Deana: *stares blankly while trying to think of a way to respond to that* Uh. Right. *g* Thanks for reviewing.
Bill the Pony: You found cliffie medication? I feel so much better now. Would you be mad if I said I think the cliffies get worse? Now wait! *holds out hand in placating gesture* I said "think." The truth is, I can't remember. Mm, unless I am mistaken, and I have no way to judge if I am, I think I have seen maybe three other people with the name "Bill the Pony." That's what I mean. *g*
Gumpy: lol. A pot over a fire? Where do you come up with these? *smiles fondly* Well, rest assured they will not end up there. Hehe. *looks grave* I'm afraid Dr. Phil could not help him. The rock would likely get through more, though you might have to hit him really hard. He has a hard head, you know.
NaughtyNat: Glad you're enjoying, and I await your proper review. *briefly looks back over review* *blinks* *blinks again* lol. Sorry. I go through weird spells, but I'm not crazy. I'm not.
Let's see now. I don't think this chapter is up to my usual standards, but I hope it will be entertaining nonetheless, and I plan on proofreading the next chapter now so it's done when I have to post again.
If you review fast, I'll post it on schedule. Meaning in two days. If not, I'm afraid you'll have to wait the customary three days. *g* I'm not fond of blackmailing, really. It's up to you. *smiles* See, I've given you the opportunity to prosper. Lol. Okay, I'll just post this and go, now.
Chapter 12
Inner Turmoil, Outer Pain
Distantly, Aragorn wondered why he even bothered to wake up. Since so many people seemed to want him to sleep so much, surely the least he could do was oblige their desires and sleep forever. He vaguely wondered why no one had ever thought of that before. Then he wondered why he would think of that when he was the one who never liked being drugged to sleep in the first place.
He frowned. Drugged to sleep? He had been drugged?
Slowly, ever so slowly (to his mind), the memories came back: the nightmare, the numerous talks after, the depression, the feast, the toast . . . and then nothing. The wine had definitely been drugged. He spared a brief moment of irritation for people who thought they knew what he needed better than he did and took it upon themselves to remedy the situation by putting him to sleep.
Then, he woke up. Or rather, he became aware, truly aware, of his situation for the first time since consciousness returned, and was rather surprised to find he was sitting. That did not sound like Legolas at all. Exploratory movement (as in trying to shift his hands up to his head to combat the headache he had become aware of once he woke) failed miserably. His arms were bound, as were his feet.
Bleary eyes opened, flickering quickly in anticipation of blinding pokers being stuck in them the moment the lids moved aside. Finding that not as painful as he had expected, he tried again, opening them a bit slower this time, for a bit longer. Than again, and again, until he managed to pry his eyes open.
At first he thought he was in the dark. Then he realized he could see, which required light. After a moment, in which he tried to determine how he could see, he concluded the light was outside his--where he was--and seeping in, creating the faint glow that vaguely illuminated the room.
By that light, Aragorn could make out stone walls surrounding him--at least as far as he could see from his position. Letting his head fall back against the back of his chair again, the ranger closed his eyes. It's another cave, he thought bleakly. Under another mountain.
Had he not had an odd feeling of being watched, and that whoever held him would like it, he would have rapped his head against the back of the chair repeatedly and with vigor. Still, he was hard pressed to release the coiled frustration inside him. Why could he not keep out of trouble?
A new thought, however, overpowered the first. Where was Legolas? Obviously, this was not the elf's doing. No matter how frustrated his friend got with him, he would never drug him, tie him to a chair, and leave him in a cave. The first two perhaps, but the cave was out; and that meant someone else had done this.
That also meant Legolas could be in trouble, and likely was, especially since he did not think he had been roped into this for tea. His lips tightened. What is it with me? he thought furiously. Why can I never go somewhere without either me or a friend ending up in more trouble than anyone should have to deal with?
He leaned forward, then slumped back as the ropes gave not at all. His head flopped back, and he cringed, the thud of impact ringing through his head like thunder, a convincing analogy as he had seen the flash of light just seconds before.
A deep breath later, he convinced himself he could open his eyes. Footsteps, quiet but unmistakable, echoed through the cavern. He tensed, caught between dread at what the footsteps meant and satisfaction that he was about to discover who held him captive.
He was momentarily flummoxed when a woman walked into view: curly dark hair flowing down to her waist and swinging slowly from side-to-side with her smooth gait. Her green-gray eyes glowed brightly against her marble skin. She looked to be young, no more than thirty winters, and yet she seemed far older.
Something brushed against his senses, and he squirmed slightly, his gaze riveted on her slender form. A flowing golden dress graced her body, reaching down to her feet, and she seemed to float, her movements so graceful as to be almost elvish, and yet she was not an elf, not even--as had seemed with Kalya--of elven descent. She was mortal, he was sure.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice steady. Something was gained, apparently, by being constantly threatened with death: you learned to keep fear out of your voice. There were other things he would wish for.
A smile, almost predatory, as she stepped closer. "You are quite handsome," she demurred, her voice a low purr. "And a Ranger, too. A pity I shall not keep you long, though perhaps you will stay with me longer than the others."
He blinked, perplexed. "Who are you?" he tried again.
Her gaze flickered over him before she continued on behind him. "You need not know," she said, her voice floating to him from somewhere past his sight, no matter how he turned to look. A few clinks bounced to his hearing. "But I shall tell you. It is a name you will grow to hate, nearly as much as I hate you."
"Hate me? How can you hate me? You do not know me."
She walked back around him, anger--old anger--flashing in her eyes. "Oh, but I do," she hissed. "I know your kind very well. You rush into danger, heedless of what it costs. You leave your loved ones behind to rot, to worry. You revel in their pain." He shook his head, but she gave him no chance to speak. "You are every bit the same as every other Man that has ever walked Middle-earth. You all deserve to suffer for what you have done." Her hard gaze flashed to him. "Do not deny it. You fight your wars. You leave women, children, behind. Family, friends. They mean nothing to you. You die, and you care not."
The tension seemed to leave her, and she smiled. After the anger he had seen, it held no comfort, though it might have at any other time. "But that is why you are here. All Men shall never pay for the folly they perpetrate, but you shall. Your life shall buy the rest of your kindred theirs; yours and your friend." She edged closer and ran a delicate hand down the side of his face, and he shivered at the touch, which felt like ice. "Yes. You two will do quite nicely."
She pulled away and circled around behind him once more. He could not see what she was doing, but he was fairly positive he would not enjoy it in the least. The slight sounds he could hear did nothing for his peace of mind.
Finally, there was a scraping across the floor, the sound of something being dragged, and after a few moments, the woman came back into view. A chair pulled by one hand, and rope in the other, she pause before him. "I am Kaialian, and you will know me before the end."
That said, she released the chair and walked closer to him, dropping a length of rope across the seat before unfurling the next. Then she grasped his hand, turning it palm up before he could even think to resist. The rope was wound around it, holding it in place. He frowned slightly, but tried to resist when she tried for the other.
As often happens, trying can fail, and he did. Kaialian was surprisingly strong, and his hand was wrenched into the position she wanted, eliciting a wince from Aragorn as she secured his hand, twisted uncomfortably in the bonds.
"As I was left to suffer slowly, so shall you be, Ranger. I am in no hurry, unfortunately for you. See, I have all the time in the world, all the ages. You are but a flicker in that time. But you will be an entertaining flicker."
He watched with wary eyes as she pulled out a six inch long dagger that was, to his trained eye, of elvish make. Idly, he wondered where she had found the weapon. It flashed dully as it was lowered towards his wrist. She cut lightly across his palm between two coils of rope, more tickling than hurting, but he could feel moisture swell.
She smiled, then pulled her chair closer and sat down. "I wonder how long you will last."
Then she lowered the knife, and beginning at the base of his palm, she cut, deep enough to break the skin, shallow enough not to hit the artery. Having expected it, the pain that burned did little more than make him tense. A centimeter higher, she cut again. Another centimeter higher, her blade sliced his skin once more. Over and over, precise and evenly spaced. The pain built and he had to clench his teeth against the sounds of pain that desperately wanted release.
Blood trickled down his arm, coating it in red before dripping onto the floor. When she reached his elbow, she stopped. He watched with pain glazed eyes as she shifted to the other side and began the process once again, beginning with the tickle-cut across his palm.
A feral smile lit her face, and she started working her way up his arm once more. Trembling slightly against the pain, his breathing ragged, he clenched his eyes shut and attempted desperately to shut out the pain. Each cut hurt little, on its own, but together, they were beginning to drive him mad.
Vaguely, he wondered how long it would take before he finally lost enough blood to pass out. He glanced at his lower arm, taking in the blood. Not nearly little enough. He gasped in startled pain as the crease at his elbow was sliced through, half choking when his saliva was sucked down the wrong pipe at the sudden intake.
He coughed helplessly, the jerking motions pulling his arms and rubbing the ropes against the cuts that were near them. Burning pain, enough to torment, but not enough to endanger, flowed through him.
After several minutes, he realized she had stopped. He looked at her dully. Her eyes had a mad light in them and she was watching his arm in apparent fascination. Eventually, she noticed his gaze, and looked up at him.
Her lips twisted. "You bleed prettily," she purred, running her fingernails lightly down his arm and sending shuddering pain down the length of his appendage. A choked gasp escaped his lips. A pink tongue flickered out to lick daintily at her fingers, and she smiled in contentment. "Mm. Your blood is sweet. No worries, my sweet, you will not bleed to death yet. We will play together again later. Now, I want to visit my Elf. It's been so long since I've had one of them." The dagger was looked at idly, reminiscent fascination crossing her face.
She pouted at him. "Don't worry. I won't stay away long."
Her footsteps, soft with her light tread, vanished into the distance, echoing faintly off the walls. Then she was gone.
Had she been going anywhere else, he would have felt relieved. As it was, only a different kind of dread festered in his stomach, leaving it a writhing mess. He stared after her, praying for her return. Had bile not been rising in the back of his throat, he would have found a bit of dark humor in the fact that moments before, he had been wishing for her departure, only to now be wishing for her return.
Instead, he waited with baited breath for the sounds of her returning footsteps, both dreading and hoping for her swift return.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Legolas woke swiftly, consciousness flaring as he realized he was trapped. Alert eyes scanned his surroundings, searching his surroundings for whoever was responsible for his captivity.
Finding no one, he began pulling at his bonds, testing their hold. To his disgust, they held, budging not even an inch. He glared, then slumped back down. Annoyance at himself for not seeing this treachery combined with his agitation at not managing to free himself, to form a dark well of frustration.
Fiery eyes once again looked around him, this time with the less immediate goal of discovering what was around him. His spine stiffened as he recognized, from the universal conformity of them, that he was, once again, inside a cave.
The elf groaned. He should have known.
It never failed. Every time he and Strider were together and near caves, they somehow always ended up inside them, and usually trapped, whether by design or accident.
Blue eyes traced around him, looking for what was responsible for the faint glow that was the room's lone illumination, and winced as he found it, the light darting into his eyes and forcing them to contract quicker than they were pleased with. At least, that was what the knife that suddenly stabbed into his skull told him.
The sound of approaching footsteps tempted his eyes open, curious to see who had captured them this time. A smile twitched at his lips in spite of himself, and he decided that the ranger's sense of humor was contagious.
Intent blue eyes narrowed as a shadow jumped onto a wall, but he could make nothing of the shadow. He did not have to wait long, however, to discover who had cast it.
He blinked. A girl. Then again, he had never been good at judging a human's age, not even after more prolonged contact with them. No, not a girl. A woman. She smiled. Not a friendly one, either.
The elf prince held his tongue as she came closer, studying her. It did not take long to notice the dark red spots that clung to the hem of her dress, spots that looked suspiciously like blood. It suddenly occurred to him, as it had not before, that he knew not where Aragorn was.
Looking more closely, he caught the sight of blood that also stained her sleeves, and a touch of red on her hands. He would be quite surprised to discover it was hers, but he suspected it was the human's.
"What have you done with my friend?" he finally demanded, concern for his friend erasing any fear he held for himself.
She smirked and wiped casually at her hands. "Funny, he never asked about you."
"Leave him alone."
"Tsk, tsk, my dear elf," she purred. "Presuming to order me around, when it is I who command you. Really, one would think you knew nothing of this sort of thing."
He glared at her, his ire rising. "We have powerful friends. You would do better to release us."
"Indeed?" she asked with an ironic smirk. "Unfortunately I rather like the little Ranger and would prefer to keep him. Perhaps if I'm pleased, I'll even let you see him." Her head tilted slightly as she regarded him with a distant grin, more looking through him if the focus of her eyes was any indication. He shifted uncomfortably.
"What do you want with us?"
Her gaze refocused. "That, you will discover soon enough. I think the experience is always better than the telling."
He tensed against the bonds that held him, pulling. They gave no more than they had the first time. Regretfully, that meant he was well and truly stuck. The woman stepped closer. "I don't not think I shall do to you what I did to your human friend, dear elf," she cooed, running her fingernail lightly across his skin moving up his arm with each slice. "Elves are better suited to different games."
With that, she walked away, disappearing down a tunnel to his left and vanishing from sight. Once more, hoping that the first two times had been mistakes, he pulled at his bonds. No different fortune met his attempts and he glared down at the ropes that held him, realizing rather distantly that they were elvish ropes out of the palace. Legolas was sure that Aragorn, had he known, would find it hilarious.
Light, quickly moving footfalls reached his ears, and he watched as the lady moved towards him. "What's your name?" he asked, deciding he had nothing to lose by asking.
"Kaialian," she answered, gifting him with a predatory smile. "You will get to know me very well in the coming months, assuming you live so long." Her gaze traveled the length of his body. "I think you will."
Wary blue eyes followed her movements as she carried a small black cauldron over near him and set it at his feet before disappearing from his line of sight, only to reappear moments later with another chair, and what looked to be a long needle.
She sat in the chair near him, scooting so she had easy access to his upper arm. A small cloth appeared in her hand and she washed the area. "I have seen that Men care dearly for showing off their trophies, accomplishments." She met his gaze with a weighty one of her own. "Scars. Battle scars as proof of their accomplishments. Each victory is better than the last, and death is no scary thing, so long as they have glory. Glory," she spat. "What good is glory to the grieving left behind?" She pulled at something along the back leg of the chair, and a small arm for holding something swung up. The cauldron was hung on it and the elf felt the heat, though it was not uncomfortable as it might have been to a human.
"I hope you are comfortable, dear Elf," she told him, nearly sounding genuine. "For you will not be going anywhere for a long time."
Then she picked up the needle and another contraption he had never seen before. He frowned as she poked his skin. Before he could puzzle out what she was doing, burning hot liquid was forced under his skin. His breath caught, and he tensed, but refused to cry out.
Conversationally, Kaialian began speaking, and he did his best to focus on her voice instead of the pain, with only minimal success. "There was a people many years ago, though I think you would remember them, who used pictures to depict their great achievements. To show them off, they put the pictures on their body, and the only way to make them stay, was to insert the ink under their skin."
Some part of his mind found this little tidbit intriguing (the same part that could still think, interestingly enough), and began spinning in an attempt to puzzle out who, exactly, these people were. It sounded vaguely familiar.
"For you, I think I will do a mountain. The catch, of course, is that I cannot use ink. Poking hundreds of little holes in a being's skin is quite painful, but not nearly painful enough. So I have decided to use tar, and it's only pliable enough when it's hot. It works even better than I had originally planned."
Another stab of fire was placed in his arm and he let his breath out in a ragged hiss, sucking the next breath in between his teeth. Each prick, each insertion of tar, each repeated. His arm felt like it was on fire, the nerves sizzling, the pain spreading up and down his arm, up into his shoulder, and was reaching out for more, a larger area.
With his left hand, he grasped desperately at the armrest, squeezing tightly to try and distract his mind from what the woman was doing. It did not work. Frantically, he scrambled for some avenue his thoughts could wander to get away from the pain, ignore it, so he would not have to admit how much it hurt.
Finally, though, she reached the tenderer underside of his arm, and he was lost. A scream, full of pure agony, ripped past his throat, echoing and bouncing off the walls, rebounding and thrown back at him. He ran out of breath and choked in some more. He tried to pull away, mindlessly yanking at the ropes, but he could not escape. More fire was inserted and he screamed again, twisting his head from side to side. Tears he was not aware of streamed down his cheeks.
How long it continued, he could not say, but before it was over, his mind had fled to other realms.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
More than an hour later, Aragorn was still staring towards where that woman had disappeared. Dread anticipation had speared adrenaline through his system, and the fear he felt for his friend kept it flowing. Maintaining such high awareness, however, was tiring and his body was beginning to tremble.
His arms had stopped bleeding, never meant to do more than cause pain, and the dried blood caked his arms still tied palm up. They ached distantly, more an echo than any actual pain, but then, he actually had not had an opportunity to move them yet.
Those wounds, however, were the last thing on his mind. What will she do to Legolas? He had not been too bad, comparatively speaking, since he had experienced worse, but he had no idea if she intended to be as lenient with his friend.
What will she do to him? Oh, Legolas, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I try to protect, want to protect you, and all I do is end up getting us in trouble. Why did I trust them? I shouldn't have trusted them. Oh, Legolas. Legolas, I'm so sorry. . . .
His mind spun in circles, apologizing and worrying in turn, then creating a hundred different scenarios, each one worse than the last as fear arched through his mind. Dark shadows seemed to swirl around the room.
Then it happened, and his mind froze. He heard a scream.
The pain-filled sound echoed up from the hallway he had been watching, and the human cringed away from the sound, feeling it in his heart. The stone threw the sound around the human's head, taunting him with the knowledge that his friend was in terrible pain and he could do nothing to help.
Soon another joined the first, dancing around the room and frolicking in his head, tormenting the young ranger with his helplessness. Then another joined those, and another. Before long a steady stream was coming, never even giving the previous ones a chance to dissipate before joining the storm.
He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out sight of the passage he had long be watching, his body perfectly rigid, almost as if he was tensed against whatever blows were befalling his friend.
His mind tormented him with grim knowledge. It's your fault. It's all your fault. You're going to die, he's going to die, and it's going to be all your fault. He's going to die, and his father and your father and your brothers and everyone in Mirkwood is going to hate you because you killed him. You got him killed. It's your fault and everyone's going to blame you. Everyone's going to be right because you were wrong. You got him killed.
You got him killed. It's your fault. . . . The words echoed over and over in his overwrought mind, and he twisted his head form side to side as tears slipped over the sides, weakly denying the condemnation thrown at him. His friend's words still guarded his heart, but with every scream, every repeated condemnation, that hold slipped a little more.
The Ungwale residue wanted control, and it was winning. Aragorn was slipping into despair, into darkness.
He never noticed when Legolas stopped screaming; he heard the elf's cries in his head, and they never went away. Sightlessly, he stared down the passageway, locked in his own hopelessness.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
She stood, a satisfied smile on her face. The elf had reacted better than she had imagined he would. His screams were simply delicious. The pain must have been exquisite to wring a response so quickly from the habitually stubborn eldar. Perhaps she should do it again.
Her smile widened. That could be fun; he screamed so beautifully. Of course, that reminded her of the ranger, who had not screamed at all.
On the other hand, maybe I should turn this on him. She shook her head, and began gathering her tools to clean them so they could be reused. No, the ranger will not last long enough with the same torture. Elves are stronger, after all. No, she would have to come up with something else, something quite painful, she suspected, if she desired to wring such lovely screams from that light forsaken Dúnadan.
She bit her lower lip lightly as she considered. Her eyes traveled towards the cavern where she had left the ranger, not so very far away, and slowly, the smile crept back onto her face. She suspected the ranger was well aware of his friend's plight. The woman doubted there was anything she could do that would hurt the other more. Hearing a friend's pain, she had heard, was quite painful, after all. She glanced at the elf. That gave her a wonderful idea.
With a light step, she carried her toys away, already planning how she would hurt the elf--through the ranger. The two friends would be the other's bane. That was delicious. A delighted laugh echoed through the cavern, heard by neither prisoner.
A Númenorean and an elf, two beings of the races responsible for her plight. This could not have been better had she actually planned it. Next year, she would reward the fools of Meertown, and only demand one sacrifice. They had pleased her.
Idly, she fingered her charm necklace.