Enjoy! And please review, we love those!

CHAPTER FIVE

Blood,Insights, and Smoke

Legolas hung limply from his bonds in weariness. He was weary of this pain, weary of the darkness of these deplorable cells and corridors and he was just plan weary or being weary. Now that he thought about it, that lowly cell that he had loathed seemed to be quite comfortable if you disregarded the water that now flooded it nearly ankle high due to the monsoon rains. With a stab of irritation, the Elf jerked his head since his hands were immobile, to try and rid his vision of a few strands of pale blonde hair that hung before his pale and sweaty face.

These interrogations were inconvenient, annoying, frustrating and above all very hazardous to ones' health, Legolas affirmed mentally, more to get his mind elsewhere than to for reasons of knowledge.

"Elf," addressed Darcíl as he came around from behind the blonde prince who was bound on his knees, his hands tied to a large iron post before him. "I think you are getting as tired of this as I am. You could end both our trouble and tell me such a simple thing as your name and where you come from."

Legolas's sane side immediately instructed him to not respond to the arrogant taunting. Looking at his own blood which had fallen from his back and chest onto the floor, he whispered hoarsely, "I think my pain is far worth seeing you in your frustration, edain. And isn't it odd that there never seems to be a dull moment in here? More than I can say for those…accommodations you gave me and my companion."

Legolas resisted the urge to wince as the Haradrim captain's thick and strong fingers pressed into his large bruise on his cheek. Twisting Legolas' head so the Elf was forced to look over his shoulder, the man said, "if I didn't think I would get carried away, I would make you eat those words."

Legolas scoffed and taunted back as well as he could with the man's tight grip on his cheeks, "go ahead. I hardly doubt a man of your obvious…self-discipline, would go beyond what he intends." He then twisted his face free of the man's grasp and spat angrily on his boot.

The response was as to be expected and Legolas withheld a cry as the boot toe collided with his already broken lips, bruising them further and creating another small runnel of blood. Sucking on his upper lip, the blonde being glared with a frosted over and permeating stare at his subjugator.

Darcíl bit his lower lip thoughtfully in mounting frustration. He growled in a thick voice that was heavily accented with a waning self-control as his last shreds of patience seemed to be fading abruptly, "Elf, seeing you ripped apart would be too much fun."

Legolas snorted and mumbled under his breath belligerently, "liar."

The Elf's eyes rotated to try and see as much as was permitted from their corners, not wanting to lift his head, as Darcíl stepped forward and said in a smoothed over voice that still sounded turbulent beneath the masquerade of calmness, "if you have something to express to me, why don't you say it so I can hear it?"

Stooping over, he brought his face inches away from Legolas' and said without any patience and overly much expectance, "well?"

His eyes pierced Legolas' dully and his mouth's corners curled up in an irritating sneer that was grating on Legolas' nerves.

Feeling the Harad man's hot breath on his cheeks, Legolas resisted turning his head away in disgust. He said stiffly as he met his captor's gaze evenly, "liar."

"Explain yourself," Darcíl commanded in a malevolent voice that sounded like the tone alone was a threat. Legolas found that to be slightly disagreeable but he ignored it.

"Your eyes speak volumes about you," he began, as he looked the Haradrim captain squarely in the eye. "You hate what you do and yet you lie to yourself, trying to say you enjoy it because this is your life and you think it is inescapable."

Darcíl narrowed his eyes and Legolas saw the anger glittered behind the darkness of them as they turned hard, like midnight colored gems. The veins on the man's neck stood out in a way that made evident his frustration and wrath.

Legolas saw his hand raised in slow motion, like everything was drenched in thick and cold molasses and he saw it heading for his face, but he didn't move. He just glared and psychologically prepared himself for the devastating strength of the blow he more than expected.

The force of it knocked his head to the side and he felt his neck nearly break and most certainly heard something snap precariously. For a moment he felt nothing, nothing at all then a hot blazing pain on his cheek and he felt the blood flushing to his face. Forbidding the few tears of pain that clustered in his eyes to fall, Legolas raised his chin in mutinous hostility.

Darcíl said nothing and Legolas watched as he went to the table in the corner and selected a small knife, gleaming like finely polished silver. Fingering the blade in quiet observation and inner reflection, he mused whether or not it needed sharpening for its purpose. Most likely not, he decided and gave it one last brief look over before walking in long strides back over to Legolas.

He then declared grimly, "tell me what I want to know."

Legolas hissed, "not while I still have a shred of contumacy left in my body." His eyes locked on the knife and Darcíl twirled it casually.

"Then we shall have to rid you of your…defiance, won't we?" Walking behind Legolas he pressed the knife's sharp tip into the Elf's bare back until it pierced the skin, "remember this, Elf?"

Legolas said nothing and Darcíl pressed the blade further, watching the red that spurted from underneath it. Then, he began to draw the blade down in a slow motion, rocking it and creating a huge laceration its wake. Legolas jerked slightly under the stinging pain that this decidedly favorite torment of Darcíl's inflicted.

Darcíl looked with unsatisfied and scrutinizing eyes at the other cuts, one…two…three…four…five in all. And that was not including the one he was working on creating now. He pushed the blade in a bit deeper and Legolas attempted to arch his back in smarting pain but the bonds restrained him.

Darcíl ran the knife backwards up the new wound in a bored formality and then yanked it free ruthlessly. Legolas felt as though all his breath left his body and he gapped for a moment before he remembered where he was and masked his pain contorted face over with a false face of calmness.

Picking up a pitcher of salt water from the ground (just out of reach of Legolas' feet), he poured some over the inflamed wound knowing the damage it would cause. Legolas could not help but shiver slightly and then he pressed his head against the pole as he tried to concentrate on better things than the pain smarting in waves up and down his marred back.

"Talk to me Elf," jeered Darcíl as he ran his hand along the wounds, brushing then with his fingertips none too gently and infuriating their pain ten fold. He felt Legolas draw a deep and pain filled breath before he let out a low and drawn out hiss escape his tortured lips.

Taking his knife, Darcíl placed it above Legolas' right shoulder blade in a bare spot where there wasn't yet a cut. He pressed the ensanguined blade and Legolas tried to twist away out of instinct he could not control that reaction and concentrate on breathing. He felt more blood trickling down his shoulder in hot little rivulets. And he saw it hit the floor like a scarlet tear.

"I will never tell you. You can torture my body to its death, but my mind is firm in its decision and refuses to waver for anyone," spat Legolas confidently as he gripped the metal of the pole with his and so tight that he was sure that be it iron or glass it would shatter.

He could feel his muscles along his back and shoulders spasming and twitching as they felt their flesh being mutilated cruelly. As his muscles shuddered of their own accord, the Elf grit his teeth and he felt the muscles in his jaw knot.

He didn't even realize right away that Darcíl had come before him and was removing Legolas' bonds from the post. Legolas looked up and realized that he was free…temporarily. He staggered up onto his feet with some strong reluctance on his body's part and forcing his weakened knees to stand and hold his trembling frame the Elf knew he had no chance of escape.

Well, he thought matter-of-factly, I have nothing really to lose. I can't just let him think I enjoy these 'sessions'. He looked at Darcíl with venomous eyes of cold steel before lunging at him and quickly being blocked and slammed against the wall of unrefined stone. The harsh stone and grit ground into his back wounds and blinding pain hit the side of his head moved forward in a wave as he realized his right temple had grazed the rock of the wall and was bleeding profusely.

Darcíl tossed him to the ground with disdain and gave him a sound kick in the chest, slamming the force of his boot against the bruises. "Perhaps tomorrow bring you a change of mind. Pain has a way of changing things Elf. Especially if it is constant."

Legolas gave the man a confused expression before he could stop himself and Darcíl placed his knife on the table top before traveling back over to where Legolas knelt on the floor, his blood around him. Gripping him by his arm, the man suddenly looked over his shoulder as he heard the heavy grating sound of the thick wooden door being opened and men entering.

Legolas looked and saw they had in tow a very much alive and resisting Estel. The ranger's leggings were soaked up to the knees from the water flooding into their cells and when the man saw Legolas, his face paled. His silver eyes broadened and he began to try and walk towards the blonde Elf who was being dragged to his feet.

"Take this Elf and hang him from his wrist by the chain until I see fit to have him released. Make sure there is at least two feet between his feet and the ground."

Aragorn watched in horror as Legolas was shoved out. Their eyes met and Aragorn read past the furious pain Legolas was experiencing. He saw the glimmer of hope and the shimmer of defiance that was a slowly fading spark in the crystalline blue orb's depths.

But he also noticed the blood of his friend on the floor and the red liquid that ran down Legolas' sweaty chest and trembling back. It burned his heart like a hot brand set to its flesh.

Darcíl gripped Aragorn and shoved him into a corner while contemplating where to start the whole ugly process. His darkened thought was suddenly interrupted by Sarchel, who came in rather haughtily and sneered, "Prince Dorrag says since you had no success with the Elf I am to take over here."

Darcíl glared, "and of what sort of mind set is his majesty?" The Haradrim captain glared at his junior officer as though his piercing eyes could literally burn holes in the head of the younger man. If Dorrag was in a good mood, he had nothing to worry about, at least not immediately. But if he were in a mood to be feared, then he would have to mind everything he said and be on his toes.

"Go find out for yourself, Captain Darcíl," scoffed Sarchel as he stared at the bound ranger in the corner.

Aragorn looked at the floor and realized that he was standing in his friend's blood. The water from his clothes dripped into the small sanguine puddle dolefully, he noticed, and diluted the pureness of the Elf's silver-crimson vital fluid. It made his stomach turn and he wondered how much blood Legolas had lost. He realized with a painful clarity that he as not going to be placed under any less painful circumstances. His wound began to throb again, responding to the moisture and the festering of a creeping infection that was worsening by the day.

O0O0O0O0O

Scowling, Darcíl turned and began out of the door. He had a sinking feeling of fear for his family stabbing his gut. The betrayed sense he had before spiked to a higher level and it made him feel sick. He would rather die than have his wife and daughter put to death. He didn't care how painful, just as long as it was himself in their place.

Once inside the throne room, he came and bowed humbly before the feet of his liege. "My lord, you gave Lieutenant Sarchel leave to interrogate the ranger. I assume this means you have another purpose for me?" He tried to seem calm and meek but he felt his hot temper beginning to flare and as he gazed back up at his lord there was a fire in his eyes.

"Captain, the Elf is not breaking. This is unacceptable. You know the price of failure, I assume," said Dorrag grimly as he bid Darcíl rise. "Your family will have to suffer for your lapse. And after they are dead, you can hang with that damned Elf!" he seethed. Casting a drinking vessel at the door, he was so enraged he didn't even hear the banging noise that echoed throughout the refined corridors in loud waves that reeked of anger.

"Sir, he is an Elf. I can break him, but I need more time. He is weakening, my lord," explained Darcíl as he felt his hands clenching at his side. Sweat began to build on the palms in slippery pools of salty moisture.

Dorrag looked Darcíl up and down with disgust and spat in a voice nearly stuttering with impatience, "well if you want a second chance, you had better start asking now while I am in the mood to hear it!" His eyes flashed with a perilous look of tension that was about to be unleashed.

"Then I do ask it of you. I seek your pardon. The Elf is as good as broken, my lord," Darcíl ground out between his grinding teeth as he lowered his pride in a way he would never forget. "By an means, I will shatter his confidence and dissolve his strength."

"Very well. You have my pardon," answered Dorrag tensely and a bit annoyed. He was coming extremely close to surely losing his temper. "And gladly I give it, for I would hate to lose an advocate and friend." Smiling in a unpalatable and loathsome way that made Darcíl's stomach go for a wild ride, the prince of the Haradrim said, "think of the men we lost, because of that ranger and that Elf. But for the scouting skills of the Elf, they might be alive."

Darcíl resisted the urge to jerk away as he felt his liege's hand grip his shoulder, massaging it in a hard way that was anything but comforting and soothing. It made his skin crawl in a way that sent his hair raising and he said, "my full gratitude towards your mercy."

Mercy! The man was totally bereft of it and he couldn't believe he as lying through his teeth like this. Dorrag would see the captive Elf hanged along with his deceived emissaries and Darcíl knew exactly what would befall the ranger. Dorrag was not one for old-fashioned ways; he despised them, all save one. He did not mind the sacrificing of Elf-friends, not in the least and the more blood the more they pleased his unsound mind. But that was not the true problem, at least not the immediate one. The immediate one was the lives of his family that hung in the delicate balance.

Stiffly the captain pulled away and spoke slowly, "I think that I should be below to oversee the interrogation of the ranger. I also have other responsibilities, my lord."

"You are not a prisoner, captain," said Dorrag smoothly.

I wish I could believe that, thought Darcíl though he didn't dare to say it out loud.

O0O0O0O0O

Aragorn jerked as he felt the club impact his already battered chest and sent brightly blazing pain through his senses. He closed his eyes as he felt his ribs creak and scream. Rubbing his face against one of his bound arms, Aragorn wiped it clear of the thick layer of sweat that covered the pale features.

His shoulder wound throbbed as he twisted in his bonds and pressed his toes against the dirty soil that they barely touched. He looked with dazed eyes at Sarchel who tossed the club aside, bored. He gripped Aragorn's face and drew it close, squeezing harshly so that his finger's left minute bruises.

Aragorn tried to twist his head away and when he found that impossible, he let his eyes turn hard as steel before he managed out in defiance of his subjugator, "you will pay a heavy price for this. Retribution inescapable will be sought on you and your lord." Aragorn felt the anger transfer from the other man's grip to his tightly clenched face.

"Ranger, you know not what you are in for," said Sarchel and he looked at the blood crusted wound on the sore and stiff shoulder of the ranger. "I think I found a fun activity for the both of us." Patting Aragorn's cheek in a mocking way, he backslapped the pale face, before he began to walk over to the table where all the instruments of torture were held.

Aragorn felt his neck nearly snap with the force of the blow and hot blood tricked from his nose and lip. He licked his split lips and tasted his own coppery blood distastefully. His cheek burned and he felt tears smarting in his eyes oddly enough. He wasn't near ready to cry, but the force of the blow had been enough to make his eyes burn. Inwardly shaking his head, he wondered how long he would be here.

Sarchel came and placed the blade of the knife under Aragorn's nose and slid it until it came to the tip. The ranger's heart skipped a beat as he realized it was Legolas' blood that damped the unclean blade and trailed on his pale skin just above his upper lip. It was enough to make him sick and his stomach lurched violently.

Sarchel smiled and said, "your friend's blood is on you now. Disturbing, isn't it?" he inquired as he fingered the blade and looked at the red taint that came off on his fingers.

Then, he went over to a small fire the burned on the far side of the room in a tiny fireplace, much like on in a blacksmith's shop. Aragorn watched as he took the blade and placed it in the fire, just so the hilt stuck out, giving him a way to pull it free again.

The color transforming of the steel blade within the next few moments was remarkable, thought Aragorn was it watched it with narrowed eyes, already guessing the reason for its heating. It went form a shade of dull grey, to one of intense red and then white. But the thing that struck him the most was the smell of Legolas' blood, burning and drifting out of the fire in black smoke. It was nauseating odor and as it filled Aragorn's nostrils he felt vomit rise in the back of his throat. Closing his eyes as the black smoke drifted his way, the dark-haired man tried to block out the smell of his friend's charred vital fluid.

Sarchel suddenly kicked out, surprising the captive ranger and slammed his boot into the ranger's defenseless stomach with a soft thudding sound that seemed to be tens times louder in the small room. The younger human doubled over in sickening pain but his wrists were caught up in his bonds and the cords bit sharply into the already irritated flesh. It was only a few seconds before he could draw in a breath, but those few seconds felt like an eternity, a dark eternity.

Sarchel then looked at the blade before thrusting it suddenly into the wound sustained earlier by the javelin. Aragorn felt screams shatter the calmness in his mind and bright, hot white pain seared his senses and threatened to send him into a blackout. He grappled with the agony that pulsed through his shoulder to gain control of his body, which was attempting to convulse as it, felt the hot blade probe through his wound.

He felt more flesh compromising against the searing, sharp edges and blood ran down his shoulder in streams. He could smell his own blood now, metallic and placing a bitter and acidic taste in his mouth as his senses already connected the smell to the taste he had known before.

Sarchel smiled and dug the hot blade in deeper, feeling it going against the bone and tormenting the flesh of the previously torn injury.

Aragorn felt the heat of the blade burning like a fire on his raw skin and he hissed in agony. Withdrawing the knife for only a moment, the other man looked into Aragorn's face and asked, "so, what is that pretty little Elf's name and whence came he?"

Aragorn tightened his mouth into a thin tight line of pain and morbid anger. He forced his eyes to stay grimly focused on Sarchel's sneering face. Knowing his silence would irk his captor all the more, the ranger kept his mouth shut and narrowed his eyes, sparring with the dark-eyed tormentor before him in a benevolent scowl.

He smiled inwardly as he saw it work as well as he could have hoped and Sarchel's jaw clenched and unclenched in convulsions as he felt hot anger pulse through his system. Gripping the knife tightly, so that his knuckles were white, and then with his other hand he molded it into a hard fist.

"Wrong answer, ranger!" he fumed with frustration and pulling his fist back, he slammed it into Aragorn's right temple, rocketing the man's head back so it banged sharply with the back of the iron pole he was bound. A staggering headache palpitated behind his eyes and he blinked slowly in narcosis of the blow. But he had little time to recover before another one struck him in the chin, snapping his head up and pulling his throat so it was taut. The back of the captive's head brutally hurled against the pole yet again and he felt a welt forming on his skull.

"What is the Elf's name?" snapped Sarchel as he got up in Aragorn's face and sneered resentfully.

Aragorn said, "I am no traitor!" He spat in the mans face and was rewarded by another kick to his abdomen. He clamped his jaw and his muscles all went stiff in pain as he struggled with pressing need to maintain at least a faint grip on his raw emotions. He wished that he would go unconscious. That would be much more comfortable.

"You have made a horrible mistake," declared Aragorn's tormentor as he looked at the knife with anger glinting in his eyes. One eye twitched in annoyance and feeling of disappointment. It was nearly humorous as far as the bound and battered ranger was concerned.

He strode over to the fire and placed it in the flames again. However, he made a detour to the table where his tools lay and looked them over, stroking his chin thoughtfully. There was one rope not too unlike the one used on Legolas. But worse, because the metal spheres had spikes on one side, meant to bite into one's flesh as the cord was tightened but not cause any true lasting damage. This could possibly be fun and could be what he had been looking for to break the captive ranger anyway.

Picking it up he ran it through his fingers, looking at the dried blood of some other poor victim with a strange sense of satisfaction. Smiling wryly Sarchel walked haughtily before Aragorn and taking the rope with the spiked spheres, he suddenly struck Aragorn across the abdomen as though the cord was a whip.

That was not is true purpose, but Sarchel found it to be much more intriguing. Amused at Aragorn's contorted face, he struck out again.

Aragorn felt the steel balls slam against this abdomen and their spikes bite his flesh. It seemed to draw his breath away and he grunted slightly in the pain. But he would never betray his friend. That was not an option. He would rather go through this than see Legolas' dangling form the end of a noose.

The ranger saw the amused and almost satisfied look in Sarchel's eyes. Hissing through grit teeth, the bound man snarled spitefully, "you are sick." This was not meant to be an insult, it was the honest truth. Aragorn knew, of course, that this was not going to help his deplorable predicament, but he had to say it and somehow it felt rather good.

The response was exactly the opposite of what any would have thought and yet it might have been expected in some strange and twisted way.

"You have no idea, ranger," said a smooth voice that sounded like it belonged to a talking snake. Sarchel fingered the metal and hemp weaved rope thoughtfully as he looked at the ranger and saw the bleeding wounds he had created on the shivering and sweat soaked abdomen where the barbs had pierced the skin and caught before being torn free. The spines were small, so the wounds looked like enlarged cat scratches but bleeding more and reaching far deeper.

Suddenly, the Haradrim soldier's eyes glanced down at his fingers as he felt moisture, Aragorn's blood, a shockingly bright red, stained them. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make him smile in a slow and dark way that sent the powerful want to shiver through Aragorn's system. He felt the hair rising on the back of his neck in a cold fear.

"So," Sarchel went back to the fireplace and taking tongs, pulled out the heated knife. Holding the now whitened blade up and inspecting it he asked, "shall we continue?"

TBC…….Well here is the end of chapter five. So Aragorn-angst fans, is this a bit better for you? Don't worry, there's more where that came from. We told you it was his turn to get the tar knocked out of him.

Please Review. They make posting fun and make us want to continue and with a cliffy like the one above, you would want us to post some more soon, wouldn't you? Yes, we know, we are evil. :)

Thanks for the reviews for chapter 4! We really enjoyed those and look forward to hearing more.

link called Story Challenge 1 June 1. htm.