CHAPTER FOUR
Only the Beginning
Sitting upon the broad shoulders of the large oliphaunt with captain Darcíl to his left, holding the end of the rope halter that laced tightly around his neck, with large knots that when twisted just right, bit and pinched the flesh in an annoyingly painful way, Legolas was careful about breathing.
He was quickly finding out that if he stepped out of line just a little bit the effects could be far less than lovely and as a matter of fact they could be downright painful. One of the knots, two actually, must have been on either side of a nerve in his neck and when twisted, they sent a jolt up his face that actually burned.
He also noticed Darcíl had no qualms about letting the captive Elf know in no uncertain terms exactly whose hands he had fallen into and what rules he was expected to submit to. The Haradrim captain nudged the bound Elf with his shoulder and hissed, "we approach our destination and your waking nightmare."
Legolas shivered as he achieved the ability to discern what was said. Aragorn's ear massage had helped some and now everything said was just fuzzy but audible. If Aragorn was beside him he might not be feeling so down hearted and lost. But his friend was on another oliphaunt before him, sitting with Prince Dorrag and being guarded ceaselessly by Sarchel and a few more men.
Darcíl watched as Legolas sat up a little straighter and shifted uneasily. Smiling he hissed in the Elf's pointed ear, "isn't it lovely?"
Fences and walls of stone loomed ahead, bleak, and already looking painful. The sun beat down on them mercilessly, making them hot and miserable. Squinting his eyes into slits of bright blue, Legolas could see the walls of a castle or palace, but they were not finished and as he looked closer, he saw with blurred clarity the numerous slaves that were hauling stone with the heat of the sun battering them down.
Finally he found his tongue and muttered incisively, "charming." The blonde Elf now felt a dark foreboding that was hardly suppressible spiking up in a way that made him sick. Actually, he had been feeling sick the entire trip. Now he was feeling really sick.
Darcíl smiled and said slowly as though he relished what he was saying, "glad you like it." He reached over and patted Legolas' back in a mocking way that made the Elf twist away and glare daggers at him in annoyance.
"Do not touch me," he said in a flat and emotionless tone that was strangely lethal. His eyes turned from a dreading look to a hard one of ice and steel. As the wind pulled his hair aside, Darcíl stared leeringly at the Elf and then shook his head with a smirk.
This blonde being was so naive about how things worked. This Elf was a slave, a captured prize. He was vanquished, at their mercy. What part of defeat did that egotistical Elf not grasp? He would learn in due time though, however Darcíl did not want to think about that. Tormenting captives was not his favorite thing to do. It still angered and pestered his normally quiet or suppressed conscience.
Legolas blinked as they turned into the sun to follow the road into the Haradrim death camp, or so Legolas perceived it to be. What else would they be sent to with such vast fences of bladed tops where climbing them would rip an unfortunate escapee to ribbons?
Aragorn said for what had to be the fifth time since he had started talking with the Haradrim prince, "I will not tell you anything my friend has not already agreed to talk about." His tone was flat and slightly dangerous in his mounting anger.
He remembered something that Erestor had once told him about negotiations. If you give in, even the minutest bit, you will find yourself losing more and more ground. He was not even going to give them Legolas' name or anything concerning the Elven prince. Something deep inside his heart warned him telling them even where Legolas came from was potentially fatal.
"You know what fate you bring upon your friend and yourself?" asked the Haradrim ruler with a raised eyebrow as he stared at the ranger, who was looking stiff from his wound. "If you are more reasonable, I will make sure his neck breaks when he falls and he doesn't have to endure the…suffocation process." A cold smile, as brittle and fell as a December dawn crossed his face.
Aragorn instantly growled thickly, "what do you have planned for him?" The man's eyes turned into dark grey orbs or turmoil and his brows were drawn together. A slight touch of grey paled his skin as he realized what this man was saying and the full impact of the offer hit him. And the ranger had distinct feeling that the grey touch was turning a sickly green as his stomach began to churn uneasily.
Dorrag slowly eased himself back in his large throne like chair uniquely strapped upon the oliphaunt's back with a shade providing canopy over it. He took off his large ring and rolled it around in his fingers leisurely and then looked at Aragorn. "We cannot afford an alliance of Elves and Men to form against us."
A knot, hard and cold formed in Aragorn's stomach as he listened to the words of the plan made for his friend and most likely himself. His blood seemed to lose its warmth and he shivered without even thinking about it.
"This Elf-spy of yours was not one we honestly expected to catch. As it turned out all we needed was you for bait. He walked right into the camp searching for you," the Prince of Harad watched Aragorn's face calculatingly for guilt and sorrow. "But now that we have him I have come to the conclusion that he will make an impressive little example of what happens when Elves mettle in the affairs of men…he and any envoy sent for negotiations of his release."
Aragorn did his best to keep a stony face. Feeling like he had lost his voice completely the ranger affirmed, "you mean to put him to death…" The man worked his jaw and glared at the Haradrim prince in disgust.
"Indeed, but I can't do it properly until I know his name and where his home is. I am sure his lord would mourn to know a fine warrior of his has been captured and is about to executed along with several of his Elven emissaries that I am sure he will send for negotiations of his release." Dorrag twirled his ring before he set it on is finger and he studied with scrutinizing eyes the face of the captive ranger before him.
If he was looking for weakness he was sorely disappointed. If anything the man's face hardened and though it had become more grave it seemed stronger. "And if I am not told who he is willingly…"
"You will persuade us to tell you," finished Aragorn resentfully, "I know." His grey eyes seemed to dull and his wound's throbbing increased.
"Not I," the tattooed man replied thoughtfully. "Captain Darcíl will. But here I give you one more chance to give me the information I seek willingly." Narrowing his eyes into dark and sinister slits of malice, greed, and power hungriness, the man stared down the ranger. But Aragorn's will was disturbingly more stubborn than he had given it credit for and the man withstood his piercing gaze while delivering one of his own.
"You will pay in this world and/or the next for every scream, or moan you tear from his throat," promised Aragorn rigidly. He whispered ominously, "every drop of blood you draw from his body." The man's eyes held Dorrag's for a minute that seemed an eternity. "Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystalline." His captor's voice was filled with mockery and scorn. "But you and that Elf won't live to see it." He looked back to the oliphaunt behind them that held Legolas and Captain Darcíl along with other warriors, for he had not allowed Legolas to be placed with the other prisoners for fear of a little mutiny or murder.
"Perhaps not, but we will die knowing justice will eventually be dealt out," retorted the dark-haired ranger confidently and soberly. "So let your men do their Orc-work and may it be their worst."
"You know not what you willingly walk into, ranger," admonished Dorrag with disbelief that this man had the strength to not break down under these threats. It angered him that he was being told to prove himself. The threats were not enough. "You know not what you drag your friend into," he added with a bitter snarl.
"Oh, but I do," answered Aragorn calmly. "And I know I speak for both of us." His voice went hard and he clenched his jaw.
"One of you will break," promised the Haradrim prince. "You have my word." He looked to his palace that was being built for his glory. The sun brightly reflected off the cold marble of the quarries and the new walls still being hauled into place.
As Aragorn looked morosely at the looming palace that was under careful construction he saw the proud and hard looks in the man's black glittering eyes as he sat enthroned above him. The ranger quickly sent a silent and swift prayer to Illuvatar pleading for strength.
He shifted his gaze to his annoyingly calm captor. "Your word? Of what sort of worth is that I wonder?" he asked mockingly as he pretended to weigh the truth of the Haradrim prince's words mentally.
"It is worth more than you think. I can assure you ranger."
O0O0O0O
It was some time later when Prince Dorrag sat upon his throne. With his father's absence abroad on the battlefields, he was in full power. Everybody answered to him and he to nobody. It was a rather great feeling now that he thought of it. He could certainly get used to it, which was a good thing because he planned to.
Smiling he called Captain Darcíl forward briskly. "Where is the Elf and ranger?" he inquired in a weary voice. His glittering and questioning eyes fell upon the steady eyes of his first captain. "Are they enjoying themselves?"
Darcíl smiled coldly and without emotion as he answered his liege humbly and yet with a touch of frosted over pride. "They will learn to love their cells," came the assuring answer. "Right now however, I find our guests are a bit ungrateful."
"Tell me, how is the Elf doing in the dark below?" he scoffed grimly and he looked into his most trusted captain's eyes.
He did not welcome how Darcíl was a free thinker, but he knew that the man would do whatever he was told, for his family's sake but never his own.
Bowing submissively before his lord, Darcíl lowered his eyes in quiet respect and said discreetly but at a leisurely pace, "he is…adjusting."
"Bring him to me. Tell him I offer him…a proposition..." instructed Dorrag with a degenerate look and yet one of an intense expectation with a mysterious glimmer in his eye that was haunting.
"May I advise you, my lord?" Asked the captain cautiously, knowing the perilous mood Dorrag more often than not possessed. The Haradrim prince nodded with reluctance and slid his signet ring back onto his finger irritably. He hated being given advice and taking it even more, but he knew that Darcíl had far more wisdom than he often let on.
"Elves' weakness lies not in their body or spirit, but their emotion. A broken heart can slay them if the tales of old hold faithful," he enlightened his sovereign as to the potential way to shatter the blonde prince below. "I think, if you harm the ranger, this Elf's emotion will sack his wisdom and he will impart to you everything you want to know."
"You know this?" asked the ruler skeptically as his fingers drummed in a slow rhythm vigilantly upon the armrest of his large golden throne. The pace at which they beat against the precious metal sped up in frustration and he demanded harshly before he gave the captain a chance to hardly gather breath to speak, "where did you learn of this?"
Gripping the edges of his chair he went tense as a bowstring and then drew a deep breath as he massaged his temples to try and get control of his temper that was beginning to flare. "Never mind. I don't care. Bring him up here." Taking a drinking vessel from the table near at hand he cast it angrily upon the floor, a loud booming clang of metal upon marble resounded eerily.
O0O0O0O
Legolas sat -if it could be called sitting- against the wall with the heavy chains about his ankles and wrists. He hated the dark. He could not see his friend and could hardly hear him. "Thorongil?" he whispered fearfully into the deep darkness of the dank dungeons.
"Legolas, I am right here," came the cool response. Aragorn reached his cold hand as far as he could with the restricting chains and found he could barely retain a faint grip upon Legolas' quivering one. "Fear no darkness, mellon nin," he said softly in an promising voice from which he hoped Legolas could gather a little strength.
"I do not fear it, Estel," he whispered hoarsely, surprised he had been able to hear his companion. "But I don't trust it and I certainly do not enjoy it." His normally strong and fair voice sounded strained and Aragorn knew Legolas was making a great effort to keep his growing anxiety down.
"Just hold my hand," said Aragorn to his friend. He smiled softly in the night of the prison as he felt Legolas squeeze it tightly. A light shown ahead in the dark corridors and catacombs of the castle like fortress. The fire of the brand sheened on the walls and glowed as the flames danced and struggled for life in the damp darkness.
Legolas watched it with narrowed eyes and he looked sidelong at Aragorn with a dispirited look all over his features.
Aragorn listened intently and to his growing dismay he heard the solid and rhythmic tramping of many booted feet. One would hope they could be left to rest after their journey and talk. But of course it would be folly for any conqueror to let his prisoners recover their strength.
He looked at Legolas and through some deep sense they both knew what was about to transpire and it wasn't going to be anything fun. It was only obvious that Legolas would be taken up for questioning and a 'session' would follow, immersing them in both in an acrimonious struggle with their emotions. And logically, Aragorn would be next.
"Be strong, mellon nin," encouraged Aragorn with a bright smile as he watched Legolas smile twistedly back with a abstruse glimmer in his eyes that looked very devious, as usual.
He is a Wood-Elf, reminded Aragorn to himself slowly. Of course his smile will be dangerously devious, especially considering he is a prince among the Wood-Elves. Knowing Legolas' crafty personality the only thing the blue-eyed prince was probably revered for was his twisted smile that he was capable of casting at anyone at anytime.
"It was you who taught me. How could I fail?" asked the Elf as he slowly released his friend's hand after giving it another quick squeeze that was a short farewell. "You are stubborn, Estel."
"You are insane and an idiot, nothing more." Aragorn watched and he honestly used nearly all his strength to push aside a sharp wince when the rusty iron key was slammed into the rusty lock with a sickening screech that resembled what Aragorn would imagine as a nazgul in its death throes.
Legolas didn't respond and instead turned a bright and precarious gaze upon the three men entering his small cell. He made an effort to remember not to scoot backwards in the least or do anything that could give his tormentors any reason to think he was weak or craven. But in reality he wanted to shrink into the stone wall and be completely hidden from everything.
A sinking feeling began to feel like it was pulling him to the core of the earth by his stomach's center and he had never realized that even lifting a single finger of clenching your fist could be such work. It was as though everything had slowed down and become heavier. He dreaded this little confrontation, deep down in his heart that was beginning to accelerate against his mind's silent commands.
Darcíl smirked down at the chained Elf and his two companions fixed Legolas with a -do-not-fight-us-or-we-can-make-your-life-a-whole-lot-more-miserable look. Legolas looked at their hands for no real reason other than the fact it wasn't a sneering face and saw the clubs they bore. Metal strips ran on opposite sides and the rest of it was a very hard oak wood as opposed to ash.
Legolas smiled grimly to himself, realizing how silly he was to be thinking of the different types of trees at this particular time. If he hadn't known better it would have appeared to him that the clubs were a rather blood thirsty lot. But they couldn't possibly have minds, could they? What a stupid question to ask.
Shivering against the cold wetness of the dank dungeon that seemed to bite through his clothes and into his bone's core relentlessly, the Elf looked Darcíl in the eye and he raised a slender brow as he informed them, "I find it hard to believe that you came this far just to see if we were well and comfortable."
Darcíl smiled hesitantly and said with a curt nod regarding the Elf shackled before him, "you are right." With a minute and nearly unnoticeable frown, the man said, "Prince Dorrag requires your presence, therefore I have been told to escort you that way."
"Well you can inform your prince that I am disinclined to venture into his charming halls," came the acidic reply as Legolas discerned what had been said from the muffles he could hardly hear. He felt an aggravating pain on his wrists and realized that the rusty shackles wound about them were working their way painfully deeper into his already inflamed skin.
"I thought you would be in that frame of mind," came to cool reply as Darcíl watched Aragorn glaring daggers at him. "So I arranged for an extra escort." He twisted his eyes back to the two men pointedly.
Legolas undetectably shifted his weight in an attempt towards relieving the annoying pain from his shackles but his crystalline blue eyes never left the tall Haradrim captain. Aragorn glanced sidelong at his friend and noticed the blonde Elf's breathing was struggling to stay steady and not give away his growing fear that was beginning to gnaw hungrily at his mind.
Darcíl took an additional red-brown corroded key and used it to unbolt Legolas' iron manacles from loops in the cold stone wall while keeping them around his wrists and ankles.
The two men came and gripped either one of Legolas' arms tightly, digging their surprisingly strong fingers into the soft flesh of the captive Elf, pinching it and leaving small bruises that actually throbbed for a split second. Legolas felt grateful that was the most painful thing he was experiencing at the moment.
Forcing the Elf to his feet, they proceeded to try and drag the blue-eyed Elf from his cell, which the more Legolas thought about it, was rather comfortable and welcoming. The prince jerked and grappled in their strong and relentless grasp, knowing perfectly well that his attempts at freedom were futile and that he was wasting his time. But he was going to make them work at least to make him do something he didn't want to. If he was lucky, he might leave a bruise or two, though breaking a nose or something might serve him better and be far more gratifying.
Slamming his elbow into the soft stomach of one of the men ruthlessly dragging him, Legolas nearly broke free. The Haradrim guard doubled over and grunted with a satisfying amount of difficulty, "you…damn…Elf."
Darcíl watched with an amused curl of his upper lip and mirth glittering in his eyes. This Elf was stronger than he had originally thought. But that was to be expected from one of the Firstborn race. They were stubborn, wise and with tender hearts that though they appeared weak were strong as weaved Mithril. It was quite an odd combination, thought Darcíl calmly as he watched the intense and frivolous struggle ensuing before him.
In the end the blonde being was kicked and threatened into submission. And that in itself only lasted a meager amount of roughly two minutes and then Legolas found his verve and attacked his captors again with an astonishing amount of effect.
Unfortunately for the Elf he was finally pinned to the ground and his arms were twisted behind him. Then they were clasped into a set of hand-cuff like manacles that were set an extraordinarily tight setting and cut off the circulation of his hands in a way that could be called painful.
Standing now before Dorrag's throne. Legolas met the man with pure and unaltered contempt seething in his narrowed eyes.
The Haradrim prince scowled with an equal amount of loathing in his black eyes. Glaring at Darcíl, who was studying the tile on the floor he screamed fiercely, "get him on his knees before me! Now!" His look of abhorrence changed to one of scorn and amusement as Darcíl came and kicked Legolas in the small of his back just below his chained hands.
Legolas felt a brief amount of pain that was hardly worth the confused and momentarily surprised look that flickered across his face and against his will his knees bent and the blonde prince fell forward. He winced as he was smacked harshly in the back of the head by the open hand of the obedient Haradrim captain.
"Look at the floor, Elf. Show some respect," he demanded as he ran his tanned fingers along the edges of the metal pinned to the club, debating on whether or not it would be a wise decision to use it just yet.
Legolas waited a fleeting moment before raising his head slowly up, a hard and grim look on his fair features. He glared stonily at the Haradrim prince who was rubbing his chin thoughtfully with his fingers as he took into account how this Elf showed no fear…at least not yet. It was something that annoyed him greatly -a prisoner not begging for mercy- but it would be beautiful when this fair Firstborn was reduced to tears. The harder they were to break, the harder their downfall was and all the more interesting for himself.
"So," he began in a drawn out way that the chained Elf found highly irritating. "Have you been informed yet as to what I spared your life for?" He met Legolas' eyes and said, "your life is much more tenuous than you would like to think." He looked at Legolas calculatingly bored expression.
"I could order your slow and painful death," he reminded with a small laugh that was nearly to himself, as though he was remembering some old and much treasured memory. Legolas wrinkled his nose in disgust.
He was quiet a minute as he untangled the words from the muffles he had heard. Then the blonde Elf said angrily, "I was never told, Edain, about anything concerning why I have been thus singled out for your abuse and contempt except hints and riddles." His own words pulsed in his ears and he found it disturbing that he could hardly hear them or feel how much of his emotion was slipped into their tones.
Dorrag sighed in sick disappointment. He then smiled wryly and waved a heavily decorated hand about him in a broad gesticulation before he asked Legolas proudly, "and what do you think of all this?"
The Wood-Elf smirked haughtily, "of what? This room? Your ill-earned wealth? Or how I was dragged here like a whipped cur and have yet to be given a decent reason?" He knitted his brows and straightened up, squaring his shoulders antagonistically. Glancing to his right, he glared at Darcíl with malice and then turned stonily back to the ruler of Harad.
"'A whipped cur'? We shall see about that later, Elf," he stated ominously. "Of course," he added. "That actually all depends on what you tell me now." A perilous and mysterious glimmer flickered in his dark eyes as he watched Legolas' face contort with nothing but pure and unaltered contempt.
"What do you want to know?" asked the Elf carefully thinking about what to say. He longed for defiance. But he was smart enough to know that would bring him nowhere at this point. He must get as much information from this Haradrim ruler as possible before he could make a half-wise decision about what to do.
"Tell me, what is your name? Surely not something that frivolous you will withhold from me?" Dorrag watched with mounting frustration as Legolas raised his chin defiantly and his eyes went the color of dark sapphire stones set in a cold silver piece of metalwork. It reminded him of a bright starry night in bitter winter without the light of the moon.
"What would you want to know my name for human?" the blonde Elf asked, a question for a question. His never lowered his chin or let his façade of calm defiance falter for even a moment.
Darcíl glared at the Elf with repulsiveness and rumbled a threatening growl in detestation. He was about to strike Legolas across the face with his open hand but Dorrag raised his right hand to prevent it. Obediently Darcíl stopped and his hand fell clenched to his side.
"You are a prisoner here, I have every right to know it."
"Ah," said Legolas with scornful understanding. "So it is on general principal then?" He smirked with laughter playing in his eyes. This Hadarim prince must take him for a fool, or he was a complete idiot himself. The words Dorrag said shouted liar! So loud that Legolas was surprised the man didn't just say it outright.
"If you like," answered the Haradrim Prince. He leaned forward and whispered, "things will go easier for you if you but tell me this little trivial piece of knowledge. I may change my plans…"
"So whispered the spider to the fly as he called him into his web," laughed Legolas scornfully as Dorrag leaned back. "A 'trivial piece of knowledge' you call it. Why then do you seek it with lust in your eyes?" Legolas met Dorrag with a knowing and piercing gaze. "You would use me against my own people."
Legolas felt a slight twinge of happiness as he realized his hearing was coming back finally. But it was still hardly perfect or above average.
"So Elves really can perceive things from afar. I thought that was a fairy tale," the ruler mused quietly. He rested his chin on his hand thoughtfully. "Where do you come from?" he asked in a pressing voice.
Legolas smiled slowly at the thought of an arrow in this man's throat and with the knowledge that Dorrag was getting frustrated and angered. It was a twistedly pleasant thought. It was also a mixture of suicidal insanity that was still exceptionally satisfying.
A sharp pain hit him across his face and he fell to the tiled stone floor of the palace with a small cry of pain that he regretted the instant it passed his lips. He opened his eyes and cursed himself inwardly for closing them. Blood, salty and coppery and bright red filtered into his mouth and outlined the corners. A swelling sensation was at work on his right cheek and the Elf gingerly brought his fingers to touch the large bruise that was forming on his pale face.
Darcíl gripped the club he had just smashed the Elf across the face with tightly. He watched as Legolas got back up slowly and stared at all of them with indiscrete anger. He sucked the hot blood that was coming form his cracked lip bitterly and felt his face burning with humiliation as much as with the blood rushing to the swiftly forming welt.
Brushing some golden-hair away form his face by rubbing his undamaged cheek on his shoulder, the Wood-Elf narrowed his eyes as he tried to find his tongue, which appeared to be twisted and tied up. He felt like he could not speak. Darcíl whispered to Legolas, "let that be a lesson, Elf."
Legolas, even without the ringing that insisted on throbbing through his ears, would not have been able to hear a murmur that low. He twisted his face away sharply as he was pulled to his feet aggressively by the chains on his wrists. They tore at his skin and he felt his wrists burning as they became raw and blistered.
Dorrag growled, "take him away and see if you cannot convict him of reason." He waved his hand in disdain as he spoke, "quickly now and then report to me when you are finished."
Legolas pulled on his bonds as he was dragged from the room. He knew he was never going to get away, but he wasn't going to let them torture him willingly. He wondered what was happening to Aragorn and he sent a swift and silent prayer to Manwë that his friend was not facing the same pain and horrors that he was about to.
Darcíl waved his two men off as they struggled with the blonde Elf in tow. "Take him away to the further room below in the East Wing and secure him. I will join you soon," he commanded shortly.
Darcíl came and stood before Dorrag's throne calmly, his sharp eyes watching his liege's face for signs of his mood. "My lord, might we take counsel?" he asked carefully with an unpretentious bow. As he raised his head he saw the Haradrim prince look off to the windows.
"Captain Darcíl, the ranger, he is wounded, correct?" asked Dorrag mindfully.
Darcíl nodded, "badly so."
"If the Elf refuses to break, I want you to take that ranger and see if we don't get better answers to our questions. However, report to me first."
"As you wish, my lord," answered the captain. He then sighed wearily and said, "Prince Dorrag, how do you expect to send an envoy to this Elf's homeland without them being shot on sight?" He wrinkled his brow and spoke sternly. "I do not expect the vigilance of the Elves to allow such an emissary to pass..."
"We will have tokens that they will not want to cast aside…tokens of their friend. There will be tidings that they dare not miss," explained Dorrag as he stared beyond his captain at the tapestry on the curtains.
"Dead men are easier to search than live ones," cautioned Darcíl firmly. "With all due respect to a lord of your stature, your father would never do such a risky action. I am beginning to wonder if we have made an error. If we put this Elf to death now, word will get out soon enough."
"But the statement I wish to make will be unclear," growled Dorrag. "You are wise Darcíl. Do not question my authority or my decisions, lest your children should find themselves as orphans, serfs in the streets!" he threatened.
"Leave my family out of this!" he warned. Then went silent with anger that he was working to suppress for his beloved family's sakes. If it had only been his own life he was playing with he might have been a little more rash and careless. He could say with all certainty his body would be swinging on the gallows as a feast for the black crows. "What do you propose?"
"We shall keep one of the emissary they will send alive and make him watch as his fellows are hanged, one by one, first being that golden-headed menace you managed to capture. Then, after thrashing him within an inch of his own life and branding him we will send him quaking to his lord." He smiled coldly and his voice turned steely. "The alliance will break and they will leave Middle Earth like the craven slaves of the Valar they are."
"Surely the Elves will retaliate against us, they will not be silent after the slaying of their own who came in peace," began the Haradrim captain urgently as he sensed a dangerous mistake being made. "If they retaliate they will level this palace and everyone in it. Not even you shall be left standing, though many fall for your sake-"
"But they will not retaliate. They have seen too much war and their sorrow will run deeper than their lust for revenge," reasoned Dorrag sharply.
"What of their friends?" asked Darcíl urgently.
"They are few and even if they dared to requite we would crush them," retorted Dorrag defensively. "Now are you my right hand or not?"
"I am because you force me to," answered Darcíl forthrightly. "And I tell you this only because you ask it of me." He stared into his lord's eyes grimly. "With your leave I shall go and…attend to the Elf."
"You have my leave."
The prince of the Haradrim watched as his captain walked out. This one could be trouble. His father had been right. Darcíl was far wiser than he let on and was a talented warrior. For this Dorrag respected his captain, but his mistrust became darker.
O0O0O0O0O
Legolas lifted his head from where it had fallen numbly upon his bare blood-covered chest. He had not even remembered letting it fall now that he thought about it. It had just slipped down quietly in weariness. His blue glazed eyes watched unblinkingly as Darcíl stood before him with the club in hand.
Legolas stared at the sanguine liquid that coated the metal of the club dully but not without interest. It was his blood, lots of it, trickling on the cold iron in red rivulets. How could he lose so much? It was fascinating how much blood one had in their body and how much one could lose without dying. He felt his own hot blood dribbling down his bare chest where his tunic had been opened and the club ruthlessly applied, beating the flesh mercilessly. At one point he had been certain he would pass out and now he wished to the powers at be that he had.
Every heartbeat that kept him alive was a torment. Every breath was a complete agony as it pressed against his badly bruised and battered rib cage. Yet, he found it odd that not a single rib was cracked. Darcíl had been careful not to break a single bone and dimly guessing the dark purpose behind it Legolas shivered slightly. But he guessed that if he withheld the information wanted too long nothing would be spared.
Sweat dripped into Legolas' eyes as he worked to suppress and hide the horrible pain that was pulsing through his awareness in intense and relentless waves of sheer misery. He swallowed down a lump of anxiety that was manifesting in his throat. The blonde Elf hissed, as he became aware of what he had thought was going on for a long time; his thrashed body was screaming.
Instantly he felt ashamed and he felt his waxen face wanting to flush a bright red in mortal degradation. Willing it to show no emotion only made it drain further of all pigment, making it contrast white with the darkness of the room. But their was one spot that was not pale, but black and purple, a deep and extremely sensitive bruise on his cheek; the place where he had been stricken in Dorrag's halls.
Darcíl frowned and said, "are you ready to tell me such a simple thing as your name, master Elf?"
Legolas frowned and then he growled in a low and hoarse voice, "I have nothing to say to you save this: that you will die for what you are doing, whether it be in my time or not and you will meet a blacker than black ship one of these days."
He could endure this torment for some time, but not long. It was too harsh. His spirit would live but his body was more than willing to go ahead and beak right now. He found that highly annoying and rather frustrating. Forcing a hard look to crystallize in his eyes, the blonde prince raised his chin as best he could in insurgence. He had seen worse, hadn't he? Surely he could see his way through this and he had a feeling this was only the start of worse things to come.
"It is a shame that you cannot end this nightmare by telling me your name and your homeland," taunted the Haradrim captain. "Know that if you do not, the ranger will not be spared either." Darcíl watched with vigilant eyes as Legolas jerked in his bonds, clanking the iron of his manacles against the metal of the pole at which his hands were tied behind.
"I am Rúmil son of Cúthalion!" Legolas spoke suddenly out of fear for Aragorn, not knowing why those names came to mind. They were old names from old tales of long ago that he had not heard since he was an Elfling sitting at the fireside. His eyes were still defiant but with a spark of fear behind them.
The Haradrim man came and pressed the club against Legolas' sternum, deliberately where a dark bruise was. The rounded tip of it stabbed dully into the bruised tissue of Legolas' chest and the Elf bit his bottom lip in what could be considered a harsh way, chewing it in thus far silent agony. He felt his bones compressing against the pain and pressure and he felt the air leaving his lungs, leaving him breathless.
"It is easy to make up a name and why would you tell me this now?" asked Darcíl as he ground the club point into Legolas' chest, causing a small moan to somehow sneak past the parched and bleeding lips of the immortal.
Darcíl watched as the Elf's body trembled and the blood speckled the darkened chest. He looked into the eyes of the Elf searchingly with his own sharp dark ones. He had interrogated many a prisoner and never had found one that hadn't given in after the first round of clubbing.
The more he thought about, the club was almost a bluff to see if they were really serious about withholding the information he wanted and needed. This strange blonde Elf had, despite the fact he looked younger and less experienced with war than others Darcíl had known that had buckled, held control of himself remarkably well. It was slightly disturbing and he wondered if they were taking on a project that might very well mean their demise in the end.
Legolas regretted very much that his hearing had returned and yet he was still grateful it had. He was so tired of having the same question hurled at him and he was so tired of the pain he had been enduring for what had been two hours though it seemed like an eternity.
Darcíl gripped Legolas' chin and burned his own eyes into the dimming eyes of the bound being. "You lie, Elf. I am no fool." Taking the club, he slammed it into Legolas stomach violently and with strength Legolas found to be alarming not to mention excruciatingly painful.
Giving Legolas' chin a downward thrust, he withdrew the club and stepped back. The Elf's clammy chest was covered in blood where the club had hit same areas numerous times and broken the skin. In other places black bruises were swelling into large welts. But unlike people such as Sarchel, he received no true gratification from this sort of work. In his mind, people like Sarchel, if he could call them people, were sick.
His wisdom told him he could beat this Elf within an inch of his life and he had a feeling it wouldn't change anything. That feeling was rather…well…unsatisfying.
Legolas saw the look in the man's eyes that he knew so well. A hard knot twisted in his stomach and he felt himself trembling. Anger that he had been feeling turned on himself and he tried his best to will his body to stop. But it was slipping into a reluctant state of shock.
Darcíl placed the club down on the wooden table top with a small clatter as it rocked and going over to another table he picked up a rope, thin with metal wound into it and with iron balls placed an inch apart from one end to the other. They were rough and had parts that were especially sharp. It still had a indirectly innocent look to it.
Looking at his men expectantly, whom he had placed in the shadows when he did not need their help, he commanded of them briskly, "unbind him and strip him of his tunic."
"I told you my name!" he argued as they undid his chains and grabbing his tunic, all but tore it from his body and flung it in the dirt in a heap. He was not only dreading the pain which he knew would be horrible, because things that usually appeared innocent in these kind of places were often extremely hurtful, but because he didn't want them to drag the so far forgotten ranger into this mess.
It was interesting how Legolas' front contrasted sharply with the unabused skin of his back. One of the men twisted the Elf's arm sharply behind him and the other gripped a fist full of Legolas' golden hair and wrenched it, forcing the captive to fall back upon him.
Legolas drew in a sharp breath and Darcíl glanced at him as he ran the rope with the metal spheres through his fingers leisurely. "Place his back against the pole again but tie his hands above his head this time."
With two quick nods, both of the men hurled the Elf against the mast almost happily and while one held him by his neck to keep him in place the other wrapped tight cords about his wrists and attached those to the top of the metal post. Cold, angry and frustrated, the blonde Elf was fast losing his last nerve with these people.
Legolas felt fear rushing through his very veins and he realized with growing alarm that his feet did not touch the ground. Darcíl stood before him and said with a shake of his head, "you did not give me your name, Elf. You gave me a name."
Legolas glared and said, "you don't know that." He walked backward with his toes until he felt the back of his boots against the post and then he dug the toes into the dirt floor as a brace to try and relieve some pressure off his wrists.
"I can give a fairly accurate guess," responded Darcíl coolly and with a glimmer in his eyes.
Taking the rope, he slid it about Legolas' middle then went behind the Elf and wrenched it tight so that it squeezed harshly and the iron spheres dug into the poor Elf's helpless and battered breast and stomach. Darcíl then tied it and placed his chin on Legolas' shoulder. "Ready to talk?" he asked tauntingly into the pointed ear of the victim.
"You know I'm not," breathed Legolas as he jerked his shoulder from beneath the Haradrim captain's head in abhorrence. His footing nearly slipped and he drew a quick breath as he anticipated all his weight bearing down on his chafed wrists again.
He stared ahead in the darkness, away from the men and the flickering light of the torches that were set in scones on the walls of stone and earth. He saw slime on the underground walls, mold and lichens growing pale and nearly luminescent in the night of the dungeon. The dampness chilled into his ones and this was one of the few times that he felt himself feeling cold when it was extremely hot outside.
Suddenly he gasped as the rope was twisted tighter and pressed into his bruises, the metal weaved into the rope scraped his abused flesh and the iron balls pinched and created new bruises or worsened the other ones. An acute and tense pain scored his body in a blinding flash of white and caused his senses, especially his sense of consciousness, to falter and nearly give out. His body was fast becoming spent in a way it had not been in a long time.
"How about now?" hissed Darcíl in a low tone, wiping some blood that he just realized was on his nose but never once relenting the rope's close grip.
Legolas grit his teeth and spoke around his clenched jaw. "Sorry." If this Haradrim man thought he was going to break this easily he was wrong. His body may be breaking but his spirit was still going strong.
All the same though, he knew the vicious wound weakened Aragorn. But he knew what Aragorn would want him to do. Aragorn would want him not to give in, not surrender and be strong. Frowning as he struggled not to cry out, Legolas looked stonily ahead as his chin quivered.
Darcíl twisted the bond that went around the Elf's slender waist harsher and jerked it backwards, letting it cut into Legolas' defenseless stomach. Blood seeped out from around it, the result of burning shallow wounds that hardly broke the skin, scrapes. But the captain was careful not to let it go too far and kill Legolas through internal bleeding.
He still took out his frustration and anger towards himself and Prince Dorrag on the captive Elf. He would have left Dorrag long ago or killed him if he didn't think his innocent family would pay the expensive expenditure of his rash actions.
Twisting the rope again, he ground it into the already inflamed skin and pulled back even tighter still. Legolas gave a small cry and then closed his eyes for moment to blot out a few tears that somehow had managed to sneak into the corners of his eyes. He drew as deep a breath as he could and then let it out slowly.
Just breath in an out, concentrate on your breathing and everything will be okay. It will ease this passing pain. Of course this cannot last forever, it has to end at some point, just survive until that point. Now there was the trick. Surviving until that special and blessed point…
Darcíl said loudly so Legolas had little trouble understanding the words though they were still muffled a little, "you aren't ready to talk and I am not ready to give up."
"Funny how those feelings seem to be mutual," sibilated Legolas around his pain before his teeth sank into his lower lip again that was already split.
"Isn't it though?" said Darcíl. It was actually more of a statement than it was a question.
O0O0O0O
Aragorn sat in the dark of the cell alone. He was beginning to get rather irked with this eerie and rather apathetic place already and the sad part of the ordeal was he had only been here for some hours, not even a day. The water was dripping from the wall and the damp cold seeped through his clothes and froze his marrow in an imminent way.
Fingering his wound gingerly he felt the crusty dried blood and withdrew his hand in disgust. Sighing, he leaned back against the wall with fatigue and finding a pebble on the ground with his hand groping the floor in the lightlessness he tossed it into the blackness.
Hearing it hit the ground with a small clink of stone on stone, the ranger grimaced as it echoed through the empty and cold halls and cells. He had never felt so forlorn in all his life.
He had thought nothing could ever be worse than listening to Legolas scream or seeing his pain, but Legolas was in a room faraway and he could hear nothing. He found the silence to be even harder to bear. He just didn't know what was going on. He would rather know his friend was alive than face this tense and agitated uncertainty.
He didn't know what was happening to his dearest friend whom was wanted as an "example". He didn't know what was going to happen if Legolas broke. But he knew with a stab of assurance that Legolas would never break, never ever. That was somewhat a comforting thought. But he hated to think of the tortures that the prince would go through before he would most likely get killed.
Footsteps in the hall and a light in the dark made Aragorn sit up and he squinted his eyes with curiosity. Perhaps they were bringing Legolas back, but he doubted it. They only had the prince for two hours and from black memories he had of past interrogations, he knew that they normally took much longer and appeared to last to the limit of eternities piled upon eternities.
Aragorn watched as three men appeared with Legolas stumbling behind them. Widening his eyes in surprise and gratitude that his friend hadn't had to endure anymore long hours alone and in agony, Aragorn nearly breathed a sigh in relief. But he was not looking forward to seeing what injuries that stubborn Elf had sustained at the hands of his cruel hosts.
The door was swung open and Legolas shoved in before them. The Elf was then chained to the wall swiftly. Aragorn noticed as the men left that they left the torches in the cones on the walls.
Being no fool, Aragorn knew immediately why they had done so. It would be obvious to an idiot. It was a sick game they played with the two captives. The light of the torches was left to flaunt Legolas' injuries in Aragorn's face to make him weaker in fear and to sicken him.
Aragorn felt his stomach turn violently once they left and he looked to his friend, who was breathing heavily as he leaned back against the wall. It felt so good on his hot and sweaty cheeks, gently and sweetly cooling them…soothing them.
"Legolas?" he asked quietly.
A murmured, "what?" resounded. Legolas looked at his human friend with dimmed eyes. His slender hands went to his tunic that was open and he promptly closed it, fumbling with the buttons. He was amazed they had bothered to give the thing back. It wasn't like it was cold.
Aragorn noticed his friends hands were shaking and he reached over to place his own chained hand on top of the Elf's to still the quivering. He saw the deep and ugly bruise on Legolas' left cheek and he ran a gentle finger over it, wincing in sad sympathy when Legolas winced and withdrew his head. "What ever did they do to you, my friend?" he asked as he squeezed the blonde being's cold hand.
"You really don't want to know," answered Legolas glumly with a twisted grin lurking in the corners of his bloodied mouth.
"But I do," argued Aragorn as he began to peel back the ensanguined tunic flaps.
Legolas grabbed his hand and said, "I don't think so, human."
Aragorn sighed.
That stubborn, cocky, know-it-all, anger-provoking, stupid, reckless, meager-brained, sorry excuse of an Elf! He was going to see those wounds if it was the last thing that he ever did. If he had to knock Legolas out stone cold! Smiling at the thought, the ranger said adamantly, "Elf, I will see what horrors they did to you!"
Legolas laughed despite his horrible pain that only was provoked to further violence by his mirth and said, "Um…no." He wrinkled his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes. Looking darkly at Aragorn in a way christened by the ranger as the let-me-see-that-wound-I-know-you-are-neglecting-and-is-potentially-deadly-for-humans look.
"Legolas, I am well," he began to ward the persistent Elf off.
"Liar," accused Legolas benevolently as the ranger shuffled as far back as the shackles he bore would allow.
"That's like the pot calling the kettle black!" disputed the wavy-haired man in a pleading voice that Legolas thought was close enough to a whine to be called one.
"I never claimed to be well-"
"This time," interrupted Aragorn incriminatingly as Legolas' fingers began to massage his shoulder wound as they inspected it. The Elf's face was grave and Aragorn let the prince scrutinize the wound for his peace more than anything. Legolas would never rest unless he had a chance to see what injuries were bestowed.
Legolas hissed in sympathy as he felt the hole the javelin had left. Aragorn suddenly jumped and Legolas smiled dryly. "Did it hurt there perhaps?"
Aragorn was still getting over the jolt of the pain his friend's probing of his wound had made. He said vapidly if not satirically, "just a little."
The Elf grinned slightly and said, "I know these sort of things." He stopped and asked ludicrously with a raised brow, "better?"
Of course it had done nothing to heal the wound, but it had made it less stiff and easier to bear. Legolas rued the fact that he had no medical supplies of any sort. It was just another reason to hate this place.
Aragorn muttered dingily if not in a mordant voice, "I bet you just know everything." He crossed his arms and drew his knees up about his chin as he leaned against the stone. "Know-it-all Wood-Elf."
Legolas gave a small frown and then he grinned as he leaned back against the wall as well, "I think I like the sound of that…almost." He sighed and said into the air, "but it is lacking something…replace 'Wood-Elf' with 'Legolas' and I think I could live with it."
"Legolas?" inquired Aragorn apathetically.
"Hmmm…?" asked the addressed blonde Elf as he closed his eyes for a little rest.
"Shut up."
"Grumpy ranger," retorted the fair being nebulously. He swirled his blue eyes down to look at his aching wounds in the glimmering light of the torch.
As he looked at the bloody results of his torment he wondered if that really was his skin. It seemed to belong to someone else. Dark purple and black blotches marred the fair-skinned abdomen among dried blood splatters. Although there wasn't as much blood as he had thought, he mused grimly. Most of the moisture that he had felt had been perspiration. He hadn't realized he could sweat so much. He had seen men doing it and younger Elves in warrior training, but never himself.
Aragorn looked over and his eyes immediately fell upon the ugly rope burn mingled with strange and twisted bruises that wound around the Elf's lean waist one top of the ones created by the barbaric use of the metal flanked club.
"Legolas…" he breathed quietly. "Elbereth! Whatever did they…" his silver eyes were large and darkened with commiserating pain in the dim light of the brands.
Legolas snapped his head up and his eyes locked with Aragorn's. "It really isn't as bad as it looks. Honestly…" Legolas suspired and looked at the floor then glanced back up at the incredulous ranger. "Have I ever given you a reason to disbelieve me?" His tone was one of seriousness that was a little frightening to hear, coming from the nearly always comical Wood-Elf.
"Recently?" asked Aragorn. "Do you really want an answer?" he catechized incisively. He looked at the raw wounds and he reached a trembling hand forward to move the tunic aside so he could get a better look. Legolas' hand gripped his and the Elf's voice was threatening.
"Do NOT touch those!" he said perilously with the fire of battle gleaming in his blue eyes that came from fear of the pain it would incite. Aragorn could have sworn he heard the sound of them catching fire.
"Sorry, Legolas," murmured Aragorn, taken harshly aback. He withdrew his hand and turned away, fighting back hot tears in his eyes and a swelling feeling in his throat.
Legolas was immediately apologetic as he realized how he must have sounded in Aragorn's ears. "I am sorry. I know you only meant to help. I shouldn't have spoken to you thus." He looked at Aragorn with a mortally worried face. "Estel?"
He couldn't believe he had been so stupid! How could he have possibly said that so cruelly? Inwardly slapping himself and asking over and over again what in all of Arda his problem was, the Elf willed himself to stop verbally clouting himself upside the head long enough to plead his apology again.
"Estel…?" he asked in a quiet and nearly frightened voice. "You know I didn't mean it…they do hurt rather badly…I need you, you aren't angry, are you?" he finished in a defeated way. He felt his stubborn Elven pride rising up along with his temper.
"You know what, you stubborn, filthy human? I am trying to apologize!" he growled bitterly.
Aragorn turned around said, "there is nothing to apologize for, my friend." He whispered, "It is I who should be sorry. I never realized the full extent of what you have been through." Legolas realized with a stab of remorse that his friend's eyes were wet…damp with collected tears that had yet to spill over. "Forgive me, Legolas."
"There is nothing to forgive, my friend," he answered slowly. "However, I still forbid you to bring one healer-happy finger near my wounds!" But when he said this there was teasing twinkle in his blue eyes.
Aragorn was disturbed to see the hard pain behind the smile and he wished he could convince Legolas to let some of it go. He would gladly steal his friend's pain away.
O0O0O0O
Darcíl stood before Dorrag grimly and his eyes watched with slight alarm as his liege's face changed from a calm tan color to a angered crimson as he wrinkled his forehead in sudden wrath. "Most break under that sort of pressure." He found it odd and slightly disturbing that a face could change colors so easily and quickly, like switching masks. And those eyes that had been sober could flare up into a perfectly evil glow in split seconds were capable of what they did.
Darcíl asked quietly as he pushed his alarming discoveries out of his mind, "may I remind you, my lord, that I told that Elves are stronger?" he twitched back his cloak and gripped his sword hilt imperceptibly for some comfort.
"I recall that you said that, now. Now you recall the words I said, if the Elf doesn't break, have a try with the ranger," said the Haradrim prince testily. He ran his fingers along the rim of his golden goblet in monotony and dark brooding thought.
Getting up with a small frown of besetment, he rose up slowly and said, "Captain, would you follow me?"
The men went to large balcony and Dorrag placed his hands on the rail, holding it tightly as he gazed out at his kingdom. He spoke softly as he unraveled his thoughts in a way he felt he could convey them to his officer. "This is my kingdom, it is my job to make it better."
Darcíl felt a stab of alarm at Dorrag saying this was his Kingdom when his father still lived, but he pushed it down and said nothing. Nodding he gazed off at the palace being erected on the horizon like a golden ray of sunshine.
"I can be a better ruler than my father ever was. I can make this a better place for our people." He looked sidelong at Captain Darcíl, who returned the gaze evenly. "We have always waged war with vengeance and pride, but ever our costs grow more extreme. The Elves are waking up from their long sleep and have realized they can't be neutral in these wars of men. To protect my people I must prevent the Elves from raising their armies."
"I owe my people that," he finished quietly.
This prince's actions screamed liar! At Darcíl so compellingly that he wanted to shout it aloud. But he held his peace and simply said, "an impressive and honorable intention, my lord." He could not keep the disbelieving and incredulous sound out of his voice.
Dorrag turned on him and asked with slight annoyance, "why is it you always seem to sound…questioning…about everything I do? You were never that way with my father," he commented wryly.
After a moment the Haradrim captain muttered, "I suppose I have been trying to impress you." He looked his liege square in the eye and then narrowed his own.
"An interesting motivation and an even more interesting way of trying to reach your objective," he remarked as he stared at his captain with scrutinizing eyes.
"Indeed, my lord," muttered Darcíl nearly under his breath.
He snorted air through his nose and stared out at this place he called home. It was dreary. The sun beat down hot now in the afternoon but as soon as night fell the monsoon rains would return and he knew that they wouldn't leave this time. The nasty weather had come and its grand appearance was going to be tonight, he was certain.
There was something peaceful about that harsh weather though. Perhaps it was looking at the sky and seeing its awesome might in the bright lightening streaking across the sky in lethal strands of purple, gold, or white.
"Where is Lieutenant Sarchel?" asked Dorrag in a strangely silky voice that Darcíl found slightly alarming to hear from his snake-like lord's lips. An imperceptible shiver sprinted up his spine.
Fearing some sort of a snare he answered carefully, taking no small cautions, "he is out with the Overseers, my lord."
Darcíl kept his eyes watching the world before the balcony, rather than let Dorrag know he was seriously listening with vigilant intent, thinking that if his luck got better the prince might stumble and say something that would give away any…potentially harmful plans.
"When you leave, Captain, go and tell him I wish to see him immediately. Tell him it concerns the Elf and ranger," ordered Dorrag quietly, the silkiness beginning to fade from his voice. It turned to scorn rather and he muttered, "he is a fool, but a advantageous one."
Darcíl felt a stab of suspicion spike up in his inner thought and it began to wrap itself around him like a cloak, and yet for being shrouded in his misgiving he felt extremely susceptible to some sort of denunciation that was going to be ever imperceptible. It was not a feeling he had often and one he certainly meant to never get attached to.
He had suspected for quite sometime now that Sarchel was going to try and undermine his meager hold on his position granted power, but if Dorrag was behind it the contrivance might very well prove to be more than he could master.
This private talk with Sarchel had to have something to do with his death. But perhaps he was being paranoid over absolutely nothing.
"As you will, my lord." In that moment he knew he had better take a cue and leave.
Giving a slight bow to his liege he said, "good day my prince."
Darcíl walked down the decorated and banner covered corridors stiffly and hastily as he wondered about the captive Elf and ranger below. He also was still disturbed over the recent tense conversation with his mealy-mouthed liege.
Narrowing his eyes he surveyed the brilliance of the halls. The banners, laced with gold and silver inlayed oliphaunts blew in a cool and refreshing breeze that ruffled his dark hair slightly. Narrowing his black eyes, the man drew in a calming breath as he brought his temper that was struggling to rise under control.
The halls were strangely quiet and as he traveled through the eerie vacancy of the once musical and full foyers.
When Dorrag's father, Dorlomin, had been in here (before they signed the treaty with Sauron to aid in his crushing of the Gondorian realms of Middle Earth) the halls had been more full as he was always one for entertainment. Darcíl smiled at the memories. Ah, those were better times; he mused to himself as he blinked over a ray of strayed sunshine seeping through the clouds and managed to find a way past the tapestries on the windows.
A noise before him made him squint and he heard an abrasive thick voice ask, "Is Prince Dorrag in his throne room or is he not?"
"Interesting," greeted Darcíl stiffly as the tense feeling in his muscles escalated. "I was just sent to find and inform you that you are wanted in there, Lieutenant Sarchel." He stopped his forward motion and vied with his junior officer in a hard glare of daggers.
"Are you challenging me, Lieutenant Sarchel? That tone in your voice sounds hardly respectful. Say 'captain' when you address me," finished Darcíl, unable to keep the mounting tension out of his voice as he stared down the other. Clenching his jaw, the dark-haired Harad man pressed his lips into a thin white line of displeasure as he watched Sarchel's instantaneous reaction to his question.
"Me, sir?" asked the Lieutenant innocently as he raised his brows in mock surprise of the accusation. "I would never dream of such a thing, captain."
Darcíl's inquisitive glare concentrated and Sarchel looked slightly uncomfortable and it was obvious to an idiot he was trying to not to squirm like a worm on a hook. The captain's glare began to cede to a look of slight amusement at that particular thought. "See that you don't."
He raised one of his furrowed brows and the answer he received was to be expected.
"Have I given you reason to distrust my word before, sir?" asked Sarchel uneasily as he began to find the woven black and red rug they stood on quite intriguing. Though it was very ugly, now that he looked more closely at it than he had ever considered doing before.
Darcíl smiled tensely as he thought to himself: The idiot is asking for it. I could take this chance to shred his confidence and pride and put him to such humiliation as has not been seen around here for years. Rocking back on his heals he stammered mockingly, "I do not believe so. At least, not recently, Lieutenant."
He was not quite ready to go to the extreme and humiliate this man mortally. That would be too much too fast and with the perilous mood Prince Dorrag was in he figured that he had better play it on the safe side. However, he wasn't about to let Sarchel get away form this so easily still.
"Do not forget your position, Lieutenant Sarchel," he advised ominously as he watched the younger man begin to try and slink away like a whipped dog. His eyes followed the skulking junior officer as the man mumbled a scornful and forced answer.
"I will do my best, sir." Saluting he said in an agitated tone, "good day, Captain." And Darcíl watched Sarchel's back as he slinked into the throne room, his pride lowered down a few pegs. It was rather satisfying.
TBC……..Well, this is chapter four and already we have started that juicy bit about torture. -Bloodthirsty folks cheer- We ask that you would continue to review and if you haven't, you can! They make posting such an enjoyable experience and are very entertaining to read. We wait in great anticipation of your thoughts and general comments. :)
Thank you for these reviews from chapter 3.