Beautiful, a lord of the rings fanfic

Beautiful

Lacadiva

Rating: PG/PG 13 for violence.

Synopsis: Legolas is abducted, brutalize, and sold into slavery. The daughter of a slave trader, taken by his physical beauty, frees him, and ultimate joins forces with the Prince of Mirkwood to liberate as many slaves as they can before they are forced to face the hangman's noose.

I approached him cautiously. Even the most beautiful creatures can be quite deadly, if one is not careful. I stood as close as I deemed safe. Tears sprang to my eyes. My knees knocked under my silken gown. My heart beat so hard I could hear it thundering in my ears.

"What's your name?" I asked slowly, fearfully, gently, praying he would answer.

He did not for a long time.

He was so in pain, so wrecked and mistreated by the hands of my father's employees, that I longed to take a dagger to every one of them for their crimes. He moved his sweet lips to speak. Blood spilled in a thin river down his chin. He closed his eyes as if he would fall into unconsciousness.

And then he said a word, one I did not understand.

He repeated it. And then he spoke in the common language of men.

"Water…."

I am not my father's daughter.

Biologically, yes, I am his seed. Over this I have no control. But we see very little the same way. We have never agreed on what is right and what is wrong. I am Ieloren, daughter of Ilucida, deceased third wife of Pagranan, sentenced to die at sun's rise.

Pagranan, my father, once said that slavery was a necessary evil (though I do not believe he ever thought of it as evil). The buying and selling of men and women, according to his conveniently flexible philosophy, was simply a matter of economics, of supply and demand. So long as the people demanded it, he would enthusiastically supply it.

I confess that I did not always think of it as a vile and abhorrent institution that should be abolished at all costs, as I do now. I did not always believe that all men and women, no matter their kind or size, should be free to pursue their own way. It is only recently that I have come to understand that no one can or should belong to another as property. Even in a marriage, a contract can be broken if it is the will of one spouse or the other.

For these recently cultivated beliefs and my actions in support of them, I am in chains, not unlike those who I fought to liberate. I accept my fate wholeheartedly and willingly die for my cause. I am not afraid.

Well, perhaps a little.

And I will admit only one regret: that the one who inspired me to live my new-found conviction will die with me. Would that I could set him free now. But he sits in a cell across from me, and sings.

He has been singing in that soft, lilting voice for hours. He sings and I listen, and my heart is calmed and spirits lifted, despite the hangman's noose I know awaits us.

At first the guards demanded that he be silent. But he continued to sing in gentle melodic protest. His voice must have reached into their hearts – indeed, their very souls – for their demands have ceased, and all has become quiet but for the sound of his songs. I do not understand the words, but intellectual understanding is irrelevant. It is what my heart hears that matters.

I wish I could save him now.

When he becomes silent, I miss his music, mostly because without it my thoughts return to my past, and I wish only to meet my future, even if it will end with a slow and painful death in a few short hours.

I remember, many times, especially in my youth, my father would try to force upon me his way of thinking, parading the choicest slaves before me, bidding me pick one for my own. As a child, I chose not servants but playmates, friends, equals. They ultimately were ripped from me, put out to till the soil and harvest the fields, labor in horse stables, taken as personal servants – toys – or sold away. And I was left abandoned, alone, in misery.

As I finally grew into maturity, I came to hate my father and what he did for a living. For the lives he has destroyed. But he would always attempt to point out to me the many lives he had enriched for his labor – including my own.

We lived a life of blatant excess and luxury few people will ever experience. It has paid for my extensive education (though I was never encouraged to use this education. T'was merely a method of adding value to me in attracting a husband of high station who could afford to pay an otherwise unreasonable bride-price). It clothed me in fine garments, rich in color and exquisitely made. It had me bedecked in the jewelry of kings and queens. I wore these things yet deep in my heart I yearned for the simple warmth of a journeyman's harsh wool cloak and the weight of an adventurer's sword at my side. Instead of a bed of soft down and satins, I desired to sleep on the hard ground under the stars, with none but leaves to cover me and a small fire to keep away the cold.

You may laugh at my folly if you wish. Many already do. And they will laugh the hardest when my body swings and my neck is broken by the rope.

"Ieloren," I hear his strong and gentle voice call out from his cell.

I move quickly to grasp the bars, longing to see his luminous face and piercing eyes despite the darkness.

"I am here, Legolas."

"Read to me."

"My journal?"

"Yes."

I am hesitant. I am so ashamed of my old life. Not for what I have become, but for what I was before my friend across the way brought truth to set my spirit free.

"I would rather hear you sing," I say to him, hoping he will grant my heart this request.

"Please," he insists.

I acquiesce, and open my tattered journal, the one thing they allowed me to keep in my imprisonment. I hold it under a thin stream of moonlight straining through the barred window.

I read: "I swore that on my twentieth birthday I would leave this house and I would accept whatever harsh life came to me, if only God grant me the ability to fight against my father's ways. But I stand here in my chamber - my gilded cage – on my twenty-second birthday and hate myself for my cowardice, for still being here. I realized early on, but was far too ashamed to admit the truth that haunts me now: I am as much a slave in my father's house as any who work the fields or the kitchens or the stables. I am his property, to do with as he pleases, to go where he says go, and do as he says do, until I am given over in marriage for a price – sold – and ownership of me is transferred to my husband. Would that I had the strength to take my own life."

"I am grateful," he says, "that you never found that particular strength."

"So am I," I say, and smile. I am now twenty-four, and devoted to the heart and cause of the man who speaks to me in the darkness.

"Read on. Please."

Again, I acquiesce.

"A member of the house of Peer Pagranan may not toil. My every wish is granted, my every whim entertained. I long for nothing, for I need only ask. I need nothing, for I have anything I could ever want. I am a creature condemned to a life of stillness. I may expend no energy, or do anything more strenuous than run a comb through my own hair, (though there are those who stand willing to do that for me); more arduous than lift a bejeweled goblet to my lips, more enervating than step into a warm bath drawn by anxious to please servants. I reach up to wipe sweat from my brow, and there is someone to fan away the oppressive heat. I reach for knife to core an apple to find it instantly on a gold plate before me, perfectly sliced. There is even someone to be sure that I do not kick the covers from my body at night, or risk a chill. I hate my life."

"Do you hate it now?"

"No," I say, "for I learned to love my life the day I met you."

"Your words are kind."

Quiet between us returns, and I go back to read aloud my journal again.

"Did I not mention that I had never been outside my home, further than the gates of our property? Though the land is quite extensive, I knew nothing of what lay beyond my father's estate. I once tried to escape, dressed as a messenger servant, riding the fastest horse my father owned. I only wanted to see what was beyond the gate. I was terrified of going farther. Before my goal was in sight, I was surrounded by my father's guards, and forced back to the house. There, my father, sparing me a lecture (which, under the circumstances I would have preferred), took up a cane and ten times across my exposed back made his law for my life unquestionably clear. I still bear the raised scars from that beating, and several others from scattered incidents of rebellion over the years.

"I hate my father," I say out loud, though I did not mean to, as I closed my tattered journal.

And, sadly, strangely, even though he signed the execution order, I will always love him.

It occurs to me that the things I will miss in this life are few, with the exception of sitting in my chamber and staring from my balcony – which faces the sunset, and watching the supernatural burst of color at the end of every day.

"Ieloren," he calls.

"Yes, Legolas?"

"Tell me the story again. Of the day I arrived."

"Only if you will tell me your recollections again."

"I promise," he said. "I can think of no greater way to spend what time we have left."

I do not need the journal for this. I take a deep breath and begin.

"The day you arrived, I sat, like so many other days, waiting for the sunset which was still perhaps an hour away, when one of father's servants beckoned me join him. A new load of slaves had just been delivered from the ships, and as always, father is given the pick of the litter before he auctions them off at sundown. As it was my birthday, my father thought it would be a good opportunity to again sway me to his way of thinking by offering me a slave or two to use as I saw fit. It was my usual behavior to refuse. Why on this day I accompanied my father's servant I can only say was a quirk of fate. Perhaps the hand of your Valar, perhaps the guiding voice of my Deity whispering in my ear, urging me to go. For whatever reason, I went. And on that day I discovered the true reason for my existence. You."

"When I arrived the gathering place, the newly arrived slaves were all lining up. They were heavily chained, standing weakly in the harsh sun. Men, women, children. Strong and frail, sick and near dead. From races I had seen before, and some I had not. Soon they would be taken to the auction block, where the rich would poke and pry and assess and appraise, then haggle over insane amounts of money, jewels and land to own one of these people, stolen from countries not too unlike this one. I could not look these sad and unfortunate folk in the eye, but I did say for each a silent prayer that whoever purchased them would be kind to them. Would that I had the courage unchain and release them all."

"And then you saw me," he said. I smiled.

"Yes. If someone had asked me, I could not have adequately described your likeness. There are no words that could describe your enchanting, mysterious beauty. I am sorry. Do I embarrass you? Have I gone too far?"

"I feel a discomfort, yet I also smile. My mind is amused and my heart is warmed to hear you say such things."

"My cheeks burn, now as they did then. But these were my thoughts. Before we die, I wish to share all of them with you."

"T'is your story. Say it as you please."

"Then I warn you, you will hear how a woman thinks. It is a complex and indecipherable thing, so I am told."

"I welcome the challenge."

I continued my story. I left little out. I told him again how I had never seen a creature like him before. I had heard stories, yes, about beings such as he, but I never thought I'd live to ever see. Even in his weakened state, beaten, bleeding through his torn white tunic, chained in such a way to restrict any movement but a slow gait, he exuded something that made me hold my breath. A sense of royalty and elegance. An ethereal, eternal beauty.

I did not wish to possess him.

I wanted to save him.

Set him free.

I looked into his crystalline eyes. His gaze, though filled with pain from his torturous journey across the sea, still made my heart quicken. His long hair, though matted with sweat, grime and blood, was still exquisitely silken and bid me to touch it. I almost did, but held back out of respect. His ears were tapered to fine, exquisite points, so different from any I had ever seen before. His body, though exhausted and fearfully abused, was still strong and lithe. Why make this creature serve anyone? Surely, he should be among the privileged and the served.

"What's your name?" I asked slowly, fearfully, gently, praying he would answer.

He did not for a long time.

And then he said a word, one I did not understand.

He repeated it. And then he spoke in the common language of men.

"Water…." he said in a breathy whisper.

His voice cut through my heart like a knife thrust into ice. I raced to the well and took up a hollowed gourd reserved for my father's chief employees. I dared one of them to stop me, as I filled it with cool well water and ran back to the beautiful creature, afraid to spill a single drop lest he not drink his fill.

First I wiped away the blood from around his mouth with the lacy sleeve of my own garment, and then held the gourd to his mouth. I expected him to drink greedily, but he did not. He took a slow, thoughtful sip. Blood mingled in the water. When he'd had enough he nodded, and I pulled the gourd away.

Timondel, Father's cruelest overseer, hit the creature across the back hard with a thick cane, opening a new wound to his flesh, blood running anew. He nearly fell to his knees, but the strength within him kept him on his feet and from crying out. Such defiance made my heart soar.

"Stop!" I shouted, before Timondel could hit him again. He scowled at me, as he always did. Were it not for his fear of my father, I am certain Timondel would have hurt me severely many times over. And were it not for this creature, I am sure I would have been far too afraid to face Timondel's wrath.

"Hurt him again," I warned the ignorant beast of a man, "and I will have your empty head served cold to me on a platter."

Timondel backed away, hairy, smelly beast that he was, spat upon the ground as he ambled off. I turned back to the heavenly creature and sought his sea-blue eyes. He granted me a great boon, by giving me a thin, almost imperceptible hint of a smile.

"Hannon le," he whispered. Though I did not recognize the words, my heart leaped within my chest.

"Pray, what is your name?" I asked.

He did not answer. Perhaps he did not understand my words. I smiled, hoping that he would see the trueness of my heart.

"Do not be afraid," I said, reaching out to touch him, but refraining, hoping he could read my eyes and discern from my tone that I was on his side.

"I have no intention of letting you reach the auction block," I told him. "You will be no man's slave," I pledged. I meant it, on my very life.

Again, he said nothing. His eyes took on a stern look, an unblinking stare.

"I am Ieloren," I said, pointing to myself.

"Legolas," he said.

So he did understand. I was grateful to the heavens.

And then I heard my father approaching.

I quickly had to lose from my face the look of my enchantment. Father could not know how important this Legolas had suddenly become to me, lest he use it against me. He could sell him off to some horrible person who would work him unto death. Or beat him, break him, mistreat him terribly. Or impress him into gladiatorial service, making him fight to live or to eat. Or worse, he could be sold to the brothels as a toy to the rich and perverted. I could think of no worse fate. I could not let that happen to him.

I would die first.

I walked the line of slaves, trying to seem nonchalant, as if the hurt and fear in their eyes had no ill effect on me, as if their nightmare did not churn in my stomach and cut into my soul.

"Have pity on me too, princess," one of the men in line whispered to me. That was the first time any new slave had ever addressed me directly. I looked at him with pitiable eyes, but before I could speak, another called out to me.

"Spare some small pity for me, too, lady."

"And for me, sweet lady," said a woman, " I fear for my life, and the lives of my children who are separated from me."

Voice after voice whispered their pleas to me, begging for release, begging for the smallest sip of water or the tiniest piece of stale bread. Some begged even that I draw a sword and take their life where they stood before the faced further degradation.

This was more than I could bear. I realized how useless my hatred of my father had been. Useless because my thoughts lacked direction and action, and my heart lacked conviction. But did I have the courage of this new conviction, could I put my heart to this task? How could I outsmart my father and free these desperate people? And where would they go? They could not hide here, for they would surely be found and dragged back into slavery. They would be beaten and tortured, some executed as an example to the others. And if I were caught, my father would surely make the most horrific example of me.

My mind was reeling with thoughts of problems that lacked clear solutions. But somewhere deep in my very soul I knew that this was surely my purpose for living. If I did not believe in slavery, it was time my actions supported my belief.

I looked to the creature Legolas. I saw him teeter on his feet. I would start with him, only because it was him who had opened my eyes to what I must now do, to my new- found purpose in life. And I would pray hard tonight, not for freedom for myself from my father's tyranny, but for each of the men and women and children who stood in this line. I would pray that I would be used as the instrument of their liberation, and that the first to walk free from this place would be the creature with the sea-blue eyes and gently pointed ears. Legolas.

"Ieloren," my father called. Instantly my blood ran cold. I did not want him near me. "I am surprised to find you here," he said, "you usually scorn and decline my invitations."

"I have decided to take on a chamber servant." I hoped he believed my lie. Lying is not a thing I do well. "Does this please you, father?

"It rouses my suspicions," he said.

I felt panic rising within me.

"But, as it is your birthday, I will encourage you to choose. Choose more than one slave if you like."

"One will do for now," I said, glancing at Legolas.

"Choose quickly," Father said impatiently, "bidders are arriving at the gates as we speak."

My heartbeat quickened and I felt a wave of dizziness envelope me. What if he said no? What if he declined my choice?

"I'll take this one. Him." I pointed to Legolas.

Legolas seemed perturbed at me. I wondered if he had misunderstood my action. Perhaps he hated me now. Later, surely, he would understand. I kept my eyes away from him, lest my father see my true intentions – his utter ruin and Legolas' ultimate liberation.

"You ask for a chamber servant. It is customary to choose a female."

"Father, I am well above the age of majority. By law I can choose as I please."

My words were too harsh, I realized the moment they spilled from my mouth. I did not want the harshness of my words to give away my true intentions. So I sought to soften my sentiments, and his hard heart.

"Besides, Father," I said with a forced warm smile, "it is my birthday. Surely you could bend to my wishes this once. I choose him," I said with all mock sincerity, "because this woman is too old. And this one is too young. And this one is with child – you can fetch a double the price for her. The one I choose looks sickly yet easy to break."

My eye caught Legolas' gaze, and I knew this was far from true.

"Please, father. He looks so unusual that I should like to make him my pet. I have not asked anything of you in such a long time. Can I please have him?"

"That one is elf-creature. Do you know how rare they are in these lands? I expect to grab a very high price for him. Choose another."

My heart sank. My legs felt heavy. I felt tears burning my eyes. I turned and began to walk away, feeling the oppressive weight of defeat. But fate would offer me one more chance to persuade my father.

A grand party of bidders were riding uphill toward us. Wealthy bidders in fine clothing, astride fine horses. Men my father has dealt with many times. Ones he wished to please and impress with not only the quality of his slaves and the sharpness of his business acumen, but with his standing as a good man of the community. A good father, that is. One could only be as good a businessman as he is a man, he would always say.

"I want him!" I cried.

"Choose another!"

"I want no other!" I shouted.

His bidders were closer now. Close enough to hear my words.

"You claim to be a man of your word yet you deny your own daughter! Your own flesh and blood! On my birthday! If you treat me in such a poor manner, what of those who are not family? Would you also deny THEM? Is this how you would treat them in business?"

They were very close now, and father was very aware of their scrutiny. He was fuming, but I could also see that he was bending under the pressure to look good.

"Trouble, Peer Pagranan?" one of his bidder spoke rode up.

"Why no, Peer Longbotham. My daughter is merely choosing a slave."

"I have chosen. May I take him away so you may conduct your business, father?"

"Yes, taken him," he said, so that all could hear. And then, for my ears only he said, "We shall talk about this later."

Such a threat would have scared me before. It had little effect now. I had won.

Father left to mingle with his clients.

I reached out to Legolas. He stepped forward quickly. Too quickly.

He collapsed into my arms.

Two of my father's employees raced forward to drag him away from me.

"Easy with him!" I demanded. "Take him to my servant's chamber," I ordered.

The men turned toward the house to carry out my order.

"Wait!"

I turned to find Timondel standing by the branding fires, an iron in his hand. He pulled it fresh from the flames. It glowed orange and bright.

"He'll be needing a taste of the iron first."

I could see how eagerly Timodel savored the idea of further ruining the elf's perfect flesh.

"No!" I scolded Timondel. "He is too ill to receive a brand today."

"According to who?"

"According to me. Or shall I ask my father to intervene? He has little patience for you as it is. And as his bidders are arriving…"

Timondel growled a curse under his breath, and promptly tossed the brand back into the fire.

"Y'still must give me a name for him, " he said, "for the records."

I looked back a Legolas, unconscious in the hands of my father's men. I would have used his name, but I also knew that as a slave one's original name is replaced by one favored by the owner. A despicable practice, but one my father swore by, as it is the first step to successfully breaking a slave into service. By taking away the last thing a man can hold claim to, you claim him. If I were going to be successful with my ruse, I would have to play by my father's rules.

I was stumped. What could I call this superb creature? What name other than his own would do him justice?

I looked at him again, half-conscious and being carried away. Yet again my heart leaped and quickened. I could not wait to set him free. This beautiful, beautiful creature. I smiled at him.

"I shall call him…Beautiful."

End chapter 1. Hope you like it, hope you'll comment.