Notes: Onesizefitsall and Zane's Girlfriend, I don't know what kind of pain Legolas is in. Technically, Aragorn was more injured in the movie, but Legolas got a few facial wounds. This is more of a spoof off of fanfics that like to put Aragorn and Legolas in lots of pain.
Lily Lindsey-Aubery, they don't want to save Galadriel, couldn't you tell? :P (But Sauron might be wanting them to by now.)
Random FYI: Oops, I guess the trolls were OCs. I'll have to work them in again later and give them canon status.
Content Advisory: Warning. This chapter rated T for mild action violence and some menace. (Not really, but I like content advisories.)
Chapter 8: In the Camps
Glorfindel awoke in a general atmosphere that verged on complete darkness. The only ray of light was a jaundiced beam that probed half-heartedly through a tiny grilled window about twenty feet up in one of the four stone walls. Its light did not catch a single dust mote or passing insect; only a vapour of lifeless particles that seemed to hang permanently in motionless limbo.
He moved and groaned; then, finding he was not fettered, he slid tentatively forward to see how far the limits of his cell extended. His foot touched a pool of questionable liquid that had puddled up around the drain in the middle of the floor and he drew back quickly, scraping his shoe on the flagstones in an unsuccessful effort to sanitise it.
Moving more cautiously, he stretched his arms out on either side, feeling for the walls. His fingers came in contact with them at about arm's length on either side, making him feel a sudden surge of claustrophobia. He tilted his head back and tried to locate the ceiling, but the blank black space above him was as impenetrable as a portal into infinity. Were it not for the window, he would have felt as if he were in well, and at least a hundred feet underground.
All this effort was to some purpose of course; namely the dark and devious enterprise of escape. So far there seemed at least three possible exits: the window, the door (he supposed there was one somewhere), and the drain. Glorfindel stood up and, closing his eyes and turning his face towards the light, breathed deeply to combat the sick feeling every elf experiences when trapped in a small space.
"You'll be all right," he told himself. "I'll get you out of here somehow. Now think. Think. Think. Think. What's the best way to proceed?"*
He could not concentrate, however, because of the nagging thought that kept popping into his head: "Was Arwen really as bad as this?"
There was a jingling and then a loud clanging somewhere in the wall to his right and he heard a metal door slam against the wall. Someone stood in the open doorway shaking a large ring of keys.
"Come on, you slug," said an orcish voice. "Move out of there."
"But I've scarcely been here long at all," said Glorfindel, who had hoped to at least make a more thorough survey of the cell before being moved to a possibly more impregnable one.
"No cheek. Get out here, or you'll wish you had."
Glorfindel followed his jailer down the stone passage and out into the semi-obscurity of a Mordor noon. The sky had a permanent yellow cast and the air felt heavy and sticky. Glorfindel hoped nervously that the dirty suspension would not adhere to his hair. They walked about a mile and a half down a dusty, rock-strewn road until they reached a high chain link fence, topped by razor wire and bedizened with high-voltage warnings.
"What, anover one?"
Glorfindel glanced austerely at the gatekeeper who was surveying him in a bored manner.
"All right, get inside, Goldilocks," said the orc, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
He stepped obediently through the spiked iron gate and into a scene of utter horribleness. As far as the eye could see stretched rows of huts, obviously thrown together hastily and without even the most primitive of amenities (running water, heating, and glass in the windows to name a few). A long line of elves, men, and dwarves, with an occasional hobbit, all chained together, filed out through a gate in one wall.
A small snaga orc stood nearby, watching him curiously.
"You're new, ain't you?" he asked.
"Where are they taking them?" asked Glorfindel.
"To the mines, to mine ore for his overlordship. That's the second shift leaving."
"Poor wretches."
The orc scratched his ear and cocked his head on one side. "They're not so bad off," he said. "The mines ain't so bad as the smelting furnaces. Now those are beastly. You don't want to get sent there, mate."
"How do you keep from being sent there?" asked Glorfindel.
"Well, what did you get sent here for?"
"Escaping."
"You ought to have stayed put. If you misbehave in the labour camps, you get sent here to the correction camps, and if you misbehave here, you get sent on to the deaf camps. No one misbehaves there."
Glorfindel followed the small orc's gaze out towards the great, black mountain in the centre of the Mordorian plain from which the greater part of the thick atmosphere seemed to originate.
"Is that where the furnaces are?" he asked in horror.
"Naow. That's where they send the bodies."
Glorfindel tried to speak but found that the atmosphere had affected his throat adversely.
"Come on, I'll show you to your billets," said the orc.
He showed Glorfindel to one of the huts, which proved to be filled with bunk beds without blankets or mattresses, and no other furniture at all. After Glorfindel had deposited his very meagre bundle on one of the beds they went to the kitchens where lunch was being served. An enormous uruk was dishing food out of one of the huge soup pots.
"What is it?" asked Glorfindel suspiciously, looking at the thick, dark matter in his bowl. One never knew with Mordor food exactly what one was getting.
"If you don't like it you can go wivout, shrimp," said the uruk.
"I'm Glorfindel of Rivendell," said Glorfindel with dignity. He was not used to being called names. Everyone had always taken him seriously.
"Rivendell?" said the uruk. He seemed to be trying to remember the name. "Rivendell? Oh, I know. It's that shoddy joint up in the Misty Mountains, isn't it?"
"It's not shoddy."
"Oh, I fought it was the one what was run by the half-breed quack they call Elrond."
"Don't call Lord Elrond names. He's one of the foremost physicians of Middle Earth."
"Has he ever cured you?" asked the uruk, hitting Glorfindel over the head with the spoon.
"Touch me again and I'll stick that spoon down your throat, scarface," said Glorfindel.
"What? You called me scarface?" roared the orc, flinging his weapon on the ground with such force that it made a small crater. "Take off your shirt, elf scum!"
Glorfindel was genuinely shocked. "Take off my shirt?" he said. "How vulgar!"
The orc had already taken off his own breastplate, revealing a chest that resembled a muscle suit. Glorfindel took a step back. The orc was about twice his own size and had extremely well-defined abdominal muscles, while the only thing well-defined about Glorfindel's chest was his rib cage.
"You called me scarface!" repeated the uruk unnecessarily. He swung his fist at Glorfindel, who ducked.
"Enough!" shouted Glorfindel, growing angry. "I am a vanya, you dull creature. You are all of you beneath me, and I will not be bullied -"
He was interrupted by another swing from the uruk, which he dodged with less success.
"Ugluk's at it again!" shouted a snaga and a crowd of orcs immediately collected around the combatants, all shouting insults and encouragements. Several of the more enterprising began taking bets, with as much as ten to one against Glorfindel.
Ugluk made another swipe, but howled as Glorfindel blocked the blow.
"Nine block," said Glorfindel smugly. "I've studied Taekwondo."
"Well I know knockdown Karate," said Ugluk, bringing his right foot into contact with Glorfindel's shoulder with lethal force.
Glorfindel staggered back, but as Ugluk lunged at him he caught the uruk by the wrist and flipped him in a stunning 360 degree spin, bringing him down on his back.
"Judo," he said.
"Ju-jitsu," said Ugluk, grabbing Glorfindel's leg and twisting it from under him.
Glorfindel landed on his face and Ugluk leaped to his feet.
"That was fairly impressive," said Glorfindel, as Ugluk rushed at him. "But I'll bet you don't know Savate."
He threw one leg up and caught Ugluk square in the ribs, flinging him backwards. Ugluk executed a graceful cartwheel and landed on his feet, grinning.
"You probably don't know Capoeira," he said.
The two opponents faced each other, breathing hard and perspiring.
"We'll never be done wiv vis," said Ugluk, mopping his forehead. "We're too evenly matched. I'll have to finish it the proper way."
He snatched a sword from a nearby orc and swung at Glorfindel. Glorfindel ducked and, sweeping up the stew pot, flung it at Ugluk's head with elven accuracy.
Ugluk fell to the ground unconscious and all the orcs who had bet on Glorfindel cheered.
"Ha," said Glorfindel. "I ought to have told you I've slain a balrog."
Just then a nazgul appeared. "What's this?" he demanded in a rasping voice. "Fighting amongst prisoners?"
"He started it," said Glorfindel.
"Yeh," said another orc, who foresaw money to be made off of Glorfindel as the camp's new prizefight champion. " 'E was only complainin' about the food."
The nazgul glowered. "You're the one who was sent here this morning, weren't you? Troublemaker! The master wants to see you."
"What will he do to me?" asked Glorfindel, as he was marched towards the gate.
"Send you to the death camps, probably," the nazgul replied.
* Yes, Glorfindel is schizophrenic. It comes of having multiple lifetimes, I suppose. Anyway, he got used to talking to himself in the Halls of Mandos where he didn't have anyone else to talk to.