Disclaimer: Don't own them. I wish I did, but I don't. So, yeah
A/N: Sorry it's taking so long!! I've been having A LOT of family problems right now. But you don't want to hear, so I won't tell.
I don't know the language of the Haradrim people, or even if they have one that Tolkien invented. So for now, the language of the Haradrim will be French. Ok? If any of you speak fluent french and I did something wrong, I am so sorry. I'm learning, so I ain't that good.
Alright, there will probably be some slash in this chapter. Please don't run and hide!!!!! I promise, it'll be nothing more than a kiss here and a touch there. And I swear on my life it will not be a graphic touch!!!!!! (I'm not sure about the kiss though)
On with the story...
Thranduil stood up quickly, despite his screaming legs and back from being cramped in one spot for so long. "What is it? Is my son OK?" he asked, almost dreading the response he knew was coming. Nobody could have good news with the face that the Healer had.
"Milord, I do not know if your son shall live or pass. He is on the verge of dying, yet for some reason I know not, he clings by the barest thread to life," she said. "I have tried everything in my power to bring him back to the world of the living, but I have so far failed."
Thranduil's face fell upon hearing the words. Sure, he was overjoyed that Legolas was not dead, but why won't he awaken? The King covered his face with his hands and vigorously rubbed his tired face with his dirt-and-blood stained hands. He waved his right hand slightly to let the Healer know he no longer wished for her presence.
"Actually, I have orders from milord, Prince Damean, to bring you to the healers' wing. He has hopes that you could somehow bring Legolas back into consciousness. If you'll follow me?"
As she exited a Sentry stepped in and held up chains. "For the safety of yourself and others around you," he explained. Thranduil snorted, but held up his hands anyway. "They will be on for only a short while." The sentry took his arm and led him out of the cell.
Thranduil was amazed at what he saw. The night before, it had been pitch dark and he could barely see his hand in front of his face, even with his elvish eyesight. But now, the sun was high in the sky— marking late after-noon— and lit up the dungeons. He had thought the stony prison had been several stories underground, but was mistaken when told it was only one. Of course, there were different levels to the dungeons; the first, which was what he was in, was for waiting for trials, and such. The second was for sentences that ranged from a day to a hundred years. And the third was for questioning and/or torture. Prisoners of war were usually kept on the first floor, but if they decided to be obdurate, they were sent to the second or third level, depending on how serious the stubbornness was.
It appeared that the Haradrim obviously took great care of the prisons. They had clean floors, sullied by a few stains every so often that were most likely very recent. His cell, although extremely small, barely six paces in all directions, was clean. (Which was surprising— humans were always so dirty!)
About ten feet from the stairs that led to the first floor, a tanned hand shot out from a cell. Thranduil looked for the body it belonged to, only to shrink away from disgust and rage. "Traitor!" he hissed.
Aragorn's soft silver eyes welled up with unshed tears. "Please forgive me. I knew not of what I was doing. I was being foolish." The Man's voice cracked as he tried to stop the silent sobs wracking his frame. "Please, please forgive me!" Aragorn whispered.
"I do not forgive traitors!" came the venomous reply.
Aragorn pressed his forehead against the cold, iron bars of his cell and watched the retreating backs of the elf and the sentry. He sighed and crawled to the darkest corner of his prison. Damn you, Damean. Why won't anybody believe me when I apologize? First Legolas, now Thranduil. Arwen shall be next, if she is even here. Ai, what shall I do?
Aragorn was left with his depressing thoughts as Thranduil met with his unconscious son.
The Sentry opened the large, heavy wooden door that led to the outer chamber of the patients' sick ward. He let the Healer enter first then he took Thranduil's arm again and followed two paces behind the woman.
She led the males to the corner of the sick ward and pulled back a large, white curtain that hung from the ceiling. Behind it lay Mirkwood's youngest, and most cherished, prince.
To the Elven-King, Legolas looked even worse than he had in the water. Angry red welts covered every inch of his bare torso; large black, blue, and purple bruises marred the once creamy-white skin, which was even paler than normal.
What was once a brilliant golden color, Legolas' hair lay limp and dirty, slightly splayed out on the pillow.
Gauze was wrapped around his left wrist, which was obviously broken. But, to Thranduil, the worst thing was Legolas' eyes. They weren't open, as is the custom of the Elves. Closed eyes could only mean two things: one, he would never wake up and succumb to death, or two, he was in a healing sleep. But supported by the fact of his irregular breathing, Thranduil was forced to choose the former over the latter.
"He has two broken, and three fractured ribs. I need him awake so I can bind them up properly. The left wrist is broken, also, but should heal in no time. The right shoulder is dislocated; I need him awake for that, too, so I can relocate it back to its original position properly. Above all of the welts and bruises, he is fine. I just can't wake him up," said the woman despairingly.
Thranduil tore his eyes away from the pitiful site that was Legolas, and looked at the women. "What is your name?" he asked.
"Liana, Milord," she replied.
"Lady Liana, is there any way I can help you help my son?"
Damean sat in his father's private study, waiting for the King to enter. He idly tapped his fingers on the side of the intricately carved wooden chair and raised his feet to rest on the desk before him.
A moment later, King Quasir entered, his usually calm gait quickened with livid rage. "I said subdue him!! Not beat the living crap out of him!!" he screamed, spraying spit everywhere. "Thanks to your ignorance, the elf will die, unless his father can coax him awake. I have nothing to bargain with, now. The remaining Elves of Mirkwood will not come if the Prince is dead." He rubbed his temples in hopelessness, trying in vain to think of something to do.
"Father, you will hurt yourself if you don't sit down," said Damean wisely. He ushered his father to the large throne-like chair behind the desk. Behind him he pushed open the large window to let some cool early-evening air into the room.
He stepped to the rear of the seat and gently pushed his father's head forward, exposing his neck. "Let me rub away the tension, Father. You are weary and do not know what you are saying. Relax," Damean whispered in the King's ear.
Quasir sighed contentedly as his son massaged his neck, letting go of all the stress, settling in complete bliss. "You are worried, yes?" the Haradrim Prince asked. Quasir grunted to say 'yes'. "Good. I shall get rid of the worries and the stress," said Damean.
Suddenly, the Human violently pushed into the King's major arteries in his neck, cutting off his air supply to his brain. Quasir struggled for a moment, but quickly slumped forward in death.
Damean patted his dead father's shoulder and whispered, "Regard, Papa, la douleur est disparaitre. J'aux prendre est fardeau de souverain de vous. (Look, dad, the pain's disappeared. I shall take the burden of ruler from you.)" He smiled and walked out of the study, heading for the guardhouse.
Haradrim soldiers sat all around the room, laughing, drinking, and smoking. The smell of the weed lingered everywhere, filling every corner with its fragrance; the room itself was filled to the brink with smoke.
Slave women served the men beer, every now and again bending over and teasing the men with their bodies. Drunk as they were, the men never noticed their prince enter and shove his way through the room to a back corner where a door was. A plaque on the door said 'Captain'.
Damean pounded on the door; when he received no answer he kicked it opened to fetch the Captain.
"Locksley! Allez! Vite! (Come on! Quick!)" He yelled over the laughing and cheering of the soldiers outside.
Captain Locksley looked up from a slave woman he had pressed against the wall while kissing her, and growled. "What?" he said slipping into the Common Tongue. Locksley was the only man who could get away with being rude to the prince. "Can't you see I'm a little busy?" He stroked the side of the woman's face with his left hand while she sucked a finger on the right.
"I think something has happened to my father! Hurry!" Damean beckoned, his eyes filled with fear.
Locksley sighed and gave the woman a quick kiss. "Stay here," he commanded and followed Damean out.
"Damean, I swear, if this is just another one of your sorry excuses for a prank, you need to tell me now. I got a woman waiting for me and handfuls of men waiting for her."
"Look, Locksley, I'm telling you, I think something has happened to my father! You know how he's always complaining it's cold even though it could be a hundred degrees outside? Well when I went to his study for the talk he wanted to have with me, it was chilly. Chilly!! And the bloody door was locked! Why summon me if he were going to keep me outside?!"
Locksley chuckled. Sometimes the kid's imagination went a little too far. He may only be 20, but he had the biggest pessimistic thoughts Locksley had ever heard. "Calm down, man. Maybe their Majesties were just a little too busy for you," Locksley suggested with a smirk.
Damean caught the sarcasm in the Captain's voice and punched him soundly on the arm. Barely feeling the blow, Locksley continued walking as if nothing had happened.
When they had reached private study, the Captain pounded on the door and shouted. When he did not receive an answer, he took the keys from his belt and opened the door. He swept the room with his eyes as Damean rushed forward to the desk he had previously been sitting in front of.
"Locksley! Quick! Summon a healer! He is not breathing!" Damean cradled his father's body in his arms as the Captain stood dumbfounded. How could Damean have known about this?
"How did you know?" Locksley asked accusingly.
It was Damean's turn to be dumbfounded. "Are you accusing me of killing my own father?!" Tears of what the Captain thought was pain and anger coursed down the handsome Haradrim's darkly tanned cheeks. How could he have made such an assumption? The King and the Prince were always at odds, but not enough hate passed between them to provoke Damean to murder his own sire.
"Of course not! My Lord, I was not implying anything against you! Forgive me!" Before he stuck his foot in it any further, Locksley took off to the Healing House.
The door to the healers' wing burst opened and banged against the wall as a wide-eyed man ran to the corner where the white curtain was. "Liana, hurry! The King... I ... we fear him dead. Please come!"
She excused herself and sprinted to the King's chambers. The man sagged against the bed in which Legolas lay. Another Elf, older no doubt, but still looked young, held the Prince's right hand to his lips and did not let go.
"Who are you?" the older Elf whispered hoarsely to the man.
"They call me Captain Locksley. Who are you?"
"Thranduil of Mirkwood. I am Legolas' father."
A heavy silence enveloped the room when suddenly Locksley heard strange, but somehow beautiful words coming from Thranduil. He covered his face with his hands and listened.
"Legolas, telin le thaed. Lasto beth nîn, tolo dan na ngalad." (Legolas, I have come to help you. Listen to my voice, come back to the light. [or something like that!]) Thranduil repeated this a few times, once in a while adding something in.
"Tolo, pen-neth. Tolo dan na ngalad." (Come, young one. Come back to the light. [I think...])
Legolas slowly opened his eyes and blinked and few times before taking in his surroundings. Everything was white. He remembered when he first arrived at the palace, everything was gold; now it was white. Was he floating in the clouds? Was he in the Halls of Mandos?
No, Legolas mentally told himself, I'm in too much pain to be dead. He slowly turned his head to see a figure whose head was bowed and was holding his hand. Legolas slowly raised his left hand and placed it lightly on the figure's shoulder.
"Ada?" he whispered hopefully. Thranduil raised his head and stared at his son.
"You— you're alive!" he exclaimed.
"Well, I'm not dead, silly," he replied sarcastically. Thranduil laughed as tears of joy ran down his cheeks. "If I wasn't felling sorry for you, I'd've killed you already! Don't you ever scare me like that again, ok?"
"Mm. Ada who is that?" Legolas nodded his head weakly to a man sit at the foot of the bed he was lying in. His shoulders were shaking slightly and soft sobs could be heard for those who listened.
"May I present Captain Locksley, of the Haradrim Guard?" said Thranduil formally, as if this were another court function.
The man wiped his face to clear the tears and turned to face the Prince. "Pleased to meet you," he said equally formally.
Legolas gasped and shrunk against the bed in horror. He clung to his father's hand in a bone-crushing grip and uttered a strangled cry. "You!"
A few tears leaked out of the corner of Losksley's eye. "Aye, 'tis me, Your Highness."
"Legolas, what is going on? Have you met this man?" asked Thranduil quietly.
"Aye, Ada, ta inye garo." (Yes, Father, that I have. [I got this off of a translation site, so I don't know if they are right. It's a mix of Quenyan and Sindarin. Sorry! That's all I could find!])
"How? When?" came the inquiry.
"Never mind," interjected Captain Locksley. "Elf, it is time for you to be put back in your cell. Prince Damean will not want to have one of his slaves wreaking havoc all over the place. Come." Locksley held out his hand as Legolas looked between the two males, horrified.
"What is he talking about, Ada? Whose slave?" Thranduil looked helplessly at his son as he allowed himself to be led away.
"I shall explain another day, my son," said Thranduil. "Rest. You need your strength."
Damean sat on the edge of the private balcony, staring off into space, wondering about the death of his Father that had occurred the day before. He hoped he had cried enough to make his fake shock and pain believable. The funeral would be in a few short hours.
Damean's coronation to becoming King would come in two weeks. The royal advisers needed time to prepare for the massive celebration: clothes needed to be sown, people needed to be invited, and Gondor would officially become Harad territory.
The topic of Damean's thoughts shifted from the Gondorian kingdom to an image of its previous King. The idiot would be rotting in jail for the rest of his miserable life, thinking of everything he had lost. His kingdom, his wife, most certainly his freedom — but the thing that Damean thought hit Aragorn to his very core was Legolas. Aragorn had lost his best friend. Most likely his only true best friend he had ever had.
Sure the ranger had a lot of friends, but none proved more loyal than the golden-haired Elf. But now he was gone forever. Betrayal was something a proud Prince like Legolas would not stand for, Damean knew. He just hoped the Elf wouldn't waste away into nothingness because of the slavery he was now being forced into.
Legolas hissed in pain as Liana wrapped yards of white cloth around his midsection to protect and help heal his broken ribs. He never got used to having his ribs bound up; Lord Elrond had done it so many times he had lost count. Every time he and Aragorn went on a trip of any sort, Legolas always came back with something bloodied, bruised, or broken. He inwardly smiled at the happy memories.
Damean stepped lightly in view of the private cubicle and cleared his throat loud enough for Liana to hear. She looked and smiled slightly.
"Good morning, My Lord!" she said cheerfully. "How are you today?"
"As fine as I can be on a day like this," he replied formally. "How is our little patient?"
Legolas wrinkled his nose at the hated nickname and scowled. "Oh, he's fine. If you have a moment to spare, could you please hold down his left shoulder? Be mindful of his ribs."
Damean happily obliged. He massaged Legolas neck with gentle circular motions. Even though he hated having the Human's hands on him, he could help but relax under the soothing ministrations.
"What are you going to do?" Legolas asked somewhat sleepily.
"I need to relocate your shoulder," Liana said calmly. Legolas immediately tensed up. He knew this would hurt. Damean softly kissed the Elf on the cheek in hopes of calming him. It only resulted in making Legolas more nervous, which caused his muscles to seize up, making it harder for Liana to relocate his shoulder.
With a loud pop! the shoulder was back in place. Legolas groaned at the onslaught of fresh pain washing over his upper body. He never got used to having his arm popped back into place either.
Damean kissed Legolas again, but this time on the lips. Taken by surprise, Legolas gasped, allowing Damean's tongue entrance.
Revolted, Legolas moved his head to the side quickly and broke the kiss. Anger flared in Damean's chest and he brought back a to slap the Elf. Legolas flinched and clenched his eyes shut, readying himself for the blow. It never came.
He slowly peeked at the Human and relaxed a bit. Damean had lowered his hand and was staring at the Elf. "I am sorry, amour (love). You are still healing. I should not have tried to do that while you are in this state."
The Human stood up and looked at the Healer. "Is he well enough to go to the burial ceremony?"
"Yes," answered Liana. "Just make sure he is able to sit, or at least lean against something. He is still weak."
"Bon (Good)! I shall send someone with proper attire, and make sure he gets a bath!" Damean strode out of sight leaving a very confused Legolas.
A/N: That's it for now folks. I hope you guys didn't mind the French. Tell me if you have a problem with it in a review.
Aragorn is back to normal! He will be at the funeral. I was gonna make this like three times the size it is now, but my hands are cramping, so the next chapter should be a about the same length as this one.
Responses to Reviews:
Kenobisaqt: No worries! Legolas just has a few bumps and bruises. He'll live as long as I play with him...
LegolasLover: Love your name!! Aragorn is back!! Should I have him save the day?
Legolas19: I don't like a mean Aragorn either, but I had to put it in to make the perfect (well almost perfect) twist to the story. Anyway, he's back to normal; for now, at least.
Riva van Dyk: Sorry, it was the only thing I could come up with at the time, and I really wanted to get it posted as soon as possible. Thanks for the review!
Toby Keith Fanatic: Um... I didn't mean for the confusion. Legolas isn't dead yet. I could make him commit suicide, or fade away from grief or whatever, but if that even happens, it will take at least 2-3 more chapters. Sorry, for the misunderstanding!!
Elessar*Lover: Lol, at least I know I'm loved and hated. J/K. I love Aragorn too, though probably not as much as you. But he is BACK!! Dun, dun, dun... *dramatic music*
Rachel13: Well, I'm glad you love my story enough to eat it! I didn't make the b-ball team either... or, as a matter of fact, I didn't make the volley ball team... or the football team... BUT I did make the hockey team. That was pretty fun. No worries!
Elenillor: You know, you make a good point: I never said Thranduil would get Legolas back. That just gave me an idea!!! THANK YOU!!!!!!
Rivera: I'm really sorry about the lack of updates and the short chapters. I hope this one is long enough!
Wilwarin: Thanks so much!! All my Elvish is from translation sites, but even those aren't as accurate as a person who's learned it.
Aranel or Mirkwood: There will a wee bit of slash, but not enough to completely gross anybody out. I promise!!
Mellaithwen-Elvenmaiden: OMG, that it THE longest name ever. How do pronounce it?!?! Aragorn is back!! No worries!
Little ME: I'm glad I made you happy! Enjoy the chapter!!
Bookworm: Thanks for the review. And don't worry, Aragorn is back to normal!!
Elven—Star—of—Gold: I would kill Aragorn off, but I think everybody would end up going at me with pitchforks in their hands, so I don't I will for a while. And, don't worry, Leggy isn't dead. I couldn't bare to kill him!! My plot's good? I would say it sucks.