Everything was blurred, faded. There were only dark shapes and light shapes left in the world. Red he could see, and black, and gray; outlines and other colors would no longer stay in focus. He knew not how long he had been…but what was time in this place, whatever place it was? Boromir wondered where he was; sometimes he wondered who he was. And sometimes he simply slipped away, to wonder nothing.

The pain, though. The pain was different. It would not obligingly recede from existence, like everything else, but would stay sharp, needling, flashing bright when the world tilted and the Man stumbled.

Stumbled?

He was walking now, Boromir realized. Crimson spots hovered on the lower periphery of his vision—his own blood, staining the bandages. Gimli was the stout, solid mass on his right, Sam the support on his left, and the bobbing figure on the horizon must be Frodo. His cloak was blue.

Blue. Color. The garment floated on a dimly perceived breeze. It flowed, and was blue like water.

The Gondorean felt something in his throat working, and heard a sound emerge: a dry, harsh rasp that for him held no meaning at all.

"Master Boromir, sir?" Sam stared up. He was sure the Man had said something, improbable though it was, as Boromir had been in and out of consciousness for days. Then it came again, and again.

A wide grin split Sam's round face nearly in two. "Gimli!" he cried. "Gimli, look, he's awake—and he wants some water!"

ειδαсαг

Pippin awoke to a merrily crackling fire and the utterly intoxicating aroma of roasted coney. He sat up, sniffing, and saw Merry, tongue between his teeth, carefully removing the most delicious meal that Pippin had ever seen from the end of a pointed stick.

"Awake, finally? Thought you'd sleep forever, I did. Have a coney, why don't you?"

This last was a bit belated, as Pippin had already scrambled over and was tearing in.

"Whar'd ese fohm?" Pippin asked between mouthfuls.

"Haven't the faintest. Woke up and here they were, a brace of coneys, ready and waiting to be skinned and cooked over this lovely fire."

Pippin belched and licked clean the last of the bones. "Merry—where are we? Last I recall, we were just outside the walls of Saruman's tower with Strider—speaking of which, where is he?"

"Pip, you know I never worry about such little things as location when there's a rabbit what needs eating in front of me."

"Of course, Meriadoc, but as you seem to have taken care of that rabbit, your excuse is—ah."

For just as he had spoken, Strider had come into view, carrying not one but four more coneys over his shoulder. His eyes widened when he saw the empty space beside the fire, where the original rabbits had lain.

"Gone already?" the Ranger asked incredulously. "I've been not ten minutes, and you have already skinned them, cooked them, and eaten them. Did you perhaps take culinary lessons from Gandalf?"

"We were hungry, Strider," answered Merry apologetically.

"And still are," added Pippin, hopefully eyeing the Man's burden.

Aragorn laughed and tossed the rabbits to the ground. "Perform the same magic with these, then. We will have two apiece."

As Merry turned the makeshift spit over the fire, Pippin worked at skinning the next in line. "Strider, where are we? And how did we get here from Isengard without Merry and I having moved a muscle?"

"After escaping from the Uruks' clutches" a shadow crossed Aragorn's face at the memory of the one left behind "we lay down and slept where we were. As the night drew on, I recovered enough to drink a little water and eat a bit of lembas bread, and felt myself much restored. I was on point of going back into Orthanc when I remembered you, Masters Hobbit. I could not leave you both behind to be discovered by patrollers and recaptured; I do not know why we were undisturbed for so long. We should have been found within an hour.

"So I carried the two of you here. We are not far from Isengard—if you look over that rise, you will see the Tower. This morning I awoke and went hunting, and here we are."

Merry broke in by handing each of them a coney, complete with a sort of skewer to hold it by; and, abandoning all pretenses of manners as well as any further questions, the three companions set to.

ειδαсαг

Saruman was angry.

No, he was not angry. He was furious.

The Halflings had escaped. The Elf had nearly escaped. The Man who had come to rescue them had also escaped. And the Uruks had not found them. Damn them! No one eluded Saruman the White, chosen servant of the Great Eye himself! Damn them. Damn them all! That any creature had escaped from Isengard was infuriating to begin with. That they had seemingly vanished from the face of Arda, and that neither the persistence of the Uruks nor the devices of the wizard were sufficient to find them was simply—simply—

Words would not suffice.

And there was something about that Man…and his sword. It was familiar, somehow, and somehow felt repulsively bright. The runes on the blade…The Uruks had not been able to interpret them, stupid things, but they had described the symbols as hateful, which meant but one thing: the blade was Elven-forged. It did not bode well for the plans of Saruman and the Great Master. At least the Elf was still here.

Saruman felt his rage melt, settle, and recast itself with a sharper point. Yes. At least the Elf was still here…

ειδαсαг

Legolas opened swollen, reddened eyes to see the now-familiar striped square of torchlight on the floor in front of his face; but the intimacy failed to bring the usual comfort it was associated with. All he felt was pain: stinging pain, lancing pain, stabbing, slicing, needling, ripping, tearing, throbbing pain. Somehow it all seemed vaguely far away, if only for the seconds between breaths. Those seconds felt like lifetimes, lifetimes birthed and murdered anew by each fresh hell that inhaling created. The Elf's one broken rib had multiplied to three, and judging by the liquid trickling from a corner of his split lips, one of those three had likely pierced a lung. It hurt. It all hurt.

There had been no more nightmares recently, no more lands of blood and broken bodies in the blackness of Legolas' unconscious. He was unable to sleep to begin with, and if he had, he was simply too exhausted to invent such things. Waking life had become worse than any dream. The nightmares weren't real anyway, only figments of his imagination brought on by the strain of his tormented mind. The Elf would have laughed bitterly if he could have.

That familiar square of barred torchlight went flying away, winging off and disappearing into the darkness as the door of the Prince's cell swung open with a tortured whine. For an instant, Legolas was able to see a new rectangle of grimy stone wall, until his view was blocked by a rude, unfinished shape that looked as if the Morgoroth demons had started on a new creation, but abandoned it because of its hideousness halfway through. It was an Uruk. Yellow eyes glittering evilly, every shade of Elven green obliterated from their empty depths, it gave a cruel laugh and tossed down a chipped bowl of fetid water and a rank strip of something long dead. With a harsh growl, the Uruk kicked the hated Elf just once in the stomach before stamping away, slamming the ironbound door shut as it passed.

The stomp of iron-shod boots ringing in his mutilated ear, Legolas clutched at his side and tried to spit up the blood in his lungs. He choked instead. The kick had embedded a red-hot skewer somewhere deep within his breast, and the pain would not ease. The Elf wept from the agony. Fluid was filling his lungs, spinning blackness about to engulf him as he thrashed, drowning. He was going to die.

In that moment, Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil son of Oropher, Prince of the Elves of Mirkwood, gave up. As the pink froth bubbled from his lips, tasting of corroded copper or perhaps iron, Legolas had but one thought. Mankoi il-na gurthamin tyel'ba?

ειδαсαг

So. Not bad for my first chappie back, eh? Short, I know, but I had to get it out there. At least it's nice and painful. Translation: why can't I just die. Cheery, yes?

As for reviews, I'm only going to do the first page—I haven't the foggiest idea where I ought to start, and, well, important as you all are to me (dah-lings!), I haven't the time. Dinner approaches. So here we go:

NightShadow131—Japanese, eh? Seems insanely complicated. I think my poor little mind would just explode. Ah well; to each his/her/its own, I suppose. Yeah, Costa Rica was awesome. If I haven't said that enough yet. I hope you enjoyed this chappie—feel free to send me some fresh ideas for torture and agony. J

LiLred—Updated! Updated! Updated, I swear!

Moonyasha—Updated. Not long, but (I hope) marginally satisfactory, yes?

Nimwen—and you too. Actually, NightShadow's offer goes for anyone: please give me ideas. First of all, they're useful, and second of all, it's fun to see just how sadistic I am compared to the rest of you.

Kelsey Estel—whoa! You have my name! How dare you! Not really, just joking. I know a lot of Kelseys. Makes life harder slash more interesting. And are you kidding me? Saruman is SO sadistic. SO evil. Although everyone could use an upgrade every now and then, I suppose.

Rose—technically, yes, but what the hell. It just makes him seem that much more wretched, so I've been pretending.

Amanwethiel—well, yes, actually, it has been a year, but who's keeping track? The beaches will do that to you. Anyway, glad you enjoyed and hope you continue to do so.

sanzoeclipsekuramaarehot—dear god in heaven, what kind of a name is that? I'm getting carpal tunnel syndrome. Lol, John's comment makes me laugh. It sounds so familiar somehow…oh wait, Erik did that to me the other day. Only he didn't say anything. Just stared…sighed…and left. Ah well.

Anonymous—I'm sorry! I know it took me forever and then some. But here you are, and I hope you enjoyed it, agonizingly short though it was.

KentouKurige—As the master commands, so I obey…

ToTheMoonAndBack—Yes, Lady V is quite talented, isn't she. Haven't seen her in a while, come to think of it…By the way, please notice that only ONE of Legolas' ears have been mutilated so far. I haven't decided if there's more to come yet. On the one hand, it would be redundant, and I don't think I could come up with a more painful scenario than the first time around. But on the other, torture is always good. Eeny meeny meiny moe…

Dark Lady Cheese Puff—I say, what a comic appellation! I applaud. Reminds me of cheetos…damn I'm hungry. Anyway, I don't hate Legolas, I just happen to be sadistic and slightly deranged, and he's such a convenient character. What's your story titled? I'd like to check it out. And speaking of other elf torture stories, for the love of god will someone please read and review my poor lonely pathetic drow story that no one has paid any attention to whatsoever? Not the third one, the second one. I thought it was good…sniff sniff

Blue Dragoness—Don't worry about it. J'adore long reviews. And no, I speak no French whatsoever. Long reviews are the best. I'm glad you like the Elvish—I'm kinda rusty now, so there's only one phrase, but we're getting there. Baby steps.

EverKitsune—barbaric indeed…but while he'd still be able to moan and groan pitifully, I just can't spoil his ability to hurl insulting/agonized phrases at his captors. You know how it goes.