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It takes two soldiers to lift him up from the dust.
Khamul is not deliberately trying to make a fuss either. The moment Angmar huffs and finally removes his knees from his ribcage, Khamul tries to roll over get his feet under him. He only gets as far as managing to shift one of his arms to try to roll over when a sharp, terrible pain that leaves him breathless stabs into his side. Even when he lets his arms fall back down again, the pain only dulls to a low, ever-present ache rather than completely vanishing.
Well.
That is new.
He draws in a breath, but only gets halfway through before the sharp pain cuts into him like a knife, leaving him lying on the ground with his eyes closed, drawing in shallow gasps of air that only make his head spin more.
His thumb shifts-blissfully, causing no pain-and comes to rest at the base of his pointer finger, where it gently brushes against the familiar, cold, metallic band. There’s a comfort in the fact that it is still there, even though it never strayed from his finger since he first slipped it on.
Something nudges against his arm, and he opens his eyes to stare up at some Numenorean soldier, peering down at him curiously, holding a pair of shackles in his hands.
“You alive?”
“Unfortunately,” Khamul responds with as big of a grin as he can muster.
The soldier looks distinctly unimpressed.
A hand wraps around his wrist and Khamul does not even have enough time to comprehend how bad of an idea this is before the soldier pulls and-
“Ow, ow, ow, OW! Enough, enough!” The hand fortunately releases him, and Khamul grimaces as he flops back down into the dust, laying there for a moment, breathless. “My mistake,” Khamul wheezes, ”I misspoke. I should have said, ‘Unfortunately, however I cannot move any part of my body without agonizing pain, so please do not pull on my arms.’ I’ll be sure to be more specific in the future.“ It takes longer, this time, for the pain to fade back into that throbbing, aching sensation but it is a relief when it finally does so.
”…Are you going to die?“
"If I do, it shall be on the ground,” Khamul declares, staring up at the sky above. Blue, with nary a cloud to hide him from the sun. Ugh. No wonder he feels so poor. Realizing the soldier has been quiet for some time now, Khamul squints at him again, trying to make out his facial features even as his vision blurs and the world begins to sway. “I shall not,” Khamul amends, more seriously, and the soldier stares at him for a few moments before turning and walking away.
The soldier returns with help, and by the end of it Khamul feels like he might have rather died, but he is on his feet and swaying as shackles are snapped around his wrists. The chains are sturdy and heavy, and it takes every bit of strength and willpower he has to not just fall over and take a nap in the sand and gravel.
This is all Angmar’s fault.
Brilliantly, as is just the damn standard in his life, they decide to tie his shackles to the same saddle as Angmar. Not just near Angmar, not just within distance where he can hear his furious grumblings, no. They guide the rope through his chains it is secured alongside an existing line that feeds back to where Angmar stands, only five feet away, tugging at his wrists like he might be able to slip out of the shackles and defeat the entire army with only his fists and his teeth.
Khamul doesn’t doubt he’d try, if he managed to wiggle free.
Khamul lets out a sigh that halfway through morphs into a cough and a grimace. Ugh. The next time Angmar decides to do something stupid on top of a very high gate, Khamul was going to push him off and save himself the trouble.
The hands that had been supporting him, checking his shackles, monitoring the rope leave him suddenly, and Khamul is left trying to stand under his own power. He sways dangerously, trying not to fall down into the dust again, sun bearing down on him overhead. He feels nauseous. Dizzy. Unfocused, like he consumed too much wine but accompanied by a terrible, splitting headache and an aching pain in his chest.
The rope grows taut suddenly, and Khamul jerks forward, pulled by his own arms. The sudden lurch makes his head spin, and he nearly crashes to the ground right then and there. His world tips forward, his muscles screech in protest, and he has half a mind to just give in and let himself be dragged along the ground by the horse.
The thought only lingers for as long as it takes for him to stumble and get his feet under him. He’s breathless and wheezing, and the light of the sun overhead beats down on him, but when the tug comes again he manages to keep his bearings and walk. Each new step sends a jolt of pain up his side, and he gingerly presses a hand to his side.
Ugh.
He hadn’t realized he had been drifting close to Angmar until he bumps shoulders with him, and Angmar growls something under his breath in response and shifts away. Khamul squints after him but can’t seem to muster the energy to snap something witty back. He is tired, and it’s enough work trying to keep pace with the horse without falling behind.
This is all Angmar’s fault.
…
It was Angmar’s fault, actually. He’d been thinking it for a while, but Angmar had pulled him from the Black Gate, Angmar had flipped him over in the air to use him as some glorified pillow to break his fall, and then had not even bothered to stand right away. If it wasn’t for him, Khamul would still be on the other side of the Black Gate, uninjured.
Since Angmar was the whole reason he was struck out here trudging through the sunlight, he might as well be useful.
He stumbles towards Angmar again, more deliberately, and knocks his head against his shoulder and leans against his side for support.
“What are you doing?” Angmar hisses in his ear. He tries to jerk away, but Khamul musters enough energy to grab ahold of his wrist just above the iron manacle so he cannot move far.
“Quiet,” Khamul snaps in response. “I am trying to rest.” Angmar is blissfully silent for a few moments and, with the added support, Khamul lets his eyes close. It’s a small mercy under the unrelenting sunlight, but it helps soothe the rough edges of his headache.
“What is wrong with you?"
Khamul opens his eyes for that and fixes Angmar with the most withering gaze he can muster up.
"It is either you or the horse,” Khamul retorts instead of replying, tightening his grip on Angmar’s wrist so he does not try to move away again. “And the horse will kick me if I try to lean against it.”
“I’ll kick you as well.”
"Our lord is already angry at you. Do you wish to upset him further?” When he is neither kicked nor pushed away, Khamul huffs softly and lets the side of his face rest against Angmar’s shoulder again. “I thought not. Now do be quiet, you’re making my headache worse.”
Angmar huffs and grumbles, but says nothing more. Good. Khamul leans against him, lets his eyes close, and lets Angmar lead him. Hopefully, this time, it will not be off of a ledge.