Mae Govannen!

I hope anyone reading this is enjoying it, but i'll keep blabbing to a minimum:

so,

disclaimer: i own nothing of J.R.R. Tolkien's work.

and please reveiw!

namarïe!

"I wish that the ring had never come to me."

"So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide.

All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us."

-from The Fellowship of the Ring.

"Break him!"

Lindir panted through his teeth as the whip struck his bare back yet again, a fine mist of blood dusting his pale flesh as it tore the gaping wounds wider. The pain was giving him a headache, but he swallowed back his cry and remained silent.

"Speak!"

The whip struck again, and Lindir rested his head on his shackled wrists, his knees aching from the cold stones. The air of Dol Guldur smelt rank and cold; like a corpse midway to decay. He wished more than anything to be far gone from this evil place. This was a place where dark things slept. No elf could withstand the dread that filled him day after day.

Nor the pain that he was given.

"Speak!" snarled Azog, as Legolas drew the whip back once more, its steel-bladed length hissing like a snake.

"Pedinnas alni!" spat Lindir, his entire body trembling as the lash came harder than ever. He gritted his teeth against a moan. He would not cry out. He would not.

I will not speak.

Claws snatched at his lank hair, jerking his head back, lances of pain shuddering down his spine at the sudden movement; a shocked breath escaping numb lips. It was a trial not to struggle against his handling, useless though it may be. There was no escape from the iron that shackled his torn and bleeding wrists. It was too cold. Cold as a live shadow. It sapped Lindir's strength. Sorcery perhaps…he did not know.

"Elvin fool," grated Azog's voice from above him, as the pale orc held him fast.

Lindir's understanding of Black Speech was little, and the words the orc next said to Legolas were lost to him. As was what the ash-blonde elf said in return. However, he began to understand well enough as Legolas drew back the blood-stained thong, blue eyes cold with malice. It was all Lindir could do to steel himself before Legolas cracked the steel-bladed whip. It struck him across the face, throwing him back against his bonds, the pain at last drawing a cry from dry lips as he felt his flesh part, like water before a ship's bow.

As blood streamed down his skin, Azog snarled, shaking him; the irons about the elf's mangled wrists digging yet deeper into his torn flesh. "Speak! Where is the valley of Imladris?"

Lindir forced the pain aside and spat at Legolas's feet, the prince of Mirkwood standing over him now. The scarred face darkened, and he said something to Azog, who snorted.

"He will not break, Azog," said Legolas, in the common Westron tongue. "He is a warrior.."

"He is far from a warrior," sneered the orc, releasing his grip on Lindir's hair; allowing the elf to slump forwards, blood splattering over the stone whipping block. "The elves of Rivendell have grown soft. That mongrel who leads them…"

"Elrond Half-Elven?" asked Legolas, coiling the thong up, Lindir's blood staining his hands. Lindir coughed, blood running over his lips. The stone was cold beneath his cheek…the blood running down his face warm. So warm…

"Filth," said Azog. "The only half-breed among them."

Lindir's chest flamed with anger to hear them speak so of his lord. But he remained still, knowing that he was helpless. There was nothing he could do. Not now.

"I do not suppose that the other will speak?" said Legolas.

Azog's grunt of assent was more of a growl. "No." The pale white orc's remaining fingers dug into Lindir's ruined back, and the elf had to hold in a sob of pain. "The other is a warrior."

A new voice spoke now- tone harsh and foul. The words grated on Lindir's ears as he turned his head to see a monster of an orc approaching Legolas and Azog. His mauled appearance gave Lindir no doubt as to who it was. Bolg- spawn of Azog. As if the orc had heard the elf's thoughts, he turned his head to smile at the captive, who shivered.

Those eyes…

Bolg grunted something to Legolas, who shook his head.

"Rivendell," was all he said in return.

Bolg snorted, before stalking over to Lindir, a dark glee in his eyes, smiling wider as the elf shrank back, away from him as far as the manacles would allow, a soft cry of despair leaving his lips.

Azog and Legolas turned to go, but the pale orc called out in parting to his hideous son just before they vanished from sight.

"Bolg! Break him!"

Thranduil was aware that he was a mess; no one needed to tell him so. A grieving, tangled, drunken mess.

It had been a long evening- haunted by thoughts of Legolas and his dead people, dragonfire scars searing with an age-old pain. He had none to turn to. None to confide in and had long since given up trying to make it through the night sober. Now, with his head swimming, Thranduil contemplated the empty glass before him, debating whether to fill it once more. Wither would his mind go, he wondered. He had forgotten how many times it had been refilled; the liquid reminding him of the blood of his fallen people. As he tried to stand- the word fell to spinning. Nausea rose in his throat, and he collapsed back into his chair, resting his head in his hands.

The far-off sounds of the party sounded distorted to his ears; the lights in his chambers seeming to dance and flicker- the flames dying in their braziers as he tapped out an unsteady beat on his glass before giving up and filling it once again.

It was a cold winter that year, and Galion had been making mulled wine down in the cellars to try and combat the gloom that the dark, snow-laden moons had brought. It had been a hard season- with five more elves lost to the spiders. Not only that, but their attempts to liberate Lindir and the Lothlòrien elf had gone ill and failed. The orcs had slaughtered them all but one. Emlin had managed to make it back before she'd died in the trembling arms of Athlorn.

It had taken them days to clean her blood from off the floor.

The taste of wine turned sour in Thranduil's mouth, but he forced the memories away until the glass was yet again empty. He had quite forgotten how it felt to be drunk- how it almost seemed as though you were floating. Caught in a place neither here nor there.

"Ere le mae, aran nîn?"

Are you well, my king?

"Tauriel." His voice came out slow, almost slurred. He watched her enter the room, her eyes wide with concern. Never had she reminded him more of Legolas, and it was all he could do to keep himself from turning away. Perhaps it was lucky that his glass lay empty- for he would have gone on drinking if he could. Forcing himself to focus as she sat down, he waited.

She glanced at the glass. "Galion said I should come…that you should not be alone this eve…"

Thranduil waved a hand, his head swimming. "Hele dae na es lindôr."

He worries far too much.

"Es le balfaug," she said.

You are drunk.

"Athon," said Thranduil, knowing how utterly wretched he must appear.

Yes.

"Galion said that this had happened before."

"The despair, or the drinking?"

"Both."

Thranduil ran a finger over the rim of his glass, wishing it were still full. If he tried to drown his woes in wine- he would need an ocean. He knew she waited for him to speak, and that he need not explain himself to her. One harsh word would send her on her way. Yet, he found the words spilling from his lips

She sat in silence as he told her everything. All that weighed his chest down. All the despair; the fear; the darkness and pain and suffering. He started with the dragonfire. Its agonizing burn: to the feelings of utter despair when he had lost Legolas. How long he spoke, he did not know, but Tauriel's eyes gleamed with sorrow, her mouth a sad curl as her king at last fell silent.

"I knew not of the dragonfire," she said softly. "Does it still trouble you, my lord?"

"Dragonfire is an ember that never fades," replied Thranduil, his voice hoarse from all the talking. He and Tauriel contemplated the glass, the little pool of wine that stained the bottom looking like blood in the dim light.

"You will wake with a headache tomorrow," she said.

"I know."

"And still, you would drink on?"

Thranduil sighed, his head swimming sickeningly. "Perhaps…" The wine had finally caught up with him, a lucid fog descending within his mind, reminding him of the mist over Esgaroth in the early morn.

"Will you be alright, aran nîn?"

"Tauriel," he said, "I have never been alright.

She left soon after- to rejoin the revelry far above and Thranduil lent back in his chair, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from off his shoulders. It had been so long since he had been able to confide in another…he felt tired, but no longer was he so miserable. This time, when he went to refill his glass, he hesitated. Pale fingers brushing the glass tentatively, hand hovering over the silver flask with uncertainty. Closing his eyes, Thranduil Elvenking sighed deeply and withdrew his hand, curling it into a fist.

"Al," he murmured, almost to himself. "Aleller."

No more.

He was not aware how long he sat there, but some moments later, he heard the soft tread of footsteps outside his chambers and stood, steadying himself as he swayed with a hand on the back of his chair. It came to his attention now that he was perhaps quite a bit more drunk than he had first thought and debated seating himself once more. He dismissed the notion, however, as Galion entered the rooms.

"Aran nîn." The rowan-haired sindar's eyes were gentle. "Limp eller?"

More wine?

"I think not," said Thranduil, struggling to keep the slowness from his voice. "Cath pân erlôn."

All is spinning.

"That surprises me not," said Galion.

Thranduil scowled, noting the slight dry tone in the steward's voice. He made as if to step forward, but his head swam sickeningly and he found himself on the ground, back against his chair, wondering how he had come to rest there. A low hiss of pain escaped his teeth.

"My lord…" Galion knelt beside him, worry deep in his dark eyes.

"I am alright," said Thranduil, sucking in a breath, his back throbbing from the hard slats of wood. "Merely a little…disorientated."

"Ai, aran nîn…" sighed Galion. "You must take better care of yourself."

That tore a harsh laugh from Thranduil; a rough bark of amusement. "And why may that be?" he asked with a bitter smile. "We are immortal, Galion. We live for uir. For eternity."

"We live for eternity burdened with our deeds, aran nîn," replied the elf.

That choked Thranduil into silence as Legolas came unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Al. AL! He had been rid of the sense of drowning, of the agonizing pain in his chest. Now it was back. No. He could not take it. He would not. Not tonight.

"Edhern," he hissed, trying to fight back the tide of memories. Of his little leaf.

"Man?" said Galion in surprise.

What?

"Edhern!" spat Thranduil, turning his head away, swallowing back the scream of despair that threatened to rip from his throat.

Get out!

He almost lost control before Galion had left. Almost broke into jagged pieces.

His shoulders were trembling, head spinning, mouth thick with the taste of wine as he collapsed onto the cold stone floor, tears sliding from his cheeks.

"Enlinon, lass tithen nîn," he managed to choke, before a cry of agony rose up into his throat and he had to swallow it back.

I am sorry, my little leaf.