Author's note: I'm rather disappointed that I haven't had any reviews for the last chapter. If you don't want me to update...
***
His brain was too muddled and confused to make sense of the first noises that crept into his awareness: the small thumps and sounds of things being pushed over and against each other. He could identify the footsteps that came once these had finished. Then came the sound of a door opening and closing. These sounds were gently nudging at his mind to make him awaken, but it wasn't until he heard the sharp click that he came fully conscious.
He blinked himself awake, allowing his eyes to adjust to a world that seemed far too bright. Worry was filling him as he inspected his situation. He knew the sound of a lock when he heard one.
He was lying in an unfamiliar bed in an equally unfamiliar room. Sunlight was coming in through a small window, its progress hindered by thick metal bars. Despite this obvious sign of imprisonment, the room itself was quite pleasant. A small table stood beside the bed, on which stood a glass of water and a simple meal. Another, larger table had some chairs around it. They were hard and wooden, but shaped to be comfortable to the one sitting in them. A cushioned chair was beside the bed, the opposite side to the table, and the soft fabric still bore the imprint of one who had been sitting there until recently. A large chest, engraved with a galloping horse, stood against one wall.
He pushed himself into a sitting position, with some difficulty as his arms didn't seem to want to support him. The blankets slipped down, and Legolas was aware of being naked beneath them. He pulled them up closely around himself in case anyone should walk in through the heavy, oak door.
An aching hunger filled him and refused to be ignored. He decided that the first thing he must do was to devour the meal that had been laid out for him. It was simple enough: bread and cheese and a little fruit, but he was hungry enough to eat anything he was offered.
He reached out, surprised to see that his hand was shaking, and took the glass of water. A little spilled as he brought the glass to his lips, and he was forced to hold it with both hands to steady it. Having drunk deeply, he turned his attention to the food and ate the meagre feast as though he'd never eaten before.
How long had it been since he'd last had a meal? He knew it must be a day at least, but it felt like much more. The food was gone in moments, and he could have gladly eaten another twice the size.
This task done, he turned to the business of clothing. He rose from the bed, discovering a considerable amount of bandaging wrapped around his stomach and side. He covered himself further with a sheet from the bed, holding it around himself as he went to the chest. There were some items of clothing inside, as he had hoped. They were made in human style, and for someone broader than Legolas, but they would do.
He had no problem with the leggings, but the shirt was more difficult. As he tried to put it on, he realised his back was still aching slightly from the whip-welts. He was a little surprised they didn't hurt more, given how they had felt when they were dealt, but they weren't his most significant problem. The wound from the arrow was still hideously painful. The simply act of moving his arm back to find the sleeve of the shirt sent waves of agony through his upper body.
He gave up in the end, sinking down to sit on the bed, the shirt dangling by the sleeve off his left arm. He waited a few moments, letting the pain diminish. Frustrated at being outmatched by a simple shirt, he glared around at his surroundings in the hope that they would somehow explain what he was doing here.
Was this the place the men had been taking him to? Had he been delivered to whomever had been willing to pay so much? He thought that he must have been, otherwise he would still be in the men's camp.
Perhaps he needn't have been so fearful about the situation. True, he was in a cell, but it was not excessively unpleasant. It would have been a very nice room if it weren't for the bars on the window and the heavy lock on the door.
Legolas stood up and went to the window, abandoning the shirt for the moment. The bars were on the inside, allowing him to reach through them and open it. He did this and a cool wind blew into the room, bringing with it the scent of horses and freshly cut grass.
The building he was in must be on a hill, because rooftops were spread out below, dropping down to plains of rolling grassland. In the distance, white peaked mountains thrust their way up into a dark grey sky hung heavy with the threat of rain. A group of riders were making their way across the plains, spears and shields glinting.
He stared out across the bleak landscape, trying to find a name for this place in his memory. He had rarely left Mirkwood before now, and so had little knowledge of the lands that made up Middle Earth. He had, however, sat through enough long periods of boring study to be able to recognise what this land must be from descriptions.
Finally the answer came to him, drifting out of his memory. Rohan. A kingdom of men who enjoyed war and battle. What could they want with him? Why would anyone in Rohan want to pay a thousand gold coins for the prince of Mirkwood? The two realms had little to do with each other.
Perhaps, Legolas thought bleakly, someone was trying to provoke a war with Mirkwood, but there were much cheaper ways of doing so. And if that had been the case, Legolas would probably have found himself in some dank dungeon.
Confused beyond measure, he began to tackle the shirt again. It took him a while, but he managed to get the right sleeve halfway up his arm. This difficult part over with, he paused a moment before beginning to shrug it up onto his shoulder. Then he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He rushed through the final act of dressing, and was doing up the buttons, slightly drawn with pain, when the door was unlocked.
It was the men's lord who entered. He seemed much recovered from his ordeal with the orcs. Any remaining wounds must be hidden beneath his clothes.
He gave Legolas a small scowl. The elf puzzled at this, but the man answered his unasked question with his greeting.
"You should not be exerting yourself."
"Getting dressed is hardly an exertion," Legolas protested.
"It is for one who has spent three days lying near death."
"Three days?" He could hardly believe it, though it did explain the enormity of his hunger and the weakness that had filled his body.
"The poison within you was powerful," the man went on, "and the arrow was inside for a long time, compounding its damage. It is a minor miracle that you still live." Legolas knew without doubt that this man had probably tended him, just as he had tended Damial, and felt a surge of gratitude.
"Thank you," Legolas said.
"For what?"
"For saving my life." Somehow the words didn't seem enough.
"You are worth a thousand gold coins to me," the man said, dismissing his deed in a way that Legolas could not bring himself to believe. This man had defended him, or attempted to at least, when they were prisoners of the orcs. Legolas pointed this fact out.
"Why would you risk your own skin," Legolas asked, "for the sake of gold coins someone might be willing to pay you?"
"It's not the coins I would be risking my skin for," the man answered, "as I have already been paid them. A noble birth does not automatically mean unending wealth, without the money I was given I would never have been able to purchase you."
"You are trusted to do so, even when the money is already in your purse?"
"I gave my word, to deliver you safely or die in the attempt. I did not intend to break my word. Honour was worth the risk of the orcs." Legolas didn't believe this. He'd seen something in the man's eyes, some sign of feeling that meant more than money. He decided to leave it be for now, as there were other, more pressing, questions to be answered.
"Is this the place you are sworn to bring me?"
"No," the lord answered, "this is just a step on the journey, a brief pause while we await your recovery."
"Where is it you are taking me?"
"That you will see when we arrive. Get some rest for now. I will have someone bring you more food." He effectively ended the conversation, allowing no more mention of his actions among the orcs. For some reason this man didn't want to think about the fact that Legolas was in his debt. Didn't want to think that he had saved one of the same race that had betrayed him? Perhaps he was trying to hide this selfless act from his own mind for the sake of pride, but Legolas could not do so. He owed this man his life, however it might wish it otherwise.
As the man opened the door to leave, Legolas spoke, halting him briefly.
"My name," he said, "is Legolas." The man turned back to him, a slight smile forming on his lips.
"I guessed as much," he said, "You look very like your father." Then he was gone, leaving Legolas to ponder over this statement. How could this man know his father? Men were rarely allowed into Mirkwood, except for the occasional traders from Lake Town.
Then a thought entered his mind. A terrible, terrifying thought. Why would this man not want the son of Thranduil indebted to him, unless it was Thranduil himself who was the traitor hidden by the past?
***
Author's note: Nasty? Me? Review or I'll leave you with a whole stack of unanswered questions.
***
His brain was too muddled and confused to make sense of the first noises that crept into his awareness: the small thumps and sounds of things being pushed over and against each other. He could identify the footsteps that came once these had finished. Then came the sound of a door opening and closing. These sounds were gently nudging at his mind to make him awaken, but it wasn't until he heard the sharp click that he came fully conscious.
He blinked himself awake, allowing his eyes to adjust to a world that seemed far too bright. Worry was filling him as he inspected his situation. He knew the sound of a lock when he heard one.
He was lying in an unfamiliar bed in an equally unfamiliar room. Sunlight was coming in through a small window, its progress hindered by thick metal bars. Despite this obvious sign of imprisonment, the room itself was quite pleasant. A small table stood beside the bed, on which stood a glass of water and a simple meal. Another, larger table had some chairs around it. They were hard and wooden, but shaped to be comfortable to the one sitting in them. A cushioned chair was beside the bed, the opposite side to the table, and the soft fabric still bore the imprint of one who had been sitting there until recently. A large chest, engraved with a galloping horse, stood against one wall.
He pushed himself into a sitting position, with some difficulty as his arms didn't seem to want to support him. The blankets slipped down, and Legolas was aware of being naked beneath them. He pulled them up closely around himself in case anyone should walk in through the heavy, oak door.
An aching hunger filled him and refused to be ignored. He decided that the first thing he must do was to devour the meal that had been laid out for him. It was simple enough: bread and cheese and a little fruit, but he was hungry enough to eat anything he was offered.
He reached out, surprised to see that his hand was shaking, and took the glass of water. A little spilled as he brought the glass to his lips, and he was forced to hold it with both hands to steady it. Having drunk deeply, he turned his attention to the food and ate the meagre feast as though he'd never eaten before.
How long had it been since he'd last had a meal? He knew it must be a day at least, but it felt like much more. The food was gone in moments, and he could have gladly eaten another twice the size.
This task done, he turned to the business of clothing. He rose from the bed, discovering a considerable amount of bandaging wrapped around his stomach and side. He covered himself further with a sheet from the bed, holding it around himself as he went to the chest. There were some items of clothing inside, as he had hoped. They were made in human style, and for someone broader than Legolas, but they would do.
He had no problem with the leggings, but the shirt was more difficult. As he tried to put it on, he realised his back was still aching slightly from the whip-welts. He was a little surprised they didn't hurt more, given how they had felt when they were dealt, but they weren't his most significant problem. The wound from the arrow was still hideously painful. The simply act of moving his arm back to find the sleeve of the shirt sent waves of agony through his upper body.
He gave up in the end, sinking down to sit on the bed, the shirt dangling by the sleeve off his left arm. He waited a few moments, letting the pain diminish. Frustrated at being outmatched by a simple shirt, he glared around at his surroundings in the hope that they would somehow explain what he was doing here.
Was this the place the men had been taking him to? Had he been delivered to whomever had been willing to pay so much? He thought that he must have been, otherwise he would still be in the men's camp.
Perhaps he needn't have been so fearful about the situation. True, he was in a cell, but it was not excessively unpleasant. It would have been a very nice room if it weren't for the bars on the window and the heavy lock on the door.
Legolas stood up and went to the window, abandoning the shirt for the moment. The bars were on the inside, allowing him to reach through them and open it. He did this and a cool wind blew into the room, bringing with it the scent of horses and freshly cut grass.
The building he was in must be on a hill, because rooftops were spread out below, dropping down to plains of rolling grassland. In the distance, white peaked mountains thrust their way up into a dark grey sky hung heavy with the threat of rain. A group of riders were making their way across the plains, spears and shields glinting.
He stared out across the bleak landscape, trying to find a name for this place in his memory. He had rarely left Mirkwood before now, and so had little knowledge of the lands that made up Middle Earth. He had, however, sat through enough long periods of boring study to be able to recognise what this land must be from descriptions.
Finally the answer came to him, drifting out of his memory. Rohan. A kingdom of men who enjoyed war and battle. What could they want with him? Why would anyone in Rohan want to pay a thousand gold coins for the prince of Mirkwood? The two realms had little to do with each other.
Perhaps, Legolas thought bleakly, someone was trying to provoke a war with Mirkwood, but there were much cheaper ways of doing so. And if that had been the case, Legolas would probably have found himself in some dank dungeon.
Confused beyond measure, he began to tackle the shirt again. It took him a while, but he managed to get the right sleeve halfway up his arm. This difficult part over with, he paused a moment before beginning to shrug it up onto his shoulder. Then he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He rushed through the final act of dressing, and was doing up the buttons, slightly drawn with pain, when the door was unlocked.
It was the men's lord who entered. He seemed much recovered from his ordeal with the orcs. Any remaining wounds must be hidden beneath his clothes.
He gave Legolas a small scowl. The elf puzzled at this, but the man answered his unasked question with his greeting.
"You should not be exerting yourself."
"Getting dressed is hardly an exertion," Legolas protested.
"It is for one who has spent three days lying near death."
"Three days?" He could hardly believe it, though it did explain the enormity of his hunger and the weakness that had filled his body.
"The poison within you was powerful," the man went on, "and the arrow was inside for a long time, compounding its damage. It is a minor miracle that you still live." Legolas knew without doubt that this man had probably tended him, just as he had tended Damial, and felt a surge of gratitude.
"Thank you," Legolas said.
"For what?"
"For saving my life." Somehow the words didn't seem enough.
"You are worth a thousand gold coins to me," the man said, dismissing his deed in a way that Legolas could not bring himself to believe. This man had defended him, or attempted to at least, when they were prisoners of the orcs. Legolas pointed this fact out.
"Why would you risk your own skin," Legolas asked, "for the sake of gold coins someone might be willing to pay you?"
"It's not the coins I would be risking my skin for," the man answered, "as I have already been paid them. A noble birth does not automatically mean unending wealth, without the money I was given I would never have been able to purchase you."
"You are trusted to do so, even when the money is already in your purse?"
"I gave my word, to deliver you safely or die in the attempt. I did not intend to break my word. Honour was worth the risk of the orcs." Legolas didn't believe this. He'd seen something in the man's eyes, some sign of feeling that meant more than money. He decided to leave it be for now, as there were other, more pressing, questions to be answered.
"Is this the place you are sworn to bring me?"
"No," the lord answered, "this is just a step on the journey, a brief pause while we await your recovery."
"Where is it you are taking me?"
"That you will see when we arrive. Get some rest for now. I will have someone bring you more food." He effectively ended the conversation, allowing no more mention of his actions among the orcs. For some reason this man didn't want to think about the fact that Legolas was in his debt. Didn't want to think that he had saved one of the same race that had betrayed him? Perhaps he was trying to hide this selfless act from his own mind for the sake of pride, but Legolas could not do so. He owed this man his life, however it might wish it otherwise.
As the man opened the door to leave, Legolas spoke, halting him briefly.
"My name," he said, "is Legolas." The man turned back to him, a slight smile forming on his lips.
"I guessed as much," he said, "You look very like your father." Then he was gone, leaving Legolas to ponder over this statement. How could this man know his father? Men were rarely allowed into Mirkwood, except for the occasional traders from Lake Town.
Then a thought entered his mind. A terrible, terrifying thought. Why would this man not want the son of Thranduil indebted to him, unless it was Thranduil himself who was the traitor hidden by the past?
***
Author's note: Nasty? Me? Review or I'll leave you with a whole stack of unanswered questions.