The Darkest Time
Garuk watched as Legolas ate the fruit he had thrown into the cage. It pleased the orc to see the elf, this highborn, royal elf, eating soiled fruit off the floor. The elf could not see him because Garuk had not lit the torch for three days. True light from any source hurt the orc's eyes and of course, having light would comfort the elf. He knew that elves needed to be above ground to live. Their hearts were eternally bound with nature and things of beauty. In the darkness they wilted and eventually died. However, he did not want this one to die, not yet. He wanted to destroy his spirit, his very soul. He wanted to see that eternal flame burn low, splutter and go out. Then, and only then, would he allow the elf to die. For now, he was content to watch him grovel in the dirt for his food.
The elf's face was hidden from his sight by a curtain of gold hair, unkempt gold hair. But Garuk could see his thin dirty hands as they swiftly gathered the fruit that lay scattered on the ground. He licked his lips as he caressed a thin leather whip he carried. Soon, oh very soon, the fun would begin.
Legolas knelt on the ground stuffing fruit in his mouth as quickly as he could. He did not even stop to wipe off the dirt that covered them. He had had nothing but water for three days and the pain of hunger filled every fibre of his being. Finally he stopped eating and pressed a hand against his stomach willing the pain to go away. He tried to breathe deeply and evenly. He knew that the beast Garuk watched him in the darkness. He could feel its malevolent will like a palpable force. It wanted him to give up. It wanted to hear him scream and beg; to lose his sanity and wail his grief into the night. As difficult as it was to make the decision; Legolas refused to die. He would not let the orc win this contest. He knew he could be broken physically, but his will was his own. He was the son of a king; no mere orc would break him.
Garuk was patient. He waited and watched as the elf fell into a weary sleep. Then he waited two hours more. It was time. He undid the cage door and entered with little noise. He crossed to where the elf lay and stood staring at the sleeping form. Even unwashed and ungroomed the elf was still beautiful. With a sudden rage he brought the thin whip whistling down on the unprotected body.
Legolas woke with a scream. His side burned with fire! He rolled to his knees, his hands outflung in a protective gesture. He felt a rush of air and again fire burned into his back. He arched away from the sting, throwing himself sideways to avoid another blow. His eyes were wide in panic as he tried to sense his enemy in the darkness. A soft rasp of a boot, warned him of the orc's approach to his left. He threw himself forward and crashed into the orc headlong. The impact caused the orc to stagger backward, momentarily off balance. But Legolas had lost a good deal of his former strength and his brave attack left him breathless.
Garuk had no such problem. He backhanded the elf and the creature fell to the ground gasping for breath. Garuk brought the whip down with all his force and malice behind it. He caught the elf between the neck and shoulder. He was pleased to hear him scream again. A most piercing scream. The elf scrabbled backward holding onto his burning shoulder. But Garuk was unmerciful and followed him, striking a hundred times at the elf's bare skin.
Legolas screamed as the whip came down on the tender flesh of his upper legs. He automatically pulled himself into a tight curl, leaving his back exposed to the blows. It hurt. It hurt. Oh gods it hurt.
Garuk stopped only when the elf could scream no more. Only ragged, choked sounds came from his throat. Garuk knew how painful it was. He had been beaten with the whip many times himself. With a look that could be mistaken for tenderness he knelt and stroked the elf's head. He felt his prisoner's body shake with sobs. He grabbed a fistful of the pale golden hair and let the strands slip through his fingers. He leaned close to the elf's pointed ear.
"You are weak first born." He said softly. There was no reply except the elf's laboured breathing. "You will not survive this." He whispered. He ran his deformed thumb along the line of the elf's jaw and delighted in the shudder of revulsion the beautiful being gave.
Seven months had passed before Garuk grew tired of just beating the elf. The creature seemed to have become immune to his frequent sessions. He did not even react to the pain… much. So, Garuk was trying to think of a better thing to do.
The only thing that kept Legolas alive and lucid during those long months was his memories. He thought of the tall green trees of Mirkwood. He remembered the way a brisk, cool wind would blow throughout the night. He saw the smiling faces of his friends as they sometimes teased, laughed and talked with him. But most of all, he remembered the infectious laughter of his father and the way his blue eyes would twinkle at him across the breakfast table. They always twinkled more when Thranduil had had a cup too much of the Mirkwood vineyard. Thranduil had taught Legolas to fish, ride and hunt and of course, to appreciate a mug of good wine. It was a long time since he had tasted wine. He wondered if he would ever see his home again.
When he heard the cage door being opened behind him, Legolas involuntarily clenched his fists. His breathing quickened and he tried to prepare for the first sting of the whip. It never came. Instead two strong hands encircled his neck and jerked him upright. Legolas clawed at the fingers that tightened around his neck. He could not breathe. He felt himself slipping into a grey place. His hands fell to his side.
Abruptly Garuk released him. He let the elf fall to the ground. He quickly bound his hands, raised them above his head and secured them to the bars of the cage. He waited until the elf opened his eyes, then straddling him, leaned over him and said, "Hello my pretty." The elf said nothing. Garuk slapped his face. The elf spat at him.
Legolas gave a shout of rage when the orc licked the side of his face and then traced a line across his chest with his tongue. His rough hands found his maleness and brutally squeezed. He bucked against this violation, but the beast was seated securely on his legs. He could not shake him off. Foul lips found his in the darkness and the fetid taste of orc filled his mouth. His body screamed its denial. He bit the orc on the lip, but he laughed and slapped his face once more. Legolas cried out in despair as the orc lifted off him briefly and flipped him onto his stomach.
"No!" he shrieked. He flung his head back, catching the orc squarely in the jaw. But the orc grabbed a handful of his hair and slammed his head against the solid ground. He was stunned. The orc held his head down and with the other hand and his knees parted his rigid legs…
The explosion of pain he felt inside his bowels threatened to swamp him. He did not know when he began to scream. The orc slammed against him, again and again, in an awful rhythm; and he felt as though a hot knife plunged deep inside him, again and again, tearing at his soul. At last the orc was spent and lay heavily on him for a moment.
Then the terrible weight was gone.
In this way two years passed.
Notes
Lyn, the medical advice was helpful.
Pie, Aragorn devotion comes from an eastern belief that once you save a life, it is your responsibility forever.
Elves of the moon. My thanks and I don't think Aragorn will fall just yet. I love Elladan and Elrohir too.
Lady Jenelly Your comments are appreciated.