Chapter 53: Legolas

Summary:

At last Legolas finds Elrohir, but he is utterly changed.

Warning for vampire sex! Blood and gore.

Chapter Text

Reminder: In Through a Glass Darkly, Elladan was wounded by a morgul blade in Phellanthir. Elrohir offered himself to Angmar in return for releasing Elladan but they were saved by Gandalf's arrival. However, this was where Angmar first wound the spell about Elrohir, twisting his memory of rescuing their mother so that he believed that he had raped her. It is also where Angmar planted the images of Legolas in chains. Elrond saw this dimly, but without knowing exactly what he saw, when he used Elrohir's power to heal Elladan.

Summary (it's been a long time since I posted- sorry. Work and then I broke my leg)

The Mirror that Gandalf took from Minas Morgul is a creation of Celebrimbor, a piece of technology that can open onto the Dark. His intention seems to have been to communicate with his kin who had been banished there, although we only know that Maedhros is there. Galadriel believes that she can turn back time with the surviving Mirror and the Three Rings, which call themselves the Hyellë- vírin, so that she can save Celebrían from her terrible fate by preventing it in the first place. Elrond has discovered the secret writing of Celebrimbor which tell about the Mirrors. The Nazgûl, trapped within the Mirror, want Elrohir to break the Glass with Aícanaro, which can cut anything. Khamûl betrayed them as he does not want his masters to return. Elrohir has been possessed by Khamûl. Legolas and Gimli have returned from the Lebinnin where they had gone to fetch Arod, realising that Elrohir had Khamûl, Legolas returns with the great gift Gimli has given him of the Ale-Gezên-Aozh, knives that gleam blue if there is evil present- much like Frodo's Sting and Orcrist.

This is a long chapter- but, I hope, worth it.

Chapter 53: Legolas

It was afternoon when Legolas and Gimli and their small troop of horses arrived at the city, and market day. Amongst those travelling along the road across the Pelennor Fields, were men and women who had been labouring in the fields and orchards all day, or on the new roads and defences and were returning to their homes inside the city. Going in the opposite direction were farmers and merchants who had been trading in the city, equally anxious to escape from the city to their farms or get going towards the small trading posts along the road to Pelargir. A number of scrawny goats had escaped their herders and were wandering between the merchants, housewives and farmers, bleating and eating the tops of the red poppies and wildflowers that had sprung up in the dust and heat of the road.

As they drew closer to the city, there were more and more people and the going was slower and slower. There was an impatient, irritable air amid the warm stink of market day of animals, dung, sweat, rotting cabbages and fruit that had fallen from carts and rolled in the gutters. Legolas felt a rising panic in his gut, straining his neck to see why everything was so very slow when he just wanted to gallop through the crowd and charge up the levels to Elrohir.

'Patience,' murmured Gimli. 'Have the patience of stone, Legolas. Like rock. Like a Dwarf.'

Legolas clenched his teeth in frustration but there was no easy way to get through the crowd and he thought he would be quicker on his own and on foot.

At last he saw the reason for the delay: an overturned cart was jammed against one of the Gates of Minas Tirith and blocking the way were Men shoving poles beneath the great hulk of the cart, and heaving and struggling to right it. A loud grumble rose from the crowds on both sides of the Gates for only a thin stream of people could easily pass and the other carts and carriages could not pass at all and a logjam was blocking the paths on both sides.

'They're doing that all wrong,' Gimli muttered quietly. 'The poles are too long and won't give them enough purchase to shift that cart.'

Legolas turned his head towards Gimli. His face was pale and anxious. 'How long will they take? I cannot bear it.'

The Dwarf tutted and shook his head. 'Go on,' he said kindly. 'Leave these beasts with me.' He jerked his head towards the three horses with them. 'I will go back along the road and find some grass they can eat until all this is cleared. Or better yet, find someone to come and take these silly beasts off me so that I can show these incompetents how it should be done!'

Gratefully Legolas nodded. Clasping his friend's arm, he lowered Gimli to the ground and then slid down himself. Immediately he edged his way through the crowds, smiling and sliding between folk. He eyed the overturned cart quickly and smiling and apologising to those directly in front of him, he shifted his knives and slung his bow over his shoulder. Then he leapt onto a discarded boulder that had remained from the siege and somersaulted elegantly over the heads of the crowd, vaulted over the overturned cart, landing lightly on the other side. He sketched a hasty bow to the woman he had avoided falling upon and then leapt onto the plinth of the statue of Denethor. For a moment, Legolas was poised alongside Denethor himself as if he accompanied the great Man and his horse into battle. Then he leapt up over the heads of the waiting farmers, who lifted their eyes to watch him, and caught the rail of an iron-wrought balcony. He swung up onto first the balcony then the pink tiled roofs and sped along the rooftops, leaping from one roof to another. There was a scatter of admiring cries and applause as he disappeared but he did not pause.

His heart was pounding, not from the climb but from fear. And his shoulders pulled a little still from his capture. If he was right, Khamûl had possessed Elrohir, digging claws into his beloved's heart and tearing away his courage, his belief in himself. Khamûl could destroy Elrohir: it would be easy to make him believe that no one could love him, that he was guilty of his mother's torment, that he was unworthy. Spurred on by his desperate love, Legolas took a great leap across a narrow alley way where the laundry was strung, from one balcony to another.

The lower level walls had been heavily bombarded in the siege and not yet repaired so it was easy to quickly ascend the levels and quicker than the city road that wound slowly through the squares and market places, thronging with people. He scrambled up walls, finding toeholds and clinging on with his fingers to the thick limestone walls, warmed in the afternoon sun. He ran lightly over the roofs, remembering that he had skimmed over the walls and roofs of the city once before in pursuit of the Ghoul. For a split second, the memory of the Ghoul's horrible face leered at him and he stumbled back, his feet slid and scrambled on the pink tiles and he threw himself flat against the roof, fingers scrabbling, desperately for a hold. He threw his other hand out to catch on the flashing around the chimney, the horror of his capture suddenly so vivid and present in his mind that he thought he was back there, chasing after the Ghoul with scratched fingers and hands as he scrambled amongst the rocks and boulders of the Hallows. The ghoul had been ahead of him, its black robes streaming behind like smoke.

His head spun and he clutched the stone and leaned over. Breathing hard he stared down at the roof tiles briefly.

Bearos is dead, he reminded himself. This is for Elrohir. I am not there, he told himself sternly, I am not in the cell. I am here, out in the air with the blue summer sky above me and good firm city stones beneath my feet. But a cold trail of fear stroked his spine and he thought that yet again, he pursued Khamûl.

Quickly he let himself down into the streets off the Citadel Square. It was quieter here than the main Citadel Square. The pale green leaves of the lime trees fluttered quietly in a gentle breeze. Swifts screamed above him, arcing through the clear blue sky.

Two steady streams of citizens made their way in one direction towards the Palace or in the other away from it. The citizens of Minas Tirith were curious about their new King and Queen and hoped for a glimpse of them. Or a glimpse of the Elves. To the citizens of the White City, it felt like the legends of old had come alive, like the Gods themselves had come down and walked amongst them.

Legolas was allowed through one of the side gates by guards who did not challenge him although they greeted him by name and smiled. Two courtiers he remembered drinking and gambling with at the wedding feast called to him but he ignored them, intent upon reaching Elrohir's guest chambers.

He found them deserted and the door locked. He pressed himself against it at first, listening. But there was no sense of Elrohir there, and he could not hear his Song. Quickly he pulled out a thin bladed knife and inserted it gently into the lock, twiddled once, then twice in the other direction and with a quiet snick, the door unlocked.

Slowly he stepped inside. It was dark, the shutters closed, and the air was cold even in the mid-summer. At first he merely stepped inside the door and stood there, heart pounding and fear a cold sweat on his back. Silently he drew the Ale-Gezên-aozh, feeling the cool swish as they cut through the air.

There was no blue rill of fire along their blades and he felt such a surge of relief that it alarmed him how frightened he had been. But he blessed Gimli thrice for giving him such a gift but he did not sheathe them and moved into the room, quietly.

The ash in the grate was white and cold and the bed was tidy and clean; the bed linen smooth and uncreased as if no one had slept in it since it had been made. The Ale-Gezên-Aozh were quiescent and it was merely the gleam of sunlight seeping through the shutters that touched their steel so they glinted silver.

Elrohir was not here. He had not been here for some time, Legolas could tell: there was no lingering scent of Elrohir, his musk, the leather of his breeches, boots, tabard. Elrohir's great sable cloak was hanging over a chair where he must have cast it in that elegant, careless way that he had. Legolas pushed one hand through the thick fur, imagining how the cloak fell over Elrohir's broad swordsman's shoulders, how his hair lay over it gleaming. His bow, less used than Legolas', leant in a corner along with his buckler and saddlebags. But there was no trace of the metallic sharpness of Aícanaro. So, he had taken his sword at least.

With a sigh Legolas sat on the edge of the bed and looked about. If Elrohir was not here, where could he be?

Legolas glanced about the rooms. Elrohir's personal effects were all here, his ivory comb, a ring with a crimson stone that Legolas recognised as the one Elrohir had told him his mother had given him.

Elrohir had not gone hunting with Elladan, that was clear. But he was not sleeping here in the Palace either, or had not been since Legolas had last seen him.

A rust coloured stain was on the rug at his feet. There were similar stains on the side of the bed, smears, and several long scratch marks on the side of the bed, on the headboard. He frowned, and leaning more closely he saw that there were long scratches on the floorboards too. Like someone had been trying to dig their way into the floor. Or desperate. Or scrabbling to get away. Or trying to catch something. They had been made by long nails, claws perhaps. Not human.

With growing horror, he realised that the rust-coloured stains were dried blood.

He blinked rapidly, his pulse quickened, and blood thundered through his veins. His pupils felt stretched and dilated and his nerves shrilled, every cell of his body alert, aware, terrified.

Khamûl had not fed since he had drenched himself with Legolas' blood. He would be hungry. Starving. Those blood stains on the floor… were they Elrohir's? Or had he killed to assuage Khamûl's terrible hunger?

He should get out.

Nausea suddenly rose up his throat and he retched. Stumbling to his feet, he shoved open the door and lurched into the open air, breathing hard.

Khamûl was hungry, starving. He would be feeding, using Elrohir to get him blood.

Suddenly he knew where Elrohir would be, where Khamûl would be hiding.

0o0o

Below, in the lower levels of the city, Elrohir stood in a shadowed alley beneath iron-wrought balconies filled with clean washing hung out to dry in the afternoon sun. A warm breeze filled with the scent of the Sea flipped and fluttered the sheets above him. He could not see the citizens of the second level amongst whom he moved invisibly, but he could smell them. The stench of human existence was rank, excrement, shit and blood. It disgusted Elrohir, and excited Khamûl. Blood pumping through veins. Blood churning around hearts and limbs. Pounding through arteries. It was not Elf blood, that was beyond the city, in the fair pavilions of the Golden Wood and the Valley. So many Elves that Khamûl almost fainted with the prospect of delicate Elven souls, sweet warm blood. But he was not ready to go amongst them just yet. He needed to subdue Elrohir utterly and he had not quite succeeded. But it would not be long.

Aícanaro seethed softly in his sheath, a furious captive, and Elrohir turned his head away and tried to fight for control of his muscles, his limbs, to force him body to obey. But it would not and he could not move.

You will do as I bid. You will obey, Khamûl murmured, wrenching Elrohir's head around so he had to look, forcing his eyes to peer through the shadows, searching for prey. Easy prey that he could dispatch quickly and drag back to his lair, Bearos' empty, abandoned house.

Oh how you fight me, Khamûl whispered softly. How much easier it had been with Bearos, just slipping in between his thoughts and desires. Bearos' desperate need for the baby, still growing then in the belly of his wife, Marinel, to live beyond a handful of pathetic, mewling little breaths. It had made it so easy for Khamûl. Promises of comfort and ease for his little girl, the baby, his wife, had won Bearos, and then subdued him completely for he was not a strong willed Man. But Elrohir fought and fought. Elrohir's fingers were bloody from where he had tried to cut the Ring from his finger, then he had tried to amputate the finger. Then the hand.

They had struggled, Khamûl and Elrohir, a strange, violent duel in the shuttered dark of his quarters at first, and then Khamûl had won enough to force Elrohir from the Palace into Bearos' house, into the empty, terrified silence of the house where the savagery of the Ghoul was still evident, and the stinking corpses were meaty enough still for Khamûl to gnaw upon in his raging hunger. He lifted Elrohir's bloody hand to his mouth and licked it clean, as he had made Bearos do at first, until it was not enough.

Until he could force Elrohir to find fresher meat.

He needed to be strong, for when he had to face the Hyellë-vírin. They would destroy everything Khamûl had schemed so long and fought so hard for; they thought they would be turning back Time, he thought contemptuously, but they were merely doing Melkor's work. They would shatter the Mirror and release the Dark.

Khamûl was hungry. Starving.

A child played in the gutter. No one was here. It was unwatched. Unloved. No one would miss it. No one had missed the others.

Khamûl made Elrohir move a little, like a ripple in the shadows, enough to attract the child's attention. It slowly rose to its feet looking towards them, the stick it had been playing with held loosely in its hand.

Come, Ravéyön, you have done worse than this, Khamûl murmured as Elrohir fought him with all his might and the great muscles bunched and strained to stay still. But Khamûl forced Elrohir to move, first one leg, then the other forwards, Elrohir fighting him every step. But the child suddenly fled, whimpering into the square.

Cursing, Khamûl squeezed hard about Elrohir's heart, and pierced him with his fangs so he cried out and writhed in agony. We will have to run now, Khamûl hissed furiously. You have deprived me of sweet young flesh and blood. We will have to feast on the old and stale. He forced Elrohir to flee, whipping him with his shame and guilt and forced him back to the upper levels to Bearos' house in its abandoned emptiness

Elrohir cried bitterly, I do not care! I will not kill just for you to feed!

Khamûl laughed and forced him into a run, keeping to the shadows, skulking beneath the walls and iron-wrought balconies, slipping through the gateways with the glamour drawn over him like some veil of invisibility. Khamûl rubbed his hands gleefully; having such a strong and vigorous body delighted him, and once it succumbed completely to him, he would be lord, not of the Nazgul but of the Nine Kingdoms, such as Angmar had never allowed him. Such as the Master had forbidden. But now this was the Time of Khamûl. All he needed was blood and to fight the Hyellë in their misguided foolishness. He could feel how the fight to resist him had exhausted Elrohir, left the Elf feeble and easy to dominate now. Soon he would walk unhindered amongst Elves, he could take what he wanted and no one would suspect the son of Elrond.

He shoved Elrohir aside easily now, stronger. I will let you feed on old meat and blood now but later, tonight, we will hunt. He felt Elrohir wither and cringe within, he was falling, sinking into the pit and soon, Khamûl thought, he will have no will left at all. Perhaps it was worth losing the child after all.

0o0o

Legolas stood in front of what had been Bearos' house. The once grand merchant's house now was shuttered and boarded up, although someone had splashed red paint all over the front and daubed the words 'Murderer' and 'Beast' over the front wall. The street was empty and other houses nearby seemed as abandoned as this when Legolas arrived and stood staring up at the façade, a frisson of cold fear down his neck and back.

He had thought that Khamûl might bring Elrohir to this place, and would force Elrohir to unspeakable acts in the empty darkness of this abandoned house. He licked his lips nervously. Bearos had fed Legolas meat. Raw and bloody liver to keep his blood rich and strong.

Did he see a shadow at the upper window? As if someone had just stepped back as he looked up?

He stood for a moment, afraid. But what if it were Elrohir trapped up there? What if he was fighting Khamûl alone and friendless? Legolas could not leave his beloved Elrohir there.

Legolas pushed at the door; it swung open easily for the lock had been broken and, Legolas thought, likely plundered for anything of value. He stepped over the threshold into the shadowy hall. Even though the evening was balmy midsummer and warm, it was cold in here. He felt the hairs on his neck and back stiffen. He stood very still, listening for a faint rattle of overlong nails on stone, the scuff of feet, for the clack of teeth. Or for a cry for help from Elrohir.

But there was absolute silence, not a breath. Not a mouse, not a spider spinning patiently.

He stood just inside the threshold of the door with the evening sunlight behind him, and drew Gimli's knives.

We are named Ale Gezên-aozh, the All-seeing, came the sharp little whispers. We see all, before and behind. We will guard. They gleamed brightly but there was no rill of blue fire. The ghoul, Khamûl, was not here. Legolas let go of the breath he had not realised he had been holding. He stepped into the cold shadows of the house, remembering how he had inched his way through the catacombs beneath the Houses of the Dead, when he pursued Bearos in his stupidity and over-confidence.

Like you are now, he recognised.

No. Not quite. For he had not had any sense of his own stupidity then; he had had no idea just what he had been pursuing. Whereas now he knew his enemy well. Even so, he crept silently forward, remembering how he had stood in the tunnels, hardly daring to breathe, listening like a fox. He remembered how the air had been suffocating and there had been the iron-rich stink of old blood.

A door stood slightly ajar and he hesitated before it; the front door stood wide open behind him and the evening sunlight flooded in and he could hear birds singing in the trees in the next avenue.

I can still get out, he told himself. I can still run away.

Legolas clenched his fist about the hilts of his knives and eased into the first room. Through the closed shutters came a thin stream of daylight that did no more than cast shadows in the room. It stank of old meat and blood. The air was oily with death.

His foot kicked against something heavy and there was an angry buzzing. A thick cloud of flies rose up briefly and then settled again. He looked down.

Outlined by the thin daylight was something large and heavy slumped on the floor. A thick black fur of flies shifted and crawled upon the dead Man's face. Legolas grimaced: it might have been Maltök. He remembered the slow cunning of the Man, how his mouth had hung slackly open as if there were no thought or awareness. But he had beaten Legolas senseless when the Elf had tried to escape. Looking down at the bloody hulk of old meat with revulsion at what Maltök had become, he could not feel pity. He had seen far worse. But he still did not know if Khamûl had brought Elrohir here.

He edged back into the wide hallway with the evening light and distant birdsong, holding knives before him, awareness stretched. If there is even the faintest sound, the faintest flicker of blue along the knives, I will flee, he told himself.

The staircase was wide and rich, winding grandly upwards. His hand paused over the opulently carved bannister for it looked like it had been gouged with a knife… or talons. Like the marks in Elrohir's bedchamber A stair creaked under him and he froze.

Silence.

The Ale-Gazên-Aozh were quiet, no blue fire flickered over the blades. Khamûl is not here, he thought, and nor is Elrohir. He reached the first floor and pushed open a door that was directly opposite the staircase.

Near the window was an overturned cradle, soft little blankets pulled out and ripped, strewn over the floor. A rocking chair was tipped onto its side. But the room was empty. And the next, and the next.

He slowly climbed the next staircase, less opulent and grand than the first. At the top was a wide landing and only two doors led off it. Although the walls were paneled and rich, there were deep gouges in the wood. Some of the wooden carvings had been ripped from the walls and the bare plaster was exposed beneath, like a body stripped bare. It stank of urine for there were stains on the expensive rugs and carpets. Legolas remembered the brutality of the Ghoul, its horrible frenzy, hurling itself against the walls, bashing and punching its fists against the iron gate like a frenzied baboon. He could imagine the Ghoul wrecking the house, tearing away wood panels, pissing on the carpets with glee. He was sure there would be excrement as well. Old shit and blood and bones. He thought of his valiant, beautiful noble Elrohir at the mercy of Khamûl, making him into some sort of beast. It was unbearable.

His knives were still gleaming but only the silver of the metal. There was no beast here, no ghoul.

The first room was the Solar, which must have been a lovely room once; the large leaded window was flooded with light and someone had carefully inserted little panes of coloured glass into the pattern. It must have been time-consuming, expensive. An act of love. Outside, an ancient ivy pressed its glossy leaves against the glass, it would give shade in the hot summer sun, Legolas thought. But the table and some chairs lay overturned and smashed into splinters. A woman's sewing had been dropped on the floor and another chair had been broken. There was another body in front of the empty hearth. Another Man. His throat had been ripped out and the body leached of blood. Long tattered ribbons curled from his belly that Legolas knew were intestines, blood vessels. A gaping wound in his belly showed where his liver had been torn from his body. For a moment, Legolas thought he would be sick, remembering that the Ghoul had forced little gobbets of raw liver into Legolas' own mouth.

A quiet thud sounded at the bottom of the house.

He jumped, heart leaping.

It is the wind, he told himself. The door must have blown shut.

But the Ale-Gezên-Aozh leapt in blue fire, it flared along the steel edges. We are the Ale Gezên-aozh, the All-seeing. We see all, before and behind. We guard. Evil is here. The sharp whispers were urgent.

He looked about in panic. Quietly, he pushed at the casement handle. It was locked. He tried again stealthily still but there was no budging the window.

His heart pounded in fear and he crept silently towards the door. A floorboard creaked downstairs. Something was moving. He froze and listened, the hair on his neck on stood stiffly.

Below, in the wide passageway at the floor of the stairs, something raised its snout and sniffed the air, loudly, like a hound, a Warg. It could hear him breathing, he thought, it could smell the blood pounding in his veins. He stood paralysed in terror, mouth open and breath gasping. He gripped the knives that flared like blue flames.

Danger! They whispered urgently. Evil is here!

It is the Ghoul, he thought, terrified. It had found him.

And then a familiar, beloved voice called very, very softly, as if it were afraid to be heard. 'Legolas?'

He gasped. Elrohir. In the surge of devotion and love he took a step but stopped himself abruptly.

It isn't Elrohir, he reminded himself. It is the Ghoul. It is Khamûl.

He swallowed, and edged towards the door, eased out into the hallway. But from below came the sound of slow and careful footsteps. The footsteps paused at the bottom of the stairs and he could imagine the Ghoul turning its long face upwards, the jaw dropping and clacking.

'Legolas?'

It was Elrohir's voice, soft, concerned. 'Is that you up there?'

Legolas put his hand over his mouth. Elrohir. He could not leave him. But he is the Ghoul, his reason told him. Go! Get help! You did not do that last time and look what happened? You cannot defeat him alone!

He turned quickly into the second room, hoping wildly that this window might open and he could climb into the welcoming, gnarled branches of the ancient ivy that curled over the façade of the house. But this was a small, mean room. Narrow bars of sunlight filtered through tightly closed shutters so the light was weak. One long table and a wooden chair was all the furniture in there. A lock was over the wooden shutters. He wrenched at the lock but it would not budge. Fumbling, he sheathed his blue-fire knives and took out his long stiletto, pushed it into the lock and fiddled, fumbling with it but nothing…and behind him on the stairs the soft footsteps took one step, two, three. The same stair creaked under the Ghoul as had creaked under him.

'Legolas? Is it you up there? It is Elrohir.'

His hands trembled in terror and when he tried the lock again, his knife scraped over the metal lock and slipped, clattered onto the floor. He froze, and turned to look over his shoulder, mouth open in short panicked breaths.

And then there was a long sniff like some hunting hound scented the air. Smelled his fear.

'I know you are there.' But it was still Elrohir's beloved rich voice. 'I can heeeaaaaarrr you… I can smell you.' A long, loud sniff.

He stared at the door, terrified. He could hear the creak of the stairs as Elrohir ascended, the soft footfalls, getting close, closer. A sob escaped him.

His heart thumped and he grabbed his knife, scrabbled again at the shutters. A low, throaty chuckle from half way up the stairs now. 'Oh, you can't get out through there. I made sure of that. Marinel tried.'

He felt a scream forcing its way out of him and clapped his hand to his mouth in horror and fear and banged futilely on the shutters.

The footsteps were quicker suddenly, running deliberately heavily up the last flight of stairs, thumping down on each stair elaborately. The thing that was not Elrohir sniggered to itself as it approached. Legolas darted about the room, searching for a way out, but there was none. The chimney was too narrow even for him. He could not hide; Khamûl knew he was here. He shoved the table across the door, knowing it would do little, and hurled himself against the shutters but they did not budge. He jammed the blade of his knife under the lock again and rattled and jiggled the blade, tried to pull the lock free from the wood. It held fast. He put his mouth to the gap between the shutters and shouted loudly.

"Help me! Someone! Help me'

A low snigger, from somewhere on the stairs, just below the landing, made Legolas cry out in terror and he battered at the shutters even more violently. He dug his fingers between the cracks and heaved at them with all his might.

Panting with terror he looked back over his shoulder to see the table move, the door banged against it. The door was shoved hard and the table scraped and juddered uselessly across the floor. A shadow obscured the open doorway.

A tall figure stood there, broad-shouldered, lean hips. A swordsman. It was Elrohir, but he looked odd, his shoulders were slightly tilted one higher than the other and he dragged one foot slightly more slowly than the other as if one side of him was reluctant. He held himself awkwardly as if he were not quite in control of himself. His raven-black hair was dull and unkempt and hung over his face, but worse, bright, mad eyes peered out from beneath his hair.

Elrohir sniggered. Lips pulled back over teeth slightly longer, the incisors sharper. Legolas whimpered. He wanted to weep; his beautiful Elrohir was wrong, strange and ghoulish. And he was going to kill Legolas. He knew that now.

'Well. There you are.' Elrohir walked boldly into the room.

Legolas stepped back, found his back against the wall already and nowhere to go. He heard a frightened gasp that had burst from his own lips and found himself reaching instinctively for his knives. The Ale-Gezên-Aozh leapt into his hands. Blue fire poured furiously over the engraved and the etched swirls and patterns and a sudden warmth stole over Legolas. He felt a surge of confidence as if Gimli stood at his side. The emerald in the hilts blinked like watchful eyes.

We are named Ale Gezên-aozh, the All-seeing, they spoke in their sharp little whispers. We see all, before and behind. We will guard.

The beast that looked like Elrohir pulled back fractionally and narrowed its bright, mad eyes. 'You will not hurt me,' it said with all of Elrohir's arrogance, his confidence.

Legolas swiped the air in front of him, the Ale-Gezên-aozh cut the air like silk, leaving a sharp silence, a trail of blue fire. The beast that looked like Elrohir watched the blades with narrow eyes but did not come closer.

'You think I will not hurt Elrohir,' Legolas said defiantly. 'But I will kill both him and you if it will stop you from desecrating him. Better that he dies than he becomes as you, better I kill him before you take him to the Dark.'

He lifted his chin, meeting the beast's cunning eyes, but they were still Elrohir's grey eyes that had once looked upon Legolas with such love, such devotion. Suddenly something flickered in those eyes, as if something within had cracked open.

'Legolas,' it gasped. It struggled forwards as if it could not move. 'I am still here. It is still me. Help me.'

Legolas cried aloud and took a step forwards but he stopped himself; the beast was cunning and cruel. It had tricked him before.

The creature that looked like Elrohir sank to its knees and curled over on itself as if in pain. 'Help me,' it whispered. 'Legolas. It has me. I cannot get out…I will vanish in here, like Bearos!' It bent his head and rocked, clutching his arms across his chest. Aícanaro's sheath scraped the floor.

Legolas watched in awful terror, clutching the hilts of his knives. 'Elrohir?' he whispered urgently, as if Khamûl might not hear him. 'Take off the Ring. Take it off and throw it from you.'

Elrohir suddenly moved, shifting and looking up at Legolas beseechingly. He shoved his hand up towards Legolas and he saw it was slick with blood. 'I have tried! I cannot get it off!'

Legolas stared. There were cuts and deep wounds on Elrohir's hand where he had tried to dig the Ring from his finger. The bloodstains in his room, they had come from Elrohir himself. Legolas almost wept in relief that Elrohir had not yet been made to commit murders.

'It will not come off and it will not let me cut myself!' Elrohir's face was tormented. 'It will make me kill you. Please! Kill me or go, fly this place. I cannot hold out.'

At that, all of Legolas' love flooded through him; this was Elrohir. Even if Khamûl had wrapped his coils about him, this was still his beloved. Legolas hefted the Ale-Gezên-aozh in his hands and took another cautious step towards Elrohir for he was still Khamûl's thrall.

If I can be quick enough, he thought, I might strike the Ring from his hand. He licked his lips nervously for although he knew he was stronger than Elrohir, the Ghoul had been stronger still, far stronger. Legolas remembered how Bearos had caught him and bashed his head on the floor of the tombs and dragged him by the hair back to the cell.

In the moment he hesitated, Elrohir suddenly snarled and hurled himself at Legolas. He lashed out with one foot, kicking Legolas so hard in the belly that he stumbled back in shock and pain. The beast's sinewy arms caught Legolas whilst he was winded and threw him hard against the wall, harder than ever Elrohir could have thrown him. With the breath knocked out of his lungs, his head bounced against the wall and stars burst in his brain, and then the beast was upon him, pinning his arms to his sides so the Ale-Gezên-aozh fumed uselessly.

He was caught. Dizzy and stunned, he still struggled uselessly. A curse burst from his lips and he strained to keep his face as far away from the beast's rank breath as he could. But the beast pressed against him, smiling with lascivious pleasure. Sharp teeth, longer than they should be, gleamed in the weak light that filtered through the shutters.

'Yôzâira,' the beast said slowly, lingering over each syllable, pressing his hips against Legolas. 'You are still a fool,' it whispered, squeezing his wrists so the bones ground against each other. Its hands were preternaturally strong, the fingers too long and the nails too sharp. 'You think I would let you do that? Your little blades could not cut the Ring from your Ravéyön's hand.' The beast that possessed Elrohir laughed. It bashed Legolas' hands against the stone wall hard, harder, laughing, watching his pain with greedy little eyes. It dug its long nails into his wrists and bashed again until the blue-flamed knives fell and skittered across the floor.

Legolas tasted salt on his lips and knew he wept; the beast would string him up once more, and feed. It would prod and press and lick him, enjoying his terror, soaking in his fear. It would take Elrohir forever into the Dark.

'Your Ravéyön called you whore once. Is that true?' Grinning, the beast rubbed Elrohir's cheek against Legolas' face and then pressed Elrohir's mouth upon his. Legolas struggled and tried to push him away but Elrohir was heavy and the beast was strong. 'I have missed the taste of you, your sweet blood.'

He could feel the thump of Elrohir's heart in his chest. But the grey eyes were mad and bright, they did not look upon him with love, but lust and greed and something so alien it terrified him.

'I will take you,' said the beast lasciviously. It pressed its face against his neck and breathed in his terror. 'I will drink your blood and leave you here so I can return again and again. Like I did before. . My Yôzâira. Nuph-zîran.' It wrapped his long pale hair about its fist and dragged Legolas' head back so his soft throat was exposed. Opening its mouth, the beast leaned over him and those long teeth gleamed. Legolas cried out as its mouth plunged down over him, biting hard into his throat.

He struggled at first. The pain was swift, incisive, but then a flood of sensations overwhelmed him; an erotic charge stroked him . He gasped, closed his eyes and arched back against the wall.

Elrohir raised his head, mouth bloody, eyes glazed with lust. Slowly, he lowered his mouth again to Legolas' throat, licked his neck. Then he cupped Legolas' head, pulled the Elf's mouth against his and pressed bloody lips against Legolas'. 'Taste it,' Elrohir murmured against his lips. 'Taste how sweet you are.' He licked his tongue over Legolas' mouth and Legolas opened his lips and pushed his tongue against Elrohir's. Iron-copper blood in his mouth, on his tongue, his lips. Legolas did not care. He wound his arms about Elrohir's neck and pulled him closer, pushing his tongue deeply. He could not help himself, desire overwhelmed him completely and he thought he would faint with it.

Elrohir smiled. 'My beloved. My Yôzâira.'

Legolas' head tipped back slightly and he gasped. He rubbed himself against Elrohir, who lapped and licked at Legolas' bloody throat. Hands clutched at each other, and Legolas pushed his lean hips against Elrohir's, desperate and needy.

Elrohir bent his head once more to Legolas' neck. Teeth pricked his neck and then plunged into him again. Blood spurted from the wound and dribbled over Elrohir's mouth; he slurped noisily, fastened to Legolas' neck. Briefly, he lifted his face from Legolas' throat, blood coating his mouth and chin. 'I want you,' he murmured. 'I want you. ' His hand gripped Legolas' shoulders and pulled him close. 'I will strip you naked and lash you so blood oozes from your wounds and I will lick you clean.'

Legolas did not flinch at the darkness of Elrohir's lust. Instead, he pressed against Elrohir's thigh and grasped his shoulders with a moan, ran his hands down towards Elrohir's hips and pulled him in closer. His hand brushed the cold dark metal of Aícanaro.

Release me. Unleash me.

Legolas' eyes opened at the sword's command.

This is Khamûl, the Enemy, Aícanaro insisted.

Suddenly Legolas' mind cleared. Still pressing against Elrohir, he clasped the hilt of the sword.

Instantly, Elrohir knew. He began to pull back but the black sword leapt into Legolas' hand and without a moment's pause, he slashed down.

Elrohir yowled in aguish and he snatched at his hand. The black blade sliced the palm of his hand open and blood spurted between his fingers. Elrohir clasped his hand to his chest, panting, eyes wild with pain. 'Do not think to be rid of me so easily!' he snarled. His eyes glittered and he bared his teeth.

Legolas did not wait. He leapt forwards, and brought the blade slashing again through the air. Elrohir threw himself back against the wall and used the momentum to hurl himself forwards but Legolas knew what he would do and sidestepped so that Elrohir plunged forwards into emptiness. Throwing his foot out, Legolas sent Elrohir sprawling to the floor and Elrohir grabbed him as he fell and they rolled together, Elrohir snarling and gnashing at Legolas with his teeth. Legolas barely felt the teeth tearing at his flesh, he struggled to free his sword arm and kicking hard at Elrohir's belly, he pushed himself away enough that he could bring Aícanaro down. He froze with the point of the blade touching Elrohir's wrist.

Elrohir lay still, looking at Legolas. Lips parted and grey eyes fastened upon Legolas' face. His hand was splayed out and bloody from where Aícanaro had cut him, a slash of crimson across the palm of his hand. And on his finger, Khamûl, the blood-red jewel glowing.

Legolas kept Aícanaro trained upon Elrohir's hand and scrambled inelegantly to his feet.

Elrohir looked up at Legolas, his teeth clenched. 'You are no Fingon,' he sneered.

Legolas breathed. 'Forgive me anyway.' He put his foot over Elrohir's wrist and moved the point slightly to the base of the ring-finger. Swiftly he forced the point of Aícanaro down, finding the resistance of bone, and pushed it down hard. The beast howled and gibbered and rolled, gnashing at Legolas' thigh but Legolas ignored it, putting all his weight onto the sword, he pushed with all his might.

Elrohir arched, howling in anguish. Clutching his arm to his chest, Elrohir rolled away and curled up on himself screaming. Two fingers quivered on the floor. The Ring had come loose and spun on the floor.

Legolas cast Aícanaro aside and threw himself beside Elrohir, holding him to his chest and stroking his head, kissing his hair, weeping. Blood pulsed from Elrohir's amputated hand. Hastily, Legolas tore at his own shirt, bunched up the cloth and pressed it over the base of Elrohir's bloody fingers. Blood pulsed with frightening swiftness over the cloth and Legolas pressed hard on the base of the finger, over the pulse. Elrohir opened his mouth in agony, tears leaking from his eyes, but Legolas held onto his hand as if he might take away the pain.

Elrohir tried to shove him away but it was weak and Legolas pulled Elrohir towards him and held him close, stroking his head with his free hand and kissing the top of his head.

'I am sorry, sorry. Elrohir. Beloved. I did not know what else to do.'

Elrohir's eyes were squeezed shut in pain and his teeth clenched. 'I know. I know. It's just…fucking…painful.' His face squeezed in pain.' Bring those,' he managed to say.

Legolas glanced over to his amputated fingers, confused. 'Why?'

Elrohir clenched his teeth. 'Elrond. He can…sometimes it works.' He looked up at Legolas briefly. 'You are...you are bleeding.' He looked away ashamed and Legolas could not meet his eyes, remembering how he had arched and stiffened under the vampire bite. He touched his fingers to his neck and glanced at them. The blood was already congealing and had almost stopped.

Obediently, Legolas carefully wrapped the fingers in the strips of linen he had torn from his sleeve and put them into Elrohir's tunic. He had a macabre sense of the ridiculous and wanted to laugh so he knew he was getting hysterical. 'We need to go,' he said. 'Let us come away from this place.'

Elrohir rocked himself, pulling away from Legolas and clutching his hand against his chest, squeezing down on the stumps of his fingers. The cloths were soaked in blood already and Legolas began to rip the rest of the sleeve from his shirt.

'Here. Keep the pressure on.' Legolas put his hand around Elrohir's to increase the pressure on the severed blood vessels. 'We have to get you to Aragorn.' He glanced at Elrohir. 'Or Elrond so he can…' Legolas gestured toward the severed fingers in Elrohir's tunic. Perhaps it was some magic that Elrond had? 'Come on, let's get you up.'

But Elrohir did not move. He rocked slightly, eyes squeezed shut.

Legolas glanced at him. Perhaps he is still in shock, he thought and bent down to scoop up the Ale-Gezên-aozh from where he had been forced to drop them. He felt a claustrophobic panic to leave here as quickly as he could. To get Elrohir out of there and to someone who knew what to do.

On the bare floorboards beside him, was the Ring. Old gold. Worn thin with use. The red jewel like an eye watching him.

He glanced down at the Ring anxiously. He did not want to leave it there but he dared not touch it, nor have it with him whilst he took Elrohir to safety: it was because they had left Khamûl on the mountainside that Bearos had been enslaved.

Aícanaro lay where Legolas had dropped him. And yet he felt the sword still in his mind, its dark presence cold, demanding. Take me up. Destroy. It seemed to hiss as if it remembered its tempering under the ancient stars in a drowned land.

Legolas turned his head and looked down at Elrohir. 'Aícanaro can cut through anything, can it not?' Elrohir's eyes were still tightly shut but when Legolas spoke, he stopped rocking and became very still. Then slowly he lifted his head and glanced towards the Ring.

Something in the way he held himself made Legolas nervous. 'Elrohir, Khamûl has left you?' he asked.

Elrohir did not speak.

They lunged for the sword at the same time. But Aícanaro seemed to leap into Legolas' hand, seething and spitting like a live thing. As Elrohir barged into him, Legolas raised the sword high and brought it down on the Ring.

There was a resounding clang and the Ring spun up into the air, the red jewel splintered and broke asunder and long ribbons of darkness flew out around it, like ink in water. Reverberations juddered up Legolas' arm and rattled his teeth as Elrohir crashed into him and Aícanaro flew from his hand, skittering treacherously across the wooden floor. But the Ring was spinning, spinning, a high-pitched whine grew louder and louder and the darkness within unraveled as if it were a spool of black thread.

They both leapt for Aícanaro but Elrohir elbowed Legolas hard in the face and his nose exploded in pain. Elrohir clutched the sword in his good hand, blood soaking his other. He gave Legolas a look of hatred and threw himself towards Legolas, Aícanaro raised. Legolas caught him and turned, using Elrohir's own momentum to hurl him through the door and out into the passageway. He plunged after Elrohir who was struggling to his feet, wounded hand held up against his chest and snarling.

Behind them, the Ring was spinning faster, its wicked malice unravelling, dark splinters shattering slowly into the air. The high-pitched whine grew louder and louder, and Legolas threw himself against Elrohir, both crashed, tumbling down the stairs. Legolas landed on his feet and grappled with Elrohir, dragging him with him as he leapt down the rest of the stairs, four, five, six at a time, his feet sliding and skidding as he pulled Elrohir after him.

The high-pitched whine grew louder and higher until suddenly he could no longer hear anything.

There was a soft boom inside his head and he shoved Elrohir ahead of him and out of the door but dust came down in heavy clouds and then a sharp pain and darkness.

0o0.