hello everyone!

Massive thanks to everyone who is still with me on this. It's just been (I think), 3days since the last update but I don't know... part of me needs to get on with this I think, so here is another chapter :) Dedicated to the kind reviewers who make me wish I was better and faster. Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts on my work - your influence is outsize. As always, C&Cs are welcome, and I hope you enjoy the reading as much as I enjoy the writing. Have a wonderful weekend, everyone!

A warning: Violence and self-harm. If you should choose to proceed, please do so with caution. If you would rather not, send me a PM and I will try to give you a less graphic summary.

# # #

17: Idiosyncrasies

# # #

Mirkwood, T.A. 2851

# # #

Legolas squirmed in his captor's hold, but the pain that had been eluding him thus far found him at last.

The movement jarred the precariously held blade in his stomach, and with a sudden whoosh of air escaping his parted lips, his eyes fluttered up to the skies, and his head lolled. It would have hung and pressed against the blade at his neck, but his alert captor jerked him back and it fell limply against the uruk's shoulder.

Betrayed first by Silon, and now by the needs of his broken body.

"Legolas!" Silon cried out worriedly, but was met with no response. "Legolas!" Glorfindel could see him shaking. He turned his attention to his enemy instead. "That is Thranduil's o-only remaining child. Imagine what, what a b-boon it would be for your master, if you should d-deliver him alive."

The uruk tilted his head at Silon in thought.

"You will never let me leave alive with him!" it growled, "Perhaps I kill him now, for my own satisfaction."

Silon was trying to think quickly. "I understand your predicament. How about, um, how about this? We will disarm ourselves. You let us treat him – the blade can only be removed the way it came in I think you know, and he will not survive long if you drag him around the forest like that. Then you can take all of us prisoner."

"I am no fool," snapped the uruk, "You will find a way to subdue me on the road to my master."

"Tie us up."

The uruk snorted, for his counterpoint would have been the same. A single uruk could not be expected to successfully contain three hale warrior elves on the road – Glorfindel, Istor and Silon – even unarmed and bound.

"Then let us tend him first, and you can restrain and leave the rest of us," Silon said.

"You will only follow."

"But you will have a big lead," Silon countered swiftly. He was speaking fast, seizing in the enemy's overpowering desire to survive and its profound uncertainty of how to do it.

"Take me instead," Glorfindel found himself saying. From the corner of his eye, he saw Istor's head all but whip in his direction.
"Your master will not much mind the replacement," Glorfindel went on. "I will also be a more mobile companion – uninjured, you wouldn't have to carry me. I have a higher likelihood of survival on the journey, besides."

"Give up the Elvenking's son for you?" the uruk sneered. "I know you, do not think I am unaware." He said something in his foul tongue, something that sounded like a curse. "While it would be a pleasure to skin you and piss on your gods, golden elf, that pleasure will not serve my master well. But Thranduil's whelp would be a good tool for bargaining."

"We will do anything you want," Silon said, "As long as you keep the prince alive. This is your only recourse to stay alive yourself. You know what I say is true."

If the uruk killed Legolas, the three elves around him would pounce on him. He wouldn't stand a chance. The beast made his calculations; Glorfindel could see it in its eyes. They were sharp and fearsome, but also darting and afraid. The choice was to either die, or bring his master home an invaluable prize. The handsome rewards outweighed the risks.

"Drop your weapons," the uruk said to the three elves.

Silon had already done so for his most visible of weapons, but now he divested himself of everything that constituted armor or aggression on his body. As surely as he had bared Legolas' identity, as surely as he bared his own desperation to keep his prince - his love - alive, as surely as he stripped his own self of his reservations and sense of word to Legolas or duty to his king and country... he disarmed himself.

It took Glorfindel a moment longer.

This is what you wanted, isn't it? he asked himself. The first objective in situations like this is to do everything possible to survive. As long as there is survival, there is hope for rescue. Hope for mercy and divine intervention. As long as one is alive, hope is alive.

But why did he hesitate now?

He did not trust the uruk, for one. If he, Istor and Silon were restrained, what was to stop the beast from killing them all and making off with Legolas? Or worse, killing all of them anyway? Furthermore he knew without any shadow of doubt:

This is not what Legolas wants.

Glorfindel wanted badly for Legolas to live. But did he want it enough that he would disregard the wants of the very person he cared for, just as Silon had done? Would he dare deprive the one he loved of what that person wanted most, that is, to be useful to his people until the very end? Was love that preserved the other at all costs a selfish one, and thus not love at all? Beside him, Silon's choice was clear and he was committed to his course.

"Glorfindel disarm," Silon whispered at him urgently, for Istor was waiting for a cue from his commanding officer, and the uruk was watching them nervously.
In the meantime, Legolas was stirring awake. His eyes opened blearily, and he remembered his dire situation at the speed of light. He could barely raise his head, but his eyes strayed first to Glorfindel, and then to Silon.

Silon, who had betrayed him.

But gone was the hard, venomous gaze of the prior exchange. It was replaced by something far more dangerous: a soft understanding. Almost – forgiveness.

Glorfindel knew in an instant what Legolas meant to do.

The wounded prince - captive in his enemy's arms, weakening and useful now only to his people's bitterest foes - angled his head toward his sleeve.

His pursed mouth sought the hidden pocket there.

Finding the lump of the poisoned seed he had concealed in it for occasions such as these, he bared his teeth and opened his mouth to take a bite.

# # #

Silon had betrayed Legolas first.

But it was Glorfindel who actively ended all of Legolas' hopes for a quick death on his own terms.

The ancient warlord reached for an old chestnut that he had lovingly kept in his pocket throughout this trip, and he threw it with might and accuracy. It hit Legolas' on the mouth, and his poison pill fell to the ground with it.

The elven Prince looked at Glorfindel with disbelief, which soon gathered into a storm of anger, one he hadn't even subject his enemies to. It was a loved one's betrayal, and that perhaps hurt him more than the uruk-hai's bloodlust or unrequited Silon's desperate gamble.

The uruk tensed, confused about what had just occurred. But he had some military restraint not to kill Legolas outright. If it were an orc or goblin, Glorfindel was certain it would have gutted Legolas by instinct.

"That was a poison pill," Silon said quickly, to appease the beast. "Spare him, please. You see how sincere we are in trying to keep him alive. Imagine the sway your master would have over the Elvenking and our people. Imagine the power your master could wield over the Elvenking's lands, his army. Please. Please." To Glorfindel and Istor he hissed. "Disarm, damn it."

"Don't," Legolas rasped. His gaze had crumbled to begging, now. He begged Glorfindel. "Do not do it, please. Meleth..."

His voice wavered and thinned, and his heavy arms crawled to the hilt of the knife still embedded in his body, meaning to push it in deeper, this time.

Glorfindel promptly threw his weapons aside and fell to his knees, himself begging now. Begging the orc, but mostly begging Legolas.

He had never begged before in his life. It was a merciless parody of his previous confession – My feet do not touch the ground, because I am on my knees with you...

I am on my knees.

Istor followed in his commander's actions.

Stray tears streamed from Legolas' disappointed gaze, so deep and clear and haunted, until he closed his eyes and shielded them from Glorfindel's view. He held the hilt near his belly with resolve.

But with Istor and Glorfindel disarmed and the uruk warily satisfied, the enemy could finally turn his attention to his prisoner. It swatted Legolas' heavy, clumsy hands away, and shook him in warning. The hilt against Legolas body was almost like a lever, jerking him around and jarring the wound such that the elven prince could not help a pained cry.

He pressed his lips together and took hard, shuddering breaths. His face was crumpled in agony, and tears leaked from the corners of his tightly shut eyes. Even though he clearly wanted to die and spare his kingdom from coercion, physical torment was still physical torment, and he was as encased in the limits of a body same as anyone else. A low moaned seeped from his pressed lips. This tormented song wound itself around the very heart of Glorfindel, and he knew it would never leave him. Not even if they all somehow emerged from here alive.

Legolas then hung his head forward – as if he was in so much pain he could barely raise it, but he was also simply aiming for the knife at his throat. The uruk warrior held him straighter, and tighter, tugging at his golden hair.

"Let us help him," Glorfimdel said quietly and carefully. "He will not last long, thus."

"Only one," the uruk growled, and he jerked his head at Silon. "You."

"I am better versed-" Glorfindel tried to argue, and it was true – even if both he and Silon were familiar with field treatment, he had more years of experience, and could use some of his power to ease Legolas' pain.

The uruk cut him off with a dark curse he almost spat out. The only thing Glorfindel could pick up from what he replied next was that, "I don't trust you."

The beast then ordered Silon to tie up Glorfindel and Istor at the wrists, the knees, and the ankles. There were many ropes at the uruk-hai camp with which to accomplish this, many of them blood-spattered and soiled. The gods knew what they were being used for. Silon grabbed at them and worked on Istor first.

"Tightly!" the uruk barked impatiently while Silon scampered to comply. In the enemy's arms, Legolas was reduced to a dizzied, shaking, fading heap. They all knew the sooner he could be tended, the higher the chances he would survive. But he was not the only elf that desperately needed aid. Rochanar's youngest son, still lying bewildered on the ground, was fading fast.

"Would you let me look after the child?" Glorfindel asked his enemy.

The beast glanced at the young elf and gave Glorfindel a derisive snort. "It is as good as dead."

Glorfindel couldn't disagree, and yet he had to.

"Then I would be wasting my time only, not yours," he said.

The uruk ignored him, and commanded Silon to tie Glorfindel up next. Silon duly and quickly followed. Caught in their equal love for Legolas and consequent betrayal of him, the two elves were in close quarters but could barely look each other in the eye.

Glorfindel made no move to resist as Silon worked on his bindings, though – loosely, he soon realized. The Mirkwood elf made unnecessary straining movements to simulate the tightness of the ropes, a show for their captor. The sharp-eyed uruk had caught the trick with Istor and asked him to do it tighter, but Glorfindel thought to distract him and perhaps angle his body discreetly away so that his bindings were less in view.

"Is the blade in the prince's body poisoned?" he asked.

"No," came the growling reply. But the beast gave him a perverse grin. "Might not be so clean, though."

"We will tend him and then you can take him," Glorfindel said, "but would you know how to keep him alive on your road?"

The uruk bared its teeth at Glorfindel with a mix of pride, anger and menace.

It did not look incapable of caring for a serious wound, Glorfindel had to concede. In fact he looked incredibly adept. Uruk-hai – hideously battle-scarred, sometimes maimed – were somehow always functional. By their own brutal creation and training, and later in their fights with men, elves and dwarves, uruks were well used to grievous injury and by necessity, the crude but effective treatment of them.

Silon stepped away from Glorfindel and turned to Legolas and the uruk. "You will let me see to him, now."

The uruk grunted in agreement. Silon kneeled on Legolas' afflicted right side, and laid out the things he would need from his soldier's pack. Legolas, panting and dizzied, followed his movements with a dull, heavily-lidded gaze.

From where Glorfindel was tied on the ground, his view of the procedure was obscured by Silon's back. Silon was bent over working on Legolas of course, but Glorfindel also suspected that Silon was shielding the loosely-tied Glorfindel from the uruk's gaze.

Glorfindel took stock of his surroundings, as he loosened his bonds all the more. But he kept the ropes where they were, for the sake of appearances. Legolas was still firmly in their enemy's arms, still had a blade to his neck, still had a knife through his body – and so Glorfindel still had to wait for a good opportunity to strike without unnecessarily risking him.

In the meantime, he could hear Silon work. He heard the rip of Legolas' clothes, so that there would be better access to the wound. The barest movements caused the prince's breathing to catch and hitch, until he started choking on his own air.

Silon tried to shush and soothe him, but Legolas' breathing only turned more ragged – and inadequate gasps of air were soon exhaled more and more as stilted cries. The curved knife, Glorfindel suspected, was now being drawn out the way that it entered. The uruk warrior guffawed.

Glorfindel's insides twisted, and he felt dizzied and sick at what was happening. He reached his fea out to the ailing elf to offer some form of comfort and connection, but he quickly found his song completely drowned out by Legolas' all-encompassing misery.

It was like a whipping wind at the height of a storm in a pitch-black night, unearthing random things from the ground and churning them in the air: his body was physically hurting, but so was his soul. In that swirling, hungry maelstrom, Glorfindel felt Legolas' self-hatred for the weakness that had brought him to his compromised position; blinding pain for his wounds; frustration at helplessness; worry for his people; sadness for his father; disappointment in Silon, and for Glorfindel... for Glorfindel there was nothing. As if he did not know yet how to feel about Glorfindel's betrayal.

Meleth, Legolas had said when he was begging the ancient warlord to be spared torture and captivity and worse, to be spared the utility of their enemies. Meleth...

"What is that?" the uruk demanded, cutting into Glorfindel's thoughts.

"For his pain," Silon replied under his breath. The curved knife that had been inside Legolas' body was now on the ground beside Silon – sickeningly stained in hues of red and black, from blood and clots and bits of flesh. Silon was now making Legolas drink a cordial. "He needs it if you want him to survive what I'm about to do."

Legolas, dizzy and barely aware, did not want it. What he really wanted was the blade on his neck. He tried to turn his head, away from the drink, toward the knife. Away from healing, towards death. The uruk held him tighter, and so did Silon. That they were working together made Glorfindel's skin crawl. They managed to get some of the medicine into Legolas' mouth, but he spat it at his loyal friend's face.

Silon shook it off, and said something in Silvan to his prince, something that appeased him. He got more of the drink into Legolas, then, and asked the uruk to lay the elven prince down.

"No," insisted the beast, unwilling to relinquish his position of protection and power. Like this, Legolas was his shield. Like this, he could get up easily and leave quickly as soon as they were done. "You do what you have to like this, or not at all. Quickly, now!"

Silon sighed heavily in resignation. He was a warrior still though, and had glanced at the curved knife on the ground, the one he had taken from Legolas' body.

The uruk, seeing his gaze and reading his thoughts, leered at him, and cut Legolas slightly at the neck, just enough to draw some blood, just enough to discourage Silon. The Mirkwood soldier growled in grudging acquiescence. He started gathering white cloths from his pack and soaking them in spirits.

"You need to hold him well," he told the uruk, when he was done with his preparations.

"It's just a little prick," the uruk said with a grin, shaking Legolas slightly again, playfully. "You fuss with this one much. My master really will have Thranduil in a vice-"

Silon did not let him gloat for long, likely did not wish for Legolas to hear much more of it than he had to. With swift movements made merciless by necessity – ignoring how Legolas bucked and thrashed, and cried out hoarsely before slumping senseless – Silon used some of the cloths to pack at the hideous cavity crafted by the penetration at his side. The others he used to press against the injury at the entrance and exit wounds, putting as much pressure as he dared, and binding them tightly. It was quick, efficient field treatment, but when he finished, he was visibly shaking. Glorfindel was trembling too.

"That's that then," the uruk leered.

The foul beast picked up the curved knife from the ground beside Silon, who rose warily with hands raised. The uruk then hefted Legolas up over one broad, mighty shoulder.

"You shouldn't carry him that way-" Silon protested.

"You've no say in it now, elf," the uruk grinned, and with a swift movement, raised his weapon and sliced it across Silon's chest.

# # #

Silon crumpled to the ground.

Glorfindel hurriedly extracted himself from the ropes that bound him and shot forward, putting himself between Silon and the uruk who held Legolas.

Glorfindel could hear Silon gurgling and gasping behind him, but he kept his eyes on his enemy. The uruk looked surprised and slightly alarmed at Glorfindel's freedom, and the menace the ancient warlord wielded even if he had no weapon in hand. But the uruk knew he still had the injured prince securely in his arms with which to bargain.

"Best see to your friend, elf," the uruk leered, as he warily started backing away, into the shade of the trees.

Glorfindel's mind raced. Behind him, he could hear in Silon's breathing, the gravity of a wound that would kill soon, if untended. Behind him, he knew Rochanar's son was little better and would die without help. Behind him, he knew Istor was still tightly bound and should not be left to the mercies of this unsecured land. But in front of him...

In front of him was Legolas.

In front of him was Legolas, borne by their sworn enemy, on his way to the shadows of the forest south, on his way to being used against his father and his kingdom.

But even without that, in front of him was his Legolas: helpless, unconscious, hurting. About to become a prisoner, bound almost certainly for torture. In front of him was meleth, about to be lost and near irrecoverable.

Glorfindel made a step forward to come after them, but it felt immediately wrong. Silon's gurgling gasps were loud and oppressive in his ear. If he walked away, he knew for sure that Silon would die. At the same time, he also knew that if he let the uruk leave with Legolas, the enemy would keep the elven prince alive. That the prince would suffer in their hands was a given, but he had a better chance of living than Silon or Rochanarion did if Glorfindel left them.

What had Legolas said? If the only outcome was death, the only option was less death...

Glorfindel growled under his breath in profound displeasure, but he knew in his heart what was right, and his need to pursue it was a thrice-damned curse, all too often.

He turned away from Legolas.

"No!" he heard Silon choke out, but Glorfindel was resolved. He picked up the first discarded weapon he could find, and he quickly freed Istor's hands and slipped the blade into them.

"Free yourself and tend the boy," Glorfindel commanded, as he slid to his knees beside Silon.

"No," the ailing elven soldier cried out, swatting away Glorfindel's hands as he started to see to the brutal wound.

"Calm yourself and we will be faster!" Glorfindel hissed at him, and this appeased Silon temporarily. Anything and everything for Legolas, it would always be for this one.

Glorfindel ripped at Silon's clothes, to find a ragged wound that cut long and deep, from his right pelvis going up across his chest, ending at the left shoulder. It bled in furious spurts, and the Mirkwood elf's skin was rapidly turning gray.

"Leave me," Silon whispered up at Glorfindel, before crying out at the elf-lord's hasty attempt to press the yawning gap at his chest together. "I am gone, my lord. I am – " he screamed and thrashed in pain, but Glorfindel had no choice but to continue. He pressed, and took every piece of cloth in his reach to staunch the relentless flow of blood.

"St-st-stop," Silon said breathlessly, "Glorfindel, p-p-please. I am gone." He raised one hand up to grip at Glorfindel's arm. They were trembling uncontrollably but strong and insistent, even as he faded. His other hand was clawing desperately at the ground on his side as he tried to find some outlet for his pain. "Leave me," he said softly up at the ancient warlord, "You are n-not one of us. You will l-lose Legolas in th-the woods. You need t-t-t-to come after him, now. While you can f-f-follow. Now!"

He had said the last as a scream, a release of his pain and frustration, but also of his conviction.

"This is a survivable wound with prompt and proper aid," Glorfindel muttered, focused on his work. It was by somewhat good fortune that the field treatment supplies were still laid out on the ground nearby, because Silon had fallen near where he had just been treating Legolas. "But everyone here is trying to die.
"What affect is this amongst our kin in the Woodland," Glorfindel went on, and his hands worked while his fea reached out to try and soothe the other. "What would I report to the White Council of this idiosyncrasy- idiocy? I forget – of all of you..."

It was a joke, and Silon groaned for his bad wound but also perhaps, for Glorfindel's foul humor.

"You need t-t-t-t-to leave me," Silon gasped. "Legolas will n-n-n-need you. He will wake, f-f-f-fighting soon."

Glorfind grimaced. He doubted that very much, given how the prince looked.

"I g-g-gave him Rossenith's potion," Silon revealed.

Glorfindel's blood froze in his veins at this information.

Silon hadn't really betrayed Legolas' will – he had found a way to buy his prince time, and lend him strength so he could continue to fight. It was why the Silvan words Silon had murmured at Legolas earlier succeeded in calming the prince enough to drink some medicine. It was not some normal healer's brew they were trying to get him to drink, it was Rossenith's infamous potion - the one that could get, as Legolas once described it, the 'half dead to fight as if twice alive.'

"He will wake f-f-f-fighting," Silon went on desperately, "and I d-d-do not know if he c-can win, like that."

Glorfindel's heart caught in his throat, and while his mind worked his busy hands continued tending Silon. A Legolas unconscious in captivity had a higher likelihood of survival, than a grievously injured one who would fight to the death.

Legolas will need you...

You will lose him in the woods...

I do not know if he can win...

"I cannot leave you," Glorfindel told the grievously injured elf, and he knew it in his heart. It was not in him to leave a comrade like this, even for someone he loved. It was not in him, for all the merciless righteousness of it, and his cowardice to defy it and thereafter live with himself. He glanced at Istor, himself busy fighting for the life of Rochanar's last living child.

"I cannot do it, Silon. I am sorry."

"I would leave you," Silon told him vehemently. "If it w-w-were you here, I wouldn't even th-think of it. I would leave you t-to-ssssave him."

"It doesn't matter," Glorfindel told him evenly.

"B-b-b-better than me," Silon said breathily, "It is why Legolas..." His voice drifted off, but Glorfindel knew the rest. Silon was going to say, it was why Legolas loved him best.

An orc horn sounded again – and that was it, the dreaded reinforcements called for seemingly a lifetime ago. If the uruk carrying Legolas had any sense of self-preservation, it would seek to unite with its comrades... and Legolas would have slim to no chance of success in fighting all of them.

"You need t-t-to come after him," Silon said, with renewed desperation. "You need..." His voice drifted off, and Glorfindel glanced at his face to check if he was still alive. Silon had a thoughtful expression on his face, but he was definitely still alive.

Glorfindel lowered his head to focus on his daunting task. He had a stone in his gut, a lump in his throat and his heart was caught in a cold freeze in his chest for Legolas, but he still did what he needed to do, to stabilize Silon somehow and give him a chance at survival. He worked, even as in his mind's eye he could see Legolas in the arms of an uruk, going deeper and deeper into the shadows, farther and farther out of his impotent reach, moving closer and closer to a mass of enemy reinforcements.

Silon had fallen completely silent for too long. Glorfindel raised his eyes up from treating the elf again. Their eyes met.

"Don't tell Legolas," Silon said quietly, and Glorfindel wondered at what he meant, until he realized Silon's free hand had gone to press something into his mouth.

"No!" Glofindel gasped, reaching – too late – for the poison pill Legolas had previously dropped, and that Silon had apparently found on the ground in all of his pained clawing.

It was quickly ingested, and Silon would undoubtedly soon die of it.

"Damn it Silon," Glorfindel hissed, his hands fruitlessly reaching to pry open the other elf's mouth. To do what, he did not know for Rossenith's poison pill was already gone, and working. It was meant to be quick and merciful.

Silon's heart started beating faster immediately – and the blood that Glorfindel had been trying so hard to staunch now came out in spurts, with a vengeance. And then Silon's breaths came in furious and shallow, small gasps through a narrowing sieve.

"Save him," he whispered up at Glorfindel, before his throat closed.

And though Glorfindel felt he was going to lose his damned mind for all the thrice-damned mad wood-elves here, he rose quickly to his feet to ensure this sacrifice would not go to waste. He turned his back on Silon and the last of his wretched breaths.

Glorfindel scrambled for the nearest sword – any would do now, given the deep and profound anger that thrummed through and powered his heated veins.

He barely even spared a glance at Istor, whose arms were bloodstained to the elbows trying to keep the last of Rochanar's stupid sons alive. And then he was off into the trees.

TO BE CONTINUED...

'til the next post!