Legolas stared at his captor, his destroyer, bent on killing him slowly, painfully, ripping him apart. How could he survive this?

How could he survive what his mother and elder brother could not?

Legolas was weak – he conformed to the society's standards. Tauriel had been strong, not afraid to protect the life of one who should have been an enemy. He had not been able to look past the being's race, but he had followed Tauriel anyway.

Legolas couldn't help but see every centimetre of the orc's face. His elvish eyes took in every hill and valley of the white and red skin. He could see every battle scar, every piece of torn skin. The blackness of Bolg's pupils screamed at him, and he stared into the fiend's eyes, into eyes of the being who only wished to cause him pain and suffering.

He stared at the one who had ordered Tauriel to be killed.

The orc reached forward and grabbed him, hauling him off the ground. Legolas was forced and manhandled towards a large tree. He could hear the snickering of the orcs, standing still, watching him, hating him. Bolg forced him up against the tree, pulling his arms even harder behind his back, causing Legolas' shoulders to scream with tension.

The orc's leader untied his bonds, and for a moment, Legolas felt star-crossed excitement enter his mind. He could escape; he could save himself.

Immediately, he tried to struggle, tried to throw the terrible being off of him, tried to save himself. Bolg growled in Legolas' ear, angry – furious – at his prey's show of strength. Bolg shoved Legolas with his shoulder, still holding his wrists in his vice-like hands. Legolas stumbled forward, colliding with the fair tree.

He heard the tree cry out for him as the orc overpowered him. Bolg pulled Legolas' arms, spinning him so they wrapped around the thin tree. Legolas kicked back, wrenching his arms, blonde hair flipping through the air as he tried, desperate, to save himself and to get away.

"Fool!" the orc spat. "You are weak, elf! You cannot escape!"

"Tya quetië sangwa saura yrch!" (Your words are poison, foul orc!) Legolas spat.

"Foul, you say," the orc said, quiet, with a fierce smile. "If I am foul for following orders given by kin, then what will you be when your spirit is gone, and you follow orders from my master?"

"Qualin nauvan," (I will be dead.) Legolas said, voice matching the orc's in volume but much harsher.

"The defiance in you will be dead, elf, but your body will not be cold and your soul not departed. Only torn apart and ripped to shreds.

The orc tied Legolas' arms around the tree trunk, leaving him standing, relatively unharmed, facing the tree, unable to move much. For a moment, the orc was gone, then Legolas heard a loud rip. Resisting the urge to look behind him, demanding that he take the torture without fear or show of pain, Legolas stayed still, stoic, and strong. He could hear the orc stepping behind him. Bolg's terrible hands came into view just before a long strip of material was wrapped around his eyes.

"I would gag you, elf, but there is no one here to listen to your screams. Beg for mercy, elf, but know that it will not come." Legolas did not answer, but his expression did not change, conveying his message clearly and stronger than words could.

You cannot touch me. You cannot change me. I would like to see you try.

And Legolas knew that they would try. The neldon (beech) tree shuddered for him, crying for the firstborn's predicament. Legolas could feel it trembling under his motionless body. The young tree saw all – it knew what was coming even though Legolas did not.

Legolas leaned his head against the trunk ever-so-slightly, seeking comfort and peace.

The tree responded, gently lowering its branches, trying to protect the wood elf when it knew it could not.

Legolas felt the tree jerk around him. He knew that whatever was coming was about to happen. A sharp snap bit through the air, shattering the peace and silence. Legolas had a moment to wonder what it was before sharp pain assaulted his back. He hissed quietly, feeling as though fire had been unleashed onto him, streaking across his body, burning and breaking the skin.

Suddenly, the blackness that surrounded him seemed darker and bigger than before. It seemed more mysterious and more terrifying. What would happen to him?

He was at the most twisted being's mercy. The orc could do anything to him as long as he stayed alive in order to face more torture.

Another snap echoed and slammed into his back. This time, knowing the pain but not prepared for it – never prepared for it – he did not hiss his pain aloud. The fire spread through him once more, cutting him, chopping him, and tearing him. He wondered how any body could take such abuse.

He could hear the orcs around him cheering.

"How many!" Bolg growled to the others, voice loud with excitement and anticipation. "How many?"

"Twenty lashes!" the orcs screamed back, the harsh cries echoing in Legolas' pounding ears, replaying in his mind. He had to survive eighteen more strokes of fire.

"Count, elf!" the orc demanded. "Or I will not count the stroke." Legolas did not move, did not show he understood.

There was a snap, and Legolas could not help but flinch slightly, feeling the tree flinch with him, cry for him as pain erupted from his back. He did not make a sound, too strong to give in and give the orcs what they wanted.

He was silent. He was strong.

No orc could take away his strength.

He would be safe in his own mind. Silent.

Nothing could prevent him from his will to speak nothing.

Fire flashed through his back, screaming at him and tearing at him.

He would win the fight. Fire flew through him, crashing against his will.

He was still silent, nothing could stop him, nothing could break him.

Legolas refused to count. The fire could not make him, could not-

The tidal wave of pain crashed over him, drowning him.

Blood rolled from the fire, not stopping the blaze

He held back a cry, biting his own tongue.

He was silent and strong and stoic.

He was silent and strong.

He was silent.

He was-

"One!"

He screamed, unable to hold it back any longer. He could not stop the fire from blazing down him, the blood from rolling and dripping down his body. Each strike was a wave of pain, each strike drowned him in the blaze. He could not stop it; he could not save himself.

"Good, elf," the orc said. "Nineteen more."

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Tauriel stood before the man. He was tall and strong, seeming angry and frustrated. Tauriel, a master at blank masks, could see the cracks in Bard's. She could see the fear and the pain.

Yes, he was angry. Yes, he was frustrated.

But his feelings were so much more than any of that.

"I will help you," he growled. "But do not ask for more! I have done too much already."

"Thank you, Bard," Tauriel said. "You have helped Mirkwood greatly."

"Remember that!" Bard snapped. "When your King is angry that we helped the dwarves! Remember that when he refuses to trade with us! And fix it!"

"I will. We need horses and weapons. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Bard growled. "I'll return in the morn with the supplies. Wait for me, and do not do anything foolish."

Tauriel dipper her head, turning and motioning for the angry dwarves to follow as she left the human. Shaking her head at the stubborn man, she suddenly realized why King Thranduil and their kingdom had little to do with other races. She had never met someone more infuriating – unless she counted King Thranduil himself.

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Hey, guys! So, I tried my first ever torture scene! Also, I tried to play with the formatting. Hopefully, won't screw with that.

Please review!

Thanks to my old reviewers!

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns all!