Part 3

Aragorn stepped forward into the torchlight. The Witch King, no longer clad in his heavy armour, seemed too solid for a wraith, though he was curiously blurred around the edges. "My name is Thorongil," said Aragorn firmly.

"As you please," replied the King with a ghastly smile. "We all have many names these days. Whichever one you are using, my dear Aragorn, you are a better fly than I had expected to trap in this little spider-web of mine. Is that not so, Elf?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," came a murmur from behind, and Aragorn wondered at the meek tone from one so renowned as a warrior.

"Trapped?" queried Aragorn, reaching for his sword, but no sooner was it free of the scabbard than it flew from his hand, flung by some unseen force into the darkness of a cave to one side.

"Now, now, none of that," chided the Witch King genially, and before Aragorn had time to think, his hunting knife, his quiver and bow, and the secret knife in his boot all suffered a similar fate. Aragorn began to appreciate fully the peril he was in.

"Why would you think me to be Aragorn?" he asked in a more placatory tone.

"Think?" laughed the Witch King, gesturing Aragorn to proceed ahead of him down the long, narrow passage. "Why, my dear boy, you are the very image of Elendil, your esteemed ancestor. I knew you the minute I set eyes on you! Yes, that door - please do enter."

Aragorn walked into a spacious room, brightly lit by torches in sconces. The stone walls were hidden by rich tapestries, and most of the floor was covered in a thick rug, upon which rested several comfortable looking chairs and a large dining table.

The Witch King gestured broadly with one hand and the table was instantly covered in china and white linen. Savoury aromas arose from the dishes. "Sit down and dine with me," invited the King.

Aragorn hesitated.

"It is quite wholesome, I assure you," the King went on with an unpleasant grin.

Aragorn turned instead to where Legolas stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind him and head bowed.

"Ah yes," said the Witch King, following his gaze. " 'Go back! Try to save yourself!' " he mimicked cruelly. And he dealt Legolas a harsh blow across the face.

To Aragorn's horror, Legolas did not attempt to defend himself or retaliate, even though his hands were now free. Instead he murmured meekly, "I beg pardon, my Lord King," his tongue flicking quickly at the blood on his lower lip.

"I am sure you do," said the tyrant. "But you will pay properly for that little disobedience nonetheless. I look forward to our session this evening!"

And Legolas merely dipped his head lower and acknowledged, "Aye, my Lord King."

Aragorn could not forbear a little grimace of contempt. Was this the brave and noble son of Thranduil of whom so many spoke admiringly?

Ever alert, the Witch King caught his expression. "Ah, you are wondering how this Elf, this paragon of a proud race, comes to be so uncommonly docile? Step forward, Legolas, and turn around."

Legolas obeyed, a tinge of pink staining his face. Aragorn repressed his dismay. Every inch of the Elf's back, his shoulders, his neck, even the backs of his arms, were cruelly striped, welted and torn. The backs of his legs, too, were a mass of broken and inflamed flesh from buttocks to ankles. "Now you see why he obeys me," gloated the Witch King, dragging rough fingernails across Legolas' back for the obvious pleasure seeing the Elf wince.

Aragorn drew a harsh breath in sympathy, but still he wondered a little. Others had endured such beatings, for longer, without being so utterly subdued.

"And best of all," continued the Witch King, intensifying his parody of a caress, "is that the First-Born heal so quickly. For three days now, I have had practically a new canvas to work upon each morning." Legolas' head remained bowed and his lips pressed tightly together. "Go, kneel in your place."

Legolas knelt upon the hard stone of the uncovered part of the floor, his back to a large ring in the stone wall above the height of his shoulders. His hands were still clasped obediently behind him, and with a languid gesture the Witch King used his magic to jerk them upwards to the ring and bind them there with a length of rope that lay nearby for the purpose. Aragorn moved instinctively forward when he saw the Elf restrained in such discomfort, but another flick of the Witch King's fingers froze his limbs in place.

"Do not annoy me, Aragorn," warned the dark monarch. "I daresay like all your forebears you were raised by that Imladris prude Elrond, but you will find his notions about honour and nobility avail you naught in this place. You stand here at my pleasure; had I no use for you, you would lie broken at the foot of yonder waterfall this very moment. Pay heed to your own best interests."

Aragorn nodded grim acknowledgment and sensed the bonds of magic ease around him. He took his seat at the table and cast a suspicious eye over the aromatic offerings.

"Well now, that is much better. We must drink, my young friend," declared the Witch King. "It is not often I have another King of Men for a visitor, albeit one only in potentia." He turned his back to the table and one entire wall was suddenly furnished with rack upon rack of wine. "What shall we choose tonight?" mused the monarch with the expansive air of a showman. "These," he added as he fingered some ancient bottles, "are a particularly rare vintage, which I took the opportunity to gather from King Thranduil's cellars a few days ago."

He glanced over his shoulder, but Legolas refused him the satisfaction of a reaction.

The second the Witch King's back was turned again, Aragorn's hand strayed to one of the silver knives upon the table - not so very long or sharp, but with his cruel host's attention diverted, perhaps…

Legolas raised his head and caught Aragorn's eye with a gaze at once fiery and pleading. With a jolt, the Ranger realized that far from being vanquished, the Elf knew what he could endure, and was biding his time for some purpose. With a nod that honoured Legolas' courage as it acquiesced in his silent demand, Aragorn laid the knife aside. And the Ranger's heart was filled with admiration for Thranduil's son and compunction for his earlier misjudgment.

"What about Legolas?" Aragorn blurted.

"What about him?" asked the King, still engrossed in his wine. "Oh, you refer to feeding him? Well surely you know, Aragorn, having lived with Elves, that they do not actually need food or water to survive. I daresay Legolas is hungry and thirsty enough, for he has had nothing since we left Mirkwood, but he will not die of it. And perhaps it will be an inducement for him to abandon his stupid stubbornness and give me what I want." Legolas merely kept his eyes steadily upon the ground.

Having selected his wine at last, the Witch King poured a glass and pushed it towards Aragorn. "Come, my young friend," he urged. "Eat. Drink. You must have journeyed long to get here." Aragorn toyed with a fork. "Come, come now," cajoled the King. "If I were going to kill you, would I not have done so by now? I wish only to converse with you." And he grinned. "One King to another."

Reluctantly, Aragorn speared the most innocuous piece of pastry he could see and swallowed it. It was tasteless, but caused no immediate harm. Deciding it was as well to be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, he set to eating in earnest until his hunger was sated. The wine, however, he merely pretended to sip, for he needed all his wits.

Eventually he paused. "You do not eat, Your Majesty?" he asked.

The Witch King shrugged complacently. "One of the advantages of being merely half-corporeal," he declared. "I no longer have need of the more basic physical pleasures - food, drink… " - he glanced over to the fettered Elf - "and the rest. There are other pleasures to make up for those, not least of which is watching others suffer what one can no longer be forced to suffer oneself. Perhaps someday you will experience this for yourself, Aragorn."

Aragorn fervently hoped not, but he tried to keep it from his face. He changed the subject. "You name me Aragorn, but you give no name to call yourself," he challenged.

The Witch King's eyes narrowed. "'Your Majesty' will be sufficient for now, young man," he responded. "More may be possible when we become peers and allies."

"That is what you want of me? To be your ally?"

"If you achieve what is prophesied of you, certainly. We would be a mighty force together, you in the South and I in the North."

"And what would your Master, Sauron, have to say at that?" Aragorn asked, horror overcoming his prudence.

"Master? Nay, perhaps the world believes him so. Perhaps Sauron himself believes it. But I am no cowering underling, and Sauron has as much reason to be grateful for my good will as I his. We are allies only, he and I. And if I can but convince you how foolish your scruples are, you may well prove a worthy addition to our company, leader of the Dunedain."

Bile rose in Aragorn's throat. "To join with the forces of Darkness? Truly you must think me corrupt indeed."

The Witch King chuckled. "Nay, youngster, I can see you still cling to your wrong-headed ideals. Corrupt you are not. But you are corruptible, Heir of Isildur… oh yes, you are very corruptible. And before you leave this place you will prove that, to me and to any other who wishes to know. Or you will die."

The Ranger was on his feet, pacing, and the Witch King allowed it. "Then kill me now!" exclaimed Aragorn passionately, "for I will have naught to do with you and your schemes." And he was vaguely aware of the Elf's agitated gasp.

But the Witch King merely smiled and said, "Sit down, boy. There will be no killing unless I choose it; and you are still more valuable to me alive than dead, though you may not credit it quite yet."

"Not even to save my life would I take your path!" declared Aragorn.

"I daresay not," drawled the Witch King, rising languidly to his feet. "But has it not occurred to you, impulsive man, that I might be able to offer you even more compelling inducements?" As he spoke he moved to Legolas and seized him by the hair, tilting his face up. "He is a beautiful creature, is he not?" hissed the King. "Admit it now, Aragorn, I have caught you stealing glances at him. He rouses your blood. You wish to mark that fair skin with the grasp of your fingers, draw cries of passion and need from that pale throat, feel him yield beneath your mouth and your manhood."

Aragorn was shaking his head in fervent denial. But it was true. Elbereth help him, it was true. He would not acknowledge it aloud, let alone act upon it, but since the moment he had heard Legolas' golden song he had yearned for him, and every glance at the Elf's perfect body, naked, marred and bound, had only twisted the strings of pity and lust tighter together within him until he could not tell which it was he felt. Aragorn wanted the Elf.

He looked the Witch King in the eye and said steadily, "You are mistaken. I have no interest in him."

"Really." The Witch King's fingers wrapped themselves solidly around Legolas' throat. "What a pity. Well then, he is of little further use to me. Unless, of course, he thinks he is finally ready to give me some information." This last was directed in a hiss to the Elf.

Legolas opened his mouth and croaked the word he had just enough air to say. "No."

The Witch King squeezed.

"No! Stop!" cried Aragorn, cursing himself for fifty kinds of fool as soon as he did so.

Slackening his grip with a triumphant smile, the Witch King looked up inquiringly. Legolas gulped air.

"Perhaps I was over-hasty," Aragorn said, controlling himself. "Now that you mention it, his aspect is pleasing enough. And he is delightfully submissive."

"Quite so," said their enemy wryly. With a point of his finger, he released Legolas' bonds. Then he jerked the Elf to his feet and brought him over to where Aragorn sat.

"Look well upon this Man, Elf," he said. "For he is the one who is going to deal you the fate you deserve; the fate you fear most." Legolas paled and his lips thinned. Despite the Witch King's instructions, he could not meet Aragorn's eye. And when the Witch King ran an ominous pair of fingers between the cheeks of his buttocks, he flinched violently away from his tormentor for the first time that evening. It merely earned him another harsh blow.

"Amazing, is it not?" the Witch King asked Aragorn rhetorically. "They live practically forever, these Elves, immune to hunger, thirst, heat, cold, and all but the most grievous wounds. And yet there is this one terrible frailty; this one gaping chink in their armour. Rape them but once, and they fade into death. What might grieve a Man, perhaps make him a little sadder and harder, kills them outright, poor fragile butterflies that they are! You would think their Valar would have had more forethought."

Aragorn's lips twisted in disgust. "I prefer my bed-partners willing," he said curtly.

"You are soft," replied the Witch King contemptuously. "If you are to reign upon this Earth, Aragorn, you must learn to take what you want without qualms. Do this one thing, and I will concede you have promise and spare you. Refuse, and he dies anyway, and so do you."

Aragorn rose to his feet and pretended to survey the Elf, walking around him, looking him up and down, buying time. Time, they needed time. He lifted Legolas' chin, none too gently, and looked into his eyes, but there was nothing to read there. The Elf had withdrawn.

"I will do this," Aragorn told the Witch King, as coldly as he could manage. "But not yet. In his damaged state, he is less than appealing. I want him smooth and soft under me."

This, it seemed, was language the Witch King understood. "Oh yes, indeed," he said, his expression grotesque in its glee. "An event so momentous should not be hurried. Let us give it its due preparation, its befitting ceremonial." He ran a finger down Legolas' cheek. "Let everyone have time to anticipate it properly." It took all of Aragorn's control not to swing out at him in that moment. "What say you, my young friend? Two evenings hence?"

That was as much as he could have hoped for. "Aye, that will do," he replied in confident tones. If the Witch King wished to continue pretending Aragorn had choice in the matter, Aragorn would play the game. The Ranger put a hand on each of Legolas' shoulders, turning him so they were face to face. "By that time, you will have come to know me well, Elf," he said significantly, and added for the Witch King's benefit, "for I want you to know who masters you."

"Aye, my Lord," whispered Legolas, and the tinge of colour was back upon his pale cheekbones. The Witch King looked back and forth between them.

"Enough," he said abruptly. "I have other work to do this evening. And you," he went on, addressing Legolas, "are not exempt from helping me as always, though your too-dainty skin spares you from proper chastisement for the next two days. Believe me, I will not forget any of your transgressions. Now go."

Legolas bowed his head and left the room by a door on the far side.

"Aragorn, my dear boy," said the Witch King, placing a cold arm round the Ranger's shoulder. "It pains me to have to confine you, but a spirited young man like yourself might find himself in trouble if left to roam my little underground palace." As he spoke, he guided the Ranger back out into the long hallway and to another door. He pushed it open, and Aragorn had just enough time to see a bare stone cell before it was transformed in a flourish to a well-appointed bedchamber. "Sleep well, young friend. Oh, and Aragorn… " He held out his hand. "The knife, please."

Aragorn silently handed over the table knife he had secreted, then went to sit on the side of the bed, his head in his hands, his mind racing. In the stories he had heard, the Nazgul struck terror by their very blankness, their black anonymity. But here in his lair, the Witch King had shown himself unexpectedly vain and desirous to impress; surely there was a weakness there that could be exploited somehow? The King's magic was impressive, though, and he used it freely to control even the slightest hint of physical threat. Aragorn shuddered as he recalled the sensation of being immobilized. Was there any limit to that power? Could it be used at a distance? Despite that magic, he seemed to enjoy inflicting pain with his own hands. Could that be used against him?

There was a faint muffled cry from the direction in which Legolas has departed. The Ranger leapt to his feet and went to the door. But though it opened to a slight tug, he found he was blocked by some unseen force from proceeding beyond. Aragorn sighed; he had expected no less. He listened for a few long minutes, but there was no further sound from the darkness beyond. He closed the door quietly and, blowing out his candle, lay upon the bed, where he lay sleepless for several hours.

The sound of a heavy door and a muted clinking of iron roused the Ranger from the uneasy drowse into which he had fallen. Unmoving, he lay and listened, trying to determine from which direction the noises came. After a long period of silence, he rose silently from his bed and opened the door, willing it not to creak. To his astonishment, he was able to pass through.

Heart in his throat, expecting the Witch King's appearance at any moment, Aragorn felt his way down the completely dark corridor. His fingertips found a latch, and he gently eased it open. The door moved, and Aragorn groped his way into the room. The painful sound of harsh breathing reached him.

"Legolas?"

"Be quiet."

It was enough. Aragorn moved carefully towards the voice until his outstretched hands encountered warm flesh. Legolas was upright and his hands, as Aragorn quickly discovered by touch, were in iron manacles above his head.

"By Eru," swore Aragorn under his breath, realizing that the Elf's feet barely grazed the ground. He scrabbled desperately at the manacles but they were well and truly fastened. "Your wrists…"

"He does not wish me to rest too easily," whispered Legolas. "I am so tired, Aragorn…"

The Ranger moved his feet directly next to the Elf's. "Step upon my boots," he said. But it was not enough. Still the Elf was suspended.

"I can lift you for a while," Aragorn breathed in his ear. "You weigh little. Less than a human child." And even as he spoke he slung his arms carefully beneath the Elf's buttocks and lifted, feeling the long legs wrap and lock around his waist with a strength no child had ever possessed. Legolas sighed in relief and drooped, his cheek coming to rest upon the top of Aragorn's head. The intimacy of it troubled and consoled the Man. It was well he had no hands free, for he would not have been able to forbear inflicting caresses upon the trusting, trapped creature in his arms.

"What does he want of you?" he asked in an undertone.

"They are preparing the ground for another war," the Elf replied. Aragorn did not have to ask who "they" were. "He has stolen many objects of authority and power. Their loss will cause dissension and questioning of authority in all parts of Middle Earth. More than that, not a few of the objects have power in themselves." He stopped.

Aragorn broadened his stance slightly, feeling the Elf's weight shift a little in his arms. "There is more," he said, very low. "Why were you forced to sing behind the waterfall?"

"He has been making me help him identify the powers of the objects," said Legolas. "But there are some I cannot tell him about. And some I will not. He hoped that any rescue party sent for me would include older Elves, with more lore. Perhaps even my father himself." He paused and gulped, the idea obviously upsetting to him. Aragorn clutched him a little closer.

"He talks much, and wildly," Legolas went on, in a murmur. "He alludes often to speaking with Sauron, as if they are in frequent communication, and he speaks, too, of things he keeps from Sauron. He has Galadriel's Mirror, Aragorn, and he is obsessed by it. That is one of the things he keeps from his Master."

Aragorn replied quickly and softly, very afraid they would be overheard. "You think he plans to break free from Sauron?"

"Or overthrow him. And he believes Galadriel's Mirror is the key. But it remains silent and shows him nothing."

"And he beats you for it."

"Aye."

"Do you know how to make the Mirror work, Legolas?" The Elf tensed palpably. "I am sorry," said Aragorn quickly. "It was unfair to ask. I have no right to know."

There were a few seconds of uncomfortable silence and then Legolas whispered, as close to the Man's ear as he could reach, "I know more than I tell him, but less than would suffice for his purposes." And the trust implicit in that statement made Aragorn's eyes prickle for a moment.

"We need to find a weakness and escape," muttered the Ranger. "Middle Earth must be warned."

"You must play his game, Aragorn," urged the Elf softly. "You must seem to be falling in with his way of thought. Even if it means… " He paused. "One of us must survive."

"Not at such cost!"

"Shh. Yes, at any cost."

"Your courage…"

"I am a Mirkwood warrior," Legolas said simply. "I must do what is right."

Aragorn could not speak. Instead, he shifted Legolas' weight on to one arm, and brought the other hand up to touch the fair face he could not see. He felt the Elf shift slightly under the caress. Aragorn looked up, and though he saw nothing in that utter blackness, he felt warm breath upon his face.

"You are a kind, noble man, Aragorn," whispered the Elf. "Will you let me kiss you now, before the play-acting begins in earnest?"

Every fibre of his being screamed "yes", and Aragorn knew he would be lost forever if he allowed it. "No, I think that would be unwise," he whispered regretfully.

"I understand." And Legolas quietly rested his cheek against Aragorn's forehead.

They remained like that, in the darkness, a full hour or more. Legolas was but a light burden. Both were able to drowse a little.

"You have started early, I see!" An unwelcome glare of torchlight broke into their cocoon of darkness as the Witch King entered the room. "Put the pretty Elf down, Aragorn. I told you to stay in your bedroom, did I not? It is not time yet."

"I thought perchance I could persuade him to see reason about giving you the information you seek, your Majesty," said Aragorn.

"Of course you did," smirked the Witch King. "Come, away with you!"

Aragorn winced in sympathy as Legolas' feet sought the floor and the his weight was suspended once again from the cruel manacles. The Elf's gaze was directed immovably towards the floor, and Aragorn tried in vain to catch his attention as he reluctantly submitted to the chilling hand upon his shoulder guiding him back to his room.

"I knew you were my kind of lad at heart!" chortled the Witch King, pushing him back through the door. Aragorn sensed rather than saw the magician lay his spell and knew there would be no more wandering.

So passed Aragorn's first day as prisoner of the Witch King.

tbc