Author's Notes: This is the first story I am posting on this site but I have already written or at least started a bunch more so I'm hoping to add them soon. These are all unbetaed.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the recognizable characters although Frostbud is all my own. This is an AU of the series.

~A Flower in the Dark~
A Tale of the Elves of the Father Tree Holt

Chapter 1: Slave to Evil

"ELFLING!" The call resounded through the underground halls of the troll kingdom. A young elf weaved through the maze of tunnels with a speed born of years of practice. Anyone who saw him would have believed him to be a ghost. His sun-deprived skin was as pale as a frost-bud plant in the moonlight and carried a translucent tone. The constant exposure to stale, dank air and dark, moldy stones had practically destroyed the elf's resistance. Daily abuse at the hands of the trolls wreaked havoc on the poor elfling and left him suffering from frequent migraines, dizzy spells, and violent coughing attacks. His brown tunic and leggings hung in tattered rags from his gaunt starved frame. He was like a walking corpse. But the trolls cared very little for his appearance; as long as he lived and breathed he would be their slave. They worked his small frail body well past its limits, giving him only short respites to eat and sleep.

And so the little elf found himself running through the halls to heed the beck and call of his masters. He hurried on until he came to a gigantic chamber. The ceiling stretched so high that it could not be seen and the light from the torches could not illuminate it. From the darkness hung down great stalactites, encrusted with jewels that reflected the light of the torches against the walls, creating splashes of light in a myriad of colors. Piles of gold, silver, and precious stones were heaped carelessly about the room. Huge crocks of food and water were interspersed along the floor. Against the wall was an enormous throne carved with many intricate designs. Perched high on the throne was a fat old troll who exuded pure malice and evil. This was Greymung, king of the forest trolls and the cruelest being in the land, truly a rival to his horrific northern kin.

"Ah there you are worthless elf! I have been waiting too long." Greymung spat at the little elf. "Bring me a keg of Old Maggoty's best dreamberry wine! I feel a hankerin' for something sweet."

"Yes my lord!" The little elf turned and quickly scurried out of the room. As he descended into the dark bowels of the kingdom, foul smells began to permeate the air.

He entered a side chamber, filled with large jars stacked to the ceiling. He walked to the back of the room where there was a strong oak door hidden behind a large jar. The elfling pulled a ring of keys out of a nearby jar and quickly unlocked the door. Inside were even more jars but these were a brew made specially for the king. He got down one of the older jars and carried it out, carefully to locking the door and hiding the keys again. He lugged the jar back up to the throne room but the strenuous exercise took its toll on his body.

As he was pouring the wine into the king's cup, he was struck by a violent migraine, worse than most. The jar slipped and poured the sticky red juice all over the king. Suddenly the elfling's haze-filled mind was pierced by a furious voice screaming at him. Two troll guards quickly stepped up and roughly grabbed the elfling and pulled him away.

"Guards! Bind him! And bring me my box." Greymung yelled, furious at what he perceived to be a deliberate act on the part of the elf. The two guards brought a coil of rope and tied the elf's hands together then secured them to the rock wall of the chamber so that his feet did not touch the ground and he was left hanging there. By this time the pain had nearly completely receded but the elfling knew he was in for far worse.

Meanwhile, another guard brought Greymung an intricately carved box. Inside was an insidious looking device. It was a whip, except that it had nine tails and each had sharp pieces of metal woven into it that glinted in the torchlight and promised excruciating pain.

The elf knew that he could not escape but his body was too weak to sustain another whipping. These were regular occurrences but usually the trolls gave him time to recuperate between each beating since they did not really want their precious slave to die. But his last whipping had been too recent and his body had not yet regained what little strength he had left.

"Please, don't! Please…" But Greymung was deaf to his cries, buried so deeply in his rage. He raised his arm in the air and prepared to strike the first blow. The elfling saw this and tried to distance his mind from his body, so that he would not feel the pain. It was a technique he had learned well after living so long with the trolls. Regardless, when the first blow struck the poor elf's back, he felt still felt the intense pain though it was a fraction of what it could be.

The strokes continued to fall without mercy, turning the little elf's skin into a shredded, bloody mess. He continued to push his mind further into a senseless black void but the pain was slowly overcoming him. When the cracks of the whip seemed like they would go on forever, the pain finally broke through the elf's concentration and he began to whimper and squirm. His silence only served to increase the troll king's anger and he began to hit harder and faster. Soon the sound of elven cries resounded through the tunnels.

Suddenly a powerful voice cried out above the din, "Halt!"