Author's note: All those who asked for a quick update: is this quick enough? Trust me, reviewing does do some good. Now I need to go do some stats. Grr. I hate stats. Pure maths is much more interesting, especially when we get the teacher side tracked and discuss mutil-dimensional theory or the proof that all numbers equal zero.
My friend Gemma spent most of flock putting my friend Jen's hair into a Legolas style. I'm not sure why, because Jen isn't even a big Legolas fan, she prefers Pippin and even named her Shetland pony after him, a bit worrying since the pony's a girl. Flock's an informal choir, which doesn't require its members to actually be able to sing in tune. Thankfully there are enough decent singers to drown out the sound of my voice.
***
Pain. So much pain. Pain grasping his wrists and holding them relentlessly behind his back. Pain the clawed at his legs, digging into his flesh. Pain throbbing through his head, clouding his thoughts and numbing his brain. And above all, pain in his side that pulsed with the beating of his heart, clutching with tight fingers at his torso and making it hard to breathe.
There was a swish and crack. Legolas braced himself for the whip's blow, but felt nothing. The swish and crack came again, then again. Harsh, guttural laughter grated at his ears, followed by a voice filled with cruelty.
"Why don't you scream?" the voice mocked, "Scream and we'll let you be? Scream and we'll let you have rest?" Laughter joined the words, and the whip struck again.
Legolas forced himself to open his eyes, the dim light that struck him still to bright. It stabbed into his throbbing head with blades. Still, he had to look. He had to know what was happening.
The sight of the orcs filled him with revulsion. They did not surround him, but there were a large number only a short distance from where he lay, bound cruelly, on the rough ground. A couple of men lay nearby, men of the company who's names Legolas had never discovered. One was clearly wounded, a tear in his shirt soaked with blood. The other was staring at the crowd of orcs.
Legolas turned his attention that direction. Somewhere in the middle was the orc who had spoken, the one with the whip. As the crowd shifted slightly, Legolas was given a brief glimpse of the object of their amusement.
Strung from a tree by arms suspended above his head, his form battered and bloodied, was the men's lord. He looked far less like the lord he was, though his mouth was clamped shut with stubbornness and pride equal to his station. Perhaps Ethindal had been right to compare them, since Legolas knew that he would be doing the same if he were the one strung up like that.
The orcs moved again, still intent on their victim, blocking Legolas' view. The elf glanced round, trying to take stock of the situation. A small stream, that must have flown wider in times past, had worn a rocky gully. At the gully's top foliage leaned across the gap, shadowing the base from the sunlight. Orcs hated the sun, and so must be waiting here for the night to come, choosing to occupy themselves with prisoners.
Legolas looked down at his own form. His hands were obviously bound behind him, rough ropes digging into his skin, cutting off the blood supply to his hands. More ropes wound around his knees and ankles, making it difficult to even move. But most obvious to him was the source of his agony.
An arrow was in his side. It had cut through his flesh completely and remained imbedded. Judging from the blood that stained his tunic, the wound had bleed freely for some time. Dirt and blood clogged the wound. The arrow's tip was dark and sticky with blood and something else. Poison?
Unfortunately, his movements had attracted the attention of at least one of the orcs.
"The pretty's awake," one called out. The crowd shifted so that they could view the prone elf.
"You'll be good for some fun," one of them sneered. There was laughter and a few comments in their own foul tongue. The movement of the crowd allowed Legolas another look at the lord. Despite obvious pain, he was looking straight at Legolas with an intense gaze.
"Given up on me already?" he said. Legolas was puzzled for an instant, wondering why he was saying that to him. It was only when the man went on that he realised the comments were addressed to the orcs. "You know you'll not get what you want from me to you just give in."
Angry growls came from the orcs. Even with his mind fogged by pain, it soon became apparent to Legolas that the human was deliberately goading the orcs. But why? To protect him? Why would he do such a thing at his own expense?
"I never knew there was enough brain in an orc's head to tell when he was beaten," the man went on. The orcs were getting furious now. The orc holding the whip seized the man by the hair roughly.
"You want to protect the pretty elf," the orc said, with more insight than Legolas would have thought possible for one of these creatures. "Maybe you should listen to him scream. Would that hurt you?"
Legolas found himself seized firmly and hauled over to the tree where the man was tied. Bound as he was, he couldn't fight free of their grasps. The arrow in his side was jarred by the movement, until the soaring pain was enough to dim his awareness of his surroundings.
When he was able to focus again, he was bound to the trunk of a tree by ropes round his waist. He was on his feet, but it was really the ropes keeping him upright. They were pressing on his wounded side, driving the arrow further into his torn flesh.
The crack was all the warning he had, then raw fire lay in a line down his back as the whip struck. Sharp hooks in the leather tore had his flesh, cutting through his tender skin. The whip struck again, then again. Legolas bit his lip until the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. He focused as well as he could on this little bit of pain he could control.
His back was weeping crimson. His life flowed in a sticky mess through the tattered remains of his tunic as the whip ate deeper into his flesh. Tears were held back by force of will, screams by pride. He would not let these orcs defeat him. He would not let the man prove better than the elf.
All his screams were inside his mind. None ever passed his lips, which were being cut into by his teeth in order to keep the silence as his back was cut into be the whip. It cracked and struck, cracked and struck, so many times that Legolas ceased to be able to count. It seemed as though his whole world had shrunk to this cocoon of pain and the sound that delivered it. It could have been years that he hung there, listening and feeling, agony coursing his veins to replace the spilt blood.
At last the whip fell silent as the blows ceased to fall. Legolas' head rested against the rough bark, feeling the life of the tree in front of him. His back blazed as though a fire had been set in his flesh. He could still feel the whip, even though it was no longer there. His eyes were closed to block the tears, but his teeth loosened their grip on his lip.
He had never felt such pain.
Living in Mirkwood, he had hunted and fought many foul creatures, but never before had he been tortured by them. Never before had he been taken prisoner in this way. He would make it right. Somehow.
Just as his muscles, held taught from the pain of the blows, began to loosen and relax, insofar as such a thing was possible, a new assault of pain hit him.
Something was pressed against the arrow protruding from his back. Something of such scorching heat that he could smell his flesh burning, skin searing. Heat, burning, blazing heat, reached inside to the very core of his being and crumpled his pride. Stubbornness melted under this onslaught.
He screamed.
He screamed until the sound drowned out the sound of orc laughter. He screamed until his throat was raw. He screamed until his voice was dying in his throat. And still he screamed on.
He was barely aware as they cut him down and flung him to the ground. His voice had given in until he could gasp from the pain. Blurred eyes blinked open dazedly, and saw a face lying nearby.
The man was looking at him. His eyes were filled with moisture, but his cheeks were dry. The emotion behind the restrained tears was partly to do with Legolas, but partly due to something in his hidden past.
"I'm sorry," the man whispered. His voice was barely audible, a futile gesture against the darkness surrounding him. Legolas couldn't tell if he was speaking to him, or to some ghost from a time never to be forgotten. It didn't matter. Legolas managed a weak smile. A thank you for the attempt of help the man had shown him.
As darkness grew up around his vision, Legolas welcomed it, a release from the pain clutching at him. He closed his eyes and let himself fall unconscious, praying that when he returned to the waking world, it would be an improvement.
***
Author's note: All those who thought that the lord was the one who injured Legolas, you should learn not to assume things. Especially when I'm in writing the story.
There's a convention on the seventh of March that I'll be going to, hopefully with a dealer pass so I can get in for free and maybe skip queues. Jen's already said she wants to get the Billy Boyd queue. There are major advantages to making friends with the people in the Movie Store. Admittedly we will actually have to work while we're at the convention, but it'll be much more interesting than my regular work and more rewarding, since the dealer pass is probably worth as much as my normal wages (£2.75 an hour: practically slave labour.)
Lyn, I can't comment on the opinions of anyone else of ff.net, but I'll attempt to answer your questions with my views. I believe that sex isn't something that should be taken lightly. I feel that someone should only sleep with a person they truly love and want to spend their life with. I think that it is the love and commitment that is most important, not the actual marriage. Marriage vows are just confirming what is already in the heart.
I don't condemn other people if they feel differently. Everyone's entitled to their opinion.
My friend Gemma spent most of flock putting my friend Jen's hair into a Legolas style. I'm not sure why, because Jen isn't even a big Legolas fan, she prefers Pippin and even named her Shetland pony after him, a bit worrying since the pony's a girl. Flock's an informal choir, which doesn't require its members to actually be able to sing in tune. Thankfully there are enough decent singers to drown out the sound of my voice.
***
Pain. So much pain. Pain grasping his wrists and holding them relentlessly behind his back. Pain the clawed at his legs, digging into his flesh. Pain throbbing through his head, clouding his thoughts and numbing his brain. And above all, pain in his side that pulsed with the beating of his heart, clutching with tight fingers at his torso and making it hard to breathe.
There was a swish and crack. Legolas braced himself for the whip's blow, but felt nothing. The swish and crack came again, then again. Harsh, guttural laughter grated at his ears, followed by a voice filled with cruelty.
"Why don't you scream?" the voice mocked, "Scream and we'll let you be? Scream and we'll let you have rest?" Laughter joined the words, and the whip struck again.
Legolas forced himself to open his eyes, the dim light that struck him still to bright. It stabbed into his throbbing head with blades. Still, he had to look. He had to know what was happening.
The sight of the orcs filled him with revulsion. They did not surround him, but there were a large number only a short distance from where he lay, bound cruelly, on the rough ground. A couple of men lay nearby, men of the company who's names Legolas had never discovered. One was clearly wounded, a tear in his shirt soaked with blood. The other was staring at the crowd of orcs.
Legolas turned his attention that direction. Somewhere in the middle was the orc who had spoken, the one with the whip. As the crowd shifted slightly, Legolas was given a brief glimpse of the object of their amusement.
Strung from a tree by arms suspended above his head, his form battered and bloodied, was the men's lord. He looked far less like the lord he was, though his mouth was clamped shut with stubbornness and pride equal to his station. Perhaps Ethindal had been right to compare them, since Legolas knew that he would be doing the same if he were the one strung up like that.
The orcs moved again, still intent on their victim, blocking Legolas' view. The elf glanced round, trying to take stock of the situation. A small stream, that must have flown wider in times past, had worn a rocky gully. At the gully's top foliage leaned across the gap, shadowing the base from the sunlight. Orcs hated the sun, and so must be waiting here for the night to come, choosing to occupy themselves with prisoners.
Legolas looked down at his own form. His hands were obviously bound behind him, rough ropes digging into his skin, cutting off the blood supply to his hands. More ropes wound around his knees and ankles, making it difficult to even move. But most obvious to him was the source of his agony.
An arrow was in his side. It had cut through his flesh completely and remained imbedded. Judging from the blood that stained his tunic, the wound had bleed freely for some time. Dirt and blood clogged the wound. The arrow's tip was dark and sticky with blood and something else. Poison?
Unfortunately, his movements had attracted the attention of at least one of the orcs.
"The pretty's awake," one called out. The crowd shifted so that they could view the prone elf.
"You'll be good for some fun," one of them sneered. There was laughter and a few comments in their own foul tongue. The movement of the crowd allowed Legolas another look at the lord. Despite obvious pain, he was looking straight at Legolas with an intense gaze.
"Given up on me already?" he said. Legolas was puzzled for an instant, wondering why he was saying that to him. It was only when the man went on that he realised the comments were addressed to the orcs. "You know you'll not get what you want from me to you just give in."
Angry growls came from the orcs. Even with his mind fogged by pain, it soon became apparent to Legolas that the human was deliberately goading the orcs. But why? To protect him? Why would he do such a thing at his own expense?
"I never knew there was enough brain in an orc's head to tell when he was beaten," the man went on. The orcs were getting furious now. The orc holding the whip seized the man by the hair roughly.
"You want to protect the pretty elf," the orc said, with more insight than Legolas would have thought possible for one of these creatures. "Maybe you should listen to him scream. Would that hurt you?"
Legolas found himself seized firmly and hauled over to the tree where the man was tied. Bound as he was, he couldn't fight free of their grasps. The arrow in his side was jarred by the movement, until the soaring pain was enough to dim his awareness of his surroundings.
When he was able to focus again, he was bound to the trunk of a tree by ropes round his waist. He was on his feet, but it was really the ropes keeping him upright. They were pressing on his wounded side, driving the arrow further into his torn flesh.
The crack was all the warning he had, then raw fire lay in a line down his back as the whip struck. Sharp hooks in the leather tore had his flesh, cutting through his tender skin. The whip struck again, then again. Legolas bit his lip until the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. He focused as well as he could on this little bit of pain he could control.
His back was weeping crimson. His life flowed in a sticky mess through the tattered remains of his tunic as the whip ate deeper into his flesh. Tears were held back by force of will, screams by pride. He would not let these orcs defeat him. He would not let the man prove better than the elf.
All his screams were inside his mind. None ever passed his lips, which were being cut into by his teeth in order to keep the silence as his back was cut into be the whip. It cracked and struck, cracked and struck, so many times that Legolas ceased to be able to count. It seemed as though his whole world had shrunk to this cocoon of pain and the sound that delivered it. It could have been years that he hung there, listening and feeling, agony coursing his veins to replace the spilt blood.
At last the whip fell silent as the blows ceased to fall. Legolas' head rested against the rough bark, feeling the life of the tree in front of him. His back blazed as though a fire had been set in his flesh. He could still feel the whip, even though it was no longer there. His eyes were closed to block the tears, but his teeth loosened their grip on his lip.
He had never felt such pain.
Living in Mirkwood, he had hunted and fought many foul creatures, but never before had he been tortured by them. Never before had he been taken prisoner in this way. He would make it right. Somehow.
Just as his muscles, held taught from the pain of the blows, began to loosen and relax, insofar as such a thing was possible, a new assault of pain hit him.
Something was pressed against the arrow protruding from his back. Something of such scorching heat that he could smell his flesh burning, skin searing. Heat, burning, blazing heat, reached inside to the very core of his being and crumpled his pride. Stubbornness melted under this onslaught.
He screamed.
He screamed until the sound drowned out the sound of orc laughter. He screamed until his throat was raw. He screamed until his voice was dying in his throat. And still he screamed on.
He was barely aware as they cut him down and flung him to the ground. His voice had given in until he could gasp from the pain. Blurred eyes blinked open dazedly, and saw a face lying nearby.
The man was looking at him. His eyes were filled with moisture, but his cheeks were dry. The emotion behind the restrained tears was partly to do with Legolas, but partly due to something in his hidden past.
"I'm sorry," the man whispered. His voice was barely audible, a futile gesture against the darkness surrounding him. Legolas couldn't tell if he was speaking to him, or to some ghost from a time never to be forgotten. It didn't matter. Legolas managed a weak smile. A thank you for the attempt of help the man had shown him.
As darkness grew up around his vision, Legolas welcomed it, a release from the pain clutching at him. He closed his eyes and let himself fall unconscious, praying that when he returned to the waking world, it would be an improvement.
***
Author's note: All those who thought that the lord was the one who injured Legolas, you should learn not to assume things. Especially when I'm in writing the story.
There's a convention on the seventh of March that I'll be going to, hopefully with a dealer pass so I can get in for free and maybe skip queues. Jen's already said she wants to get the Billy Boyd queue. There are major advantages to making friends with the people in the Movie Store. Admittedly we will actually have to work while we're at the convention, but it'll be much more interesting than my regular work and more rewarding, since the dealer pass is probably worth as much as my normal wages (£2.75 an hour: practically slave labour.)
Lyn, I can't comment on the opinions of anyone else of ff.net, but I'll attempt to answer your questions with my views. I believe that sex isn't something that should be taken lightly. I feel that someone should only sleep with a person they truly love and want to spend their life with. I think that it is the love and commitment that is most important, not the actual marriage. Marriage vows are just confirming what is already in the heart.
I don't condemn other people if they feel differently. Everyone's entitled to their opinion.