Sorry its a week late but I had a real struggle to write this chapter. I just couldnt get the right feelings into it somehow and I know its short but I finally think I got it to convey what I want. I hope you all think it works. Don't be afraid to let me know!
Many thanks for the reviews for the last chapter and for the new followers, it really makes me feel its worth carrying on and hopefully the paragraph spacing is right this time!
Chapter 13.
Darkness has enveloped the small clearing, its inky blackness almost thick and cloying, covering the slight figure that rests uneasily against the shattered remains of the old tree at its centre. The scent of blood lies heavily upon the air, the silence eerily foreboding, as if the world holds its breath against the violence it has witnessed and the horrors yet to come. The slender being appears to be alone, abandoned to whatever fate has in store next, yet, this is not so, for high above in the canopy another rests, hidden from all sight, deep in contemplation, planning the next move in his deadly game. Heart filled with grief and despair, nourishing his hatred and feeding the need for revenge he embraces the darkness without and within.
A slight breeze gently whispers around the bound elf, playing with long golden strands of hair, lifting them softly then letting them fall, brushing across the bare skin of his shapely torso like a lovers gentle caress. A low moan escapes from parched lips as consciousness slowly returns and pain begins to force its way back into being with a vengeance.
Legolas has never hurt so much before, in all the many battles he has fought with orcs, spiders and other creatures of the dark, in all the times he has been injured or come close to reaching Mandos Halls, he has never felt such agony. This pain transcends the physical plane, it invades his very fea and threatens to overwhelm him completely and he knows it is the sense of betrayal that intensifies it so. He would not have believed the change in his old friend if he had not witnessed it first hand, had not been at the receiving end of so much malice.
He looks down, he can barely make out his own form in this gloom and the usual healthy elven light that surrounds him has been reduced to a pale, feeble glow, barely enough to outline his shape, but he can feel the tickle of blood as it slowly exudes from the myriad of cuts criss crossing his body. Each one has been carefully, almost lovingly placed with a cool, calm precision belying the underlying passions of the elf weilding the knife. The pain intensifying with each slowly drawn incision as Llhosson's hand had languidly moved from one part of his tortured body to the next.
The initial, unexpected slash across his throat had been only a sharp taster of what had been to come as his mentor had first cut away the clothing covering his torso with fast impatient strokes and then used the exposed, creamy flesh as a canvas on which to painstakingly paint garish crimson lines with his elegant mithril blade.
Both elves watched its gory progress transfixed, as if hypnotised, by the smooth deft movements, green eyes glittering with a feral enjoyment at the swell of blood from each new cut, blue orbs filled with heartrending anguish and shimmering tears that refused not to fall.
Yet through the haze of pain and grief the prince refused to utter a sound. His strong will determined not to give voice to his suffering thus allowing his tormentor to feed off his distress. It was, however, a flawed plan as the lack of response on the young archers part only inflamed the elder and the cuts became deeper, longer and more aggressive with each sweep of the knife until only the loss of consciousness in his captive again stayed his hand.
When he noticed that awareness had left the pain filled body once more Llhosson had cursed loudly and kicked out at the limp form, a twisted smile playing around his mouth as he heard the satisfying crunch of broken bone when his foot again connected with the lower ribs on the youngsters left side. Panting slightly from the pent up emotions spent during the proceedings thus far he then stood for a few moments, surveying his handiwork, as an artist might consider their portrait between sittings, then slowly sauntered to the trees and began to climb without a backward glance.
Determinedly ignoring the pain the young archer tries to focus on his surroundings as awareness returns and he begins to realise that he is alone in the clearing.
He gently starts to flex his forearm muscles in an effort to test the bonds upon his aching wrists and it is with some satisfaction that he feels them give a little as the string stretches. With a few minutes undisturbed time he knows he will be able to free himself and can not help a small smile of satisfaction cross his lips, until a mental review of the wounds he has sustained tells him that should he manage to release himself from the bonds his body will not be able to carry him far in its current state thus leaving him vulnerable to further attack from either the same source, or something even worse.
He has a vague memory of the muffled sounds of battle being carried to his ever alert ears on the wind during the latter part of his torment and wonders if Llhosson had also heeded the sound and if so whether it is, in fact, an integral part of his planned torture, to raise his hopes with escape only to have them crushed once more upon recapture. A train of events designed to break not only his body, but more importantly his will and leave him utterly at the elders mercy.
A frustrated sigh slips from his dejected mouth and he stills his movements again to allow his thoughts to coalesce. A mental review reveals that he has no weapons save a small hunting dagger he habitually carries hidden in one shoe and has no recollection of what has happened to his bow or long knife. A pang of regret accompanies this realisation as the knife was a gift from his Ada on his coming of age and has been one of his most prized possessions ever since.
From the way his body feels he knows there is at least one broken rib, most likely more and that the pain and blood loss from the multitude of lacerations decorating his torso will only increase with exertion is an inescapable fact. There is also the matter of not knowing where on Arda he is, therefore how long or indeed which path it will take to find safe refuge, but the one thing he is sure of now is that he does not deserve this, whatever he may have done, even had it been with malicious intent, this cruel treatment is unjust and he will find a way to escape or die trying.