OK – I shall say it now: this chapter has a bit of nastiness in it, mild
horror, to be a little more precise ... if you don't want to read it, you can
skip to the next one if you wish...
Chapter Seven – Down
Both of his wrists were bound. This, he thought, was very unfair, with one of his arms being broken; naturally, Gríma had come up with that to prevent him from attempting escape as his companions had done, which meant that if he even tried to break away from the party, he would cause himself pain. It also meant that he had to keep a very close eye on the one leading him, just so that he could be prepared to leap forward with the rope should the Man decide to give it a jerk for entertainment. This had already happened, so Legolas deemed it wise to watch for any signs of mischief.
Getting him out of that pit had been most interesting: at first, Gríma had tried to order three Wild Men to go down and get him. When they had refused, the Man had been forced to stick his head over the lip of the pit and say: 'This is terribly embarrassing, but will you climb up out of there yourself? Don't even consider drawing any weapons: you are covered from all angles.'
Legolas had looked about the lip of the cell at that point, surveying the faces, and, more importantly, the arrowheads.
'There's no point in having him,' Legolas commented dryly, indicating to the very Man who had tried and failed to fell him the other night. 'He could not hit a mountain straight if he were at the foot of it.'
An ugly snarl masked the face of the insulted Man, and his aim became a little more precise at that comment.
'Shut up! Climb!' A rope was tossed down, which Legolas eyed as though his whole situation was entirely the fault of the cord. He climbed, hauling himself up with his good arm and the line wrapped about his left leg, clamping it with his feet. When he reached the top, several strong hands grabbed his shoulders and dragged him to the ground, immediately stripping him of all weaponry, and Legolas glared daggers at the Wild Man who carried them away from their owner: even Aragorn was not permitted to touch his bow and knives.
Now they were walking through the trees, Legolas wearing the most hateful expression Gríma had ever seen in his life, and it clearly intimidated the Wild Men, as not a single one of them would go near him or indeed look at him.
Legolas turned his head to inspect what was going on behind him, and saw something that made his heart heavy. Five of Éomer's men, pale faced and bloodied, two of whom supported one of their companions who was barely conscious, far more pallid than the others. Legolas could sense approaching danger ... and he could also sense approaching death. Death frightened him more than anything else – he did not understand it, that was why. He was an immortal, and as such he never had to face such a thing, apart from on rare occasions. He was unnerved by it, and the fact that he had himself nearly given up to it not so long ago terrified him.
One of the horsemen saw him watching them, and offered a wavering smile, which pained Legolas to see. He did not smile, but nodded his head respectfully to the other, who did the same. Legolas averted his eyes after that, no longer able to look upon the fair-haired human. Guilt writhed in his stomach like a basket of eels – if he had not persuaded Aragorn to go on this scouting trip none of this would have happened, and these noble men would still be free...
The company halted, and Legolas found Gríma standing beside him, looking intently into the face of his Elven captive.
'For what purpose have we stopped?' Legolas asked, not really interested.
'We need to allow the men to open the tunnel,' came the dark response.
'Tunnel? What-' Legolas' words failed him, as he saw a great, gasping hole of the deepest pitch open out before them as several men toiled to draw back great huge boulders. His senses were assaulted, particularly his sense of smell – Orcs had been down there, and the stench of death assailed them where they stood, some twenty feet from the entrance.
Gríma noted the sudden change over the Elf with interest: he had gone white as snow, and, if he was not mistaken, he was as tense as stone.
The procession began to descend gradually down – until it came to the turn of Legolas. He had his feet firmly planted, a slight tremble to his frame, his good hand gripping the rope with an easy strength that totally disabled the man leading him from carrying out his job.
A grin curled Gríma's lips at this.
'So. Not very fond of tunnels, are we, Master Elf?'
'I will not go down there,' Legolas said bluntly. 'There is no way you can make me.'
'Oh, but I think there is: bring them forth!'
The Wild Men holding Éomer's men brought them to where Legolas and Gríma were, and at a single gesture from their commander placed blades to their throats.
'I shall be blunt: if you do not adhere to my order they will die and be left out here for the Orcs. Understand?'
Legolas gazed upon each face in turn. They were all expressionless as they watched him back, adamant that they would display no fear, though they felt it – Legolas could practically smell it on them. He released the rope, and began to walk into the black. He was ultimately responsible for their capture – he would be damned if they were going to die because of his own fears.
His boots submerged into deep, squelching filth, sucked under by it, heavy with it as it piled on top of his footwear, refusing to let go. In the dim light of the torches that had now been lit, Legolas could see numerous corpses, decomposing bodies sticking out of the dirt, grisly grins on rotting skeletal faces. He shied slightly when they crossed one in particular which lay directly in their path – this person, whoever they had been, had been dead for no more than three weeks, and dry, clouded eyes looked straight into his own; it made the hair rise on the back of his neck – no matter how dead they were, terror was still fixed in them, and it conveyed itself instantly to the Elf. He tried to back away in his repulsion, to get away from those misted eyes that bore into him so intensely.
'He was once like your friends behind us,' Gríma hissed, a long hand gripping the shoulder of the immortal before him in a manner that caused the Elf to shudder. 'Saruman decided to let the Ors toy with him ... it looks like they got bored.'
Legolas felt nauseous, sick with fear as anything else – this was a sight such as he had never seen before in all of his millennia, far beyond the reach of the worst nightmare he had ever been subjected to. This was what terrified him so much about death: the loss of who you were, the way flesh fell away from bones like tattered rags from a beggar. His acute Elven senses were of no help to him: he could smell the rotting flesh with far more intensity than any of the Men present, and it nearly made him faint. Black spots hung in his vision, threatening to gather like storm clouds and black out his eyes completely.
There came a sharp jerk on the rope that caught him unawares, yanking him forward, straight onto the corpse. It was only his Elven reflexes that saved him from placing a foot right through the putrid stomach: he arched his back in mid air, cat-like, bringing his feet up under himself and throwing them in front of the rest of his body, skidding in the slick muck when he landed. He caught hold of a Wild Man to stop himself from slipping, resisting the strong urge to punch the man in the nose for what he did.
'Keep moving if you want to get out of here any time soon: the exit lies ahead.'
For what Legolas promised himself would be the first and last time in his life, he heeded the advice of Wormtongue, following his guard through the dark, passing yet more corpses along their way ... compared to this nightmare, Moria was a summer garden.
They reached the exit at last, after what must have been a mile of filth and terror, finally entering a dark corridor of blackest stone. An odd light from the top of a spiral staircase provided the only light no, as all torches had been extinguished in buckets to the side of the great wooden door through which they had passed. One of the said containers was kicked towards Legolas, water lapping over its sides.
'Wash you feet,' Gríma ordered, doing so himself in a different bucket. Legolas saw no point in refusing – what would it prove? And, besides, he needed to get this wretched sludge from his boots.
Once all were clean, Gríma instructed some of the Wild Men to dispense of the other prisoners in a cell, which lay along the same corridor, dismissing the others barring the two who held Legolas' ropes.
'Now,' said the sniveling rat in a smug voice, 'it is time to meet your host.'
Chapter Seven – Down
Both of his wrists were bound. This, he thought, was very unfair, with one of his arms being broken; naturally, Gríma had come up with that to prevent him from attempting escape as his companions had done, which meant that if he even tried to break away from the party, he would cause himself pain. It also meant that he had to keep a very close eye on the one leading him, just so that he could be prepared to leap forward with the rope should the Man decide to give it a jerk for entertainment. This had already happened, so Legolas deemed it wise to watch for any signs of mischief.
Getting him out of that pit had been most interesting: at first, Gríma had tried to order three Wild Men to go down and get him. When they had refused, the Man had been forced to stick his head over the lip of the pit and say: 'This is terribly embarrassing, but will you climb up out of there yourself? Don't even consider drawing any weapons: you are covered from all angles.'
Legolas had looked about the lip of the cell at that point, surveying the faces, and, more importantly, the arrowheads.
'There's no point in having him,' Legolas commented dryly, indicating to the very Man who had tried and failed to fell him the other night. 'He could not hit a mountain straight if he were at the foot of it.'
An ugly snarl masked the face of the insulted Man, and his aim became a little more precise at that comment.
'Shut up! Climb!' A rope was tossed down, which Legolas eyed as though his whole situation was entirely the fault of the cord. He climbed, hauling himself up with his good arm and the line wrapped about his left leg, clamping it with his feet. When he reached the top, several strong hands grabbed his shoulders and dragged him to the ground, immediately stripping him of all weaponry, and Legolas glared daggers at the Wild Man who carried them away from their owner: even Aragorn was not permitted to touch his bow and knives.
Now they were walking through the trees, Legolas wearing the most hateful expression Gríma had ever seen in his life, and it clearly intimidated the Wild Men, as not a single one of them would go near him or indeed look at him.
Legolas turned his head to inspect what was going on behind him, and saw something that made his heart heavy. Five of Éomer's men, pale faced and bloodied, two of whom supported one of their companions who was barely conscious, far more pallid than the others. Legolas could sense approaching danger ... and he could also sense approaching death. Death frightened him more than anything else – he did not understand it, that was why. He was an immortal, and as such he never had to face such a thing, apart from on rare occasions. He was unnerved by it, and the fact that he had himself nearly given up to it not so long ago terrified him.
One of the horsemen saw him watching them, and offered a wavering smile, which pained Legolas to see. He did not smile, but nodded his head respectfully to the other, who did the same. Legolas averted his eyes after that, no longer able to look upon the fair-haired human. Guilt writhed in his stomach like a basket of eels – if he had not persuaded Aragorn to go on this scouting trip none of this would have happened, and these noble men would still be free...
The company halted, and Legolas found Gríma standing beside him, looking intently into the face of his Elven captive.
'For what purpose have we stopped?' Legolas asked, not really interested.
'We need to allow the men to open the tunnel,' came the dark response.
'Tunnel? What-' Legolas' words failed him, as he saw a great, gasping hole of the deepest pitch open out before them as several men toiled to draw back great huge boulders. His senses were assaulted, particularly his sense of smell – Orcs had been down there, and the stench of death assailed them where they stood, some twenty feet from the entrance.
Gríma noted the sudden change over the Elf with interest: he had gone white as snow, and, if he was not mistaken, he was as tense as stone.
The procession began to descend gradually down – until it came to the turn of Legolas. He had his feet firmly planted, a slight tremble to his frame, his good hand gripping the rope with an easy strength that totally disabled the man leading him from carrying out his job.
A grin curled Gríma's lips at this.
'So. Not very fond of tunnels, are we, Master Elf?'
'I will not go down there,' Legolas said bluntly. 'There is no way you can make me.'
'Oh, but I think there is: bring them forth!'
The Wild Men holding Éomer's men brought them to where Legolas and Gríma were, and at a single gesture from their commander placed blades to their throats.
'I shall be blunt: if you do not adhere to my order they will die and be left out here for the Orcs. Understand?'
Legolas gazed upon each face in turn. They were all expressionless as they watched him back, adamant that they would display no fear, though they felt it – Legolas could practically smell it on them. He released the rope, and began to walk into the black. He was ultimately responsible for their capture – he would be damned if they were going to die because of his own fears.
His boots submerged into deep, squelching filth, sucked under by it, heavy with it as it piled on top of his footwear, refusing to let go. In the dim light of the torches that had now been lit, Legolas could see numerous corpses, decomposing bodies sticking out of the dirt, grisly grins on rotting skeletal faces. He shied slightly when they crossed one in particular which lay directly in their path – this person, whoever they had been, had been dead for no more than three weeks, and dry, clouded eyes looked straight into his own; it made the hair rise on the back of his neck – no matter how dead they were, terror was still fixed in them, and it conveyed itself instantly to the Elf. He tried to back away in his repulsion, to get away from those misted eyes that bore into him so intensely.
'He was once like your friends behind us,' Gríma hissed, a long hand gripping the shoulder of the immortal before him in a manner that caused the Elf to shudder. 'Saruman decided to let the Ors toy with him ... it looks like they got bored.'
Legolas felt nauseous, sick with fear as anything else – this was a sight such as he had never seen before in all of his millennia, far beyond the reach of the worst nightmare he had ever been subjected to. This was what terrified him so much about death: the loss of who you were, the way flesh fell away from bones like tattered rags from a beggar. His acute Elven senses were of no help to him: he could smell the rotting flesh with far more intensity than any of the Men present, and it nearly made him faint. Black spots hung in his vision, threatening to gather like storm clouds and black out his eyes completely.
There came a sharp jerk on the rope that caught him unawares, yanking him forward, straight onto the corpse. It was only his Elven reflexes that saved him from placing a foot right through the putrid stomach: he arched his back in mid air, cat-like, bringing his feet up under himself and throwing them in front of the rest of his body, skidding in the slick muck when he landed. He caught hold of a Wild Man to stop himself from slipping, resisting the strong urge to punch the man in the nose for what he did.
'Keep moving if you want to get out of here any time soon: the exit lies ahead.'
For what Legolas promised himself would be the first and last time in his life, he heeded the advice of Wormtongue, following his guard through the dark, passing yet more corpses along their way ... compared to this nightmare, Moria was a summer garden.
They reached the exit at last, after what must have been a mile of filth and terror, finally entering a dark corridor of blackest stone. An odd light from the top of a spiral staircase provided the only light no, as all torches had been extinguished in buckets to the side of the great wooden door through which they had passed. One of the said containers was kicked towards Legolas, water lapping over its sides.
'Wash you feet,' Gríma ordered, doing so himself in a different bucket. Legolas saw no point in refusing – what would it prove? And, besides, he needed to get this wretched sludge from his boots.
Once all were clean, Gríma instructed some of the Wild Men to dispense of the other prisoners in a cell, which lay along the same corridor, dismissing the others barring the two who held Legolas' ropes.
'Now,' said the sniveling rat in a smug voice, 'it is time to meet your host.'