Your Market Value

    You weren’t so much led, as you were dragged, to your destination. The hands firmly clamped onto your shoulders trembled ever so slightly. Strong, yet oddly bony fingers twitched and flexed erratically, as though dancing against your tense shoulders. Words could have been spoken, but you could hardly piece anything that he was saying. Orthanc? Brothers? A m-meal…? You could have been blacking out, though it was difficult to tell with your eyes blindfolded. This fear that you were experiencing was far different from anything you’ve experienced in the two year long siege of Minas Ithil. Perhaps it was the inevitability of your approaching death, perhaps it was the mystery behind your buyer and this… “brotherhood” of his. You did wonder about the reasoning behind your purchasing, but really… it doesn’t matter. Nothing does. Not anymore…

   It was a shock when you were dropped onto the floor. Your knees broke your fall, a sharp ache spread through your legs that rapidly became a dull throb. You weren’t sure, but for whatever reason, you felt that it wasn’t just you and the uruk that bought you. Was it other uruks? Or other prisoners like you? You weren’t sure which possibility scared you more. There was quiet talking. Other uruks, then…? But there are bodies next to yours; squirming and likely blind, just like you. Your heart sinks. Somewhere to your left, you hear muffled voices rising in fear. Your own blood chills and you nearly faint as you feel nimble fingers pull off your cloth blindfold. You don’t need your eyes to readjust to know that there were dozens of darkly clad uruks standing and sitting around, looking a mixture of bored and curiously excited. There were at least five other men with you, most looking terrified while a brave one still mustered up some defiance in glaring and throwing his body weight towards your captures.  

   “This is the lot we bought? Hmph… here I thought that those Gondorians actually kept their own well fed. These tarks look all skin ‘n bones...”

   …well fed? Skin and bones? It takes a brief moment for the horror of that statement to truly set in. The man furthest left is grabbed by the front of his shirt and yanked forcefully to his feet. His knees nearly give out as the large uruk grabs him by his jaw, turning his head this way and that. His chest is jabbed, arms are picked up and examined, shaken and pinched and prodded. The man whimpers and trembles as his shirt is lifted, exposing his bare stomach. His skin twitches and quivers uncontrollably as the uruk boredly examines the thin layer of fat covering his stomach. His head cranes down lower for a brief moment, before he releases his hold on him and promptly drops him to the ground. Any noises of shock or fear or protest have long fallen silent. When the next in line was pulled to his feet, also examined as though he were nothing but a pig about to be slaughtered, the true weight of the reasoning behind your purchase hit you in the gut, knocking the wind from your lungs and sapping the strength from your limbs. They were going to eat you. 

   One by one, your fellow man was examined for their fat to muscle ratio. One was noted to have nice looking legs, another for his back. One of the men tried to put up some resistance, but was completely ignored and looked over all the same. And then it was your turn. You couldn’t remain balanced, the hand clamped down onto your jaw taking most of your weight and slowly but surely suffocating you the longer you were forced to stand. Your arms were examined, thin and sharp fingers poking and pinching you, not enough to cause pain, but in a way, that made it so much worse. They don’t want to damage their livestock… You swallow thickly and screw your eyes shut as your shirt is lifted. Dozens of pairs of eyes silently appraise you: too skinny, too much fat there, not enough meat here, that looks nice- They were salivating, imagining what you would taste like. Raw? Lightly cooked? Still screaming and bleeding as your guts are pulled out and divided amongst the crowd- Tears flowed down your face. You were pathetic, unable to face your eventual end with any honour or integrity. The uruk examining you pauses for a brief moment, then drops you to the floor, turning to the last man to your right. After the uruk finished his inspections, he took a step back, eyes silently flicking between the five of you before he pointed to the man on your left. 

   “Bring ‘em up. And that move that one-“ He points to you and your blood freezes in your veins. “-off to the side.” 

   You’re so shocked you don’t even attempt to fight back in any capacity. Two uruks pull you to the side with ease, your legs stretched out in front of you as you are dragged backwards by your shoulders. You are deposited into a rickety wooden chair, nearly losing your balance and toppling over. The men across the room from you are terrified, huddled together and both unable and unwilling to upset their captors further as they are led out of the room. The other man- the one that is currently being dragged towards the uruk that picked the two of you out- is still putting up a rather valiant, if not vain, fight against his impending doom. The uruk is standing beside a table, still covered in fine white cloth with a delicate embroidery crisscrossing the fabric in its entirety. You don’t notice the bucket at his feet until the man is forced onto his knees in front of the uruk. No… N-No! You don’t want to watch this…! 

   You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your head away- only to have your hair grabbed and your neck painfully twisted until you were forced to face the horrific scene unfolding before you. Your hair is pulled and your scalp is dug into with sharp claws until your eyes are forced to reopen from the pain. He is glaring up at the uruk, body now shaking noticeably as the other inspects a knife in his hand. He feels the blade, running the tip of his finger along its sharpness and flicking his nail off the end of it with an audible TINK! It was so much quieter than you expected. There was no shouting. No jeers or cheers. There was… nothing. Nothing but your own heart beat as the man was gripped by his hair. His head was forced up, and up until his neck was stretched out and completely exposed. There should have been something. Screaming. Crying. Begging or pleading- something, anything- but there was nothing. You held your breath as the knife was lifted and silently dragged across his throat. 

   You could hear the blade dragging against the tender flesh of his neck. There was surprise etched into the man’s face, as though he didn’t truly believe that today would be his last. That the memory of his city crumbling to ash and the image of his loved ones, dead and battered and sold off, would be one of the last things he would see. That an uruk would be the one to watch the light fade from his eyes as his blood gushed from the wound opening his windpipe. He was choking on his own blood. Drowning in it. You can see it on his face, hear the air bubbling in the warm and sticky fluid as he struggles to breathe. Blood squirted and gushed from the slit, splattering onto the uruk, the ground, and spilling into the bucket as his feet. It doesn’t take long for the man’s struggles to slow to a stop. No more gurgled gasps for air. No more choking. No more blood gushing and squirting everywhere, or the sickening squelch of the wound opening and closing with each futile gasp of breath he took. It returned to deafening silence. The uruk releases his hold on the man’s hair, allowing his dead body to fall to the floor. He sticks his tongue out and drags the flat of the blade against it, licking up the still hot blood from the cool metal. 

   Two wildly conflicting feelings clashed inside of you. One was sickened by what you saw. These creatures were monstrous, completely devoid of empathy and respect for life and dignity and respect. Yet, on the other hand… You were relieved it wasn’t you. You weren’t ready to die yet. You didn’t want to die! You didn’t! Watching someone else die so close to you renewed your want- need- of life. Even so, you couldn’t muster up either the energy nor will to even attempt to fight back. If you did, it would surely hasten your demise…

   You blink and you’ve somehow been moved. With the chair you were seated in now pushed flushed to the table, as though you were so sort of dinner guest or something, you were finally able to clearly make out the patterns stitched into the table cloth. A delicate pattern of flowers. Lines of grass and maybe the direction of wind? Cute little songbirds, and- Huh? A dark stain crept along the off white cloth. It was dark. Dark? Some smelled strongly of metal, copper. Luke-warm droplets tickling your face cause you to flinch involuntarily. More rapidly cooling fluid drips onto your legs. You blink again, and realize it was now very loud. Talking, laughing, clattering of metal, wood scraping the floor, and a nonstop THWACK-ing that made your stomach roll and your entire body shudder with each deafening blow. You stare at what little amount of table cloth remained unblemished. The stain encroached quickly, rich and deep in colour. That smell was becoming stronger and stronger, until you were on the cusp of gagging. The loss of the crisp, clean and cream coloured covering made you sick to your stomach. You hang your head, staring at the river of dark that spilled over the side of the table and onto your lap. It’s sticky and wet and chilly and terrible. It’s terrible. Horrible. It’s horrible…

   Another smell. Oh no… Your stomach threatens to revolt against itself. There’s nothing in there to vomit. You haven’t eaten in days, and you’ve only had water by the good graces of the sky opening up and raining down upon you once or twice before you were sold. You try to focus on something- anything else. The rain outside. The faint feeling creeping into your mind. A conversation. Multiple conversations. The shuffling of feet. Metal hitting metal. Water at a rolling boil- No! Talking. Orthanc. Brothers. Good catches. Sweet little Tark. Miserable. Ought to smile. Metal on metal. Water rolling. Cracking fire. Smell… It’s- Your stomach growls. A silent sob shook your shoulders. Your forehead makes contact with the blood soaked table. It’s coagulated and cold and sticks to you like glue. You want to vomit, yet still your traitor stomach betrays you. You won’t. You won’t do it. They can’t make you. They won’t make you. You’ll bite your tongue off and kill yourself before that happens. You’ll die anyway. They’ll strip you of your humanity and in the end you’ll still be butchered and eaten. No- no… even if you haven’t eaten in days, even if you are hungry and are starved for another week, another month, you won’t do it. You won’t eat your fellow man. You won’t eat your neighbor. You won’t. You won’t. You won’t fucking do it…!

   “C’mon, Tark! You’re a guest of ‘onour! At least pretend like yer grateful!” Firm hands are clasped onto your shoulders. 

   A scream ricochets off the walls, and they laugh. You don’t feel how your throat tears as you continue to scream as loud as your body would allow. All you can feel is your stomach twisting and rolling from hunger, and the saliva that filled your mouth and choked your wails of disgust and horror. The gag still in your mouth was suffocating you. Breaths coming in short and over top one another, you couldn’t breathe properly. The more you choked, the more they laughed at you. Awww, what’s wrong? Did the Tark forget how to breathe? Ya think they ne’er smelled cooked meat er somethin’? Look at that face! Absolutely pathetic! Fingers wrap around the cloth bound across your mouth, roughly yanking it down to your neck. You cough and gasp, nearly retching from the force saliva was expelled from your throat. Your face was slimy and disgusting from the various fluids leaking from most orifices of your face. Your lower lip quivered, and yet another sob slipped through your clenched teeth. In between sobbing exhales and choked inhales, something brushed against your cheek. You whimper and whine, maneuvering your neck so that you leaned as far away from the touch as you physically could. But then it happened again, this time underneath your running nose. It was soft. Like… cloth? You didn’t mean to, but your eyes fluttered open purely on instinctual curiosity. 

   An older uruk, not the one that… that… He was wiping your face clean with an (albeit) old and tattered cloth that was worn from use. You still couldn’t get your hysterical breathing under control, but your tears did begin to slow, if only a little bit. Something inside of you began to wither. The disgust you felt towards these monsters hasn’t diminished in the slightest, nor has the fear or tension that threatened to consume you. It was such a tender gesture, one so unbecoming of an uruk to perform on anyone, let alone a human that they were going to eat sooner than later… Your face was more or less mopped up, though your tears did continue to fall at an irregular rate, and your disheveled hair was smoothed down until he thought you were at least somewhat presentable (you assumed…). 

   “There. No more ‘a that. Don’t that feel better, hmm?”

   You can only stare at him with a mostly blank expression. No, it doesn’t feel any better… Your head hurts. Your throat hurts. Your eyes hurt… Y-Your stomach… It growls again, and you want to vomit up nothing. Your body was unstable and you struggled to maintain an upright position. The world swayed to and fro, a little too far to the left, then right, then forward- Before you face planted into the blood soaked table, a hand is placed on your shoulder, straightening you and holding you in place. You don’t bother to look; you don’t care, anymore. There’s movement and excited voices, but they don’t register in your mind. It’s when a bowl is placed in front of you, do you start to lose control of your emotions, again. 

   It doesn’t… look any different from any soup that you’ve ever had throughout your life. Only… you know what the meat is- …who it was… You finally lost the battle for control of your body. You suddenly double over and vomit warm and bittersweet bile all over your lap. Once you started, you couldn’t stop. Some jeers were thrown your way, some laughter, but the worst was when the hand on your shoulder goes to your back, gently rubbing and patting it as you continuously dry heaved in between hysterical breaths. You are crawling out of your skin. You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to be touched. You don’t want to eat… that. You’re so hungry… Your face is wiped off again. You don’t want to be touched… Why are they crowding- No, please… don’t… 

   “Who gets to eat first?!” They all look at him. He looks at you. They all begin to smile. No. Don’t… I’m not- So hungry… Please- 

   “The ‘special guest’ deserves the first bite, don’t you think, lads?” There was a resounding cheer that threatened to deafen you. The hand on your back went back to your shoulder, clasping it firmly and shaking you roughly. You nearly faint on the spot. Clenching your teeth tightly, you press your lips into a thin line. No. No… No you are not eating- NO! You violently shake your head when a spoonful of- NO! You turn your head, tears welling in your eyes. It smells good… You don’t want it. You don’t want it! STOP! STOP IT! Your jaw is grabbed and you’re forced to face forwards. Someone pinches your nose shut, in a bid to get you to open your mouth. You try to hold out as valiantly as you possibly can. The moment you open your mouth…! You can practically taste it… No, you can’t- you can’t keep your mouth closed forever. You’re already lightheaded, lungs strained and desperate for air… You release half a breath through your clenched teeth. It’s just enough for your jaw to be pried open. No- No no nononononono NO NO NONONONONONO-!!! What hits you first is the warmth of the broth; not boiling hot, but still uncomfortable in your mouth and on your face and dripping down your chin. You swallow on reflex and nearly vomit. It’s salty, but not terribly so. There are other flavors, but you don’t dare to dwell on them. Bits of- pieces of- Oh my-!! Your jaw is snapped shut. Your body tries to revolt; vomit burns your throat and your nose and eyes and ears- Your nose is plugged again. You don’t want to swallow again. You can’t breathe, but you can’t swallow again. I-If you do, then… t-then…!

   You swallowed. 

   They forced you to eat the entire bowl. You tried to fight. You did. You swear to any higher being that could grant you mercy that you did… The disgust and self loathing you felt was immeasurable. Not so much because you were forced to eat- to- to eat another, not because you became compliant in the end, fearing retribution and just wanting the torment to stop, but because… because it ended up sating your hunger more than it had any right to. You did want to vomit, really, you swear that if you could, you would have without a second thought. But you couldn’t; your body refused to do as you commanded, anymore. You couldn’t even cry as they led you out the dining room, to a room of your own. With an actual bed. And covers. Not much else, but you had a feeling the others definitely weren’t so… so- No, not lucky. You weren’t lucky. You were scared to die, but now? Was living even worth it after what you had done? There was real talk for a while about the possibility of eating one another, should the siege go on any further. It disgusted you. It was taboo for a reason. Abhorrent. Unforgivable. Now look at you. You didn’t want to, but you fucking did. And you stopped fighting them before it was over. You were ashamed. Disgusted. And worst of all… you were full. 

   Over the next few days, you waited in terrified silence. They fed you- oh they fed you-, they gave you some books that you didn’t ever bother to even look at, let alone move from the spot on the floor they were set down on, you guess they saw you shivering and draped another fur on top of you… Some uruks have even started to talk to you, but you never really listened to a word they say. Just- why…? Why you? What did you do to deserve this? You should be facing… whatever the others are going through. One of the older uruks said that, if you “act up” or “do anything stupid”, that they would kill the rest in front of you, force you to eat them raw and twitching, and then hand you up by your feet and bleed you like a pig. Are they even alive…? You haven’t heard anything. You don’t think you want to know. But you will now. You're being led out. Maybe you’re the one that’s going to die this time… It doesn’t bother you nearly as much as it should. Your blood and vomit soaked clothing was cleaned days ago, as well as an uruk could clean something, you suppose. It was in sharp contrast to how the rest of the prisoners looked.

   They must have been kept outside, with how filthy and water soaked their clothing seemed to be. Guilt knotted inside your throat. Why you…? It wasn’t fair. You didn’t want this. If you could take their place… Your life for theirs… …would you really do it? You screwed your eyes shut. They wouldn’t accept such an offer, anyways… The other men’s faces were heavy with hopelessness and defeat, but there was something else there, keeping them alight with a burning fire. Anger. And it wasn’t directed to the uruk that was searching between them for the perfect kill. It was directed at you. One was picked out. Very young in the face. Younger than you. Tears are in his eyes and he cries out: “You traitor! Devouring one of your own, leaving us to a fate worse than death-!! How could you?!” You stand there, dumb and numb. What is he saying…? You aren’t a traitor! You- You didn’t want to do… that! You didn’t! You didn’t leave them! You haven’t done anything…! One cries out for his brother. You instinctively bring your arms up to shield yourself from the terrible scene unfolding before you. Wait. You aren’t bound…? Since when? Someone shouts that you are a coward, that you could have left and freed them and you didn’t. You couldn’t! …could you? Did… did you ever try to open the door? Did you even try? You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes. “I couldn’t do anything…! They- You all would have been-!” After the man is forced to kneel, the others are forcibly dragged out. They damn the uruks, Sauron, the Witch King, you. It happens again. You are numb, but don’t look. They don’t force you to watch this time. You collapse onto the floor and begin to sob. Over the gasps of a dying man, you can hear the soft tut-tutting of an uruk as they crouch beside you. 

   “I didn’t think men would betray their own so quickly. Why would they think such things?” Your back is patted, then you are left to your grief on the floor. Could you just- Did- No… You were sick. You didn’t want to be out in the open. You didn’t want to be here, or anywhere, for that matter. They didn’t stop you from crawling underneath a table and curling up, crying and rocking yourself as tonight’s “meal” was being prepared. You were forced to eat at the table again. You didn’t cooperate, but you didn’t exactly resist, either. If they were going to kill you, they would. There was not much you could do to either hasten or postpone your demise, it would seem. As you were being lead (dragged) back to your room, something slipped out of your mouth.

  “...go.”

  “Ey?”

  “W- Jus- …please let them go…” It came out as a mouse like whisper, more a whimper, really. Simply pathetic. The uruk laughs at you. 

   “Nah, don’t think we will. Didn’t you hear what the Boss said? ‘If the tark steps out of line, we kill the rest in front of ‘em and force their bloody bits down their throat before we string ‘em up.’ You’re lucky some of us like havin’ you around, cause otherwise you’d be dead already!” 

   …they like having you around…?

   After you were alone in your room for a few hours, you tested the door. …?! It really is open… You leave it shut and crawl back into bed. Though you haven’t done so intentionally, everything that you did has been in the name of survival. Complying with orders, eating, being quiet and responsive to their daily chats with you- you did it all in order to survive. You were scared of dying, but in reality, you know you should be more scared of what you could become in the name of pure survival. Mordor is a terrible place, and its denizens are even worse. You should have lied down and given up when the city was taken, but you didn’t. You should have fought back when they were appraising you like cattle, but you didn’t. You should have spat in their face when they forced you to eat another human being, but you didn’t. This is survival, in all it’s ugly and horrific glory. There are honourable guardsmen that would rather take their own lives than stoop to such levels as cannibalism for survival. But you aren’t them. The thought of death scares you more than the reality of becoming the very thing you were raised to hate and fear. 

   When it was time for another butchering, you were led back out into the dining room. Again. The prisoners still think you’re complicit. The spit venom at you, call you a traitorous bastard, say you will rot in hell for what you’ve done. Maybe they’re right. The uruks won’t let them live, and you could have tried, but your own pathetic fears stayed your hand. Kept you docile. Maybe this is no less than you deserve… to forever be reminded of how you abandoned your neighbors and friends in favour of your own meaningless survival. You aren’t dead, not yet, but what does it matter, anymore? Another is killed, and the sounds of a dying man’s last desperate breaths don’t bother you as much as it did the first time. You managed to put it from your mind. It wasn’t a fellow man being butchered, but livestock. It eased the pit in your stomach just a bit. An uruk made a foul joke, and you actually laughed. You didn’t even think before your mouth opened and that sound left your lips. We’re you like this before the siege…? Never would the thought of something like this  ever cross your mind. Rubbing shoulders with uruks that forced you to eat a human being? No, it shouldn’t have been possible, yet look at you. You are disgusting. 

   Disgusting… 

   The last prisoner called you so many different things, but ‘disgusting’ stuck in your mind. Yeah, you were disgusting. But you would still live longer than he would. You scarcely felt the knife being placed in your hand. It was remarkably well taken care of, for being used so frequently. The Brothers of Orthanc were a lot of things, but they had a particular eye for detail. Nothing short of perfect would be accepted, and nothing less was expected of you. The Boss said that you’d only be kept alive if you pulled your fair share of weight. “If you can’t even kill a tark, then you're less than useless.” You aren’t useless. These men… they would have died anyway. If not by the Brothers, then by something else. Really, it’s a relief; they won’t suffer any longer than they have too, and you’ll be sure it’s a clean and quick death. You won’t let their sacrifice go to waste. You have to keep living, for them, for yourself… They are a part of you now, and you’ll carry them with you forever. No one deserves to suffer in Mordor, and if you can ease their suffering by ending it prematurely, then… 

   As you readied the blade in your hand, the prisoner flares up at you. “Look at me.” Your eyes drift from the knife to his face. You don’t recognize it as one you’ve seen before. “Remember my face, so that it may haunt you for the rest of your days, you monster!” The words did sting, but the brunt of it was numbed by your twisted desire to please these uruks. A hand grabbed yours, guiding it to the man’s exposed neck. 

   “You know how to kill a man. It’s just like slaughtering a pig or a caragor. Just dig it in and-“

   The knife pierces his skin with relative ease. Your own breathing hitches as warm blood gushed from the widening wound. A hand twists your own, until there is a large crescent shaped gash across his neck. Every muscle in your body tensed and you shake uncontrollably. You can see the colour draining from his face as he lost more and more blood. It won’t be long now… The light was leaving his eyes, mere inches from your own. This was no crueler than killing livestock for food… You told yourself. They would have died anyway, being eaten by something or someone that wouldn’t have appreciated their lives and the sacrifices that they made… It didn’t feel good to kill; you didn’t like it but you would do it if it ensured your survival. The man is dead and he is released, falling to the floor. You feel faint and sick, but as soon as you were patted on the back, jostled around and were given a curt nod from the Boss, all the tension in your body released at once.

   “If Boss is happy, then everyone is happy.” That’s the motto for your little group. Because he’s happy with your handiwork, then you know everything’s going to be okay. At least for today… You need to work hard to earn your keep. They are taking you out in a few days to go hunting. You won’t so much be hurling spears or taking aim with a crossbow, but rather you’ll be used as bait. Whether it be uruk or tark, you’ll lure them in so the others can either capture them alive or take them in dead. Really, you hoped it would be dead. You don’t want them to suffer… but you don’t want to die, either. It’s them or you, and you won’t lie down and give up. You’ve done too many horrible things in the name of survival, and you can’t let all that meat those sacrifices go to waste.