See Ch. 1 for disclaimer. <>Ch. 8 The Captive

Legolas watched in guarded silence as the man approached, willing himself not to show any of the fear that was filling his very being. He kept his eyes trained straight ahead, refusing to look up even when the man came to a stop no more than a foot from where he sat, his back tight against the trunk of the tree that he was tethered to. His heart pounded furiously and his mouth was dry. It was a struggle to continue to draw in breath on regular intervals. The legs of the man shifted and his captor crouched down so that they were now face to face and Legolas found himself looking into the dark smiling face of his captor. It was not a kind face. In spite of his best efforts, Legolas shuddered.

"The son of Thranduil," the man said. "That makes you a prince. You do not look very princely right now. In fact, you look more like one of those miserable homeless urchins that roam our streets, begging for food and scraps."

Legolas pressed his lips into a thin line and defiantly turned his face away.

The man reached out and seized his chin in a bruising grip, forcing the young elf to face him once more. "You will look at me when I speak to you. You are now my prisoner and it will be wise for you not to cross me."

Legolas gathered the remnants of his strength and jerked his face away from the other’s brutal grip. He was instantly rewarded with a stinging blow across his face, the force of which snapped his head back painfully against the solid trunk of the tree.

"I warned you. Do not cross me," the man said, smiling again. "But fear not. I will not kill you, at least not just yet, for you are far too valuable."

"What do you want with me?" Legolas asked, and was quite pleased at the steadiness of his own voice.

"Ah, so you do have a tongue. I was beginning to think that Thranduil’s brat is a mute. What do I want with you? Surely you can guess by now." The man paused, and smiled again. "It is well known even among Men that Thranduil dotes on his youngest and that he goes to great lengths to protect that son from harm. What will he not do to have you returned safely?"

Even though he had long guessed the reason for his capture, to have that now confirmed by the man sent waves of cold despair through his heart.

Seeing the look of realization and fear on the young elf’s face, the man laughed. "With you in our hands, Mirkwood is ours."

Forcing the tremour from his voice, Legolas spoke steadily, "Your efforts are wasted. My father will not give into your demands. For him, as it should, Mirkwood comes before all else."

The man cocked his head slightly. "He would sacrifice the life of his son for the sake of his realm?"

Legolas nodded with a certain amount of pride. "Yes, for he is a good king. You will not bring him down."

The man smiled again. "That remains to be seen. You realize it does not bode well for you if he remains a good king, such as you have claimed."

Instinctively, Legolas squared his shoulders as much as his bonds allowed. "I do not fear death. I would sooner die than to become a tool that brings my father down."

"I applaud your bravery, young prince. Death by itself is easy. There are many things that are worse than death, however. And how would your father react if I should send a message to him, describing what would be done to you should he not abide by our demands?" He reached out and touched the sensitive tip of Legolas’ ear, forcing the young elf to cringe back against the tree. "Perhaps we can enhance the message with one of these ears? Or perhaps a finger or two? Piece by piece, we will return you to your father. How long do you think Thranduil can hold onto his realm then?"

"He will not give in. I am but one life. He will never sacrifice the lives of so many for one son. But if I should die in your hands, he will hunt you down and obliterate you so that there will be nothing left of any of you to be picked over by scavengers," Legolas spat out his words with all the contempt and scorn that he could muster.

"Spoken like a true prince. It will be interesting to see how long you can maintain such bravado. But I am told that elves are very resilient and can bear far beyond the endurance of man." He once more gripped Legolas by the chin and studied him closely. Tried as he might, the young elf could not pull himself free this time. He glared back in defiance.

The man released him and laughed. "You have all the arrogance that Thranduil is so infamous for. Well, it is time to bring an end to such arrogance. Thranduil will soon learn that he will have no choice but to deal with the very people that he holds in such disdain and contempt. It will be such a pleasure to hear him beg for your life."

"My father will not stoop so low as to beg from the likes of you," Legolas said scornfully. He was struck once more.

"You will learn to curb that arrogance of yours," the man said coldly. "Or you will learn to feel more than just my fist."

In complete defiance, Legolas spat the blood into the other’s face. "Your threats mean nothing to me!"

In a flash, the man cut the rope that tethered the elf to the tree and yanked him upright by the tunic.

"Secure his arms to that branch, for he needs a lesson that he will not soon forget," the man ordered furiously.

Two others ran forward to obey the order. Looping the cut rope through Legolas’ bound hands, the men then secured the same rope over a overhanging branch, pulling the elf’s arms tight above his head, leaving his feet barely touching the ground beneath him. Even before he realized what was happening, Legolas heard a strange whistling sound behind him and then something slammed onto his back, exploding in a hot snake of searing pain. He gasped and a small sound escaped from his lips. There was another whistle of air and he was struck again. This time he was able to bite off any sound of pain. The blows continued to rain down mercilessly and all that he could do was draw in shuddering sobs of breath in between each onslaught of pain. Then as suddenly as it had started, the whipping ceased. Legolas hung limply by the weight of his arms, unable to find the strength to pull himself upright to relieve the painful pull on his bound limbs. His back felt as if it had been ripped apart and set on fire.

"Not so arrogant now, are we?" Vaguely he heard the voice of his tormentor, speaking close to his ear. With a supreme effort, he tried to straighten his legs, only to have them buckle beneath him seconds later, leaving him panting with the effort and pain.

"You bleed, you feel the pain, just as we do. Why then are you elves so arrogant?" The mocking voice continued. "Is it because of your perceived immortality? But elves die too, do they not? In fact, did not many of your warriors perish when the orcs attacked Thranduil’s stronghold so short while ago? Were they not slaughtered by the orcs and their immortal blood spilled on the battleground?"

"The orcs were defeated," Legolas managed to give sound to the words in spite of the pain and the weakness. He gasped as his hair was yanked back cruelly and he was forced to look into the man’s angry face.

"Only because you interfered." He twisted his hand until Legolas feared that his hair was being ripped from his scalp. "Were it not for you, Thranduil’s stronghold would be flattened by now and your people enslaved under our command." Suddenly he released Legolas and stepped back. "But you are our prisoner now, to deal with as we see fit. You may have saved your people once, but you will be the one responsible for the final demise of Thranduil and Mirkwood."

"You were responsible for the orc attack on Mirkwood?" Legolas asked, anger fueling his waning strength as he recalled the blood that had been spilled during that battle.

The man laughed. "Let us say our hands were involved. Unlike the first-borns, and others who know not how to survive in times as these, my people can co-exist with the dark forces quite well. When this is all over, Mirkwood will be partitioned in ways that will satisfy all. Elves, I am afraid, will not share in such a partition. They will exist only to serve our desires and demands. That is, if we choose to let them exist at all."

"We would die before we would enslave ourselves to despicable creatures such as you," Legolas spat. He gasped as the whip once more made contact with his back.

"You will learn to serve us. Believe me, you will learn," the man said coldly. "You have provided enough sport for the night. We will continue tomorrow. You and I will be spending much time together, son of Thranduil. And you will learn to fear me." The whip struck again. "I will leave you hanging here for the night so that you may have all the time to contemplate on what lies ahead of you." The man began to cut the torn and bloody tunic from Legolas’ body. Smiling darkly, he held it up for the bound elf to see. "And tomorrow, my dear prince, we will send the first message to your father. He will see for himself your spilled blood on this tunic which will accompany the message."

He was at last left alone. Legolas buried his face into the side of his bound arm and bit back the tears that were threatening to spill over. Uncontrollably, he began to shake, both from the pain and the delayed shock of being whipped. Never before had he been struck in his life, and in the brief span of the past few days, he had tasted both the fist and the whip. No, he would not cry. He would not allow himself to expose such vulnerability to these Easterlings. He would not bring shame to himself or to his adar.

The thought of the King nearly undid the precarious hold he had on his emotions, and he nearly wept then at the thought of the pain that his father would surely feel when he learns of the plight of his youngest. That he should be the cause of such pain to his father was almost more than he could bear. Legolas fervently hoped that his adar was as strong a king as he had so declared to his captor, that Thranduil would not let the love for his son take precedence over his duty to his realm and his people.

Adar, you must not give in to the demands of these evil creatures. I do not fear death. I will accept whatever fate awaits me in the hands of these Men. But please do not let me become the weapon that brings the demise of Mirkwood and its people. As the pain at last began to steal away the final remnants of his remaining senses, he prayed to the Valar that his desperate pleas would somehow reach across the distance to his father’s heart, and that the King would abide by the final wishes of this one son.

TBC