The air is cool, a breeze washes over him that soothes the fire engulfing his body. He wakes with burning lungs that cause pained coughs to escape his ragged frame. He's engulfed in an inferno behind the blindfold, flames dancing before his eyes as what feels like smoke chokes his lungs. He vaguely realizes his hands are once more bound behind him but he is no longer pinned to the tree. Instead, he's laying on his side the hard dirt beneath him. While it is not comfortable, it is undeniably better than the gritty bark digging into his wounds. He also comes to the realization that the poison must still be coursing through him or one of his wounds has grown infected for such heat to plague him so.
Everything is quiet side for the crackle of a few fires and chatter of orcs who remain awake for watch. It is clearly night and he finds himself wishing more than ever he could gaze upon the shimmering stars above. The darkness is suffocating as he's swallowed by the fire coursing through his veins causing sweat to sting his open wounds. He feels as if one look at Elbereth's magnificent work would help ease the pain flowing through every muscle. A shaky breath runs through him as he tries to find a more comfortable position on his side. Never before has he wished for the comforts of his soft bed more in his life. Or the hand-carved chair in his office given to him as a gift many years ago. He would even find joy in paperwork at this point, something that would likely make Erestor question if he's finally gone mad.
As his mind wanders to his friend, he allows his thoughts to drift as there is little else to fill the unknown passage of time. The advisor is so unlike any of the friends he once had in Gondolin. While he is skilled with a sword he is no warrior. Not like his brothers had been. Not like Ecthelion had been. It is strange, in some ways they are so alike it can take his breath away, and then in others, they are so strikingly different he questions how he could even see them as the same person at times.
Ecthelion had always been the eager adventurer, ready to learn more and experience everything Arda had to offer. He accepted any missions that required traveling to distant lands and would often explore the surrounding area whenever he could. Then he would turn around and sit quietly, writing his bewitching songs for hours that would later be performed for the many eager listeners. While Ecthelion was surely the leisure of the two, he had a might and skill with the sword that few could outshine. He was a true warrior in the very core of his being which had been proved many a times throughout their lives.
Erestor was very much the same in his heart but so utterly different in his actions. He would much rather spend time working on paperwork or reading a book than learning new sword techniques. Yet he wields a hidden skill with the blade that can only be explained by natural talent. He is quiet and many find he only speaks when he knows his words are true or heartfelt. He would much rather work through hours of negotiations than ever be a part of a battle. Yet he shares the same fire and strength in character. The same determination to ensure those around him remain safe.
He ponders what the advisor could be doing right now. He's more than likely running Imladris with a firm hand while Elrond is scouring the woods. Perhaps he's sitting upon his favorite bench, staring up at the stars without someone to ease the grief of a night filled with dark memories. He almost feels guilty knowing he is not beside his friend to offer him comfort and support whenever the need be. They have both watched their beloved homes crumple, lost so many people they cherished closely. Sharing the shame pain it is often easy to speak openly with one another and relieve the emotions weighing down on them. He's sure they'll spend many nights more talking on that lone bench if he gets out of this.
With an annoyed sigh that resorts to another coughing fit he tries to adjust his position once more so feeling can return to the arm pinned under him. He can't remember the last time he felt this horrible, while it does not compare to the wounds given to him by the Balrog everything still hurts something fearsome. He would not be surprised if a majority of his wounds scar even with the help of elven healing. Maybe he'll seek out the counsel of King Thranduil to learn the magic of glamour so they will not be visible, he thinks glumly licking at the still very sore gash in his upper lip. Surely Elrond would not be upset if he spent some time away in Greenwood the Great, he feels like he deserves a break from Imladris now more than ever. Although there is also the chance the elven lord won't ever let him out of his sight again. He nearly chuckles thinking about the Lord's stern expression whenever he gets hurt that usually follows with nearly the same speech on how stupid and stubborn he is.
He's pulled from his thoughts by a boot colliding roughly with his ribs forcing the wind from his already aching lungs with a gasp. "Look 'ere the elf's awake," an orc snarls above him and he's suddenly aware of a few others approaching. He tries to ignore them as he concentrates on getting his breath in without falling once more into another horrid coughing fit.
"Best be careful, the Captain won't be happy if we kill him," another cautions from further away causing the first orc to laugh loudly.
"I won't kill 'im, I just wanna have some fun is all," it growls in return reaching down and grabbing a large fistful of his hair. He thrashes angrily but with his hands and feet bound there is little he can do aside from causing more pain to flare through his skull. "I wanna see 'im squirm," it sneers a knife caressing his jaw with just enough pressure to draw blood. He grits his teeth as it digs in sharper on the other side before retreating altogether.
"What's it like not being able to see?" it questions, he stiffens despite himself when the knife slips under the blindfold the sharp tip cutting the skin below his right eye.
"At least I do not have to gaze upon your wretched faces this way," he spits in return trying to ignore the cold panic clawing at his gut. A gasp escapes him when the cool metal is suddenly slicing across his already torn cheek digging a new bloody wound into his fair skin.
"I won't tolerate being talked to that way by filth," it snarls tightening the grip on his hair to pull him into a sitting position. A fist collides with his jaw followed by another that reopens the gash on his cheek and lip. A few more heavy hits rain down causing his head to pound as stars that are not of Elbereth's creation dance in the darkness before his eyes. A wave of nausea rushes through him when he's shoved to the ground roughly, a foot connecting with his chest making it only worse. Before he even has time to draw in breath more boots are hitting him from every direction. The sadistic laughter of the orcs rings through his ears as he tries to curl in on himself the best he can to defend his face and chest. Although there is only so much he can do with his arms tied roughly behind his back leaving him with no other option than to squeeze his eyes shut and pray to the Valar these foul beasts will grow bored or run out of energy soon.
It feels like hours pass as they laugh and jeer kicking and hitting him relentlessly until he feels like he's sure unconsciousness will claim him, but it never does. He can't stop the panic that creeps up his spine as they strike out mercilessly, the darkness more suffocating than ever with the large bodies towering over him who seem intent on beating him within an inch of his life. One final, sharp boot to his stomach has him trembling as choking coughs take over his body while the orcs walk away laughing with cruel mirth. For a fleeting second, he can't regain his breath before finally, the fit subsides allowing him to heave in shaky breaths cautiously past horribly bruised ribs. He can feel fresh blood dripping from a majority of his wounds as they had been torn open during the assault.
Every part of him now burns inside and out the new bruises working with the poison to only increase his suffering until tears are stinging at his eyes. Anger pools in his stomach at how utterly weak he feels. He was sent back by the Valar themselves yet here he lies in his own blood after being beaten like a rabid dog by these despicable creatures. Fear grips him in a way it never has before as unbidden tears begin to soak the blindfold. He would never admit it, and perhaps that is because there is no one around for him to properly do so to, but he's scared. Not in the childlike manner where one may fear the dark or an especially sinister-looking shadow. Or even the kind of fright a maiden might receive when leered at by a particularly foul looking man. This is the same terror he felt when the Balrog's fiery hand gripped his hair and yanked him into the abyss. The same hopeless feeling consuming him that his fate is entirely out of his hands, there is nothing he can do to prevent his death.
He feels as if he's falling again, watching his life disappear in a rush of air. Then he hits the ground, except he never truly had hit the ground, at least not originally. Whether it been by some cruel fate constructed by the Valar or his own bad luck he had in fact landed atop the great beast first. It had eased the impact but not enough. All the wind had escaped him and more bones than he could count had instantly shattered. He can vaguely remember the momentum had caused his limp body to crash onto the rocky ground so he was staring up at a large crack of blue light trying to fight its way down into the dark abyss. He has never known for sure how long he had laid there slowly choking on his own blood and succumbing to the many other fatal injuries. Long enough he had pleaded countless times for someone to come to his aid or Mandos finally take him away.
The agony then had been so much worse than everything he's ever suffered since, even the wounds that plague him now are little in comparison. Yet they feel so strikingly the same he feels just as lost, gasping in breath as his mind yells countless prayers to the Valar. He fears, oh how he fears that by the time Elrond arrives he will be as broken as he was after Eagle's Cleft. He will fight until his dying breath but sometimes even then that is not enough as has been proven before. While he has not received any injuries that could truly be considered serious as of yet, three days is a long time to be in the hands of such merciless beings.
Glorfindel finds the rest of his night a sleepless one as his body aches must too severely to find slumber and his mind troubles him far too horribly to receive any peace.