So...miss me?
Author's Note: I was surprised people reviewed to this. I thought about putting this up for adoption but I may just work on it if you really want to read more.
Sorry for the crappy elf names. Aranduil will get better. It'll just take time.
Live in the present,
Remember the past,
And fear not the future,
For it does not exist and never shall,
There is only now.
-Saphira from The Inheritence Cycle
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Thranduil examined the ruined area on top of his elk. The outskirts of Mirkwood were in shambles. The ground was clean of grass and trampled with mud and ashes. The remains of an orc camp litterd the place like a battlefeild.
Nothing alive was left by the looks of it. That made him frown, for a tingle of fear and worry was present in his chest.
What was left of the camp was burning. The filths were smart enough to burn any evidence of their stay but the elves were fortunate to have gotten there before everything turned to smoke and ashes.
"My king!" Two scouts appeared seemingly concerned as they approached their liege. "We have grave news."
The elven king wasn't keen on hearing the answer for he already knew what was about to be said. "Speak." His voice was laced with uneasiness. In his mind, he prayed his...son...was breathing still.
The scouts swallowed nervously, fearing the reaction from their king but also felt some condolence for him.
"There is nothing here anymore sire. The orcs, they're gone."
Thranduil nodded knowing that by just looking at the place.
"No survivors?"
"None." The two said in unison, eyes trained on the ground.
No one might have seen it but the reigns in his hands were gripped tighter and the king's shoulders were stiff. It did not show on his face but looking hard enough there was genuine dread in his grey orbs.
"There is more sire." One of the scouts added gazing up. "Please follow us."
With another nod, the two headed forward in the burnt down campsite. The other elves that came along trailed behind their king glancing warily everywhere. There was a terrible essence left in the air. It set them on their edge except for the scouts that were focused on leading their king to the destiation in mind sharing guilty glances at each other and the king himself who had his mind on another thing completely.
They got to the center of the camp where two wooden poles jutted from the ground. Strangley, they didn't look burnt or damaged and left abandoned. Possibly on purpose. The king ponderd on that until the scouts pointed at a spot on the ground.
Following their gazes he stared at the fallen shackles on the ground chained to the two poles. His attention shifted to the thing that made his witherd heart drop.
A pool of blood was left on the ground where the shackles lay. It was in a crimson hue so it belonged to no orc, but could very much belong to an elf.
Not wasting a secont, he dismounted his proud noble elk and walked closer to the scene in a slow and hesitant pace. Crouching down, he stared longer to see a small glint, shining faintly in the red puddle. Setting aside the disgustment, he plucked the object out from the blood pool with disdain.
Wiping the red liquid off to see what it was, he braught it out and held it high above his face to view it properly.
It took seconts for him to find his voice. There was a great effort put in to not start stuttering or having his tone crack while he spoke.
"Gealdir?" Thranduil asked for one of the scouts.
"Yes sire?"
"How long was the camp gone for now?"
"Two days and a half."
"..."
"...sire?"
Turning to face them, they were surprised to see his face drained of any colour.
In his hand, Thranduil held the small clasp that Aranduil favoured and wore in his hair to keep his braids held. Smeared in blood despite the attempts to clean it with his sleeve.
Now it struck him on what went on in this camp. In this particulare place they stood in. In that one terrible night.
Eru...please, no.
"SEARCH PARTIES! I NEED SEARCH PARTIES SENT NOW!"
Aranduil never registerd a time wherein he felt botherd by actual physical pain. Emotional pain he knew too well, had so much of it that the aches and injuries acquired in a fight was nothing. He trained himself well past his limits nearly twenty-four seven. Damage to his body came and went with him, it was rare he ever did get injured. Maybe he had felt the pain of scratches and bruises years ago, when he was young and innocent. Oblivious to what sentiment could cost.
But now he could feel it.
It wasn't the burning bubble in his chest, or the non-excistent pain his heart felt as if stabbed, or the stinging prickle in his eyes, or the suffocating lump forming in his throat nearly choking him. This time, it was real pain.
He felt fire burn inside him everytime his lungs took in air, his heart -daresay its still working- was deadbeat but beating, barely, his eyes rather stayed closed for they stung if tried to glance left or right, and his throat was experiencing the worst ache. Every breath of air was more like a breath of fire.
This was real.
He had to wake up. He knew that much. If his eyes were closed then anyone could get to him then. Mustering up the energy, he let his eyelids flutter open. The first thing he saw after the blur in his eyes cleared up was a ceiling not belonging to his chambers. So he wasn't at home. Of course he wasn't. The memories were still fresh. Horrible, horrific memories of the torture he recieved.
Craining his neck to survey the room more, he frowned when he saw he had never seen this place befre. He was currently laying on a soft bed with white and yellow sheets and three pillows supporting his head. He saw a window with sunlight streaming through the glass. It lightend his spirits to finaly see day. There were minimum furniture. Only a small desk with nothing on it, a fireplace, and a bookshelf packed with various coloured books and scrolls.
It made him panic of course. The experience before he blacked out had set him off. He no longer could hold on to that fake confidence as before. For the first time in forever, he felt scared. As if he was reverted back to an elfling.
Then the door to the room creaked open and his heart-beat quicked. He scrambled to sit up and desperately tried to grab at his weapones when he realized they were gone. Did the orcs still have them?
A figure stepped into the room. A large one. Their head slightly touching the ceiling. Aranduil wanted nothing more but to have his trusty blades with him then and there but he was helpless yet again.
The figure was male according to it's built. Heavily muscled and nearly eight feet tall, with a great beard and a mass of dark hair, an intimidating and imposing man stood before him. On secont thought, with closer observations, the large man did have the features of any male man but his height was that of a giant and too much hair on his skin.
Aranduil swallowed, keeping calm though his eyes betrayed him for once. They were filled with fear and uneasiness. He wonderd where his strength had went, he felt more than tired then. He was drained. Not just of energy, but of will. The will to stay awake. To keep going. Whoever or whatever this being was, he prayed it would give him a swift end instead of hours of constant torture and hell like his time as the orc's captive.
But the being stopped, and stood to stand next to the bed he was tucked in. Aranduil's eyes were locked with dark brown ones. The giant man bent down, Aranduil braced himself for a blow, a hit, a punch, anything, anything that went with pain. But instead, a bowl of hot liquid was placed on the table next to his bed.
"How are you feeling?" A deep rough voice inquired.
Aranduil stared with wide eyes at the giant man. He did not expect that to happen out of all things. Tense silence.
"I asked how are you feeling?" He asked again.
"...fine." Aranduil replied, still surprised by the turn of events. He was so sure he was ending up assaulted again. Now that he thought, why would he be here in bed if this person wanted to hurt him. Surely he could have just finished him while he was injured. Yet he healed him and wrapped his wounds. His sudden awakening to reality must have left him dazed if he made such a rushed conclusion. Or it was the memory of the lashes and cutting that made him so jumpy.
The giant man nodded and stood back up to his full height.
Aranduil kept his eyes on the large male. "Where am I?" He asked, eager to know his location. How far was he from Mirkwood?
"My home." The man answerd, turning to face away from the elf. "I found you injured badly in my land. Braught you back here."
Aranduil looked down at the bandages. They coverd his entire body. The only place wherein his skin was exposed was his face and head. Though there was a bandage wrapped around his forehead as well. No wonder it hurt to move.
"You should stay down, it is a miracle itself your still alive." The man -or should he call him his savior?- instructed seeing him wince trying to stay sitting upright.
"How far am I from Mirkwood?" Aranduil asked instead. If he wanted to rest, he needed to do so without worry of how far from home he was.
"Not far." The giant man said, he went back to facing Aranduil and gently push him down by the shoulder to lay down on the bed. "Now rest."
Aranduil would have objected if not for the burning sensation on his skin. Pain was creeping back and he rather be unconcious for it. So with reluctance, his mind slipped back into darkness.
This time he came back to with someone rattling his ears off. He groaned, half-asleep. How could he rest soundly if some loud mouth couldn't give him the peace and quiet he needed?!
"He's waking up!" A voice gasped. It wasn't the voice of his saviour. It was a much higher pitch, sounding a tad crazed.
Since he wasn't getting any silence soon, he let his eyelids open to face the harsh light of day. Blinking rapidly, he tried to adjust to the brightness of the room. His senses were coming to and he could smell a putrid scent...was that bird feces?
His nose scrunched up in disgust as it filled his nose. His head turned to look at the source of the smell. It definitly wasn't the same man as before. This man was the opposite of the other. He was short and stout, wearing a filthy overcoat that smelled and looked like it hadn't been washed in decades, on his head was a loopsided hat and stringy blonde hair coverd in twigs, leaves, and white bird droppings. Had this person never heard of a bath? His scent would make a pack of wargs retreat.
"Ah! You're awake! What a relief, it would have been such a horror if you did not come back to the world of the living." The man said, going back to mumbling nonsense. Aranduil caught a few things like "he would have had my head..." and "so young..." and something along the lines of "like lemon... yes that!"
Aranduil searched for anyone else in the room. He spotted the giant man behind the stout one, silent and with crossed arms. The was good. He did not want to be stuck alone in a room with this nut.
Turning back to the old man, he was still occupied with mumbling to himself. Akwardly, Aranduil cleared his throat. He immediatly caught the nut's attention.
"Who are you?" He asked simply.
"Who am I? Oh yes! Of course, of course! I didn't introduce myself, how rude of me. Where are my manners? Especialy infront of you," the man stutterd for a moment, "I am Radaghast, Radaghast the Brown! Your majesty." Radaghast bowed.
Aranduil watched with shocked feelings. He just... called him 'your majesty' and bowed. As if he was a prince!
Radaghast must have noticed his reaction for he began to fret. "Oh dear! Oh my! What have I done to upset the prince?! Was it the bow? My sincerest apologies!"
"No, no." Aranduil waved him off, "I am not offended."
"Well thank goodness!" Radaghast sighed in relief.
"But how do you know who I am?" The elf asked, curious. "You have not been to Mirkwood I cant tell, so how do you know me?"
"How can I not know who you are?" Radaghast mused. "You are Aranduil Thranduilion are you not?"
Aranduil cringed, "I can't say I am." At the confused look from the old man he clarified. "It is complicated. But thank you for the acknowledgment. You are the brown wizard?"
"Why yes I am!" Radaghast chirped. "Beorn here had asked me to come and treat your wounds. They were very serious." His eyes grew darker. "Some were poisoned."
"Poisoned?" Aranduil tensed.
"But don't worry!" The brown wizard assured him. "I managed to remove them from your blood. Just in time too! A few minutes more then you would have-" whatever Radaghast was going to say was interrupted by Beorn.
"Can you stand up?" He asked the blonde elf in bed.
"I... I am not sure." Aranduil said, pulling up the white blanket covering his legs. His trousers were replaced with plain brown ones, much bigger than his were. The bandages were gone. They looked fine, but the thought of walking sent an uneasy tingle down his legs to his toes.
"Maybe you should try and take a few steps." Beorn suggested. "Walk it off."
"Oooh! But don't you think it's too soon?!" Radaghast objected. He glanced from the elf to Beorn with worry evident in his eyes.
"I can do this." Aranduil said. He was actually saying that to himself more than to the concerned brown istari.
Getting out of the covers, he pulled his feet over the bed and placed them firm on the floor. The floor was smooth like marble but felt also like wood. The tingling feeling grew. It made him nervous, but nothing stops Aranduil the Brilliant from accomplishing a task. Grunting, he threw himself up. No pain, but his legs wobbled. They were unused to getting back up again after so long of non-use.
Radaghast stayed close to him, ready to catch hold of him if he fell. Aranduil had a few close calls, stumbling and faltering in his steps, but he managed to gather his focus and strength to walk across the room and stand straight in front of Beorn. Being Aranduil, he stood with shoulders pressed, back straight, and head high. This felt familiar.
Beorn stared at him, his eyes boring holes at him. Aranduil couldn't get a good read on him. There was no telling how he felt. But he also knew the mysterious air around the large man. He was three heads taller than the elf and Aranduil was known for being a tall one among his kin!
The man nodded, as if he passed a test. Aranduil felt satisfied and took the chair offerd to him.
"You musn't strain yourself." The istari commented. "Those were some wounds I must say. And from Beorn's words they were in worst state when he found you!"
"How long ago was that?" Aranduil asked while taking a sip of the stew he had been given. It settled the dry ache from his throat. He tasted only a few spices and chopped vegetables.
"A month." Beorn answerd bluntly from where he sat.
Aranduil came close to spitting out the stew in his mouth. A month!? "I was out cold for a month!"
"You were awake whenever I fed you, you just don't remember it." Beorn added.
"A month... Eru... I... what...-" why where the walls spinning? His sight was blotched with black spots. The bowl in his hands fell to the floor with an echoing crash. His hands, they shook violently, he had no control. It felt like a spirit had possessed him. He felt fear. Fear. Terror. Horror. The emotions wrapped around him and squeezed him so tight he could barely breath. He tried gasping for air but it was a loss cause. Then a flash.
The room he was in dissipated. Melting into shadows. Voices of Beorn and Radaghast fading into distant whispers then to silence. They were gone. He was left to rot in darkness.
Images passed his vision, his mind. They were all stained with red. He saw himself scream with unimaginable agony as a crooked blade sliced the skin on his back, tears had streamed down his face as a whip slashed the open wound, blood pouring down like waterfalls. More images appeared in his head. The tall orc that tortured him so was infront of him again. It sneered cruely, bloodlust and malice in its eyes. It thrust a knife through his shoulder. Then twisted it with the hilt, and pulled it out forcefuly, spraying more blood into his vision.
Aranduil screamed. Screamed so loud it would leave anyone deaf but no one came. No one had saved him from the orc. The said orc continued with its gruesome sport. A metal bowl with steaming muddy liquid was doused on his injured back. Acid. They dumped acid on his open wound. No words could come close to describe how he felt. This was no nightmare. This was the lowest part of hell. And he was sure this was where his last breath would be stolen from him. If they ever would let him die.
They enjoyed this. More orcs appeared, behind the orc beating him to death. They jeered and pressed for more blood. They wanted him to suffer a long eternal torture for their amusement. Not a single face in the crowd surrounding him was kind to him. He wanted so badly to see someone he knew. Alali. Gealdir. Alakir. Maybe even his brother.
Anyone, please...save me... end me... help...
In a secont the scenery vanished. But replaced with its face. The person in the black cloak. The corpse with daggers as eyes. The one in charge of his torture. He rememberd it giving orders. Asking him questions that made no sense time to time. Then after a while, gave up on interrogations and mocked him. Told him things it knew about Aranduil that no one should know. As if he could see deep down his darkest mind.
"No one will come for you. Forsaken Leaf." It hissed, voice so lucid and mad it shot gallons of trepidation inside Aranduil. "Your life is worth nothing. Not even a prince in his own kingdom. Doomed to be a tool belonging to your king. Disposable, breakable, and now...useless."
The words...why did they seem so true. He believed them. How could he say he was a lieutenant of the Royal Gaurds now? Here he was, near death, beated, stabbed, bleeding. Broken. No one cared then. They never will. What use was he? Everything he had worked for. His image, his confidence, his will, shatterd. Blown by the wind as dust. The Brilliant he no longer was. He no longer deserved.
The corpse was still there. Silent until it lunged at him. It got so close to his face. But no longer was it the corpse. It was his father. Thranduil. Sneer in place, and eyes colder than he had ever seen them. He glared at his son with distaste and dissapointment.
"You are a disgrace." He snarled. Then melted back into the shadows. Leaving Aranduil forsaken again. Forsaken...
Yes, that was what he was.
Nothing could match the pain in his heart. No number of lashes, cuts, beatings, burns could equal to the feeling of his entire world falling and crumbling. The Brilliant he no longer was indeed...
