Fan Fiction ❯ Demons in the Dark ❯ Chapter 3

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Italics indicate memory or dreams.


Commonly used Sindarin words:


Ai: Oh!
pen-neth: young one
muindor: brother
gwador: sworn brother, not those by blood
Ada: dad
melethron: lover
a'maelamin: lover
ernil-nín: my prince
ion nín: my son

*~*~*

Elrond slumped against the closed door briefly, feeling remarkably drained from just a short encounter. Elladan had always been the more outwardly calm twin, seemingly never letting anything get under his skin, being able to brush it off with a jest. And yet the half-elf knew that in private, his eldest son was just a passionate elf as any.

But never in his sons' nearly three millennia had he witnessed such an outburst. In any other circumstances it would have been grounds for a tongue lashing, but the haunted look that lingered beneath the simmering anger in Elladan's eyes was enough to convince the elven lord that it was not necessary.

Forcing himself up, Elrond made his way to his study to compose a note to be sent by carrier pigeon to Mirkwood. Thranduil needed to be informed that his only son was riding alone. More than likely, the King would send out riders to meet Legolas halfway.

As he stared at the parchment, looking for the right words to convey urgency to the Woodland Elf, but yet not imply that anything was amiss. But he kept coming back to the look in Elladan's eyes, anger and hurt and self-loathing. Elrond suspected that Legolas' sudden departure had something to do with Elladan's outburst. It had been short notice, but with the Orc activity increasing, the messengers between the three Elvish lands had to chose their roads wisely. Thranduil's messenger could have been traveling for quite some time before arriving in Imladris.

Sighing, Elrond put quill to paper, quickly setting the briefest details in ink for the King's eyes. He made no mention of what had happened to cause it, just spelling out that the Prince had left abruptly and without escort. He signed the note with his usual flourish and sealed it along the fold with the crest of his house.

A spot of blood on his sleeve caught his attention when he set the stamp aside. Elladan's blood.

A soft knock at the door drew his eyes away. "Come," he called, pulling a cloth from his pocket and dabbing at the stain.

"My lord?" Erestor entered lightly. "I saw light from under the door on my way by. Working late?"

"Just a last minute message to go out," Elrond gestured to the rolled up parchment, and stashing the cloth back into a pocket of his robes. "I know it's late, but can you see that this goes out, tonight, please, by pigeon."

"Aye, my lord," the dark haired councillor answered without hesitation. "Where is it going?"

"Mirkwood," Elrond answered, handing the parchment to his advisor.

"You found the Prince then?" Erestor asked as he took the message, careful not to disturb the still cooling seal.

"Nay," Elrond answered, rising from behind his desk. "Legolas left the vale this afternoon."

Erestor raised a thin dark eyebrow. "Alone?"

"Aye," Elrond sighed.

That was enough for Erestor to determine the contents of the message. "I will see that this gets out at once, my lord," he said, turning to leave.

"Thank you, Erestor," Elrond said to the already retreating figure. Seeing there was nothing else that needed to be tended to immediately, the elf lord circled the room, extinguishing candles for the night.

As he stepped out into the hallway, laughter drifted through the manor. He recognized his sons' voices, and felt his heart lighten. Elrohir had done well in lifting his brother's spirit, it seemed. Not daring to interrupt his sons' mischief, Elrond made his way to his own empty chambers, longing for the arms of another on the trails.
*~*~*

Legolas returned to consciousness with the presence of pain and the absence of anything natural. The only indication that his eyes were open was the faint glow of his body in the darkness.

It was hard for the Prince to pin down just one source of pain, and it was hard to concentrate enough to try to piece together memory. He figured he must've hit his head at some point and ended up with a concussion. His body felt like it had been used for target practice. He was particularly aware of a sharp throbbing pain in his left leg and a steady ache in his back.

Legolas moved slowly, easing himself into a sitting position. The motion prompted the announcement of new pains and the confirmation that he had a pretty nasty concussion when a nauseas feeling settled in his stomach and his head swam with dizziness. When it passed, he felt down his leg, wincing and hissing in pain as he touched his swollen ankle even with light fingers. Fractured, probably in the fall, he thought, as he felt around the swelling. His shoes had been removed, he noticed idly as he continued to probe at his injured ankle, trying to gauge the damage. He vaguely recalled tumbling from the back of his horse as they both fell into what was probably an Easterling hunting trap.

But that didn't explain where he had ended up. Trying not to move too much, Legolas spread his arms out along the floor, searching with his fingers for anything he might be able to use to brace his ankle. Fingertips on both hands brushed stone, giving the blonde an idea of just how small a space he was in. Never very tolerant of small spaces, the Prince hoped his confines were longer than they were wide. But his hopes were dashed when he slowly reclined again and stretched his arms over his head; his palms laid flat against stone with bent elbows.

Trying not to think about the enclosed space he was in, Legolas turned his attention to his ankle. It needed to be bound somehow, to prevent further damage, but not so that it would completely impede an escape should he get the chance to flee from wherever he was. Slowly, Legolas returned to a sitting position and shrugged his way out of his tunic, biting his lower lip to keep from crying out at the pain of it. Even if the knife wound to his back was deep, the natural healing processes of his kind should have been well at work on the injury. Yet it felt to the Prince as if it was still only minutes old. How long had he been unconscious?

Shaking his head gently, trying to clear the fog that seemed to cling to him, Legolas started to rip his torn tunic into strips to fashion some kind of support for his ankle. The sleeves were made from a stiff woven cloth, ideal for a woodsman or rider on the trails, protecting the rider's arms from scrapes and scratches easily come by in the wilderness. It took some time, in the dark and using only his fingernails to remove a sleeve from the rest of the shirt. It didn't help any that his head was pounding in tandem with his heart.

After tearing a couple softer strips from the lining, Legolas bound his ankle by setting his foot in the middle of the sleeve and bringing the two ends up on either side of his shin, tying the makeshift soft splint with the strips of lining. It would do nothing if he had to try to walk on it, but the brace would keep the injury mostly immobile.

Legolas' back was on fire when he returned to sitting up straight. The pain was such that he could not tell where exactly he was cut or how deep the injury was. His shirt was soaked in blood, that much he could tell by the dampness that caused the garment to stick to his back. That the blood was still damp troubled him. He couldn't have been unconscious that long, or else-

Or else he was poisoned, Legolas finally came to the conclusion. Orcs routinely poisoned their blades with any number of toxins. A poison, coupled with the stone enclosure cutting him off from anything remotely natural would staunch his healing abilities. And the toxin must have been a slow acting one, for the Prince did not feel fever or any other sign that something was amiss, other than the pain that showed no signs of diminishing, the pain that was slowly overwhelming him.

Fighting the pain would only drain him further, making it near impossible for him to escape wherever he was should the opportunity arise. Legolas succumbed to the pain, letting himself fall into unconsciousness once more.
*~*~*

The next time Legolas regained gained consciousness it was thanks to a sharp pain in his ribs and the horrible hissing laughter of the Orcs. The disgusting creatures swam into focus slowly after another brutal kick. Faint torchlight brightened the small cave just enough for Legolas to distinguish faces on the things standing above him. On instinct Legolas curled up to protect his already bruised and battered body. The action prompted a kick to his back, making him cry out and the Orcs laughed harder.

"So the little Prince is awake, then," one of them growled, kicking him again, lower this time.

There were five of them in the small space, making Legolas feel even more trapped than he had the first time he'd awoken. He was acutely aware of the stale air, of the slight wheeze in his breath, of the stench of the Orcs, all bearing down on him in the small stone cage.

"Oh yes, we know who you are, Prince of Mirkwood," the same Orc growled bending over and speaking directly to the blonde, who was still curled around his ribs as best he could be. "We know who you are, and now you're going to pay for all Orcs you've killed. But we're not going to kill you right away, no, we're going to enjoy it." And with that, he straightened up and kicked Legolas in the chin, making the Prince's head snap back.

Legolas clenched his now aching jaw, trying not to cry out as he was kicked repeatedly from shoulders to toes. The pain in his body increased ten fold as aches that had begun to heal slightly were created anew at the feet of his tormenters. Blow after blow rained down on the Prince as he tried to protect his head and chest.

Darkness began to creep into the edges of his vision as unconsciousness began to beckon. A sharp kick to his upper back sent the dimly lit world spiraling.

Forgive me, Elladan, he just had time to pray as he fell once more into unconsciousness.