-Chapter 6-

"No…" A choked sob escaped Legolas's lips as he cradled the dying elf in his arms.

He could not…yet he had…taken the life of another immortal Eldar.

"S-so sorry…" he choked, unable to believe this turn of events. "Forgive me…"

"Legolas." The other's voice was rasped and strained. He spoke in barely a whisper, ensuring that no others would overhear.

"You know my name?" Legolas replied in an anguished whisper.

"Never…never mind it," gasped the other elf. Blood spilled openly from the gaping wound in his chest. "Thranduilion…lín adar…ar adan…" he coughed and gasped for air, choking and spitting blood. Legolas anxiously looked up; guards were quickly approaching them. The other elf would have to be quick.

"Danger, Legolas…tell your father…the human…he is not…not who he seems…"

Legolas's grip on the elf tightened unconsciously, his eyes darkening in fury. "Istan," he replied. "Istan le gwarth…"

The dying elf's eyes widened in alarm. "Thranduilion-al! Adan" (Son of Thranduil, human)

But his strength was quickly draining as his body began to go into shock. He fumbled in a remote pocket. Legolas shifted his body ever so slightly so as to shield him from the ever-approaching guards…

Something cold and hard was shoved into his hands.

"Heb-ten…istan thurin…adan…ho u-man thia…"

"Istan," Legolas murmured into the other's ear, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Valar, he knew…

"Namaarie…Legolas…I hold you not at fault…namaarie." The last word ended in a sigh as the elf's spirit fled his body. His body slumped limply into Legolas's arms. Legolas hurriedly shoved whatever he had been given deep into a pocket of his breeches. He could examine it later. Now was not the time.

"Sidh, mellon nin, gwador nin," he whispered, laying a gentle hand over the unnamed elf's painfully wide-open eyelids, shutting them. Permanently. He bowed his head and wept silently for the passing of one of Illuvatar's chosen.

"Up! Elf! GET UP!"

Legolas rose slowly to his feet, though his mind barely registered the snarling voices of the guards. His head was buzzing. An elf, dead, by his blade…an elf who knew his name, who tried to warn him…all too late.

He lifted his head to gaze around the arena and realized with a dull shock that his true tormentor was none other than Tisdal, his jailer. Grinning maliciously at the elf from across the arena, he lifted a hand in a sadistic greeting. He had been the one thrashing Legolas all along…jumping back when Legolas came near…because of course he could see…

It had not been a death match after all. In fact, it was now obvious that neither Legolas nor his oppressor was intended to die. They were just supposed to prance about for awhile, for the bloodthirsty crowd's entertainment, seeing the blindfolded elf being stung and hit yet being unable to hit his opponent.

It was all clear as crystal, now. The entire 'fight' was a façade, designed to make Legolas believe he was fighting for his life when in reality he was only fighting a jester, and at the last moment…he had been tricked into believing he had an advantage…when in reality…at the very last second the unknown elf had been shoved into his path, not Tisdal…and they knew that the prince would react with lightning reflexes and, immediately sensing his advantage, would take it in full…slitting the throat of whom he believed to be a man attempting to kill him….

A dull, heavy weight had settled uncomfortably in the pit of Legolas's stomach. He felt lifeless, defeated. He had taken the life of another Eldar. This was the worst form of torture. It was his fault an elf was dead.

His hands curled into angry fists, desperate rage clawing at his insides. Aragorn, that bastard. That Wraith-spawn, that despicable excuse for a human.

He had managed to penetrate Legolas's utmost defenses and had done so leaving hardly a scratch on the Eldar body. His physical self was almost perfectly intact, but his soul…his mind, his spirit….these had been weakened by his long days spent in the utter dark and now were being utterly ripped to shreds by the terrific horror which he had been forced to commit. Sorrow and guilt are neither wrong emotions of themselves, but now it seemed they had surely teamed together and were now viciously attacking the core of Legolas's being.

Anger burned within him. He lifted his head and let out a despairing wail. It was truly the only way for him to express even close to what he felt. Elves often did such when their hearts ached deeply. Apparently it was not so among humans though, for the entire arena fell silent at his soul-piercing scream of agony. Even the guards stopped uncertainly, staring warily at the tense, pain-wracked Prince of Mirkwood.

Suddenly a strange, insane sense of calm came over him. He still had his weapon. He knew what he had to do. It was the only thing that made sense right now. His burning eyes met the mocking grey ones of the one who was ultimately responsible for this: Aragorn.

With a wild cry he leapt forward into action, sprinting with all his might towards the top box where Aragorn sat, smirking. He made not a move, apparently confident in the multitudes surrounding him.

Legolas leapt easily up six feet on the railing of the first level. People screamed and scattered as he throttled through them, knocking any in his path to the ground with an unforgiving rage.

He was nearly there…guards blocked his path everywhere but it mattered not, for he, the Prince of Mirkwood, was not about to let any fool men stop him and his blind revenge. Screaming wildly he plunged through dozens of men, kicking, punching, slashing. His only weapon was better than their swords, it seemed, for those remaining were now backing away from the crazily slashing elf, looking a little nervous.

"COWARDS!" Legolas screamed at them, adrenaline fueling his madness. He was nearly there, nearly to Aragorn, who, he saw with a furious satisfaction, had wavered in his smile and was starting to look just a little uncomfortable. He could hear guards' feet pounding behind him, knew they would soon hit a dead end and would be caught up with him. It mattered not. Even his life, whether to save or lose, seemed of little consequence, so long as he killed the man responsible for this horrible thing…

"Get him, fools!" Aragorn thundered as Legolas tore through the people. The onlookers had nearly all vanished, terrified by the crazy elf's rampage through the rows.

And then he was there. With a last cry he launched himself on the lap of the man who he had once called friend, now his greatest enemy, and about to become his first murder…

He raised his arm. He could see his own burning eyes glinting madly in the eyes of the other…he brought his knife down, slashing, ready to tear out the pig's throat…

And stumbled, twisted and fell as the butt of a spear collided brutally with the base of his skull. He rolled over onto his back, stunned, his arms falling limply to the side, knife clutched uselessly in his now-lifeless fingers. Soldiers knelt roughly on his wrists, and he felt cold steel across his throat. Through bleary eyes he peered woozily up into the furious face of Aragorn son of Arathorn.

The human was screaming indecipherably at his men. Legolas saw several fall to the ground clutching various body parts. One was missing fingers and several sported long jagged cuts.

"That," said the human, breathing heavily. "Was far too close. The second he took one unauthorized step was too close."

He had Tisdal on his knees, grabbing the shaking man by his hair, tilting his head up and holding a dagger to the jailer's throat.

"Give me one good reason," hissed Aragorn, eyes glinting furiously. "Why I should not end your worthless life this instant. You failed me, scum. And know you what the price for failure is? Hmm? Know you?" For though Tisdal had opened his mouth only a choked gurgling noise came from it.

"D-death, milord," he whispered, terrified. He licked his lips. "P-lease, sir, have mercy…"

Aragorn backhanded him coldly. "Silence," he commanded, eyes flinty and unforgiving.

For a moment he considered the pathetic figure in front of hin. After a long moment he threw the sniveling man to the side, kicking him twice soundly in the ribs.

"You have one more chance," the man said silkily. "And I promise you, Tisdal, fail in even the slightest manner and I shall see you wish you had never been born."

"Y-yes, milord," gasped the grateful man, groveling at Aragorn's feet. "And th-thank you, lord, you are so gracious…"

"You disgust me," Aragorn said coldly. "Get up before I change my mind."

The hands holding the stunned elf to the floor tightened, probably involuntarily, as Aragorn drew close to their owners.

Crouching, the despicable human peered into Legolas's white face.

"Too close, my friend," he said softly. "You shall have to be punished."

He said nothing more, but went over to Tisdal, who listened intently, obviously very keen to rise back into his lord's good graces. Legolas let his eyes drift shut and his ears pricked up, listening to their conversation.

"He must be punished," commanded Aragorn softly. "You will do it. Go, fool. What you lack in skill perhaps you can make up now…but do well, scum, lest your further failure end your worthless life."

"Gladly, lord," breathed Tisdal, ugly face alight with glee. A slight shudder ran through his body though he tried to hide it, and the fear and anger that radiated off him could have lit a fire.

Legolas had only caught the last words, for though Aragorn had ensured to keep his voice down, Tisdal knew not the keen ears of elves and had not bothered. A sense of dread settled in his stomach. He had heard only Tisdal's glad assent, and from the look on his face it could not possibly mean anything good for Legolas.

Tisdal bowed low as Aragorn dismissed him, and walked over to where Legolas lay motionless.

"Get him up," he rasped, gesturing. As soon as the men had forced the elf to his feet Tisdal grabbed the elf's hair and roughly jerked his head back, breathing heavily into his face. Legolas, whose eyes were swimming already from the harsh blow received earlier, and was having difficulty standing on his own due also to the blow, could manage no more than a disgusted look at the adan.

"You've caused me more trouble than you're worth," he hissed at the elf. "If it were up to me, I'd kill you without a second thought. You nearly cost me my life, elf. Pity, it's not up to me. But even though I can't kill you…Lord Aragorn wants you punished. Come on."

He indicated and the men dragged Legolas into a further corridor, down a winding staircase. He felt a dank breeze sweep through the passage. The air smelled old, very old, and cold, like a cave.

For the first time, he felt a disturbing wave of fear sweep through him. It was swift, but unmistakable. He knew Tisdal was simply furious at him, as he perceived it to be the elf's fault his life had nearly been forfeit, and was thus unlikely to spare the elf any pain. He knew he would pay for his rash rampage across the arena today. Aragorn had been angry, but Tisdal even moreso. Fear fueled Tisdal's wrath, while Aragorn's fury came only from the failure of his guards. He had not been afraid that Legolas's blade would harm him. In fact, now that Legolas had time to ponder upon it he realized that had not he been subdued Aragorn himself surely would have drawn his blade and dashed him to the floor. Skilled as the elf-prince was he was no match for an equally skilled and fully armed swordsman.

They stopped abruptly in front of a thick wooden door, opened by one of Tisdal's thugs. Legolas was shoved inside roughly. What he saw within did not surprise him, yet somehow did not encourage pleasant feelings.

Chains, manacles at their ends, hung upon the walls. Whips and an assortment of other torture devices lay ready to be used upon a low table in the corner. The insides of the cuffs were stained dark red with blood.

Legolas was forced to his knees, thick chains locked around his wrists. Tisdal clamped a rough hand to the back of his neck, forcing him to stay there.

"Leave us," Tisdal ordered shortly, and the men filed obediently out without a word, shutting the thick door behind them. Legolas heard a key scrape in the lock.

Without warning Legolas was suddenly shoved to the ground and a vicious kick planted in his ribs. He instinctively curled into the fetal position, protecting himself. Again and again his jailer threw all his might into his blows.

A rough hand dragged him upright by his hair. His head was yanked back and he saw Tisdal mad's eyes glinting ferociously at him.

"Have you any idea," the human hissed, drawing back a fist. "How much trouble you caused me?" He let the fist fly straight into the elf's prone face. A sickening crack, and something warm and sticky gushed out of his nose. Legolas tasted a disgusting amount of the metallic stuff as Tisdal grabbed his jaw and forced his mouth open, grinning maliciously at the sight of the elf's own blood pouring into his mouth. When he finally released his jaw Legolas had barely time to spit out his own blood before another harsh strike to the face sent his head flopping back, kept in place only by Tisdal's ungentle grip on his hair.

"You—nearly—got—me—killed!" screamed Tisdal, forcing the elf to the floor and now slamming his face into the ground. Legolas could already feel his left eyes swelling hugely; he could barely see out of it as his vision again and again collided with the rough stone floor of the torture cell.

He opened his mouth, not even knowing what he intended to say, but whatever it might have been he had no chance to do it.

"Do not speak!" ordered the human madly. Tipping the elf's head back again he sent a crashing blow across his jaw. Legolas felt resounding pain flaring across his entire lower face and moaned unintentionally. He was certain it had been broken..

"You made me look a fool in front of my men! Whore-child!" swore Tisdal. "Know you how long I worked to get in the lord's good graces? Know you?"

He picked up the elf's entire body and slammed it against the wall again and again. By the time he was finished Legolas could do naught but slide to the floor, slouching helplessly against the wall. His vision was swimming. There seemed to be two of Tisdal's huge, lumbering frame and furious gaze. An arm curled protectively around his ribcage. He was having difficulty breathing; he thought his ribs must be broken.

But the smolderingly angry adan was not finished with him yet. Striding across the room he seized one of the many whips lying there and began mercilessly thrashing the prone elf. Legolas was helpless to move out of the way; his body was alight with piercing, fiery pain. Every breath he took was labored and strained. Even if he could have moved there was nowhere to go. Tisdal had at least been wise in this instance. Had he simply begun beating the elf immediately there would have been a chance of Legolas fighting him. However, he had first used his rage to adequately subdue the elf, so he was in no shape to fight back. Legolas hated the feeling of such utter helplessness.

Tisdal beat his prisoner until Legolas could do naught but lie shuddering against the wall, straining to keep consciousness as the pain drove his senses wild. By the end Legolas lay trembling, his blood streaming across the floor, utterly drained.

What seemed an eternity later, the raining blows ceased and Tisdal, his rage apparently cooling, threw down his whip. He dragged the elf into a corner and chained his still-bound hands there.

Giving him one last kick to the head for good measure, he threw a dark look behind him at the bloody, still elf as he exited.

"Remember this when you are tempted to anger me again, elf," he hissed venomously, before slamming the door behind him and locking it firmly.

Legolas tried to keep his eyes open and found it impossible; they were both swollen quite shut. His consciousness lasted him perhaps two minutes; his last thought was of pain before he knew no more.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

King Thranduil did not like Blood Gulch. Aragorn could sense the intense dislike radiating off the elvenking as they strode cautiously into the dirty little town. He thought he knew why: King Thranduil, like most elves, was used to finery and neatness. He was accustomed to elegance and to everything being precise and, well, for lack of a better word, perfect. Elves had an annoying tendency to like everything to be perfect, and and even more annoying tendency to accomplish this perfection. Blood Gulch was low even by human standards, and the highest of human standards, Aragorn had found, were often little match for even moderate elven standards.

Thranduil had his hood down, contrary to Aragorn's wishes, stubbornly refusing to hide what he truly was. Aragorn mentally sighed, casting a sidelong glance at his companion, whose appearance was a thousand times more appealing than that of any man present at their current location. Blood Gulch also happened to be known for its…different types of men…those not necessarily interested in women. A fact which Aragorn had not felt a particular need to share with Thranduil. Elven moral standards were extremely high, and it was likely that Thranduil would have flat-out refused to enter the town at all had he known this little detail. Aragorn knew it was only a matter of time before Thranduil discovered Blood Gulch's…different…portion of the population—he was surprised that Thranduil had not mentioned the muttering and pointing going on as they walked the street—and thus was not remotely surprised at the awkward turn the conversation took when the pair headed to the inn for their supplies.

"Room for two?" the grinning idiot behind the desk inquired.

Aragorn shook his head. "Nay. We are in need of supplies; we'll not be staying the night."

"But you must!" insisted the man. "Can't eat if you don't sleep, can ye? No bed, no bread? Sleep fine, drink wine?"

This did not make the remotest bit of sense to Aragorn. In fact, this was one of the most ridiculous loads of nonsense he had heard in a while. He wondered if perhaps the man was drunk. The notion was not entirely unexpected.

"I think we will be able to eat quite well without sleeping," he said carefully, eyeing the man, who had just started to slide off his stool before pulling himself upright and grinning more widely than ever.

"Nope, nope, nope. Don't get no vittles unless you stay with us a little! Get soup, whoop de whoop!" He roared with laughter, apparently at his own humor, himself being the only party to find this amusing in the least.

"I—er—" Aragorn was taken aback. He had not encountered this before. "We may have no supplies unless we stay the night?" he inquired cautiously.

"Right-o, cherry-ho!" screamed the drunkard, peering happily at them. Aragorn avoided looking at Thranduil, but could only imagine the look of disgust on his royal elven face.

"Er," he said smartly again. "Well, then, we shall take a room…"

He ignored Thranduil's pointed glare and gestured for the man to show them the way.

"Right you are, yes sirree!" cackled the poor fool. He drew out a ring of keys.

"Follow me then, lads, there's ye goes," he said happily. They followed him down a narrow, dirty hallway until he stopped and opened one of the doors. Two tiny cots lay within. A rickety-looking chair beside an old wooden table upon which a sad little candle stood lit were the only other contents of the room.

"I'll call up some o' our best girls for ye, then, yes?" he beamed happily at them, pausing midstride to wait for their assent.

"That'll, er, not be necessary," Aragorn said quickly.

The man's eyes widened and Aragorn braced himself for what was likely to come next…

"Ma 'pologies, sirs! Didn't know ye swung that way, if ye knows what I means…I'll just show you to…"

And he seized Aragorn's forearm and dragged him quite cheerily to a different room. This one contained only one bed. Aragorn could not help but look at Thranduil this time and was entirely unsurprised at the spectacularly horrified look on his pretty, stuck-up face as the innkeeper's meaning sank in.

"No!" the king was shaking his head frantically. "No, we do not, er…swing that way…we would quite like the other room, er, sir…"

It was plain that Thranduil was having difficulty referring to this specimen as 'sir'.

But the innkeeper wouldn't have it. Drunk as he was he was quite convinced that the two did indeed swing that way, despite Thranduil's numerous useless assertions that he was married, quite happily so, and to a female, and Aragorn's insistence that the other room was quite suitable, he apparently did not care and it was with a cheery "have a guuuuud night, sirrahs!" that he waved dismissively at them as he disappeared back into the pub.

Frankly, Aragorn would have found it entirely amusing had he not been faced with the task of settling the irate and red-faced King of Mirkwood down. Not to mention having just been mistaken for…someone who swung that way. It didn't matter much to him, people would think what they would, but Thranduil was an entirely different matter.

"You must go back, Aragorn," the king insisted furiously. "Make it known to him we would prefer different sleeping arrangements!"

"Sorry, milord," Aragorn said, drawing the king in and swiftly shutting the door behind them. "It has been done. It's for but one night. Before light breaks the sky we can rise and seek supplies. I am quite certain that our friend shall be far too hung over to resist selling us as much food as we desire."

"Why," Thranduil growled. "Did you even agree to staying here? Áirúlas and Belthan shall be supposing our demise and—"

"My lord," Aragorn said calmly. "They are warriors and I do believe they know that sometimes situations arise. I am sure they will be faring well."

He started towards the single bed, took his bedding out of his pack and laid it at the foot of the bed.

"I shall sleep on the floor," he announced, thus cutting off any other argument Thranduil may have been cooking up. He glanced pointedly up at the king, who looked moody. "I will arise before the sun, my lord, and gather our supplies. If it is favorable to you I can then wake you and we can on our way."

"I am quite able to awake with you," said Thranduil crossly. "And you said that they would only sell us enough for the party number?"

"The man is far too drunk to remember anything like that," Aragorn said. "Tomorrow he'll be even worse."

At last Thranduil grudgingly lay upon the mattress, but not before he gingerly spread his own elven blanket upon it. Aragorn wished dearly for a portrait of the scene: the King of Mirkwood lying rigidly upon a hard human bed frame, proud face upturned, as if he felt showing comfort would be a sign that he was actually getting a good rest and thus that this human establishment might actually serve some purpose.

"Good night, Your Highness," Aragorn said softly into the darkness, after he had extinguished their candle.

There was a pause. Then, "Good night, Aragorn."

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The man shadowed by mist and unseen by the glazed eyes of the drunkards was possibly one of the only sober men in the town. And so it had to remain, at least for now. Perhaps, when this was all over, he could enjoy the uncouth luxury of clouded judgement, wild glee, happiness at absolutely nothing. But at the moment there was still a long road ahead of him, much work to be done, revenge to be had, lives...one life in particular...to be ruined.

A ranger to destroy.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

lín adar…ar adan--the man...the human...

Istan...Istan le gwarth--I know...I know the betrayer.

Thranduilion-al! Adan...--Son of Thranduil! The human...

Heb-ten…istan thurin…adan…ho u-man thia…--He is not…he is not what he seems… secret I know…he is not…

Istan--I know

Namaarie--Farewell

Sidh, mellon nin, gwador nin--Peace, my friend, my brother

Note: There is no particular significance to the two being forced to share a room, in case you're wondering. I added that into the mix because I wanted to show how drunk the innkeeper was, and what a nasty town it was. A fully incapable manager, automatically assuming they wanted to sleep with prostitutes, etc.

Please review…

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0