Cottoncrow's Cry - Chapter 4
They arrived at the small village before dawn, the dark, hellish night seeming to have no end. Despite the late hour, there were many in the streets, either alerted by the sounds of the returning group, either kept from sleeping by whatever nightmare that plagued them that night.
Chapter 4
They arrived at the small village before dawn, the dark, hellish night seeming to have no end. Despite the late hour, there were many in the streets, either alerted by the sounds of the returning group, either kept from sleeping by whatever nightmare that plagued them that night.
Their first stop was the boy’s house. The silent night was suddenly broken by the angst cries of Brenn’s mother and his sisters. The few that were sleeping were awoken by the disturbing wails of the three women, crying their misery to the stars.
Soon, many had gathered around the dead body, asking questions.
The tall figure of the elf stood out amongst the smaller men and women, his skin casting a soft glow under the stars. Heads started to turn towards the silent prisoner as the men explained what had passed.
The initial soft murmur of voices escalated to a full riot, as the villagers started to realize that this was the creature Samuel had told them about. They were quick to assume that Brenn was but his latest victim.
“Murderer!” A woman shouted at the quiet elf, spitting on him.
“Hey!” Gimli protested.
“Spawn of Sauron!” Another yelled, throwing a stone at the prisoner.
“HEY!” The dwarf yelled, even if Legolas had easily dodged it. The situation was quickly becoming out of hand, and there wasn’t much chance of escape for the two friends. “Are you going to do nothing?!” Gimli turned in anger to those that had been guarding the elf so far. But they seemed more willing to vent their own anger too, rather than act against the rain of stones that was pouring over the two strangers.
“Stop this!” A man in long robes and dark hair shouted as he arrived.
The effect of his command was immediate. Though the anger was still visible in everyone’s eyes, all quieted and remained silent.
“Who is this man?” The newcomer asked, nearing the bound prisoner. His eyes widened when he took in the pointed ears and the strange beauty. An elf.
“Tis the creature you warned us about, Samuel!” One of the men said, excited.
Samuel took a longer look. The creature met his stare with sad eyes but without fear.
“It is an elf,” he almost spat, “but I see one head only.”
Gimli’s thick eyebrow raised.
“And how many where you expecting?” He asked in a mocking tone.
Samuel turned to face the owner of the unfamiliar deep voice. A dwarf?
“It had two before!” A man spoke, struggling to reach the healer, franticly pointing to the elf. “I was there! I saw it! It had two heads before!”
“You are mistaken,” Legolas spoke softly, scaring those near him with the sound of his voice.
“He lies!” The man insisted, supported by the others that had been there as well.
Gimli placed himself between his friend and the group of troubled men.
“And who are you, master dwarf?” Samuel finally asked.
“Gimli, son of Gloin,” the dwarf answered, puffing his chest out and turning himself in to a imposing figure.
“Gloin...” the healer rolled the name in his mouth, in thought. Then his attention was back on the elf, “Are you sure of what you say?” He asked the group of men.
“We all saw it... and David’s boy paid the price for us bringing it here!”
Samuel nodded in sadness. He had passed through David’s family, seen it mourning the lost son. David looked like a wretched man, mumbling incoherent words and staring off in the distance, seeing nothing and no one.
Legolas searched for the stricken family with his eyes. He couldn’t see them, but their cries and sobs reached his ears with ease.
“It was a needless and unfortunate death, on account of a mistake,” the elf said. “I regret the child’s passing but I am not this creature you are looking for. Let us clear the air of any misunderstanding and avoid any further reckless spill of blood.” Legolas pleaded for reason to Samuel, recognizing him as a man of power over the villagers.
The healer shook his head, seeming pained to be found in such position.
“We will not be fooled by your elven trickery,” Samuel said with contempt. “But it is not for me to decide on your fate. Guard him well!” He said to the men around. “I will speak with Bomieth.”
“I’m coming with you!” Gimli added, leaving no room for a refusal, as he strode alongside the tall man.
“If it pleases you,” Samuel allowed.
Legolas’ trust in common sense and Men’s ability to pass fair trials had made him walk right into a steaming pot. Gimli figured it was up to him to make sure they were out of the pot before this water boiled. Exchanging a look with Legolas, Gimli followed Samuel’s hurried footsteps.
Bomieth’s house stood at the far end of Cottoncrow, in a dusty street that looked mostly deserted. In the pre-dawn hours, when light painted everything in shades of grey and silver, the wooden, decayed houses around them seemed ghostly and haunted.
“I believe I’ve met your father, master Gimli,” Samuel broke the silence. Gimli, who had been deeply lost in his thoughts, making a list of all the arguments he could use to make this Bomieth see reason, looked curious.
“Our paths crossed when I was but a boy... I had journeyed as far as the Lonely Mountains and he was returning home from the battle of the Five Armies, a hero and loaded down with riches.”
Gimli nodded.
“It was a hard fight, and my father was rightly compensated.”
“Were you there as well?”
“No,” but he had heard the tale often enough to know every detail of it as if he had been, Gimli thought.
“Your father and his companions were kind enough to share their tale with a stranger,” Samuel mused, dwelling in memories that he was, obviously, fond of. “So, I must say, I was quite surprised to see you, son of your father, in the company of an elf.”
“My father’s acquaintance with elves was not the best one,” Gimli replied, measuring his words with care. This tall, lanky man, with small dark eyes and kind smile didn’t inspire much confidence in to the dwarf. His disdain for elves was obvious, and Gimli was glad the decision of letting Legolas go wasn’t in this man’s hands.
“Your father met the elves as they are, I’m afraid. Suspicious, untrusting and evil creatures, who think themselves superior and that would not spare a second thought in regard of others to assure their own interests and pleasure!”
Gimli looked surprised. He would expect to hear such words from his kindred under the mountain, but not from the mouth of a Man.
“Have you met many?” He asked seriously. Not many seasons ago, this too was his view of Elves, spiked by his father’s experiences. But now that he had met some of them and even befriended one, he could see differently.
“Meet them?” The man asked with barely contained wroth. “Our ancestors had not met them, until a group of those creatures came to these parts. At first, their fair faces and gentile fine manners fooled our forefathers, but soon their evilness became obvious. Much suffering did they cause then and, even though none now live that remember having seen one of those pointed ear foul creatures, the tale of those times has prevailed, as a warning,” Samuel explained.
Gimli was mute. His own infant years were filled with memories of nights spent by a warm fire, hearing tales not so different from this one.
The knowledge that bad weeds could sprout in any garden was, sometimes, not enough. And too often did the actions of a few branded an ill view of the entire race, for first impressions and bad deeds were things that not even time could erase. In fact, the turn of the years had many times changed the course of the facts in the mouths of the tellers, forever stripping them of solution.
“So you see,” the healer told, “you need not meet them to know their ways.”
“You can’t judge this elf for deeds that were not his own!” Gimli defended, in a way that would bring shame to his forefathers.
Samuel shrugged. A snake would always be a snake, no matter how often it changed its skin.
“Does he have a name?”
Gimli humphed.
“You could have asked him yourself.”
“I am asking you,” the man pointed out.
“Legolas.”
“Is he one of those that live near your realm? How have you come to travel together?”
Gimli stopped before answering. He did not think wise to let this man know too much about them. Both had gained a certain amount of reputation, on account of their part in the destruction of the Ring, and the fact that Legolas was a Mirkwood elf was something that should never reach Samuel’s ears. It would do them no good if the healer ever linked this elf to the elven-king in Gloin’ stories. No good at all.
“Our paths have crossed,” he answered vaguely.
Samuel could tell the dwarf was hiding something.
“I see,” he replied, as they came to a stop and he rasped lightly on a wooden door.
Gimli felt relieved that with their arrival, any further questions would have to wait. They waited for a moment and, as no one came, Samuel knocked again.
It was apparent that anyone living in that place was deeply asleep, ignorant of all that was going on or not at home at all. Gimli had resorted to pacing in front of the dark door, a part of him wondering why the village’s leader would live in such an abandoned-looking part. The rest of him was still cursing their luck and wondering if it hadn’t been a wisest choice to stay with those Orcs for company.
After a long wait, the door finally opened, revealing an old man, dressed from neck to toes in what looked like rags. His white hair was dirty and tangled, and even in the feeble light, Gimli could see the lice, walking freely over the man’s head.
“Bomieth, I apologize for the late hour,” Samuel begun, “but there is an important matter that warrants your attention.”
The old man cocked his head to one side, looking more like a grey pigeon than a leader. His body swayed gently from side to side, as if pushed by a breeze that no one else could feel. By the lack of comprehension in his eyes, Gimli figured it had been a too long sentence for a too short attention. The man was, after all, clearly drunk.
“Come in,” he finally said.
Samuel stepped inside and closed the door behind him, almost hitting Gimli’s nose, who had followed him close.
“Son of an orc!” He cursed in the worst dwarfish he could think of.
Knowing that banging the door open would solve nothing, Gimli resigned himself to wait and present his arguments when they came out. The simple hut had no other way out; they were bound to face him then.
He was starting to regret having left the elf alone for such a waste of time, when the door’s hinges sounded again.
“Your lordship...” he started before anyone could tell him to be quiet, the courteous words tripping and tumbling from his mouth, from lack of practice. Either way, they were pointless, as only the healer came out.
“Hold your peace, master dwarf,” Samuel begged, holding a hand up. “Do not bother Bomieth needlessly... he has asked me to deal with this matter for him.”
The healer turned and, not waiting for the dwarf, hurried to return to the prisoner. His prisoner now.
“There is nothing to deal with! You people have, obviously, problems of your own, but me and the elf have nothing to do with it!” Gimli shouted to the man’s back, finally losing his patience. “Be glad that no one else died in that foolish hunting your farmers tried and let us be on our way!”
Samuel stopped and turned around. Gimli realized by the look on his face that he had said all the wrongs words.
The healer’s voice was as cold as ice when he spoke.
“You know nothing of our troubles, stranger! But I suspect that that creature, friend of yours, does,” he said, his finger pointing back, to the centre of the village. “And you, should do well to either leave or stay out of this matter!”
Gimli met his fiery gaze with out flinching or showing fear. He knew he had gone too far with his words, for he too regretted the lost of the boy, but he was not ready to apologize. Not to these people.
Samuel grew tired of the staring contest and resumed his way, his long strides making it difficult for the dwarf to keep up.
As they neared the place where they had left the rest of the villagers guarding Legolas, both could hear the commotion ahead. Gimli went from quickening his pace to out right running, as more and more of the words being shouted reached his ears.
The dwarf arrived at the main square with dread filling his heart, no longer seeing the elf. He elbowed his way to the centre of the crowd, knowing that he would find Legolas there, even if he hoped to be wrong.
A piece of silvery silk caught his eye.
“Give that back!” Gimli snapped at the woman that held the torn tunic in her hands. For all the cheeky remarks he had made about that shiny piece of garment that Legolas insisted on wearing, he knew more than well to whom it belonged.
His heart thundering against his chest, Gimli doubled his efforts to reach his friend. The faces and bodies he pushed aside were mere blurs of colour and limbs, until he breached the wall of flesh and had a glimpse of his friend.
Legolas had the look of a cornered wild animal, crouching low to the ground. His tousled hair fell freely over his bare shoulders and from his hands, tied behind his back, still hanged what was left of his tunic and coat.
Gimli cursed out loud, pushing aside all that stood between him and the elf. A large man placed himself in the dwarf’s path.
“Step aside, or you will regret it!” Gimli snarled, his hands bawling in to fists, his fingers missing the handle of his axe, taken away by their captors.
“He is dangerous... we can’t allow you nearer!” The man warned, his hand trying to stop the dwarf.
Gimli gave him such a strong shove that the man landed on his bottom outside of the central ring of people. Ignoring the shouted warnings and protests from the other villagers, the dwarf moved to finally reach his goal.
“Legolas?”
The elf growled menacingly, something Gimli had never heard him do. A total lack of recognition graced his feral eyes and the dwarf instinctively took a step back.
“What have you done to him?” He asked no one in particular.
The sound of the dwarfish voice seemed to send the elf further out of control. Even with his hands secured, Legolas made a move forward, to attack. His balance was lost and the elf landed heavily on his knees. Moving at a slower pace than everything around him, Legolas closed his eyes and fell, unmoving.
“What have you done?” Gimli’s voice was stressed with anger and concern. No one tried to stop him when he grabbed his friend’ shoulders and turned him around. His long hair parted, revealing two small darts with white fletching, hanging from the skin of Legolas neck.
The crowd parted to let Samuel pass.
“They have poisoned him!” Gimli spat out the accusation, holding the guilty darts in his hand.
Samuel took them, smelling the tips and looking at the colour of the fletching.
“No, these are merely tipped with a sleeping draught. A powerful one, used for the larger animals, but harmless,” he explained. “Why were they used?” The question was for the man he had left in charge of guarding the prisoner.
“We was making sure he wasn’t hiding his true form underneath them clothes,” the man explained, matter of factly.
Gimli snorted.
“And now that you’ve seen his true form?” He mocked.
The man gave him a look of uncertainty, but kept his silence.
“He attacked any that came near him, refusing to shed his tunic. So, one of the hunters went to fetch his darts.”
“I see,” Samuel said, taking notice of the way in which the people around them were looking at the elf’s half-dressed form. The revealed skin looked soft and flawless, like a newborn baby’s, belaying the muscles beneath it or the age of its owner. But nothing in those expose limbs and chest could be seen as odd or different. Apart from his ears, the elf was not so different from any other man.
And that knowledge gave birth to a doubt, planted deeply in to their minds.
“You did well. Take him to the house of the sick and place guards at the door,” he ordered the man. “The rest of you would do well to return home and rest.”
“Wait a minute! What do you intend to do about him?” Gimli demanded, watching as three men moved to collect the sleeping elf.
“Tomorrow,” Samuel said as he turned and left, ending all discussions.
Gimli cursed. Loudly.
He followed the men that carried Legolas between them, intended on not leaving him alone a second time, as they made their way out of the village’s limits.
When Samuel had mentioned the house of the sick, Gimli had gathered they would be taking his unconscious friend to some form of healing halls. But the house they came to could hardly be mistaken for one.
It stood alone, near the woods, and, if possible, looked more gloomy and abandoned than Bomieth’s had. The windows were sealed shut by planks of cracked wood and weeds had started to grow on the thatched roof and uneven walls. The air around it smelled foully and, despite the late hours, light could still be seen, framing the semi-rotten front door.
The sound of pained moans reached Gimli’s ears and, with a sickening feeling, he knew they had arrived.
“We go no further,” one man said, dropping the elf to the ground. “We bring you the two headed creature!” He called out, speaking to whoever was inside the house. “Samuel asks of you to guard him well until he decides on what to do!”
“Beware,” the other said, “if you go inside as well, you wont be allowed to leave once you start showing the signs of the Bruisenbite,” he advised. “So, think hard, master dwarf, before your decision is made.”
Before Gimli had any chance of insulting their lack of care in handling the elf, or ask what in damnation was the Bruisenbite, the men had left. Two of them stopped a safe distance away, where they could easily stand guard of the house’s only entrance, while the third went back to the village.
The idea of grabbing Legolas and make their escape played around in Gimli’s mind, but he discarded it almost as soon as it came. The dwarf couldn’t fool himself in to thinking that he could carry the elf fast and far enough to avoid being recaptured, and abandoning him behind was an option that offended his honour.
The wooden door opened before he could form any other plans. Two men stepped outside, their features looking almost healthy in the twilight. Almost.
Their faces were hollowed and looked tired, with flushed cheeks and feverish eyes. Their movements were heavy and sluggish, as if every one of them came at great cost and pain. Gimli stopped them before they could touch Legolas.
“Leave it... I can carry him myself!” He said, doing just that.
As he had imagined, it wasn’t the weight of the elf that made his carrying hard, but the length of his limbs. Silently cursing against whoever decided that elves should be built like tree branches, Gimli slowly made his way inside, half carrying, half dragging his friend.
Once he passed the doors’ threshold, the air became barely breathable. The acid smell of vomit was so strong and intense that the dwarf feared it would burn his lungs. Every square inch was occupied by a cot or, in lack of one, a bundle of rags that served the same purpose, and nowhere could Gimli see one that wasn’t bed to a sick person.
Men, women and children, moaning and delirious, screamed their pain away and emptied their stomachs or any other organs, over which they no longer had any control. The floor felt sticky as they walked pass, and the air was laden and hot, from the feverish bodies.
“Ai, Erü!” Gimli whispered. “What is this place?”
“The house of the damned,” one of the men that had gone outside to help, answered him, “and you’ve damned yourself when you passed trough that door!”
The sound of the front door being bolted shut punctuated the man’s words like the closing of a tomb.
Gimli searched for a clean place where he could lay the elf, but all he had available was the floor. He picked a spot near the back wall and eased Legolas down, glad that he ended up more or less seated. The floor had so much filth in it that the dwarf cringed at the thought of anyone actually laying there. Reaching behind, Gimli tried to untie the knots that still bounded the elf’s hands, but cursed when he found them too tight to undue without a blade.
Making him as comfortable as possible, Gimli searched the small house for anything sharp enough to cut the rope. But the only thing he could find and see were the sick, begging for help, for water, for death.
Eventually, the dwarf made his way back to the man that had spoken to him first, the only one who’s words hadn’t seemed laden with fear and fever in that place.
“What is wrong with these people?” He asked, shaken. What was this enemy that caused such a frightening battlefield, to the likes of the cruelest war?
The man looked from the cot where he laid, up to the dwarf, his eyes looking lost for a moment. He gave the stranger a smile that never made its way to his eyes, and sighed.
“The Bruisenbite,” he explained, crossing his legs to better sit. His wife, who shared the cot with him, stirred in her troubled sleep. “We all have it,” he said sadly, pushing an errant lock of his wife’s hair into its rightful place.
“I have never heard of such illness,” Gimli confessed. The words of warning from the man outside still rang in his ears and he took a step back without even taking notice. “What is it?”
The man ignored the move, too used to it by now. He raised one of his sleeves, showing a number of dark bruises underneath. “It is this,” he said, and then pointed to the delirious bodies all around them, “and that.”
Gimli shuddered, like he hadn’t even faced with the gates of Mordor. The defeat in the man’s voice told him of how vicious and deadly this disease was, of how these people had suffered beneath the weight of its crush. It was all there, in the man’s eyes and voice. He was here, like the others, waiting for his turn to die.
“Which one is the healer?” The dwarf asked, looking around. He had noticed no one taking care of the sick and wandered where the man was.
The seated man laughed with no joy. It was a hollow sound.
“None of them... Samuel refuses to touch us, or even see us, once we’ve become infected.”
“Samuel’s the healer?!”
The man nodded.
“And yet he leaves you without any aid?”
The man shrugged.
“There is nothing he can do.”
Gimli grumphed his disagreement. In two strides he had reached the door, testing its resistance. The man watched his struggles with an amused look.
“There is no point... that door is the most solid thing in this entire house. The roof will probably fall first, before that door is moved by force.”
The dwarf cursed and kicked the wooden frame. It hardly moved.
“Is it true what they said?” The man asked after awhile, when the stranger had vented all of his anger.
Gimli mumbled, returning to the man’ side and seating on the floor in front of him.
The man took that as a nod to give his curiosity full rein.
“Is that truly the two-headed creature that they were all talking about?” The man whispered, his head twisting to get a look at the sleeping elf.
Gimli almost lost his temper anew.
“Does he look like he has two heads?” He asked sharply. “What is this foolishness about creatures with two heads?! All seem obsessed by that in here!”
The man shook his head condescendingly.
“You are not from these parts, you can’t understand.”
“I could, if someone explained it to me!” The dwarf complained. But he was talking to himself. The man had laid back down and had quickly fallen asleep.