The Isitari watched the movement below him with growing horror. Sauron was once again powerful. Gandalf had believed him to be vanquished – no, he had hoped and pleaded with all that was good in the world that Sauron had been gone.
Orcs and wargs marched and fought on the stones below him. An army – vaster than he would have ever guessed – walked below, strong, well-trained.
Gandalf had to warn the others. The army would march, and it would conquer. The strong orcs and ruthless leaders would tear the free peoples of Middle Earth apart, causing destruction and turmoil. He had to stop them.
As Gandalf stared below, the orcs suddenly laughed and all eyes went to something Gandalf could not see. He could feel the being's presence – shadows and darkness clung to him, surrounding him in unseeing night. The other orc's took a perverse pleasure in the being.
Gandalf twisted his neck, trying to see what they were staring at. He had felt an explosion of power mere minutes ago. Perhaps this being was whom the blast was directed at. If so, then pity the soul of the tortured creature.
Gandalf caught sight of one of the leaders – Bolg, son of Azog the Defiler. He was pulling something, carrying it roughly. Gandalf watched as the other orcs jeered and laughed at whatever – whoever – Bolg carried.
Then Gandalf saw the being's face. Blonde hair covered it partly, twisted and loose – unlike how elves wore their hair. It was clearly a wood elf; the lithe posture and strong body told him that. Upon closer observance, Gandalf saw the features of King Thranduil in the young elf.
He felt a shiver go through him. The elf was not Thranduil – he could tell that, but Gandalf knew that Thranduil had a son. He had never made the acquaintance with the elf before, but his name – Legolas – was well known.
Gandalf did not know why – or how – the orcs had captured him, but he feared the young prince was in for torture beyond his imagination. The shadows that clung to him covered his elvish glow. Already, he seemed weak and was clearly unconscious.
Gandalf had seen the results of Sauron's torture. It was rarely physical – no, Sauron wished to twist them into his own servants, not wound them. It was the orcs that longed to watch blood spill and innocents scream.
Sauron tortured the mind and the memory. Gandalf knew of the young elf's story – as did Sauron, he was sure. The Prince was going to live in nightmares until he finally broke.
Gandalf fruitlessly struck the bars of his confinement. He had to escape. Middle Earth needed to know the danger hidden in Dol Guldur. The Son of Thranduil, he feared, would be lost soon unless someone were to rescue him.
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Legolas collapsed, wounded, torn. An arrow protruded from his side, and he grasped it tenderly in one shaking hand. With a cry and a count of three, he pulled at it, willing it to come out easily to lessen the pain and further injury it could cause.
He let out a loud cry as the arrow's barb stuck in him, and the arrow wrenched to a stop. Looking ahead, suddenly scared – terrified – his cry had alerted an orc to his presence.
He had defeated some already – with great cost to himself. They had caught him with the arrow just as he prepared to save his family, and he had fallen to the ground.
The orcs were preoccupied, not keeping watch. For a moment, Legolas wondered why. He could barely hear jeers and laughter over the blood rushing in his ears due to adrenaline and pain. Legolas stood again, making the hasty decision to snap the arrow shaft off of the head.
It was a risky decision – an arrow's head would be left, and there was always the danger that it could go deeper, but Legolas had to take the risk.
His naneth (mother) was trapped. His gwador (brother) was captured. Legolas was sure that they had faced much worse than a single arrow piecing their sides.
A sudden scream broke the silent air. Legolas felt it clear the pounding in his head. His mother was screeching – pain and terror and suffering torn from her lips, emerging from her soul.
He had to save them.
Legolas raced forward, stumbling with pain, pulling out his knives and weapons as he ran. He could hear the tree's despair – they knew the two elves were fading fast. Legolas continued to run forward, nearer and nearer to the sight, growing more and more desperate.
He had to save them.
He emerged into a clearing and saw his brother sprawled over the grass. Blood pooled around him, and Legolas could barely hold back a short cry.
He had to save them.
His mother was in the hands of the orc leader, twisted and hardly above begging for peace and for the pain to stop.
He had to save them.
Racing out from among the trees, angry and disgusted, he let out a loud cry of hate.
He had to save them.
An orc fell to his blades, head rolling away from its disgusting body. He grinned at the victory.
He had to save them.
Hate drove him, filling him, giving him the strength to fight for his family.
He had to save them.
An orc (they were too many) grabbed him from behind.
He had to save them.
Snarling, he pulled away, wincing as it tore at his injury.
He had to save them.
The leader had never left his victims.
He had to save them.
He made sure to leave the lifelong reminder of the torture tattooed on their bodies.
He had to save them.
Legolas defeated the last orc and ran to where his family was. The orc leader was forgotten.
He had to save them.
Broken eyes greeted him.
He had to save them.
There was no response.
He had to save them.
They were gone.
He had failed to save them.
Legolas let out a sharp cry, tearing away from the bodies, feeling hate pulsing in him even stronger. The orc leader stood before him.
Legolas cried out with pain and hate. Desperate, he began to fight – out of arrows, wielding only his twin knives. He slashed at the orc, ducking and weaving around the hard blows cast by his enemy. Too soon, he began to feel fatigue settling within him.
He twisted, a last ploy, for he could not run, could not leave his mother and brother (he had to save them.)
the last slash missed, and the force left him stumbling forward, defenseless. The orc leader stabbed with his dirty sword, red with the blood of his mother and brother, and caught Legolas in the shoulder. Legolas, strength leaving him, hate not enough to help him carry on, fell to the ground.
The orc laughed, triumphant, drunk on its terrible power.
"You lost, elf," it growled, voice penetrating Legolas' sick delirium. "You failed. I will not kill you! Reap the results of your failure, elf!"
Legolas awoke with a sharp cry, tearing himself away from his nightmare. Flailing his limbs, he felt a sharp pain go through his wrist. Blinking open his eyes, he saw that he was – appropriately – in a dungeon.
A thin trail of blood – nearly nothing compared to what he had shed at the whipping – dropped down his arm, towards his shoulder.
Forcing his tired eyes and foggy mind to make sense of the situation, he realized he had just dreamed of his greatest failure – something he hadn't done for over a century and that he was trapped, hanging from the wall so that he could just stand upright.
His wrists were supported by thick metal cuffs, attached to walls. Legolas knew that pulling on them would have no effect.
He could hardly see his pale arms in the darkness. That was strange – his elvish glow should have made him literally shine in the darkness. He did not know what was wrong. The darkness seemed to be everywhere – unnerving him. Sauron could be anywhere; Legolas knew he could hide in shadow.
He feared that the orcs were also hidden in the room. Who knew how large it was?
Legolas, suddenly fearful, tried to wrench himself free. As he pulled, he twisted his wrist, and again, a sharp pain went through it. Glancing up, trying to see, he figured that there had to be something sharp on the cuffs. It was cutting his wrist when he moved it.
Curious, he tried the other and felt the same sharp prick. As morbid as it seemed, Legolas knew the ability to cause himself pain such as that would be important in the coming days.
To stay strong, he would need the ability to focus himself. Biting one's tongue usually worked – it was a method he had tried to use before and failed.
The extra pain would allow him to regroup his thoughts and hold his resolve. He shuddered, feeling the thin trail of blood drying on his arm.
He would survive this – somehow.
He had to.
He had to save himself.
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Hey, guys! Another quick update! I'm proud! By the way – I think I was unclear about my new plan for updating. I will update as often as possible, and it means I promise to not go more than seven days without updating.
So I used a new writing style with this. I don't often play with repetition, but I figured why not? Tell me how it went.
And tell me if I did Legolas' dream scene any justice at all. I built up to that for the whole fic, and I feel like I didn't write it as well as I should have.
Did anyone catch the connection to what drove Legolas' strength in the dream and what he has thought about being driven by that certain emotion?
Anyway, please review!
thanks to all readers!
Disclaimer: I do not own! It's Tolkien's!