The Seven Seeing Stones

Disclaimer:
I do not own Lord of the Rings or any of the places, characters, items, etc associated with it.

Author's Note:
This is probably going to turn out to be a pretty dark fic so if that worries you at all don't read on. The rating will mostly be for violence and dark themes, as well as some minor adult themes.

One
In Search Of The First

Thundering hoof beats echoed through the deep gorge as a tall black stallion galloped between its high walls. Each hoof fell in perfect rhythm with the other three and each echo fell in time after. It travelled at a hurried pace it was used to keeping, its rider urging it on ever faster as the sheer walls of the gorge continued on before them.

The stallion veered hard to the left as the gorge took a sudden sharp turn. This only slowed him for a moment and his rider was quick to insist he pick the pace back up. His rider blended into him so well it was if they were one beast and not two. A black hooded cloak hid the rider from view and fluttered somewhat behind him as the stallion raced on.

The evening was still warm, as the season permitted so, but despite this the cloak was not removed, though it was made of a heavy material and must have been hot beneath it. If it was warm beneath the cloak the rider showed no sign of it, no sweat trickled from his brow down into his eyes and his hands were not moist as they gripped the reins tightly.

He urged his steed on ever faster as he was on his way to completing a task, a very important task set to him by a very important man, or rather a man who thought he was a very important man. A sneer broke out beneath the shadow of the cloak's hood and eyes narrowed as the rider thought disdainfully of the one who had sent him on this mission. He had sent him because he was the only one he could really send……he was the only one left, or really the only one left who would help him. He helped him because his father had been his friend; his good friend and he owed his loyalty to that man's son.

The rider's head snapped sharply to the right as his ears caught the sound of a rock clattering down the sheer face of the gorge to land at its bottom near his horse's hooves. He pulled back hard on the reigns to slow the horse and it neighed loudly and reared up in response to the sudden tug from his rider. He forced the horse to circle about itself, casting suspicious eyes about them as he sat high upon it's back. His eyes flicked about, frantic for any sign of what could have cause the rock to fall, his ears surveyed the gorge for any sound that was out of place. Then he was ambushed.

Riders in dark purple and red robes came down from both sides of the gorge, their horses stepping quickly and carefully down hidden paths carved into the cliff face. More still rode up through the gorge in front of him and as he turned to look to escape back down the way he had come even more rode up behind him. Effectively he was trapped, pinned in by horsemen and rock. He would not go down without a fight though, his pride meant too much and his honour was too great, something that was not present in vast amounts in Middle Earth anymore.

He fought with skill honed over hundreds of years, first with bow and arrows, taking down as many as he could before they reached him and his steed. Then he fought with knives, two of them, each with a white bone handle and beautiful patterns carved into both the hilts and the blades themselves. They flashed in the light of the slowly disappearing sun as he fought valiantly to defend himself from his attackers. But even his skill was not enough against so many.

He took down twenty or so men before they roped him, bound him and gagged him. His horse they subdued with a sack over his proud head and several tight ropes about his thick neck. Still he struggled against them but the more he struggled the tighter the ropes became and soon he had neither the energy nor the breath to continue his struggles.

His rider tried to sooth him with a soft hand to his hide but he was struck across the head with a large club and yelled at in a language he did not understand. A sack was quickly placed over his head and he was slung up over the back of his horse. They soon began to move, he assumed with someone leading the beaten down stallion, but to where they were going he could not know. Already on his ride he was in the unfamiliar lands east of what was once Mordor and now he had been captured in his attempts to complete the task asked of him by the King.

Find the Palantir of Annuminas and bring it to me.

That has been his task and once it had been completed he would be rewarded and given the next. He had no doubt the King wanted all seven of the Seeing Stones but why he could not tell. Aragorn would have never asked such a thing from him. Aragorn would never have wanted the Palantiri at all. He had been a good King.

Night had fallen long ago, he knew this even though the sack that was still held over his head, and yet still on they went. Finally, when the night must have been close to its end, they arrived at wherever it was these men had been taking him.

He was hoisted from his horse's back and slung over the shoulder of one of the men in the purple and red robes. He was carried far, through many dark corridors and down countless flights of long winding stairs.

The rider was finally thrown into a dank prison cell, his shoulder colliding heavily with the stone wall; another injury to add to the many already received in the fight against his captors. The sack was torn from his head but the gag and binding left in place.

Footsteps in the dark, a loud clang and the click of a lock as his cell was shut behind him, and finally a heavy bang and the door to the dungeon fell closed behind the retreating men. He was alone in the dark.

He was left in the dark cell for what he could only guess was a day and perhaps a bit more. Even his sensitive eyes could not discern any outline or shape to his prison, as there was no light to do so by. He kept his back pressed to the hard wall where he had landed and dared not more. Who knew what lay only a few steps before him in the silent dark.

Still if his captors did not fetch him from this cell soon, for whatever they had planned for him, he would have to seriously begin to think of making an escape. His nerves would not last him long, alone in such confinement. He would need to get out fast were he to keep his sanity.

A heavy bang snapped his head to the left slightly, a tiny amount of light flooded his dormant eyes and he had to blink them rapidly before he was able to look at the torch one of the men were carrying.

Five of them charged into the cell after the one with the torch had worked the lock open. They forcefully lifted him to his feet and dragged him from the cell. He fought them again but without the weapons that had been stripped from him when they had taken him hostage he had little success against the five men, especially seeing as his hands were still bound behind his back. Each would have been as strong as he and he had not eaten in at least a day.

Still he fought the whole way, even as they dragged him up the winding stairs and one cracked a heavy club over the back of his head, sending him off balance as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He lurched to the right and was steadied forcibly but one of the men, he could taste vomit at the back of his throat as he struggled to keep the contents of his stomach down.

A blindfold was pulled tight over his eyes and yet another gag stuffed into his mouth. Hands pushed against his back and he lurched forwards, stumbled and fell to the unyielding floor as deep laughter erupted about him.

He lifted his blinded head up and used his exceptional hearing to try and discern as much about his current surroundings as possible. Footsteps shuffled to both his left and right, seven pairs in total; three on the left, four on the right. None stood behind him now but as far as he could tell there was one in front of him but he was not standing, the foot shuffles did not carry enough weight for it so he must be sitting. A soft, cool breeze tickled his pale cheek; a window was open to his left and brought him some hope of an escape, though with the amount of stairs they had climbed they were most likely well above ground level.

"Remove his gag…and the blindfold!" A deep voice boomed before him.

The coarse cloth that had served as his blindfold was torn from his face and his eyes flooded with light. He squeezed them tightly shut against the assault of light and laughter broke out about him once again.

Once his eyes could stand to open he glanced quickly about him. He had been right; eight men in total were present in the room, seven standing and one seated in a large stone chair before him.

The room was not elaborately decorated but it gave off the impression that it was a throne room of sorts; the man seated in the large stone throne therefore its King. The window to his left was in fact open by its design, having not pane set in its arch. He could not tell how high up they were though as it was too far across the room. His thoughts of escape were suddenly interrupted by the deep voice of the man before him.

"What is an Elf doing in this part of Middle Earth or in Middle Earth at all?" He laughed boisterously and the captive rider cringed at the awful sound.

The King of this realm was clearly not a rich one, neither his throne room nor choice of dress suggested otherwise. Faded velvet robes of deep purple and crimson clung to a very well muscled body, one he was not sure he could overpower without the aid of weapons, not say he would not try though.

"Answer me Elf!" He lent forward in his throne to yell at the cloaked rider, his foul breath causing the Elf to hold his breath just to keep from gagging.

"My business in these parts is not yours." The melodic voice seemed out of place in such a room, surrounded by such men, almost as a lark trapped amongst a murder of crows.

"Of course your business is my business when your business bring you into my territory. Now tell me, who are you and who sent you."

"I will not betray myself, or the one who I serve I hold standards of loyalty which are perhaps not practiced in your kingdom." Blue eyes stared challengingly up at this King.

The large man stood from his throne and with a fistful of the Elf's cloak and tunic beneath it hauled him to his feet.

"You will not dare to insult me in my own palace, filthy scum!" He threw the Elf to the stone floor as his guards laughed, one kicking the rider sharply in the ribs.

The Elf groaned softly and lifted himself as best he could to his knees, his ankles and wrists still bound tightly with coarse ropes. He kept his head down though, ashamed that he was being subdued so easily.

"My name is Legolas but that is of no matter to you. All you really needed to know was that I am an Elf, one of the only left as I'm sure you're aware."

"Quite aware, which is why I desire to know what business would bring a filthy Elf into these parts."

Legolas bit his tongue against the urge to respond to the insults being thrown his way. He would stay quiet, tell them nothing more than he could get away with and delay them as much as possible so that he might be able to escape.

"Tell me who sent you!"

"No."

"Well then, we shall have to force it out of you wont we."

This King snapped his fingers and two guards rushed to either side of the Elf and lifted him once again from the floor. They then promptly began to drag him towards a small door at the far side of the room. He struggled hard against them but they held him tight, the door growing closer and the window falling ever further away.

There, by the throne. A glimmer of light reflected off a well-polished surface. A greedy smirk tugged the corners of his lips upwards. An orb, perfectly rounded and bigger than his own head, its dark surface polished so that it gleamed in the sunlight, the Palantir. It was what he had come for, what he had been sent for, and what he could now not leave without.

Then it was gone from his sight as the small door was flung open and the guards stooped to drag him inside. It was closed with a loud bang and numerous torches mounted on the rooms high walls were lit to cast light about the gloom. A huge fire roared in a deep pit at the room's centre, the smoke billowed upwards and out of the room, as it had no ceiling, simply an opening to the sky.

Shackles hung from the walls and all manner of devices that were all too obviously for torture were located about the room. Legolas eyes opened in fear as he took each in, he was not really in any mood to be tortured to protect a King he felt no loyalty to.

He was swiftly shackled to a wall, his arms held above his head by the manacles now clasped around his wrists. His ankles were still bound by the rope but at least no further restraints had been put on their movement.

The King of this realm strode into the room after the last of the guards had shut the door behind him. He nodded to his guards who waisted no time tearing the black cloak from about Legolas' shoulders and pulling aside his tunics to reveal his pale, muscled chest.

He struggled hard against his shackles as he watched one of the men pull an iron bar from the fire at the room's centre, it's pointed tip glowing red hot in the dim room. His eyes widened as the man approached him, an evil toothy smile hidden behind a badly kept moustache sent a chill through his blood.

The King held his hand up to halt the advance of the man with the searing hot metal gripped in a heavily gloved hand. Legolas' eyes flicked desperately over to the meet the King's who's expression remained neutral.

"Now Elf, tell me who sent you."

"No one sent me. I came on my own."

A nod from the King and the man stepped up to Legolas and set the searing tip of the iron bar against the taunt skin of his abdomen. His wail of pain rang out through the tall room, fading up into the sky and echoing on it's way up. Tears stung the corners of his eyes and his breath was now coming out in gasps.

After what felt to Legolas like an eternity the red hot metal was pulled sharply from his skin and placed back into the roaring fire. He glanced quickly down at the angry line across his belly, the skin blistered and blackened in places. He swallowed thickly and tore his eyes from the wound, knowing it would need to be treated to avoid infection and that it would leave a scar for life.

"Same question again Elf." The King stated, motioning for the man to retrieve the poker once again. "Who sent you?"

Legolas averted his eyes and bit down hard on his lip as he waited for the unbearable pain to hit him again. The burning tip was struck against his chest this time; landing on the left side just below the nipple and that was about the only thing he could be thankful for. A tortured cry spilt from his throat and broke the barrier he had put up by biting down on his lip. Blood trickled from his split lip now as well as the two fresh wounds to his upper body.

Again the red-hot tip was drawn away from his skin and placed back into the fire. This time the King stepped forward until his face was only inches from his.

"Who sent you!"

The pokers burning tip hit him again, this time striking the nipple on the right of his chest. The agony was far worse than the last two had been and as he cried out an answer spilled from his lips against his own reasoning.

"The King! It was Gondor's King who sent me!"

"Good" The King said as he cuffed the Elf across the face.

He strode across the room towards the fire pit where the poker was once again reclaiming some of its lost heat so it would be ready to bite into his skin again when it was called upon.

"Now, tell me why he sent you."

The poker's searing heat was placed diagonally down his abdomen and held tightly against it as Legolas hollered and twisted in vain protest. This wound was the deepest of the four so far inflicted on him and he almost fainted under the intense pain.

"Tell me why Gondor's King sent you and the pain will go away."

Legolas shook his head determinedly and gritted his teeth against the pain. But why was he doing this? Why was he defending a King he no longer held any loyalty towards, one he no longer respected or maybe never respected. Why had he not sent anyone to rescue him?

"Very well then." The King pulled the poker's blistering tip from his body and tossed the thing haphazardly into the fire pit.

He grabbed the back of Legolas' tunic and ordered that his shackles be released. The Elf fell from the wall and a guard quickly yanked his arms behind his back and held them there. His left shoulder was twisted painfully and he winced as pain raced through the joint.

He was roughly escorted towards the fire pit at the room's centre and forced to his knees in front of it. One guard held his arms tightly behind his back while the King placed a large, heavy hand in between his shoulder blades.

"I have had enough of your insolence Elf. Now tell me why he sent you!"

Legolas did not say he wouldn't, really it was on the tip of his tongue to betray Gondor's young King but his pride held his tongue.

The King waited a few moments for the Elf to answer his question before he forced the Elf's head down and into the roaring fire.

The screams of agony that erupted from the Elf's lips caused at least one of the guards to flinch but only for a moment. His screams rang on as the intense flames seared his face. He struggled in complete desperation to get away from the flames and at first succeeded in only turning his head to the right, the right side of his face escaping the flames while the left took the full force. He had clenched his eyes closed long ago but as he could feel the skin on the left side of his face blistering and melting in the intense heat. He forced his right eye open to look up at the sneering features of the King.

Rage forced Legolas to his feet in an explosion of energy, throwing both the King and the guard holding his arms to the ground. Grabbing his cloak off the ground he wrapped it tightly about the left half of his face, smothering the flames that were still clinging to his skin and hair.

He was in terrible pain but if he was ever to escape now was his opportunity. He took up the poker from the fire's centre, even its handle was hot and burnt into his skin but not nearly as badly as its fiery tip had.

His skill with a weapon was great and he was swift to act while the guards were still in shock. A swift blow to the skull of each sent them crashing to the ground. He would have loved to stay and ensure that they all died as painful a death as he could conjure up in their own torture chamber but he just needed them down long enough for him to escape.

Still clutching the iron rod he fled the room through its small door. He slammed it shut behind him and jammed the bar across the latch to delay any attempt by them to get out. He raced across the room to the ugly stone throne at its centre. There on a marble pedestal sat by far the most beautiful thing in the entire room. The perfectly shaped black orb sat in the fading sunlight like an unblinking eye, starring out at Legolas, daring him to take it. But he could not take it as it was; he had to hide it some how.

The first thought to jump into his head was to use his black cloak, which was wrapped about his head. However as he tried to pull it free he could feel his skin coming off with it and it stung worse than when it had been burning. He managed not to scream out loud in pain but quickly abandoned that idea and secured the cloak once again.

He cast his good eye desperately about the drab room in search of something he could wrap the Palantir in. His eyes fell on the drab purple drapes hanging to each side of the window. He raced over and tore one free of its anchoring with a swift tug. He then returned to the polished orb and lifted it carefully from the pedestal before draping the heavy purple cloth over it and wrapping it tightly inside.

He headed for the window and prayed desperately that they were not too far above the ground for him to jump. He carefully poked his head out of the window and glanced down at the ground. A deep sigh of relief rushed from his lungs as he saw the desert sand spread out only three stories below, not only that but the window he was leaning out of was one facing outside of the perimeter wall and looked out over a vast desert.

He leapt gracefully up onto the window ledge and without even a look over his shoulder to see if he was being followed he jumped. The three floors seemed to pass by one by one, very slowly until his feet connected with the soft sand which yielded somewhat under his weight. With grace and much practice he fell to his side and rolled down the small slope at the base of the wall. He leapt to his feet, maintaining some of the momentum from his roll and hurried across the sand.

As he bolted along the edge of the wall he quickly realised he was not going to get far without a horse and as he rounded the corner he was relieved to find something's were going right for him. Tied up with several other horses by the gates to this small castle was his black steed. He looked as though he had been beaten and Legolas only hoped the beast could forgive him.

He approached with caution and the horse reared up as he got close. It's nostrils flared as it smelt the Elf's burnt flesh and only calmed when Legolas ran a gentle hand down its thick neck. He did not have time for a saddle or riding gear of any sort and so mounted the horse bareback before urging it into a gallop across the sands with a few hushed words.

Legolas fell forward on the beast's back; exhaustion caused by his body trying desperately to heal itself of the terrible wounds it was suffering from finally catching up with him. He clutched the ball of purple cloth and the precious rock it contained tightly to his bare chest, his open tunics flapping about him in the wind as his horse sped onwards.

He tried desperately to keep his eyes open as the horse flew at a blistering pace, he could not risk dropping off to sleep or he would surely fall and be left to the mercy of his captors once again.

It would be several days and nights of speedy travelling before he reached Gondor but he knew his wounds needed to be treated quickly, especially the one his face suffered and he did not trust the Men of Gondor with such a task. Lord Celeborn, he had to find Celeborn and the last place anyone had seen the Elf was in the slowly diminishing realm of Lothlórien. It was not his closest option but it was more appealing for some reason than having to return to Gondor immediately and Celeborn was one he could trust most at that moment, one of the few Elves left in Middle Earth.

So on he rode; sweat breaking out over his face as his body began to truly respond to the horrific injury. He swallowed thickly as his head lolled to one side but he snapped it back upright and kept his right eye fixed forward, the left one was blinded by the cloak wrapped about the left side of his face and Legolas was not even sure he would be able to see from it once he removed the garment.

A solitary tear slipped from his right eye as he thought of all he had lost on this hopeless mission and there had been no help sent by the King who had asked this of him. No assistance given to him on this folly of a mission nor a rescue party sent when he was captured and yet that same King would be more than happy to take the Palantir off him upon his return.

The Elf's eye narrowed to a small slit as anger boiled his blood. He would not let Gondor's young King take it from him. It was his, he had sacrificed for it and he would keep it. A far greater plan would formulate in his mind once he was in a more stable condition but for now he could do little more than cling hopelessly to the bundle in his arms and ride on towards Lothlórien.