"So much for your faith in hobbits," said Lady Reyalla, pouring two cups of wine. She handed one to the old man who stood next to her. "The only two who have yielded have been halflings."

"There are still two more," the old man said, sipping gently at the wine, "I feel Sam would do well."

"Better than an elf?" Reyalla asked, "No, it will be Legolas who succeeds."

The old man laughed slightly, "Do not be so sure. Hobbits are stronger than you realise, their spirits greater."

"Your Frodo was the first to break."

"He was broken before you even thought of him, broken by trials worse than any you can produce here. It will be a hobbit who passes through the trial of fire."

"Would you care to place a wager on that?" Reyalla asked with slight amusement. "The hobbits against the elf?"

"Agreed. What shall be the forfeit?"

"If the elf succeeds, you will leave, and let me work in my own way without your criticisms."

"And if a hobbit succeeds, you must accept my interference."

"Agreed." They shook on the deal, and the old man smiled, knowing that he was right, and he would soon be making some changes for the better. Until then, the others would have to be strong.

***

Gimli managed to kick one of the guards firmly on the shin when they released him from the chains the second time, making him curse violently. Gimli chuckled slightly, as the limping guard grabbed him and hauled him out the door, the other guard holding him as tightly the other side. He might have been able to break free under normal circumstances, but hunger and the whip wounds in his back had weakened him.

Instead of being taken right and towards the hall in which he had been beaten before, he was taken left, deeper into the dungeons. They took him to a small room, with a wooden frame built across one wall. Strapped to this was the battered form of an elf. Gimli struggled uselessly as he was lifted from the ground and strapped beside his friend.

"So they couldn't think of any worse torture than making me enjoy your company," Gimli said.

"It's a pity they didn't think to remove your tongue," Legolas retorted, "Now I must listen to your grating voice."

"It matters not if you have the fairest voice if only talk nonsense like you," Gimli responded. They stopped their banter when there was a quickly smothered laugh from behind them.

"Lady Reyalla has ordered you whipped," a woman's voice said, "however should either of you have enough you have only to say so. One word and it will be over." So they would continue until one of them yielded.

Gimli heard the whip crack, then Legolas gave a slight grunt of pain. It was barely audible to the dwarf, and he doubted the others across the room had heard. Then the whip cracked again, and pain seared down his back, cutting open the wounds dealt the day before.

The whip cracked again, and another grunt escaped Legolas' lips. He must be very badly hurt indeed to make even the slightest sound, Gimli realised. The whip cut Gimli's back again, and he wondered how much the elf could take. If he was already badly hurt, then he wouldn't be able to cope with much of this, but the stubborn elf would refuse to give in.

The whip rose and fell several times more, but Gimli felt it more for his friend than for himself, despite the blazing agony in his own back. This was far worse than the previous beating, probably because the wounds were being laid on ones already there. Well, if the elf was too full of pride to admit when he was hurt, Gimli would do it for him.

The whip cut Gimli's back one last time, then he shouted. "Stop!" In the short moment after he spoke, Gimli expected the whip to fall again. Silence. Silence broken by a faint sound beside him.

"No," Legolas gasped in a quiet voice filled with pain. "No," he said louder.

"It is done," the woman who had spoken earlier said. Gimli twisted his head sideways and saw them cut Legolas down and carry him out.

"Leave him alone," Gimli growled, but got no answer. Once Legolas was gone, someone grabbed Gimli's hair and pulled his head back painfully. A flask of some sort was forced into his mouth and a foul liquid tipped in. He had to swallow or choke, since he couldn't get away from the hands that held him.

Once the flask was taken away, Gimli was surprised to note the pain in his back dimming slightly. He quickly forgot that when he was cut down. For some reason his legs didn't seem to want to support him, and he could do little but struggle weakly as he was carried out.

***

Legolas lay on the floor of his cell where he'd been dumped, lacking the strength to move. His back was on fire, and now the flames were spreading through the rest of his body. There must have been something on the whip, some poison. Legolas could think of nothing beyond the pain.

He didn't notice that someone had entered until they lifted his head to tip something down his throat. He tried to spit out the foul liquid, to move his head away, but strong hands tilted his head and forced him to drink.

When the hands released him, he coughed a couple of times. The jerks tore into his back agonisingly, but when he lay still the pain lessened. Slowly the burning that was in his veins faded.

He lifted his head to look at the person who was with him. It was the woman who had commanded their capture, the one who had somehow used magic on Aragorn. Legolas was grateful to see she no longer wore the jewel that Gimli thought had robbed Aragorn of his senses briefly.

"Where's Gimli?" Legolas asked.

"That's no longer your concern," the woman said, "Lady Reyalla will see to him."

"She's no lady," Legolas spat.

"Do not insult her," the woman said, "You do not understand."

"I understand enough to know she's evil." The woman shook her head slightly and stood. As she left she kicked a bowl and spoon towards the stricken elf. Legolas raised himself onto an elbow and looked at the contents of the bowl: a strange pale grey mush that didn't look very appetising.

Still, he was hungry, and he didn't think these people would be trying to poison him. They had better ways of killing him. He swallowed a tentative spoonful, and was pleasantly surprised. Far from poisoning him they were actually giving him food that was palatable. It was vaguely fruity, but he couldn't quite place the exact flavour. Ravenously, he ate the rest, then lay back on the floor to sleep.

***

"You said you'd be here for my birthday," a boy said grumpily as an old man robed in grey dismounted from his horse.

"I'm sorry, Estel," the man said, "I did intend to, but unfortunately some important business came up."

"So I'm not important," the boy said, scuffing the ground with the toe of his shoe.

"I never said that, Estel. There was just something pressing that required my attention."

"More important than me?"

"Who said you weren't important, Estel?" Gandalf asked kindly.

"Elladan," the boy replied, "He said it to Elrohir when he thought I wasn't listening."

"Your brother called you unimportant?"

"I'm not his brother. He said that too."

"Was he upset with you for any reason?"

"I borrowed his bow."

"Borrowing in the sense that you forgot to ask his permission?"

Estel nodded. "He said I couldn't go hunting with him. He said I was still a child but I'm grown up now. I'm seven."

Hands grabbed Aragorn and tore sleep away from him. He didn't have time to wonder why he kept having the same dream as he was hauled to his feet and out of the cell.

He stumbled along with his captors until he was shoved into a small room. A wooden table stood in the middle, and Aragorn was lifted onto this. They lay him on his back, and the pressure of his weight on his wounds was horrific. His hands were pulled above his head and metal restraints clamped about his wrists. His boots were pulled off roughly and tight restraints fixed his ankles to the table.

He attempted to struggle, but agony filled his back, and he could fill slick wetness form between his skin and the table. He'd torn the wounds open again. He turned his head to look around the room. There wasn't really much to see. A fire burned in a grate at the centre of one wall, and a door was directly opposite it. Other than the two men standing guard over him there was nothing else.

Aragorn watched as one of the men went to the fire and pulled out an iron from the hot coals. Aragorn's body instinctively flinched away as the blazing metal was held above his face.

"You could yield," the man suggested.

"No." The man nodded to the other, who stepped up to the table with a knife and cut away Aragorn's clothes. As the tattered remnants of his shirt was pulled away, he felt his flesh tear with it and let out a cry, hastily bitten back.

For a moment nothing happened, then the man pressed the iron against Aragorn's side. Aragorn could smell his burning flesh as the iron pressed agonisingly against his skin. He screamed as the man ran into up his side, leaving a trail of white hot pain in its wake. As the iron was pressed hard into his armpit, he screamed again.

The pain continued as the man moved round the table and began again on that side. Soon Aragorn could think of nothing beyond the searing, burning agony. His whole world contracted until it contained only him and the blazing irons and the stench of his only burning flesh.

At last the man moved away, and Aragorn began to pray that it was over. But he returned, with two irons this time. Aragorn tried to twist away, but he shoved one under his back. He couldn't move because of the restraints, and his own weight pressed the bleeding gashes in his back down onto the iron. Pure agony flowed in his veins and a scream tore from his throat.

Then the same was down on the other side.

For long, tortuous minutes that stretched on for an eternity, Aragorn lay there, unmoving, as the pain filled his senses.

"Do you yield?" a faraway voice asked. He shook his head, unable to speak. The pain seemed to be dimming, sounds coming from farther away. The world was growing dark and Aragorn knew he was slipping into unconsciousness. He was glad of it.

Suddenly a firm, angry voice spoke. "Enough! Stop this nonsense!" Aragorn managed to turn his head towards the now open door. An old man stood there, white haired, and robed in white. There was something familiar about him, but Aragorn was unable to focus his mind on what. The darkness took him.

***

Author's note: I hope you're all confused. Please let me know what you think.