A/N: Enjoy! Muse is kind of sick...so this chapter might not be as good as I could make it.

WARNING: Torture Injuries. Healing themes. If this isn't your squick, skip this chapter.

The hiss of a whip through the air...

He arched his back, crying out, a high, keening scream tearing from his lips as the plaited leather strip connected with his bloodied shoulder blades. The pink welts began to split open, and the whip hovered in midair, flicking almost daintily over his torn flesh. He shrieked again when the butt end of the whip was dug deliberately into a large welt, and tried to writhe away. Pain, dull, foggy pain, prickled unpleasantly up from his numb wrists. He was tied to a rafter, toes barely able to touch the ground, his back and shoulders aching from repeated blows and his own weight. And then he heard a voice cry out, Amariel's distraught shouts, and he didn't want to look. He knew what they would do to her, but he also knew that they would leave him alone now that she had their attention. He heard the sound of a whip striking against skin, heard Amariel's sob of pain, and closed his eyes against the bitter tears. He was breaking, every particle of him was shattering into pieces with every blow they inflicted on his friend.

He shot awake, every inch of him reliving the wounds, the catcalls, the jeers of the men who had brutalized him. He began to cry, silently, hiding his tears in the crook of his elbow as he buried his face in his pillow. The tears burned, sizzled down his cheeks, and his throat felt blocked and raw. He wanted to scream, wanted to sob, and wanted to run all at once. But instead he just lay there, shaking with spasms as he cried, gradually becoming aware that the scent of his pillow was one of mint. The scent was refreshing - crisp, clean, sharp, biting into his senses like the nip of a friendly cat. It was all he could do just to breathe, to hold a breath of air in his lungs and slowly let it out, sipping the air between his teeth. The smell of mint was fragile, skittering completely out of sight at times, other times coming back strong and powerful, overwhelming him in minty smells. He realized dimly that he was warm and comfortable - the mattress beneath him was thick and soft, cradling him like a babe in swaddling cloths. The two quilts on top of him were warming and pocketing him in a hot pouch of body heat. He hadn't been this warm in years - the last time he had been this warm was when he was sent out to the fields to hoe potatoes for one of his Masters. But this was a gentle, loving warmth, and he relished it for a moment, savoring the thickness of the quilts and the downy softness of the mattress. He heard someone stir in the next room and he sat up, blinking hard. The room was dustily dark, shadows painting gauzy shields over objects, making them appear larger and more menacing. He was used to darkness, and his eyes adjusted accordingly. He heard the distinct step of someone, and knew it must be Nimrodel coming to wake him up. The door was knocked on twice, rapped with small knuckles, and he remembered he had locked his door. He scrambled out of bed and unlocked it, trying not to cower. Would he be punished for locking it?

Nimrodel breezed in the room, carrying in a whirlwind of fresh air. Her chestnut hair was loose over her shoulders, and her eyes seemed slightly tired from the day's work. Automatically, Legolas checked her for signs of hard labor. She seemed a little worn out, but her hands were not smeared with blood, her face was not overly pale, and she still had a spring in her step. When she turned to him, blue eyes sparkling, he felt suddenly shy. "You slept well?" she asked, cocking her head a little to the side. Legolas was astonished. She was concerned for his welfare? Why did she want to know if he had slept well? Was she making sure he was strong enough for some brutal task? Seeing that she was waiting for an answer, Legolas spoke up hastily, unused to speaking his mind.

"Ah, y-yes, lady," he stammered. "Very well, thank you." Nimrodel patted his arm, saw that he flinched, and gestured to the curtain.

"Is Amariel up yet? Lord Elrond wants to see both of you." she said.

A cold feeling of dread stole over him, winter chill creeping over frosted ground. Here came the real task - pleasing their new Master. The good food, the warm beds, the new clothes, it had all been a ploy! Even Nimrodel had been lying to him. Amariel had been right - nobody could be trusted. He shied away from her and shook his head silently, steeling himself for what was to come. His wounds still ached, throbbing pain lancing through him like the brands of a hot knife. He didn't want to see anyone - he wanted to curl in a ball and sleep for eternity. Nimrodel frowned at his sudden change in expression, and opened her mouth to say something. At the last minute, she changed her mind and turned, pulling aside the curtain. Amariel, of course, was already up, having heard long ago Nimrodel approaching. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, scarred eyes probing the air with the curious, delicate look of a doctor looking for infection. When Nimrodel came into the room, she stood up and backed off half a step, one hand sightlessly groping behind her to see if there was any obstruction that she might bump into. Nimrodel smiled reassuringly at her. "Amariel, Lord Elrond wishes to see both of you," she said. "Come, it won't take long. He won't hurt you."

That's what they all say, Amariel thought, but kept it to herself. She knew the punishment for a slave speaking her mind. Reluctantly, she allowed Nimrodel to lead her by the elbow and went back into Legolas's room to collect the frightened blond ellon. Together, the three of them made their way down the hallway, passing open doorways which showed rooms filled with books, other doors leading straight outside onto a stone walkway, and still other doors showing elaborate dining halls where young ellyn were playing a game of chance. Amariel, naturally, couldn't see all this, but she could smell the clean dusk air, hear the sleepy twitters of retiring birds, and hear the elated shouts of winning ellyn. She gripped Legolas's hand tighter as they went up a set of stairs - stairs had always proved difficult for her to maneuver, but she managed with only a few missteps. Nimrodel led them faultlessly through the winding maze of corridors and pathways, and then finally drew to a stop next to a large, dark, polished door. She knocked on it twice, and there was the deep voice of Elrond answering. "Come!" he called out without opening the door.

Nimrodel opened the door and led Amariel and Legolas inside, prying herself out of Legolas's blood-out-of-stone grip. With a quick little curtsy, she left the room and shut the door behind her. Legolas and Amariel stayed rock still, unsure what to do. Elrond had his back to them, mixing together some ingredients in a small wooden bowl. The familiar gritch, gritch, gritch of a mortal and pestle soon joined the bowl stirrings, and then Elrond turned. He was still wearing his silver robe, but it was unbuttoned and he shrugged it off his shoulders easily. Beneath, it was a simple white tunic which left his forearms exposed, and Legolas realized with a flame of terror that Elrond was broad-shouldered, wide-chested, and very imposing. But his gray eyes were concerned and kind. "Relax, little one," he soothed. "I am here to check your wounds."

Amariel squeezed Legolas's hand in a message for him to keep silent. She swallowed. "May I have permission to speak, Lord?" she said in a soft voice. Elrond frowned, still angry that they always had to ask permission to speak. Elves did not come by this naturally, he thought furiously. They had been beaten and whipped into these cringing elves that couldn't speak unless ordered.

"You may always speak," he ordered quietly, firmly. "Never allow anyone to tell you that you cannot."

Amariel licked her lips dryly. "My wounds are not serious, my lord, but please, if it pleases your Grace, would you set my companion's foot? He has injured it on the trails, and it is giving him trouble." she said in a half-whisper, almost expecting to be struck for her impertinence. Legolas looked at her, horror-stricken. She had just passed him over to this stranger, given him willingly, to a person neither of them knew! He backed away from Elrond, who made a soothing motion with his hands.

"I will not hurt you, child," he said in Common. "Here, sit. I shall bandage your foot." Legolas sat down shakily on a comfortable divan, his leg hovering in midair. Elrond gathered his ingredients from the desk and knelt before his foot, long, dexterous fingers unsnapping the ties on his boots. Gently, he worked the boot off the foot, and had to swallow back a growl of rage when he saw the bruised, swollen toes, and the mottled skin of his ankle. It was bent at a peculiar angle, indicating that it had been sprained quite badly, and he examined it with the feather-light touch of an experienced healer. Legolas whimpered slightly, but Elrond left the foot alone and reached for his herbs. He crumbled a few of them into a chalice of warm water and handed it to Legolas. "Drink," he ordered. "It is a potion to numb to pain." Tentatively, he drank it down in three gulps, then put it aside and watched Elrond fearfully. The Lord of Imaldris moved quickly, assuredly, his movements confident and his touches light. He knew exactly what he was doing. A long strip of bandage was sprinkled liberally with a paste of some sort of liquid, and then he began wrapping Legolas's foot tightly. Another strip was added to the damp one, this one perfectly dry. The bandage was neat and tight, and the pain was lessening, both from the potion and from the proper bandage. Elrond looked at him in the eyes. "Do you have any other injuries you wish me to look at?" he asked carefully. He didn't want to frighten the ellon, but if he had injuries that needed tending, he would heal them without a moment's hesitation.

Legolas glanced at Amariel, quaking. Amariel couldn't see the expression on his face, but she knew he must be terrified. She nodded once, and he swallowed. "M-my back," he said in a whisper. Elrond's gaze never wavered, calm gray eyes looking straight at Legolas's stricken blue ones.

"Will you take your tunic off for me, child?" he asked in a slow, soothing tone. Legolas gulped and gathered the hem of his tunic, pulling it over his head and piling it next to him. This, of course, revealed the unnatural scars, the bad chafing up and down his wrists, the angry red welt on his neck, the bruises scattering his body. But his back was the worst - white scars crossed his back, but fresh wounds, only slightly scabbed, were marring the delicate flesh. Elrond set his teeth and carefully lay the ellon on his stomach, holding his shoulder lightly to soothe him. Legolas was shaking like his namesake in a stiff autumn breeze, and Elrond made a few soothing noises in the back of his throat. Elrond dipped his fingers into his concoction that was in the wooden bowl and began rubbing it against the fresh wounds. Legolas jumped, and then slowly allowed Elrond to work the potion into his torn skin, the pain slowly ebbing into numbness as the potions began to work. He felt sleepy - naturally sleepy, not drug-induced, and he fought to stay awake. With the pain releasing him from its hatefully fiery fingers, sleep was demanding his attention. He hardly noticed when Elrond sat him up to roll several long strips of bandages around his torso and helped him lace his tunic back on. "Keep your foot elevated," he instructed the nodding-off ellon. "Do not get out of bed tomorrow - I shall instruct Elrohir to bring you a tray of food."

Amariel had stood still as a rock during all these proceedings, and went stiff as a board when Elrond approached her. She sensed Legolas's tired complacency, and instantly panicked, thinking he had been drugged. She fought back tears as Elrond turned her cheek with his hand. "And what about you? Do you have an injury that needs tending?" he asked. She shook her head frantically, backing away, the block in her throat preventing her from speaking. She stumbled backwards and cried out a little, her hand going upwards to protect her face. Elrond caught her wrist and examined it, seeing the deep chafing, worse than Legolas's. "You were dragged," he said, voice slightly hoarse with horror. "You were bound to a horse and dragged."

She shook her head, lying through her teeth. "No, my lord, please," she whispered. Elrond led her over to the divan where Legolas had sat and carefully rolled back her sleeves. He crumbled a handful of dried leaves into another goblet of warm water and handed it to her.

"Drink this," he said. "It's the same potion I gave your friend."

Amariel took a reckless chance. "My lord...please, I do not like potions. They do not agree with me. I can...I can take whatever you give me." This is it, she said to herself. He will surely punish her now. But he said nothing, merely set the goblet aside and began bandaging her wrists. He was efficient and swift, hardly touching her injuries, and the soothing poultice he used was cooling her burning wounds. The bruise on her hip was her most agitated area, but she wasn't about to show him herself yet. However, it appeared she didn't have a choice.

"Amariel, I must see your wounds," Elrond said firmly. "I shall not touch you, but if you need care, then I must do it. There are female healers, if you prefer, but it will take time for them to get here. If you wish, I can quickly heal you and then wait for a more thorough healer in the morning."

It was this, more than anything, that convinced her. The fact that he had asked - not a soul had asked her opinion about anything in almost seventy years. So she permitted him to unlace her bodice and examine the welts and bruises, the deep scars and harsh burns, particularly the deep on on her right side that showed where she had been crudely branded with a torch when she was hardly older than fifty. The oil he used on her bruise heated the skin, creating a pleasant warmth that soothed the scarred flesh, and he applied a few cooler salves on the deep scars above her breasts. There were so many scars, so many markings of suffering and pain, he wondered how she had survived. More swaths of bandages were applied, and she consented to drink the goblet of liquid after almost half an hour of careful healing. She, as well, felt slow and sleepy, the pain seemingly distant, like a balloon hovering over her head. When she was dressed and carefully righted again, she stumbled slightly and reached out automatically for Legolas to help her. Instead of Legolas's cold, scarred, clammy hand, she felt a calloused, warm one catching her and holding her stable. She squirmed under his touch, disliking the feeling of male hands on her person, unless they were Legolas's. She stepped away from him and she heard the door open. Nimrodel came inside, talking nonsense about getting to bed, it was late, they would eat a good breakfast in the morning.

She missed the look of pity that Elrond was giving her.