Elrond's POV Elrond stared down at the pale elf beneath him as guards, drawn by their King's frantic cries for help, rushed into the room. Legolas looked young in his unconscious state, the implications hitting Elrond hard. The slave was young. Much younger than his actions showed. This elf truly was mature beyond his years. And now, here he laid not much older than a mere elfling, bleeding and beaten within an inch of his life. The head guard kneeled by him, quickly shooting questions about his King's well-being. Elrond dismissed their concerns with a harsh wave of his hand. Someone brought in a torch, chasing away the oppressive shadows and bathing the room in sudden light. The sight that met their eyes was gruesome.
Blood was splattered along the walls, staining as high as twice an elves height. More of the crimson liquid was excessively pooled underneath their feet. Long blonde strings were strewn about haphazardly, some rosy, having been discolored from the elf's essence of life. The sight of Legolas himself tore a gasp of pure disturbance from every elf present. The most eye catching injury was surely the least life threatening.
The young elf's golden tresses were shorn off haggardly, some spots nothing but stubble along the tender scalp. The Lord's eyes welled up with tears. For an elf to lose its hair was unconceivable. And with Legolas a former Prince of a great kingdom, it was unbearable. Only the orcs were low enough to take away the elven sign of life and pride. The blonde strings were all that were left of Legolas' beautiful mane. It would take years to reverse the damage done, if he managed to live that long.
The pale face was littered in deep dark bruises; drawn into a grimace of pain even in unconsciousness. The once elegant nose was bent almost sideways, caked with dried blood. The edges of Legolas' mouth were raw, probably from something that inhibited his screams. The thought pulled a shudder from the Rivendell Lord. Steeling himself for more, he looked back at his son's slave and continued his examination. His left arm was twisted at an obscene angle and swollen nearly thrice compared to the other. Both dainty wrists were covered in harsh lacerations. But where did all this blood come from? Surely it wasn't from any of these injuries. Gently as he could manage, Elrond turned the elf onto his stomach.
Sharp hisses of horror and rage rang through the room. One guard cursed loudly. The Lord could feel his stomach twisting at the sight, bile threatening to burst forth. Swallowing hard against the feeling, he assessed the damage. Legolas' back was nothing more than stripped meat. Large chunks of skin and muscle were visible to even the most oblivious eye. To the more observant eye, bone shone through in a stark contrast to the dark red blood. The wounds were still sluggishly oozing blood despite having obviously been there a while, as revealed from the other injuries.
"My Lord." The softly spoken words pulled Elrond from his shadowed thoughts and he glanced up at the speaker. "We must move him. The dungeons are surely not helping his condition." The statement jerked the Lord into action. Yes, Legolas was not dead yet. And while he continued to breathe and his heart beat, however faint it may be, he would do whatever it took to save the elf. Forget the others who would think saving a mere slave was illogical and unroyal-like behavior. He was a healer above a King, and he would fight to keep this elf alive.
"Someone run and prepare a bed in the healing wing. I want the finest, freshest sheets available on that bed by the time I get there. I need a litter here now! Move!" All of the guards stood there in shock a moment before bursting into action. They all scrambled out, leaving the head guard, the guard holding the torch, the healer, and his patient. The head guard, Allain, he remembered distantly helped to turn Legolas onto his back again to ease his strained breathing. Elrond propped the elf's head and shoulders on his lap to keep the deep lacerations from pressing against the floor and causing more pain.
All three of their faces were set in grim determination as they waited for the litter that would make it possible for them to transfer the ailing ex Prince to the healing wing. Loud footsteps met their ears just seconds before two guards burst into the cell, carrying a long wooden board between them. Someone had the thought to drape a thick sheet over it to protect against splinters and had also thrown a pillow on it.
"Set it down beside him. Allain," he said glancing up to the elf. "I'm want you to grab his leg while I get his top half and on the count of three, we're going to scoot him onto the litter. The guard nodded, positioning himself at Legolas' feet and grasping the limp legs in his arms. Elrond slid his arms under Legolas' back, wincing in sympathy as his hands pressed not only on the crude wounds, but the broken shoulder as well.
"Alright. Here we go. One…two…three!" The two grunted, struggling under the dead weight of their burden, but managed to slide him gently onto the board. It was immediately lifted and hauled off, trailed closely by the healer as his mind whirled with the supplies he would need.
The doors to the healing wing crashed open, giving entrance to the King of Rivendell and his patient. Legolas was quickly slid from the wood to the bed as Elrond scrambled about grabbing bandages and a bowl. A pot of water was already on the fire boiling, drawing a sigh of relief from the healer. Someone had anticipated he would need it.
Grabbing the pot and pouring it into the bowl, he dumped a cloth in it, starting the arduous task of trying to save the Slave Prince's life.
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Dun dun dun! I have FINALLY finished this chapter. The next chapter is going to be awesome! Thanks to everyone who reviewed and waited patiently for this chapter. I'll post more as soon as I can.