Warning: If you've made it this far in the story, you can handle this chapter. But if Aragorn's attack was bad, this is worse. This chapter contains scenes of physical violence, coercion, and mental domination. Rape, while NOT explicit, is strongly implied.
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"The horror. The horror."
– Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
Chapter 27: Shattered
"The baby has dropped," Ioreth said. The old woman's blue-veined hands pressed gently against Èowyn's belly. "It won't be much longer now."
"I knew that she had," Èowyn said. "I could feel the difference when I arose this morning. She's much lower now."
Ioreth nodded. "You'll feel the change in weight when you move, and you must be careful that it does not strain your back." She sighed. "You really should be in bed, my lady."
It was an old argument. Ioreth apparently believed that all mothers-to-be should remain bedridden for the duration of their term. But despite that she was a good and knowledgeable midwife, and Èowyn was too happy at the prospect of finally delivering her child to pick a fight today.
She ignored the mild rebuke and asked, "When?"
Ioreth sucked on her teeth. "You've had no pains, and your passage is closed. It won't be today, in any case. It will be in the next week, perhaps. You must not over-exert yourself, my lady. If you must walk outside, confine yourself to the gardens and avoid the refuse piles and bad smells or sights that might upset you. The baby will tell you when it is time."
Èowyn nodded. She was impatient to see her child at last, but she knew that the midwife was right. She never had been good at sitting and waiting for events to unfold beyond her control.
Ioreth poured water from a pitcher into a stone basin by the window and began to wash her hands. Èowyn sat up and pulled her dress back into place. She rested a hand against the low curve of her belly.
"What are you waiting for, little girl?" she murmured. "It's a beautiful spring day. Don't you want to come out and play?"
Ioreth turned, a towel in her hands. "May I ask a question, my lady?"
Èowyn was looking past her, at the sunshine that streamed through the open window. She could see glimpses of blue sky as the muslin curtains fluttered in the breeze. It was a perfect day for a ride.
"Mmm," she said absently.
"In Gondor women generally wish for a male child. As they say, 'A boy to guard the hearth, a girl to marry off.' Do you have a different custom in Rohan?"
"Oh!" Èowyn came back to earth with a start. "No, I suppose that most families would wish for a son, at least for the first-born. But for some reason I've always felt that this one is a girl." She shrugged. "Faramir thought so also. He's hoping for a daughter. Of course," she added hastily, "It really doesn't matter, as long as the baby's healthy."
"Of course," Ioreth said. Her lips pursed as if she were about to say more, but a knock on the chamber door interrupted her.
Èowyn got to her feet and smoothed down the front of her dress. "Enter!"
"Lady Èowyn," the door-guard leaned inside. "Queen Undómiel would see you."
"Thank you," Éowyn said. "Please show her in."
She had scarcely spoken when Arwen strode into the room. Ioreth hastened to curtsy, bowing as low as her rheumatism would allow. "Your Majesty!" Then, looking up, she blanched. "My lady! What is wrong?"
Arwen's face was white. The circles beneath her eyes showed like dark bruises against her skin. She gave Ioreth a strained smile. "Lady Ioreth, would you please excuse us for a moment? I need to speak with my lady Èowyn."
"Of course, Your Majesty." Ioreth was clearly curious, but she gathered her things and departed with relative haste.
Arwen waited until the door had closed behind her. Her long hands tangled in the skirts of her robes, pulling at the fabric. Something must be very wrong indeed, Èowyn realized, to bring her here during one of Ioreth's visits. Arwen had questioned Èowyn extensively about mortal practices in childbearing in the days since Èowyn had learned her secret, but at the same time she assiduously avoided the midwife's company. Ioreth was both keenly perceptive and a devoted gossip, and once she deduced that the Queen was with child the whole city would know it within the hour.
"What is it?" Èowyn asked when they were alone.
Arwen took a breath. "Gimli has been arrested."
"What!" Èowyn stared at her. "On what charges?"
"There are no charges, so near as I can determine," Arwen said. "Captain Aelon will only say that it is by order of King Elessar. He claims it is for Gimli's protection."
"His protection?" Èowyn snorted. "His protection against what?"
"I do not know," Arwen said. "But I have my suspicions. Èowyn, the order was carried by a pigeon from Dol Amroth. Legolas told me that Imrahil would try to verify if there really was an army massing in Harad . . ."
"Elessar must have discovered their plan," Èowyn whispered. "Dear Eru, Èomer. . ."
"We do not know that," Arwen said. "But it seems clear to me that Elessar wishes to prevent Gimli from leaving the city. I do not know why."
"I do," Èowyn said. Long buried memories of Grima Wormtongue rose in her mind. She braced herself against a chair, her stomach churning. "It's about control. He wants Gimli under his power, like Faramir."
Arwen shook her head. "But why now? Gimli was directing the city's defenses – he had no intention of leaving. Elessar could see that for himself."
She had a point. Èowyn thought for a moment, chewing on her lip. "Assume that Elessar did it deliberately," she said. "He arranges for Gimli to stay behind. Then, after the army has left, he has him arrested. Why? Even if Elessar did discover Imrahil's plan, what has that to do with Gimli?"
Arwen went very still. "Not the army," she said. "Legolas. He waited until Legolas was away from the city, and then had Gimli arrested."
"He could hardly have done it sooner," Èowyn observed. "Legolas would have –" she broke off, meeting Arwen's eyes.
"Legolas would never permit it," Arwen said. "He would break down the doors to get Gimli out. He would –"
"That's it," Èowyn said. Her breath was coming swift and shallow. "Legolas would do anything to free his friend. Elessar knows that. He's planning something and he needs a way to control . . . oh Eru. He planned this from the beginning! Arwen, why am I here? Why is Lothíriel here?"
Arwen's eyes widened. "Aragorn said it was for your protection . . ." she stopped. After a moment she continued, her voice shaking. "You were for Faramir, and Èomer King. And Lothíriel is as well, but also for Imrahil, I think."
"We were welcome to stay 'for as long as necessary,'" Èowyn said grimly. "That's what he told Faramir. And we walked right into it. He had us lined up perfectly, all that was missing . . ."
"Was a way to control Legolas," Arwen finished. "He has that now."
"We must leave," Èowyn said. Her mouth was dry. "We have to get out of Minas Tirith. Now."
Arwen looked at her. "All we have are suspicions and guesswork," she said. "It may be that none of it is true. Aragorn might truly be trying to protect us."
"And Wormtongue was naught but a faithful advisor to Théoden King," Èowyn said. "And horses might sprout wings and fly. Arwen, you know that is folly!"
"I know," Arwen said. "I only wish that it were otherwise." She stood for a long moment with head bowed. When she spoke again her voice was steady. "Èomer is your brother. When Elessar learns that you have left . . ."
"I know," Èowyn said. "But I will not be held hostage by my brother, nor allow Elessar to use me against him. Why arrest Gimli now? What special need had he to restrain Legolas at this moment? Whatever he has planned, it has already begun."
Arwen's head snapped up. Èowyn met her gaze and finished, "King Elessar wants us in this city. As far as I am concerned that is reason enough to leave, and quickly."
"And Faramir?"
Èowyn swallowed. "I cannot leave him in Elessar's dungeon. Queen Undómiel, if you have any power to release him . . ."
Arwen sighed. "I would be commanding Aelon to disobey the King. I do not know if he would listen. If he did it would be treason, for both of us. And Elessar would surely know."
She stood silent for a long moment. One hand rested gently against the low swell of her belly. Èowyn hesitated. Then she said quietly, "You cannot save him, Arwen. He is gone – the arrest of Gimli proves it. He is dangerous to you, and to your child."
"I know." Arwen closed her eyes. "But I love him even so." She shook her head to forestall Èowyn's protest. "Leave me be, please. I know what I must do, for my child if for nothing else. And as for Faramir – I will try."
*~*~*
The Corsair army moved slowly west. Dragaer had yet to make good on his threat, but Legolas knew that he was only biding his time. He'd ordered the army to break camp within the hour of Legolas' capture, and they marched through the heat of the day toward the coast. Legolas was bound upon a horse at the captain's side.
He suffered the indignity quietly. He could not fight his way free through the thousands strong army. He could only wait, and watch his opportunity to escape. In the meanwhile it was best if the Captain thought him weak.
It was not far from the truth, Legolas knew. As they neared Umbar he felt the sea's call more strongly than he had ever done before. It closed upon him like a fog, whiting out the dust and tramp of the army, the torment of thirst and the discomfort of the ropes that cut into his wrists and pulled him off balance.
He wanted to lose himself in it. He wanted to let the peace fill him, to forget his pain and the near panic that threatened to choke him with every possessive look, every hateful touch that Dragaer laid upon him.
They stopped only once to water the horses. A small tarpaulin was erected, and there the Captain ordered Legolas seated at his side. Several Corsairs stood in a ring around them, their swords drawn, as Dragaer loosened the ropes at Legolas' wrists and bathed his raw flesh.
Soaking a cloth in water he wiped the dust from Legolas' face and hands. He wrung the cloth over Legolas' hair, smoothing it down until the wet strands clung to Legolas' neck. Dragaer sat back to survey his handiwork as a man might study his pet.
"Much better," he said, running the tip of one finger down Legolas' cheek.
Legolas stiffened. One of the Corsairs behind him lowered his sword so that the blade touched Legolas' neck.
Dragaer smiled. He took the saturated cloth from the bowl of now dirty water and held it, dripping, to Legolas' mouth. "Drink," he said.
Legolas turned his face away.
Dragaer laughed. "That is twice now that you have refused. Do you think that the water will become sweeter as we travel?"
He caught Legolas' chin, dragging the Elf back to face him. His eyes glittered inches from Legolas' own. "I could make you wallow in your own filth, Elf, and beg leave to drink from my chamber pot."
He paused, looking searchingly at Legolas. Legolas glared back at him. A glimmer of respect came into Dragaer's eyes. "And even then you would not yield," he said. "So this is what Elessar saw in you."
His thumb brushed over Legolas' lips.
Legolas could have killed him then. Faster than sight he would leap to his feet, grab a sword from unprepared hands, pivot and bring it down in one sweeping, deadly motion – the Corsair's blade nicked his throat as he recoiled, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his skin.
Dragaer rose to his feet. "Signal the march," he said to the officers around them. "We ride on."
Hard hands closed on Legolas' arms, dragging him to his feet and yanking the bonds at his wrists cruelly tight again. Dragaer paused, then turned back to press his fingers against the cut under Legolas' jaw.
"I will break you, my proud Elf," he said.
Legolas did not reply. Dragaer turned away. The horses were led up, and Legolas allowed himself to be lifted back into the hard, unfamiliar saddle. Arod at least had escaped. He would make his way back to Aragorn's encampment. But it would take time, and longer still for Èomer to read the clues and track him back to the Corsairs' trail. That was time that Legolas knew he did not have.
The horns blew and the army lurched into uneven motion. Legolas suffered his horse to follow upon the lead tied to Dragaer's saddle, averting his eyes so that he did not look at the Captain's back.
Despite what Dragaer believed, it was not the Corsair's blade or even the surrounding army that had stayed his hand at that critical moment. He could die here and it would not matter, so long as he took Dragaer with him.
But that would not stop the Corsair army. The Men were fearful of their Captain, but they moved with their own purpose. To stop them and to save Gondor, and Arwen, and Gimli – to save Aragorn – Legolas had to live. He had to warn them.
*~*~*
Dusk came while they were still miles from the seashore. Legolas suspected that this was in accordance with Dragaer's plan. The Captain called a halt in a small valley at the borderline between the desert scrub and the softer sand along the shore, where dunes clotted by beach grass obscured the setting sun. There, sheltered from the constant wind, Dragaer ordered all torches extinguished while the scouts rode ahead.
They were so close now that the sea's call was physically painful. Legolas tried to shut it out as he did the heat and thirst and the constant chafing of the ropes at his wrists, but he lacked the strength. The Men bound him unresisting to the foot of the Captain's chair. He lay there, drifting upon the music of the distant waves, and when during a discussion with his commanders Dragaer reached down to stroke his hair Legolas scarcely noticed.
Night fell. The breeze picked up, rustling the grasses. The hills were featureless bulks of shadow in the darkness, for the sky was heavily overcast with no hint of moon or starlight.
Then Dragaer signaled the march. No trumpet rang, no torch was lit, but in darkness they walked with cloaks drawn to hide any gleam of armor or weaponry, the tramp of boots and hooves muffled by the shifting sand.
The thought was slow to filter through the haze of hurt that clouded Legolas' mind, but gradually it grew and took hold in the hidden recesses beneath the fog of thirst and betrayal and the soul-deep pull of the sea. Escape. Now was the time; he would not have a better. The Men moved slowly in the dark, groping through a night landscape that was clear and distinct to Legolas' eyes.
His hands were tightly bound to the saddle and his feet to the stirrups, but even so he was not helpless. Despite the barrier of saddle and bridle his horse had quickly warmed to him. He had but to break the lead rope that tied him to Dragaer's saddle and they would be free. He could outride the Corsairs: in the confusion and the darkness he would be gone before they realized it.
If only he did not hurt so much. If only the sea did not drag at him so. If only he could think without feeling again the pawing of brutal hands, the bruising kiss of another mouth on his, without seeing the hateful, possessive glitter of Aragorn's eyes. If only he could forget.
Legolas struggled to focus. He was still a Prince of Eryn Lasgalen. He was still a warrior trained in battle against the darkest of the Enemy's powers. He would not be defeated so easily. By the Valar, he would make these Men know what it meant to fight an Elf of Mirkwood.
He began to hum. It was hardly more than a vibration in his throat, soundless at first. He swallowed painfully and began again, louder this time. His horse's ears flicked back, then forward again. His voice was all but gone, his throat ravaged by thirst, but he kept on. The tune was discernable now, a swift rising cadence on the counter-beat to the army's march. His horse's ears swiveled back and remained there, cocked to the Elven voice. It sidestepped, pulling to the full length of the lead rope, and then slackened again. Legolas felt its muscles bunch beneath him.
A hand clamped over the back of Legolas' neck. Dragaer was at his side, riding so close that his leg pressed against Legolas'. The Captain's grip tightened, forcing Legolas to look at him.
"No more singing," Dragaer said. "Were we on a ship, the men would say it is bad luck. It upsets the horses, see?"
His thumb moved over Legolas' throat, pressing lightly against his windpipe. "When I want you to sing for me, Master Elf, believe me when I say that you will know it. In the meanwhile . . ." he lifted the flap of a leather saddlebag that rested against his thigh. Legolas saw a heavy sphere within: a deeper shadow in the dark. He shuddered, knowing what was coming next.
Dragaer passed his free hand over the palantír. Fire flared and swirled in its depths. Legolas gasped, bending almost double under the weight that pressed him down, straining his bonds until the fibrous rope pricked blood from his wrists.
"Look," Dragaer said. Legolas struggled to lift his head. Through slitted eyes he saw that the fire had cleared from within the seeing stone. There was the clear image of himself bound upon his horse, Dragaer's hand still at his neck. As he watched the tiny figure flickered and vanished in a swirl of flame. The palantír went dark.
The weight of power lessened. Legolas sat up, gulping the night air thankfully. Dragaer covered the stone again.
"I can see you, my Prince," he murmured for Legolas' ears alone. "Wherever you go, whatever you do – I am watching. I will find you. Remember that. There is no escaping me."
For a fleeting moment his fingers caressed Legolas' cheek. Then he dropped his hand and spurred his horse forward so that once again he rode ahead of his captive.
Legolas waited until he had regained his breath and his heart had slowed its frantic beat. Then he said, "Where did you get that palantír?"
Dragaer turned in his saddle. "The Dark Lord gave many gifts to his subjects, before the War, and he used them to his own purposes. Do not flatter yourself that his Eye was upon Gondor alone."
"Sauron did not create the palantíri," Legolas said. "The Eldar gifted them to the Men of Nùmenor."
"Indeed." Dragaer fixed him with a long, level stare. "Do you imagine, then, that your vaunted Gondorians are the only ones with the right to them? Doubtless Elessar would claim so. But I do believe, Master Elf, that you will find he is . . . mistaken."
*~*~*
They reached Umbar under the cover of darkness. Dragaer sent the army out, ringing the hills around the sleeping town. He kept Legolas close to his side as he rode to a central vantage point high above the bay, so that they looked down upon the tumble of uneven roofs spread below.
"They did not even post a guard," Dragaer said contemptuously. "Behold how great Gondor is, how drunk with its own power!"
Legolas scarcely heard him. He was transfixed by the shadowy movement of waves in the distant bay: liquid ripples in the black. There were ships in the harbour. A few were docked with sails furled, but far more were moving in, hemming them close to the shore. The ships sailed without lights, silent, ponderous and deceptively fast.
Dragaer raised his arm. Legolas tried to shout warning, though he knew it would do no good. His voice was thin and weak, and the wind whipped his words away. Dragaer brought his hand down. A single horn blew and was answered by the bone deep bass of a ship's foghorn. A flock of gulls rose from the quay in a flurry of beating wings.
Lights appeared in the darkness. The water reflected myriad flowers of flame that rose from the black ships and fell in a silent rain upon the thatch and timber of the town.
They were burning arrows, Legolas realized. In the light of a thousand small fires he saw the doors open, figures stumbling into the streets, sleepy children crying as their parents looked blearily about to see what was happening.
Dragaer shouted a command. The army roared. They swept down from the hills, carried by the momentum of their charge, horses staggering in the sand and being borne up by the ones behind, a united force that was unstoppable and unbreakable and crashed upon Umbar as a storm that shatters stone.
And the gulls screamed.
*~*~*
Afterward, they took Legolas to a ship. He was actually led aboard while still tied to the saddle, his horse blindfolded to prevent it balking at the gangplank. Four Men dragged him down, saddle, tack and all, and threw him still bound into a large cabin. Legolas landed heavily, unable to roll or break his fall. The heavy door slammed shut and was bolted from the outside, leaving him in semi-darkness.
He lay quiet for a time, listening to the hollow lap of waves against the ship's hull. The cabin was large but mostly empty save for a desk before the window and large bed that was suspended between four vertical posts that ran through the ship's decks from floor to ceiling. A watery orange light filtered through the mullioned windows. Umbar was burning.
He was alone. The Men were evidently afraid to untie him, or else impatient to rejoin the sacking of the town, and had left him unguarded. Doubtless they thought his current bonds sufficient. It was an error that they would soon regret.
Legolas found purchase for his feet in the iron stirrups and braced his hands against the smooth wood of the saddle. He tensed, then relaxed, testing for a weak point in the bonds that held him. He shifted his weight and tried again, tugging at each link: stirrup, rope, saddle. On the third try something creaked, and flexed a little. Legolas felt behind him and found a tiny raised crack in the wooden saddle. He shifted backward until the weak point was directly below him. Then he gripped the rope that bound him in both hands, braced his feet against the stirrups, and pulled.
He was weak. Aragorn's assault, and the drug, and the long night and day without food or drink had sapped his strength. He felt the weakness in himself, felt the hollow ache of the sea longing that sapped his will and made the effort to focus an agony. He did not have the physical strength to break free.
This was not about physical strength. Legolas rejected that, rejected the doubt that crept into his mind, rejected the sweet, deceptive call of the waves to give in, to be free of hurt and suffering. This was about strength of mind, and spirit, and no son of Thranduil would be made into a plaything to be called and used and discarded at a Man's bidding. He would not.
Sweat beaded and trickled down his brow, stinging his eyes. Legolas' hands were slick: the ropes cutting so deeply now that the blood ran freely down his palms. Muscles knotted, stretched, and knotted again. There was no pain. There was no doubt. There was only the need to pull, and to keep pulling, and he would not stop while muscle and bone gave way, sinews tore and tendons snapped and he was a warrior of the Eldar, the body served at his command and it would not stop, would not stop, not even if it tore itself to pieces.
The saddle broke first. A large chunk of wood snapped off at the base with a crack like one of Mithrandir's fireworks. The force of recoil bowled Legolas completely over, and he lay dazed, panting amidst the wreckage of saddle, rope and tack.
He was free. Awareness returned slowly, fragments of consciousness drifting together and coalescing from the haze. His muscles were trembling so that it took everything he had to kneel upright. With shaking hands he unwound the rope from his wrists, wincing as he drew the fibers from the deep abrasions in his skin.
His boots had at least protected his ankles, but the ropes were cut so deeply into their leather that Legolas finally just pulled them off rather than attempt to untie them. On the second try he managed to stand, swaying dangerously as the deck rose and fell with the waves.
It was then, as he stood dizzy and barefoot amid the splintered wreck of saddle and ropes, his hair falling in long tangles over his face and the blood dripping from his fingers, that the bolt slid back and the cabin door opened.
Legolas looked up, blinking in the sudden light. Dragaer stood there, his tall form silhouetted against a sky lit by Umbar's fires. A dozen Men were around him, carrying lanterns and cudgels, but no swords. Legolas registered this instinctively, some deep part of him still operating at a tactical level, weighing advantages of speed and numbers, available weapons and ground to fight. The rest of his mind registered only pure, white rage.
It seemed an age that they stood there, frozen, facing each other across the width of cabin floor. Then a gull wheeled over the deck with a raucous cry, and several of the Men jumped. It broke the spell.
Dragaer stepped back and motioned his soldiers forward. "The Elf is loose," he said. "Capture him, but do not kill him."
The Men hesitated, each waiting for another to lead the way. Legolas bent quickly and picked up a length of rope. His hands felt too weak to close on it. He forced them to hold it tightly anyway, and looked at the Men, meeting the eyes of all those he could. "I will kill any Man who lays hands on me," he said.
Dragaer drew his cutlass with a hiss of steel. "I do not brook disobedience on my ship. The Elf is mine. Seize him or die here at my hand."
The Men were afraid of Legolas, but they feared their Captain more. One shouted and lunged forward, his club raised high, and the others poured in behind. Legolas used the rope as a whip, lashing the first Corsair across the face. As he fell back a second Man dove at Legolas from his left. Legolas dodged aside, and as the Man's momentum carried him past Legolas he looped the rope around his neck and yanked. The Man's neck snapped with a sound like the breaking of a branch under heavy snowfall. It froze every Man in place. They watched as Legolas dropped the rope and stepped past the body, and he saw their expressions harden. The stakes had just risen. They would kill him now, if Dragaer permitted it.
They surrounded Legolas. He ducked a blow from behind and came up with the saddle. Legolas smashed it into the face of a heavy-set sailor and then picked the dazed Man up and threw him bodily into the others. He was running on pure adrenalin, and he would pay dearly for it later, he knew. But all that mattered now was survival.
A tall Man with skin reddened by the fire aimed a heavy blow at Legolas' head. He dodged it and kicked the Man in the stomach, grabbing the club as it fell from his hands. Legolas spun and brought the cudgel down on another Man's head. The Corsair's skull broke with a wet, thick sound, and he slumped to the deck.
But Legolas' hands were slick with blood, and the shock of impact jarred the club from his grip. At the same moment he was struck from behind, the blow across his back staggering him. Someone kicked the back of his leg, and he dropped to his hands and knees. They fell on him, bearing him down with the sheer weight of numbers. There were too many of them now, and many of their blows landed on fellow Corsairs rather than the Elf, but Legolas was crushed beneath the mass of fighting, swearing, bleeding Men.
He tried to rise, dragging himself up and pulling them up with him, because he could not fall, would not fall, would not allow himself to fall. He made it to his knees, and saw Dragaer standing before him.
The Captain smiled. He reached down, and closed one large hand over Legolas' throat. He squeezed.
Blackness cut into the corners of Legolas' vision. He struck out hard, aiming for the nerve cluster at the inside of Dragaer's wrist, but two of the Men behind him caught his arms and dragged them behind his back.
Long, rope-calloused fingers loosened just enough so that Legolas could breathe, the air thin and whistling in his lungs. The darkness receded so that he could hear the order that Dragaer gave. Then, as he recoiled, the fingers tightened again.
Hands closed upon him, ripping at his clothes. His tunic gave at the weak point where Aragorn had torn it. They stripped it from his shoulders, pulled it from his belt and cast it aside. Dragaer's hand was like a steel band at his throat, the Men behind Legolas holding his arms in iron grip. He closed his eyes.
The leggings were more difficult. Elven cloth did not tear easily, and they had no knives. For a moment Legolas hoped they would be frustrated, but Dragaer snorted impatiently and gave them his cutlass. The steel sliced close enough to scrape Legolas' skin, for with their comrades lying dead nearby none of the Men was inclined to be gentle. A careless jerk of the hand scored a line across Legolas' hip. Dragaer saw it, and swore. Then they were more careful.
Getting him to the bed was almost impossible. Legolas fought madly: kicking, punching, gouging, and biting when they tried to lift him. Two more of their number fell before they wrestled the Elf down and managed to tie his hands to the thick oaken timbers of the great bed.
One of the Men punched Legolas in the stomach, and as he curled in on himself, gasping for air, two of them threw themselves on him to hold him down. He felt hands on his feet, a rope looped around his ankle, and he bucked the Men off him and kicked out viciously. His foot connected with a solid crunch of breaking bone. One of the Men yelled and fell back, clutching his face.
It could not last. There was no thought in Legolas' mind but to escape, no desire save the animal need to be free. But he was driving his body beyond anything it had endured before, drawing on reserves that he did not have. He had been close to fading after Aragorn's attack, his heart near broken by the betrayal of his trust and love. He had been cruelly used in the interim and now, burdened with the weight of despair as well as the Men who crushed him down, near mad with the conflicting longing and pain of the sea's call, he was fighting on by sheer strength of will.
It was not enough. The Corsairs swarmed him en masse and held him down as first one and then the other of his legs was tied to the bed's massive end posts. They stood up slowly, reluctant to believe that their captive was finally subdued.
Dragaer came forward. He stood looking down at Legolas, turning his cutlass absently in his hands.
"Well done," he said at last. "Leave us."
The Men retreated, grumbling and nursing their wounds, and took their fallen mates with them. The door clicked shut, leaving Legolas and the Captain alone.
Dragaer regarded him in silence awhile longer. Legolas stared back, breathing hard. He put all the fury and defiance he could into that glare as he lay naked before the Man. But his stomach was knotted in fear.
Finally Dragaer looked away. He walked across to the desk and rummaged in it. There was a tinkle of water, and he came back, holding a cup in one hand and a satchel in the other. Legolas' eyes were drawn at once to the cup, and he forced himself to look away.
Dragaer held the cup to his mouth. Legolas refused, but the Captain gripped the back of his neck, forcing his lips to open, and the water was lukewarm but clean. He drank greedily, choking when the water came too fast, sputtering and drinking again, despising himself for it but unable to stop.
The Captain let him finish the cup and then put it aside. He sat down on the edge of the bed and ran his hand through Legolas' hair. His fingers snagged in a tangle, and Legolas hissed and jerked his head away.
"You fight well," Dragaer said at last.
Legolas turned his face away. "Whatever you intend, do it. Do not drag it out with pleasantries."
Dragaer chuckled. "But this is pleasant, Master Elf. I grant that you may not appreciate it at the moment, but I feel the power in you, the rage, leashed at my command. You are completely in my control, and still you fight. You would kill me if you could. No wonder Elessar wished to master you. You are intoxicating."
Calloused fingers caressed the bite mark at Legolas' neck. Legolas tried to squirm away, but the ropes held him fast. Dragaer stroked his cheek, his ear, the line of his jaw and neck and chest while Legolas strained in helpless fury.
"Why are you doing this?" he cried.
Dragaer bent close so that his beard tickled Legolas' cheek. The Captain's breath was hot against Legolas' ear. "Elessar would claim you for himself. And for that, I shall have you."
"You lie!" Legolas threw back his head. His hands clenched, and his back arched. The muscles of his arms and legs stood out like knotted cords. The ropes at his wrists and ankles stretched taut, then stretched further. A low groan sounded like the creak of a great oak tree in a gale. Dragaer looked up in alarm. A vertical crack was growing in one of the bed's timbers.
"Stop!" Dragaer shouted. "Stop! By the Valar, Elf!" He seized the satchel from the floor and tipped it out on the bed. The palantír rolled up against Legolas' side.
Legolas cried out and flinched away from the burning cold. Dragaer grabbed his hair, forcing his face toward the sphere. "I'll make him watch," he said. "Your precious King is half-mad already, thinking he has hurt you. What do you think that will do to him? Eh? By all the gods, I will rape you before his eyes, and I'll make him think it was him that did it."
Legolas subsided, shuddering. The thought of anyone seeing him now was more than he could bear. What Dragaer proposed was horror beyond imagining. He would do anything; pay any price to prevent that.
Satisfied with his submission, the Captain set the palantír aside and covered it again. He stood, looking down on Legolas, and began to undo the fastenings of his robe.
Bile rose, stinging Legolas' throat. He swallowed. "You admit, then, that you caused Elessar's madness?"
Dragaer shrugged. The robe dropped to the floor. He bent down to undo the lacings of his boots. "Perhaps. The suspicions were already there, in his mind. Even with the palantír I could not control him. I merely . . . directed him to see the parts of himself he might not otherwise have acknowledged."
"That is a half-truth at best," Legolas spat. "Will you lie to me now? You twisted his mind, you planted this . . . this sick desire in him."
Dragaer paused, his hands at his belt. "Think you so? But consider this, my Prince. I first suggested that he force himself on his lovely Queen. Raping her, I thought, would surely be the end of him. But he resisted. I could not make him do it. Yet for you . . . for you, he made no such resistance. I wonder why that is?"
Legolas went cold. Dragaer's words froze something deep within him. He comes to me some nights, Arwen had said. But for Arwen, Aragorn had resisted. He would not harm her. He could resist hurting them – he was strong enough. But though Legolas would do anything to save his friend, Aragorn would not do the same for him.
Legolas' heart seemed to cease its beat. It was hollow and empty and burning like the seeing stone itself.
"No," he whispered. "No." He shook his head. His vision blurred with tears. "Why? Why are you doing this?"
The Captain pressed a finger to Legolas' lips. "Hush. No more talking."
Legolas' eyes were shut. He did not see Dragaer unfasten his belt. But he heard the clink of the buckle, and the rustle as the leggings were shed. He felt the bed sink as the Captain climbed onto it. He felt rough palms against his skin, sliding down his chest and abdomen, grasping his hips.
That was the last that he felt. In desperation, in despair, he retreated. His mind refused to acknowledge what was happening to him, and so he fled. The sea's song was a siren call, filling him, claiming him for its own, and he answered it.
For the first time since the fateful day at Pelagir, Legolas gave himself wholly to the sea-longing. He took that which had been his curse, his greatest weakness, and used it now as his last defense. He lost himself in the welcome embrace of the sea.
But though the link between his body and faer was strained past all endurance, he would not yield it. And because he would not, the assault came even into this last refuge. He could not escape it; all he could do in last, feeble defense was to change its form.
It was the sea. He repeated it again and again, willing himself to believe it. It was the sea that clutched him, dragged at him, scraped his skin on rocky shores. Waves of iron slammed into him, tearing the breath from his lungs. It was the sea. It came hard, piercing him and breaking him, body, mind and soul. Burning, searing cold drove into him, agonizing pain, so that he would surely split in two. It was the sea. His face was wet with spray, with tears. He tasted salt.
The scream rose first from his faer, echoing in his mind, shattering all bonds and links of friendship, of family, of love. It tore from the freezing agony of every nerve and sinew, from every stubborn fiber of his mind that would not acknowledge, could not admit, the true horror of his breaking. It burst from his throat: a scream of anguish that drowned the Captain's shout of triumph and cried across the waves and was suddenly, finally, cut off.
And the sea swallowed all.
