Disclaimer: Don't own it. Tolkien does though- ask him if you can have it. Unfortunately, he's dead, so you might have some trouble getting through...I don't think Oxford graveyard is in the telephone directory.
A/N: Some people seem to think that I have finished my exams. This is not so. I have actually STARTED them. And boy, do I the hell wish I had not. Or should that be have not? /Looks puzzled. / Aaaaanyway. Er...on with the fic! WARNING: More torture included. Although- just go read. /Puppy eyes. /
Hope is Free.
"Aaaahhhh!"
Agonised screams tore around the tiny dungeon. The Elfling they emitted from struggled desperately against the grip of his tormentors, his face contorted and twisted with panic and pain. One of the beasts holding him dug grimy claws into the pale skin, keeping the child still. Frantically, the prisoner jerked against the strong hands pinning him down.
Legolas could not believe the pain.
His body felt as if fire and ice was climbing through it. Intense waves of black agony had long ago stripped him of all reasonable thought. His only concern now was to escape, yet he could not attain that which he currently desired the most. With every second that passed, his terror grew, and with it grew the pain.
Several ribs had cracked under the strain. He was spitting blood from internal injuries, most parts of his brain had shut off in order to cope with the stress, and, if not granted a reprieve soon, he would die.
Die a horrible and bloody death.
A red-hot brand slammed into the side of his head. The Prince cried out sharply, and, in a mad flurry of self-preservation instinct, managed to pull away from those whose sole purpose seemed to be breaking every bone in his body, including the ones that made up his skull.
The orcs had had a bad day. Trouble with a stray pair of Elven archers had depleted their numbers somewhat, as the two had been most unwilling to die. After they had been killed- 'butchered' might be closer- an area of the forest floor had revealed itself to be quicksand, and thirty-three goblins had blundered into it before anyone realised what was going on. Thirty- three might not sound like many, but it is when they are thirty-three of the best axe men that you have. After that had been sorted out, a particularly bold group of woodsmen had decided to ambush the remainder of the troop that had gone out, and the few orcs that had succeeded in returning to Dol Guldor had promptly stormed down to the cells to take out their anger on someone.
Sadly for Legolas, they'd chosen him.
Thranduil's son huddled back, away from the biting whips, away from the chains, away from the agony that did not even grant unconsciousness. He could move no further. His strength was spent.
As the beasts bore down on him, ferocious snarls on their faces, a rough voice snapped out something in the Black Speech. Other voices replied to it, apparently enraged, but they were soon quietened. Then, with heavy footsteps, one of the disgusting creatures paced to him and crouched by the Elfling's bloodied head. Seizing a handful of once-golden hair, it yanked Legolas' head up, so that the child's face was an inch away from the crude features.
"Make no mistake, Prince," it hissed, the foul stench of its breath stealing the air from the young Elf's lungs, "this is a temporary reprieve only. I don't want you to die too soon- so you get one more week. Enjoy it, because after that..." the orc smiled evilly, "we get to kill you in whatever way we want. And I can guarantee that you won't find it pleasant."
The Prince's eyes closed and he let out a soft moan. No, no, he could not endure another encounter like this one- but he wouldn't be expected to, it would be his execution. Stifling fear exploded in his chest.
His hair was released, and his temple thudded against the cold floor, now slick with scarlet blood. An odd sensation filled him, making him dizzy and clammy. It took him a moment to realise that it was a phenomenon almost never experienced by Elves- sickness. Bile rose in the back of his throat.
The thick iron door slammed shut, but he barely noticed. He was caught up in fear and misery, trying to understand the swirling hum of his thoughts. They were moving too fast for him to keep up with.
And then the icy reality set in: he was going to die.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Thranduil raised his eyes wearily to the grate in the prison door. The Elvenking was both physically and mentally exhausted. He had not been fed for several days, and his hunger was taking its toll.
Normally, four days' starvation would not trouble him, but with all the abuse he was taking on a regular basis, his body needed all the nourishment it could get. It also needed sleep, and constant agony, as well as the distant screams, had kept him awake. His mind was worn out with non-stop pain/sound signals.
Tiredly, he examined the creature regarding him. There was a wicked glint in its' eye.
"Not long now," the beast said casually. "Three days, at the most. Then its 'goodbye, little Elf-scum, and good riddance!'"
Thranduil's head whipped up.
"What?!"
The Elf bounded to his feet- before staggering as his weight came onto his legs, which were severely burnt.
"What's this, you didn't know? Would've thought you'd care enough about your son to know when he was going to be killed...Oh, you won't reach him now," it added, seeing the Sinda move toward the door, "even if you could get out- which you can't- you wouldn't find your way to his cell...it's half a mile from here, if the passages were straight, but instead there's a nice little maze for you to navigate, and that's supposing you could get hold of the keys!"
Thranduil considered the creature for a moment. If I could...no, I do not know where they are kept- wait, I do! Mine would be close to my door; they do not like to waste time searching on a huge ring...
Sighing, the King collapsed back onto the hard floor, burying his face in his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched for the guard. The orc had left.
And then the door clanged open, and the filthy beast entered, holding a metal bar, the end of which was red-hot.
The Elvenking did not have time to move away before the heated end was thrust into his lower thigh and twisted cruelly.
Pain erupted, burning and terrible. Thranduil could barely contain his cries. His vision wavered, narrowing out all but the glowing steel and the charring flesh of his limb. Blood began to run, but it had a black, ashy appearance. It had been boiled by the heated steel.
Through a grey haze, he looked up at his tormentor. Leaning close, the creature whispered:
"That's in case you get any ideas."
And then it turned on its heel and left the room.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Below the cells, goblins converged. Many merely gulped ale, or tore at dirty meat off grimy bones. They exchanged news of the prisoners above, laughing heartily at foul tales. Some gathered instruments of torture and left the 'cavern', out to the Elves and Men.
One little group ran their fingers over the blades of dull, serrated knives, or examined poisoned whips. Conserving in unusually quiet tones, they glanced about them frequently, as if worried that others might overhear their conversation. Smiling evilly, they imagined their soon-to- be victim's screams.
One chuckled as it scrutinised a long staff with a blade at each end.
"Soon, little squeaker. Soon."
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
A slim, pale hand slipped gently between the bars of the heavy door. Fumbling slightly, it grasped at the key that the last guard had so carelessly left on a tiny ledge next to the door, instead of hanging it on the hook out of reach. The niche might be at an awkward angle, but the room's occupant was desperate.
Thranduil held his breath as his fingers closed about the object. Removing it carefully, he pressed his face against the grate, peering down as he inserted the key into the lock. He gave a sigh of relief as the door gave a click, clump, and swung slightly open.
The orc's intention had been to cripple the Elvenking, and to some extent it had succeeded. But the intense need to rescue his son from death had blocked out all pain. The Sinda was working around his injuries as best he could, which was remarkably well, even for an Elf.
Limping out of the small place that had held him for several weeks, Thranduil shut the door quietly and walked up the passage, all the while looking around him cautiously. He did not wish to attract the attention of a goblin until he had the advantage in position.
One, apparently one of the 'errand runners', turned the corner not far away. The Sinda melted back into the shadows. The gangling little creature almost darted past him- and was caught.
A hand suddenly snaked out of the darkness and wrapped around its neck, dragging it backwards. Another clamped over its mouth. The orc lashed out violently, but its unseen assailant was skilled and strong.
"Where is the Prince of Mirkwood?" asked a soft, lethal voice. The creature considered its options. Tell...or die.
"D-down in the w-west quarter..."
The hand on its neck tightened painfully.
"Take me there."
Thranduil followed directly behind the small, snivelling goblin, one arm still trapping its neck. He made a mental note of when the tunnel sloped up or down, but other than that he concentrated solely on the beast leading him. I cannot let him escape to tell...but warriors of the Greenwood do not kill from behind like assassins! And besides, we do not know the way out- ha, I can trap another with little difficulty. But-
The King was broken out of his thoughts when his 'guide' stopped.
"Right down there." The creature pointed, shaking badly.
"Thank you." To save time, and to be on the safe side, Thranduil broke its neck.
Dropping the limp body, the Elvenking slipped silently along the damp corridor. Stopping at the first door he came to, he glanced inside...and gasped in shocked horror.
His son was huddled in a corner, his body a mess of bloodied wounds and battered skin. His head was bowed, and his pale golden tresses stuck to his back, drenched in scarlet blood. His slender frame was shuddering, and the older Elf's sharp ears detected the sound of repressed sobs. The child was weeping quietly, finally giving in to his fear of what was to come. His emotions had been held in check too long, and now they overwhelmed him.
Oh, Elbereth, he is younger than I thought. How in Arda did I not notice? He is my son, my own flesh and blood, and I somehow forgot that he is a child.
Gazing at the sorry scene, Thranduil felt overcome by what he had not realised, and, more importantly, what his child had gone through. He had thought himself ready for anything, but he had not been prepared for this. With an extreme effort of will, he managed to tear his eyes from the boy, and raised a hand to remove the key from the hook.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Legolas did not look up as the door swung open. He knew what was coming, but he didn't want to see it- didn't want to see his death coming down on him, shattering his mind in the process. He didn't want to let them spot the tears that still lingered in his eyes, did not wish them to know that he was more fearful than they would have thought from his silence these last few days. The Prince's calm façade was merely a cover for the horrible wear of his feelings.
The feet stopped in the entrance, and the Elfling shivered, wishing that they would not prolong this end in such a way. The waiting bit at his nerves, and he knew that he would have preferred it if they had just gone directly ahead with what they were going to do. This agony of having to know his doom was there and was deliberately presenting him with an uncertain repose was terrible.
Then the other crossed the floor and knelt quietly beside him. The child tensed, awaiting the first blow, but whoever it was made no move to strike him. Curious, even after all he had been through, Mirkwood's Prince raised his head slightly and looked at the being next to him.
Pale corn-coloured tresses; white, bloodied skin; fair features crumpled with sorrow; a hand that rose to his face and brushed away the copper- stained locks...
"Ada?"
The boy's voice was tremulous and weak, but his father heard him, and pulled his son gently into a warm embrace. He had to be careful not to aggravate any wounds still left on Legolas' slim body, but they had been apart too long to simply greet each other with words. They both needed the security that only another family member or a close friend could give them, and so father and son held each other, cherishing the warmth that spread through them at finally being together.
"Oh, ion-nin, I thought...but that is of no consequence now, you are as well as can be expected...you are alive, and that I am grateful for- thank Iluvatar for that gift. It is strange, is it not, how we rarely life while we have it, and ask those who make it good why they sometimes take it from those we love? For we will see them again, whether it is after our death, or if we ever have leave to sail to Valinor, or if Mandos sees fit to allow them another life in Middle-Earth...we shall see them again, and yet for you to die would have torn me apart, my son..."
"It is well, Ada, I am well, and you...oh, Ada, you are hurt! Why did they do this to you? Surely they are not as brutal as that! Or rather...I should not be surprised at what they have done, Valar know they are hateful enough..."
The pair simply sat there, letting the tears that they both had to cry course down their cheeks, soaking into the other's tears and streaming down to the floor.
"My child, my little Greenleaf, how I have missed you..."
"Ada? Ada, we cannot remain here...they will be coming soon, you must escape!"
"Yes, I must. And so must you. I did not have a poker thrust into my leg for nothing." Thranduil cursed the words the moment that they were out of his mouth. He had intended to be strong for his child, not cause him worry by listing his injuries!
Legolas frowned at the words, but chose to disregard them in favour of helping the King to his feet and offering assistance as his father hobbled towards the door. The older Elf must have been finding it incredibly difficult to move, and his son marvelled that he had somehow found his way to his cell without collapsing halfway there.
The two Avari made slow progress as they stumbled up the passage, pausing for a brief moment when they reached the corpse of the goblin that had led the Elvenking to the boy. The Elfling realised that the two would-be- escapees had no chance of getting beyond a few tunnels before they were recaptured- already his sensitive Elven ears could hear the orcs beginning to make their way up to his cell, assuming that he was still imprisoned. If they were going to leave Dol Guldor, they had to move fast. And yet his father was in no fit state to sustain, or even reach, the pace that they would need to set. No, their only hope was to hide in some old storeroom, and wait for their pursuers to pass them by.
The Prince's mind worked furiously. They could not take refuge too close to the carcass, but nor could they be too far away. Their hunters would be expecting them to get as far from the body as possible, but too close and, if one found them, the attacking forces would be more concentrated. They had to find a plausible and effective middle ground, and reach it fast. The child swiftly came to the conclusion that a small chamber, used for stocking the slop that was fed to the prisoners, would be admirable for the purpose.
It had been well over two weeks since he had passed by it as the orcs dragged him back from a beating, but it took more than a few days of indecisive agony to upset his memory and his sense of direction. Quickly and surely, the Elfling led his father to the cramped little room. They concealed themselves behind a barrel.
Legolas estimated that they had been in Dol Guldor for twenty-four days; just over three weeks. During that time, both had been almost constantly exposed to brutality, starvation, thirst, and torture. They were immensely weakened in body, and they had also undergone the close presence of the Nazgul several times. There was no way in Arda that they were walking out of the fortress just yet.
But he supposed it was better than what he had been awaiting in his small prison. Life was good, and he had no intention of losing it to those odious beasts. He intended instead to hold on to it as long as he could.
And the hope his father had brought now burned warmly in his chest, whispering to him of home.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Lord Celeborn was not feeling completely happy.
He was waiting for approximately three hundred Elves from a kingdom that Sauron had successfully invaded. Almost all of them could fight unusually well- so well, in fact, that they had acquired the habit of hunting and killing Ungoliant's descendants as a pastime, often undertaken when the warriors were irritated, bored, or had nothing better to do. The Lord of Lothlorien was, therefore, entirely justified in feeling slightly nervous as he anticipated the signals that would tell him that the bedraggled Avari from Thranduil's realm had actually arrived in the Golden Wood.
"You do not relish the thought of their coming."
Celeborn did not bother to look round. In fact, he rather pitied the Nandar/Silvian/Sindar mixture that he knew were but hours from the fringes of the forest. They had lost their home, and Celeborn could sympathise with them most deeply. But she was right; he was not looking forward to the sudden increase in accommodation and feeding that the new arrivals would require. Although they were accomplished hunters by any standards, all of them had been travelling for almost a month, and would have to rest before becoming actively independent.
"No, Galadriel," he murmured, "I do not entirely look forward to it. But they are our kin, and not so distantly, either. It is our duty as relatives and allies to offer them protection. And in truth," he swung to face his wife, "I was thinking of inviting some of them over here anyway. We could do with some action for once. Serenity has its place, but there are times when one wishes simply to enjoy oneself, and what better way to do that than to ask those who enjoy throwing their older siblings in the well over for a while? True, I did not anticipate all of them, but when they find that they are in non-threatening surroundings, with no orcs to chase, they have a tendency to become quite amusing. If you appreciate being soaked on a regular basis, that is."
"If you wished for excitement, then you should have gone to Imladris," she returned. "The last time our daughter visited, she appeared quite relieved to be away from the twins' wild antics. If you recall, she informed us that the fountain in one if the less private gardens seemed incapable of retaining its usual colour. And that appeared to be only one of their tricks."
"I did not desire to wake on the day following my arrival to find that my hair had turned orange and my sheets had mysteriously migrated outside to one of the offshoots of the Brunien."
Galadriel smiled in an extremely disconcerting manner.
Celeborn never asked her what she was planning, because as soon as he opened his mouth, one of the Galadhrim dropped out of the higher branches of the tree they were in, landing in a bow before them, and, at Galadriel's nod, proceeded to inform the pair that the refugees were but two miles from Lothlorien's borders. This put a halt to any type of casual conversation, as many of the residents of the Elven city concealed in the forest were hurried out to assist in getting those who required their aid inside the wood.
Before long, everywhere was a hive of activity. Celeborn raced through the mêlée and joined the Elves in the process of leaving. They were so distracted that they hardly noticed their Lord, and for that the Sinda was grateful. Sometimes, one had to forget ones' station and enjoy the feeling of anonymity. In the midst of an exodus to bring three hundred Avari into ones' home was perhaps not the most excellent time, but it was the first he had had for quite a while, and he loved it. Simply being capable of running to help another without being questioned, being allowed to toss aside all careful, rather unemotional masks that he had to wear most of the day- it was true exhilaration, and he revelled in it.
Because so many Galadhrim had been positioned near the edge of the wood, it being a two-day journey to the city, Celeborn was part of the second wave of Elves to meet the evacuees. The huge crowd that greeted them one-third of the way into the forest was a mingled gathering of Mirkwood Elves and Lothlorien Elves, all looking completely exhausted, none more so than a group of Nandar that had encountered thirty Wargs upon exiting the passage that they had taken. All, however, appeared grateful for the extra assistance.
The Lord of Lothlorien threaded between the clusters of injured and those aiding them, looking for a certain three Elves that he was sure would not leave their subjects to fend for themselves- but he could not find them. They were nowhere in sight. Turning, and also feeling rather alarmed, he scanned the large group, until he spotted a somewhat familiar head of pale sandy hair. With a relieved smile, he moved swiftly toward Thranduil's wife. As he drew nearer, however, he slowed, a frown forming on his face.
He had not realized before in the huge gathering, but Lothmiren was alone. Her husband and son were nowhere to be seen. Celeborn, by now extremely worried, swiftly wove his way over to the Nanda/Sinda hybrid.
"Lothmiren? Where is King Thranduil? And where is your son?"
She looked up at him with empty eyes.
"They are gone."
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Unknown to anybody, at the same time that Lothlorien's Lord was questioning his mother as to his whereabouts, Legolas was just waking up.
He stirred slightly, his raising his head gently from his father's chest. Thranduil still slumbered; emotional and physical exertion had taken a tremendous toll on the Elvenking's health. The trauma that his child had endured was minor by comparison.
The Elfling just watched his father quietly for a while, observing the rise and fall of the Sinda Lord's chest as he breathed peacefully. He was finally at rest after being under stress and incredible pain for far too long for any being, whatever the race, to constantly bear alone without some cause for sanity and survival. Legolas was immensely glad that his father had borne it with no apparent ill effects, merely needing sleep and a quiet atmosphere for a time. Preferably a relatively long one, which, in the two Elves' cases, meant anything from two to six hours.
After a while, the Prince heard the noise he had been dreading, but at the same time anticipating the interruption with an extremely urgent part of his mind.
The orcs that took charge of feeding were beginning to head for the supply rooms.
In other words, Legolas and Thranduil needed to get out, and swiftly. The child reached out and tapped his father's arm nervously. When that brought no reaction, he shook the older Elf in a gentle, anxious manner. As the King moved his head slightly, regarding his son briefly, Legolas gave a soft sigh of relief, aiding his Ada to his feet.
The two of them meandered over to the entrance, leaning into each other. Their bodies were still recovering from the abuse, and even if the Elfling had had longer to recuperate, he was still weak and unsteady, as loath as he might be to admit it. Thranduil was in a rather worse state of health- his body had been subjected to severe pain far more recently than his son's had. Another obstacle came in the form of the wound in the Elvenking's leg. During the journey through the fortress, and the subsequent night in an infested storeroom, the slowly healing injury had acquired a most unwanted host of guests- parasites.
His father was limping heavily now, bravely attempting to keep some of the weight off the afflicted limb. The blackened hole now seethed with tiny insects that burrowed into the unfortunate Sinda's flesh. Glittering and vicious, small but agonizing, they ate away under the skin. Invisible jaws worked slowly through muscle, bit by bit immobilizing the leg. A foul substance sweated from the little bodies, helping the living tissue to dissolve. Legolas felt sick when he saw it. The stench was almost unbelievable.
And then they were struggling up the tunnel. Thranduil's teeth were clenched, and his face bore a grimace of indescribable agony. His son felt suddenly frightened, an icy ball seeming to form in his stomach. What if his father died?
Ada!
Oh, Ada, what has he done to you? You cannot live like this- you need medical attention, you need a healer, and all you have is a child who only knows the bare basics of medical care! Oh, Adar, if you were to leave me...I could not survive that, I could not! Oh, Valar...please. Do not let him die. He has led our people for so long, he has brought me up and loved me, he does not deserve to leave this world in pain- he does not deserve to leave it at all.
The boy's thoughts were distracted as the Elvenking gently halted him, and then indicated silently to a half-hidden door, mostly concealed in shadow. The Sinda stepped forward and nudged it. The door swung open with a creak that made the two Elves wince, at both the hideous sound and the loud volume.
The pair hobbled inside. There was grain in the small chamber, held in coarse sacks. There were also a few barrels of water. Neither had any idea as to what orcs could want with grain and water, but the place appeared to be a relatively safe refuge considering the present situation, so both simply decided that it would be easier- and less pointless- not to ask questions. They just jammed a few bags against the door, lit a candle (somebody had left one, along with a tinderbox, beside the other storeroom's door, presumably to light it up), and considered their surroundings.
Completely without warning, Thranduil slumped forward, his previous steadfast silence giving way to a tortured cry- and it was no ordinary scream. It was as though a thousand Elves were shrieking through his father's lips, and Legolas blanched at the horrific noise. He bent down, whispering, trying to quiet the other so that he could aid him without worrying if the orcs were coming, but Thranduil was utterly beyond reach, all his mind apparently succumbing to the pain that was consuming him whole. His son panicked, fear and anxiety racing through him. Catching at the infested wound, he dug his fingers into it, instinct telling him that he had to cause pain to stop it. He scooped the parasites from the Sinda's flesh, tearing them away, and as he worked, his father's cries ringing in his ears, he began to shout.
"You shall not have him! You shall not take his life! He is not yours, he belongs to this land and this land will claim him! Do you understand me?!"
It was not just horror and sorrow pulsing through him, it was rage. How dare these tiny, beastly, insignificant creatures try to take his Ada from him?! He would show them. He would tear them from his father's body and crush them under his feet. He would make them pay.
Then Thranduil stopped screaming.
And his eyes...closed.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
A/N: YAY! EXAMS ARE OVEEEEEERRRR!!! At last, I do not have to cram every night and worry all day!
Seriously though, I was actually getting headaches what with all the stress. Sad, I know, seeing as I'm only thirteen. But there you are. England's stress problems are beginning to imprint on her younger generations, evidently. And they often take the form of painful headaches. Ow...and I think I've failed English.
/Proudly/ I did a cliffy! /Prods cliffhanger. / Or at least I think it's a cliffhanger. I am pleased, I am. Maybe you shall now all review to see what happens next. And until I get twenty-four reviews, preferably twenty-eight, I shall not proceed. Ahem.
I am now going to stop being incoherent. Many of you (or at least eleven) have said that you like the writing and especially the torture. I am honoured. Seriously, I am. It's really nice and encouraging. Nice? More like lovely. It makes me feel all self-accomplished inside, because you, who all enjoy reading, have approved it. Some of you, (looks at Martina and THECheeseTurkey), have stated that you find me a good writer for being thirteen. That is...a really incredible feeling for me. And as for everyone else- your comments are valued, as they are well written and not flames. And they make me feel all warm. And fuzzy.
And you all seem to like it, so...oh, well, I guess I'd better continue it fast!
Starwind Rohana, who gets hyper on Cola if there is enough around.
A/N: Some people seem to think that I have finished my exams. This is not so. I have actually STARTED them. And boy, do I the hell wish I had not. Or should that be have not? /Looks puzzled. / Aaaaanyway. Er...on with the fic! WARNING: More torture included. Although- just go read. /Puppy eyes. /
Hope is Free.
"Aaaahhhh!"
Agonised screams tore around the tiny dungeon. The Elfling they emitted from struggled desperately against the grip of his tormentors, his face contorted and twisted with panic and pain. One of the beasts holding him dug grimy claws into the pale skin, keeping the child still. Frantically, the prisoner jerked against the strong hands pinning him down.
Legolas could not believe the pain.
His body felt as if fire and ice was climbing through it. Intense waves of black agony had long ago stripped him of all reasonable thought. His only concern now was to escape, yet he could not attain that which he currently desired the most. With every second that passed, his terror grew, and with it grew the pain.
Several ribs had cracked under the strain. He was spitting blood from internal injuries, most parts of his brain had shut off in order to cope with the stress, and, if not granted a reprieve soon, he would die.
Die a horrible and bloody death.
A red-hot brand slammed into the side of his head. The Prince cried out sharply, and, in a mad flurry of self-preservation instinct, managed to pull away from those whose sole purpose seemed to be breaking every bone in his body, including the ones that made up his skull.
The orcs had had a bad day. Trouble with a stray pair of Elven archers had depleted their numbers somewhat, as the two had been most unwilling to die. After they had been killed- 'butchered' might be closer- an area of the forest floor had revealed itself to be quicksand, and thirty-three goblins had blundered into it before anyone realised what was going on. Thirty- three might not sound like many, but it is when they are thirty-three of the best axe men that you have. After that had been sorted out, a particularly bold group of woodsmen had decided to ambush the remainder of the troop that had gone out, and the few orcs that had succeeded in returning to Dol Guldor had promptly stormed down to the cells to take out their anger on someone.
Sadly for Legolas, they'd chosen him.
Thranduil's son huddled back, away from the biting whips, away from the chains, away from the agony that did not even grant unconsciousness. He could move no further. His strength was spent.
As the beasts bore down on him, ferocious snarls on their faces, a rough voice snapped out something in the Black Speech. Other voices replied to it, apparently enraged, but they were soon quietened. Then, with heavy footsteps, one of the disgusting creatures paced to him and crouched by the Elfling's bloodied head. Seizing a handful of once-golden hair, it yanked Legolas' head up, so that the child's face was an inch away from the crude features.
"Make no mistake, Prince," it hissed, the foul stench of its breath stealing the air from the young Elf's lungs, "this is a temporary reprieve only. I don't want you to die too soon- so you get one more week. Enjoy it, because after that..." the orc smiled evilly, "we get to kill you in whatever way we want. And I can guarantee that you won't find it pleasant."
The Prince's eyes closed and he let out a soft moan. No, no, he could not endure another encounter like this one- but he wouldn't be expected to, it would be his execution. Stifling fear exploded in his chest.
His hair was released, and his temple thudded against the cold floor, now slick with scarlet blood. An odd sensation filled him, making him dizzy and clammy. It took him a moment to realise that it was a phenomenon almost never experienced by Elves- sickness. Bile rose in the back of his throat.
The thick iron door slammed shut, but he barely noticed. He was caught up in fear and misery, trying to understand the swirling hum of his thoughts. They were moving too fast for him to keep up with.
And then the icy reality set in: he was going to die.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Thranduil raised his eyes wearily to the grate in the prison door. The Elvenking was both physically and mentally exhausted. He had not been fed for several days, and his hunger was taking its toll.
Normally, four days' starvation would not trouble him, but with all the abuse he was taking on a regular basis, his body needed all the nourishment it could get. It also needed sleep, and constant agony, as well as the distant screams, had kept him awake. His mind was worn out with non-stop pain/sound signals.
Tiredly, he examined the creature regarding him. There was a wicked glint in its' eye.
"Not long now," the beast said casually. "Three days, at the most. Then its 'goodbye, little Elf-scum, and good riddance!'"
Thranduil's head whipped up.
"What?!"
The Elf bounded to his feet- before staggering as his weight came onto his legs, which were severely burnt.
"What's this, you didn't know? Would've thought you'd care enough about your son to know when he was going to be killed...Oh, you won't reach him now," it added, seeing the Sinda move toward the door, "even if you could get out- which you can't- you wouldn't find your way to his cell...it's half a mile from here, if the passages were straight, but instead there's a nice little maze for you to navigate, and that's supposing you could get hold of the keys!"
Thranduil considered the creature for a moment. If I could...no, I do not know where they are kept- wait, I do! Mine would be close to my door; they do not like to waste time searching on a huge ring...
Sighing, the King collapsed back onto the hard floor, burying his face in his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched for the guard. The orc had left.
And then the door clanged open, and the filthy beast entered, holding a metal bar, the end of which was red-hot.
The Elvenking did not have time to move away before the heated end was thrust into his lower thigh and twisted cruelly.
Pain erupted, burning and terrible. Thranduil could barely contain his cries. His vision wavered, narrowing out all but the glowing steel and the charring flesh of his limb. Blood began to run, but it had a black, ashy appearance. It had been boiled by the heated steel.
Through a grey haze, he looked up at his tormentor. Leaning close, the creature whispered:
"That's in case you get any ideas."
And then it turned on its heel and left the room.
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Below the cells, goblins converged. Many merely gulped ale, or tore at dirty meat off grimy bones. They exchanged news of the prisoners above, laughing heartily at foul tales. Some gathered instruments of torture and left the 'cavern', out to the Elves and Men.
One little group ran their fingers over the blades of dull, serrated knives, or examined poisoned whips. Conserving in unusually quiet tones, they glanced about them frequently, as if worried that others might overhear their conversation. Smiling evilly, they imagined their soon-to- be victim's screams.
One chuckled as it scrutinised a long staff with a blade at each end.
"Soon, little squeaker. Soon."
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A slim, pale hand slipped gently between the bars of the heavy door. Fumbling slightly, it grasped at the key that the last guard had so carelessly left on a tiny ledge next to the door, instead of hanging it on the hook out of reach. The niche might be at an awkward angle, but the room's occupant was desperate.
Thranduil held his breath as his fingers closed about the object. Removing it carefully, he pressed his face against the grate, peering down as he inserted the key into the lock. He gave a sigh of relief as the door gave a click, clump, and swung slightly open.
The orc's intention had been to cripple the Elvenking, and to some extent it had succeeded. But the intense need to rescue his son from death had blocked out all pain. The Sinda was working around his injuries as best he could, which was remarkably well, even for an Elf.
Limping out of the small place that had held him for several weeks, Thranduil shut the door quietly and walked up the passage, all the while looking around him cautiously. He did not wish to attract the attention of a goblin until he had the advantage in position.
One, apparently one of the 'errand runners', turned the corner not far away. The Sinda melted back into the shadows. The gangling little creature almost darted past him- and was caught.
A hand suddenly snaked out of the darkness and wrapped around its neck, dragging it backwards. Another clamped over its mouth. The orc lashed out violently, but its unseen assailant was skilled and strong.
"Where is the Prince of Mirkwood?" asked a soft, lethal voice. The creature considered its options. Tell...or die.
"D-down in the w-west quarter..."
The hand on its neck tightened painfully.
"Take me there."
Thranduil followed directly behind the small, snivelling goblin, one arm still trapping its neck. He made a mental note of when the tunnel sloped up or down, but other than that he concentrated solely on the beast leading him. I cannot let him escape to tell...but warriors of the Greenwood do not kill from behind like assassins! And besides, we do not know the way out- ha, I can trap another with little difficulty. But-
The King was broken out of his thoughts when his 'guide' stopped.
"Right down there." The creature pointed, shaking badly.
"Thank you." To save time, and to be on the safe side, Thranduil broke its neck.
Dropping the limp body, the Elvenking slipped silently along the damp corridor. Stopping at the first door he came to, he glanced inside...and gasped in shocked horror.
His son was huddled in a corner, his body a mess of bloodied wounds and battered skin. His head was bowed, and his pale golden tresses stuck to his back, drenched in scarlet blood. His slender frame was shuddering, and the older Elf's sharp ears detected the sound of repressed sobs. The child was weeping quietly, finally giving in to his fear of what was to come. His emotions had been held in check too long, and now they overwhelmed him.
Oh, Elbereth, he is younger than I thought. How in Arda did I not notice? He is my son, my own flesh and blood, and I somehow forgot that he is a child.
Gazing at the sorry scene, Thranduil felt overcome by what he had not realised, and, more importantly, what his child had gone through. He had thought himself ready for anything, but he had not been prepared for this. With an extreme effort of will, he managed to tear his eyes from the boy, and raised a hand to remove the key from the hook.
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Legolas did not look up as the door swung open. He knew what was coming, but he didn't want to see it- didn't want to see his death coming down on him, shattering his mind in the process. He didn't want to let them spot the tears that still lingered in his eyes, did not wish them to know that he was more fearful than they would have thought from his silence these last few days. The Prince's calm façade was merely a cover for the horrible wear of his feelings.
The feet stopped in the entrance, and the Elfling shivered, wishing that they would not prolong this end in such a way. The waiting bit at his nerves, and he knew that he would have preferred it if they had just gone directly ahead with what they were going to do. This agony of having to know his doom was there and was deliberately presenting him with an uncertain repose was terrible.
Then the other crossed the floor and knelt quietly beside him. The child tensed, awaiting the first blow, but whoever it was made no move to strike him. Curious, even after all he had been through, Mirkwood's Prince raised his head slightly and looked at the being next to him.
Pale corn-coloured tresses; white, bloodied skin; fair features crumpled with sorrow; a hand that rose to his face and brushed away the copper- stained locks...
"Ada?"
The boy's voice was tremulous and weak, but his father heard him, and pulled his son gently into a warm embrace. He had to be careful not to aggravate any wounds still left on Legolas' slim body, but they had been apart too long to simply greet each other with words. They both needed the security that only another family member or a close friend could give them, and so father and son held each other, cherishing the warmth that spread through them at finally being together.
"Oh, ion-nin, I thought...but that is of no consequence now, you are as well as can be expected...you are alive, and that I am grateful for- thank Iluvatar for that gift. It is strange, is it not, how we rarely life while we have it, and ask those who make it good why they sometimes take it from those we love? For we will see them again, whether it is after our death, or if we ever have leave to sail to Valinor, or if Mandos sees fit to allow them another life in Middle-Earth...we shall see them again, and yet for you to die would have torn me apart, my son..."
"It is well, Ada, I am well, and you...oh, Ada, you are hurt! Why did they do this to you? Surely they are not as brutal as that! Or rather...I should not be surprised at what they have done, Valar know they are hateful enough..."
The pair simply sat there, letting the tears that they both had to cry course down their cheeks, soaking into the other's tears and streaming down to the floor.
"My child, my little Greenleaf, how I have missed you..."
"Ada? Ada, we cannot remain here...they will be coming soon, you must escape!"
"Yes, I must. And so must you. I did not have a poker thrust into my leg for nothing." Thranduil cursed the words the moment that they were out of his mouth. He had intended to be strong for his child, not cause him worry by listing his injuries!
Legolas frowned at the words, but chose to disregard them in favour of helping the King to his feet and offering assistance as his father hobbled towards the door. The older Elf must have been finding it incredibly difficult to move, and his son marvelled that he had somehow found his way to his cell without collapsing halfway there.
The two Avari made slow progress as they stumbled up the passage, pausing for a brief moment when they reached the corpse of the goblin that had led the Elvenking to the boy. The Elfling realised that the two would-be- escapees had no chance of getting beyond a few tunnels before they were recaptured- already his sensitive Elven ears could hear the orcs beginning to make their way up to his cell, assuming that he was still imprisoned. If they were going to leave Dol Guldor, they had to move fast. And yet his father was in no fit state to sustain, or even reach, the pace that they would need to set. No, their only hope was to hide in some old storeroom, and wait for their pursuers to pass them by.
The Prince's mind worked furiously. They could not take refuge too close to the carcass, but nor could they be too far away. Their hunters would be expecting them to get as far from the body as possible, but too close and, if one found them, the attacking forces would be more concentrated. They had to find a plausible and effective middle ground, and reach it fast. The child swiftly came to the conclusion that a small chamber, used for stocking the slop that was fed to the prisoners, would be admirable for the purpose.
It had been well over two weeks since he had passed by it as the orcs dragged him back from a beating, but it took more than a few days of indecisive agony to upset his memory and his sense of direction. Quickly and surely, the Elfling led his father to the cramped little room. They concealed themselves behind a barrel.
Legolas estimated that they had been in Dol Guldor for twenty-four days; just over three weeks. During that time, both had been almost constantly exposed to brutality, starvation, thirst, and torture. They were immensely weakened in body, and they had also undergone the close presence of the Nazgul several times. There was no way in Arda that they were walking out of the fortress just yet.
But he supposed it was better than what he had been awaiting in his small prison. Life was good, and he had no intention of losing it to those odious beasts. He intended instead to hold on to it as long as he could.
And the hope his father had brought now burned warmly in his chest, whispering to him of home.
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Lord Celeborn was not feeling completely happy.
He was waiting for approximately three hundred Elves from a kingdom that Sauron had successfully invaded. Almost all of them could fight unusually well- so well, in fact, that they had acquired the habit of hunting and killing Ungoliant's descendants as a pastime, often undertaken when the warriors were irritated, bored, or had nothing better to do. The Lord of Lothlorien was, therefore, entirely justified in feeling slightly nervous as he anticipated the signals that would tell him that the bedraggled Avari from Thranduil's realm had actually arrived in the Golden Wood.
"You do not relish the thought of their coming."
Celeborn did not bother to look round. In fact, he rather pitied the Nandar/Silvian/Sindar mixture that he knew were but hours from the fringes of the forest. They had lost their home, and Celeborn could sympathise with them most deeply. But she was right; he was not looking forward to the sudden increase in accommodation and feeding that the new arrivals would require. Although they were accomplished hunters by any standards, all of them had been travelling for almost a month, and would have to rest before becoming actively independent.
"No, Galadriel," he murmured, "I do not entirely look forward to it. But they are our kin, and not so distantly, either. It is our duty as relatives and allies to offer them protection. And in truth," he swung to face his wife, "I was thinking of inviting some of them over here anyway. We could do with some action for once. Serenity has its place, but there are times when one wishes simply to enjoy oneself, and what better way to do that than to ask those who enjoy throwing their older siblings in the well over for a while? True, I did not anticipate all of them, but when they find that they are in non-threatening surroundings, with no orcs to chase, they have a tendency to become quite amusing. If you appreciate being soaked on a regular basis, that is."
"If you wished for excitement, then you should have gone to Imladris," she returned. "The last time our daughter visited, she appeared quite relieved to be away from the twins' wild antics. If you recall, she informed us that the fountain in one if the less private gardens seemed incapable of retaining its usual colour. And that appeared to be only one of their tricks."
"I did not desire to wake on the day following my arrival to find that my hair had turned orange and my sheets had mysteriously migrated outside to one of the offshoots of the Brunien."
Galadriel smiled in an extremely disconcerting manner.
Celeborn never asked her what she was planning, because as soon as he opened his mouth, one of the Galadhrim dropped out of the higher branches of the tree they were in, landing in a bow before them, and, at Galadriel's nod, proceeded to inform the pair that the refugees were but two miles from Lothlorien's borders. This put a halt to any type of casual conversation, as many of the residents of the Elven city concealed in the forest were hurried out to assist in getting those who required their aid inside the wood.
Before long, everywhere was a hive of activity. Celeborn raced through the mêlée and joined the Elves in the process of leaving. They were so distracted that they hardly noticed their Lord, and for that the Sinda was grateful. Sometimes, one had to forget ones' station and enjoy the feeling of anonymity. In the midst of an exodus to bring three hundred Avari into ones' home was perhaps not the most excellent time, but it was the first he had had for quite a while, and he loved it. Simply being capable of running to help another without being questioned, being allowed to toss aside all careful, rather unemotional masks that he had to wear most of the day- it was true exhilaration, and he revelled in it.
Because so many Galadhrim had been positioned near the edge of the wood, it being a two-day journey to the city, Celeborn was part of the second wave of Elves to meet the evacuees. The huge crowd that greeted them one-third of the way into the forest was a mingled gathering of Mirkwood Elves and Lothlorien Elves, all looking completely exhausted, none more so than a group of Nandar that had encountered thirty Wargs upon exiting the passage that they had taken. All, however, appeared grateful for the extra assistance.
The Lord of Lothlorien threaded between the clusters of injured and those aiding them, looking for a certain three Elves that he was sure would not leave their subjects to fend for themselves- but he could not find them. They were nowhere in sight. Turning, and also feeling rather alarmed, he scanned the large group, until he spotted a somewhat familiar head of pale sandy hair. With a relieved smile, he moved swiftly toward Thranduil's wife. As he drew nearer, however, he slowed, a frown forming on his face.
He had not realized before in the huge gathering, but Lothmiren was alone. Her husband and son were nowhere to be seen. Celeborn, by now extremely worried, swiftly wove his way over to the Nanda/Sinda hybrid.
"Lothmiren? Where is King Thranduil? And where is your son?"
She looked up at him with empty eyes.
"They are gone."
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Unknown to anybody, at the same time that Lothlorien's Lord was questioning his mother as to his whereabouts, Legolas was just waking up.
He stirred slightly, his raising his head gently from his father's chest. Thranduil still slumbered; emotional and physical exertion had taken a tremendous toll on the Elvenking's health. The trauma that his child had endured was minor by comparison.
The Elfling just watched his father quietly for a while, observing the rise and fall of the Sinda Lord's chest as he breathed peacefully. He was finally at rest after being under stress and incredible pain for far too long for any being, whatever the race, to constantly bear alone without some cause for sanity and survival. Legolas was immensely glad that his father had borne it with no apparent ill effects, merely needing sleep and a quiet atmosphere for a time. Preferably a relatively long one, which, in the two Elves' cases, meant anything from two to six hours.
After a while, the Prince heard the noise he had been dreading, but at the same time anticipating the interruption with an extremely urgent part of his mind.
The orcs that took charge of feeding were beginning to head for the supply rooms.
In other words, Legolas and Thranduil needed to get out, and swiftly. The child reached out and tapped his father's arm nervously. When that brought no reaction, he shook the older Elf in a gentle, anxious manner. As the King moved his head slightly, regarding his son briefly, Legolas gave a soft sigh of relief, aiding his Ada to his feet.
The two of them meandered over to the entrance, leaning into each other. Their bodies were still recovering from the abuse, and even if the Elfling had had longer to recuperate, he was still weak and unsteady, as loath as he might be to admit it. Thranduil was in a rather worse state of health- his body had been subjected to severe pain far more recently than his son's had. Another obstacle came in the form of the wound in the Elvenking's leg. During the journey through the fortress, and the subsequent night in an infested storeroom, the slowly healing injury had acquired a most unwanted host of guests- parasites.
His father was limping heavily now, bravely attempting to keep some of the weight off the afflicted limb. The blackened hole now seethed with tiny insects that burrowed into the unfortunate Sinda's flesh. Glittering and vicious, small but agonizing, they ate away under the skin. Invisible jaws worked slowly through muscle, bit by bit immobilizing the leg. A foul substance sweated from the little bodies, helping the living tissue to dissolve. Legolas felt sick when he saw it. The stench was almost unbelievable.
And then they were struggling up the tunnel. Thranduil's teeth were clenched, and his face bore a grimace of indescribable agony. His son felt suddenly frightened, an icy ball seeming to form in his stomach. What if his father died?
Ada!
Oh, Ada, what has he done to you? You cannot live like this- you need medical attention, you need a healer, and all you have is a child who only knows the bare basics of medical care! Oh, Adar, if you were to leave me...I could not survive that, I could not! Oh, Valar...please. Do not let him die. He has led our people for so long, he has brought me up and loved me, he does not deserve to leave this world in pain- he does not deserve to leave it at all.
The boy's thoughts were distracted as the Elvenking gently halted him, and then indicated silently to a half-hidden door, mostly concealed in shadow. The Sinda stepped forward and nudged it. The door swung open with a creak that made the two Elves wince, at both the hideous sound and the loud volume.
The pair hobbled inside. There was grain in the small chamber, held in coarse sacks. There were also a few barrels of water. Neither had any idea as to what orcs could want with grain and water, but the place appeared to be a relatively safe refuge considering the present situation, so both simply decided that it would be easier- and less pointless- not to ask questions. They just jammed a few bags against the door, lit a candle (somebody had left one, along with a tinderbox, beside the other storeroom's door, presumably to light it up), and considered their surroundings.
Completely without warning, Thranduil slumped forward, his previous steadfast silence giving way to a tortured cry- and it was no ordinary scream. It was as though a thousand Elves were shrieking through his father's lips, and Legolas blanched at the horrific noise. He bent down, whispering, trying to quiet the other so that he could aid him without worrying if the orcs were coming, but Thranduil was utterly beyond reach, all his mind apparently succumbing to the pain that was consuming him whole. His son panicked, fear and anxiety racing through him. Catching at the infested wound, he dug his fingers into it, instinct telling him that he had to cause pain to stop it. He scooped the parasites from the Sinda's flesh, tearing them away, and as he worked, his father's cries ringing in his ears, he began to shout.
"You shall not have him! You shall not take his life! He is not yours, he belongs to this land and this land will claim him! Do you understand me?!"
It was not just horror and sorrow pulsing through him, it was rage. How dare these tiny, beastly, insignificant creatures try to take his Ada from him?! He would show them. He would tear them from his father's body and crush them under his feet. He would make them pay.
Then Thranduil stopped screaming.
And his eyes...closed.
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A/N: YAY! EXAMS ARE OVEEEEEERRRR!!! At last, I do not have to cram every night and worry all day!
Seriously though, I was actually getting headaches what with all the stress. Sad, I know, seeing as I'm only thirteen. But there you are. England's stress problems are beginning to imprint on her younger generations, evidently. And they often take the form of painful headaches. Ow...and I think I've failed English.
/Proudly/ I did a cliffy! /Prods cliffhanger. / Or at least I think it's a cliffhanger. I am pleased, I am. Maybe you shall now all review to see what happens next. And until I get twenty-four reviews, preferably twenty-eight, I shall not proceed. Ahem.
I am now going to stop being incoherent. Many of you (or at least eleven) have said that you like the writing and especially the torture. I am honoured. Seriously, I am. It's really nice and encouraging. Nice? More like lovely. It makes me feel all self-accomplished inside, because you, who all enjoy reading, have approved it. Some of you, (looks at Martina and THECheeseTurkey), have stated that you find me a good writer for being thirteen. That is...a really incredible feeling for me. And as for everyone else- your comments are valued, as they are well written and not flames. And they make me feel all warm. And fuzzy.
And you all seem to like it, so...oh, well, I guess I'd better continue it fast!
Starwind Rohana, who gets hyper on Cola if there is enough around.