Legolas awoke from his troubled sleep in the cold dark post-midnight hours. As always, his dreams were the horrid memory of all that had happened since Frodo and Sam had been killed in Mordor. Wincing as he stretched his sore limbs, he felt with one hand for the secret inner fold in his boot where he kept the one ring hidden, for he alone had been at Aragorn's side when the man had cut the ring from Sauron. And with Aragorn dead, Legolas had taken the ring for his own, hiding it from the enemy for more than half a year.
Shivering suddenly, Legolas wrapped his arms about himself. His time was drawing near, he realized, for his dreams had become more urgently real as of late. Then too, it was becoming clearer by the day that the search for the ring was slowly becoming more lax. Though defeated, Sauron knew that it was only a matter of time before his precious ring was found once more.
And yet, Legolas was hesitant to begin his journey. It was not a desire to keep the ring that softened his resolve, but a fear of the path ahead of him, and of the possibility of failure. If he should fail, his heart told him, all would truly be lost. He was, after all, the last surviving member of the Fellowship. Gandalf had perished after the retreat from the black gate, for though Aragorn had tried valiantly to save the wizard, his wounds were far too great. Merry and Pippin, spies for the Final Alliance of the Free Folk, had been captured by orcs while scouting out an enemy encampment before the last battle. Tortured and finally murdered, Legolas had come across their dismembered bodies days later. Aragorn, too, was dead, beheaded by Sauron himself, for the elf had not been fast enough to reach the man's side to try and protect him. Gimli, it was true, had survived that battle along with Legolas, but in the aftermath, the two had been separated and word had reached Legolas' ears that many of the Lonely Mountain dwarves had been taken and killed for sport by the orcs of the Misty Mountains.
Still, even through his fear, Legolas felt the urgency of his task weigh heavily upon him. He stood in the darkness, his mind made up. His quest would begin at the first opportunity given to him. He already had a store of provisions, dried meats mostly, saved from the scarce meals that the elves were given to survive on. It had meant many days of hunger for the elf, but Legolas knew that his only chance to make it to Mount Doom was to have food and water to last the journey.
Now he took in his surroundings, studying them closely. A few months after the battle at the gate, he had been shot down by a wayward arrow as he tried to protect Elrond, lord of Rivendell, from a surprise attack by Sauron's forces. Bound tightly, several uraks had taken him to Ithilien to an elven prison camp. There the prince had been beaten and tortured, but it was perhaps that none realized him for who he was; elven royalty and one of the Nine Walkers. Thus far, his life had been spared, and the orcs were content to try and bend his will to their own, trying to turn him into an orc himself. Looking around, Legolas could now discern the figures of other elves being moved here and there across the camp. Escape would not be easy. Walls of sheer metal made a circle around the camp, tall and impassible. Every so often, there stood tall ramparts housing skilled archers, some of which had once been counted among Legolas' friends. The evil of Mordor had ruined those poor souls. Of the Firstborn they were no longer, but cruel and cunning among the orcs they had become. Legolas could not hope escape by way of the walls. Now he turned his attention to the far side of the compound, to where the main gate stood, flanked and guarded by several surly urak-hai warriors. Never was that gate left unguarded, and Legolas briefly wondered if escape that way were possible.
At the moment, however, he could not spare the time to ponder the various routes out of his prison. Orc torturers were picking their way towards him, ready to begin his torment anew, Legolas instinctively knew. His resistance to their evil was something that they were not in the least pleased with, though they always stopped short of killing him. His power was great, one of the higher ranking orc officers had said. If they could turn him into one of them without taking his life, he would make a powerful ally. None of the remaining hidden pockets of rebels could hope to be spared for long if Legolas was to be let loose on their trail.
The orcs reached him and Legolas allowed himself to be marched to one of the small tents used for torture. He had long since given in to the demands of his captors, choosing to conserve his strength instead of fighting a battle he could only lose. The orcs normally cracked self-pleased smiles to themselves at the elf's compliance, for in their minds, they had already won the first victory in his transformation.
The tent was small and dirty with blood stains covering the inside. In the center of the interior chamber, a metal spike was driven into the ground with a short, heavy chain protruding from it, at the end of which was a dull manacle. This was the preferred restraint method of the orcs, and now they clasped the manacle tightly around Legolas' neck, after felling him to his knees. Four grim urak-hai torturers came forth, each bearing some cruel device in hand, and they surrounded the spike. No amount of twisting could save any poor soul caught in the middle from the blows that would come.
Instead, Legolas played his part and knelt obediently unmoving in the center of the ring, stripped naked, facing the center spike. His body was oddly relaxed and his pose defeated. He had learned long before not to become tense, for he had trained his mind to move beyond the pain. Surely, he would still tense every now and again at a particularly savage blow, but he had learned to conserve his strength by entering into the waking world of elvish mediation. It was one of the few ways that he could fight back against the orcs and at the same time preserve his mastery over his will.
Now the beatings began. Three of the creatures surrounding him this day held spiked metal bars like clubs and the sharp teeth of the spikes rent Legolas' skin, tearing it in chunks. The other urak held a traditional whip, wielding it with barbaric skill, and it landed everywhere the clubs had neglected. Throughout the ordeal, Legolas made no sound, but when the whip curled around his right leg, cutting into the inner portion of his upper thigh, he had to struggle to suppress a scream. Outside, he could hear the screams of other elves, some quite young by the sound of their anguished voices, and he silently cursed the acuteness of elven hearing.
Dawn broke and still Legolas' torment raged on. He was torn, bleeding, and exhausted, but the urak-hai showed no signs of stopping. They were determined to break his spirit. Faster and harder the blows were rained down upon him, until, in the darkness of his own soul, he wondered how much more he could endure. But he steeled his will and focused his thoughts upon more pleasant things with such force that his mind began to hurt. At last, noon came and passed, and Legolas' tormentors grew weary of their task. The prince's blood soaked the ground and his wounds lay open and unattended.
"Leave him for now," came the command from the orc lieutenant, who was standing nearby watching the ordeal. "We must not kill him."
The others muffled a few curses and reluctantly backed away from the bleeding body on the floor. Then they filed out of the tent, the lieutenant coming up behind them.
Only when he was left utterly alone, did Legolas allow his pent up tears to fall.