Legolas had hoped to bypass most of the activity that Mordor housed by leaving in the darkness of night. The orcs that spent the day tending to the workings of the Land of Shadow surely must then take rest in the night, he had reasoned. But it was, perhaps, that he had grown overconfident in his fortune thus far. He had neglected to account for the scores of orcs who worked by firelight all throughout the night. Some were higher ranking officers in Sauron's army, driving on the others in their various tasks. Dwarves too, labored away in the deadness of the night, and all around him, Legolas could hear the sounds of metal being worked into weapons. He tried to ignore it at first; tried to drive out the sounds by thinking on more pleasant elven songs, but he remained, for the most part, unsuccessful and his thoughts kept turning to the road ahead of him. He was a week perhaps, from the foot of Mount Doom, for he knew that both the enemy eyes that surrounded him and the weight of the ring would slow his progress.
In truth, he had only one thing in his favor, and that was the fact that the eight remaining Nazgul were said to be abroad. It seemed that (and this Legolas heard in passing a group of urak-hai lieutenants) the wraiths had gone to reestablish Sauron's hold on Dol Guldur in Southern Mirkwood. This thought grieved Legolas' heart terribly, for Mirkwood was his homeland and the elves of that land had exerted much effort in trying to purge those woods of evil. And yet, for all the unshed tears that this news brought him, Legolas could not help but to be relieved, for the absence of the Nazgul in Mordor meant that his movements within the land would be under less observance. It was true that he had to been ever mindful of the Eye, but with all the activity taking place in that land, Legolas was certain that his movements would be quite lost in the mix of things. His biggest concern was the orcs that he passed by at regular intervals.
Still, for the most part, he was left alone, the orcs seemingly too busy with their own tasks to bother much about the badly scarred elf and the beaten looking dwarf. Two days passed without so much as a grunt being offered to him by the creatures. But by then Legolas had secured more fitting raiment for his situation, though the opportunity presented itself by sheer luck. On the first night since leaving the tent they had shared, Legolas and Gimli happened upon a battle. Several of the Mordor orcs were in an argument with others who seemed to have come from the Misty Mountains. Swords had been drawn and the creatures advanced on one another, slicing the air wildly, hoping to strike flesh.
Legolas and Gimli watched all of this from several yards away, though at their distance, the orcs were naught but silhouettes against the blaze of a campfire. When most of them had been slain, Legolas advanced upon the last remaining orc and ran him through with the sword he had taken when he had been reunited with Gimli. Then he had sized up the carcasses and, finding one close to his own size, he stripped the body of its garments. Quickly shedding his own clothing, he dressed himself in the filthy rags, though he dared not to take up any of the armor that now lay accessible to him. With the ring as a burden, he doubted that he would have the strength to continue wearing it as he drew closer to the mountain. The sword and dagger he kept still as well as the cloak of Lothlorien, though he now doubted how effective the elven magic of the material would be in this land. The ring still hung about his neck, under a thick brown leather jerkin, hidden from view. Gimli took nothing, for it would not do to see him dressed in the grab of the enemy, for he was to be viewed as a slave, not as one of the orcs themselves. The same hatchet that he had taken from the orc who had held him in chains many days before remained hidden under folds of cloth. The two companions left the bodies of the orcs and continued onwards.
As they trekked ever deeper into Mordor, they found that the air became heavier and hotter. Each breath became harder to take, feeling somehow thick and stifling. Legolas began to wheeze slightly as he breathed. The ring grew ever heavier around his neck and the rope from whence it hung began to bite into his flesh. On the eve of the third day since leaving the tent encampment, he could stand it no longer. He lifted the rope and ring from his neck and eased it into a tight pocket on the inner left side of the leather jerkin he wore. It would be secure there, he reasoned, and less accessible to his reach. He noted to himself that as much as he tried to ignore the temptation that the ring held, it had begun to grow as a threat to his mind. He did not desire to use it, but as the ring found itself coming nearer to its master's tower, it became heavier to bear, and Legolas found that he often reached to his neck to touch the ring, despite his best efforts to ignore it. With it securely tucked away, it would be harder to reach and for a time, Legolas found that this also helped to clear his mind, though it did nothing to lift the weight of the ring from him.
The fourth day came to pass and Legolas found that the activity of Mordor increased as he drew nearer to the tower which housed the restless Eye. Orcs marched to and fro, making haste to complete their tasks. Legolas swallowed and took his sword from its sheath. Lightly and with a word of apology to Gimli, he pressed the sharp point into the dwarf's back, resting it somewhere towards the middle area. In this manner he marched his friend before him and as they passed a group of orcs, and Legolas could hear them laughing at the dwarf's misfortune. It boiled his blood, but he grit his teeth and kept pressing forward. It was during this time that Legolas found himself becoming the most nervous, for here the land swarmed with the enemy. There was no place to turn for refuge; no place to hide. His heart beat rapidly and his head swam in the heat, thoughts of the ring clouding it. He briefly wondered why he had taken such responsibility on himself. Surely there were others far more suited for this task. Why could he not have given the ring over to Elrond or Celeborn or even the warrior Glorfindel? The small golden trinket was far more powerful than he had supposed. It was true that he had never thought of it whilst the Fellowship still remained, save for the thought of how best to smuggle it into Mordor so that the hobbit Frodo could destroy it once and for all. During that time, he had never touched the ring, never felt its weight, never felt its power. But when he had retrieved it from the field of battle as Aragorn lay dead and the Fellowship all but destroyed, he had come to know all that, and the ring now worked hard to tempt him into using it. It was true that Legolas' mind was still his own and he still did not desire to use the ring. It was also true that although Legolas had the passing thought of others better suited for this task, he still did not regret his decision. He had taken an oath to see the ring destroyed at all costs. As one of the Nine Walkers, he was bound to the ring's fate, though some would argue that it was not his burden to bear.
And, he thought to himself as he walked, to give the ring over to a powerful elf lord or warrior would only ensure failure. Sauron would suspect that something was amiss and that elf would be killed and the ring ultimately reclaimed. No, it is better that I am the one to carry it, for by some strange fortune, my true identity is not known. I am merely a captured elf who has successfully been transformed, in mind at least, into one of the foul orcs.
Shaking himself from his thoughts, he found that he and Gimli had come to the edge of another encampment, this one laying just beyond the tower. At the far end, countless slaves labored away to tend an enormous furnace while still others used the heat to melt metal so that it could be reformed into armor. Legolas chanced a glance upwards and saw that the dawn was not far off. He and Gimli had been traveling since before the night had fully descended upon them. Neither the dwarf nor the elf would have the strength to circumvent the encampment. They would have to stop and rest, though Legolas feared what sort of delay this might cause. They entered onto the worn footpath grudgingly.
"You there!" called out a gravelly voice. "You're late!"
Legolas glanced around and saw an urak-hai warrior heading towards him. His grip on his sword tightened of its own accord and he mentally tried to calm his heartbeat.
"Me?" he asked.
"That's right, maggot. Those dwarves were supposed to be here yesterday!"
Legolas drew himself up to his full height and made his answer. "This scum is not for here."
The urak looked at him for a moment without speaking. He seemed to be trying to think of something that remained just out of reach. Legolas took the opportunity to scan the far distance, looking ever towards Mount Doom, and with his elven sight, could just make out the reek of other furnaces settled before the mountain's feet.
After a moment Legolas spoke again. "This dwarf was requested to work the furnaces closest to the mountain," he said, with just enough of a challenge in his voice. "I will rest here for this day, for I have traveled all this night. Then I shall take to the road once more."
"The fair one wishes to rest," replied the urak-hai as two lean orcs hobbled over his side. Legolas guessed from their limping that they had been permanently wounded in one of the battles during the war. Both orcs laughed, sharing some joke that the urak-hai had made. He silenced them with a gesture and spoke to them both directly. "My lads are short-handed. Take these two to the far furnace. Put the dwarf to work there. As for this half-orc, you know what to do."
"Right," said the orc with the bad left leg and arm. He licked his lips as if the thought of Legolas' destination was some sweet delicacy. "Move it now," he said, addressing Legolas. "We haven't got all day."
Legolas went quietly, not daring to protest, and silently ushered Gimli onwards. They followed the gray skinned orc with the mangled right foot, while the other fell behind to ensure that neither the elf nor the dwarf tried to slip away. As they progressed a sense of dread came over the elf prince.
Less then an hour passed in this fashion until at last they reached the northern end of the encampment. The gray orc led Gimli away towards the furnace after speaking with several other orcs who stood by. Legolas guessed, or rather hoped, that they were being given instructions not to kill the dwarf, for the elf managed to see a look of surprise pass over the face of one of the others. No specially requested labor could be damaged before reaching its destination. But this look only lasted a brief moment and Gimli was ushered towards the ever hungry machinery while Legolas was led in the opposite direction. A tall, gaunt orc led him between two rows of tents until he reached a large brown one at the end of the left hand row. He pushed the flap aside and pushed Legolas inside before signaling for two surly urak-hai torturers to join him.
Immediately upon entering the tent, Legolas felt his heart sink. This was a torture tent, not much unlike the one he had visited daily in the prison camp back in Ithilien, yet this one was more elaborate. Instead of a single stake in the center of the dirt floor, he saw varying wooden and metal frames making a nearly complete circle around the tent.
This place must be used for large groups of elves to be brutalized in, he thought unhappily.
He was led to the metal frame directly across from the entrance to the tent and was stripped naked, something he had become accustomed to in the other camp. His clothes were tossed unceremoniously into a heap to his right. Now the uraks approached him, though they bore no weapons in hand. Instead, they cracked their knuckles loudly and slipped something over their fingers. Legolas only caught a brief glance at the objects, which seemed to be series of four metal rings that slipped onto their fingers and rested tightly over their knuckles, leaving sharp barbs sticking up from their tightly clenched fists.
Legolas nearly cried aloud as the first savage punch caught him directly in the stomach. The metal points tore into his flesh, taking small chunks with them as they retreated. The next punch caught him in his right shoulder blade, but Legolas was prepared his time. As he had done in the other camp, he tried to move his mind beyond the pain, but this time, he had little success. Weakness, despair, and thoughts of the ring swam in his mind. As the urak standing before him began to assault his face, hope faded from the elf.
How long he endured his torture, Legolas did not know. He dared not count the number of times that the fists drove into him or the flashes of blinding pain that tore through his aching body. It was as if the enemy creatures had been seized by a sudden urgency to make Legolas' transformation into an orc complete. Still, he endured all of this without a sound, trying to ignore the trickles of sweat and blood that rolled down his body. After a while he heard the flap of the tent rustle as the smaller orc exited. Legolas sighed inwardly, thinking his torment to be nearly over. A few moments passed before he heard the creature come back into the tent. The two uraks backed away momentarily, and Legolas could feel that it would only be a matter of moments before he was released and allowed to have some rest. He could scarcely wait until the bliss of the nothingness of sleep took hold of him. That was when he felt it, the searing pain of scalding hot metal being pressed into his back. Despite himself, he heard himself scream. Behind him, the orc cracked a cruel grin and stepped around to Legolas' front. The metal pole was raised and slammed into the elf's chest, searing the flesh over his heart with the insignia of the Eye.