Author's note: The L-plates are off the car! I repeat, the L-plates are off the car! I passed my driving test with only two minors (you're allowed fifteen)! I've only driven on my own on two occasions, to badminton this morning and yesterday so I could catch a bus to school that doesn't take over an hour and frequently turn up three quarters of an hour late. Ah, the joys of British public transport.
I apologise for the shortness of this chapter, but it was the perfect place to end it. For me anyway, maybe not for you.
***
The night was little improvement on the day. Legolas regained consciousness to the sight of the orcs breaking their camp. The human prisoners had their bonds cut and were made to stand, though the one who had been unconscious during the day was barely able to do even that. Legolas soon realised he was to be carried. He wasn't sure if this was because the orcs knew that he wouldn't be able to run, or if they didn't trust him not to try and fight.
They were quite right in their mistrust. Legolas would try and fight if they gave him even half an opportunity, though he doubted he'd stand much chance. The arrow was still piercing his side, and the wound was an unbearable mass of red flesh. It may have been due to the burning brand they had pressed into it, but Legolas suspected that poison on the arrow's tip was now spreading through his side.
Even the slightest movement made him nauseous. His head spun if he tried to lift it. As the orcs tried to haul him into a vaguely upright position his stomach rebelled against his will and emptied itself on the ground. An orc, stupid even for one of his kind, decided that punching Legolas in the gut was a good way to punish him for his body's involuntary actions, and a second bout followed the first.
The movement of these retches aggravated his wound further, and pain threatened to blank out his senses. Every nerve in his side was screaming at him, but no sound passed his own lips.
He was flung onto the back of an orc and the pack of them set off at a run. The men were in the centre of the group, orcs behind them with whips that were used for apparently no real reason.
The gait of the orc carrying Legolas made the journey very unpleasant for the prisoner. Each step sent a fresh jolt of pain through him, compounding the agony already resident in his side. The vile odour of the orc and the sight of its repulsive face would have been enough to make him empty his stomach again, had there been anything left to empty it of.
He was given no food or drink. He wasn't feeling hungry, most likely due to poison, but it meant the foul taste remained in his mouth. He doubted though that anything the orcs gave him would taste any better.
The orcs ran in no set order. They moved positions and shifted places randomly. At one point Legolas was close to the men. The two he didn't know were conserving their breath for running, but the lord was muttering something. Faintly, under his breath, one name was repeated over and over.
"Ethindal," he whispered, "Ethindal. Ethindal." The name was both a prayer and a promise. His chant was giving him hope, and he needed it. Legolas had none left of his own for them.
He didn't know how long they ran for. It might have been only a few hours, but it could have been an age. He was able to focus on nothing but the pain and so was unaware of the passing of either landscape or time.
Suddenly there was a change. A familiar whistle sounded and an orc collapsed. There were shouts from the rest of the pack. Another whistle came, and an arrow embedded itself in an orc's heart. By this time the whole group was in chaos, grabbing their weapon's and searching for the direction of the attack.
Legolas was dumped roughly, and even the ensuing battle wasn't enough to stop him blacking out momentarily from the pain. He began aware of his surroundings again as an orc fell next to him, almost landing on top of him, and sword so close to Legolas it seemed to be taunting him. With his hands behind his back there was no way he could shift to cut his bonds, not injured as he was.
He needn't have worried about it. In moments a familiar face came out of the darkness, and Damial was there to release his hands. Legolas didn't have time to be amazed. The man began to cut the thicker ropes that were tied round Legolas' legs, intent on his task so that he didn't notice the orc looming behind him.
Legolas grabbed the orc-sword beside him, and stabbed at the only part of the orc within reach: the creature's legs. Damial couldn't fail to notice the sudden movement, and spun round to bury his dagger in the foul thing's heart before returning to his task of freeing Legolas.
Legolas struggled to his feet, somehow managing to stay upright, if rather unsteadily. He still held the orc sword, and stared around at the confusion. He was much better with a bow than a sword, so didn't know what use he would be in his current condition.
He half considered fleeing the battle. After all, what happened to these men was none of his concern. He might even be better off if they died.
He stayed though. It was partly because he didn't think he would be able to get far without help, but mainly because of a sense of duty. It would be cowardly to flee now, and he was no coward. Besides, the lord had tried to keep the orcs from hurting him, surely he was owed something.
Almost before this inner debate reached its inevitable conclusion, Legolas found himself forced to fight. He blocked a blow with his stolen sword more through instinct and luck than any sort of skill. He tried to remember the half-forgotten lessons in swordwork and swung at the orc with the heavy, unfamiliar sword.
He somehow managed to draw blood, but the orc threw aside the next blow as though it was nothing. In a sudden movement Legolas' sword was wrenched free of his hand. The loss of balance from this caused him, in his weakened, pain-filled state, to fall.
He struck the ground painfully, warrior's instincts forcing him to roll onto his back. He saw the orc looming over him, black against the night sky. The dark blade of the sword was poised to fall.
It was as though time stood still. Legolas was unable to move, pain from his side now cutting through his entire upper body. A weakness held him like a spider's web, trapping him in blade. The blade moved, and Legolas' eyes followed it as it made its decent, about to cut his body in two.
But it didn't. Another blade blocked the orc's. Legolas blinked, wondering where this sudden aid had come from. The men's lord dispatched the orc quickly and efficiently, with a sword that must, like Legolas', have been taken from a fallen orc. It was already stained black with orc blood, a sure sign of this man's skill with weapons.
The man set about to prove his skill. He spared Legolas a glance, before he turned to one of the enemy that stood nearby. It didn't stand for long. Staying close to the fallen elf, he dealt with any orc that dared to come near. Around him he could see more falling, though a shadow spreading across his vision made it difficult to tell who's side they were on.
Gradually the night stilled. The clang of steel ceased to ring and the night fell silent, except for a few weak groans and the sound of heavy breathing. Everything seemed to be growing darker. Men were moving about him, blurred, indistinct shadows. He lay there, unable to do anything else.
Was this death? Was this the thing the mortal races feared yet could not avoid?
A hand touched his face, felt his wrist. Legolas could not tell who they belonged to. All he could feel was the pain swimming around him, surging up to swallow him and drag him down into darkness.
***
Author's note: Please don't kill me! *Ducks a large number of heavy objects.* I didn't mean to do it to him, the muse made me!
I apologise for the shortness of this chapter, but it was the perfect place to end it. For me anyway, maybe not for you.
***
The night was little improvement on the day. Legolas regained consciousness to the sight of the orcs breaking their camp. The human prisoners had their bonds cut and were made to stand, though the one who had been unconscious during the day was barely able to do even that. Legolas soon realised he was to be carried. He wasn't sure if this was because the orcs knew that he wouldn't be able to run, or if they didn't trust him not to try and fight.
They were quite right in their mistrust. Legolas would try and fight if they gave him even half an opportunity, though he doubted he'd stand much chance. The arrow was still piercing his side, and the wound was an unbearable mass of red flesh. It may have been due to the burning brand they had pressed into it, but Legolas suspected that poison on the arrow's tip was now spreading through his side.
Even the slightest movement made him nauseous. His head spun if he tried to lift it. As the orcs tried to haul him into a vaguely upright position his stomach rebelled against his will and emptied itself on the ground. An orc, stupid even for one of his kind, decided that punching Legolas in the gut was a good way to punish him for his body's involuntary actions, and a second bout followed the first.
The movement of these retches aggravated his wound further, and pain threatened to blank out his senses. Every nerve in his side was screaming at him, but no sound passed his own lips.
He was flung onto the back of an orc and the pack of them set off at a run. The men were in the centre of the group, orcs behind them with whips that were used for apparently no real reason.
The gait of the orc carrying Legolas made the journey very unpleasant for the prisoner. Each step sent a fresh jolt of pain through him, compounding the agony already resident in his side. The vile odour of the orc and the sight of its repulsive face would have been enough to make him empty his stomach again, had there been anything left to empty it of.
He was given no food or drink. He wasn't feeling hungry, most likely due to poison, but it meant the foul taste remained in his mouth. He doubted though that anything the orcs gave him would taste any better.
The orcs ran in no set order. They moved positions and shifted places randomly. At one point Legolas was close to the men. The two he didn't know were conserving their breath for running, but the lord was muttering something. Faintly, under his breath, one name was repeated over and over.
"Ethindal," he whispered, "Ethindal. Ethindal." The name was both a prayer and a promise. His chant was giving him hope, and he needed it. Legolas had none left of his own for them.
He didn't know how long they ran for. It might have been only a few hours, but it could have been an age. He was able to focus on nothing but the pain and so was unaware of the passing of either landscape or time.
Suddenly there was a change. A familiar whistle sounded and an orc collapsed. There were shouts from the rest of the pack. Another whistle came, and an arrow embedded itself in an orc's heart. By this time the whole group was in chaos, grabbing their weapon's and searching for the direction of the attack.
Legolas was dumped roughly, and even the ensuing battle wasn't enough to stop him blacking out momentarily from the pain. He began aware of his surroundings again as an orc fell next to him, almost landing on top of him, and sword so close to Legolas it seemed to be taunting him. With his hands behind his back there was no way he could shift to cut his bonds, not injured as he was.
He needn't have worried about it. In moments a familiar face came out of the darkness, and Damial was there to release his hands. Legolas didn't have time to be amazed. The man began to cut the thicker ropes that were tied round Legolas' legs, intent on his task so that he didn't notice the orc looming behind him.
Legolas grabbed the orc-sword beside him, and stabbed at the only part of the orc within reach: the creature's legs. Damial couldn't fail to notice the sudden movement, and spun round to bury his dagger in the foul thing's heart before returning to his task of freeing Legolas.
Legolas struggled to his feet, somehow managing to stay upright, if rather unsteadily. He still held the orc sword, and stared around at the confusion. He was much better with a bow than a sword, so didn't know what use he would be in his current condition.
He half considered fleeing the battle. After all, what happened to these men was none of his concern. He might even be better off if they died.
He stayed though. It was partly because he didn't think he would be able to get far without help, but mainly because of a sense of duty. It would be cowardly to flee now, and he was no coward. Besides, the lord had tried to keep the orcs from hurting him, surely he was owed something.
Almost before this inner debate reached its inevitable conclusion, Legolas found himself forced to fight. He blocked a blow with his stolen sword more through instinct and luck than any sort of skill. He tried to remember the half-forgotten lessons in swordwork and swung at the orc with the heavy, unfamiliar sword.
He somehow managed to draw blood, but the orc threw aside the next blow as though it was nothing. In a sudden movement Legolas' sword was wrenched free of his hand. The loss of balance from this caused him, in his weakened, pain-filled state, to fall.
He struck the ground painfully, warrior's instincts forcing him to roll onto his back. He saw the orc looming over him, black against the night sky. The dark blade of the sword was poised to fall.
It was as though time stood still. Legolas was unable to move, pain from his side now cutting through his entire upper body. A weakness held him like a spider's web, trapping him in blade. The blade moved, and Legolas' eyes followed it as it made its decent, about to cut his body in two.
But it didn't. Another blade blocked the orc's. Legolas blinked, wondering where this sudden aid had come from. The men's lord dispatched the orc quickly and efficiently, with a sword that must, like Legolas', have been taken from a fallen orc. It was already stained black with orc blood, a sure sign of this man's skill with weapons.
The man set about to prove his skill. He spared Legolas a glance, before he turned to one of the enemy that stood nearby. It didn't stand for long. Staying close to the fallen elf, he dealt with any orc that dared to come near. Around him he could see more falling, though a shadow spreading across his vision made it difficult to tell who's side they were on.
Gradually the night stilled. The clang of steel ceased to ring and the night fell silent, except for a few weak groans and the sound of heavy breathing. Everything seemed to be growing darker. Men were moving about him, blurred, indistinct shadows. He lay there, unable to do anything else.
Was this death? Was this the thing the mortal races feared yet could not avoid?
A hand touched his face, felt his wrist. Legolas could not tell who they belonged to. All he could feel was the pain swimming around him, surging up to swallow him and drag him down into darkness.
***
Author's note: Please don't kill me! *Ducks a large number of heavy objects.* I didn't mean to do it to him, the muse made me!