A/N: I was bitten by a truly insane plotbunny, and it would allow me no rest at all until this story had been committed to paper (or bytes, depending on how you look at it..). As for each and every grammatical and linguistic error, I'm the only person to be yelled at… If you wish to see more of this story, don't forget to leave a review! It's what keeps the bunny alive.

Nothing in this chapter belongs to me - all are the property of Tolkien.

Someone to name Friend

Chapter 1: Rescue

His arms pained from their position above his head, the rope around his wrists keeping his body so high over ground that he could barely reach the earth with his toes – much less take off any of his weight to ease the only increasing pain in his arms.

He could feel blood from the leash-wounds slowly seeping through his tunic, running down his back and his legs to form small puddles where his toes could brush the ground.

Legolas, the proud son of Thranduil, known as one of the finer warriors of Mirkwood, felt that his title had a foul taste to it, caught as he was at the moment in the hands of orcs. He had foolishly called out, renouncing himself as prince of the forest, and ordering the orcs to retreat. Not long in the battle, he had been knocked from his horse when it fell into a well-concealed trap – none of the elves had expected the orcs to have made an ambush – and he had been knocked unconscious in the fall, only to have awakened while being brought to the camp. What had happened to the rest of his comrades, he could only guess.

He had no idea of how long he had hung from the tree, surrounded by the grim sounds of orcs laughing and grunting at each other – with the occasional scream from someone getting too close to a bigger orc. His eyes had been blindfolded, forcing the elf to reply solely on his ears and sixth sense to tell whenever any orc came close.

He shifted, again moving his toes over the ground in the search of a foothold, however small, only to find a leash clipping his leg painfully, drawing another red gash of blood along with the many others that already marred his thighs. Legolas bit his lip forcefully as the agony exploded through him, stubbornly denying the orc behind him the pleasure of screaming in pain.

An irritated grunt sounded, and then the whip cracked again, this time striking hard against his back. Only the faintest of whimpers escaped the Wood elf, though he could hear even that made the foul creature laugh gleefully.

It seemed to just be for the fun of it, as the leash touched his back again - as the previous times, bringing a small piece of cloth and skin with it as it recoiled from his flesh – before the orc made some form of grunting noise and stomped away.

Letting out a soundless breath, the elf slowly wondered how long it would take him to bleed to death if the twisted beings continued their torture of him – he already felt weak and hopelessly tired, and knew it were the first signs of bloodloss.

Inevitably, it lead him to think of any possible forms of rescue that would be close, even if it were a method of slay himself. Anything, he thought, than being dragged with the orcs to horrors he dared not imagine, or to be traded as puny goods for a favour from his father.

Suddenly remembering that he had been meant to meet up with Aragorn, he felt a stone of dread drop into his stomach – what if the orcs were to meet the company of his human friend? The elves he had travelled with had all been able warriors; yet, it appeared that the battle had been lost.

At least, the elven prince thought with a grim smile, it seemed each elf had taken twenty or thirty orcs with him to the grave. With the apparent state of mild confusion the camp currently was in – judging from what he could hear – only a handful of the foul beings remained, and, perhaps, would not pose as great a threat to Aragorn and his men as they had to the elven party.

Again, he heard the stomp of boots closing in on his position, though this particular orc did not appear to favour the whip. Instead, it moved close enough for the elf to feel the warmth of its disgusting breath, before it swung a mail-clad fist at his unprotected stomach.

Taken aback by the abrupt strike, the elf's first instinct was to attempt and curl up, yet partly his bonds and partly his own weight restricted him, and he found himself unable to relieve the pain in any way. The orc laughed harshly, a sound that reminded him of stones grating against each other, before another blow fell on him, this time striking the side of his face and dropping him into the blissful numbness of unconsciousness.

It was not until far later that he awoke, his head spinning and his entire body aching with pain. As he moved, a jolt of agony shot through him, and he realised that he had been used as a punching bag while unconscious. With a light shock, he realised that he could not feel his right leg – had it not been because he still had feeling in the left leg and thusly could tell that the other limb was still attached to his body, it could just as well have been cut off.

Taking a few, steadying breaths, trying to make his mind work through the red haze that lay over it, he suddenly realised that the usual sounds of the camp were gone, instead replaced with odd sneers and hollering – though it was not sounds that came from anywhere near him.

Desperately wishing his eyes had not been covered, Legolas tilted his head, attempting to hear what the possible cause of the orcs' joy was – praying to the Valar that it was not Aragorn or any other elves who had been captured. He could hear a light voice scream out in pain, the cheering of the orcs rising to a crescendo and then everything suddenly went dead still.

Frowning, the Mirkwood elf could pick up the faint scent of burned flesh. Then, just as he had determined the odd smell, the orcs broke into screams instead of cheers, and, from what he could hear, broke into a mad run as well.

Melodious words from a tongue he did not understand flew through the air, following by an odd crackling as from a great bonfire, shortly followed with a thickening scent of meat burned and the agonized cries of dying orcs. Cheering in his heart, the elf realised he did not really care what was going on – the important thing to him was that the orcs were dying.

Then, almost all of a sudden, the camp went eerily still, apart from the thud of a body hitting the ground not too far from him. Legolas strained his ears, trying to catch the sound of horses, of armour, of anything that could tell who and what had attacked the orc camp, and hoped the persons had not died in the rush as well.

He picked up the faint sound of soft boots over the abused grass, far too soft steps to belong to any orc, and then the person was at his side. Though he could not see, he could feel the person pressing against him as he or she reached up, working the rope holding the wood elf's arms up.

As it snapped free, his arms fell to his side, feeling as heavy as were they made of iron, and he found himself falling backwards as he was unable to keep his balance. Yet, gentle hands caught him, softening his fall and instead guiding him to the ground.

At that moment, blood decided to rush back into Legolas' numb arms, bringing with them an intense pain, and he could feel the wounds on his back start bleeding again. His head spinning, he barely registered it as he dropped back into unconsciousness, the events he had been through finally catching up with him.