Warnings: Blood and language.
He had not expected to kneel when he woke up that morning.
Thranduil is the Elvenking. He had not kneeled even to his own father, just as he does not make Legolas kneel to him. Greenwood is theirs, connected, pulsing, breathing; they are equal with it, and the forest does not bow to anyone.
He is kneeling now.
If he'd had time, he would have been angry at Legolas for letting the situation escalate so; for allowing an Orc to overpower him and drag him, half-limping and bleeding, back to Greenwood's halls. And the guards had let him through, because even they could not make a shot perfect enough to ensure that, if the Orc died, the knife pressed tightly to Legolas's neck wouldn't slice right through it.
Their hearts are beating in tandem; too fast, too desperate. Legolas is breathing heavily, but Thranduil is barely inhaling. As if, by not breathing, he can box his humiliation inside his chest and squash it out of sight. His pride has been sorely tested, and it will be tested further. He must only bear it out for as long as it will take for help to avail itself of them.
"You call that kneeling?"
The Orc – the name Bolg is distasteful even in Thranduil's thoughts – has one blind eye like an egg swivelling in the socket. That makes two of them. Thranduil has to turn his head to see him and his son at the same time. He hopes it's not noticeable.
"You call that kneeling?"
Thranduil's legs are pressed against the floor, his toes curled and crushed in his fine boots as he kneels at the bottom of his throne. Out of the corner of his eye he can see his guards, ready to strike, but not daring. Their prince is in too much danger – his son is in too much danger – and Thranduil knows he must play for time, until Bolg relaxes, and he can be overpowered. And he will have to be overpowered by physical strength alone; the Orcs are not stupid, and every guard has been relieved of his or her weapons.
Thranduil inclines his head. "Please, do specify."
He puts bite in the words, but not enough to antagonise Bolg beyond the point of no return. The Orc growls.
"You are tall, Elf-King. I want you shorter. Get on the floor, and kiss it."
Thranduil feels his stomach twist. He's killed out of sheer pride before now; shame is as greater motivator as fear, and he has never seen any problem in letting his pride be known. Which is why Bolg is doing this. Which is why he has his son. Which is why he has to wrench his pride away, lean forwards on his elbows and kiss his own floor. At least it's clean.
"Get up."
He pushes himself to his knees, but before he can stand, Bolg is speaking again. He has a voice like broken glass.
"Kneel."
"I am kn-"
"Kneel, properly."
Thranduil presses his nose to the floor a second time. His ears are stinging with humiliation. He can imagine his guards turning to each other and raising eyebrows. There will be talk of this for years. Hundreds of years, if they let him stay on the throne that long. They will not, after today. They will see his weakness, and they will find new leaders.
It is worth it, he tells himself, nose going cold against the floor. It is worth it for Legolas.
"Up."
Thranduil straightens, but does not attempt to get to his feet. He stays on his knees. Bolg grunts in satisfaction. He has handfuls of Legolas's hair wound around his thick wrist, the knife angled under his jaw. One shudder, and it will go through the skin like a fish bone through butter.
"You will stay there, Elf-King." Bolg turns to the two, scrappy, Orcs that accompany him and grunts something in his own tongue. One of them steps forward, a jagged knife jumping from his belt to his hand. Thranduil does not allow himself to flinch. He stares ahead. If he is to die, he will keep up appearances to the end. His guards, he can see, are shuffling as much as they can get away with, getting into improvised formation. He resists a smile. Good. They have not yet given up on him. They think he is playing along.
Which he is, he reminds himself. He is kneeling only to gain time. He is not obeying, he is acting.
The thought feels hollow. His conviction is sapped, and after such a short space of time. He is disappointed in himself.
The knife is brought to his blind side; he cannot see where it goes or what it is doing, he only knows it does not hurt. A filthy hand drags a handful of his hair back and out, stretching his scalp to the limit, until he thinks he must move his shoulders or have it pulled out. The pressure is released. A section of his hair falls around his knees. It's so light that some of it is blown sideways by Legolas's breath.
The knife moves the other side, and the cut is repeated. He sees the blade flash at the corner of his vision this time, but he still refuses to flinch. Instead, he angles his head and looks Bolg in the eye, then lowers his gaze to his son. Legolas looks horrified, but he's frozen; he cannot move, unless he wants to commit suicide, and he is sensible. He will not move.
Another hunk of hair falls and tickles Thranduil's ankles. The majority of his hair is gone; light as it is, he can tell when it is not there. He cannot remember a time when his neck had not been covered by it, but he does not try, because the knife is snickering at his very scalp as the Orc greedily tries to rip the last wisps from his head. He feels a sting, and blood trickles down his neck. Then more. And more.
"Adar…"
Thranduil shoots Legolas a look that silences him before he can get himself into more trouble. It is difficult to muster a commanding attitude with his bloody hair lying in rivers around his legs, but he must try. His guards have passed out of his narrowed field of vision, but he dares to incline his head, as if he is shaking the blood from his shoulders, to see what they are doing. Nothing, it seems. But, of course, that is how it is supposed to seem. He is still not breathing with any perceptibility. He wonders if that disturbs the Orcs, and decides it probably does not. It's doubtful they care enough to notice.
"Not going to let him talk to me, then?" Bolg bares his teeth. "How about I take a bite of him? Will you let him talk then?"
Thranduil says nothing. Bolg jerks the knife at Legolas's throat, and blood patters to the floor. A precious waste, but far from fatal. For now.
"Talk then, Prince. Say what you want to say."
Legolas looks like he might have bowed his head, if the knife had let him. "I have nothing to say."
"Nothing? After all that fighting? After you followed me, desperate to catch up? Pity." Bolg laughs and jerks his head to the small group of guards. "Your Prince is very stupid. I hope you realise that. I would have thought he'd never heard of a trap before, the way he rode into it. But there you have it. Princes and kings. They're all fools."
Thranduil swallows so hard he feels his throat sting, and there is a general gasping of air as his guards wait for him to retaliate, all the time knowing he cannot. The worst of it is, there is no-one holding him down; even the Orc with the knife has long ago edged away. Thranduil is bound by his own self-control.
"Nothing? You're a quiet pair, all of a sudden, aren't you? Say something, Elf-King, or I find your son's windpipe and tear it in three places."
"I have nothing to say to you."
"And yet, you do. Keep talking."
He does not know what to say, or how. He cannot antagonise, and he cannot grovel. Life hangs on knife-point, balanced on the tip of one of his fingers. He cannot let it fall.
"I will. I will keep talking. I will keep talking. I will keep-"
"No repetition. Go on. Let's see if you can do it." Bolg leans forward. The saliva gathered between his teeth is almost green in colour. "Talk, without lying, without repetition. I dare you."
"This is my hall. I am Thranduil, of Greenwood."
"Mirkwood."
"Mirkwood." The name makes him want to gag. "I have five fingers on each hand, and ten toes. My eyes are open. I had fish for breakfast."
"When did you last piss?" Bolg is merciless. Thranduil had not expected anything less of him. "Go on."
"This morning." His cheeks are red with humiliation, raw and burning without his hair to cover the blush.
"How long for?"
"I don't know." The knife twists against Legolas's chin, and Thranduil hastily re-words; he's sure the answer is half a lie, but there is no time to think. "Thirty seconds."
"Were you drinking last night?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Two glasses. No, three."
"Close one." Bolg snorts. "Do you need to piss now?"
Truth is, he does. His bladder is beginning to take on a bruised, heavy, feel, but the thought of answering in the affirmative is one humiliation he cannot take, not in front of his guards. "No."
"I'll hold you to that. Piss yourself, and I'll kill him. What was the last thing you killed?"
Thranduil narrows his eyes and tightens his jaw. "An Orc."
"How did you kill him?"
"I beheaded him."
Bolg tuts. "That wasn't very nice of you."
"I do not live for you to think me nice."
A laugh that makes his eardrums shake in his head, and Bolg is suddenly snorting so violently Thranduil wants to shout a warning; there are cuts appearing on Legolas's neck, in short, random bursts like pepper grains on meat.
"Very good, Elf-King, very good. But not what I wanted to hear." Bolg jerks his head to the Orc with the shaving-knife. "All that hair is getting on my nerves. Make him eat it."
Thranduil has no time to react before his head is gripped in a lock; a lock he could have broken out of, if he'd been allowed to, but he is not, because his son is still bleeding.
"Do not make me ask you," Bolg says.
The floor is completely out of Thranduil's field of vision, so he has to feel around the back of his knees for strands of his hair and bring them to his mouth without seeing them.
It's been a little while since I read LoTR and The Hobbit, but the Thranduil of the movies really piqued my interest. I've been using an online Elvish dictionary – apparently Ada = daddy and Adar = father, but please correct me if I'm wrong.
Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!
To be continued.