Disclaimer: Never mine. *sobs*

A/N: And we're back! Sorry this took so long. I wanted it to be the best it could, seeing as I'm betaless right now. Anyhow, just some fyi's before we dive in. Okay, so this is Thranduil's POV now. He's a bit OOC, but that's because he's been tortured for nearly two years by these orcs (and we all know how nasty they are to elves...no rape though, never).

Warnings: Descriptions of torture, but nothing R rated.


The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.

- H.P. Lovecraft


Hot tongs seared into his flesh, tearing away the last remnants of his endurance. Thranduil cried out, unable to keep from speaking his pain. Harsh laughter invaded his ears and he trembled as rough fingers grabbed hold of his hair. His head was wrenched up and back, forcing him to look into the glee filled eyes of his tormentors. The heated tongs were abruptly pulled away, but not before the Uruk'hai pushed them into his side a little more.

An orc, the brut with a blind eye, held his head up, while their leader, a tall Uruk'hai with bone piercings in his left ear, stood in front of him. The Uruk'hai shouted a few sharp, twisted words to his companion and the orc's face broke into a grin, distorting his grotesque features even more. Thranduil couldn't understand the Black Speech, but he knew it held no good for him. It never did. He choked back a sob when the Uruk'hai walked to the corner of the room and brought out a small flask.

No, not again. Not now. He couldn't take the effects of their vile concoction so soon. They'd only just stopped his beating. He didn't have any strength left to combat the black Mordor brew.

"No," he whispered as the orc forced his mouth open. The Uruk'hai laughed at his quiet plea and Thranduil rebuked himself for showing them any weakness. Fool, he knew better than to give them an advantage. Icy liquid poured into his mouth and ran over his lips. He tried to resist swallowing it, but the orc noticed, released his jaw, and struck a blow to his broken ribs. He screamed, spitting out the liquid in his mouth. He reflexively drew in a breath, but, instead of air, he swallowed the Mordor brew, choked on it.

Twice more they forced him to consume their burning drink. He vomited some of it back up, but enough of it stayed in him to knot his stomach and cause his body to shiver. The Uruk'hai laughed as the orc yanked on Thranduil's hair, exacerbating the new pain. Each tug sent fire through his veins and blackened his vision. Eventually, the Uruk'hai grunted something to his underling and the orc stopped.

"Lag-o-lahs." The Uruk'hai barked.

And then Thranduil's son was before him, his blue eyes sad and angered, his once fine clothes nothing but frayed shreds. "You let them have me. Just like mother."

"No, ion nin," he said, desperate to make his son understand. How could Legolas believe such lies? He loved his son more than Mirkwood herself. He'd tried everything in his power to save him. "I didn't…couldn't…he was…"

"But you did, Ada." Legolas smiled at him, his flawless face a black serene. "So, I shall let them have you."

"No, please…ion nin…please…"

"Thranduil," a voice like falling rocks said to his left. It scraped against his ears and aggravated the ache in his head.

He ignored it in favor of his son. "I'm sorry, so sorry."

Legolas shook his head, thick blood running down the side of his golden hair. His cheeks turned hollower and his body thinner. One of his eyes disappeared, leaving not but a black hole. "Apologies won't help you, Ada. Only Sauron can."

"No! I won't!" Thranduil struggled against the chains that bound him. They'd turned his son, made him an emissary to the Dark Lord. It was a blow that struck deep into Thranduil's heart. His pure little son lived no more. The Uruk'hai laughed and waved his dying son out the cave. It turned to him and readied a braided whip. The orc lifted his head high again. Legolas winced, but didn't stop them as he stumbled out.

"Ion nin!"

"Thranduil!" the mysterious voice called, louder now. It distracted him for a moment and he looked for its owner. He found no one, only the blood splattered wall of the cave. A tear fell down his torn cheek. Alone, he was alone, with no one for company but the Uruk'hai and his condemning son.

The Uruk'hai neared, the whip held back to strike him. Suddenly he started to jolt back and forth. It felt as if invisible hands had grabbed his arms and were shaking him, hard. He struggled against the unknown force and the Uruk'hai laughed once more. He closed his eyes against the image and found an old dwarf inches from his face. The wrinkled face seemed familiar somehow, but he didn't linger on that fact. If the dwarf was here, then he obviously held company with the orcs and meant to do him harm.

"No!" he exclaimed. A sharp pain raced through him and he gasped, body instinctively curling inward to protect the vulnerable bones in his chest. Calloused fingers gripped his arm, holding him in place, and fear enveloped him. Was the naugrim planning on breaking more of his ribs? Calling upon his last reserves, Thranduil wrenched his arm toward himself, attempting to shake his captured limb free. He promptly blacked out. When his sight came back he found his head ringing.

Had someone had struck him from behind?

He glanced back. Another dwarf, dark haired with axes on his back, hovered inches from his face. Thranduil tried to push himself away, but he ceased with a cry as his broken ribs grated against each other and closed his eyes, gasping from the agony. Every cut, burn, and broken bone sang out, a throbbing harmony that could not be ignored. Breathe short and body raw, he prepared himself to fight a losing battle. Why he was outside or why the orcs or Uruk'hai hadn't yet showed their faces, he knew not, but whatever evil the naugrim had planned, Thranduil would not let them achieve it so easily. He'd make them toil for every inch given.

The first dwarf shuffled into his line of sight. Thranduil hadn't noticed his lack of presence til now, even the grip on his arm was gone. The naugrim strangely motioned the second dwarf away. "Enough, Dwalin."

The gruff naugrim, Dwalin, scowled, but obeyed the command. Thranduil frowned. Why hadn't the dwarf ordered his companion to punish him for his resistance? The orcs always hastened to flog him when he struggled against their wishes. They delighted in their hold over him.

Then it became clear.

The naugrim wished to enact punishment himself as the Uruk'hai was prone to do. Thranduil attempted to put himself into a sitting position. He did not wish to lie as a worm on the ground before them. But his arms quivered and he knew it to be a hopeless cause. He'd do more injury to himself by continuing. He swallowed his anger at the helplessness of his state and waited on the forest floor. Nearby a fire crackled and all Thranduil could think was that any moment those burning logs could be used against him. He'd nothing to protect him from the fire, his strength diminished, his chest bare, his legs…covered in a blanket? Indeed, overtop his torn leggings, a woolen blanket lay pooled.

The dwarf took a few steps forward and stopped. "Are you awake, elf?"

Thranduil jerked his gaze from the thin coverlet, cringing at the word 'elf'. The orcs enjoyed using it as an excuse to hurt him. 'Feel yourself pretty now, elf?' they jeered. 'Think you're special, elf?' What greater ire would a dwarf have for his kind? There was no love lost between their races, no tendril of hope.

He nodded in answer to the naugrim's question though, fearing greater pain should he not respond in some way. The Uruk'hai had shown him at the beginning what his silence brought. Either by not expressing his pain or refusing to answer questions, his lack of response garnered things that made his daily beatings feel like mere taps. The dwarf's eyes narrowed, but he didn't tell the other to strike him, so Thranduil assumed he'd done right.

It galled him that he should cower so before a dwarf, that he should be so submissive, but the recent years of torture had stripped away all thought of defiance. When his scathing words brought their whips and knives, he'd learned to hide his thoughts. When his silence created anger and harsher beatings, he'd realized the worth of his screams, even at the cost of his self-respect. His body knew the consequences and he couldn't stop himself from panicking each time he woke.

Every day brought only more sorrow and horror. The only change was the level of brutality. Thranduil often prayed for death now. He knew relief would come when he breathed no more in this world. Bit by slow bit, his spirit drained of the will to live and he faded a little more, but not quickly enough.

Why, couldn't he die?

Perhaps, the Valar were punishing him for his refusal to help the dwarves when Smaug attacked. He regretted that decision. Even before his kingdom fell to the spiders and orcs and he himself was captured, Thranduil had wished he'd chosen another course. Arrogance had held his aid back and that same arrogance had caused his son die.

Adaaaa!

His son's last words would forever resonate within him, as would the consequences his reluctance had brought upon the dwarves. Their home taken by Smaug, their race scattered, and their hopes dashed.

Perhaps that was why the dwarves were here.

They desired to lay their own version of justice upon him for his misdeeds against their people. He flinched as the gray-haired dwarf reached out to him and closed his eyes, not willing to look upon the face of his attacker, but the expected blow never landed. He waited and still no hand was laid upon him. He opened his eyes cautiously and glanced up. The dwarf stared down at him with pity in his features.

That brought anger up into his chest, but Thranduil didn't dare let his displeasure show. He couldn't be sure they weren't use it against him. Mock him in his vulnerable state for such a futile emotion. Still he allowed it to linger deep inside his heart, nestled there to smolder. He waited, letting the naugrim dictate the next move.

"You are freed, Thranduil King. The orcs are dead."

Such surety lived in the dwarf's voice that Thranduil could only believe him. Yet he still knew that meant nothing about their treatment of him. Just because they killed Sauron's vile creations didn't mean they wished to spare him.

The dwarf tilted his head to the side. "You don't remember me, do you?"

He did, though not enough. He knew that he'd seen the face before, but couldn't place where. It shamed him that he'd lost so much of himself to the Uruk'hai and orcs. He'd prided himself on his memory, how he could recall even the smallest of details without even trying. Now he was lucky he remembered his name and his people's fate – though that was more due to the fact the Uruk'hai taunted him for Green Woods fall and his useless title at every turn.

Thranduil shuddered. He doubted he would ever forget the screams of his people as they were butchered. The cries of despair and terror haunted his dreams and darkened his days, his people's eyes forever closed in the sleep of death. The streets had run crimson with their blood.

"Elf?" the dwarf asked, brow creased into a frown.

"I know your face." His voice scratched the back of his throat and he winced before he could stop himself.

The dwarf studied him more and then waved his friend, Dwalin, closer. The burly naugrim grasped Thranduil around his shoulder with light hands – Thranduil flinched regardless – and forced him into a sitting position. Why, Thranduil couldn't be sure. Perhaps they would beat him now. But then Dwalin stepped back to his former position and the elder dwarf withdrew a water sack from his belt and offered it to him.

No words of encouragement or thanks passed between them. The naugrim expected his compliance and Thranduil refused to be grateful when it might give leverage to his captors. He sipped the water tentatively, fearing poison. When no toxin burned his lips, Thranduil gulped down more. He cared not that it might look desperate to the naugrim watching him.

Who knew when they would grace him with more? He needed to drink as much as possible without hurting his stomach. Too much and he'd bring it back up again. After another gulp, the dwarf, Dwalin, shifted his weight and Thranduil understood the quiet signal. Enough drink. He gave the water sack back without hesitance.

The elder naugrim frowned as the mostly full sack, but hooked it back on his belt. "So, you remember my face, but do you recall my name?"

Thranduil wilted. He did not. The title taunted him, brushing against the edges of his memories, but refused to be caught. Had the naugrim been one of those who begged for help? Had he been high in Thrain's court? He could not say for certain and worried what that dearth of knowledge might cause.

Would they take insult at his lack of awareness, receiving it for a subtle slight?

Yet Thranduil knew they required no excuse to harm him. He'd abandoned them at their greatest hour of need. In the eyes of the world, anything would be considered just recompense to one such as he, even his continued torment. They could beat him, humiliate him, shatter him, and still the sin against their kind would not be paid in full. Thranduil knew this.

Had he not done similar, if abet less harsh, deeds to those he deemed intruders on his land or not humbled enough? Now, the Valar demanded reparation for his misdeeds. Thranduil hated them for that, yet knew he deserved no less. But still, in the deepest recesses of his heart, he longed for someone to forgive him his misdeeds. If not forgiveness, than at least that they didn't hold it against him.

"Thranduil!"

He started at the abrupt call and eyed the dwarf. The naugrim shook his head with…relief? That emotion was wrong. Why would his enemy care for him? No, that didn't fit at all. It had to be something else. Perhaps…yes, that must be it! He'd not been listening and the dwarf wanted his full attention when he passed judgment.

He braced himself for the pronouncement, but a rustle in the bushes interrupted them.

And then Thranduil's worst fear turned into reality. Thorin Oakenshield – beard scraggled and clothes worn, but still radiating of his birthright – stepped out from the shadows. Nine dwarves followed behind him. The young dwarf king was rigid with barely suppressed anger and his full scrutiny landed solely on Thranduil. "So, now you are awake."

"Yes," he rasped, eyes meeting his captor's. His stomach clenched with dread and his heart beat fast within him. What was it to be? More floggings? The branding torch? Perhaps even less food. Thorin might, given his grievances, combine all three. Or bring forth something new. Thranduil's breath hitched at the thought. Could he withstand such lengths?

Thranduil knew the answer before the question had finished crossing his mind.

No.

"Thorin," the old dwarf said, a warning in his tone. He laid a hand on the other naugrim's arm. "Don't."

The dwarf king threw a stinging glare at his companion. "It is my right, Balin."

Balin opened his mouth, but then closed it, eyes sad, and backed away with a bow. Thorin stepped closer, the hilt of his sword glinting in the firelight, and something in Thranduil snapped. Some might say it was the last remnants of his pride, some his endurance. Whatever it was, it left the elven king's soul stripped bare and hopeless, his body shaking with fatigue and pain. He bowed his head til it met the ground and curled his fingers around the dry leaves and dirt.

"Please," he whispered. "No more."

A stillness unlike any he'd ever felt descended upon the glade. It stifled the air, made it thick with tension. Someone scuffled the leaves as they walked to his side and weathered boots appear by his good eye. Thorin's. Thranduil stiffened in anticipation, waiting for the naugrim's rage to descend upon him. A heavy hand laid itself on his naked shoulder and Thranduil flinched.

"Please," he sobbed, images of his last beating rising up to overwhelm him; the whip falling again and again upon his back no matter how much he screamed for them. He didn't care that his pleas were most likely only an amusement to the once dwarf prince, now exiled king. He'd try anything to stay this new horror. His fingers tightened their grip on the leaves and dirt in them. "Please."

Thorin sucked in a sharp breath and released his grip. "See to him."
His boots disappeared quickly from Thranduil's sight and Balin's worried face crouched down to his level. Another pair of hands, gentle ones, lifted him up, pausing each time he hissed in pain to let him regain his breath. Thranduil focused on the ground, tears of shame, of terror, of broken memory falling down his cheeks. He had nothing left. Why did they not press their advantage? Why did they not strike him down?

He risked a glance up and saw Thorin retreat with most of the dwarves back to another camp fire. He'd been spared, for today. But why? He'd done nothing that he hadn't tried with the orcs. Did Thorin think his groveling enough to put off his retribution? Would it come tomorrow, when he'd had more time to restore his body?

"Come, help me get him closer to the fire, Kili," Balin said. Thranduil cringed, but the dwarves only moved him a few feet in and then settled him down on some bunched up cloaks. Lumpy and twisted, they felt like the softest bed to Thranduil. He relaxed into them with but a few winces. Balin stepped to his side once more, a steaming bowl in his hands.

"The broth'll do you good," Balin said, laying the warm pottery in his trembling hands. "I put some Athelas in it to dull the pain."

Wary this good intent, but knowing he could not refuse the gift, Thranduil attempted to bring the liquid to his lips. Yet his hands shook so badly that most of it landed on his chest, the salt of it stinging his barely healed wounds. The other dwarf, Kili, swept in and took it from him softly. Thranduil's heart tightened. He hadn't meant to fail in his task.

"Here," Kili said, lifting the bowl to Thranduil's mouth.

The kindness of the action nearly overwhelmed Thranduil, but he managed to sip the fragrant broth. A mixture of rabbit and parsley filled his mouth. It soothed his throat as he swallowed and comforted his aching stomach. After a few more mouthfuls, Kili lowered the bowl. "Let's see how well your stomach responds to that much."

Thranduil considered him as he place the bowl near the fire coals. "Why?"

Why give him sustenance? Why help him? Why show mercy? Why not end his life with a quick swing of an ax or leave him for the wolves? Why do any of this and not what he deserved? So many unanswered questions and not a one of them rendering any sense.

"It's right," Kili said.

The honesty shining from the young naugrim's eyes surprised Thranduil and he found he could not say anything in return. How could it be 'right' for them to tend one who had abandoned them? He'd left them to Smaug's tender mercies and it seemed only fitting that he be subject to Thorin's justice. Or at the very least to let nature take its course and leave him for the wolves that howled some few miles away. He shook his head in bewilderment.

The young dwarf shrugged, standing up and stretching his back. "I'm going back to uncle, Balin, send word if you have need of me."

"Of course. My thanks, lad." Balin said. They both watched him leave; Balin with love, Thranduil with confusion. The older dwarf plopped himself nearby and took out a pipe. Pulling out a small bag from his pocket, he started to stuff the pipe with weed. But then he paused in his solemn actions. He eyed the pipe a moment and turned to Thranduil. "Will this bother you?"

Would it bother him? Thranduil could only blink in response. Why would the naugrim care if the smoke troubled him? Why worry? Surely such a little thing need not be considered. Balin grunted and put the pipe and weed away in his pocket. Thranduil scrambled to put himself in the dwarf's good graces.

"You can smoke it."

Balin shook his head. "Bad habit, anyway."

They sat there, staring at the glowing flames of the fire, each deep in their own thoughts. Gradually the pain of Thranduil's ribs began to dim as the Athelas took affect and his eyes glazed over in sleep. He did not see Thorin come and stare at him with mixed feelings. He did not feel Balin cover him again with a woolen blanket. He did not hear Kili speak with Thorin. Nor did he notice Dwalin coming back over to guard him. No, Thranduil slept through that all, for once without dreams.


And that, my friends, ends chapter two. I hope you liked it. I'm not sure when 3 will be posted, but I hope to get to it soon. :D

As before, please, please review. It encourages me to update faster and to write more.