Disclaimer: I own zilch- except the jailors and the plot.
A/N: Well, here I am again! I'd planned to work on my other fic, but got such a huge response to this one that I decided to give you all another chapter. WARNING: things are about to get painful. Do NOT proceed if you dislike seeing Elves being- er- exposed to rather sadistic orcs. And thanks to all who said that they like this story!
Seeing Through Agony.
Legolas hung from the ceiling of the tiny room.
The manacles securing his ankles cut into his flesh, the dulled edges bringing biting stabs of pain whenever he tried to move. However, that was not the main cause for the child's fear.
He couldn't breathe.
He had to force the air to enter his lungs. A dead weight seemed to press down from above, slowly bearing him to black suffocation. The Prince had no idea what was causing this, and if he had, it would have only served to terrify him more.
Because his own body was betraying him.
The weight of his internal organs was being dragged onto his lungs. His physical structure had thrust them away from normal places with this sudden reversal of up and down, so that he was, in effect, choking himself. Added to that, gravity was pulling excess blood to his head, gently, slowly, but undeniably crushing the delicate brain cells.
For the child, all that he knew was that he had to use precious energy to gasp in what air he could take. More was being used as Elven healing abilities kicked in, subconsciously ordering some of the more minor arteries to his skull to shut down in order to prevent serious injury. Others had already diverted the blood that had been stopped from reaching his head to the muscles in his chest, tensing them to remove some of the weight from the weaker breathing organs. He knew that his body should be trying to heal itself, but it didn't help him inhale all that much.
He gazed at the door in insane desperation, coupled with a deep apprehension. If the orcs came back, they would inflict more pain on him, yet if they did not he could die, for all he knew. But surely they would want to hurt him more...
When the entrance to the room was suddenly opened, he immediately recoiled, wondering how he could have been so stupid as to want these goblins to return. The largest was double his height at least, and all six of them had skin-crawling, hideous grins on their foul faces. Their leader strode quickly over the short stretch of floor between the Prince and the door. Catching at the Elfling's fair features with a filthy claw, he leered at the child, clearly savouring the discomfort and fear flickering in their prisoner's eyes. Turning to an accomplice, he nodded at the ropes binding the captive's feet.
The underling slashed the bonds with one quick stroke of his sword. Legolas would have fallen to the ground had it not been for Tralek's hold under his chin. As it was, he went from upside-down to right way up in less than a second, causing light-headed giddiness to sweep through him as his blood decided to exit his brain and travel to his feet. Reeling (and feeling rather dizzy), he tried to see what was happening. Before he succeeded, however, he was roughly yanked out of the room, and dragged down a crudely built stone passage. The orcs took great delight in bashing him into the walls, and he was covered in bloody scrapes when they reached their destination.
Tossed to the floor, Thranduil's son wondered where his father was, hoping that the older Elf was in less pain, even if that chance did seem extremely remote. But all thoughts of that kind were driven entirely out of his mind at what came next.
The whip screamed down, plunging into his soft back. He yelped, and tried to wriggle away, before an orcish foot pinned him there. Telling himself firmly not to show his feelings, he bit his lip and blinked away his tears. Then the lash fell again. And again. Soon his young back was a tattered mess of blood. Ribbons of skin trailed, and scraps of muscle hung raggedly over his sides. It was a horrendous scene.
And the child was screaming.
Legolas couldn't help it. Every jarring stroke tore another agonised cry from his burning body, each new contact hammered into his consciousness, until all that he could be sure of was that he hurt, and they beat that knowledge into him with a savage joy. They laughed madly at his sounds, enjoying the harsh cruelty of mutilating one so relatively young.
If there's one thing orcs like, it's an Elf to torture.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Thranduil ached all over.
Actually, the Elvenking felt like a Balrog had set up camp on his left arm, after getting there via his neck. All the skin on his left arm was either flayed or non-existent. Nerve endings shrieked at him, sending relentless messages of the damage caused when the goblins had paid him brutal attention. Not interrogating, merely venting hatred of the Firstborn and anger at being constantly fought against on the unfortunate King of Mirkwood.
They had certainly vented. Suffice to say that Oropher's son now owned one useless arm, a raw cut on the back of his neck, and a set of shredded back muscles. The muscles had been yanked forcefully out of him, and the arm had been partially skinned. All in all, it was one very pained Elf lord who leaned against the corner of his crude cell, thinking about war.
Because it was war...or had been, and they had lost it. His people would even now be on the move, straggling bunches wandering, tired and forlorn, over the plains to Lothlorien, meandering round the Misty Mountains to seek the Golden Wood, and the protection of the Lady who ruled it. They would be faltering, but not stopping, instead persisting in their quest to find safety for their kin.
Then again, a very few might be headed for Rivendell. In case of excessive danger around the range's mighty foot, one of the emergency passages had had its exit halfway through the mountains, meaning that any who took it had no choice but to press on toward Imladris. True, that path was normally more treacherous than the straight- sort of ...relatively- road to Lorien, but it had been a necessary precaution against losing too many of his subjects.
At least, it had seemed so for the last century. They shall have the shelter of the Three, by all means, and that is more than they had with me...ai! Why is it that I cannot see sense until they have been scattered, and I can no longer help them? I should have moved my people to the other Elven realms...
Nay, they would not have accepted that. They would have remained, no matter what. I could not have shifted them.
Thranduil somehow managed a small smile at that last thought, fondly recalling what was politely called Mirkwood persistence, and otherwise known as 'cursed Sindar stubbornness'. Well, he supposed it could be supremely irritating when you were trying to get twenty soldiers to act sensibly instead of recklessly for once in their lives, and they insisted on going ahead with the original plan- namely, charge directly into the spiders' nest and risking getting pounced on.
The agony in his skinned arm expanded as he rested it gently on the filth- ridden floor, and he started briefly, jolts of lame seeming to skitter up the stripped flesh and wrap around the bone, before dissolving into a horrible numbness that signified severe infection beginning to take hold there- he thought.
Suddenly, huge, dirty claws wrapped about the bars in the tiny window that allowed the orcs to see their captives without being seen themselves.
"So, little worm," sneered the creature at the door, "not so proud now, eh? Not now that you've seen what we orcs can do. All high and mighty- not any more! That brat of yours found that out pretty quick..."
The Elf leapt to his feet and bounded to the door. His face scant inches from that of the beast taunting him, he glared at his captor, lips drawing back into a feral snarl as he tried to mask the anxiety in his mind.
"What did you do to him?" he hissed, eyes boring into the goblin. "If you hurt him, I swear by Manwe that no torment you inflict will prevent me from running you down and ripping the heart from your chest! Leave him be, you twisted creation of Morgoth, you- you mockery! Leave him be..."
For an eternal moment, the orc flinched back, cowering at the King's wrath. A Sinda Lord, fully enraged, was not something to be taken lightly, especially when said Sinda Lord was only three inches from your nose. And as for anger levels, Thranduil, in complete health, might well have knocked down the door, taken off the goblins head, and been bursting in on his child five minutes later. If he could find the way, that is...
And then the creature regained some courage, although it still spoke from several feet away.
"Screamed like a baby, he did," it drawled, trying to keep a quaver out of its voice. "Lovely sound. Pleadin' for 'is Father, you should have heard it... I would have thought that people in your place were good at taking pain. Seems I was wrong. Where's the fun in hurting an Elf if he cries too easily? No fun at all...maybe he'll be harder by the end, but then, they're usually softer about then. Whimpering and begging, can't even take a normal beating- your son certainly can't, passed out halfway through. Pity he went so fast, though, means we'll have to kill him quicker..."
"SILENCE!"
The Elf's face was contorted in an enraged snarl. His body was pressed flat against the door. His hands were clenched, and he looked as if he would love nothing more than to wrap them around the orcs scrawny neck. If looks could kill, half the people in Dol Guldor would have died from the force of his glare, despite being protected by thick stone walls.
"Be. Quiet."
"What, don't want to hear about your son being whipped? Surely you wouldn't care about that..."
The beast was playing on his natural protection instinct now. If an Elf can take harm directed at another, he or she will. The Elvenking hated to learn of his child being injured; it cut to his soul and bit deep. It hurt him to think of Legolas in such a state as the orc described- his son did not cry easily.
"Spawn of Melkor, you had best run. No place on Arda will be able to hide you when I am free."
The creature laughed nervously, before turning as if to go. Then, with one quick movement, it twisted back toward him, ripping its claws across his face.
Blood spurted from the wound. Red and fresh, it exploded over his cheeks and chin and trickled into his mouth. It ran into his eyes and even his ears. It tasted metallic and bitter, and he spat it out in disgust. He was half blinded; the liquid was making his vision red. Burning pain was slicing along his features. He could hardly see straight.
The gouges extended from the left side of his jawbone to his right temple, just missing his eyes. The white bone showed clearly through the torn skin. It was excruciatingly painful.
Nevertheless, Thranduil remained standing, watching as his tormentor vanished down the passageway, thoughts of revenge echoing in his mind. Catch you, torment you, place his agony on your shoulders...
And then he collapsed to the ground, the burning in his body only superseded by the chill that was consuming his heart.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Legolas awoke biting back screams.
He lay still for a moment, becoming accustomed to the world around him. He was on his back, in the tiny room he was apparently going to occupy for most of his time here. There was almost no light. His limbs felt as if they were going to drop off, and he was surrounded by blood.
Jerking his head up, he immediately regretted the action. Fire seemed to flare up in the tattered flesh of his back, racing up his spine. He yelped, fell, and cried out as the already tender skin made sudden, brutal contact with the hard, rough floor. Particles of stone were rubbed in harshly, and the place appeared to spin crazily. Perhaps worse than the orcs' hard beating was the powder they had rubbed into the wounds. Any quick motion caused unbelievably agonising spasms to rack the young Prince's body. The pain was exquisitely sharp.
Sobs began to shudder through the Elfling's slender frame. Unfortunately, that only aggravated the injuries further, and the child was soon stuffing his fists into his mouth to prevent the screams welling up in his throat from escaping. His back was a mass of torn shreds of muscle, with blood pouring from the welts. Not in serious amounts, but enough to make him feel strangely dizzy. His legs had been sliced at with a sharp knife, many times. All in all, he was in incredible agony, too much to even escape to unconsciousness.
So he lay slumped in his own blood, gasping for breath as the shakings stopped, whispering to the Valar as his only source of comfort.
"Ai...I fear- for my father, and for my own life. Why, why was the Necromancer...allowed to build here...why was he left to the Men and the Elves? Ai, Elbereth Gilthoniel! For we could not abolish all remnants of his power...Alas for Men! That all should pay for Isildur's brief weakness- 'tis wrong, I think, as Ada would say." He smiled weakly. "That Dol Guldor still festers- and indeed, is still used!
"Oh, Manwe, Aule, Orome, Namo, Varda, Yvanna, Vaire, Nienna...your names I am unfit to utter- although I just did, forgive me- creators of the lands I know...ai, ai, I...do not understand! Ada, is Ada still well, still uninjured? I hope that he is, I hope that they have not hurt him- but they will have, and it is all my fault. If I had not fallen, he would be well...and with me! We should still be together, and unhurt. Together...
"I cannot help but think that I would rather be with Ada than uninjured...I would be close to him then, be able to touch him, talk to him, hear him...see him. I long to see him- he is my only hope of escape, and he is my father! He protected me for years gone and...he was always there for me."
The child gazed up at the roof of his prison, half expecting a Maia to come bursting through it. A moment later, he mentally kicked himself. A Maia was not going to appear simply because he had been praying to the Valar. That would be too much to hope for.
The heavy, shuffling footfalls of an orc floated down to his cell. The Prince huddled back- as best as he could, being flattened against the floor. Blood stuck his back to the remnants of his cloak, the thick red substance leaking from his wounds and over the surrounding floor. Pressing against the floor only caused intense waves of pain to lance throughout his body.
The goblin halted outside his door. Unlocking it, the foul creature paused to enjoy the sight of the Elfling lying in a pool of blood, face contorted in fear and agony. Then it stepped inside and crouched beside him.
Legolas shuddered as the filthy beast pried his mouth open and forced the bitter, disgusting gel that passed for food down his throat. He almost choked on it, but somehow managed to swallow. No sooner had he done so than another handful was shoved into his mouth. He could barely breathe, as more of the slimy substance was crammed down his throat.
Eventually, the feeding stopped. The child lay weak and nauseous on the dirty ground, his eyes closed, shivering violently. His captor picked up the bucket of 'food', and left the room. Legolas only just heard it go. Inhaling was a struggle, taking most of his energy, not unlike being hung upside-down from the ceiling. Air seemed unwilling to come near the stench of the slime that he had been made to eat. The slender boy was by now half asleep. Yawning, he opened his eyes slightly, drifting into an Elvish sleeping trance.
Blackness overcame him.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Litael stood calmly by the door of the cottage. Her husband would be returning soon, from Dol Guldor.
She knew what happened behind the towering walls, of course. It was none of her business, though, and as far as she was concerned, those Elves deserved it. Several hundred years ago, Litael's tribe had lost everything to the Last Alliance. She had not been alive to see it, but the tales had been passed down, mother to daughter, father to son. The little group of Haradrim had hatred in their minds and cruelty in their hearts. Bitter and sadistic, they thrived on the pain inflicted in Sauron's old fortress.
Her dark hair swept back, she watched the road, searching for Avyun. Usually he was home by this hour, unless something held him back. Ah, there he was, striding towards her. Smiling, she ran to meet him.
"My husband, how did you fare today? Why are you late home?"
"My love. Let us enter our hut, and I shall tell you all...today has been prosperous indeed!"
An hour later, sitting by the fire, he told her.
"Yesterday, the Riders captured the so-called 'King' of Mirkwood- and his son."
"Nay!"
"Yes! They brought both of them to the fortress- and I am one of the lucky ones who was allowed to 'interrogate' the older one."
His eyes glittered wickedly.
"We took the skin off his arm, ripped it away entirely. He cried out...such a sweet sound! It was the orcs that they let near him mostly, but me and Naroun were let in as well, thank the skies! They'd cut the back of his neck, but not so much that he couldn't move, and completely shredded his back. I've been up there extra time, just to see him whimper, although he didn't do much of that until Revnug described his son. Speaking of the 'Prince', he got hung up for a while, and then they beat and powdered him. I heard he was screaming like a baby..."
Outside, the black night showed no indication of what had taken place only a few hours before. The silver moon rode high over the forest, wisps of cloud floating around it.
Beyond the forest, tiny groups of Sindar stopped and looked up, unsure why they did so. A sense of dread went through them, and, although it left quickly, they remained uncertain of whether to continue to Lothlorien or return to the woods. At last, they went on their way, but all felt somehow cowardly in doing so.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
The Lady of the Golden Wood stirred in her sleep. Her eyes glanced tiredly about the walls of her chamber, and she rose silently, slipping out of the door.
Exiting the flet, she descended to the ground, gliding like a mist over the soft earth. Brushing softly between the trees, she found that she had reached her Mirror.
She did not waste time wondering why she had walked there. She simply took the pitcher, filled it from the spring, emptied it into the stone basin, and looked into the depths.
She saw Elves, many of them, straggling around the Misty Mountains to Lorien. She studied them closely, but did not see Thranduil. Now slightly concerned, she checked that the knots of Avari seemed to be safe, then turned her attention elsewhere.
Thranduil, she thought, son of Oropher. King of Mirkwood, where are you?
The vision changed.
Now she saw Thranduil, slumped on a crude stone floor. His left arm was red- raw, his back a bloody mess of tattered flesh. His golden hair was clinging to his body with sweat and blood, and he was shuddering with sobs. A faint image of an Elfling appeared to overlay the hideous scene- he fears for his son.
Galadriel released the rim of the bowl. Sighing, she studied the stars, looking for even a scrap of hope in their unblemished beauty. The stars had shone for millennia, and would do so forever. While Mirkwood's King languished in Dol Guldor, the stars still gleamed for the Elves.
But now, she had approximately two or three hundred Sindar to prepare for. She turned, mentally readying herself for the confusion that would undoubtedly manifest in the morning when she announced that they were expecting guests. It would be quite difficult to arrange accommodation, but at least they were forewarned, and there had always been the possibility of needing to do so- Thranduil was nothing if not thorough.
Climbing back up to the flet, she almost collided with Celeborn. He smiled gently at her, whispered Meleth-nin, and the two of them slipped back into their chambers.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Thranduil was caught in a nightmare.
Nazgul screams rang around his skull. Fear was shooting through him, so sharp it was almost tangible. He looked about wildly, but all he could see was a whirling cloud of black and grey, tinged with crimson. The shrieks bouncing around his brain intensified, the mists parted and...
His father was lying before him, his face twisted slightly under a mask of blood. A broken arrow protruded from the side of his temple. Oropher looked- surprised. Startled that the projectile had cut his immortal life short. The shock was evident on his features.
And then it was not Oropher, but his son. Legolas, huddled in a tiny room, body tattered by unrestrained orcish attention.
It took Mirkwood's King a moment to realise that he was projecting his fears, and to remember that an Elf attacked by unrestrained, orcish attention would most likely be dead from the battering that the goblins would inflict. The results of such administrations were not pretty, to say the least. More like disgusting, horrifying, spine chilling, gruesome, nauseating, hideous, and mangled. It was carnage- even when practised on only one being.
He flicked back to wakefulness.
And then he remembered.
The remnants of the once proud warrior were scattered over the forest floor. He had been literally dismembered, ripped apart by orcs and Wargs.
Entrails, torn apart, had been tossed haphazardly about the glade. The skull had been split open, leaving the brains in a grey, slimy heap. Bones had been plucked of all flesh, muscles clawed into shreds, and the heart and lungs lay free to the elements. All organs had been punctured many times.
"Adar," Thranduil whispered as he surveyed the blood-soaked scene. "Why, Adar? Is there some reason for their doing this?"
"Nay," murmured Oropher. "Nay, they merely love to hurt us, to distress us. They long to destroy us completely."
The young Elf felt tears form in his eyes as he looked at the thinly spread remains. This...for no reason.
Thranduil felt tears form again. His son was gone. But he was alive, and that was something.
Life is hope.
Even the dimmest glimmer of a chance strengthened him somewhat.
Legolas would not become like that warrior in the glade. He would not allow it.
Together, they would fight their way out. They would escape.
And that was some small comfort.
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A/N: Yup, I FINALLY updated. After an EXTREMELY stressful week. Ugh, I hate exams. Although the REVISION is actually worse, and that is what I've been doing. Argh. And then my parents restricted computer times SO that I could revise. Which I hate doing. Yay, kindly note the sarcasm.
Sigh. Look, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. I just...anyone else got exams? You know what it's like, trying to write and cram and all at once. Utterly AWFUL.
Signed,
Starwind Rohana.
A/N: Well, here I am again! I'd planned to work on my other fic, but got such a huge response to this one that I decided to give you all another chapter. WARNING: things are about to get painful. Do NOT proceed if you dislike seeing Elves being- er- exposed to rather sadistic orcs. And thanks to all who said that they like this story!
Seeing Through Agony.
Legolas hung from the ceiling of the tiny room.
The manacles securing his ankles cut into his flesh, the dulled edges bringing biting stabs of pain whenever he tried to move. However, that was not the main cause for the child's fear.
He couldn't breathe.
He had to force the air to enter his lungs. A dead weight seemed to press down from above, slowly bearing him to black suffocation. The Prince had no idea what was causing this, and if he had, it would have only served to terrify him more.
Because his own body was betraying him.
The weight of his internal organs was being dragged onto his lungs. His physical structure had thrust them away from normal places with this sudden reversal of up and down, so that he was, in effect, choking himself. Added to that, gravity was pulling excess blood to his head, gently, slowly, but undeniably crushing the delicate brain cells.
For the child, all that he knew was that he had to use precious energy to gasp in what air he could take. More was being used as Elven healing abilities kicked in, subconsciously ordering some of the more minor arteries to his skull to shut down in order to prevent serious injury. Others had already diverted the blood that had been stopped from reaching his head to the muscles in his chest, tensing them to remove some of the weight from the weaker breathing organs. He knew that his body should be trying to heal itself, but it didn't help him inhale all that much.
He gazed at the door in insane desperation, coupled with a deep apprehension. If the orcs came back, they would inflict more pain on him, yet if they did not he could die, for all he knew. But surely they would want to hurt him more...
When the entrance to the room was suddenly opened, he immediately recoiled, wondering how he could have been so stupid as to want these goblins to return. The largest was double his height at least, and all six of them had skin-crawling, hideous grins on their foul faces. Their leader strode quickly over the short stretch of floor between the Prince and the door. Catching at the Elfling's fair features with a filthy claw, he leered at the child, clearly savouring the discomfort and fear flickering in their prisoner's eyes. Turning to an accomplice, he nodded at the ropes binding the captive's feet.
The underling slashed the bonds with one quick stroke of his sword. Legolas would have fallen to the ground had it not been for Tralek's hold under his chin. As it was, he went from upside-down to right way up in less than a second, causing light-headed giddiness to sweep through him as his blood decided to exit his brain and travel to his feet. Reeling (and feeling rather dizzy), he tried to see what was happening. Before he succeeded, however, he was roughly yanked out of the room, and dragged down a crudely built stone passage. The orcs took great delight in bashing him into the walls, and he was covered in bloody scrapes when they reached their destination.
Tossed to the floor, Thranduil's son wondered where his father was, hoping that the older Elf was in less pain, even if that chance did seem extremely remote. But all thoughts of that kind were driven entirely out of his mind at what came next.
The whip screamed down, plunging into his soft back. He yelped, and tried to wriggle away, before an orcish foot pinned him there. Telling himself firmly not to show his feelings, he bit his lip and blinked away his tears. Then the lash fell again. And again. Soon his young back was a tattered mess of blood. Ribbons of skin trailed, and scraps of muscle hung raggedly over his sides. It was a horrendous scene.
And the child was screaming.
Legolas couldn't help it. Every jarring stroke tore another agonised cry from his burning body, each new contact hammered into his consciousness, until all that he could be sure of was that he hurt, and they beat that knowledge into him with a savage joy. They laughed madly at his sounds, enjoying the harsh cruelty of mutilating one so relatively young.
If there's one thing orcs like, it's an Elf to torture.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Thranduil ached all over.
Actually, the Elvenking felt like a Balrog had set up camp on his left arm, after getting there via his neck. All the skin on his left arm was either flayed or non-existent. Nerve endings shrieked at him, sending relentless messages of the damage caused when the goblins had paid him brutal attention. Not interrogating, merely venting hatred of the Firstborn and anger at being constantly fought against on the unfortunate King of Mirkwood.
They had certainly vented. Suffice to say that Oropher's son now owned one useless arm, a raw cut on the back of his neck, and a set of shredded back muscles. The muscles had been yanked forcefully out of him, and the arm had been partially skinned. All in all, it was one very pained Elf lord who leaned against the corner of his crude cell, thinking about war.
Because it was war...or had been, and they had lost it. His people would even now be on the move, straggling bunches wandering, tired and forlorn, over the plains to Lothlorien, meandering round the Misty Mountains to seek the Golden Wood, and the protection of the Lady who ruled it. They would be faltering, but not stopping, instead persisting in their quest to find safety for their kin.
Then again, a very few might be headed for Rivendell. In case of excessive danger around the range's mighty foot, one of the emergency passages had had its exit halfway through the mountains, meaning that any who took it had no choice but to press on toward Imladris. True, that path was normally more treacherous than the straight- sort of ...relatively- road to Lorien, but it had been a necessary precaution against losing too many of his subjects.
At least, it had seemed so for the last century. They shall have the shelter of the Three, by all means, and that is more than they had with me...ai! Why is it that I cannot see sense until they have been scattered, and I can no longer help them? I should have moved my people to the other Elven realms...
Nay, they would not have accepted that. They would have remained, no matter what. I could not have shifted them.
Thranduil somehow managed a small smile at that last thought, fondly recalling what was politely called Mirkwood persistence, and otherwise known as 'cursed Sindar stubbornness'. Well, he supposed it could be supremely irritating when you were trying to get twenty soldiers to act sensibly instead of recklessly for once in their lives, and they insisted on going ahead with the original plan- namely, charge directly into the spiders' nest and risking getting pounced on.
The agony in his skinned arm expanded as he rested it gently on the filth- ridden floor, and he started briefly, jolts of lame seeming to skitter up the stripped flesh and wrap around the bone, before dissolving into a horrible numbness that signified severe infection beginning to take hold there- he thought.
Suddenly, huge, dirty claws wrapped about the bars in the tiny window that allowed the orcs to see their captives without being seen themselves.
"So, little worm," sneered the creature at the door, "not so proud now, eh? Not now that you've seen what we orcs can do. All high and mighty- not any more! That brat of yours found that out pretty quick..."
The Elf leapt to his feet and bounded to the door. His face scant inches from that of the beast taunting him, he glared at his captor, lips drawing back into a feral snarl as he tried to mask the anxiety in his mind.
"What did you do to him?" he hissed, eyes boring into the goblin. "If you hurt him, I swear by Manwe that no torment you inflict will prevent me from running you down and ripping the heart from your chest! Leave him be, you twisted creation of Morgoth, you- you mockery! Leave him be..."
For an eternal moment, the orc flinched back, cowering at the King's wrath. A Sinda Lord, fully enraged, was not something to be taken lightly, especially when said Sinda Lord was only three inches from your nose. And as for anger levels, Thranduil, in complete health, might well have knocked down the door, taken off the goblins head, and been bursting in on his child five minutes later. If he could find the way, that is...
And then the creature regained some courage, although it still spoke from several feet away.
"Screamed like a baby, he did," it drawled, trying to keep a quaver out of its voice. "Lovely sound. Pleadin' for 'is Father, you should have heard it... I would have thought that people in your place were good at taking pain. Seems I was wrong. Where's the fun in hurting an Elf if he cries too easily? No fun at all...maybe he'll be harder by the end, but then, they're usually softer about then. Whimpering and begging, can't even take a normal beating- your son certainly can't, passed out halfway through. Pity he went so fast, though, means we'll have to kill him quicker..."
"SILENCE!"
The Elf's face was contorted in an enraged snarl. His body was pressed flat against the door. His hands were clenched, and he looked as if he would love nothing more than to wrap them around the orcs scrawny neck. If looks could kill, half the people in Dol Guldor would have died from the force of his glare, despite being protected by thick stone walls.
"Be. Quiet."
"What, don't want to hear about your son being whipped? Surely you wouldn't care about that..."
The beast was playing on his natural protection instinct now. If an Elf can take harm directed at another, he or she will. The Elvenking hated to learn of his child being injured; it cut to his soul and bit deep. It hurt him to think of Legolas in such a state as the orc described- his son did not cry easily.
"Spawn of Melkor, you had best run. No place on Arda will be able to hide you when I am free."
The creature laughed nervously, before turning as if to go. Then, with one quick movement, it twisted back toward him, ripping its claws across his face.
Blood spurted from the wound. Red and fresh, it exploded over his cheeks and chin and trickled into his mouth. It ran into his eyes and even his ears. It tasted metallic and bitter, and he spat it out in disgust. He was half blinded; the liquid was making his vision red. Burning pain was slicing along his features. He could hardly see straight.
The gouges extended from the left side of his jawbone to his right temple, just missing his eyes. The white bone showed clearly through the torn skin. It was excruciatingly painful.
Nevertheless, Thranduil remained standing, watching as his tormentor vanished down the passageway, thoughts of revenge echoing in his mind. Catch you, torment you, place his agony on your shoulders...
And then he collapsed to the ground, the burning in his body only superseded by the chill that was consuming his heart.
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Legolas awoke biting back screams.
He lay still for a moment, becoming accustomed to the world around him. He was on his back, in the tiny room he was apparently going to occupy for most of his time here. There was almost no light. His limbs felt as if they were going to drop off, and he was surrounded by blood.
Jerking his head up, he immediately regretted the action. Fire seemed to flare up in the tattered flesh of his back, racing up his spine. He yelped, fell, and cried out as the already tender skin made sudden, brutal contact with the hard, rough floor. Particles of stone were rubbed in harshly, and the place appeared to spin crazily. Perhaps worse than the orcs' hard beating was the powder they had rubbed into the wounds. Any quick motion caused unbelievably agonising spasms to rack the young Prince's body. The pain was exquisitely sharp.
Sobs began to shudder through the Elfling's slender frame. Unfortunately, that only aggravated the injuries further, and the child was soon stuffing his fists into his mouth to prevent the screams welling up in his throat from escaping. His back was a mass of torn shreds of muscle, with blood pouring from the welts. Not in serious amounts, but enough to make him feel strangely dizzy. His legs had been sliced at with a sharp knife, many times. All in all, he was in incredible agony, too much to even escape to unconsciousness.
So he lay slumped in his own blood, gasping for breath as the shakings stopped, whispering to the Valar as his only source of comfort.
"Ai...I fear- for my father, and for my own life. Why, why was the Necromancer...allowed to build here...why was he left to the Men and the Elves? Ai, Elbereth Gilthoniel! For we could not abolish all remnants of his power...Alas for Men! That all should pay for Isildur's brief weakness- 'tis wrong, I think, as Ada would say." He smiled weakly. "That Dol Guldor still festers- and indeed, is still used!
"Oh, Manwe, Aule, Orome, Namo, Varda, Yvanna, Vaire, Nienna...your names I am unfit to utter- although I just did, forgive me- creators of the lands I know...ai, ai, I...do not understand! Ada, is Ada still well, still uninjured? I hope that he is, I hope that they have not hurt him- but they will have, and it is all my fault. If I had not fallen, he would be well...and with me! We should still be together, and unhurt. Together...
"I cannot help but think that I would rather be with Ada than uninjured...I would be close to him then, be able to touch him, talk to him, hear him...see him. I long to see him- he is my only hope of escape, and he is my father! He protected me for years gone and...he was always there for me."
The child gazed up at the roof of his prison, half expecting a Maia to come bursting through it. A moment later, he mentally kicked himself. A Maia was not going to appear simply because he had been praying to the Valar. That would be too much to hope for.
The heavy, shuffling footfalls of an orc floated down to his cell. The Prince huddled back- as best as he could, being flattened against the floor. Blood stuck his back to the remnants of his cloak, the thick red substance leaking from his wounds and over the surrounding floor. Pressing against the floor only caused intense waves of pain to lance throughout his body.
The goblin halted outside his door. Unlocking it, the foul creature paused to enjoy the sight of the Elfling lying in a pool of blood, face contorted in fear and agony. Then it stepped inside and crouched beside him.
Legolas shuddered as the filthy beast pried his mouth open and forced the bitter, disgusting gel that passed for food down his throat. He almost choked on it, but somehow managed to swallow. No sooner had he done so than another handful was shoved into his mouth. He could barely breathe, as more of the slimy substance was crammed down his throat.
Eventually, the feeding stopped. The child lay weak and nauseous on the dirty ground, his eyes closed, shivering violently. His captor picked up the bucket of 'food', and left the room. Legolas only just heard it go. Inhaling was a struggle, taking most of his energy, not unlike being hung upside-down from the ceiling. Air seemed unwilling to come near the stench of the slime that he had been made to eat. The slender boy was by now half asleep. Yawning, he opened his eyes slightly, drifting into an Elvish sleeping trance.
Blackness overcame him.
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Litael stood calmly by the door of the cottage. Her husband would be returning soon, from Dol Guldor.
She knew what happened behind the towering walls, of course. It was none of her business, though, and as far as she was concerned, those Elves deserved it. Several hundred years ago, Litael's tribe had lost everything to the Last Alliance. She had not been alive to see it, but the tales had been passed down, mother to daughter, father to son. The little group of Haradrim had hatred in their minds and cruelty in their hearts. Bitter and sadistic, they thrived on the pain inflicted in Sauron's old fortress.
Her dark hair swept back, she watched the road, searching for Avyun. Usually he was home by this hour, unless something held him back. Ah, there he was, striding towards her. Smiling, she ran to meet him.
"My husband, how did you fare today? Why are you late home?"
"My love. Let us enter our hut, and I shall tell you all...today has been prosperous indeed!"
An hour later, sitting by the fire, he told her.
"Yesterday, the Riders captured the so-called 'King' of Mirkwood- and his son."
"Nay!"
"Yes! They brought both of them to the fortress- and I am one of the lucky ones who was allowed to 'interrogate' the older one."
His eyes glittered wickedly.
"We took the skin off his arm, ripped it away entirely. He cried out...such a sweet sound! It was the orcs that they let near him mostly, but me and Naroun were let in as well, thank the skies! They'd cut the back of his neck, but not so much that he couldn't move, and completely shredded his back. I've been up there extra time, just to see him whimper, although he didn't do much of that until Revnug described his son. Speaking of the 'Prince', he got hung up for a while, and then they beat and powdered him. I heard he was screaming like a baby..."
Outside, the black night showed no indication of what had taken place only a few hours before. The silver moon rode high over the forest, wisps of cloud floating around it.
Beyond the forest, tiny groups of Sindar stopped and looked up, unsure why they did so. A sense of dread went through them, and, although it left quickly, they remained uncertain of whether to continue to Lothlorien or return to the woods. At last, they went on their way, but all felt somehow cowardly in doing so.
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The Lady of the Golden Wood stirred in her sleep. Her eyes glanced tiredly about the walls of her chamber, and she rose silently, slipping out of the door.
Exiting the flet, she descended to the ground, gliding like a mist over the soft earth. Brushing softly between the trees, she found that she had reached her Mirror.
She did not waste time wondering why she had walked there. She simply took the pitcher, filled it from the spring, emptied it into the stone basin, and looked into the depths.
She saw Elves, many of them, straggling around the Misty Mountains to Lorien. She studied them closely, but did not see Thranduil. Now slightly concerned, she checked that the knots of Avari seemed to be safe, then turned her attention elsewhere.
Thranduil, she thought, son of Oropher. King of Mirkwood, where are you?
The vision changed.
Now she saw Thranduil, slumped on a crude stone floor. His left arm was red- raw, his back a bloody mess of tattered flesh. His golden hair was clinging to his body with sweat and blood, and he was shuddering with sobs. A faint image of an Elfling appeared to overlay the hideous scene- he fears for his son.
Galadriel released the rim of the bowl. Sighing, she studied the stars, looking for even a scrap of hope in their unblemished beauty. The stars had shone for millennia, and would do so forever. While Mirkwood's King languished in Dol Guldor, the stars still gleamed for the Elves.
But now, she had approximately two or three hundred Sindar to prepare for. She turned, mentally readying herself for the confusion that would undoubtedly manifest in the morning when she announced that they were expecting guests. It would be quite difficult to arrange accommodation, but at least they were forewarned, and there had always been the possibility of needing to do so- Thranduil was nothing if not thorough.
Climbing back up to the flet, she almost collided with Celeborn. He smiled gently at her, whispered Meleth-nin, and the two of them slipped back into their chambers.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Thranduil was caught in a nightmare.
Nazgul screams rang around his skull. Fear was shooting through him, so sharp it was almost tangible. He looked about wildly, but all he could see was a whirling cloud of black and grey, tinged with crimson. The shrieks bouncing around his brain intensified, the mists parted and...
His father was lying before him, his face twisted slightly under a mask of blood. A broken arrow protruded from the side of his temple. Oropher looked- surprised. Startled that the projectile had cut his immortal life short. The shock was evident on his features.
And then it was not Oropher, but his son. Legolas, huddled in a tiny room, body tattered by unrestrained orcish attention.
It took Mirkwood's King a moment to realise that he was projecting his fears, and to remember that an Elf attacked by unrestrained, orcish attention would most likely be dead from the battering that the goblins would inflict. The results of such administrations were not pretty, to say the least. More like disgusting, horrifying, spine chilling, gruesome, nauseating, hideous, and mangled. It was carnage- even when practised on only one being.
He flicked back to wakefulness.
And then he remembered.
The remnants of the once proud warrior were scattered over the forest floor. He had been literally dismembered, ripped apart by orcs and Wargs.
Entrails, torn apart, had been tossed haphazardly about the glade. The skull had been split open, leaving the brains in a grey, slimy heap. Bones had been plucked of all flesh, muscles clawed into shreds, and the heart and lungs lay free to the elements. All organs had been punctured many times.
"Adar," Thranduil whispered as he surveyed the blood-soaked scene. "Why, Adar? Is there some reason for their doing this?"
"Nay," murmured Oropher. "Nay, they merely love to hurt us, to distress us. They long to destroy us completely."
The young Elf felt tears form in his eyes as he looked at the thinly spread remains. This...for no reason.
Thranduil felt tears form again. His son was gone. But he was alive, and that was something.
Life is hope.
Even the dimmest glimmer of a chance strengthened him somewhat.
Legolas would not become like that warrior in the glade. He would not allow it.
Together, they would fight their way out. They would escape.
And that was some small comfort.
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A/N: Yup, I FINALLY updated. After an EXTREMELY stressful week. Ugh, I hate exams. Although the REVISION is actually worse, and that is what I've been doing. Argh. And then my parents restricted computer times SO that I could revise. Which I hate doing. Yay, kindly note the sarcasm.
Sigh. Look, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. I just...anyone else got exams? You know what it's like, trying to write and cram and all at once. Utterly AWFUL.
Signed,
Starwind Rohana.