Once more, those in need, please grab your tissues. Also, squishy stress balls seem useful; far better to relieve your anger on them than the author! Remember, dead authors cannot update, and that means that the little elfling will not be rescued. Please keep that in mind as you read. Thank you for your consideration.

Chapter Four: Princeling

Legolas woke to the feel of cool grass on his cheek. He clutched at the ground with aching hands and tried to stop trembling. His breath came in hitching gulps and he fought to stave off tears. He knew that if he started to cry, he would be unable to stop—and he would not let the yrch see his tears. His adar would come for him soon, he just had to be brave until then.

The elfling curled in on himself, trying to hide. He hurt all over; his wrists were sore and bruised and his fingers were still numb, but that was nothing compared to the burning lines over his chest and back. He could feel dried blood clinging to his skin, and fresh blood slowly oozing from the lashes. He pressed a hand to the stinging cuts on his chest and stomach and tried to ignore the throbbing pain from his back. He closed his eyes, trying to be silent, but the yrch noticed him anyway.

"Look boys, our guest's awake again," one of them growled cheerfully. His announcement was met with interested chuckles and strange speech in their own harsh tongues. "Ready for more fun, brat?"

Legolas's eyes snapped open and he scowled at the orch that was taunting him. The dark creatures laughed. A consensus seemed to be reached in their guttural words, and one of the yrch stepped forward to lift him. The prince waited until he was within reach, then lashed out with his feet. The orch fell, his legs snapped out from under him, and Legolas shot to his feet. Rough hands caught his shoulders and pushed him back down face first into the dirt. He slashed wildly behind him with his arms and legs and was rewarded by grunts of pain. He almost scrambled free before a booted foot planted itself across his lower back. The flash of pain made the elfling arch with a silent cry and he writhed beneath the foot grinding into his wounds. Tears sprang to the child's eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Clawing weakly at the dirt beneath him, he trembled with pain and tried to breathe.

"Looks like he hasn't learned his lesson yet, boys," he heard a harsh voice say from above him. "We better try again. C'mon, you slugs, get him up!"

The foot was removed and foul hands grabbed the elfling. He struggled against their unclean grasp, but to no avail, and he was soon tied back between the sorrowful trees despite his efforts. Adar will come for me, he thought to himself. Adar will come. He repeated the mantra over and over as the harsh lash bit into his back. Silent tears of pain streamed from his tightly closed eyes, but his jaw remained stubbornly shut. Again and again the whip landed on the child's back; again and again Legolas promised himself his father was coming.

He had seen his father's wrath kindled before over far lesser hurts. Once a few years ago an ambassador from a kingdom of men had come to speak to Thranduil, and had brought his own two sons along to teach them the ways of the world. Legolas had been designated to entertain the children, but their entertainment stemmed more from teasing the elf prince than paying attention to their tour. He did not understand half their remarks, and at last upset by what they perceived to be his haughty refusal to dignify them with a response, they had started shoving him. Legolas had been halfway up a tree within seconds, staring down at these strange, incomprehensible creatures curiously, and no damage had been done—but Thranduil had seen, and not been pleased. The ambassador had left unsatisfied, and informed that the next time he or his children entered their woods would be the last.

The elf king had been scarred by witnessing the loss of so many brave warriors, including his own father, in the (for the elves) recent tragedy of the Last Alliance, and was slightly overprotective of his son. If Thranduil had been so upset at childish mischief, Legolas knew that the yrch ought to fall dead from the sheer fury in his father's eyes when he found them. He knew his father would come; he only had to be brave for a little longer.

His eyes opened in surprise as an orch socked him in the stomach. He gasped for breath, surprised at the new attack, and another blow crashed into him. The whip fell on his back and the orch beat him from the front. Legolas reeled under the doubled assault and twisted furiously at his immovable bonds. He thrashed wildly at each blow of the whip and staggered as the orch's fist crashed into him. Blood dripped from where had bitten his lip in an effort to keep silent, and from where his fingernails had pierced his palms. His back was an oozing mass and the ropes that held him were stained red as they cut into his wrists.

The elfling could not fully restrain a sob. "Ada," he moaned. The whip lashed a particularly raw spot and he cried out in pain. "Ada!"

The yrch laughed so hard they had to stop hitting him in their mirth. "Listen to the elf-brat! Crying for his daddy! You think he's gonna help you, worm? We left 'em all dead! Isn't no one gonna help you now!" they taunted him.

Legolas's eyes flashed in anger. "You cannot harm my ada! Aran Thranduil will lead a great host of warriors to kill you all!"

The yrch's laughter faded and they muttered among themselves. King Thranduil? This little elf-brat was the son of the hated king? This changed things!

One of the yrch grabbed a jagged blade. "Let's cut him up and leave the pieces for the king to find!" he snarled, advancing on the elfling.

"Back, fool!" the large orch commanded, backhanding the other. "This little elfling is worth more to the master alive! We've wasted enough time! Cut him down and let's be off! We have to get to the next cave before the sun comes back!"

The yrch grumbled and hissed, but none dared defy their leader. Casting foul glances at the tempting form of the princeling, they quickly gathered their things. One of the orch cut Legolas down and the child collapsed on the ground limply. His head was ringing and he had to struggle to remain awake. The orch threw his discarded clothes at him and growled before stalking away. Legolas dressed himself as quickly as he could with his numb, trembling hands, wincing as the smooth fabric rubbed against his oozing wounds. His jaw shook as he gulped at the air and fought against his sobs.

He had to be brave. Adar would find him soon.

"Move, you slug!" one of the yrch commanded him, directing a kick at the child. Legolas scrambled away from the blow, nimble despite his hurts, and rose weakly to his feet. The world spun and he clutched at his head in a effort to stabilize it. "Move!" the orch bellowed again and shoved the child. Legolas gasped at the touch on his throbbing back and stumbled forward on shaking legs. The yrch set off at a slow jog that he would normally have been able to outdistance within seconds, but after only moments he had almost fallen trying to keep to the pace.

Tears blinded the elfling and he could barely gulp air into his lungs. He staggered to his knees and an orch roughly dragged him upright and shoved him forward. Within only a few steps he was down again; again, he was lifted and sent stumbling, but he fell to the ground once more, panting weakly.

"Lazy elf-brat!" the orch that had been guarding him growled and Legolas heard the sound of a sword being unsheathed. He tensed, trying to summon the energy to move, but the blow never fell.

"Maggot!" the leader bellowed, slapping the orch. "I said we bring him to the master alive! You wanna disobey me, you do it in pieces!"

"He won't run," the other orch snarled in explanation.

"Then carry him," the leader snapped. "We need to make good time to get to the cave before sunrise. Now move!"

The yrch leaped forward on his command and Legolas found himself being roughly slung over the shoulder of the orch who had seconds ago tried to kill him. The stench of the foul creature made his head spin, but he forgot it as soon as the orch started running. With every step the cuts and bruises across his chest and stomach were rubbed across the orch's roughly armored shoulder. Tears dripped from his eyes and blood from his lip as he restrained his cries at the pain. The elfling's small fingers dug into the orch's shoulders and he swatted at the child's hands absently. Legolas flinched but tightened his grip, trying to steady himself so the jostling would not be so bad.

The orch hissed something foul in its own language, but ignored the prince. He didn't dare hit him again for fear of loosing his head to the leader's temper.

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the pain. "Ada," he whispered bleakly, "where are you?"

aran -king

Thanks to all who reviewed! Your responses were really encouraging! Now, to address some individual concerns:

Alma, Malara, Katatonia – glad you guys came over from "Exploring" to check this one out and offer insights/advice. Very much appreciated!

And Alma—will shame get you to update? 'Cause if so…SHAME! Now get in gear! ;) And good guess, on both points. I love Thranduil. As such, I am horrid to the poor guy. Go figure… "we always hurt the ones we love" or some such jazz…

Random Pirate – I'm really sorry you were upset, but thanks! Your reviews were lovely. Really, many thanks! I know, the death of Elves is heartbreaking. Even sadder than Departing…sigh…okay, enough of that before I get totally misty-eyed and lost. Will it help your anger if I promise that Thranduil does eventually get his hands on some filthy orcs?

And speaking of orcs…I'm sorry if my elvish threw people off because I didn't put translations for everything. Orch means orc, while yrch is the plural form. I try and put up translations for unfamiliar words, but more commonly used ones like yrch or ada I'll probably miss. If you ever encounter an unfamiliar word in italics, try going to elendorDOTnetSLASHtranslatorDOTphp as that's where I get the majority of them. Sorry orlandochick05! Didn't mean to be confusing:)

Et messenger of the Elvenking—merci! Est-ce que l'historie bonne? Raconte-moi que tu as pensé, s'il vous plaît! Merci! Et non, je ne parle pas la français très bien, désolé—négliges les erreurs! Merci!

—