Darkness
Author: Legolas Fanatic
Rating: T (PG-13)
Disclaimer: I own nothing that J.R.R Tolkien invented. I do not have permission to borrow his characters and this story is merely for the purpose of entertainment, no money is being gained from this. 'Lord of the Rings' is soley the property of the Tolkien Estate and New Line Cinema.
Synopsis: Poem. Legolas' suffering at the hands of orcs.
Warnings: Torture, character death.
A/N: Yes, well... I was feeling rather morbid when I decided to write this. I've never written a scrap of poetry in my life, so this could be counted as the first. I don't claim to be good, in fact I was 'umming' and 'ahhing' about this and whether to actually publish it as I, personally, don't think it's actually very good. It's from Legolas' perspective, even though his name is never specified, and it's pretty dark... I just wanted to write something dark and release some stress.
Also, I told myself I'd never do it... but yes, this poem does suffer a character death. I'm sorry to anyone who doesn't like character deaths - I know, I'm one of those people, ironically enough. But it seemed to fit with what I was writing, so be warned...
Darkness
Ever-binding,
Tormenting,
Endless.
No escape...
No escape for the wicked...
Yet am I wicked? ... Nay.
Merely the victim of circumstance.
And pain.
Agony.
'Crack' as the whip bites,
Blood as the skin breaks,
Scream as the pain registers,
Laughter as the orcs enjoy the spectacle.
Anguish,
Torture,
Blood.
Continuous...
Continuous for the wicked...
Yet am I wicked? ... Nay.
Merely the victim of beatings.
And whips.
Horror.
Muscle and tendon askew,
Back painted crimson,
Rivulets of scarlet lining my hips.
My arms, legs, neck, face...
Rivulets of scarlet,
Ever-binding,
Tormenting,
Endless.
Nausea,
Unbearable,
Mutilated.
Breaking...
Breaking of the wicked...
Yet am I wicked? ... Nay.
Merely the victim of unnecessary cruelty.
And hatred.
Despair.
Mouth opens,
Strangled scream,
The loss of an ear.
An Elven ear.
Sob as bones crack,
Weep as flesh burns,
Cry and yell myself hoarse as hope flees.
My soul breaks.
Eyes unfocused,
Pain accustomed,
Unrecognisable...
Unrecognisable are the wicked...
Yet am I wicked? ... I must be.
I must be, for why else must I suffer so?
I am wicked.
Wicked and broken.
Body bleeding,
Broken,
Deformed,
Twisted.
I am wicked.
I am broken.
I am souless.
I am alone.
... I am dead.
A/N: Well, that's it. Please let me know if it envoked some sort of emotion... I want to hear if you winced, bit your lip, gasped... laughed at how poor my poetry skills are. Whatever - I accept criticism whole-heartedly... just not outright flaming. Please do leave feedback, I'm feeling rather self-conscious about this piece of work... and I'd love your opinion on it. Thank you.