"Legolas?"
Lifting his fatigued head from his arm, the Elf stared straight into the hate filled, malicious eyes of one of his captors. Without conscious thought, the Prince grabbed furtively for the dagger he had secreted past the mercenaries, snatching it in his hand by the blade, and holding it to his thigh covertly. The sharp metal bit into the skin of his palm: the Elf did not notice. He could sense nothing but the smug looking mercenary before him.
"Ament sent me to check on you, little one. Got free did you? Useless effort. You won't be going anywhere." Doran smirked, his blond bearded face crinkling in amusement at the seemingly defeated Elda before him.
Refusing to speak, the Prince struggled to maintain his grasp on the present, though the shimmering torchlight enthralled him, provoking within him the desire to shut his light sensitive eyes. This may be my last chance. I may not survive but I will relieve as many of these humans of their foul lives as I can.
"Did Ramlin cut out your sweet tongue when he took you, Princeling? You shouldn't have killed him. You will pay heavily for that transgression, I promise you." Squatting down in front of Legolas, obviously not fearing the traumatized Prince, the mercenary laughed callously, his gaze roaming the Elf's battered, ghastly body. "You will pay. You and Strider both. But you will suffer. I will see to that."
Glancing towards the door that the torchlight illuminated, the Prince observed no others outside who might hinder his escape attempt. He did not know for certain if the mercenary had visited him alone but it no longer mattered to Legolas, especially when the man began to touch him.
"I like the maidens myself," Doran assured conversationally, reaching out to fondle the bloodied locks of hair that lay on the Prince's arm.
The Elf did not move, nor respond. The man's touch made him feel sullied, more so than the dirt and blood that stained his body: it took the whole of his being not to lunge at the mercenary. I must disarm him first, or take him by surprise. I am in no condition to fight.
Dropping the tress, Doran added, "Ramlin liked whatever he could make bleed. From the looks of you," the mercenary jested cruelly as he touched the Prince's bloodstained thigh with rough pats, "he liked Elf flesh very much." Sniggering in miscreant glee, Doran began to stroke Legolas' knee, enjoying the fear on the immortal's face, while the Elf shoved the dagger behind his back, not wanting the mercenary to see it until it was too late.
Despite himself, the immortal's chest began to heave for air, the blind panic he had felt earlier overtaking him quickly at the fetid caresses of the mercenary. One of us will die before I suffer his vile lust.
"Yes, I like the maidens – but for you I will make an exception, Elfling." Doran leant in towards Legolas, the torch wavering precariously in the mercenary's hand, while the other hand he used to seize Legolas' chin, forcing the Elf to look at him while he uttered his foul promises.
Doran held the torch too close to the immortal: the heat that radiated from the flame was welcomed by the chilled Elf, but its comfort could quickly turn to pain if Doran wielded it as a weapon. Legolas could not ascertain how many knives and daggers the man had strapped to him but they glinted in the flame's light, taunting the Elda with his weakness' burden upon his escape. Still sitting with his legs drawn to his chest, the Prince fingered the sharp blade against his back, waiting with a patience born from his many years of living and his knowledge that in his dismal condition, he needed the proper opening to kill the mercenary.
"Ament will have no use for you, soon, but Jalian and I have uses aplenty for you." Doran slipped his hand from Legolas' chin, running his fingers over the Prince's bruised arm and back down to his knees. It rested there as he pledged, "Ramlin only broke you in, but I will break you."
With this said the mercenary slipped his hand between the immortal's knees. Wait, Legolas. Wait. But he could not wait, not when the mercenary grinned spitefully at him while fondling his broken body.
Blind panic became blind rage, and the Prince did not care if he died as long as he never suffered these unwanted advances again. Overlooking the screaming protest of every part of his body, the archer kicked out, his boot contacting the torch to send it sailing through the air. The flame bounced off the opposite wall, its arcing blaze illuminating the dark cell in kaleidoscopic bands of orange-red for the short duration of its flight. Immediately, the Prince seized his dagger by the hilt and leapt forward with the remnants of his energy. Temporarily stunned, Doran fell back on his ass, slack jawed at the suddenly mobile immortal hurtling for him. Legolas hit the man's chest with his weaponless, outstretched arm, knocking the no longer bewildered Doran onto his back. Sitting astride the tall human, the Elf grappled with his free hand for the man's hands, which were hazardously close to snatching one of the many belted daggers along his waist, while he struggled to remain sentient long enough to muster the force necessary to swing his arm through the air.
The mercenary growled, his fingers fumbling to retrieve one of his weapons. Under normal circumstances, the Prince could have easily overtaken the human. He outmatched Doran in strength, cunning, and experience; however, acute blood loss made him lightheaded, and the cell floor tilted underneath the Elf nauseatingly. Therefore, it was only by means of sheer willpower that Legolas retained his hold on his weapon, the blade he had taken from Ramlin, as his arm completed its sweep to plunge the knife hilt deep into the vulnerable chest of the mercenary under him.
Doran's hands ceased their scrabble for a dagger, his eyes opening wide and his legs quieting their thrashing. His consciousness wavering, Legolas lurched off the dying human, collapsing in a heap to the side as he toiled to draw air into his lungs. The mercenary's labors mirrored the Elf's, as both struggled to breathe.
Hope, Legolas, he told himself. One more is slain. How many more are left? And what of Strider? The emotive force behind his previous optimism and perseverance had deserted him in the sinister confines of what he had come to accept as his tomb; and yet, the waning light of the torch elucidated much more than the room, and Legolas' desire to survive was reformed, if only to satisfy his yearning to see Ament dead before his own demise. This is not over. I have not endured this long to allow Ament to succeed.
He crawled to the torch, disinclined to stand as of yet. The gurgling, choked breaths that Doran's failing lungs spewed forth reverberated inside the musty room: the mercenary's hands clutched at the hilt of the dagger thrust into his chest and his mouth formed words that no one would ever hear. Grabbing the torch in hand, Legolas hoisted himself up, his legs quaking under him. As he turned to the fallen human, the Elf inspected the rosy bloom of blood that had sprung from the man's chest and stained the mortal's tunic. He will die alone, in the dark, as I have almost died.
He felt no sympathy for the man, or for leaving Doran to suffer in his dying. Legolas shuffled his rebellious limbs so that he stood over Doran, impassively watching him wheeze for air for a few moments, ere he bent down to throw aside the human's overcoat to unsheathe the largest blade the mercenary held. Sparing the fading mortal no further regard, Legolas shambled to the cell's doorway, holding the torch out in front of him defensively. Quickly scanning the room's contents, and recognizing nothing but a few small chairs and a table, nothing that would help him, the Elf dragged himself to the doorway. He rapidly extinguished the torch by rolling it in the earth floor when he heard voices.
"... you should have stayed above. One of us needs to do so," a soft voice argued.
I must be hallucinating. That sounded like Elladan of Imladris.
"I am not staying above. Estel is as much my brother as yours."
Elrohir? Hope is as much his brother? Valar, this is a merciless deception my weakening mind has concocted. I must be hallucinating. Legolas shook his head violently, willing the counterfeit voices from his psyche, and nearly fell to his knees when the darkened corridor he faced began to undulate sadistically at his actions.
"Don't look to me, my Lords. I am not leaving."
This voice the Prince knew well. Tirn? Can it truly be them? Knowing there was only one way to find out, Legolas stumbled noisily out into the walkway, hearing three softly uttered, surprised Dwarven curses as he kicked a rock across the passageway unintentionally. The voices came from the lighter end of the tunnel that lay just beyond a curve in the passageway, where he could not see. When he wrenched his wounded thigh too far in his exertion to reach the Elves, he fell to his hands and knees, the jarring of his legs ripping a low moan from his lips and the knife falling from his hand, which then skimmed across the rocky dirt floor. The Prince battled not to shut his eyes against the agony. Where are they? He overlooked the distinct possibility that he could be delusional, instead nabbing the proffered hope with all of his being.
A burbling, ghastly retching compelled the Elda to twist his head round to look into the room he had just exited. Doran stood behind him, a dagger in hand, and thick dark blood bubbling from his grinning jaws, staining the blond facial hair into a facsimile of a frothy, gory beard. The knife. Legolas scrambled to reach the blade, throwing himself in its direction as the mercenary landed atop him, grinding his amply abused body into the ground and driving his cracked ribs against his lungs. A black shade obscured his vision but the Elf felt the knife at his fingertips, and he clamped down on the blade as he rolled to the side, momentarily overturning the floundering human.
Doran was not so easily dissuaded by the evasion; his fervor to take the Prince with him as he died fueled the failing mercenary. Expertly, the human flung his dagger. It embedded where the Elf's shoulder would have been, had not Legolas rolled. Torrid pangs of agony at the sudden motion added to the scorching disharmony of the immortal's torture, and his hold of the long knife he had recovered loosened as he cried out his anguish. It fell to the tunnel's rocky floor with a clatter, and the Prince could only observe as Doran fell onto him, his bloody hands wrapping about the Elf's throat in a final attempt to throttle the life out of him.
They had spent several minutes bickering about how to proceed after Tirn's discovery of the hidden tunnel within the deceptive confines of the trees' trunks. It had not taken long, however, for the sentry to convince the Imladrian twins that he would descend in search of his Prince, with or without them. Again, when they had climbed down the rung ladder to find a dilapidated passageway curving into unidentifiable territory, the trio had paused to quarrel over who would guard the doorway. Their squabble had been broken with the sounds of someone walking through the tunnel. It was not until the Elves had heard a quiet moan that they were spurred into action, their quibble forgotten as they crept stealthily towards the sound of a scuffle up ahead. The source of the subsequent cry of distress was familiar to all three Elves, and they broke into a sprint, tearing past the curve and onto a horrifying view in the diffuse light of the passageway.
Legolas lay on his back, his hands pawing at the ground above him for a dagger. A tall, blond, bloodied human sat straddling him, strangling the Prince as he laughed, blood sputtering in his soundless mirth.
Before either twin could react, the twang of Tirn's bow echoed down the corridor, the projectile flying true to burst through the human's chest with a definitive thud. Elladan and Elrohir looked at the sentry with shock, which only grew when they perceived the violence that the once timid Elf exuded. He looks every bit the fierce Silvan warrior, now, Elladan thought absentmindedly. A second thud followed the first as the human fell backwards; his body was limp in the throes of his death, his unseeing eyes full of loathing as he breathed his last. Without further delay, the trio darted to the Prince's side. Sweet Eru. How is he still alive?
"Legolas? Can you hear me?" Elrohir gently tapped the archer's face, whose eyes were glazed over in shock. Checking the fluttering pulse at the Prince's throat, Elladan quickly assessed how to treat the worst of the archer's injuries.
"Do not leave us, my friend. We will help you," Elrohir assured the drained Prince as he gently brushed the Elf's hair from his eyes and peered down into them with a smile. The Wood-Elf did not answer but blinked his sunken, blackened eyes slowly, his contused brow furrowed in concentration.
Looking over the daunting task before them, the twins wasted no time, but worked as a team, handing each other bandages and water flasks from their satchels as they attempted to clean the cuts and abrasions on the Prince's torso, feeling for broken bones and other maladies as they went. Tirn kept watch over the far end of the tunnel, and they moved as silently as possible. They would have moved the Prince to somewhere safer, but without first knowing how serious his injuries, it might have done more harm than good. Everywhere the Prince's white skin was mottled with bruises and covered in blood. At first, Elladan had thought the half clothed, typically fair-skinned Prince was covered in dirt; that is, until he had tried to rub the grime away from a stab wound the Wood-Elf had sustained to find it was also a bruise. He is beyond beaten. He looks as though he were trampled by a drove of Oliphants.
"Is he alright?" Tirn hovered around the Noldo healers, his anxiety and distress at the condition of his Prince plain in his shaken, tear stained face.
"His body is yielding, Tirn, but we will do what we can," Elrohir promised and then turned back to his work.
"Here, Tirn," Elladan offered, holding out a length of linen. "Wrap his wrists now that I have cleaned them."
Tirn will feel better if he can help, the Elven Lord decided, anticipating the sentry's eager reaction. Tirn did not disappoint, but sat cross-legged on the dirt floor with his Prince's head in his lap, wrapping the linen tightly around the archer's seeping wounds.
We may be too late. I have never seen a more injured Elf. The wounds that they could not tend, the injuries Elrohir had seen in his revelation, were beyond their abilities as healers to treat, and it was these that Elladan worried over as he finished tying a bandage.
"I have felt no broken bones, brother, other than a few ribs that may only be cracked. We should move him outside now to care for him properly, and to be safe." Elrohir pointed at the blood soaked leggings, exchanging a meaningful glance with his twin.
Even these wounds will need to be tended, if we can convince Legolas to allow us this.
"Strider," a sabulous voice petitioned. The twins and sentry jumped at the softly spoken word, none having held much optimism that the Prince would gain awareness, and certainly not so soon. Legolas' blue orbs searched his surroundings myopically, not seeing the Elves gathered around him.
"Prince Legolas?" Tirn could take the pitiful sight no more, and began to weep inaudibly as he stroked the archer's hair.
Unexpectedly, the Wood-Elf's eyes focused, his muscles tensed and he tried to sit. "Where am I? Where is Strider?"
"Halt, Legolas. Lay back. We are friends. Do you remember us?" Elrohir tried to soothe the archer but to no avail. The Prince managed to sit up in spite of his companions' gentle attempts to keep him back, groaning as he did so. "Please, Legolas. You will only aggravate your injuries further."
For the first time, it seemed to Elladan, the archer took notice of the Elves around him, for he sat baffled, looking from twin to twin to Tirn and back again with wide, haunted eyes. "I thought I hallucinated your being here." The archer's ribs stuck glaringly out through his thinned skin, his cheeks were gaunt, and his haggard, bandaged, and befouled appearance was harrowing to the three Elves surrounding Legolas. However, when the Prince grinned and his battered face lit with genuine delight, Elladan, Elrohir, and Tirn were helpless but to smile sadly back. "I am glad you are no apparitions. Your presence brightens my dark thoughts. I was beginning to think your brother had driven me mad," the Wood-Elf teased, glaring in shocked cheer at the twins until he realized Strider was absent. "Where is he?"
As he unscrewed the top of a water flask, Tirn explained, "We have not yet found him, my Prince. We only just found you." He helped the archer drink and addressed the twins, "We need to get the Prince outside, and then we will return for your brother." Elladan and Elrohir nodded.
Tirn can stay with the Prince.
"Where are we?" Legolas questioned, his gaze lighting upon the dead mercenary a few feet away.
I hope he has not been despoilt again; he is on the threshold of death as it is. Intentionally blocking with his body the Prince's macabre view of his attacker, Elladan worried as he peered down the unexplored passageway, Tirn will have to take him to the palace as soon as possible. Aragorn may not be so easily found and Elrohir and I may not return.
"I was hoping you could tell us that, Legolas." Shoving his supplies back in his satchel, Elrohir asked, "When last did you see Estel?"
"Hope?" The Wood-Elf was perplexed.
Smiling kindly at Legolas, Elladan explicated, "Strider is our brother. Estel is his Elven name."
The Prince mumbled something under his breath and shook his head. "I do not know how long I have been down here so I do not know when last I saw him." The three uninjured Elves helped the archer to stand, each supporting his wrecked body so that Legolas was not damaged further. "He is burnt but I believe he is alive," the Elf added, his gaze again on the dead human's corpse.
Burnt? Ai Valar. The torch. Elrohir must have had the same thought, for each twin grimaced at the other.
Following the line of the Prince's vacant stare, Elladan decided, We should hide the body. He stooped to pick up the mercenary, and Elrohir joined him. Tirn kept his hand under the Prince's arm, ready to catch him at the least provocation, while Elladan and Elrohir tossed the dead mercenary's body into the cell, shutting the door without a sound. They kicked rocks and dirt over the bloodied soil in hopes of disguising their presence. They needed any advantage they could get.
"We should find Strider," Legolas told Tirn as they watched the twins cover their tracks.
"We will find him, but you are going nowhere, Legolas," the sentry decreed, and promptly blushed in horror at having ordered his Prince and called him by name.
The archer only grinned, clasping the sentry's arm tightly as he countered, "We will find him, Tirn, if you are with us. You have now twice found me while I was lost." Although Elladan and Elrohir did not understand the allusion to the sentry and Prince's past, they both understood that Legolas' admission of being lost meant more than his physical presence, and was an admittance of his despair.
Bowing slightly while never loosening his grip on Legolas' arm, Tirn declared, "I will find you my Prince, wherever you have strayed, but it was only with the help of Lords Elladan and Elrohir that I have located you this time."
"Then I must thank you all, my friends." The Prince could not stop smiling, his relief apparent in the unusual cheer he showed.
"That will suffice. They will not see that we have been here," Elladan stated, examining their surroundings and the dark passageway where their brother was likely to be discovered. Pointedly, he ordered both sentry and Prince, "You both are going nowhere except back to Eryn Galen. We will find Estel." Neither Wood-Elf agreed, but shook their blond heads in unison.
"Nay. There are only two mercenaries left, I believe, and Strider. Though they are small in numbers, they seek a weapon that the leader, Ament, plans to use against Mirkwood. I will not allow him to wield it," the Prince declared, squaring his shoulders in defiance for any of the Elves present to order him to remain behind again.
He won't be dissuaded, not when Eryn Galen is under threat.
Sighing exasperatedly, Elladan conceded with a nod, raising his hand to stifle Elrohir's attempt to argue with Legolas. "What weapon?"
Ignoring the adamant, pleading tugs Tirn made on his arm to lead him out of the passageway and back to the forest, the Prince answered, "A goblet they believe will grant them immortality."
"Sweet Eru," the twins swore in tandem, their worried green eyes meeting in shared dismay.
Melfren's goblet has been found? It cannot be.
"My Lords?" Tirn ceased his insistence that the Prince leave the tunnel, instead focusing on the horrified Noldor. "What is it?"
"Ament has been misled," Elrohir clarified, rearranging his weapons as though preparing himself for battle. Fretfully, he questioned Legolas, "He has no other Elf, does he? You were the only one?"
"As far as I know. Why?" Legolas allowed himself to be led by Elrohir's careful guidance to the outer room of what was once his cell, and was now Doran's tomb.
Legolas' abduction was not merely about ransom or revenge, Elladan pondered, following his brother and friends out of the derelict tunnel as Elrohir began the story. Or else these mercenaries do not know what evils they resurrect with their foolish plans.