More of the angst prompts you say? Wellllll
How about 45 and/or 6? For anyone you want
6. Guilt/Blame 45. Bleeding/Out Of It an offshoot from this
He didn't want to be in Thuringwath, to begin with. Dagoras... he was long used to doing as he was told. Doing as he ought or thought he ought without taking too much time to second-guess himself. Aragorn was one of his oldest friends, and of course if the man he'd trusted his life to for so long sent him to babysit the White Company, well...
And then Gandalf had found that hidden pass. And then things went south.
He'd been in one of the first groups in, so he thought. Apparently, some of the merrevail had dragged victims in here before them, for there were scraps of Ithilien Green among the fallen. Dagoras understood a little of his Chieftain-turned-King's wisdom then. The odds he'd be brought to his knees in horrified recognition was much slimmer.
And, naturally, the trade-off was he was much easier to capture. He'd really disliked it the last time it had come about. There was such a thing as thinking too highly of his negotiating prowess. He' walked right into Lhe Lhechu in the hopes to secure... some kind of alliance.
Now he was being marched through some kind of fortress. Up some stairs, into a frankly terrifying structure of black stone and towers like spikes reaching up to flay even the sky. It was like something out of every nightmare. He wasn't too proud to say his knees went a little weak as the full horror of the interior opened up to him. No, he'd much prefer Lhe Lhechu to this.
It wasn't all torture and torment though. Sometimes they put their victims in holding before and between... things that made his stomach lurch. He tried to tell himself that he was an old man, that he had come on this journey at peace with the reality that it might be his last. But some things... His definition of 'fate worse than death' was broadening every step.
His hooded attendants brought him before a cell, unlocked it, and thrust him inside. Dagoras didn't bother with a quip or protest. This was the heart of torment in Mordor. They probably ate that stuff up.
Dagoras sighed and tried to take stock of his situation. He stopped short of examining the rest of the debris- what might actually be the personal effects of prisoners now deceased- when he saw what was definitely a body. Possibly still a living one, judging by the way it twitched.
He hurried to the back of the cell and crouched over the trembling form. This looked like a Man, at least mostly, though his new companion looked thinner and greyer than most people he knew. Not quite bone pale like the Nunrhoth that he'd seen but--
"Can you hear me?" He tried it first in Westron just in case, but was prepared to give it a go in Sindarin. Gently, Dagoras reached out toward a fabric lump he hoped was a shoulder and set his hand down.
His companion jerked away as if burned, before rolling on the floor and facing him.
"Halt and... identify yourself...."
Dagoras frowned. There was so much to take in... The bald head mottled with bruises, clothes little better than rags, a myriad of visible scrapes and then the splotchy red signs of as-yet invisible ones. Unfocused eyes. That was the sign that worried him most.
"Easy enough," he started, trying to sound like the gentlest, least threatening thing in this place, "my name is Dagoras, formerly of the Grey Company under Aragorn Elessar, currently of the White Company under Faramir, Prince--"
The man shuddered violently and despite his care, Dagoras instinctively reached out to steady him.
"Faramir...?" It was barely audible, but Dagoras caught it. And nodded.
"The very same. The prince. But, don't worry about that. Tell me about this." He gestured to the blood on the rag tunic. "It looks like it hurts."
The man looked down, as if seeing the blood for the first time. He might be in shock, not even noticing if his hand suddenly fell off. However, to Dagoras' continuing surprise, the perfect stranger clutched as him and leaned into him in order to sit upright. Without hesitation.
"No worse than I... caused this, caused all of this..."
"Caused what? Someone to build a temple to Sauron and torture people in it? I don't think so." Dagoras helped him up. He tried to rule out a head injury, but that was hard. The poor guy looked delirious or deeply out of sorts. Hurt, tired, confused.
"The fall..." he said, "...of Gondor."
Dagoras sighed. That he could assuage. "I see. Have they mentioned that, the fall of Gondor?" The man nodded feebly. He still held tightly to Dagoras' shoulder but uncurled most of the rest of the way.
"Here, I can help with that I think. While I tell you about it, can I look at that cut? This is a terrible place to get it infected."
He got a nod for his effort, and a hand moving the shreds of fabric hiding the wound. It wasn't too deep, but it was large. Not all of his things had been taken, just his weapons. Dagoras carried spare bandage with him out of habit, and had enough to at least keep this cut from the foulest contaminates in the cell.
"Lean on me, that's it." He helped the poor man sit up, still surprised he'd be trusted instantaneously. Maybe in a place as dark as this, it was too easy to tell friend from foe. "Gondor hasn't fallen, I can tell you that much." A hand tightened around the fabric of his sleeve. Dagoras took a breath.
"Not the whole. Osgiliath was overrun, and quite badly as I'm led to believe. It's reoccupied now, but in pretty bad shape." The fingers increased their grip. The wrong line to take, apparently.
"Don't worry. There are a great many people taking care of Gondor now, none of them Saruon. Try to rest. I'll keep watch. Don't think I can sleep here just yet."
The stranger nodded, his eyes already fluttering. Dagoras had the wherewithal to get another hand under him before he fainted outright.
Well, at least he wasn't trapped here alone.