black banners. Leyth paused in his stride. Thick muteness wrapped around his heart.

He had vowed to protect his mother. But what could he do to change the fate that was upon them? So much had happened as he'd been away to work over the hills…

He remembered his baby sister, how he held her in his arms before he left. How she had wrapped her tiny fingers around his thumb. How she gurgled in delight when he kissed her tender neck. She had been so slim and fragile. And while he was away, working for some coins in the fields, she had gotten sick and died. He would never hold her again.

His lively little brother, who had been loud and laughing and would never sit still, had no more the strength to run; he could barely walk at his return. Leyth remembered his slim, fragile limbs and the hard, bloated belly. The flies began bothering him like they had his grandmother. And one morning, he too did not wake anymore. Leyth wanted to remember the shiny child with the bouncing locks, his excited squeals, his laughter. Not the still, emaciated form with the huge, suffering eyes.

His mother looked weary, consumed, but she carried on, despite the tears. Every day she worked in the fields, with the other people left in the village. His other sister was caring for their home and their little siblings. As soon as he recovered, Leyth joined the workers on the fields again. Since the land had been sold to the new owners, the water had miraculously returned. They were still not allowed to sing, nor to pause. At the end of the day, they would get paid, each pay enough for one proper meal. But there were still five more mouths to feed.

Sometimes in the evening, armed men came along. They entered their courtyard without asking permission. Every time, his mother shot up and hurried towards them in obvious distress. Leyth could not hear what she said, but he could see that she was begging. He did not like the way they looked at her, nor the way they glanced at them over her shoulder. She always followed them out of the house and would stay away for a while, and when she returned, she was all dishevelled. – Sometimes her clothes were torn. Her eyes were dull and her cheeks dry, but streaked where tears must have run through the dirt. Leyth knew what his mother did, and that she did it to protect them, hoping the men would be sated with her so that they would not lay hands on her children.

It was then that he knew he could not protect her.

He hated those men. He wanted to kill them. But what would be of his sisters and brothers? What of his mother if he did that? They would take him away from them, kill him, or worse?

Other men would come, and all that would change for his mother was that she would have lost yet another child.

The men on deck turned their heads towards the mountains. Some froze, some gasped. Leyth blinked and squinted and his eyes widened in shock as he took in the fog that poured down the slope at frightening speed. From afar, he heard the thunder of pounding horses' hooves on the earth. It rolled down the mountain like a landslide. The fog thickened as it relentlessly approached. Distant hisses pierced the oppressing silence, like voices not of this world. Ice-cold. Dead. What was happening? Leyth's heart hammered. Was this the end? Would he ever see his mother again?

He had promised her he would return. That day she had wept, begged him to stay, as she had done with his father. But Leyth could not bear it anymore, to struggle each day for nothing, to suffer, to witness his mother's silent despair and to fear for his siblings. He was the eldest. His father would want this from him. And so, he took the way of the sea. Adil had left before him. He had heard that they were recruiting young men to help on the ships. Those who worked well would get a good share of the goods the Corsairs brought back from their sailings. And he would leave the close shores to see other lands. With some luck, he could find a place to settle, work hard, to one day return to his family with enough in his pocket to buy them their freedom.

The cold fog swept over the harbour, and Leyth realized, frozen in horror, that it was not fog but grey, vaporous ghosts on flying ghost-horses. Their eyes gleamed eerily, yearning for death and piercing through the swathes. Their empty, sinewy limbs bled grey vapour. They wielded swords and spears, lacking substance but cutting ice-cold. The swishes of their blades were accompanied by battle hisses out of dead throats.

The ship was suddenly filled with the screams of the men, and a tumult broke out as many ran blindly to save themselves. Some stood frozen, horrified, swords unsteady, wide eyes blank. Leyth's heart pained in anguish at the thought that this was the end, and his mother would never see freedom again.

Leyth saw men leap from the ship in mad fear. And even if most knew how to swim, he also knew the strong pull of this broad river would drag many to drown. The ghosts encompassed all. They followed and pressed down on the water. Leyth huddled himself low against the balustrade, trying to hide, but the chill of the fog reached every corner. There was no escape. He hid his face, arms flung about his head.

As he peered out between his shaking limbs, afeared, he saw a clear shape emerge from the opposite balustrade and, with a fluid leap, land silently on the dark planks. It was a young man, a few years older than him in appearance, and he glowed, fair and fearless in the middle of the cold grey mist. Leyth stared, briefly forgetting all else.

He was not the only one having noticed the stealthy invader. Even from the crouch where he had landed, the young warrior shot up with a speed that seemed alien, unnatural. On his back, he carried a great bow carved of fair wood, and two long knives were strapped just beside it, revealed by their gleaming white handles. Daggers of different lengths were sheathed in his belt. But he used none of his weapons as he met the bulky, yet terrified and unsteady attackers. He struck them down with effective punches and kicks. Leyth gasped as he observed, transfixed, the tight force of that slender body. And while he followed his movements, in his astonishment, he had missed that other solid shapes had reached the deck.

A very short, sturdy man, amply bearded, rumpled over the planks, and the hilt of his axe hit hard those who did not run from him or the ghosts. Just behind him in a powerful charge leapt two identical warriors, clad in black. Their armour gleamed silver, and their raven hair fell down their backs, so sleek it gleamed almost blue in the eerie light dimmed by the fog. They looked beautiful, mesmerizing, but too perfect, too sharp, deadly – like demons – thought Leyth with growing panic. His arms before his face were shaking badly, and he shot up, eyes darting around for an escape, one that would not bring him to immediate death; but as much as he spun around, caught in his panic, he could find none. There was mist all around, the gleaming eyes of the ghosts, the cold sharp hisses of death, and unknown, bold warriors now accompanied by some strong, unfamiliar men. The only way of escape would be to leap to immediate death into the dark water below. But Leyth wanted to live. There was his mother waiting for him, far away. One day, he wanted to give her a home again.

Leyth called out for his elder companion, "Wali! Wali! Where are you?" But there was no answer.

Instead, he caught sight of Bachir on the opposite side of the ship. The captain had been thrown back by a hard punch of one of the twin warriors' sword hilts. Leyth saw him scramble back up just for his jaw to meet the swift fist of the warrior. He crashed to the planks and moved no more. But Bashir was hardy, and when the warrior turned because he thought him unconscious, Bashir raised, lunging forward, sword pointed to impale his opponent's unprotected back. There was a raw shout of alarm in a strange, unknown tongue and then the dark warrior whipped around at a speed that Leyth's eyes were not able to follow. The next thing Leyth realized was that the beautiful, sharp warrior stood tall, sword bloodied, over Bashir's collapsed body, nostrils flared, silver eyes narrowed, gleaming in a wild mix of anger and anguish as he took in the body slain by his own sword. It was to Leyth as if the silver gleam in his eyes was fluid with tears. The warrior looked up at the one who must be his twin brother. Their eyes met and held for a moment as if finding comfort in each other, an understanding, before they both lowered their heads briefly in a reciprocal gesture.

Bashir was dead.

The day Leyth had reached the havens of Umbar, the sun had been high and his throat, dry. At the end of his strength, he had applied to join the ships. Bashir had summoned him to his crew with a curt nod of his head, and Leyth had been intimidated by his stern mien and the lack of words. Then Bashir had handed him a tin of fresh water.

He had always been straight and strict with Leyth, as he was with every member of the crew. He had been a man of few words and clear, direct orders. His authority had never been questioned or challenged by any man under his command. It was natural. And Bashir had never taken advantage of it. He had never beaten nor humiliated another man of the crew, not even a young one like Leyth.

Leyth knew this was not the way on every ship. Adil had told him that he often was suffering. Floggings were not a rare punishment for the lesser or younger men on his ship. Leyth, who had been worried for his friend, had decided to ask Bashir for a possibility of moving Adil to their ship. But he had not yet found the courage to address Bashir on the matter, for fear of not catching the right moment, of being ignored and losing the one chance. Bashir had always been just to them, but what Leyth did not know was whether he cared.

Bashir was dead. And with the image of the man's bloodied body and the silver gleaming eyes and armour of the warrior who dealt the lethal strike in his mind, Leyth ran panicked through the grey mist. In front of him, he saw a material shape through the swathes. A coiled brume of ghosts swarmed towards it and the man that slowly came into view had no way of escape. He screamed in deadly terror.

Leyth's heart gave a lurch.

"Wali!" he called, "Wali!" He screamed as the man was pressed back and then just disappeared from the ship.

Leyth dashed towards the balustrade. His mind formed only one thought and determination; he would not lose him! Leyth hung himself over the railing and caught Wali's arm before the man fell into the river below, but he was heavy, and Leyth could barely hold him, lest pull him back up onto the ship.

"Leyth!" Wali screamed over the rushing of the water and the hisses of the ghosts, "let me go!"

"No!" Leyth cried desperately. "You will drown!"

"Let go! Leyth! You will drown with me!" But Leyth's hand clutched the man's wrist in a firm grip. The bulky weight pulled him down, painfully overstretching his joints, as the young man grasped the railing with his leg and his free hand.

Was this the punishment for his decision to join the fleet, knowing that what they did on their travels was not right? Had he not been punished enough in his life? Nothing was just in this world. He had suffered to the point of despair, where he did not care anymore but to get riches and his own share. On the ship, it had felt like a common business.

The men all talked little. They did their work. They raided together, took goods and slaves, killed. But they never looked like they enjoyed the killing or the punishment of a captive. It seemed all bereft of feeling, a necessity... a business. And behind their stern faces, they may all have their stories that Leyth did not know.

Only Wali – he was different! At the beginning of Leyth's service on the ship, the elder man's eyes had been dull and empty, like to him nothing mattered, and his bearing had been heavy, as if a weight pressed on him. But soon, warmth pooled in his hazel eyes when he looked upon Leyth, and Leyth felt love and sadness flooding him.

He knew, by now, that nothing was right in this world. What they were doing was wrong. But he pushed the gnawing conscience aside, and did what was expected of him, serving on the ship as they all did. They never pushed him to kill. He was the boy of the ropes and the masts. The one who would spy anything from afar.

Wali was respected and valued, for he knew much of the water, the weather, and the sails. He knew the sea, and he knew how to live through its tempers. His experience was of great import to the fleet. He served well, and Leyth had never seen him kill. But he never complained, never questioned.

Wali talked long into the nights with Leyth and listened to him.

Nothing was right in this world. Leyth pushed those thoughts away every new day. He had embarked on the ship, and there was no returning with nothing to bring back to his mother.

Leyth cried out in his effort and despair. Wali was slipping away. But Leyth would not let go of him – never! – and so he was pulled downwards by the weight of the man. Even as he slid, he stared back at the deck of the ship that had been his home for long months, realizing this was the end.

And suddenly, there on the planks, he discerned the young warrior who had first stepped onto the ship; down on his knees, as if he had been struck. He stared at the sky, his chest heaving. Leyth felt a sudden pang of sadness at the image, at the thought that this glowing being should die here. It felt wrong. But as Leyth stared, in his own despair, he saw no blood on the body of the warrior, and it was to Leyth as if he was kneeling on the verge of another world where a bright glow like his belonged. Then the warrior focused clear eyes upon Leyth, and there, just for a breath, Leith felt hope as the glowing warrior's gaze held his. His long eyes widened, and in their clear blue, a grey-green storm unfolded, like the moving waters in the open sea.

He jolted forward with great, agile speed.

Too late. Leyth knew, as his cramped fingers gave in to the pain. The beautiful face of the warrior, directed at him, torment in his sea-deep eyes, was the last thing Leyth saw before he fell into a mad, panicked struggle, gripping at his beloved Wali and the cold water closed over him.