I lost 5 hours of my life tonight. My mom told my brother to go to bed and I asked her why and she said because it's one o'clock in the morning. I thought it was 8 p.m.. I still think it is. *shrugs* Oh well.

For all of you who want now, or will want in the future, my reference for the elvish I use you'll have to e-mail me. I cannot get it to come up on this site. Grr. It's frustrating me very much. I apologize to crystal-rose15 and cherryfaerie for the lack of the address in my last post. I didn't realize it didn't show up. If you would like me to e-mail it too you, tell me.

Remember, responses to my reviewers are at the bottom now. And also, there is a... umm... bad note at the bottom. *searches for hiding spot*

" Leaves of Glass "

Chapter 6 - History Lessons

Legolas stirred on his soft bed, blinking the clouds of darkness from his eyes. He briefly thought of how tired he was of waking from unconsciousness instead of elven dreams. Then he remembered why he was once again in such a state and he rose from his prisoner's bed, suddenly alert and wary.

He quickly took in his surroundings. A thick material made the walls of the tent, richly dyed in hues of red and blue and purple. Strong poles held the rooftop high, coming to a point at the top where large, handsomely carved lamps bathed the large space in a soft light.

The room was immaculately clean, with every blade of the soft grass covered in thick rugs and dark furs, the writing desk to one side was flawlessly ordered, the padded chair tucked perfectly into place. The bed was made with utmost care, each corner smooth and sharp, pillows abounding in all sizes and colors. Soft, over-stuffed couches in brilliant colors sat randomly around the room.

A tray was set beside the bed on a small table containing a plate of ripe fruits, another of freshly baked bread, steam still rising from its golden brown surface, and a small bowl filled with rich honey. Legolas' mouth watered at the sight, his tongue begging for the taste of fresh bread and fruit, anything but dried travel rations which was all he had tasted in weeks.

But despite the luxury of his surroundings he was a prisoner and sense told him that stopping for a meal was idiocy. But if he was a prisoner... where were his guards?

He searched the tent once more, peering into the unlooked corners of the opulent tent. He froze when his eyes met those of the man that had invaded their camp; eyes dark and emanating with evil. He pulled his wounded hands protectively to his chest, pain still clutching at the fiercely, the pleased look in those dark eyes as they sent the arrow through his flesh filled Legolas' vision.

"Good morning, my prince." A rich, smooth voice, a voice full of malice, said.

The previous morning the foster son of Lord Elrond had uttered the same words when he had emerged from his dreams, and the prince had at last been inclined to offer a genuine, thought tight, smile. Coming from this man they sent chills down his spine.

Legolas' first thought was to question this man's intent with him. Why was he here? What did they want with him? Were they going to hurt him again? But quickly replacing that was a suddenly far more pressing, and rather surprising thought; a thought that left his lips before he could think.

"Where is Estel?" He demanded, his voice drawn in an odd mixture of worry and disgust.

"Your young Ranger friend?" The man asked, still sitting in the shadows of the tent. "You will see him soon enough. Though, I doubt you'll be pleased. Or perhaps you will. You do not seem very fond of the boy."

"I am not fond of any that belong to the race of Man." Legolas spat, glaring at the face he could not see.

"Such anger, child of the Eldar." The man said, his voice dripping with contempt and mockery. "What makes you so cold?"

"I was not always so cold." Legolas' own words echoed in his head.

"Ah yes, I remember." The man said, finally rising from his chair and stepping into the light. "For it is as much a part of my history as it is your own."

The hood was removed again, and in the bright light of the lamps Legolas took in his first good look at the man's face. Dark hair, tanned skin, a smooth and sharp bone structure. And dark eyes that were suddenly, achingly, familiar. Dark eyes laughing back at him as his own grew wide with memories still so clear and painful.

"My great-great-grandmother was most unpleased to loose her favorite pet." The man said, his full, red lips twisting up into a perverted smile. "Her ghost would be very proud I am sure, of the heir that recaptured what was hers."

Legolas stood rigid, trying desperately to suck in the breath that was caught in his throat. He stared into the eyes that he had feared for so long and cursed himself in every tongue he knew for being such a fool as to not notice before. All hope of escape left him. The Arandant did not let go their prisoners.

"Settle in, my prince." The dark man said, casting a long look at Legolas' stiff form before pushing back the door and leaving the elf. "I have plans for you."

A shadowed figure, watching from a gap in the tent wall, left his hidden peephole before he could see Legolas, the green leaf of Mirkwood, shatter in his gilded prison.

*

"What did he mean?" Strider asked the old man, whose name was Torlin, as he walked back to the disorderly tent. "What did he mean by 'recapturing what was hers'?"

He sat down beside the man, folding his legs beneath him. His head was still reeling with the prince's first words upon waking. Why would the elf care for his safety when his own was obviously in such peril? Surely he would be happy to be rid of him, no matter the circumstances. He seemed to think of the young human as nothing but a burden. Strider shook his head as if to dislodge the thoughts and turned towards the old man.

Torlin tossed a few dried leaves into the boiling pot that sat precariously over a tiny fire, tilting on the shoddy spit. "Your friend has not told you?" He asked, his hands reaching out to the tray in front of him, feeling for the next ingredient. He pinched a small amount of leaf from one rough bowl but quickly released it back to its resting place then moved to the next, feeling its contents, bring the powder to his nose, then sprinkling a small amount into the pot and putting the rest back.

Strider watched all this in fascination. "He is not... we are not exactly... friends."

"I see." Torlin said softly, thought Strider wasn't quite sure how he could. To him that just made everything more complicated when looked at by an outsider.

"Then I will not tell you much." And Strider was about to protest. Loudly. He was tired of people telling him that. If they expected the prince to say anything to him about it, they were sorely mistaken. But before he could say anything Torlin went on.

"But I will tell you enough. So that you may understand why this will be so hard for him."

The old man stirred the pot for a moment then turned towards Strider, his milky eyes, nearly blind after so many years on the earth, though still so full of life and valor, met the young Ranger's once again. "Your friend," And Strider did not miss the deliberate mistake, though he had just clearly stated that they were not. "Was once a prisoner of the Arandant. The people who hold you both now."

"Arandant?" Strider said. "Fallen Kings?"

"Yes." Torlin turned back to his pot and stirred it again, then added several more ingredients. "They come from the same race as the Dunedain. The same race as you. But many years ago, years beyond measure, before even the legend of Elendil and his son and the last great War, they left the others of their kind. They were angered by the mixing of Numenorean blood with that of commoners. They felt as if the others were tainting their kingly line. At first they tried to protest the 'sacrilege'. Tried to convince the others of the blasphemy to their race. But when their efforts did not stop they took another path.

The started killing all those with mixed blood. And at first the others turned a blind eye, worried what the outcome of a civil battle would be. But then one time they went too far. They assassinated a member of the royal family. A youngest son; the product of a second marriage. A marriage to a commoner.

So finally they were run out. And they fled to the north, as far from their angry kinsman as they could go. They live now in the wastelands beyond Mirkwood. Always they are ill content. Always seeking more than they deserve."

"And so this woman, she captured the prince and held him prisoner." Strider said, his mind suddenly full of too much new information. He had never heard these legends before.

"The horrors their past queen inflicted on the Eldar prince are still told around campfires and to frightened children at night." He lifted the pot from the fire.

Strider suddenly found himself forgiving anything and everything Legolas had ever done to him. For an elf to be a prisoner, to be taken from the woods he loved, held in such a Valar forsaken place as the wastelands, away from family and friends, away from nature the very core of the elves, then to have to spend all eternity with the memories... the Ranger was surprised that the prince had not lost all sanity long ago.

Suddenly the world didn't seem as grand as he had always thought. Evil, yes. Frightening, most definitely. But always a place of hope. With love and goodness hidden somewhere beneath all, to be there when you needed it most. Now he wasn't so sure.

If the people of his own blood, those he knew to have already destroyed so much by greed and weakness, could harm the prince, turn him into the icy shell of what he used to be, then surely that, with everything else was in him as well. No wonder Legolas was so hateful towards men. Their most noble race had stripped away all essence of grace and beauty from him.

In that moment Strider vowed to do all he could to pay the penance owed this most strong and gallant of creatures.

"Here." The old man said, knocking him from his reverie and handing him the steaming pot. "Take this inside."

"What is it?" Strider asked, grateful to have any form of distraction.

"A concoction for his Majesty, the king of the Arandant. The one that holds your prince. It is no more than an easement for pain."

"You said you had things to teach me." Strider reminded him, placing the pot on one of the cabinets. He had to push aside two dirty shirts and three dried and brittle apple cores to make room.

"I do." The man said. He started spooning the thick liquid into another clear jar. "The things I must teach you will take time. And must be done in secrecy."

"Do you not worry then, of people hearing you talk to me of them?"

"No one bothers with me unless I have something they need." Torlin sealed the jar with purple wax. "We will speak when it is clear."

"When is that?" Strider asked. Torlin did not reply.

Several minutes passed in silence, then a man came into the tent without so much as a warning. "Where is-" Torlin handed him the jar, cutting off his question. He left as quickly as he could.

"Now." Torlin said after the other man's footsteps had faded from earshot. It took the young Ranger a moment to realize what he meant.

"What am I to learn?" He asked, sitting down on the mussed bed as the old man did the same.

"Did you see the slaves as you entered the camp?" He asked. He pulled a bottle from another hidden pocket in his dark robes.

"Yes."

"You are to learn to be as they." He handed Strider the bottle. Inside was a gray liquid, thick, sticking to the sides as it sloshed back and forth. "That is a poison. Made from several different herbs of which you do not know. They grow only in the farthest plains of the Waste. They are nearly impossible to collect. That poison is given to the slaves of the Arandant. It keeps them docile."

"You mean lifeless." Strider fumed, images of dull eyes and mechanical movements, bodies without spirits, filled his head. To live such a life... he could not imagine.

"Yes. You are correct." Torlin conceded, his murky eyes locked on the bottle. "It takes their freewill. Makes it so that no thought enters their minds save what their masters give them. It is also made from the blood of the Arandant. It's what binds it's victims to them."

"The king," Strider nearly choked on the word. "He gave it to Legolas. He didn't become that way."

"It affects the Eldar differently. I will not tell you how for you must concentrate." He reached out one wrinkled hand and took the bottle back. "I was to give it to you when you came to me. When the scouts returned with word that they had captured the prince, and a young Ranger with him, I requested you as my own slave. If you care to notice I am getting on in years and am getting quite frail. I require much assistance with my tasks these days."

Strider stared at him in confusion, then grinned when Torlin winked at him. "They agreed because you were simply a strong body they found with their prize and had no real use for you beyond slavery. If they find out I did not give you the poison they would have you killed and me put in shackles and under guard for the remainder of my life."

"So I must learn pretense." Strider said softly.

"Yes." Torlin pulled another vile from his pocket. Strider wondered just how many pockets he had.

This new one was a beautiful color. As it swirled in the light it sent rainbows on the tent walls. It seemed to shift from green to blue to purple, then on to a thousand more.

"And you must also learn of this." Torlin said quietly. He slipped it quickly back into his robes, his eyes darted around the small enclosure as if now he fear listening ears. "It is called Aberthain. And no one knows of its existence but you and me."

"What is it?" Strider asked, nervous as well.

"The only poison that can kill the Arandant."

*

As Strider's lessons went on, half a camp away a desolate creature sat in an extravagant tent with a thousand thoughts of death running through his head.

For death was far better than what he faced now. Death was better than the pain that would come. Better than the torture. Better than the dignity they would strip and the pride they would destroy. Better than loosing what he had labored so long and so hard to gain back.

Death was better.

His vision swam in darkness and all sense of good and light and happiness drained from him like blood from a fatal wound. He clutched his wounded hands to himself and begged the Valar not to let this happen again. He begged them to take his soul, so that it would not suffer such terror again.

But they did not listen, and he was left in his golden cage.

To Be Continued...

So you get a little glimpse into our dear prince's sordid past, but no more I tell you! No more! Well, maybe more if my plot bunnies and muses don't cooperate.

And okay, is this as boring to the rest of you as I think it is? I mean, I like the story and what not, but it just seems so boring. Am I wrong? I hope I am, because I don't know how to make it... not boring. And for my bad note -

There will be no update next week. *hides behind muses as they dodge flying vegetables and a knife from Cosmic Castaway*

I'm going to my sisters for a week, and will not have access to a computer because she's poor and doesn't have one. So... yeah. No update. *runs away* I'm sorry!! I'll make the next chapter extra super long*!!

Until next time!

Adrienne

*no promises made by the author are under any form of contract and therefore mean nothing.

To my most lovely and gracious reviews (who I pray will not kill me in my sleep) -

SilverKnight7 - Umm, yeah. You may not want to get your hopes up with another 'update soon!' review. Not happening. Sorry.

silvertoekee - Action? Action? I promised no action. I just said he'd be there. *goes back and checks* Yup, I was right. No promise of action.

Estel Elven Enchantress - Oh yay. Someone who will chase the plot bunnies away. But wait... I need those. Never mind.

Gwyn - Very good idea, but alas, no. I actually toyed with it for quite some time, but in the end I had to assuage the idea. At this point in time (and I'm not being all 'tolkien purist' or anything, this isn't the reason for tossing the idea, it's just a little tidbit) Aragorn had already know Gandalf for about 4 years. *shrugs* Really, it was a great idea though.

MG87 - My plot bunnies have been thoroughly punished for that horrendous blunder.

Deana - Yeah, I figured they needed a break.

Twinlakeshgrl - All 17 chapters? At once? Holy crap. You're brave. And yes, I have read them, they are all on my favorite author's list. And if they are not they should be. As for Legolas' past, I gave you a little bit of detail, but you won't get the whole story until the prequel. Sorry. And for Legolas and Aragorn being friends... we'll just have to wait and see now won't we.

Templa Otmena - Timely? Whoops. Guess I killed that thought huh? But I promise I'll be back on the 18. If not sooner. *looks innocent* As for the tension of not knowing, I feel you. I really wish I knew what was going on. *shrugs*

Cosmic Castaway - *runs away screaming* Please don't kill me for the late update-to-come! *is scared now*

Kit Cloudkicker - Nope. He's my very own OC. Do you like him?

Moon Elf - Ooh, pixie stix. My favorite! I think I'll keep you around. Uh-huh. And oh, by the way, I've seen RotK 3 count 'em 3 times! And waiting for the next. Yeah baby!

Nikki1 - Not quite that creative, sorry. I hold to the fact that he learned most of it from his father. What he's learning from the old man is more of a... destructive, yeah, destructive type of herb lore.

Destiny Lot - Well thank you very much. I appreciate that.

Elanor8 - Well, that's what I'm going for and I hope I do not disappoint.

Angel Spirit - *hands you chicken soup* I hope you're all better now. Colds are the worst. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story.