The Dark Hunt

Chapter One

by Bethuviel

Disclaimer: The estate of J.R.R. Tolkien owns all recognizable characters from the works of literature encompassing The Lord of the Rings. I have received no compensation for any work I have written and/or published on this site.

Author's note: All reviews, whether critical or applauding are appreciated.

Warning: This work contains material that may be offensive to some readers. It includes acts of depravity, addiction and severe moral decline. This story takes place before The Lord of the Rings Trilogy. In this work, I will explore the darker side of us all, using these personal favorite characters. Since little is written of this time period by Tolkien for these characters, I do not feel as though I am shredding canon. If you are a purist, this work of fiction is not for you.

oOo

Elrohir sat quietly on his unmade bed, looking at his twin brother, Elladan. He searched his living reflection, no longer amazed at the duplicate before him, and saw in his brother's eyes the storm that he felt brewing inside himself. A darkness had settled about both of them during the night and had brought a searing pain to surface of both of their souls; that pain etched deep lines upon their brows. Today was the anniversary of the day when their mother, Celebrain, had been stolen from them. That day, they had in a way, also lost their father, Lord Elrond of Imladris. His grief was like a thick heavy blanket that draped over his shoulders, its weight always on his mind. The scars from that day penetrated into his soul, aging the master of wisdom and lore, and was apparent to all Elves who looked upon him.

Celebrain had been set upon and kidnapped by the filthiest of vile creatures, orcs. Orcs were the twisted remains of elves that had been captured by the Dark Lord Morgoth; tortured until they had no resemblance of the beautiful creatures they had once been. The orc lived only to serve the dark lord, to kill, torture and abase any creature unfortunate to become one of their victims. To this end, Celebrain fell. Her company had been ambushed by orcs as she traveled to visit her parents in Lothlorien. Elrohir and Elladan had pursued the orcs and rescued her, but not before she had suffered great torments at the hands of her captors. Her sons had carried her broken body back to Imladris, to Elrond, her husband and a master of healing, who had saved her body, but her spirit had literally died to all of Middle Earth. She no longer found beauty in the lands of Middle Earth, or felt as though there was any purpose to her staying. Much to the dismay of her family, she began to fade, a slow and certain death for Elves. For a year, her family struggled to revive her spirit. At last, Elrond, fearing for the wellbeing of his wife, and with the support of his sons, personally escorted Celebrain to the Grey Havens. She set sail to Valinor, a land of peace and healing set apart by the Valar for the firstborn. The twins did not count the day of her sailing as the day they lost their mother, but the day she had been captured. To them, that was the day their mother's spirit died; the day she had abandoned them.

Inside Elrohir and Elladan, a seething hatred burned.

"Dan," said Elrohir.

"Ro," said Elladan.

The opening of their bedroom door interrupted their conversation. They whipped their heads around to see who had dared to invade their private room.

"I have come, my blood brothers. I also seek vengeance," said the blond Elf.

"Very well, Legolas, let us go forth and dispense a reckoning that will echo across all the world, even unto the city of Valimar, where the ancient ones will lament they had neither the courage nor the will to remove this scourge from the face of this good earth, leaving us, the Children, this cankerous inheritance. Eru Himself will squirm on his throne and take notice of our vengeance!" Elladan stood and embraced Legolas and Elrohir.

The sun had just crested the horizon as three beautiful but fell creatures rode out from Imladris. Elrond watched them ride away, secretly rejoicing in his three sons' mission. Though Legolas was not a son of his loins, Elrond had adopted him in his heart many years previously, when the Elf's own mother had died. Now, he wished he had the freedom to join them. He desired the feel of his enemies' blood on his sword, the freedom to send their tortured souls to the black void that waited for them. He sat down upon a bench in his courtyard and utterly despised the responsibilities that held him captive.

Legolas felt the wind in his silver blond hair and loved it. He was perfectly in tune with his horse, Aria, and felt each stride of her powerful limbs. Aria was a mighty warhorse, especially trained to fight alongside her master. Iron lipped shoes had made her hooves deadly, and she wore armor fashioned of mithril, the hardest known metal in all of Middle Earth. Impenetrable and lightweight, it covered her head, neck, body and legs to protect her in battle, but did not interfere with her or her rider's movements. Legolas had begged his father, King Thranduil, to allow him to accompany the twins. Thranduil was no fool, and knew what his son was truly asking of him. Under Legolas' constant harassing barrage, he at last consented, knowing that if he did not, Legolas would simply go without his blessing.

Legolas watched the two elves riding in front of him. They had been somewhat of a curiosity to him, for twins among the Firstborn were rare. For all the loneliness of being an only child, he was glad he did not have a twin. He liked being unique, but he did not like being motherless. He felt anger grow from the darkest depths of his soul. He allowed the emotion to slowly seep into his veins until at last the fury was just below the surface, waiting to be unleashed by him. For a brief moment, Legolas felt fear that such rage could dwell within him. He quickly pushed the fear aside, savoring the exhilaration of the freedom he was currently enjoying. He was free from all the accepted rules of behavior for one of his station. This time he would not order someone else to take care of the inconvenience, but would dirty his own hands. Legolas smiled with satisfaction.

"To the battle," he said, urging Aria forward.

Legolas watched the black manes of Elrohir and Elladan flying free behind their heads. He understood their fury at their loss, for he felt it too. Celebrain had been a mother to him, the only mother he had ever known. He remembered her tenderness, her gentle words as she caressed and embraced him as one of her own children. Her laugh still echoed in his ears and heart. The rage he felt over her loss was as an emptiness within him, as raw as the day it had been created, and could never be filled by another. Onward he rode with his brothers, the only ones he knew, the only ones he had ever had.

Elladan rode hard, impatient to draw his blades upon his foes. His normally bright eyes were dark, his features stern. His every muscle was toned, begging to release his chained energy. His thoughts were focused and strayed not from his goal. Onward he urged his horse. "Onward, take me to them. To my purpose."

Elrohir rode powerfully, gracefully, enjoying the morning light. A mirthless smile played upon his lips. Anyone looking upon his face, upon that smile, would have run away begging for death to save them; for the fear that such a smile engendered drove out all hope of mercy.

Onward rode the three-elven lords, all of them seasoned warriors. The three assassins rode as the red sun rose ever higher in the sky.

The trees pulled their branches up and away, making clear paths for their beloved friends. Birds forgot songs of mirth and mating, instead they chose to sing in furious staccato to encourage and strengthen the elves. All of nature in Rivendell knew of the atrocity against Celebrain and grieved for her loss, but on this day, they rejoiced that her sons rode out to champion the honor of the lost lady.

Part 2:

Legolas urged Aria to come up beside the twins. They rode without the laughter that had always accompanied them: Elrohir in the center, Elladan on the right, and Legolas on the left, each lost in his own dark thoughts of the fell deeds they would perform this day. Without speaking, they extended their senses, looking, listening, and feeling for signs of danger... or of prey.

Silently, a red-tailed hawk took flight and flew above them in the distance, leading the deadly hunters to their prey. Not two miles distant, the hawk circled once and flew back to Rivendell. Elrohir squinted his eyes and noted the position of the hawk before it had begun its return flight. His heart quickened and he laid his head on the neck of his horse. Legolas and Elladan mimicked him, knowing the hour had come. As they rode through the woods, the three warriors quickly made ready for an assault on their enemies.

Elrohir and Elladan withdrew their swords from their sheaths and held them ready for the battle that they craved. Legolas broke away from the twins, seized his bow and took an arrow from his quiver, preparing to support them from higher ground.

Slowly, the sun began its descent, and the wind ceased to blow. The songs of the birds ceased, and nothing of nature moved. Rabbit and deer alike crouched and hid. Wolves crept into their dens and boars cowered in the thickets. Arda waited. The three broke from the cover of the woods and ploughed into a band of orcs that were just breaking camp.

Legolas let his bow sing as he used his knees to guide Aria to a grassy knoll he had spotted within shooting range of the camp. There he would loose his arrows upon the orcs. Aria reared up, striking orcs with her deadly hooves as she made her way to the knoll. She was as lethal as the archer who rode her. When they arrived, she turned, allowing her master to use their position to its fullest advantage. Legolas tightened his knees against her flanks, becoming one with his beloved horse, loosing his arrows with precision brought by years of dedicated practice.

He fired relentlessly, without mercy, until his quiver was empty. Shouldering his bow, he withdrew his long knives. He smiled and kneed Aria briskly.

"Into the battle," he said, urging her forward. She charged into the fray, her armored chest shoving the orcs out of her way. Soon she and her master were beside the twins.

Elrohir brought his sword down and crushed the skull of the first orc that came at him. Blood splattered onto his face and he smiled wickedly, enjoying the warm feel of the liquid against his skin. His fury was unleashed at last and he reveled in it, slashing at another orc in anticipation. Snatching a short sword from his side with his free hand, he succumbed to the adrenaline flowing through his veins as he lashed out at his enemies in a frenzied rage.

Elladan swung his sword in an arc, severing the head from the neck of an orc. Tasting its blood in his mouth, he licked his lips and laughed. Again and again he slashed, stabbed, and mutilated his prey. An arrow whizzed past his head and he laughed again, knowing that Legolas had protected his back. Swinging his sword, he dropped another orc.

Within moments, Legolas was at their side, his long knives singing a deadly song with his brother's swords. The three dismounted and formed a tight circle, surrounded by twenty orcs. The three warriors fought, slaying the orcs, glowing in their combined fury. Their eyes flashed, their mouths pulled tight in furious grimaces, showing satisfaction with every orc felled. Together they danced to their song, a dark ecstasy of death, and they savored the flavor.

Legolas ran his fingers along the flat of the blade of one of his long knives, wiping off the blood. He stood there in dark fascination, looking at the black, viscous liquid. The smell was not the coppery tang of the blood of Men and Elves, but a rotten stink that reminded him of the midden heap at the back of the knackers' yard that was about a mile away from Esgaroth.

He never could explain why he did it, but at that moment, it seemed right to lift his hand up and spread the blood of his fallen foes onto his face. Parting his fingers, he drew his befouled right hand across his forehead with deliberate slowness; then down his left cheek, then down the right. His fingers dabbed his chin with a stamp of victory. Legolas brought the other of his long knives to his mouth, and ran his tongue along the length of the blade. The blood was bitter, but he rubbed the roof of his mouth with his tongue and swallowed. It was the taste of victory.

Elrohir made a pile of dead orcs, climbed and stood on it, then turned to the others. He held his hand out to Elladan and helped him mount the grotesque hill. Legolas climbed up and looked at the twins. Together they raised their swords, and Legolas raised his long knives. They loosed a growl from the depths of their souls; their faces contorted in furious triumph and continued the cry until it echoed over the lands.

Part 3:

Elrohir remembered how the skull of the orc felt when it cracked as his sword split it, the vibrations dancing up the blade to his hands. The warm splatter on his face a split second later and the intense emotion he had felt with that sensation. He had not ceased in his deathly ministrations until his body was bathed in the blood of his mother's tormentors. He remembered laughing, but not with mirth, with something darker, something hidden in the deep wells of his soul. Allowing this new sentiment to conquer any remaining compassion within him, Elrohir embraced his new identity. He was no longer the honorable son of an Elven Lord, but had morphed into a deceptively beautiful, deadly and dark Elf possessing no mercy, and without pity.

He climbed onto the pile of dead bodies in front of him after the battle and turned to help his brother up. Legolas quickly followed them up the morbid mound and they stood in victory. He saw, in his mind's eye, the face of his mother; the expression of horror that had marred her delicate features when he had found her. He grasped his swords tighter. As if on cue and in unison, they raised their weapons into the air and cried out. They were bound together now, for all the ages of time, because of what they had committed that night.

Elrohir let his rage spill into his cry as the night carried the sound up into the sky. As he remembered each slash, arc, jab and stab of his swords, the face of his mother wavered in his mind, blending with the killing of the orcs. He could feel their blood still on him, running in streaks down his face, his hands, and in his dark hair. Licking his lips, he tasted the bitter victory. He inhaled and cried out again, his every muscle straining with the effort.

Knowing this bitterness, Elrohir accepted it and ached for more. It was a hunger that grew within him, even as he cried out. It filled every ounce of his being, and he savored the flavor of it. He accepted this part of him, this dangerous, killing side of him. This vengeful assassin. It was a sharp contrast to the elven beauty he possessed, and he knew it. He delighted in the fact. Closing his mouth, he stood for a moment in silence.

Hearing Legolas moan, he knew that he was not alone in his love of this carnage. He knew he had to have more, to feel his blades cutting through that evil flesh of the orc. He had to taste their blood; his hunger for it was as urgent as his need to breathe: he would never be free of it. Understanding what he was, he loved himself for accepting it. Reaching out, he put his arm around Legolas' neck, pulling his friend to him. Elladan moved closer in, completing the circle.

Elladan watched his brother climbing on the dead orcs. He had never felt more at peace with himself. Taking his brother's hand, he joined him. Legolas climbed swiftly up after him. He knew what to do. They raised their weapons into the air, and cried out roughly into the night. Elladan felt his muscles tense from the exertion as he screamed his fury. It felt good to him.

He remembered the anguish he had felt when they had found his mother. Too late to save her from the torments and tortures of the orcs, too late to save her honor. It had made him feel helpless and stripped of his manhood. So mighty a warrior as he, helpless to save the one in all of Middle Earth that had meant the most to him. The horror had ripped through him like a jagged saw, tearing away whatever pity was left in him. He had nursed a growing void inside him, filling it with seething hatred. Today he had unleashed that rage with red fury. He had found an outlet for it: killing orcs.

He did not feel surprise at that knowledge, but accepted the fact as one does that the sun rises and sets each day. Having been trained as a warrior, his skills were honed to perfection, and in perfection, he had slain his enemy. Drawing another breath, he continued his scream of rage. He felt the muscles in his abdomen harden as he forced his lungs to exhale, fueling his cry. The blood on him was cooling now, but it still gave him the comfort he sought. He could remember the taste. Bitter. Just like the souls of the orcs. He wished he could fill a flagon of it, toast their dead carcasses, and drain it dry. Bloodlust swelled up inside him, an unquenchable desire for dealing death. He embraced the desire as he closed his mouth and hung his head. Seeing Elrohir putting his arm around Legolas' neck, he stepped closer to his brother. Their three foreheads rested on one another. These were his brothers, one by the same parents, all by blood. It had bonded them. He knew this as he looked into their eyes, noting the changes he saw within them, knowing that something inside him had changed too. This night would not be the last. They would continue on this journey of theirs, for as long as it took, and they would do it together as one. He squeezed their shoulders, and they his.

He saw the sneer on Legolas' face. It would haunt him all his days. Then he heard Legolas speak, declaring aloud his own desire: "Let's hunt orc." Elation swam through his head and heart, filtering through to his soul. Yes, he would hunt the orc relentlessly. He followed his brothers to the horses and they mounted them. He sheathed his sword, and twitched, impatient. Elladan already craved the next battle. He and his brothers turned and rode into the night.

Legolas had joined the twins. His skin crawled with electricity, his every nerve drawn taunt. Even in his fell mood, he recognized that he felt aroused. His pupils were enlarged, hiding the color of his eyes. The tingling in his nether regions teased him and he felt the savage need for release; rough, fast and hard. He gritted his teeth, adjusted his leggings, and marveled at this new twist in his hunger for revenge. This was the last emotion he expected to feel in connection with such extreme violence. He had never viewed females as a means to an end, but had always treated them with a reverent respect. However, in this moment, he knew had one been present, he would have thrown her to the ground and forcefully taken her. He did not feel disgust in this revelation, but perverted pleasure. Then a sneer marred his face. He would hunt them to the ends of Arda and only in their extinction, would he purge all anger from himself. He would have his revenge for the loss of Celebrain and her motherly love. He would make trophies of the putrid orcs and fill their black hearts with a fear greater than they possessed for their master. He would be both beautiful and terrible in his dealing of vengence. Legolas leaned his forehead against those of the twins and stated what they themselves had not the tongue to say, "Let's hunt orc."

The sun sank beneath the horizon, and the quiet of the night enveloped them. A spirit of malice rode hard over Arda seeking prey. The souls of the vengeful were tainted with a black evil. Ragged tendrils stretched over the before innocent hearts of the three warriors. The fury and lust of their soiled pysche's feasted upon the vehement destruction executed by their own lethal hands.

oOo