Hey everyone! I'm not sure what happened. I posted this chapter earlier and it showed up REALLY weird on my story. I tried deleting the messed up chapter and trying again, but it did not work. So I just re-copied everything and I'm going to do my author's note again, split it into two chapters, and see if everything turns out okay this time. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy! :D
This particular chapter contains a successful kidnapping and some wounds/mentions of blood. I don't think it's able to trigger anything, but if this story makes you feel uncomfortable or you think the rating should be raised, please tell me. Your comfort is important to me.
Takes place before The War of the Ring, when Aragorn is still just a ranger.
….
Legolas awoke to darkness.
It was a panicked awakening, one in which awareness returned in a strange rush that could only mean danger and pain. The world felt out of sorts, as if he was no longer in reality and everything twisted and swirled in a constant, dizzying dance. The lack of... anything, in truth, only led to more terror running through the elf's veins.
For a moment, he feared he had gone blind.
Then the young warrior realized that his eyes were closed, and the darkness he perceived was only the back of his eyelids. The fact that he was sleeping with his eyes closed at all was enough to be concerning, but it was far better than being blind.*
Legolas frowned, a mere twitch of the lips, and tried to remember how the world came to be a spinning mass of confusion.
Or was he spinning himself?
Legolas did not know.
He felt disconnected somehow, as if his grip on Arda** had been released and he was now floating through a heavy fog. His thoughts were slow and heavy, and his body felt as if it was hardly there. Everything was off. Wrong.
The blonde realized that he had yet to open his eyes, and decided that if he could see, things would be much more understandable.
Pale eyelids fluttered opened for the briefest of moments to reveal sky blue orbs, but they were quickly scrunched tight again. It was too bright, far too bright, and the headache that Legolas did not even know he had pounded painfully in response.
The wood elf decided that he would most definitely not open his eyes, for understanding situations suddenly became highly over rated. Not being in pain was far more important.
Still, the blonde thought, I have other senses, yes?
Legolas was quite sure he did, indeed, have other senses, but one could never be too sure in this strange world he had found himself in. (Briefly, he wondered where his own world was and how he had gotten to the new, wrong world in the first place. Then the thought was pushed aside because it made his head hurt even more than before.)
He has a goal now. Goals were good. They got you places, and they did not twist and swirl and be wrong like the place around him. Goals were a way out of the thick and heavy fog, and they kept you on the ground so that you would not float away on the breeze.
He liked goals.
What were his goals again?
Legolas remembered, then; he had to find his senses. But not seeing, because seeing made his head hurt.
The blonde decided to start with taste.
Slowly, he focused his drifting mind inwards, trying to figure out how to make his tongue work again. It felt far too big for his mouth, and moving it took far too much effort for his liking.
He could taste though, that was good.
The first flavor was tangy and sweet and metallic, and the young elf had to wait a moment to realize that it was his own blood on his tongue.
There was dirt in his mouth, too, the elf realized. It was gritty and mushy and rather disgusting, so he chose to move past it.
His final observation was that there was a cloth in his mouth, and it was not very clean. It tasted of sweat and dust and blood and oil, and Legolas found it rather disgusting as well, but it was harder to move past than the dirt.
He had done one sense, now it was time for others.
He considered doing his hearing, but some instinct prevented him from following through with it. Something told him that noise would not help his pounding head.
Legolas chose to do smell instead.
It was not as hard to take control of his nose as it had been with his tongue, and Legolas thought that that was a good sign, but his nose did not wait for him to go through one thing at a time, he smelled everything, all at once. There was the smell of blood and dirt and sweat. There was the smell of dead wood and food preserves and horse musk. There was the smell of metal and leather and some old fruit rotting.
But there was another smell, a distinct smell that Legolas would recognise anywhere. And judging by the sheer overwhelming power of it, it must be…
Humans. He was in an enclosed space with a bunch of humans.
Why? Legolas did not remember.
Where? Legolas did not know.
When? Legolas could not recall.
Who? Legolas had no memory of them.
How? Legolas was lost.
This forebodes bad tidings. Legolas prayed he was wrong.
Suddenly, there was feeling.
It was pain. Everywhere, consuming him in a fiery chasm of terror and destruction and torment. His stomach burned, as if someone was pouring an endless stream of fire on it. His head pounded and roared, as if an angry dwarf was attacking it with the largest hammer it could find. His leg stung and his hand ached and everything was screaming in agony.
Despite it all, Legolas stayed still and stayed silent. He did not know how he knew, but it was crucial. He could not draw attention. He must not draw attention.
But then the carriage (When had he figured out he was in a carriage?) jerked wildly, and the world exploded into agony. The elf spasmed and curled into himself, his eyes tightly shut, and shuddered. A keening whine escaped his lips, and the world was spinning in endless, dizzying circles. Everything was wrong, wrong, wrong. And his head pounded in synchronization to his aching everywhere and his throbbing stomach screamed at him in utter torment and it was wrong, wrong, wrong…
He curled into a tighter ball, resisting the urge to be violently sick.
He wanted it to stop.
He needed it to stop.
It did not stop, only increased when the carriage jarred roughly to the left.
Legolas released a whimper.
Through a haze of suffering, the young elf realized that he could hear voices. He couldn't bring himself to care- the pain, the pain, it needed to stop right now. It wasn't stopping, why was it not stopping?- but they filtered into his pounding head- wrong, wrong, wrong- without his permission.
"I think he's waking up boss," the voice was a rough tenor, and the way he said the words seemed gleeful, but not with any good intent. It was a malicious kind of anticipation.
"Well, get him up then!" This voice was deeper, more commanding, louder. Legolas shied away from the sound, his head now screaming in harmony with his stomach. (Pain. Pain. So much pain. Why won't it stop? It's wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong…) Something started to shake his shoulder, and Legolas flinched away, his breaths coming through the gag as ragged gasps.
"I'm amazed he's waken up at all! We gave him enough drugs to bring down an oliphant!"*** A third voice commented this, and it was slightly higher pitched than the other two, but no less cruel.
Hands started to roughly maneuver him, and his mind was filling with brilliant white light, shaking and shuddering under this new torment.
Stop. Please.
He may have screamed.
His breath was coming too fast, far too fast, but he could not slow it down. Panic was settling into his body now, trying to escape the rope- Rope? Why had he not noticed it?- that scratched at his wrists and ankles, and nausea was threatening to swell up in a large tidal wave of vomit.
He couldn't breathe.
Finally, blue eyes shot open, the desperation of not being able to get any air overwhelming all other senses. Legolas half-mindedly realized someone was shouting- "He's not breathing right, sir!" "Well get that rag off him! We can't be letting him die now, we need him!" "But boss, he'll enchant us with his elf powers-" "DO AS I SAY!"- but he couldn't bring himself to care.
His chest was moving in a painful mocking of breath, but no air was getting to his lungs. It hurt. Everything hurt. And Legolas almost looked forward to the darkness that was engulfing his vision, if there was a chance that it would get rid of the pain.
Suddenly,the gag was ripped out of his mouth and he was slapped soundly on the back- once, twice- startling him into coughing. The elf was not sure as to what was going on, but there was air- blessed, precious air- and all he could do was focus on breathing it up in the deepest and heaviest gulps that his abused lungs could manage.
When the darkness faded from his vision, Legolas continued to breathe deeply. He hoped that it would trick the humans into leaving him be, if only for a moment, so that he could think.
The heavy fog still filled his mind, but he could at least see his hand in front of his face now, and that would have to do.
He tried to remember what had brought him to this situation, what had wounded him so badly and made his thoughts so sluggish.
He had been in a forest… somewhere. And… he had been with someone. But who? It was someone important, Legolas was quite sure, but his memories slipped through his fingers as easily as water though a stream, and they raced out of his reach faster than any horse could manage.
There had been orcs, he thought, lots of orcs. And he remembered being stabbed in the stomach. They- Who was he with!?- had managed to drive the orcs off, but his companion was hurt- unconscious?- and a group of humans came and attacked him. He had fought back, but there were many, and he was bleeding too much, and they had these sharp needles that had dug into his skin and made him feel drowsy and wrong. And then there was nothing but cruel hands and pain and something heavy hitting the back of his head with brutal force.
And then there was nothing at all.
...
Okey Dokey Guys. Here's goes nothing. I'll give all the stuffs at the end of part two.
Hopefully, this will work.
-The Mashpotatoe Queen