In My Mind's Eye

"Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give that to them?" - The Fellowship Of The Ring

Once more, thanks go to lovely reviewers:

Crawler - don't you love the Orc-loving? :D Now, if only men were so easy to handle.

Jay of Lasgalen - I don't think I have the heart to hurt the boy too much. No, really ;-)

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Darkness.

Cold.

Pain.

Awareness returning to him, Elrohir groped clumsily for his twin's familiar touch, shivering violently at the chill in the air. His breath caught at the feel of the fabric he was lying on rasped against his shaking fingertips, rough, harsh against his naked skin, so unlike any Elven fabric he had known. His clothing provided no barrier and he knew that he lay naked under the base covering. Had he been less confused, his embarrassment would have been acute as the shy lordling did not sleep in this natural state.

No sweet smells, no omnipresent music, Elrohir knew within moments, he was not in his beloved Imladris.

Heart drumming wildly, he tried to open heavy eyes. Pain radiated from his lids and he raised his hands to his face, a whimper of panic sounding, his breathing growing ragged as he felt rags wound over his eyes. He tried to peel the cloth from his head with trembling hands, but it was securely fastened from his awkward attempts.

"El...?" he croaked hoarsely, forcing apart swollen lips that feel they have fused together, wondering if his brother might be playing a joke, his word trailing off into aching silence. If he is, Elrohir thought, it is in very bad taste! His mouth felt dry and he could taste blood. No. This was no joke, and never were his brother's pranks so cruel.

Carefully, he felt the platform on which he lay, mapping its contours in his mind and trying desperately to discover something, anything familer about it. It was crude, made of unfinished wood and raised from the ground, though he knew not how high. A bed then. Elrohir pushed his aching body slowly, rising carefully as though to access his wounds, and tried to swing his sore legs over the side. A foolish gesture at best as he would not know where to go were he to leave this repose. His world was limited to this cot like structure.

"I would not do that, were I you."

The rough voice, which sounded like it had not been used for many a day, caused him a burst of panic as he had not realized he wasn't alone. Swinging his head to quickly he tried to determine the location of his company. The swift movement made him nauseous and his stomach heaved in disapproval. "Who...?" Elrohir croaked.

His captor - or was it attendant? - ignored his question and repeated, "I would not try that, your ankle is broken, among other things." He could hear a snapping, dried wood if his ears were honest.

Trying to ease his panic, his breathing still rapid and frightened, he caught the scent of woodsmoke, then some kind of strange smelling foodstuff. The smell was not bad, persay, but it was a far cry from the pleasant smelling foods of his father's table.

Elrohir's arms trembled from the task of holding himself upright and he collapsed back onto the firm surface, unable to pull his dangling legs back up as well. She was right about that much. It hurt so badly, everything hurt. Never in the Elf's life had he been made to feel such excessive pain. Even among his own kind, he was a quick healer.

Elrohir's mind recoiled from the unpleasantness that swept through his body, tingling numbness followed by sharp lancing pains, and mental darkness threatening to override his already physically dark state. He struggled to remain conscious, feeding desperately upon his fear for support. "Please..." It was all he could manage.

He heard a snort from his captor, wondering if they would leave him lying where he was, pain scorching to his bones, barely able to breathe, let alone move. His lungs burned with the effort of evening out ragged breaths

"I told you be still," the voice finally said, a tone of reprimand in the words. "Do as you're told or you can go back to Jarnuck, Jaruck, whatever he is called. I have better things to do than re-sew your cuts Elf."

Elrohir's thoughts hitch. Someone else had brought him here? "Jar…?"

"The Orc that brought you to me," His captor informed him succinctly. Elrohir went rigid, his fingers tightening in the fabric of the blankets. An Orc? He had been taken? By an Orc? "You are right to be afraid elf." His body trembling from the force of his fear, he lay still, shock rushing through him. An Orc? What had happened? He could recall being on patrol and then... then what? A sound? His memory waxed and waned as consciousness threatened to depart from him. Something brushed his legs, then he was swung rudely back onto the bed, a hoarse cry of pain escaping him. His guard commented dryly, "You remember him now?"

Elrohir nodded slightly, swallowing hard, his throat dry, tongue like a moss-covered stone, his memories threatening to overwhelm him. The battle, his lost friends and subsequent capture and torture trampled through his memory unbidden and unwanted and then suddenly stopped with burning tar. After that, just smells, sounds, and pain and...

May the Valar protect me!

"My eyes!" he choked out in horror, recalling the pain, the burn moments before blackness had captured him. "He..."

"A useful method for prisoners, unless you are the prisoner I suppose," the voice noted, as if a passing observation.

"Useful?" he echoed in disbelief. They... his eyes...

The gaoler snorted. "Yes, useful, keeps them from running, makes fighting back harder."

"I know what it does," he whispered. Oh, how he knew. His other senses might not be dulled, but to lose his sight was a nightmare beyond his comprehension. Elrohir's head ached fiercely, his need for moisture only emphasised when his dry lips cracked as he spoke, blood beading upon them. "I... please... d-do you have water?"

He loathed having to ask for anything and his pride suffered under her care, but she had not harmed him, that he knew of and he was so very thirsty. Pride made no nevermind anymore. This captor had seen him naked, cared for his wounds, scolded him like an elfling, explained the tidy reasoning behind his fiercest wound without compassion...and for that matter who was she?

"Such pretty manners," the voice said, marked with amusement. He could hear movements away from him, footsteps on stone, echoing? They were within a stone building? Or something else he could not identify? "You really are fortunate you know," Words continued to rasp in his ears. "Usually the Orc eat their prisoners at once. Sometimes bit by bit right in front of them."

Elrohir felt his stomach wrench at her words, his fingers digging into the blanket beneath him, the nausea he had initially felt returning tenfold, overriding the pain and terror. His throat clicked noisily as he tried to force down a wave of bile.

Her gruesome small talk continued as a rough hand lifted his head for a drink, carefully positioning a clay bowl against his lips so it wouldn't spill. "Indeed, I heard a tale once where the captured were forced to eat their own fingers, while still attached to their hands..."

Elrohir tried to close his ears to her words, forcing sour, stale water down his throat, then lying limply in the hopes his captor might fall silent. However, apparently relishing the tales, he was informed of numerous stories and situations with ghoulish relish for what felt like an eternity. In reality it was probably little more than an hour, but it sufficed to make him wish himself deaf instead of blinded.

Finally, tales of Orcs devouring the entrails of a still-living victim or drinking the blood from the stump of a torn tongue trailed off. He felt a hand grip his chin, then the voice spoke again. "Can you eat?"

"No," Elrohir thought he might never eat again.

Turning carefully onto his side, away from his guardian and drew the rough coverlet up to his pointed ears. In spite of the bindings around his face, he indulged in something he hadn't in the hundred and fifty years since he lost his mother.

Tears.