"My Lord! My Lord!" A gruff voice yelled over the booming of the thunder, the power of which seemed to shake even the sturdy stone walls of the place where Legolas was being held.
"Yes?"
"It is the King of Gondor…he is coming this way! He brings with him strong warrior-men. He has followed our trail I fear."
"Do not worry, he cannot follow the last part of it, once we passed over the borders of Gondor."
"Ah, but that is what I have come to tell you. He has already passed the borders, and he is still hot on our trail. Greborg and I saw them with our own eyes. He is close My Lord."
The leader fell silent for a few moments, most likely pondering how Aragorn could have followed their invisible path. In his cell, Legolas listened to the conversation between master and servant.
So Aragorn does come! Then there is hope yet. But now I fear what these creatures may do in their desperation. No doubt Aragorn's coming troubles them even more than they let on. But I wonder, how did he pick up on the trail, unless he yet has skills that I had not guessed before.
Legolas had wafted between the world of wakefulness and the realm of unconscious from the time he'd been brought back into his cell. He'd felt each of his ribs; most were cracked and the rest were broken. Every breath he took brought fresh pain like he'd never experienced before. He felt weak; a combination of blood loss, repetitive abuse, and hunger. But still, his spirit leapt at the news that Aragorn was close at hand. Normally, he'd be ashamed of needing assistance to get out of a situation, but now he knew that he'd not survive on his own.
"How many are there?" the leader spoke once again.
"There are eleven men including the King, and one quite smaller, a dwarf by my reckoning."
Dear Gimli! Legolas's mind screamed, and his heart leapt even higher knowing that his two best friends were on their way. Alas, an elf needs a dwarf to save him! He smiled to himself wryly. No doubt my friend shall joke on it later, or so I hope, for I love him as my own kin.
"All are strong and able men," the lesser being continued. "We are but six…and that includes yourself. We cannot hope to defend this place against them. What shall we do? Command us and we shall do what you ask."
Here the leader whispered quietly to his minion, and not even the ears of Legolas could hear what command was passed along, but he was still filled with dread. Another beating it would mean perhaps, but that was not what the elf feared. Aragorn was close; the foul creatures would be trapped. And Legolas was expendable.
Not more than a few minutes had passed, when the door to his cell swung open, the hinges groaning. Two guards entered the room and hung back as their Lord passed between them. He approached Legolas, his footsteps heavier than they had been up until this point. In his right hand, he held a sword.
It was thin, rapier-like; long and tapered to a sharp fine point. The handle which the cloaked being clutched was of silver and had a simple, unadorned look to it. About the hilt, a few blood red gems flashed in the torchlight that came from the guard to the figure's left side. The other guard hung back still, watching and waiting.
Legolas was backed all the way against the wall. His torn back protested, but he ignored the pain. The sword still hung limply in the figure's hand. As he came closer, the elf could see the black tipped point of it, but what it was on the end, he did not know. Still his captor advanced, each measured footstep weighing more heavily on Legolas' heart, until all the hope he'd had just a few minutes prior had vanished from all thought and memory.
The figure before him made a movement with his hand. The second guard came forward, and the other placed the torch in a metal bracket on the wall to the left. Legolas was hauled to his feet.
So this is how it all ends. Death upon the sword of some foul evil, locked away and unable to fight. No warrior's death will I have, neither bow nor sword shall I grasp in honor in my death. Now I shall be found, bound and skewered like an animal, he thought grimly.
But he still held his fair but bruised head proudly upwards. He would not meet death as a coward. His eyes remained fixed on his captor. Had he been able to see the face that lay hidden under the heavy folds of the robes, he would have fixed his gaze straight into the other's eyes.
The sword was raised. Legolas knew this only by the flash of fiery light that played off of it. Higher still it was brought. Now the point was against the naked flesh of his chest. The tip was brought to the soft skin right under his neck. Here it pierced him. Quick as a flash, the sword was brought in a zigzag pattern across him, never going too deep, but deep enough to cause much blood to rush from the wound in the blade's wake.
Legolas clenched his jaw, effectively stopping the cries that ached to erupt from him. And yet he was confused, for the figure lowered the sword once again. Here he had expected to sword to slice through his vital organs – his heart or his guts, or perhaps the slicing of his throat. But now instead he stood there in the flickering light, blood covering almost his entire chest, and a few drops dripped unnoticed from the tip of the sword.
"My Lord?" asked one of the servants, not understanding the situation anymore than Legolas.
"We cannot put this miserable creature out of his pain yet. No, Thranduil has failed to come. The King of Gondor rides hither. But they must live with the knowledge that the elf suffered every moment of his final hours in this world."
Suddenly Legolas understood and a burning sensation came over his newest wound. The sword had been tipped with poison, and in his weakened state, he very much doubted that his body would be able to handle it. It would kill him, a more miserable fate than he'd ever imagined for himself, and silently, he all but wished that he'd been run clean through by his captor instead.
