Chapter 20

When Thranduil opened his eyes, he was met with darkness. His head felt dizzy, and his sight was bleary. Pain throbbed all through his body, and numbed the acuteness of his elven senses.

Still, as consciousness returned and his thoughts gradually cleared, he managed to lift his face. He squinted, and around him he could see only walls, old, dirty, and made of stone. An attempt to move his arms and legs produced the heavy clank and drag of iron chains against rock, and at once he realized he was bound and shackled on the floor of an orcish dungeon. I must be in the bowels of Dol Guldur, he thought.

Images of the attack at the elven camp came to his mind. He remembered being assaulted by the Nazgul, his inability to withstand its overwhelming power, those decrepit fingers tightening their grip around his throat… And then there was nothing. He had no memory of how he came to be in the dungeon here, and he thought he must have remained unconscious for all this long. Though how long this had been, he knew not.

A foul smell was in the air, as if there were rotting corpses nearby, and it made the elf's stomach churn in disgust. Every breath he drew was laborious, for his throat ached and burned, and the putrid air he breathed only sickened him further, suffocating him. His limbs felt weak with exertion, and his spirit tormented and broken. Oh, Elbereth, what dark fate have I called upon myself? He lamented and hung his head.

Filthy and torn were his garments, his cloak now hanging in pitiful shreds from his shoulders. His swords had been taken from him, and he was now left defenseless, a mere shadow of the proud King he once was, at the mercy of his captors.

How many days had passed since the battle? Was it night or day? There was no way Thranduil could tell. And what of his friends and kin? What of Legolas and Tauriel? My son, my only son… My young love, light of my life… he tenderly thought, and a hot tear streamed down his cheek at the memory of his loved ones. What have I dragged you into! What plight have I brought upon you! A mournful sob rocked his bent form, and broke the utter silence of his solitude. But even weeping made his body ache, and he drew a few quick and shallow breaths to try and counter it.

Alone in his miserable state he was, and there was nothing he could do to change it. He could only lie there and wait until his enemies decided what to do with him. Hopeless and resigned, he leaned back against the wall, and closed his weary eyes.

His mind wandered off, and a fitful slumber claimed him. Dreams then began to take form, and images of his late wife, Lothrin, appeared:

She was dressed in her battle armor and sat astride her battle steed. The white gems of Lasgalen shimmered on her breastplate, and its splendor matched the brilliance in her eyes as she turned to look at him, and smiled.

"We are riding to war, beloved", she spoke.

"Yes…"

"Are you afraid?"

"No".

Her benevolent gaze then grew dark, and her beautiful face was distorted with a malicious grin. "You should be. Against the power of Morgoth there is no victory".

He gasped, and his heart began beating fast. "What are you saying?"

"I am telling the truth. Do you not know you are leading me to my death?"

She drew her sword and slowly directed its point at him. "I will die, and you will be marked forever. Evil shall take dominion upon you for all time!"

An unnatural laughter she let out then, and Thranduil could only watch in horror.

"Descend, oh drakes of Morgoth!" she called to the skies, and held up her arms.

The beasts then came down from the clouds, and set the ground on fire with their scorching breaths. Distant screams of pain and torture reached Thranduil's ears, but he could see none but Lothrin and himself.

"This is death! Do you not see it?" she wildly cried, and turned towards the largest of the dragon, as he approached them.

"Lothrin!" Thranduil cried helplessly, but he felt bound upon his horse, and unable to move or even lift his sword.

The dragon then opened his immense jaws, and flames came out, engulfing them both. Lothrin laughed manically, as her flesh melted away upon her bones, and then her exposed bones were blackened by the fire, disintegrating into ashes. A wind then took up and carried her ashen flakes up from their pile and into Thranduil's face.

Upon touch searing pain overwhelmed him, and he was set ablaze like a torch at night, but although he was in a bed of flames, his body remained intact. Everything was lost from his sight, save for the fire and smoke that was everywhere.

A dark form then slowly took shape from within the flames, and a horrible aura of dread emanated from it and reached Thranduil, who watched it helpless and terrified.

"Thranduil…" the dark form whispered, and the voice was deep and resonating with malicious intent. "Do you recognize me for who I am?"

The dark form grew larger before Thranduil's eyes; it came closer still, towering over him now. In the place of its face two narrow slits appeared, and they burned with unquenchable fire. "I am the One who has touched your spirit. I am the One who has marked you forever. I am Melkor, the mightiest that has ever been. I am Morgoth, the one who slew Feanor and claimed the Silmarils. Behold me now, and fear me, for you shall be the bearer of my will in Arda".

Then the dreadful image was gone at once from his mind, and Thranduil awoke from his nightmare with a grunt, gasping for breath. Drenched in sweat he was and feverish, his mind and heart still racing from the horrible sights and words that still echoed in his head. His throat ached, and as he made to touch it, he felt hot liquid dripping down his chest. My own blood, he realized. The wound is open and festering. I bear the brand of Morgoth, and it shall never fade…

Slowly raising his face, he beheld the black form of a Nazgul standing in front of him, still and silent as a statue, but he felt its aura surrounding him, assaulting his elven spirit, and his light waned, flickering like a candle in the wind. Another gasp escaped him, as fear gripped his heart.

"This is your fate now, elf-king", the wraith hissed venomously. "I perceive your dreams, for the influence of the Dark Lord runs in our essence, as does in yours. Can you deny it, elf?" it challenged him.

Thranduil stood at a loss for words, unable to deny the truth in the Nazgul's claim. But his mind was racing. Was it only perception, or did the wraith in truth control and dictate his dreams? Was this not one of their dark powers after all, to bring nightmares to those who had beheld them?

"This is your fate now…" it said again. "Accept it, and you shall be greatly rewarded", it whispered its deceitful promises, and then turned and vanished into the darkness.

The Elvenking was left alone once more, profoundly shaken by the nightmare he had, and the certainty with which the Nazgul had spoken about his fate. So this is what I am to become? A servant of evil? Am I doomed to become twisted and malevolent, like Sauron's servants? He thought with horror.

It troubled him deeply that the influence of Morgoth had seeped into the memories of his past, distorting them and making them appear according to his evil intent. He had just used Lothrin's cherished memory and her beloved face to beckon to him, and he had taken a scene from his past and altered it to suit his purposes.

But for how long would Thranduil be able to preserve his sanity? For how long would he be able to tell apart truth from lie? He feared a time would come when those distinctive lines would be blurred, and he would be swayed by the will of the Dark Lord.

He would sooner die than become a servant of evil.

But even though he still resisted the call of evil, he could not deny a part of him felt allured by it. The power of Darkness spoke to a place buried deep inside him, which was dormant, and sought to stir and wake it.

And Thranduil could already feel this. The sight of the gems of Lasgalen in his dream had awoken his greed. The white gems… they are mine! They were stolen from me by the cursed dwarves… A fool I was not to take them right away, when that dwarfling offered them to me freely!

"No!" he cried into the darkness, trying to shake these treacherous thoughts from his head. I must not succumb to evil! This is what they want! He drew a deep but shaky breath, and his lungs burned with the poisonous air of the cell. I must not give in. I must endure.

But for how long could he really endure? How long would it be before the Nazgul succeeded in dominating his mind and will?

And he dared not entertain thoughts of rescue. He could never expect anyone to embark on such a quest of madness, solely for his sake. And he would never wish Legolas and Tauriel to risk their lives to save him. Deep in the dungeons on Dol Guldur he was, and nobody would be able to reach down here alive. Nobody had the power to defeat the Nazgul in their stronghold.

He hung his head in defeat. We failed in our cause. And I have failed them all terribly.

There was no golden sun to brighten the grey sky when Legolas and his companions set out from Thangulhad. Dressed in leather armor and fully armed they were with swords and bows, and each carried a small satchel with provisions on their belt: fresh water, and some dried waybread, cheese, figs and nuts, for they knew not how far from their camp their search would lead them or what they might come across in their path. Maeril the healer had a sword for protection, but her true mastery lay in the bag of herbs and potions she carried; she only hoped they would not be called upon to use.

"We must avoid the west entrance of the fortress", said Legolas. "It will be swarming with guards. I say we go around the hill and seek another way in".

"It will be a longer way, but hopefully a safer one, if one could actually call it that", said Aeldir the guard.

The ellith nodded in agreement. "Now look here", the Prince went on, as he produced an old and yellowed map from his vest. "This is the road connecting Thangulhad with Dol Guldur. It leads to the front gate, of course. But here it forks out, and goes south and along the southern slope of the hill. I suspect there is another entrance to Dol Guldur somewhere there. I do not expect the road to be well preserved; or perhaps the orcs were instructed to destroy it. Still, I believe there will be traces of it and we will be able to find where it led".

"All roads lead somewhere. We will find the hidden entrance", said Tauriel with determination, her fingers tightening their grip on her bow.

"Indeed. But we must not keep on the road, lest we be discovered. I expect that the Nazgul have set patrols around the hill. We shall go parallel to the road, through the forest", Legolas stated.

And so it was, and the elven group went southwards, hiding behind rock and tree, and hearkening for suspicious sounds. Their trail was slow, as they trod with great precaution. The old pathway was ruined as they had expected, and from a point on it could barely be seen on the ground, as the paving stones had been unearthed, and thorns and weeds grew about, concealing the direction it went. But Legolas and Tauriel were the keenest trackers, and if the path was lost, they would soon find it again.

The rock upon which Dol Guldur stood grew steeper the farther south they got, and still there was no trace of an old entrance. Hours passed in that fashion, and the elves just walked on, and oftentimes wondered if it had been a mistake to follow the southern road. What if it led nowhere? What if the old entrance was since long destroyed and concealed, and their quest was in vain?

The forest around them was denser in these parts, but it was dead and grey, and heavy mist fell about. Almost black was the ground, and the bare trees stood like ghosts in the fog. There was no sign of life, save perhaps for some insects, which crawled in fear under the rocks, as the elves passed. What has become of our realm, thought Tauriel with sorrow. It is so hard to believe that this was once a fair and green place, the most glorious wood in Middle-Earth. What fond memories of his youth Thranduil must have here… Her heart grew heavier as thoughts of her lover returned to her mind. Oh, my love. If only you still live! She wished with all the might of her heart.

But her thoughts were interrupted by a distant sound, like cracking twigs beneath heavy feet. "Halt!" the Captain called to the rest, and at once everyone stopped in their steps and looked at her. "Did you hear that? There are footsteps in the distance".

The elves waited and listened, and soon they could all hear the approaching steps quite clearly. "Orcs, most probably", said Aeldir.

"Yes. I can almost smell their stench", Maeril commented, scrunching up her nose in disgust.

"Quiet now", Legolas whispered to them. "Let us hide behind these rocks", he said and pointed to a cluster nearby, "and see if we can avoid an unnecessary skirmish".

On silent feet moved the four elves and hid as their leader had ordered, almost holding their breaths now, and waited. The steps in the distance grew closer, and soon gruff voices could be heard. They were orcs with no doubt, a patrolling group on the southern road.

Soon they came into view. There were five of them, and the largest walked to the front, leading the rest. They held their crude scythe-like weapons, and they looked around for traces of spies and invaders.

They had almost passed the rocks where the elves were hiding, when their leader suddenly stopped and raised his fist in the air. "I smell elf-flesh!" he grunted in their guttural orcish language. "Find them!"

"They know we are here", murmured Legolas. "We have no choice but to fight".

"There is only five of them. An easy task for any elf!" said Aeldir, and he jumped forth from their hiding place. "Hey, filth! Is it us you are looking for?" he called to the orcs mockingly.

The orcish band immediately turned towards him and charged. The experienced guard held his sharp sword aloft and met the first blows of the orcs effectively. Then Legolas and Tauriel appeared on top of the rocks, with their formidable bows drawn, ready to release arrows as soon as they got a clear shot.

And so they did, and two of the orcs were quickly felled. The other three grunted and renewed their attack with greater might. The two archers now jumped down from the rocks, drawing their daggers. The orcs were an easy things for the skilled elves to face, and they quickly fell dead.

Maeril then came forth from behind the rocks. She had preferred not to engage in combat needlessly, for she only had a sword for protection, but was not a true master of the blade like her companions. "Is everyone alright?" she asked.

"Yes. These orcs were no match for us, and few in number", answered Aeldir.

"We have to hide their bodies", the Prince said in urgency. "Quickly, behind the rocks".

They dragged the corpses and piled them up behind the rock cluster. They would have burned them, were the smoke not to attract attention from the fortress uphill. So, they remained as they lay, their weapons and helmets piled up with them. There was nothing the orcs carried that would have been of value or any use to the elves. And there was no point in disguising themselves as orcs under orcish armor, as the orcs would smell the difference anyway. Like hounds, they could catch the scent of the elves from afar. So, Legolas and his friends covered the tracks of the fight and continued on their way.

It was afternoon when the elven party reached the end of the southern road. After the skirmish with the orcs, the rest of their trail had been rather uneventful. Now they came at the foot of the hill, and they looked up to what must have been stairs in times long past. There were broken iron bars and hinges on the ground, the remnants of what used to be a gate, and there also seemed to an ornate staircase lying in ruin. From there the bare rock began, and on the right and left it was sharp, but in the middle it had been carved in the likeness of steps. Broken they were, and grown steep and slippery with the passing of time and disuse, but if one was careful enough in his footing, they could lead him far above, as they ascended on the face of the slope and wound up towards a tower, the topmost spire of which was hidden in heavy fog.

"This is it", said Legolas. "These broken stairs lead to an old entrance, no doubt".

"Only a fool would dare such a climb…" muttered Maeril, who never loved great heights.

"We have no choice now", Tauriel told her, a little too sharply. The other elleth recoiled, and nodded meekly.

Aeldir looked around in unease. "I do not like this place. Evil seeps out of its every crevice. And it will be nightfall soon. Would it not be unwise to begin our ascent now?" he directed his question to the Prince.

Legolas huffed. "We have no time to spare, Aeldir. We have to start now, while there is still some light in the sky. But I deem you are right about nightfall; although the darkness would serve well to cover our movements, were it an ordinary foe we were facing, it is not the case with the Nazgul. Their powers are much greater and their vision much clearer during nighttime. We would be fools to expose ourselves thus. So I say we begin climbing now, and after dusk we shall stop and hide".

"Where are we to hide? The slope looks steep and sleek enough like a glacier", Tauriel wondered.

"Look over there, to the east, where the stairs come to a plateau. The rock is concave and its upper end ridges like a ledge above the pathway. I think we can hide beneath it", described the Prince.

The elves looked to where he pointed, and Maeril felt the need to take a generous gulp from her waterskin, trying to brace herself for what was to follow.

"Alright then. Off we go", Tauriel said, inhaling deeply.

The small company began climbing the narrow stairs. At first it was not so difficult, but the higher they went, the harder it became for them to keep their footing and not to slip or get dizzy. Were they not elves but men or dwarves, this endeavor would have proved immensely difficult, impossible even. A heavy mist covered everything, thick and dark, hindering their vision. Not few were the times when they feared they had reached a dead end, or the altitude and the nearly vertical slope of the cliff caused them to feel nauseous. Maeril had it worse than the rest, and she often had to pause, take deep breaths and look away from the face of the cliff. And the cold wind did nothing to help them. It snapped at their cloaks and tousled their hair, encumbering their ascent further.

When the twilight of the day came, the plateau ahead could be seen clearly. A few more careful steps and they reached it, nearly breathless, but relieved. To the back the rock was concave indeed, creating a very convenient hiding place. The ledge above obstructed the view from high atop the hill. Legolas was pleased. At last, they could take some rest.

With a thump Maeril dropped her belongings and leaned against the wall of the rock, exhaling in relief. "I do not think I could take another step today", she murmured wearily.

"It will not be needed, my friend. We can rest, at last", Legolas reassured her, and she replied with a nod and a timid smile.

Their ascent had been mostly wordless, with each elf focused intensely on where they put their hands and feet. It was not a time for small talk but for caution and concentration. But now the elves had found their tongues again.

"The view from here is breathtaking", Aeldir commented as he peered into the distance. To the east the vastness of the forest went on and on, bathed in a fog that seemed constant and unmoving. To the south the forest was scarcer and the terrain uneven.

"This was once my grandfather's kingdom", Legolas whispered, as if to himself, and seemed for a little while lost in his thoughts. But then he turned to his friends. "We shall light no fire. Huddle as best you can in your cloaks, for they will provide the only warmth for us tonight. Eat, and replenish your strength, for we will need it tomorrow. We have not yet come to the half of our ascending trail", he said as he glanced upwards, to where the towers were lost in the clouds.

Maeril had already sat down and was munching on her cheese, and Aeldir went to join her, unbuckling his sword and leaving it to lie beside him. "I wish I had brought along some wine as well", he muttered grumpily, as he gazed at his waterskin, and the healer chuckled softly.

Tauriel came to stand close to Legolas. "I never knew Dol Guldur was so high a hill", she said.

"It looks not so from the west, as the ground is elevated there. But to the south it dips lower, and the cliffs rise high. As you saw during the battle, all of the baileys are a continuous ascent. I suspect the courtyard of the fortress is built on a higher level. The architecture of this place is complicated. It must have been beautiful to behold in its time of glory", Legolas said, folding his arms before his chest.

"Our race has always harbored a fondness for high places", Aeldir put in, raising his voice from where he sat. "I remember Harlond in Lindon, where I lived as a child, before my family migrated to the Woodland Realm. A harbor it is, but to the west the city is built upon a high hill. You have to climb countless steps to reach the top level, but the view from up there is definitely rewarding. Dol Guldur is larger of course, and much more ominous, but you get my meaning".

"I have no quarrel with elven places built on cliffs, though I am not really fond of great heights. But this place is dark and evil. I do not dare imagine what Mordor looks like…" Maeril sighed, quivering, though she knew not whether it was from the cold or the feeling of unease that gripped her heart.

"My father has often told stories of Mordor and the first war against Sauron. It must be a desolate and terrible place, but I would say Dol Guldur resembles Carn Dum a little, where the seat of the Witch-King once was. A long time ago we fought against Angmar… The Red Stronghold was built on the northern slope of Mount Gundabad and had tall spires that reached to the clouds", Aeldir narrated.

Legolas then walked towards the seated pair. "It is a bad omen to name such accursed places while we are in the domain of the Dark Lord. It is as if we are invoking the evil that lurks here ourselves. And we should keep our voices low", he instructed them. "I do not think this passage here is guarded, for no clumsy orc would ever be able to climb these stairs without falling to its death, but we do not know who might be listening. The Shadow's influence runs in all sorts of creatures, and I would not want to invite some terrible spider here".

The others nodded in agreement, and fell silent, focusing on their crude meal instead.

"We should also keep watch overnight", said Tauriel, as she looked up in the sky. "The night has fallen, but I can see no stars…"

"The Captain is right. We will take turns. I will go first, while you can get some much-needed rest, my friends", said the Prince.

Tauriel then moved away from the edge of the cliff and towards the posterior wall, where she sat near the others. She pulled her cloak tightly around her, for although it was spring, the cold was still biting, and the aura of evil permeated everything here and chilled her to the bone. The small Morgul wound on the side of her neck bothered her a little, as if the essence of this place had awakened it. She crushed some athelas leaves in her hand and rubbed them against it, thus reducing the pain to a tingling sensation, which she chose to ignore. She opened her satchel then and brought out some walnuts and almonds to eat. She had not realized how hungry she was until she began tasting the crunchy nuts. In truth, they had not had a respite since the attack on their camp the previous night, and Tauriel could not really remember when was the last time she had something to eat. A glance around informed her that Maeril had already fallen asleep, and Aeldir was leaning against the wall, looking very sleepy and tired. Legolas sat on a flat rock to the front of the small cave, and he lazily ate some waybread, while his bow was lying at his feet. Tauriel's thoughts drifted to Thranduil. She wondered where he might be now. If only they were able to find him! If only it was not too late! A myriad of dreadful images flooded her mind. What if he was tortured? The orcs were notorious for the harsh way they treated their prisoners. And they hated the elven race most. Surely an elven King would be a gift sent right into their filthy hands, a toy to play with until it was utterly damaged and useless.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she turned her head, hiding her sorrow from the eyes of her friend. She did not want to dishearten Legolas with her dire thoughts. But crying soon brought her exhaustion to the surface, and her eyelids grew heavy. It was not long before a deep slumber claimed her, and she drifted away from the conscious world.

The heavy door of the dungeon cell creaked and groaned as it slowly opened. Thranduil, who had managed to fall asleep in the past hour, suddenly awoke. He lifted his face and saw two large orcs entering. They were dressed in armor and wielded weapons, and more weapons were strapped on their belts: swords and daggers, axes and flails, and also a whip and a spear.

They grunted something unintelligible in their tongue, and the elf looked at them and shivered.

"Do you like games, elf-king?" the fattest of the two began taunting him.

He did not honor that with an answer. But his defying stance earned him a spit in the face by the fat orc.

"We have orders to entertain you", said the other, who was taller and scrawnier, and whose face was as if it had a constant mocking smile plastered upon it.

The fat one, Baurzat, took a few steps towards Thranduil. "On your feet, elf-scum!" he commanded, but his captive remained unmoving and looked upon him with disdain. Enraged, he called to his companion, "Drishnud! Get him to his feet and against the wall!"

Then the orc called Drishnud pulled at Thranduil's chains, and he was forced to stand. He bound the chains on some huge iron rings upon the wall, and the elf came face to face with the cold stone.

"Now this is better", Baurzat said, and produced a dagger from his belt. Then he grabbed Thranduil by the hair and pulled hard on his head. He winced in pain. "Was this painful?" gnarled the orc. "No? Then how about that!" he yelled and banged his head against the wall, not too hard to crack the skull or to make him lose consciousness, but hard enough for him to feel sundering pain and to get dizzy. A haze fell upon his eyes and the pain became throbbing, pulsating through his temples.

"Be careful, you fool! The Masters said not to kill him!" cried the other orc.

"I am no fool, you scumbag!" Baurzat barked. "Now give me the whip!"

Now wielding it in the air, he brought it down with force upon the Elvenking's back. It roared and cracked on impact, and Thranduil cried in agony.

"Ah, so now he is talking", sneered Drishnud and cackled.

The whip met Thranduil's back again and again, leaving its offensive marks upon it. At first his tunic was torn, the fabric easily torn and ripped into rags. Then long, red lines appeared on his skin, but as the torture went on the lines became deep gashes, and blood began flowing out of them in narrow streams. Baurzat kept flogging the captive in depraved fascination, until the other orc shouted, "Stop! Enough! My turn now".

The fat orc grunted in displeasure, but moved aside. Now Drishnud picked up a dagger and hovered over the ellon's shredded back, examining it closely. "I have never tasted elf-flesh before…" he murmured, and leered as he pushed the sharp tip of the dagger into Thranduil's flesh. He let out another cry of anguish, and his breath now came in short gasps. The orc twisted the dagger and managed to cut a small piece of skin, together with the underlying muscle. Then he brought it close to his nose. "It smells horrible", he said, but proceeded to put it in his mouth nonetheless. A couple of chews later, he spat it forcefully. "Ah! Disgusting! Much worse than dog-flesh and man-flesh!"

"I bet dwarf-flesh tastes better!" Baurzat said, and both orcs laughed wickedly.

Thranduil gritted his teeth and pressed his eyes shut, trying to withstand the torment and the humiliation. The pain in his head and his back was paralyzing. It came second only to the scorching pain of the dragonfire burns he had suffered so very long ago.

"Wait now. I will use this on his wounds", Drishnud said, who was apparently more cunning than the fat orc.

"What is that?" Baurzat asked curiously and pointed at the device his companion was holding. It was a round, bronze cup with a handle and a lid.

"It contains some kind of poison. It makes the wounds fester and slows the healing. And these elves are known to heal fast", the tall orc replied. Then he proceeded to remove the lid from the cup, revealing a perforated top side. He walked up to Thranduil and held the device by the handle, turning it upside down now. Through the holes the poison was now sprinkled all over the elf's back. It sizzled and burned wherever it fell, inflicted unbearable pain to the victim. The King's cries of pain reverberated through the dark cell.

Baurzat watched in amazement. "You are good at that!" he praised the other orc.

"I have done it before", Drishnud replied nonchalantly, as he finished his task.

Both orcs stood and admired their work, as the slashes on the Elvenking's back grew deeper still, and the flesh blackened from the poison, while more blood ran forth and all the way down his legs and onto the floor, creating small pools.

Then the fat orc took a flail in his hand. "His legs are too good for his own good I say". At that he stroke against Thranduil's thigh, and the spikes embedded themselves in the tender skin and muscle. The elf cried once more in agony. Another blow at the other leg and his limbs gave in, unable to support his weight any longer. Had they been but a little harder, his bones would have broken. He remained now to hang limply from his wrists, where the shackles had already dug into his skin. Breathless he was, and his head dropped against the wall.

"Pft! This elf is weak!" huffed the fat orc.

"Yes. We have only began having fun and he fainted", the scrawny one agreed in a complaining tone.

"Leave him be. The Masters will be very angry if we destroy him already. They said they have plans for him", argued the other.

"Did you hear that, elf-scum? Our Masters want you alive. That is why you still live. Otherwise I would take great pleasure in finishing you off!" Drishnud shouted maliciously, and Baurzat spat at him again.

Then the orcs collected their instruments of torture and left.

Thranduil was left alone in his misery. His back ached, his head ached, his legs ached. He tried to push himself upwards and stand, but his injured thighs soon started to burn, and he abandoned this attempt. The orcs had not unhinged the chains from the rings on the wall, thus he could not just collapse on the ground. His weight pulled unforgivingly on his wrists, which began to bleed. A sigh of despair escaped his lungs, and a sob rocked his shoulders. There would be no rest for him tonight, or any moment hence, unless someone came in his cell and unbound him.

The poison in his wounds did not allow the pain to subside, and soon it entered his blood flow. His poisoned veins burned, and before long he felt a searing sensation all over his body. It was unbearable. He began crying, hopeless and defeated, and all he wished for was for this torment to end. He cared not to live; death seemed a much friendlier prospect now. At least, if he died, he would be of no use to the enemy. And he would at last be reunited with his wife.

A single ray of light broke the darkness of his mind as thoughts of Lothrin slowly took form. Please, my love, take me with you… He begged in his thoughts.

"No, Thranduil. Your time is not come yet. You must fight to live", a voice answered.

Startled, Thranduil tried to look around, but there was only darkness. Are there ghosts here or is my mind playing tricks on me? He wondered. Lothrin? Can it be you?

"This place is full of memory", a second voice said.

"You are King now. Things are expected of you", spoke a third one.

"This war cannot possibly be won. This is sheer madness. Turn back before it is too late", spoke another.

And then another, and another. More and more voices he could hear, and he was overwhelmed by their words. He felt as if he was attacked by them, as inconsistent phrases were directed to him, and they made no sense, they became a twine of meaningless utterings meant only to drive him crazy. And truly, certain now that this was the effect of the poison, Thranduil knew that insanity was only a mere step away.

But then suddenly the voices were silenced, and only one spoke, one that had spoken to him in his nightmares, deep and resonant, as if it rose from a chasm in the deeps of the earth:

"Are you ready to meet your fate, Elvenking?"