Disclaimer: I do not own 'the Lord of the Rings', 'The Silmarillion', or any of the characters associated with either book. Credit belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien.

Ch.8

For several, long days, Gandalf and his Elven companions traveled with their Al-Qaeda captors in the back of the stuffy, old truck. They had stopped several times to fill the vehicle, what they had discovered as the main source of the contraption's power, with fuel. These times had been the only chance for them to eat what little rations they were given, and to relieve themselves of bodily demands.

They were growing restless, to say the least, at being confined to a cramped box-like room for days on end, and Erestor's apparent discovery of motion sickness was not helping matters at all. Elves were immortal beings, impervious to illness, and the feeling of a churning stomach combined with the raging heat inside the truck was a most unpleasant experience for the Councillor. And though he could not truly see their surroundings passing by him, other than the shadows of the trees reflecting on the tarp, he could most certainly feel the movement.

Glorfindel was faring little better. Though his wound had plenty time to heal, the humidity that the close body heat emitted irritated the life out of his feverish skin. Elrond had become ever more concerned, for though these men obviously did not want them dead, even now that they knew them for what they truly were, the wounded warrior's bandage dressings were only permitted to be changed every so often, risking chance of greater infection.

Through the long rides Celeborn had kept a protective arm about his wife, challengingly glaring at any soldier who so much as glanced at her the wrong way. Galadriel, herself, purposely ignored the stares, not out of fear, but simple annoyance.

Gandalf's countenance was unmoving as ever. While he did not look troubled with their current circumstance, those who knew him could tell otherwise. His eyes were unfocused, a sign that he was deep in thought, about what, none could tell, but it most likely revolved around a plan to escape.

As for Legolas, he simply kept his knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, and a stony mask of aggravation upon his face. He would not admit it, but the whole ride in general bothered him. The smell that generated from the machine was close to intolerable, the vibration of the floor beneath him was uncomfortable, and the humming noise it emitted was irritating to no end. His body jarred whenever they drove over a bump, and the persistent humidity in the enclosure, which would never normally bother an Elf, vexed him as well.

There was no comparison between this machine and an Elven steed. While horses were graceful, sure-footed creatures, this contraption was clumsy and indelicate.

The Elven prince chanced a glance across him to meet the exhausted facial features of the Peredhel. Elrond had gotten very little rest during the drive, too concerned for his injured companion to leave his side. The weariness in the Elf Lord's face was more apparent than he had ever seen, and his concern was slowly mounting.

"Elrond, please, you must rest." He finally said.

The Loremaster's eyes seemed to focus at the air of concern in the younger Elf's voice, and he lifted his gaze from the seneschal's to look at him, and a hand raising as if to brush off the request. "Oh, I'll be alright, Legolas. Do not worry yourself over me."

"But I do worry. You mustn't continue doing this to yourself, please," A barking hush from one of the Men interrupted him, and after a second passed by, Legolas continued in more of a whisper. "I will watch over him for you. You can do little for him if you, yourself, are not rested."

"Legolas," the Noldo sighed, "I--"

His next words died on his lips, for the company felt the large vehicle pull to a screeching stop. While Gandalf's eyes became focused, the Elves straightened up in anticipation, and were forced to their feet by their captors. The tarp was thrown up, allowing bright rays of sunshine to beam into the back of the truck, momentarily blinding them as the Elves were forced out of the entrance. Once they blinked away the sun's blinding light, they stood in place, awestruck at the surroundings about them.

They appeared to be in an encampment of some sort, with similar large machines that they had traveled in, driving about the sand paved ground. Large white tents were erected in several areas, with many Men, those like the ones who had captured them, wandering the area, each performing a different task. Large, wooden gates surrounded the encampment, a guard posted at each watchtower.

There was a single brick structure in a corner of the gate, its shape a large rectangle, and its windows barred. Legolas was briefly reminded of a dungeon cell, however something else quickly caught his attention, something that caused chills to travel up his very spine.

Apart from the tents along the settlement walls stood long pikes stuck into the ground, and on each one's edge human heads were mounted, blood running down the shafts at where they had been severed. The beheading of each person had been recent, that was sure enough, and wide, lifeless eyes stared out into nothingness.

Erestor's hand quickly fled to hold his churning stomach at the sight of one of the bodiless figures, this one of a young girl who bore slanted dark eyes and long, dark hair against sickeningly pale flesh, no older than nine years old. He found himself struggling to steady his breathing as he glanced heatedly at their captors. These Men were naught but cold blooded killers if they could so easily take the life of a child.

Legolas, too, found himself attempting to suppress his rage, his breaths coming out in quick, short gasps, but as one of the Al-Qaeda soldiers mounted another head on a peg, this one a boy around the age of fourteen, the Sinda Elf quickly found himself struggling against his captors, managing to strike one of them in the face and causing him to fall to the ground. But as he attempted to shake off his other captors hands, paying little heed to Gandalf's, and the other Elves pleas for him to desist, one of the soldiers managed to gain their hold on him, and Legolas quickly found himself pinned to the ground by three pairs of hands.

Unable to move his head for the one hand holding it to the ground, He looked up through the corner of his eyes at the Men, his lips parted in almost a snarl, revealing perfect white teeth. He was aware of the commotion around them, and the Men who shouted angrily at him, but he cared little. His arms, which were restrained at his back, were used to pull himself to his knees, only for a boot to kick him in the stomach, and his body instinctively tried to curl about himself as the air was forced from his lungs.

Before the Woodland prince had a chance to recuperate, he was hauled to his feet and the six Elves and the Wizard were guided to the holding cell, and roughly thrown inside before the large iron door was swung shut.

The chamber was dark even for Elven vision, and the only light the room was afforded with was the small barred window at the side. The smell of fear permeated in the musky air, as well as the tangy scent of blood and bodily fluids mingled with a haunted foreboding. Something dreadful had happened in here, and each of them was reluctant to find out what.

"This place reeks of terror," the Lady of the Golden Wood murmured as she almost blindly gazed around the dingy cell. The others clearly shared her thoughts, and they gracefully gained their footing as their eyes scanned along the brick walls.

Erestor patted his hands along the surroundings, searching for a weak point, and after finding none, tested the strength of the door, with little results. "There is no way out. What are we to do now, Mithrandir?"

The Istar did not answer at first, his eyes too busy regarding the barriers around them. "Had I my staff I could easily free ourselves. Alas, it is no longer in my possession. We will have to figure out another way to escape."

"'Tis pointless," the advisor moaned. "We are doomed to die here."

"Nay!" Legolas exclaimed. "I will not die here, like this. We will find a way to escape. We must!"

"Legolas is right," Celeborn agreed, "we have not survived thus far to give up all hope now."

"Aye," Elrond sighed as he tended to the still sitting Glorfindel. The Gondolin veteran was now very much awake, but the jolt to his body had aggravated his wound, and his brow was lightly drenched in perspiration. "We must be patient. An opportunity will come to us, given time."

"I am worried that we may not have much time left," Erestor muttered.

The Elf Lord shared a brief stare with his Councillor, but did not comment on the dismal remark. Instead he simply turned back to his seneschal and motioned for Legolas to help lift him, and together he and the fair haired Sylven Elf guided him over to the wall where the window was, propping the Warrior's back up against it so that the Loremaster could better examine the wound.

Gandalf secretly shared the Major-domo's concern, though he dared not speak of it. To mention so would cause his Elven comrades to lose hope, and he was not willing to darken their bright souls with such drivel. The Valar had saved them for a reason, he was certain of it, and he refused to give in to despair just yet.

For hours the seven companions sat in echoing silence in the dark cell, their ears picking up sounds that made their way to the small window. Men were talking in their guttural tongue, and the loud humming of the great horseless carriages groaned out into the cool air. The chamber began to dull further as the setting sun escaped from view, the bright stars and waxing moon taking her place in the dark sky.

The night was cool, and a light breeze wafted in the air, and with it carried the scent of the coming autumn. Crickets could be heard chirping proudly, and in the far distance wolves could be heard baying at the moon.

It was surprising that any of them had been able to get any rest that night, and after hours of sitting in wakeful silence, each had managed to drift into a light sleep, everyone save Elrond.

Whether he was suffering from insomnia or simply a troubled mind, he did not know, but he just could not sleep while being held captive by these brutal humans. It had been horrific seeing the heads of those once living beings displayed on pikes like simple decoration. So long had he lived in the peaceful land of Valinor that Elrond had nearly forgotten that such violence existed, but now battles centuries old that no Man would ever remember escaped long forgotten memories of his mind.

These Men were no better than Orcs. Cunning though they were, their hearts were just as black and merciless, and part of him feared that very soon his own head, as well as those of his comrades, would join the severed heads outside on stakes of their own. No... he would get no rest tonight, and so he sat beneath the window with moonshine reflecting down on his frowning features, tired, ancient eyes gazing into nothingness on thoughts of what would come to pass.

(A/N): For those of you who like to draw, I would very much appreciate a drawing from any of you of the characters in this story that I could post on my website. Much obliged.

Ash

REVIEWS:

INMH: Glad you like it, sorry this update took so long.

cAJUNpIPPINpIRATE: lol, you wrecked a truck? Ah well, I remember when I was first learning to drive... nearly crashed my dad's $24,000 daytona sports car into a post... accidents happen, lol. Happy to hear you're enjoying it so far.

DreaminofLorien: Wow, thanks a bunch. I do try my hardest to keep them all in character. And you're right, ELVES ROCK!!! LoL. This is taken place a few years after Sept. 11, how many will be revealed further on in the story. Glad you're enjoying it.

Ningwen: Thank you. I wrote this chapter as soon as I could. A little too short and not enough detail in my opinion, but I figured you guys waited long enough.