I'm not sure I like this chapter, but I'm willing to go with it and unwilling to even consider rewriting it (again) after spending a week on it. Most of it was actually written by Thursday, but typing it up proved tedious and time-consuming and erased whatever effects my diligence in getting it written provided. It wasn't helped at all by my rather adrupt meeting with a dump truck. *grins ruefully* Put simpler, I was in a car accident with a dump truck in my little tiny Nissan Altima. Lol. Oy. I've decided I'm even crazier than my stories make me out to be, 'cause I thought it was fun.
There I was, driving along on the right-hand side, the dump truck on my left, going about 35. We were coming up on an intersection, and the left lane is often used by people who want to turn. One idiot who was turning didn't have his signal on, and I had sped up to try and get in front of the dump truck (I hate driving beside them). Mr. Dump Truck decided to get over. Well, I wasn't clear of him yet. He hit me about the rear driver-side tire (this is America, so that's the left for any who reverse it). Metal squealed, and I swung around, the front of his truck meeting firmly with my door. Then he continued to the right and I curved around, continuing past him, but he had one last thing to say, and his driver-side tire whacked me in the rear-driver-side door. At that point, I put on the brakes. When I came to a halt and looked around, I was facing the wrong direction, now in the left lane, mid-way through the intersection. Like I said, fun. But I was shaky for four hours, the kind you feel when you're about to start writing. Then the pain started. Pulled muscles are not fun.
Anyway, there's my major even for the week. *g* Oh, and the next chapter is going to be late. Even if I don't have to rewrite the whole thing, I'm going out of town on Wednesday and won't be back until Sunday. Even assuming I'll have the opportunity to write, I won't be able to type it up. *shrugs* Nothing I can do about it. The next one will also focus mostly on Legolas and Aragorn. It had been supposed to tack onto this one, but then the twins took up so much time and I didn't want to put them on and make the chapter quite that long.
Now, before I go and let you enjoy (or try to) this chapter, I have a little bit of proof that it's destiny for Aragorn to be torturd. *g* Spell-check is a lovely thing. Writer's best friend. I programmed Aragorn, Strider, Estel. . . . All the ranger's many names into so I wouldn't have to click 'skip' every time I came upon one of them. I ran it just before I started writing this little header and came upon the word "tortured's." Spell-check doesn't like it, so it gave me three options. The first two were expected. "Torture's," Torturer's." The third one caught me completely by surprise.
"Strider's."
Lol. He's forever in association with torture. Lmao. *sigh* Ah, well. Onto the chapter. Review responses are at the bottom. I have to go catch my breath from laughing so hard. At the risk of having forgotten something, I'm going to post now.
Enjoy. And don't forget to review. Please? *big, hopeful puppy dog eyes*
Chapter 13
Elrohir sighed, shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, and let his head fall back against the stone wall he leaned against. A dull thunk echoed through his head, a brief flash of light following it, flaring like the ripples from a pond, but there was no pain. Three days of confinement, it seemed, was enough to get rid of a concussion.
Blue eyes tracked to the left, searching for and finding the stairway which was the only entrance to their prison. Light, weak and gray, was just beginning to tease the edges of the darkness, lightening the shadows that hung about them and easing his heart. Morning had come. He waited with mingled reticence and anticipation for the walls around him to be revealed in all their ugly glory.
After their last meeting with Shirk, Elladan and Elrohir had been removed to an underground cell carved from the stone around them. Few would call the room large at eight feet by six feet, but Elrohir readily admitted it could be smaller, though not by much. Elegantly wrought shackles (suspiciously similar to elven work) were set into the flawlessly smooth stone so as to hold the captives hands just above the shoulders, something Elrohir found hurt just as much as having them bound behind his back, if only because the latter had come first with no chance for recovery. There were four sets total and he had far too good a view of them; he would much prefer to view them from a greater distance, preferably nowhere near this small room.
The stairwell, the only other thing of note in their dim abode, was just wide enough to let two men walk abreast and rose roughly eight feet to the surface and was steep with small steps. When he had first been led down it, he had felt uncomfortably sure he was going to fall and was more than just a little surprised when he did not. A dark part of him had thoroughly expected to be "helped" by one of his captors, a little nudge to get him going; he could not remember another time when he had been so relieved to have underestimated a human, though he suspected if he let himself think about it, he could come up with quite a few that somehow involved Estel. Vaguely, he wondered if the stairs had anything to do with why the humans had not returned.
Elrohir looked back to his right, tilting his head to better see his twin in the semi-darkness. He could just make out the gleam of light off dark eyes amid the shadowed outlines of a face and knew Elladan to be looking towards the stairs also. "Do you think they have forgotten us?" he asked.
"I hope not," Elladan replied heavily after a moment in which he seemed to pull himself back from some dream. "I do not wish to die in a cave."
"Estel might object to your classification, brother," he replied, his voice too solemn to carry the jest as it was meant. Their little brother seemed to find their insistence of labeling anything underground made of stone as a cave amusing, and it was, to a certain extent, when one was traveling with Legolas and free to leave the cursed darkness if one wished. Just now, however, he was feeling the strain too much to find it overly amusing. And he was worried about his brother.
Elladan smiled at his comment, but the light failed to reach his eyes. Elves were not meant for caves or stone; they were meant for sun and moon and sky, to wander free over the earth where the wind could caress their faces and their eyes could see the stars. Hidden underground and injured, the elder twin was feeling the loss keenly, and Elrohir's heart ached for his brother, only reluctantly admitting he felt the loss, too.
He shifted again. Damn this darkness! "What do you think they are doing?" Was this how Estel felt when he could not stay silent, asking even stupid questions just so he would get an answer?
"Sitting just outside the entrance, grinning madly and waiting for us to scream 'mercy'."
He shot his twin a wounded look. "El. I was being serious."
"So was I."
"No," Elrohir disagreed, well used to his brother's moods and tones when he was injured and feeling terrible. In fact, it was a situation he was far too used to. "You were being sarcastic."
"The two can coincide," the elder insisted, his tone just the tiniest bit lighter. Only someone who was listening as closely as Elrohir would have noted it, though, and it was just as likely they would have thought they imagined it. Still, it was a start.
He raised an eyebrow--just in case Elladan could see it--his expression the epitome of dignified disbelief. "Is that right?" he drawled. "That's not what you said three years ago when you ate that mushroom and I told you were about to experience a whole new world."
"I was delirious," was the immediate reply.
Elrohir grinned. "You said you were fine," he pointed out.
"You're going to take the word of a person who also claimed they could fly?" Elladan shot back, sounding incredibly like their father when he was repeating a part of one of their stories back to them, a particularly ridiculous sounding part that he could not believe but was not quite willing to question. But this time it was the words, and not the tone, that caught his attention.
Elrohir frowned slightly, studying his brother suspiciously. "You said you couldn't remember that."
"I did?"
"You did."
"I don't remember."
Elrohir was suddenly caught between the urge to hit his brother and laugh riotously; unable to do the former and unwilling to do the latter (it would admit his defeat, after all), he settled for scowling darkly. The problem with that was it let the silence return, let the darkness creep closer. He shifted again. "Okay; so, aside from sitting outside listening and waiting, what else are they doing?"
There was finally enough light for him to see his brother completely, and he nearly grinned at the dark look Elladan shot him. "Why don't you just scream and ask them yourself?" he asked wickedly.
He scowled again, almost growling, then forced a smile, sugary sweet, and said, "But I want you to do it."
Elladan snorted, the sound a cross between an aborted growl and suppressed laughter. He glanced away, then looked back, a warily appraising look on his face that crumpled into something akin to despair, but Elrohir could see a teasing light in his eye that he did not understand until the other spoke. "Valar, you're even worse than Estel!"
Fighting the urge to laugh, Elrohir frowned at him, not quite able to decide if he should feel pleased or insulted, and found himself even less sure if Estel would have been pleased, amused, or insulted had he been present. He settled somewhere in the middle, just for now, and commented wryly, "You make the most interesting comments. Elladan?" he prompted, concerned, when his brother dropped his head.
His dark-haired mirror-image looked up. His eyes, which just a moment ago had regained their sparkle, were dark and sad, and Elrohir felt his spirits dropping as well in sympathy, even without being sure of the cause. "I miss him," the elder murmured, voice so soft Elrohir nearly had to strain to hear him.
The younger nodded. "Me, too." Every time he thought of the human, he could not help but see the thin, haunted being that had last stood before him. In his mind's eye, he saw dark circles that made dull eyes appear sunken, both standing out starkly against his pale skin. He saw the listless young man that had sat, still as a statue, every time he was left to his own devices, staring out over the beauty of Rivendell as if it did not even exist, as if he could not see it anymore, images from the past replacing the present.
He tried to cling to the hope that he was with Legolas--that the prince would not let any ill befall him, that if anyone could help heal the human's soul it was the Mirkwood prince. Yet in this darkness, he could not help but remember how fragile men were, how easily their lives could end. He could not help but remember how many times they had nearly lost the human and how quickly everything seemed to change. It had been so long since he had last seen Estel. What if the boy had changed beyond recognition? What if he had fallen to whatever shadow had haunted his heart? They would never know. He could die and they would never know; it would be too late.
He swallowed, the motion harder than it had been before, and shook his head to chase away the tortured thoughts. "He is strong," he whispered, not sure if he was speaking to himself or his twin. "He will be fine--is fine. We will see him again."
Elladan nodded slowly. "We will."
Elrohir glanced at his brother sharply, something in his tone setting off alarms inside his head. Footsteps on the stairs cut off whatever else he might have said, though, and both elves went very still, so much so as to hold their breaths, and listened closely to the slightly echoing thuds that said their isolation was about to end--for better or worse. Dark eyes watched the staircase, intently, warily, the weak sun wavering as it was blocked by human bodies; they were to have more than one visitor. Dread curled through the younger elf. This could not be good.
Elrohir's eyes narrowed as the first man came into view. He was larger than most human's the elf had seen, fat to an elf's mind but obviously in good shape. He reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped to the side, not entering any further into the room than necessary, and stood at attention while the rest of his companions followed, the next proving to be a woman with deep red hair and a stride like a stalking cat. Elrohir could barely see her face, but what he did see reminded him even more of a cat--one who had just caught a mouse and was looking forward to playing with it. A frown tried to pull at the corners of his lips but he fought it, doing his best to look expressionless.
Then came the man who reminded Elrohir of a ranger, the leader from the slope. His face was as expressionless as ever, but a feeling of . . . impatience hung about him that the elf was a loss to explain or ignore; it made him tense inexplicably. He, also, stepped to the side upon entry, his cool gaze sliding down to take in the last member of their group. A flash of--something lit his eyes, then vanished, concealed behind whatever blocks he used to keep others from prying into his thoughts.
Curious, Elrohir also looked down. A youth, perhaps thirteen, emerged from the stairs and crossed to the woman, who had continued across the floor so she stood between the twins. It took a moment for Elrohir to realize it was a girl, and he could not explain why, for there was no mistaking her feminine features or slender figure, even with the formless clothes that covered her like a shroud. Her hair was drawn back simply and fell nearly to her waist, well kept and clean. He studied her as she crossed the floor to stand beside and behind the woman. Her motions were stiff, almost like she was being moved instead of the one doing the moving, and she stood perfectly still, a living statue, but it was her eyes that chilled his blood.
They were empty. It was not the hopelessness he had seen in the others dressed in simple beige robes, nor could he find any hint of sadness or despair. In fact, he could find no hint of any emotion. Any of them would have been easier to bear than this . . . blankness, which sent shivers up his spine. It was almost like she had no soul. . . .
"I see you like the Master's slave, Elf," a coy voice purred.
Elrohir dragged his eyes up and over to fix on the slightly smirking face of the female. He hoped he did not look as sick as he felt. He did not want to give these monsters the satisfaction. "What do you want?" he demanded, his voice nearly normal. He resisted the impulse to ask the dozen other questions that suddenly shot through his mind, most of them irrelevant, the foremost being "what did you do to her?"
"Want?" she asked, sounding surprised. Her lilting, falsely sweet voice was beginning to get on his nerves, and she had not even spoken ten words. "Why, only to share. It's good manners, after all."
Ignoring the very strong impulse to comment on that, Elladan focused on her first words, finding voice to demand, "What do you want to share?" Were they not chained to cold stone, Elrohir would have believed they sat in a Council Meeting with their father; it was the same tone.
The woman's smile never wavered. "This," she intoned easily, an eerily familiar sparkle entering her eyes, one they had only days ago seen on Shirk--the same one every bad guy used when trouble was about to shift from "manageable" to any level of seven hells. Her slender hand moved to indicate something to her right, and for a crazy moment, he thought she meant the slave girl and felt righteous anger rise in him, outraged at the very thought. She would not even bat an eye!
Without conscious decision (before he could shout about the injustice), his eyes down to follow her hand, morbid curiosity prompting him, and found she was not pointing to the girl at all, but to a bottle that was the lone object on a tray held at waist level by the girl in question. He had not noticed it when she entered, had, in fact, missed it--or at least not truly registered it-- because of her eyes.
It was simple fare as far as bottles went, no different than one you might find if you went to a bar for a drink. Truly, he thought he might have seen a similar bottle the last time he, Elladan, and Legolas had snuck into the cellar of the palace to swipe a few samples of the Mirkwood King's store, but it was hard to say as he rarely paid overmuch attention to the bottle itself. It looked familiar, in any case, with its rounded base stretched into an elegant neck half again as long as the base, but he was nearly positive it was not wine held inside. Its dark glass kept him from glimpsing the fluid it held.
An impulse he did not understand made him look at the dark-haired man, but his gaze was impassive, his eyes consciously blank, as if he wished to hold his thoughts from the elves as much as they desired to hide their own from him. Yet there was that feeling again, that feeling he could not identify. He wondered what it meant, if it could be used. . . . Confused, he turned back to the woman. "What is it?" He asked, voicing the obvious question.
She seemed pleased he asked though she did not give the kind of answer he expected. "We thought you might be thirsty," the woman simpered. "And we know how much Elves love their wine. This is a sample, of a . . . special brew."
If that's wine, I'll walk willingly through the gate of Mordor without a weapon, he thought immediately.
The sudden, nearly childish urge to back away grabbed hold of Elrohir, then, nearly pressing him against the stone wall which staunchly prohibited any such action. It was another thing about stone he did not like, though a voice that always said what he did not want to hear whispered that stone or chains, chains or trees, they all accomplished the same thing when put to the same use.
Elladan stared at her stonily. "We're not thirsty."
Again, she smiled that predatory smile. "But Lord Shirk insists. You wouldn't want to offend your host, now, would you?"
"In a word?" Elrohir asked. "Yes," they answered simultaneously.
"We had a feeling you might say that," she answered, his smile somewhat fixed, her tone suddenly a lot less cheerful. She cast a quick glance at the Silent Watcher, who made no sign, then turned back to them and sighed, the barest hints of a smile ruining whatever effect she had hoped to gain with the mannerism. "We had hoped you wouldn't make us use this, but alas! You have left us no other choice."
The large man abandoned his post near the entrance and moved up beside her. He rubbed his hands together, an anticipatory smile curving his lips on his fat face. "This is our Enforcer," the woman announced. "Prisoners who prove difficult get to know him quite well. I suspect you will become great . . . friends. Now, the rules here are simple: you do what we say. If you don't, your twin answers to him." She jerked her head back towards the Enforcer. "What say you now?"
"You're sick," Elladan spat, his dislike for this new twist obvious.
The redhead smiled, and before either could really comprehend what was happening, the big man stepped in front of Elrohir and hammered his fist into the younger twin's side just beneath his armpit. Elrohir gasped as pain flared through him, but no air entered his lungs. For a moment, he panicked as his lungs rebelled against him, refusing to work and draw breath. They seemed to freeze and with them his heart. Then the moment passed and he dragged air in starved lungs, slumping tiredly against his chains.
There he paused so his breathing could approach something normal, then the elf grimaced and straightened, casting a quick glance at his brother as did so to assure the other that he was alright. He assumed an unconcerned expression and raised his head, going for regal and untouchable. "That was uncalled for," he observed neutrally as soon as he had breath enough to do so.
"Quite the contrary, Elf," the woman replied, appearing vaguely amused by his efforts. "It was necessary. Your kind respond much better to demonstration than words."
"Does Shirk know you think that?" Elladan asked, hostile, seething with anger for his twin.
Her grin widened. "That's what he taught us." Elrohir blinked. "But we've wasted enough time on pleasantries. It's time to take you medicine. Neika," she called. The girl stepped forward. "Give our guests their medicine."
As the youth walked towards Elladan, he glanced at Elrohir. Helplessness, the same helplessness he himself felt, reflected back at him from his brother's eyes. He wanted to tell him not to do it, not to give in, but he already knew it would do no good. He knew he would never subject his brother to unnecessary pain if all he had to do was drink a potion, and neither would Elladan. He smiled tightly and got a slight smile in return.
Elladan glared at the woman the entire time it took the girl to approach, instinctively knowing it would have no effect on the child, then tipped his head back when the bottle was pressed against his lips, obediently downing the liquid presented to him. His lithe form shuddered as it went down and Elrohir had to battle down the urge to charge forward and knock the bottle away, not least of which because it would accomplish nothing save to provide their captors with a reason to further harm his brother and get a good laugh at their expense. But fears swam in his mind, ceaseless and troubled. What if this substance did to Elladan what that Ungwale had to Estel? What if he lost Elladan like he feared he might lose his human brother? He could not take it. He could not. . . .
The girl stood before him without his awareness of her crossing the floor and he blinked at her a moment with no notion as to why she stood before him. A distant part of his mind noted that she moved quickly. Then the bottle was pressed to his lips and tilted. He swallowed convulsively, his small retreat doing nothing to dislodge the bottle, the liquid against his lips prompting the response even as his mind finally caught up with what was happening, why he was accepting this foul drink against all reason.
His eyes widened as the potion slid down his throat, freezing the flesh so it felt like it would shrivel away to nothing, then burning hot as fire and clinging, burning hotter till he thought his throat must turn to ash and crumble away. He gasped as the bottle was drawn away, pulling in air in startled surprise as a whiplash shudder worked down his spine, a shudder he tried to suppress with little success. Unconsciously, his wide blue eyes sought out the woman's face.
"Interesting, isn't it?" she taunted carelessly; she could have been talking about the weather. "The plant that made it was discovered in Ithilien; quite by accident, I assure you. The girl who found it was . . . rather startled when she discovered what its effects. Heightens your senses: hearing, touch. . . . A world of possibilities is opened with a single drug. Simply imagine."
"You're sick," Elrohir croaked, unable to come up with anything more fitting than what his twin had already declaimed. He had already known Elladan was smart.
Her smile remained fixed; her eyes hardened. "We simply want you to get the best experience possible," she purred. "And we know just who can help us achieve this goal."
Elrohir blinked as a second large-built man stepped into his line of view, his mind taking a moment to process the fact that there were, indeed, two separate men instead of the first one somehow managing to clone himself. Inwardly, he hit his head at the thought, silently moaning, This place is getting to me, while lamenting his loss of sanity, though a quiet voice that was not inclined to listen to him noted his clone idea was not exactly unfounded.
Where do they find all these similar looking people?
The two who stood before him were the same height, not even separated by a quarter of an inch, with the same broad shoulders and identical grins. That the new one had hair and eyes perhaps two shades darker brown and a deeper tan meant little. They still could have been twins. That the new man was also trimmer, his physique more refined, caused him to worry a bit of worry.
Just a bit more, he amended to himself, cautiously admitting that his worry was growing with each new factor added. He had little doubt that the new arrival was also an Enforcer. The men shared a similar air of lethal strength that was nearly tangible to the younger elf. He resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably since it would reveal more than he wanted this woman to know. It required little imagination to figure out what was going to happen. Having already been exposed to the first's effectiveness, he was hard-pressed to keep his anxious anticipation from turning into fear.
He watched as she turned to the pair and lowered her voice. "Do you two know what you're supposed to do?" She received two nods. "Good. A pleasant day, gentle beings," she called more loudly, a cheerful smile on her face that almost covered the resentment and disappointment in her eyes. He realized why only when she began ascending the stairs. Obviously, she had wanted to stay and watch.
Or participate, a nasty little voice sneered. It was discomforting to realize that she was probably more than proficient at causing pain--despite her small stature--than he wanted to admit. He wondered if her administrations would be more painful.
The Enforcers glanced back at the only other occupant of the room, questioning. The man with gray eyes nodded shortly, the barest jerk of his head, and they turned to face the elves with nearly identical smiles on their faces, smiles he had last seen on orcs. . . .
For a moment, he was no longer in a smooth walled room facing down human tormentors. He was back in a dark cave, the uneven wall pressing sharply against his back, the blocky shackles biting deeply into his flesh. Sweat and blood mingled on his skin, burning lashes, and harsh, cruel laughter assaulted his ears, ringing, reverberating, over and over. Yellow eyes leered into his own, full of dark promise, foul breath hot against his skin, and jagged yellow teeth flashed around an empty, dark maw. . . .
"We're going to have some fun, Elf."
Elrohir blinked. The walls were smooth, the room nearly bright with early morning light and a human stood before him, not an orc, grinning as if the Solstice had come early. Relief mingled with renewed dread, flooding his body with fresh adrenaline, adrenaline that had nowhere to go. His head ached, whirled, unfocused on any one thought as it raced for a way out, overwhelmed by the information it received. Disjointed, he watched the man step closer, rubbing and hitting his knuckles into his free hand, the meaty smack loud in his ears, unnaturally loud.
"We're going to have lots of fun." He winced at their booming voices.
The first blow caught him by surprise, expected though it was. One moment both hands were in clear view; the next, a fist was buried in his side. Pain erupted, flared, stretched out to engulf as much of him as possible, then faded into a dull ache. Vaguely, he registered a sharp hiss and felt sharp metal bite into already tender flesh as his body tried to curl inward, tried to protect itself.
The next blow fell on the other side, mind-numbingly hard, and his breath escaped him in a rush, a grunt following close on its heels. Some part of his mind not effected by the pain managed to note this felt much like the time he had been kicked in the ribs by that fool pony of Estel's (the most ill-tempered beast he had even met) when the boy was seven. Who's idea had that been?
The third blow fell, nearly hard enough to convince his body to meld with the stone wall, and any breath he had managed to regain was lost. The fourth ensured it remained gone, and nothing had changed by the fifth, except he could not longer remember what it felt like to breath. By the sixth, dark spots were beginning to dance before his eyes, and the pain had become his existence. He could not remember a simple beating ever hurting this much--then again, he could barely remember anything at all. After the seventh, he could no longer separate the individual blows, much less count them, and conscious thought spun further away.
Without his realizing, the blows stopped, his lungs responding to the cessation of hostilities before his mind realized the fact. Quickly--noisily--he dragged air in, the effort stabbing knives through his chest, or at least jabbing long sharp sticks into it in the absence of knives. He had not seen anything shiny, after all.
As oxygen returned to his brain, he realized his legs had given out beneath him, bequeathing the task of keeping him upright to his arms. His hands felt like they were being sawed off with a dull, serrated knife and his arms slowly being pulled from their sockets. If his chest no longer existed as a solid mass, he would not have been surprised. Aside from the holes it now undoubtedly sported, it felt like he had been slammed--repeatedly--with a huge boulder flung from a catapult. His ears rang, like he had been trapped in a small space with dozens of dwarves hacking away at stone with metal picks, the report of their axes rebounded and magnified off the empty walls.
He groaned--and nearly choked on the sound as he discovered sharp edged rocks had lodged themselves in his throat (or some sadistic women had scratched the tender flesh with horribly long nails). He swallowed painfully, trying to relieve the burn and looked up to see what was going on.
Light lanced into his eyes, engulfing them in flame, and he quickly looked away, feeling as if the small orbs had emploded as the lids flew shut of their own accord. A red hot poker flew through his skull to force its way through his temple, seemingly coming from the inside though there was no room to throw it from in there. He clenched his teeth around a moan that desperately wanted escape, the still rational part of his brain telling him that was why his ears rung.
Gradually then, as silence fell in the room and no new abuse was heaped upon his body, Elrohir began to adjust to the pain, his body accepting it and allowing him to look past his immediate surroundings. As he could do so, he became aware of heavy breathing--his own and his twin's, unnaturally loud to his sensitive ears. Past it, he could make out the breaths of the other individuals in the room, every sense heightened, the stench in the room nearly making him gag.
It felt like hours had passed.
"Now you know," the quiet man said, his voice obscenely loud in Elrohir's ears, even as he suspected from the tone that he was speaking barely above a whisper (an appreciated fact if it was true), "what your resistance will earn you. And this was only a taste. There are other, more effective ways of doling out pain. How much are your secrets worth?"
The elf barely had time to register his last words before his senses were assaulted once more. He heard a scream somewhere to his right, one he knew must have burst his eardrums, then his world exploded in pain--hot, burning agony that melded and pulsed, pushing out all other thoughts, and he felt himself spiraling down a dark chasm that never seemed to end, the comforting release of oblivion hovering just out of reach as his mind and body were ripped to shreds.
*~*~*~*~*
Torl stood motionless by the entrance to the still-dark cell Shirk had chosen for his elven guests, watching with disinterest as the twins' bodies fought against the drug that pulsed through their veins, seeking the release that was denied them as pain engulfed them, dealt by the heavy fists of the Enforcers.
Some men--and women--found pleasure in listening to screams of pain. They gained a strange sort of rush by seeing men, women, children bound and helpless before their mercy. They liked to strip people of their dignity, take away everything that person had ever called their own, and break them, shatter them. It made them feel strong, powerful, untouchable; that sense of mastery brought on by completely destroying another being creating the ultimate rush they craved. They enjoyed the blood and bruises.
He did not.
Nor did he find any sympathy for the beings stuck in their own little hell. Any such feelings had been beaten out of him years ago. He was far removed from the boy who had gotten sick the first time he saw a man's flesh sliced open as the being writhed in metal cuffs and let silvery tears stream down his own cheeks as a mirror to the tortured's own. He was no longer the little boy who screamed himself hoarse over nightmares with blood or flinched every time he was forced to put sharp blade to pliant flesh and listen to whimpers or screams as he create holes that were never meant to be. He no longer saw the beings behind the flesh, that stared back at him pleadingly from pain-filled eyes. They were dead; from the moment they were placed in shackles, their fates were sealed. It was only a matter of time.
A hoarse moan, barely a passage of air past lips that was probably meant to be a shriek, interrupted his thoughts, drawing his attention firmly to the bound elves. They were nearly finished, the smack of flesh against flesh still sounding through the air. Soon to be colorful bruises marred their chests and glazed eyes stared sightlessly out of mostly lidded eyes. Neither flinched any more as new blows landed amongst the old.
He glanced outside. Nearly six hours had passed since their arrival. Shirk would pleased; he had expected it would take eight.
Torl motioned the Enforcers to stop. They stepped back and bowed, lightly massaging their knuckles without seeming to register the motion. He stayed still as they trooped past him up the stairs, their footsteps loud and grating on his already tense nerves. He pressed his lips together in irritation.
When the last heavy thud ceased echoing off the stone walls, he paced over to the first elf. He tried not to think of what he should be doing, had his lord not called him away to oversee this mess, of how many things could go wrong while he was stuck here. It was not that he enjoyed his duties, but he lacked faith (quite reasonably) in the skills of his personnel and knew orcs to be troublesome under the best of times and was simply waiting for something to go wrong. He did not like leaving them on their own, unsupervised, for so long. Yet he had learned long ago the penalty for inferior work, and he would never dream of leaving his assigned task until it was complete; which meant he had to examine the elves.
He stopped before the first elf and stared at it, disgusted in spite of himself. Pushing all irrelevant thoughts aside, he learned forward, placing his ear near the other's mouth to check if he was breathing; he was. The man straightened, then pressed his fingers against the being's throat to check for a pulse. It was a little fast and labored, but he had expected nothing else. The drug, itself, would do that.
With an inward sigh, he used the elf's hair to lever his head back so he could look into his eyes, noting distractedly that the elf would have found it quite painful if he had been aware. His left hand rested on top as he used his right to open the lids. There was no hint of awareness in their depths, but that was not what he was looking for, anyway. The potion had never been used on elves before.
Torl shifted further to the left and pulled a small mirror, one easily held in the palm of his hand, from a pocket. Deftly, with an ease born of long practice, he pried the lid up once more and caught it with his left thumb, freeing the hand holding the mirror. He angled it to catch the light from the doorway and flicked it across the being's eyes, watching the reaction closely. Then he repeated the same with the other eye. Satisfied, he put it up and walked away.
At the entrance, he pulled out a different mirror and angled it how he needed it, the sun's rays focused on the joint between the far wall and the ceiling about a foot from the corner. Then he stood and calmly crossed to the other elf, prepared to carry out the same examination.
He frowned when he heard this one's breathing. It took far too much effort, wheezing in and out with a wet kind of gurgle that should not be present no matter how bad he had been beaten. Even as he listened, it seemed to worsen. His frown deepened as he checked the elf's pulse (just as fast but weak, too weak) and concluded he would need care. With a tenderness that was more trained than anything else, Torl gingerly pressed against the being's ribs, his frown deepening with every broken rib he found. When he crossed one that made the elf cry out, wetness popping in his throat, he knew what had happened.
Torl's eyes were darker when he stepped back, the threatening gray of thunderclouds. He stared at the elf for a long moment, trying to decide what to do. The idiots had broken the elf's ribs, whether intentionally or not, and that broken rib had been shoved into his lung during this latest beating. Now blood was pooling in it, and if something was not done, he would die, which posed a problem.
Shirk wanted both of them alive, was adamant about seeing that both twins lived. He had deemed it important when Conyc and his men had expressed doubts, but he had not said why; only Torl already knew. Kelt had mentioned it once during one of their few late night talks when neither had been able to find sleep. Her mother had been an elf and she had told him elves could die of a broken-heart.
"When they grow weary of the world, Elves can choose to leave it," she said. "They may flee to Valinor, and there find eternal peace, or release their souls from the ties that bind it to this world and fly to the Halls of Mandos."
"Why?" he asked, tired enough to fail to stop the question. "How?"
"When grief becomes too much; when they are forced to endure something beyond their strength; when a loved one dies, perhaps."
"Like who? A husband?" He stared out through the dark trees that hid their camp.
"Or a wife, sons, daughters . . . sisters or brothers; the people who mean the most."
"Nirt wants to break an Elf," he mused idly, the admission triggering the thought, then nearly bit his tongue off for such carelessness. One did not simply voice one's thoughts; it was dangerous. It was disturbing how often Kelt made him admit things he would have never dared spoken, yet he never managed to mind once it was done. Maybe that was how she had risen through the ranks of the Slyntari so quickly. . . .
She stared up at the stars and curiosity made him follow her gaze, seeking out the star she had once identified as Earendil, though he could not longer remember why she had noted it. Her quiet voice shook him from his reverie to look down at her face, sad in the silvery light. "Elves aren't broken; they die."
He had wondered, then, if she spoke of her mother, dead almost two years, but morning light had begun to chase away the spell of safety darkness had created and he had never found out. Now, he wondered if she had not somehow known Shirk would go after the twin sons of Elrond; it would not surprise him in the least. But he knew that if one brother died, the other would follow--probably quicker than he could imagine--and until they had served their purpose, that could not happen.
Torl found no reason to erase the frown as he finally stepped forward and pulled the elf's head up. He brought the mirror back out and quickly flashed the light across the being's eyes, watching carefully for any sign that his injuries had aggravated the drug's effects. Yet he found nothing, and that, at least, was good news. It was not, however, enough to relieve the tension that ran through him. He cast one last disgusted look at the elven twins, then turned and ascended the stairs without looking back. He would have to report the difficulty to Shirk.
His booted steps bounded loudly off the stone in the small space, effectively announcing his arrival to anyone who stood outside long before he could see them, doubly so as it was ill advised to turn any attention away from the steep stairs. He was startled to look up and find Shirk waiting for him, regal and threatening as ever, and knew he should not be. But elven eyes, especially Shirk's, were just one of those things he was convinced a man could never get used to having fixed on you. There was something about them. . . .
"You do not have good news to report," Shirk noted, his voice surprisingly calm, almost worried instead of the forbidding rumble he had expected, but he did not feel like voicing that news first.
He took a deep breath. "The potion worked as expected, my lord. There appears to be no unfortunate side-effects."
"But?" Shirk growled, the threat returned to his tone.
"But the far-Elf's lung has been punctured," he continued, knowing better than to try to sugarcoat it. "It is filling with blood."
For the briefest of moments (an eternity to Torl's eyes), the blonde-haired elf looked like he would explode. Anger seemed to travel from his feet to gather at his head, multiplying as it traveled up, and the man fully expected him to order him executed on the spot--
Then the anger seemed to vanish, disappearing with a speed that did not bode well for whoever ended up at the mercy of the elf lord's temper. "Very well," Shirk purred. "Find Akin and have her deal with him. Tell her to make sure that Elf lives, then return to your duties. I will deal with the fools who cannot follow orders." That last was a low growl that spoke of swiftly falling doom.
Torl saluted, wisely ignoring the final remark, and immediately went to find the woman healer. The faster he found her, the faster he could be released from his responsibility for the elves. Sooner was better as far as he was concerned.
In fact, the sooner this business with the sons of Elrond was complete, the sooner they could get rid of the orcs, too. And that day could not come soon enough.
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Rivendell was calm, peaceful. The sky was a high, cloudless blue lit by the soft glow of the distant sun, an infusion of light that seemed to soften angles and resist shadows, the even glow seemingly touching all life. The trees, tall and majestic, stood waiting with outstretched limbs for the first snows of the season, patient, though the snows were late. Most of the birds had migrated, heading further south and the little creatures that called the valley home were already settled in their warm burrows and caves. Occasionally, if one was very still and waited long enough, one could catch a glimpse of a squirrel gathering last-minute acorns, or a raccoon creeping out to have a last scent of the weather. Waiting, but calm.
Upon a balcony overlooking the lands to the east stood an elf in rich blue robes, lined in silver and layered over a light gray. His dark hair was perfectly in place, woven into the intricate braids he favored to keep his long hair out of his eyes, a deep, piercing blue nearly the exact shade of his robes. A delicate, twisted circlet rested upon his head, and his hands rested easily against the carved balustrade that separated the drop from safety. To all outside observers, he looked the epitome of calm.
Inside, he was anything but.
Lord Elrond stared out over the grounds and tried to still his anxiety. The days since his youngest son and the young prince of Mirkwood had set out on their quest had waxed long, the days passing on in slow eternity unhurried by an outside force. The foreboding he had felt, a dark weight in his mind, hovered about his thoughts in increasing shadow the longer they were gone. And here he was left.
If ever he had thought his sons not in danger, that time had long passed. Now he knew that their danger grew, expanded the longer they were captive of this darkness, their deaths becoming more certain as their chances of survival grew few. The urge to ride out and help them, snatch them from the jaws of death before they could be stolen from him forever, was strong, yet he knew not even where they were. He had no direction and not time enough to scour the lands for his children. And this did not even include the youngest son, the one he feared for against his will, the one who must someday leave him no matter how tightly he would hold him.
Aragorn had passed beyond his thoughts some time ago, lost to him sooner than he had thought. He had done his best to stay calm then, and not assume the worst, but when Hodoer rode into Rivendell, rider-less, he could remain inactive no longer. Glorfindel had ridden out that day, to find news of his son, and only the lack of hurt upon the steed kept him from losing his mind until the Balrog slayer's return.
The week that took nearly proved too much for his tortured nerves, and the word his friend brought back hardly better save one truth: the human lived. In the knowledge that none had perished, he had forced himself to be content, to present a facade of peace and stability to those around him, and continue on as if naught was wrong.
Inside, everything was wrong. Four children (if only to his eyes) he loved dearly walked in deadly peril and he could do nothing. Not yet.
The urge to send out riders to follow his wayward human son was strong. He knew the aid would be needed, but how soon? How much time would be lost in trying to find the trail of a ranger and a prince, both of whom could disappear in the flicker of an eye? It was all a matter of time, time that was slipping between his fingers like sands in an hourglass, lost with no way to retrieve them.
Elrond dropped his head and closed his eyes, no longer able to bear the beauty of Rivendell when all he had available to his was the darkness of his thoughts. He had to act. Yet if he acted too soon, all was lost; and if he waited too long the result was the same. How would he know the time when he did not even know the danger?
"My lord?"
The elf lord straightened but did not turn and face the owner of the voice. He knew who stood behind him, had expected the blonde-haired elf, friend of so long, to follow him eventually. The other stopped perhaps a foot behind him, just out of sight unless he turned.
"Elrond?"
"I am well, my friend," he assured, his voice not belying the turmoil inside him. That his friend did not believe him was a given, but he was relieved when the Balrog-slayer did not pursue the matter.
Glorfindel shifted slightly, folding his hands before him. "The riders are ready. We can leave as soon as you give the word."
As soon as he gave the word. . . . He could have riders out, looking for his sons, out there instead of in here, stuck and helpless, ready to lend aid to his loved ones who so desperately needed it. He could . . . but he could not.
His eyes slid closed in helplessness. "Thank you, my friend. Please have them stand ready."
"We are not to go now?" Surprise almost made it into the light-haired elf's tone, but the other was too disciplined to show it.
"No," Elrond answered, feeling his heart rend in his chest at the admission. "It is not time."
He felt Glorfindel nod, but could not turn to look at him. Time. It all came down to time. He opened his eyes and stared out over the lands, peering into the distance as far as he was allowed. He could only pray he did not wait too long. Forgive me, my sons, he bid helplessly, silently. A single anguished tear rolled down his cheek.
*~*~*~*~*
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Review Responses:
Tychen: I understand. Lol. I know what you mean by that, too, and I'm delighted to be among your favorites, for whatever reason. *g* That's why I included them. I'm glad it worked so well. Lol. Well, no indication yet of whether they can pick up the pace or no, but that will come next chapter. Along with a few other things. . . . It has! More or less. Thank you.
Grumpy: Yes. Well, sort of. *g* He's using them to try to get Isildur's heir, actually. He doesn't yet know who that is. But he does expect the ranger to show up since the twins showed up for the ranger, and we'll see what happens from there. Isn't it fun?
Nerfenherder: You're welcome! And I have managed it again! Lol. Before we can save them, we have to get them properly in trouble. They're getting closer. Hm, I've never had a concussion either, but I imagine it must be something somewhat like a migraine. But if it seems plausible, I guess I've done my job (as I'm far too lazy to actually do research *g*). Lol. I rather liked that part, too. Oh, but there's plenty of rain, too. *g* I love my state. Lol. You were actually very close. What I had intended, though, was simple: destiny. *wide grin* Now the old man is weirder than ever, huh? Oh! I hate that! I have brothers who are constantly trying to steal the computer. I have just more or less established my dominance in that regard. Lol. If someone's online and the phone inoperable, everyone assumes its me. Me! Can you believe it? *tries to look mock outraged and fails, laughing* It usually is. You're welcome for the pictures. Glad to be of service. Have fun.