Readers: ATTENTION!! I have REVAMPED this chapter and REWORKED the plot. Even if you have already read this chapter it is IMPERATIVE you read it again! The plot has CHANGED! Quite honestly I found the original plot slightly implausible and I thought this would be more enjoyable and believable! Please FORGIVE me, but I think you'll like it just as much or better!
Please note: I KNOW this chapter is impossibly short, but the material just worked better in another chapter. Chapter Three, also reworked, is DONE, and is already posted. Thank you all!
TRS
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this stuff. Pity, really.
Taros Acosta was not a good man.
In fact, he was downright evil.
He had murdered, stolen, masterminded horrible crimes, kidnapped…
And he was proud of it.
He had legions of minions at his call.
Hundreds of servants just waiting to be summoned.
Thousands of slaves to serve him hand and foot.
All were plunder from his exploits.
He had raided and destroyed too many villages to count, and taken all their wealth and villagers to be his.
All of his raids he had planned very carefully. Each time, he would slip into a town, make acquaintances with the villagers, and position his men around the village. He would lure the people into lowering their guard, and then, when the time was right, he would lash out at the unsuspecting citizens. Those he did not kill he took for slaves. Every time he left no trace that a village had even existed there. Many were too small to be noticed missing for a very long while, and when it was noticed, it was assumed the residents had packed up and moved to a different location, burning the old town to make way for others. It was a perfect plan; nobody ever found out the villagers were now slaves and their possessions in the hands of a greedy overseer. And, as small as the villages were, once one had taken enough of them they added up to quite a large amount.
He had built up quite a reputation by this point. He was a very wanted man. Yet he was good, very good, and no one had even come close to snaring him and discovering where he kept his treasure. Certainly many had tried to find him—but they had ended up dead, and now everyone was afraid to even try. Other villages existed in fear, terrified that their little town might be next. Frightened that Taros might come for them. Taros loved keeping them in that fear. Sometimes, he would slip, disguised, into a bar or tavern, just to hear them talk about him. To speak of him as The Destroyer, to speak his title with fear. Of course, there was little need for him to disguise himself; no one had actually seen his face. But better safe than sorry, and he had always been able to slip in and out with no difficulty whatsoever.
He was happy, living his life as the magistrate of fear, more slaves, gold, gems, women, cattle than he could ever count or use. He could do whatever he wanted, he had the money, the power. It was the perfect life.
And then the Rangers had come and ruined it all.
Taros balled his hands into fists and gritted his teeth at the memory.
Those stupid Rangers. How he hated them…especially their leader, who bore an eerie resemblance to himself. He had been at his peak, at his prime, at the very top, enjoying life and the full benefits of his thievery, when he was taken by surprise, ambushed, by the men of the wild and taken into custody.
The leader and his men had come and taken everything he had worked for, everything he had ever had. They had taken his fortune, his people, his homes, his life. All had been turned over to the local government, and Taros, leader, and found responsible for the impossibly huge damage and number of casualties over the last few years, was imprisoned. For life. Having been found guilty of all the pillaging, plundering and ruthless slaughter of innocents which had been going on for at least half a decade, the councillors, along the Rangers' leader, decided he was too dangerous to be ever given freedom again. It was the fault of the Ranger leader. He had influenced their decision the most. The councillors, being, in Taros's opinion, fair, were wanting to only give him ten to fifteen years. They were about to pronounce judgment when the silent Ranger had stepped in, eyes narrowed, and, in a low voice, and made some eloquent speech about evil not escaping. It was all completely unfair. The Ranger had twisted Taros's deeds, making them seem far worse than they were. He lied to them, told them untruths. And then, after all that, he suggested life imprisonment. Taros had never felt such a fury well up within him as the whole courtroom swelled up with agreement, screaming their support for the filthy, lying Ranger.
And as the Ranger passed him, headed out of the courtroom, eyes sparkling, in Taros's opinion, with vindictive glee, Taros stared him hard in the face, a hatred he'd never felt before bubbling up inside him. As he was being taken away in shackles, he had spat in the Ranger's face and hissed, "Forget not my anger, fool; you will feel the lash of my fury before this life is over."
The man said nothing, just stared with his unreadable, infuriatingly calm gray gaze, which only fueled Taros's rage. His wrath and malice overflowing, he lunged away from his guards, straight for the Ranger's throat with a wild scream.
There was a flash of metal, quicker than any human eye could see, and Taros screamed again—for there on the floor lay three of his fingers, the result of his by-fury-blind attack. The Ranger was standing absolutely still as Taros lay crumpled on the floor, clutching his remaining digits and howling.
"I'm sorry," was all he said, and then he was gone.
Then Taros had been confined to a tiny, dingy cell. The guards mocked him, hating him, for many of them were villagers who had fled their hometowns due to one of Taros's attacks. Taros Two-Finger, they called him, and laughed.
"Your crimes have finally caught up with you, haven't they?" they would taunt. "Where are you now, 'Highness'? What have your deeds gained you, 'my lord'?" And then they would laugh, jeering, sometimes spitting at his feet or tossing his food on the grimy floor.
And it was all the Ranger's fault. Every day Taros Two-Finger lived in absolute hatred of the man and every day he swore anew to destroy him and all he held dear. His lust for revenge grew each day, his absolute loathing for the man almost matching his will to live.
He soon began devising a plan of escape. These foolish guards could not hold him for long. For two years he put up with their abuse, suffered from the humiliation and lived with the pain where his fingers had been, for a long time did they take to heal. All the while he plotted and planned, made his drawings on the walls, yet to anyone else they would have looked naught but the scribblings of a man gone mad. He fashioned the tiniest of knives from a leg bone of an animal they had fed him—it had been a holiday, and the drunk soldiers were feeling festive enough to grace him with some real food. It was both sharp enough to kill and small enough to pick the locks on his chains. So one day, during a celebration of the town mayor's birthday, he readied himself. He knew that his guards would be too drunk off their rear ends to make much sense out of anything, and this was his opportunity. He unlocked his chains and waited for his food to arrive. As he had expected, the guard was dead drunk. Noiselessly Taros stole up from his useless chains, pausing to sneer into the man's shocked face as reality slowly dawned, and slit his throat in one fluid motion. Easing the dead man onto the floor, he stole his sword and dagger, and slid noiselessly into the hallway, killing any guards unfortuante enough to be in his path.
He had escaped the compound. Now it was time for revenge. Oh, sweet revenge. He hooped the Ranger was still alive and in good health. Taros wanted to be the one who completely and utterly destroyed him.
"You will pay, Strider," he hissed venomously into the cool air, before silently disappearing into the night.
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"My lord!"
King Thranduil turned at the sound of Aragorn's voice. "Yes? What is it? Have you found anything?" he asked, eagerly searching the Ranger's face for anything that might show he'd found some trace of Legolas.
"Horse tracks," Aragorn said, pointing. "They lead north. They are fresh, though they are not made by Elven horses. These tracks are much heavier than those of Elves' horses."
Thranduil's face betrayed his excitement. "Do you think—perhaps his abductor--?"
"Was human?" Aragorn shook his head. "I know not, my lord. It may be so, or perhaps it was an Elf using a human's horse to disguise himself. I cannot know for sure. It may be that it is only a human passing through Mirkwood and this has nothing to do with our search. I think not, though, for I also found this."
He held up to the light, so Thranduil could more easily see it, a single strand of gold-blond hair. "I found this next to some of the tracks." He pulled something else from a pocket. "As well as this."
The second item was an iron arrowhead, used only by royalty of Mirkwood. Besides Thranduil, there was only one other who could have misplaced this item.
Thranduil snatched both from Aragorn. "Aye," he breathed. "This hair is my son's, and this arrowhead…Legolas sometimes keeps spare heads with him in the rare event that one of his arrows snaps." He looked at Aragorn. "Perhaps he left this as a clue? A desperate attempt to let us know what happened?"
"I know not," said Aragorn grimly. "But it confirms our suspicions, I think, that Legolas is indeed in unfriendly hands."
Thranduil nodded as he pocketed their clues. He swallowed, trying hard not to think of where his beloved son might be just now. He straightened and looked his companion directly in the eye. "This is your only chance to turn back, Aragorn. I fear a perilous path lies ahead of us. It will not be easy, and if you choose to follow me now there is no turning back until our objective is obtained." He indicated slightly to the two silent elven warriors he had brought with them. "These will follow me until my death or theirs, but you have the chance to leave now if you wish. I shall not hold it against you in any way if you should choose it...?"
Aragorn's reply was to swing up onto his mount, a look of fierce determination on his face. The move was quickly matched by Thranduil, who mentally sighed with relief that the human had chosen to follow.
Aragorn looked to the King for direction. Thranduil stared coldly ahead into whatever doom awaited them, steeling himself for whatever trials might await them. He would find Legolas, no matter what it took. Without even glancing at the Ranger he could feel Aragorn's resolve to accomplish the same. He was startled to feel a rush of warmth and gratefulness towards the Ranger, gratefulness that his son had such a loyal, unwavering friend, and warmth that he had such a man to fight beside him. But as for now they had to concentrate on the task at hand.
"We ride North," he said grimly.
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