A branch of forked lightning split the sky in two. Thunder growled, as if some monstrous beast of the air, hungering for the mortal flesh of the earth, poured out its rage upon them.
The figure jerked awake with a quiet gasp. Rain fell lightly, misting his face, his hair, all of him. The ground beneath him was soft and wet. He dug his fingers into it, trying to make sense of where he was, what had happened.
He did not remember.
Elladan squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment, before opening them slowly.
He flexed his fingers experimentally, shifting his body position. Pain stabbed through his thigh and he winced, but, aside from that and the occasional ache, he seemed to be uninjured.
He shut his eyes, breathing deeply, then opened his eyes again. He tilted his head, glancing around him apprehensively.
He was at the bottom of a hill. A steep gully, sharp with rocks and slick with mud and rain. It looked like some giant at the beginning of time had taken a haphazard scoop out of the earth and tossed it away.
Over time, it had sprung back to life as brush crawled up over it.
Had he fallen down the embankment somehow? The pain in his leg seemed to confirm that.
And then he realized something else.
Elrohir was not with him.
He had begun to suspect this was the case, but now he knew for certain.
The realization had him frantically struggling to get to his feet.
"Elrohir!" he called. He hoped-prayed- that the younger was merely out of sight, hidden from his keen eyes by the landscape.
In his heart, he doubted it for reasons he could not explain.
"Elrohir!" he called again, taking his first uncertain step forward. His leg burned, but did not buckle under his weight.
He kept walking.
There was no answer.
Orcs.
He squeezed his eyes shut at the sudden recollection.
There had been orcs.
A sword point drawing a line of fire along his leg. The sensation of free-falling out into space right before he toppled down the hill.
No.
He hadn't simply fallen.
His brother had pushed him.
A sense of urgency overwhelmed him and he began the climb to the top of the gully. The combined efforts of the mud, the rain and the throbbing pain in his leg made the going treacherous.
The rain-slicked rocks were slippery. His fingers scrabbled for purchase and, more than once, his heart had lurched to his throat as the soft ground beneath his feet gave way beneath him and he came close to falling.
For him to have awakened as he did, for Elrohir to have pushed him into the gully himself, things had to have gone horribly wrong.
As much as he hoped it could be so, Elladan knew that his brother had not been victorious. If it had been so, he would not have awakened alone.
Elrohir would have never left his side.
He would not allow himself to imagine that Elrohir might be dead. He was confident that, had it been so, he would have felt the loss keenly.
He would know- he would know- if his brother was lost to him for there would be a hole left in his heart, a void none but one could fill.
Elladan didn't dare call out for his brother again, for fear of what he might draw in.
The only sound was the soft snick of the rain falling around him.
A silence, as if in reverence to the encroaching darkness of night, had come upon the world as a whole, yet he knew not what fell creatures might still lurk nearby.
If anything hostile remained close at hand, he couldn't risk drawing them nearer to himself.
A cloud hung over his mind.
Pain, confusion, fear- he realized distantly that the feelings were not his.
Ai, Elbereth. Elrohir!
An entirely different sort of fear gripped him by the throat, choking the breath from him, and he hurried the rest of the way up the steep incline, heedless to his own safety.
The ground above was littered with the bodies of orcs. Black blood leached from the death wounds inflicted by the blades of him and his brother, tainting the soil with its impurity.
He wrinkled his nose in distaste and stepped around the body of a particularly ugly, hulking brute.
Its face was twisted, frozen in the same snarl it had worn at death. Lips the color of decayed flesh pulled back, revealing fangs that were stained a deep, disgusting yellow. In its hand, it still clutched the jagged and rusted blade that its kind carried.
Elladan turned away from the sight and pressed onward. The wound in his thigh throbbed angrily. At some point, it had started bleeding again. Blood trickled sluggishly down his leg.
He ignored it and pushed forward. His own injury could wait until after he'd seen to his brother.
But among the bodies there was no sign of one who was not an orc.
Then- there!
He saw it. The unmistakable gleam of a silver blade.
No orc carried anything like it.
Wild hope mingled with terror ensnared his heart like a vice and he scrambled forward. He dropped to his knees, heedless of the mire and blood and snatched it up.
The white handle, intricately and lovingly carved, the silver blade stained deeply with the thick, dark blood of orcs.
It was his brother's blade. He'd know it anywhere.
Elladan himself had one like it. Their father had gifted the knives to them. For it to lie here, abandoned on the battlefield… something terrible had to have happened.
"Elrohir!"
Forgetting his need for caution, he sprang to his feet, his eyes desperately scanning the scattered corpses for anything that might give him a clue to his brother's whereabouts, but there was nothing. Nothing but mottled flesh and hideous, rusted armor.
It was at once a relief- not finding his brother among the slain- but he knew the alternative; he had seen what captivity could do to an elf.
Had not he and his brother been the very ones to free their mother from her imprisonment? Had they not failed to save her, despite having been the ones to find her?
His hands trembled down at his sides.
The foul creatures of Mordor had taken his mother from him, scarred her so deeply she had been unable to find peace and healing among her kin and had sailed across the sea.
They'd not have his brother as well.
Elrohir stumbled forward in a haze. His hands were tightly bound in front of him. Already the cords had begun to cut off circulation and his fingers felt thick and swollen.
Clawed hands clutched at his arms, dragging him forward.
Several times, their rough treatment nearly sent him sprawling over some tree root or another, his natural elven grace forgotten, but each time they yanked him back to his feet and hurried him onward. Sharp nails dug deeply into his flesh- the orcs took no cares to be gentle with him- and he set his teeth against any cry of pain.
Whatever else happened, whatever torment they forced upon him, he was determined that they wouldn't have the satisfaction of hearing him scream.
He didn't remember much beyond his own capture. He'd been dealt a blow to the head from behind, forced to march soon after he'd regained consciousness.
He had no knowledge of Elladan's fate after his brother had fallen. From the looks of it, he was the only prisoner the orcs bore with them.
Elrohir let his breath out slowly. His brother, at least, would not share his fate.
He did not think Elladan dead. He knew he would feel it if it were so.
Abruptly, his captors came to a halt, harshly yanking him from his thoughts. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since he had been taken prisoner.
The sky was still darkened, shadowed by clouds. A gentle shower of rain, only partially blocked by the canopy of tree branches over their heads, still fell.
Confused, he turned his head, taking a look at their surroundings.
There was nothing that he could see that suggested a favorable place to rest, but he was not an orc. He did not think like them. Who knew what their criteria was?
Something passed between them in their own tongue. It was a terrible sound, one that grated his ears and made his skin crawl.
A snake of dread coiled through his gut, cinching tight around his stomach. He knew that their stopping boded nothing good for him.
He wasn't the only one whose thoughts had veered in that direction. The orc beside him pawed at his head, running sharp clawed fingers through his hair, taking no care to be gentle.
"Mine," it purred, speaking Westron for the first time. "Mine to play with."
A disgusted grunt arose in Elrohir's throat. He clenched his jaw, made to jerk his head away from the unclean touch, but the claws snagged in his hair, wrenching his head back.
The claws in his arm simultaneously tightened their hold, further ensuring that there was nothing he could do.
Several orcs laughed, jeering at his unsuccessful attempt to resist.
It held him there, its lips peeled back to reveal fangs stained a deep yellow, a cruel parody of mirthfulness. It enjoyed his helplessness, his outrage at this new affrontary that he could do nothing about.
A cat toying with the mouse.
Elrohir glared at it and held his tongue. He would retain his defiance and give them nothing.
The orc stared at him through eyes that had become little more than yellow slits. Elrohir had the uneasy feeling that it was studying him, reading into the depths of his mind, but of course that was impossible.
Its hold on his hair tightened.
He wondered if, perhaps, it was trying to goad him into violence.
"Do you scream, elf?" it asked him then. It ran its thick, black tongue over mottled lips. "Your pretty little screams will be music to our ears."
Elrohir clenched his teeth and glared all the harder. The stench of its breath made his eyes water.
Just as suddenly, his hair was released. He was allowed only the briefest moment of relief before he was shoved forward. The force of it nearly sent him to his knees, but he managed to keep his balance and his pride.
It was not to be for long.
A stunning blow to the back of his knees had him falling forward with a barely stifled cry. He only just managed to catch himself with his bound hands.
Elrohir was not given a chance to recover himself. He struggled to push himself upright, but the orcs caught him by the crooks of his elbows, dragging him back.
He scrambled to get his feet underneath him again, but he couldn't find a solid purchase in the leaf litter.
Abruptly, they dropped him and he hit the ground hard. The back of his skull collided with the trunk of a tree and he saw stars.
Their purpose was evident. Panic clutched at his chest, making him dizzy, but he forced it back. Fear would only cloud his mind.
He needed to stay calm.
He clenched his teeth, struggling against the arms that held him prisoner. He kicked out and felt the heel of his foot connect. There was an answering snarl, the sound animalistic in its rage. An armor-pointed elbow was driven into the side of his temple. His head snapped to the side, his vision blacking out.
When he recovered, he was sagging forward, a restricting pressure wrapped tightly around his chest.
Warmth trickled down his temple. The blow to his head had broken the skin and blood now seeped freely from the wound.
Elrohir wished he knew how bad it was.
He blinked once, twice. His vision blurred. Things came in and out of focus.
He moaned, dropping his head down to his chest. The harsh tongue of Mordor ground against his ears. Sometimes the words grew louder so that they seemed to reverberate through his skull. Sometimes they faded to near nonexistent, the babble of a forest brook, but not nearly as gentle.
The pounding in his skull increased ten fold, as if the dwarven smiths had built their forges within the confines of his head and were now hard at work.
Harsh laughter broke out near his ear, the pressure on his chest pulled tighter, and Elrohir grunted softly in protest.
He was clouted on the side of the head. The suddenness of it startled him and his eyes flew open. A gasp of pain escaped him before he could help it.
Yellow eyes gathered around him, grins stretched wide across mottled faces leered down at him.
One of the orcs, slightly larger than its fellows, bent down beside him. It gripped his chin, tilting his head back to meet its eyes.
Hunger shone in its eyes and it licked its lip. "It's been a long time since I've tasted the flesh of an elf or man," it sneered and its rank breath, rotten with the stench of that which Elrohir did not know and did not want to contemplate, washed over him.
He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the foul creature before him.
The hand moved from his chin to his throat. It thrust his head back against the trunk again, steadily applying pressure to his windpipe.
Elrohir gasped, eyes flying open. He jerked, but the orc pinned his legs with one knee.
"Who told you to look away, Elf?" the orc demanded. The hand tightened around his throat.
He struggled to draw breath, but no air came.
The orcs laughed to see his struggle. And then it released him.
Elrohir sagged against his bonds, sucking in air. He was trembling. Relief had rendered him weak.
An orc reached out, caressing the side of his face. Elrohir no longer had the energy to pull away. "Does the little bird sing?" it asked.
Elrohir gave no answer.
"Bet it tastes good too," another one hissed. It grabbed his chin, running its tongue down the side of his face, tasting his drying blood before he could help himself.
Elrohir let out a strangled cry before he could help himself, struggling away from the unclean touch.
The orc only gripped him all the tighter, nails digging sharply into flesh.
It sneered, forcefully turning Elrohir's face towards it.
"But a bit more will taste even sweeter." It leaned its face in closer, but then, with a shriek of rage, was yanked away from its prey.
"Enough!" The newcomer was much larger than Elrohir's antagonist. Angrier too.
With a defiant hiss, the smaller orc scrambled backwards, but it wasn't quick enough to dodge the blow from its fellow.
"The elf is not yours to play with," it snarled.
The smaller orc groveled, baring its teeth at the larger.
The larger directed a kick in the smaller one's direction. The smaller yelped, backpedaling away. The half-hearted swing missed it and the larger didn't seem to be inclined to try again.
"Set up camp," it ordered. It turned its eyes down on Elrohir then. "Rest while you are able, Elf," it told him. It tilted its head to the side, its eyes roving over him, studying him. Its lip curled into a sneer. "You will not soon get the opportunity again."