Chapter Eight - Confrontations
Saruman stepped forward to examine his new captive, who glared at him with eyes like chips of blue ice, his mouth set in a straight line. The wizard clasped the Elf's chin in a grip that mocked the strength of the jaws of a wolf, turning the head of Legolas so that he could look at the various cuts and bruises. Legolas tried to jerk his head free, but his attempts did nothing for him - which did not make him give up, his eyes remaining hard and unrelenting in their unblinking stare.
Saruman was reminded of a horse, proud and spirited, straining against the ropes of a new master. This was an Elf - a prince - and Saruman knew that there was no chance of him willingly accepting his circumstances. He was proud. He would not allow his dignity to be destroyed by the wizard's treatment of him, and Saruman knew this.
The wizard chuckled to himself as he went back to his high seat, staff in hand, somewhat like a king with his sceptre.
"All that is missing," thought Legolas bitterly, "is a crown of berry-rich yew."
Legolas stood before Saruman, tall and regal in front of the wizard. His face was set in stony defiance, and Gríma could see that this was going to be a very interesting confrontation between the two...
'I welcome you, Thranduilion,' said Saruman in a silky voice. He waited for a reaction, and there was a deep silence as he watched the Elf – who watched him back with that unblinking contemptuous stare.
'It is common courtesy to bow to your host, Thranduilion, or at least to acknowledge his words; I would have thought that, with you being of high royal blood and reared in a king's court, would know this.'
Legolas responded to this by saying in a quiet yet carrying voice that could be heard with all of its subtleness at the other end of the chamber: 'I bow only to lords and kings, not traitors and deceivers, Saruman the Betrayer.'
Saruman's eyes flashed briefly before he said: 'I care not that you are of noble lineage, Legolas Greenleaf: I will not tolerate any lack in showing respect for me, especially from you!'
Legolas shook his head slowly, his blue eyes still fixed on the aged figure on the high seat before him, his face still holding the opprobrious expression. 'There is nothing left to respect.'
Saruman was on his feet, his face filled with pure wrath, and he held his staff in a threatening manner.
'Your Elven stubbornness will be your down fall,' he warned. 'Bow to me!' His bellow shook the chamber, and Gríma recoiled a little where he stood.
'I will not bow to you.'
"Softly spoken," thought Gríma. "Foolishly said."
The scream pierced his thoughts as Saruman pushed his staff forward. It touched not the Elf, but he clutched at his bound arm desperately as though Saruman were beside him hitting it. As sharply as the scream had started it was stopped, as Saruman drew his staff back to himself, an odd glint in his eye. The Elf panted briefly before straightening his back to look Saruman in the face again. There was no contempt there any more: it was hatred.
'Bow.' The wizard's voice was of a deadly calm now ... indeed, he sounded very much to Gríma like a master trying to teach an exceptionally stubborn child with the last remaining threads of his patience fraying.
Legolas' lip curled, his teeth bared in a snarl at the wizard.
'No!' That had not been said either quietly or calmly, nor was it shouted; that one word was uttered with the force of one of the most powerful emotions in the world, and had emerged from between clenched teeth, defiance standing strong in its sounding.
"How very unwise," Gríma thought.
The Elf screamed again with the agony that was so much more savage this time than it had been before. But Legolas refused to even slightly incline his head lest it be mistaken for a bow, and instead went down on his knees.
He riveted his eyes upon Saruman even as the wizard intensified the pain in the break, making it feel like a vice crushed the broken bone without touching his arm. His vision blackened at the edges, and the epiphany of evil itself began to grow darker. All of the pain, the anger, the fear welled inside him, a seething mass of emotion that boiled in his mind like a nest of roused vipers ready to strike. They struck.
Legolas gave an ear-splitting cry as he flung at Saruman all of his built- up energy. He did not know how he did it, or even how he knew what he was to do with it, but he did know that it was some form of magic that he blasted at the wizard ... a magic that Saruman was unable to counter before it was too late.
As soon as it left his being, though, it sapped his body of all energy, and he collapsed to the cold stone, rendered unconscious by the sheer intensity of the action.
Saruman was thrown back into his chair by the sudden and unexpected force that Legolas had thrown at him. It shocked him to say the least. He had heard of this before, but had never actually encountered it in a living Elf.
He glared down coldly at the still being on the black floor, a snarl flittering across his aquiline features. He had been beaten. Again. And by an Elf, this time, one whom he had never expected to be able to do more than was average for one of his kind. It had been a powerful attack, but Saruman doubted very much whether the Elf would be able to do it again.
As for being defied, he had told the creature that he would not tolerate it, and he had meant that.
'Gríma!'
Gríma was at the wizards' elbow instantly, eyebrows raised as he looked upon the old man with expectant askance.
'He has spirit,' said Saruman, staring down at the Elf still as though he had found a disagreeable stain on the floor. 'I do not like spirit. It shall be crushed from him.' He turned his coal-black eyes to the watery blue ones of the man next to him. 'I appoint you with the task.'
Gríma bowed to this. Good. Vengeance for his broken nose at least would be his ... he still loathed Saruman for that mocking grin he had given him when the wizard had asked what had happened to his face. When he had said that the Elf had done it he had openly laughed at him. He did not know why - it was not as though the Elf was weak. He was many things, but certainly not that.
'Take him down,' Gríma commanded the Wild Men who were hanging about at the back of the chamber. 'Make sure he is shackled well, but leave the broken arm alone. No one is to go down there except me.'
He wondered briefly if they had fully taken in his words, but decided that he cared not. He was more shocked at the instruction he had issued for them to not touch the broken arm. Why had he said that? He hated the Elf, after all. Perhaps it was out of a small level of respect he had attained for the immortal – one could not prevent oneself from admiring one's enemy when they did what the Elf had done for his friends the other night. Gríma only wished that he could have a relationship with someone of such strength that they would be willing to go to any lengths to ensure his welfare. All at once with that thought his hatred intensified – how dare the Elf have something that he knew he could never reach!
TRANSLATIONS
Thranduilion – Son of Thranduil
Saruman stepped forward to examine his new captive, who glared at him with eyes like chips of blue ice, his mouth set in a straight line. The wizard clasped the Elf's chin in a grip that mocked the strength of the jaws of a wolf, turning the head of Legolas so that he could look at the various cuts and bruises. Legolas tried to jerk his head free, but his attempts did nothing for him - which did not make him give up, his eyes remaining hard and unrelenting in their unblinking stare.
Saruman was reminded of a horse, proud and spirited, straining against the ropes of a new master. This was an Elf - a prince - and Saruman knew that there was no chance of him willingly accepting his circumstances. He was proud. He would not allow his dignity to be destroyed by the wizard's treatment of him, and Saruman knew this.
The wizard chuckled to himself as he went back to his high seat, staff in hand, somewhat like a king with his sceptre.
"All that is missing," thought Legolas bitterly, "is a crown of berry-rich yew."
Legolas stood before Saruman, tall and regal in front of the wizard. His face was set in stony defiance, and Gríma could see that this was going to be a very interesting confrontation between the two...
'I welcome you, Thranduilion,' said Saruman in a silky voice. He waited for a reaction, and there was a deep silence as he watched the Elf – who watched him back with that unblinking contemptuous stare.
'It is common courtesy to bow to your host, Thranduilion, or at least to acknowledge his words; I would have thought that, with you being of high royal blood and reared in a king's court, would know this.'
Legolas responded to this by saying in a quiet yet carrying voice that could be heard with all of its subtleness at the other end of the chamber: 'I bow only to lords and kings, not traitors and deceivers, Saruman the Betrayer.'
Saruman's eyes flashed briefly before he said: 'I care not that you are of noble lineage, Legolas Greenleaf: I will not tolerate any lack in showing respect for me, especially from you!'
Legolas shook his head slowly, his blue eyes still fixed on the aged figure on the high seat before him, his face still holding the opprobrious expression. 'There is nothing left to respect.'
Saruman was on his feet, his face filled with pure wrath, and he held his staff in a threatening manner.
'Your Elven stubbornness will be your down fall,' he warned. 'Bow to me!' His bellow shook the chamber, and Gríma recoiled a little where he stood.
'I will not bow to you.'
"Softly spoken," thought Gríma. "Foolishly said."
The scream pierced his thoughts as Saruman pushed his staff forward. It touched not the Elf, but he clutched at his bound arm desperately as though Saruman were beside him hitting it. As sharply as the scream had started it was stopped, as Saruman drew his staff back to himself, an odd glint in his eye. The Elf panted briefly before straightening his back to look Saruman in the face again. There was no contempt there any more: it was hatred.
'Bow.' The wizard's voice was of a deadly calm now ... indeed, he sounded very much to Gríma like a master trying to teach an exceptionally stubborn child with the last remaining threads of his patience fraying.
Legolas' lip curled, his teeth bared in a snarl at the wizard.
'No!' That had not been said either quietly or calmly, nor was it shouted; that one word was uttered with the force of one of the most powerful emotions in the world, and had emerged from between clenched teeth, defiance standing strong in its sounding.
"How very unwise," Gríma thought.
The Elf screamed again with the agony that was so much more savage this time than it had been before. But Legolas refused to even slightly incline his head lest it be mistaken for a bow, and instead went down on his knees.
He riveted his eyes upon Saruman even as the wizard intensified the pain in the break, making it feel like a vice crushed the broken bone without touching his arm. His vision blackened at the edges, and the epiphany of evil itself began to grow darker. All of the pain, the anger, the fear welled inside him, a seething mass of emotion that boiled in his mind like a nest of roused vipers ready to strike. They struck.
Legolas gave an ear-splitting cry as he flung at Saruman all of his built- up energy. He did not know how he did it, or even how he knew what he was to do with it, but he did know that it was some form of magic that he blasted at the wizard ... a magic that Saruman was unable to counter before it was too late.
As soon as it left his being, though, it sapped his body of all energy, and he collapsed to the cold stone, rendered unconscious by the sheer intensity of the action.
Saruman was thrown back into his chair by the sudden and unexpected force that Legolas had thrown at him. It shocked him to say the least. He had heard of this before, but had never actually encountered it in a living Elf.
He glared down coldly at the still being on the black floor, a snarl flittering across his aquiline features. He had been beaten. Again. And by an Elf, this time, one whom he had never expected to be able to do more than was average for one of his kind. It had been a powerful attack, but Saruman doubted very much whether the Elf would be able to do it again.
As for being defied, he had told the creature that he would not tolerate it, and he had meant that.
'Gríma!'
Gríma was at the wizards' elbow instantly, eyebrows raised as he looked upon the old man with expectant askance.
'He has spirit,' said Saruman, staring down at the Elf still as though he had found a disagreeable stain on the floor. 'I do not like spirit. It shall be crushed from him.' He turned his coal-black eyes to the watery blue ones of the man next to him. 'I appoint you with the task.'
Gríma bowed to this. Good. Vengeance for his broken nose at least would be his ... he still loathed Saruman for that mocking grin he had given him when the wizard had asked what had happened to his face. When he had said that the Elf had done it he had openly laughed at him. He did not know why - it was not as though the Elf was weak. He was many things, but certainly not that.
'Take him down,' Gríma commanded the Wild Men who were hanging about at the back of the chamber. 'Make sure he is shackled well, but leave the broken arm alone. No one is to go down there except me.'
He wondered briefly if they had fully taken in his words, but decided that he cared not. He was more shocked at the instruction he had issued for them to not touch the broken arm. Why had he said that? He hated the Elf, after all. Perhaps it was out of a small level of respect he had attained for the immortal – one could not prevent oneself from admiring one's enemy when they did what the Elf had done for his friends the other night. Gríma only wished that he could have a relationship with someone of such strength that they would be willing to go to any lengths to ensure his welfare. All at once with that thought his hatred intensified – how dare the Elf have something that he knew he could never reach!
TRANSLATIONS
Thranduilion – Son of Thranduil