Lord of the Rings 1. Chapter 1: Awakening

**Disclaimer:** Do I sound like Tolkien? Am I dead? Am I male? Am I a literary genius? If you answered yes to any of those questions, then you are WRONG! And since the answer to all of those questions is no, that means that I cannot be Tolkien.

**(Story) Rating/Warnings:** Teen. Rated Teen for Violence, Gore, Disturbing images, Language, Slightly disturbing concepts, Toture. This is not a story meant for kids...at all. Note: the rating for the entire tale is subject to change. Certain chapters will quite likely be rated higher. Further warnings for each individual chapter shall be posted ahead of the chapter.

**Chapter Warnings: **Nothing too explicit for chapter 1. Mild peril and violence.

**Category:** Suspense/Angst/Torture/Friendship

**Time Frame:** SA 1694 (second age). During the War of the Elves and Sauron (the war between Sauron and the Elves that was caused by Annatar revealing himself as Sauron, and attempting to gain a hold of the rings of power. Sauron was defeated in 1701 when a fleet from Numenor landed in Middle Earth). Set a few months before Elrond was stationed in Eregion, and three years before Eregion was laid to waste. Pre-Rivendell, pre-the fall of Numenor.

**A/N:** So begins one of the longest tales I have written to date. I am afraid that it is not finished (although I have a good bit written and ready to be published), so although I plan for updates to be weekly, I'm afraid I can't make any promises. Thus far, this is also one of the darkest things I have written. It may not seem to be so at the beginning, but like with many things, it gets much darker before it gets lighter. See, I have this strange tendency to whump my favorite characters. And there is practically _no_ good Elrond whump out there. So I decided to change that. And then (like what so often happens), this little, cliche idea decided that it wanted to be a 'big boy', and found a plot of its own, and about a dozen OCs along the way. And thus was born.

A HUGE thanks goes to **tonks-quinn57** (here on out referred to as Galeo) for betaing this for me. I honestly am not entirely sure how she stays sane while putting up with my warped and twisted ways. (If you like Twilight, go check out her writing. It's awesome...I think so, and I haven't even read the series).

Well, I hope you like the first chapter of this tale. My plan is to update weekly, on either Saturday or Sunday. I'd absolutely LOVE it if you would let me know what you think (any constructive criticism, any point unclear, a specific thing that you liked, etc.). But most importantly, I hope you enjoy.

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**Translations:**

Yrch: orcs

Daro: stop/halt

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**~*Poisoned Star*~**

~*Chapter 1: Awakening*~

_Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. ~Martin Luther King Jr._

_~**Night**~_

_~**Orc Camp~**_

It was the laughing and jeering of the orcs that welcomed Elrond as he returned slowly to consciousness. They were raucous and boisterous, being pleased with themselves, and were being none too humble or shy about their endeavors of the day.

Elrond feigned unconsciousness for as long as he could, and simply listened to the racket around him, attempting to gain his bearings. He could tell that he was lying on the ground, and he was bound both hand and foot with thick ropes. A fire flickered a few yards away, and from somewhere close by, a warg howled, the sound rising and falling eerily in octaves.

"A pointy-eared bastard ain't no match fer a Orc," one of the creatures was guffawing, and a great number of hoots and hollers followed the statement. The sound grated painfully on Elrond's ears, and he struggled to remain impassive. The words that rolled from the orc's mouth sounded tainted and poisoned, a corrupted form of language.

"They scattered like rabbits when they saw us, they did," another was saying. Again, Elrond fought to keep himself limp and his face blank of emotion. Even so, he felt a wave of irritation rise within him. Of course the yrch would warp the facts of what had happened, and yet it still upset the elf to hear such slander against his men.

"I could smell their fear," another chortled.

"You could smell it?" a voice cried out with pique. "I could _see_ it."

"Didju 'ear the fair-haired elf as I skewered 'im? Squealed like a pig, 'e did!" A harsh laugh followed the statement, and Elrond felt his gut clench with both anger and sorrow. He could remember all too clearly the sight of blonde Aearech being stabbed through with a viciously barbed spear, and Elrond knew that he would take the sound of the strangled scream and the look of surprised horror with him to his grave.

After that, Elrond blocked out the sounds of his captors as best as he could. He did not wish to hear any more of their boasting or repugnant laughter. He found that ignoring his surroundings, including the discomforts such as the sharp stone that was digging into his hip and the cold that nipped at his bare hands and feet, was the best path. Instead he allowed his mind to wander, still maintaining his relaxed pose as best as he could.

Despite his efforts, his thoughts kept drifting back to earlier in the day, to the incident that had led to his capture. What had gone wrong? What mistake had been made? Those questions plagued Elrond, gnawed at his heart and very soul with dubious and guilty fingers. Finally, he gave into the pull of memory, and allowed his mind to play over the events of the morning.

~oOo~

_~ **Past – Sunrise of that day**~_

A light mist crept over the ground in the predawn light, hiding grass, hard packed earth of the road, and small shrubs that were scattered across the landscape alike with a thin veil of pearlescent vapor. Tendrils of the smoky substance eddied and swirled as it was disturbed, and thin fingers wrapped about the knees of the trotting horses. Hills dotted with clusters of rock and copses of trees rose high on either side of the small vale, blocking out all but the faintest tinges of orange and gold that heralded the rising of the sun.

The riders atop the magnificent steeds were both fair and frightening to behold. They were tall and beautiful creatures, and they rode with an innate grace that seemed to deny mortal reasoning. All but one were dark of hair, and the blonde haired one among them wore his tresses in the same style of artful braids as his companions. They were pale skinned, and their eyes shone with an inner fire, kindling silver, blue, and green into burning flames. Perhaps, however, the most unusual, and yet perhaps the most drawing feature about the creatures were their ears, which were not rounded, but were instead pointed.

And yet, even as they were beautiful, the elves were terrifying. Each was dressed in chainmail that occasionally glinted in the predawn light, dark brown breeches, and suede boots. Half of the elves wore helms, which had been crafted to appear as if they had been carved from the leaves of some mighty tree, and these elves carried wickedly curved swords belted to their waists. In either their right or left hands, they also carried a short spear that could double as a lance if the need arose. The bareheaded elves bore quivers upon their backs, their arrows fletched with swan feathers. Each carried a strung bow in one hand, and at their waist was a small knife.

At the head of the column on a dapple gray mare rode a bareheaded, dark haired elf. Like the others, he too wore armor, but his breeches were of a deep blue rather than brown, and a navy cloak was fastened about his shoulders. At his side he bore a slightly curved sword, its hilt a dark wood inlaid with gold vines, but no other weapon was to be seen. It was clear that he was the commander of the troop.

Elrond shifted in his saddle slightly, glancing up at the hills forming natural walls to either side of the winding road. Deep within him, unease began to grow. It was a shadow and a thought that warned of a whispering evil drawing nigh. Of yet, however, the Elf Lord did not understand his misgivings.

Elrond turned slightly so he could see those riding behind him out of the corner of his eye. He found the elf he was looking for, and he beckoned a raven-haired warrior forward. The warrior, who had two knotted golden cords looped around his right shoulder, kicked his bay mare into a canter, and drew abreast of his commander.

"Yes my lord?" the lieutenant murmured in a low tone, slowing his mount so that she paced alongside the gray.

"Asgaladh, does anything seem…amiss?" Elrond asked his second-in-command, his voice pensive.

"No my lord," Asgaladh replied, his brow furrowing in a frown. "Does something trouble you? Do you feel something?" Asgaladh, like the rest of Elrond's men, had quickly learnt to trust both his lord and his instinct, for they seldom proved wrong.

After a heartbeat's pause, Elrond shook his head. "For a moment, I thought that I had felt something, but it is gone now." And yet he did not look convinced, and his gaze darted a little way up the hillside toward a cluster of boulders.

"The scouts have reported naught but clear roads," Asgaladh said, hoping to ease his lord's mind, for he could tell that something was bothering him, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

"Thank you Asgaladh," Elrond said, smiling slightly. "These hills have always set me ill at ease. Perhaps it was simply a change of the wind."

The words had hardly left his mouth when the Elf Lord grunted and fell sideways. Reacting instinctively, Asgaladh reached out and caught Elrond before he could tumble from the saddle. He caught a glimpse of a dark feathered shaft protruding from his lord's shoulder, and for a second, he felt as if time froze still. And then it was as if Angband had been broken open.

The wind shifted, and with it blew the unmistakable stench of death and fear that clung to orcs like a cloak. Elrond's mare reared, already slightly confused and frightened by her rider's strange behavior. From behind him, Asgaladh heard a horse whinny shrilly, and the clinks of hooves as other steeds danced uneasily overtop the hard packed earth. Beneath him, Asgaladh's own mare ground to a halt and stood, quivering.

Out from behind a jumble of large stones and from between the trunks of trees that lined a hilltop slightly ahead of them poured a thick line of dense bodied wolves. The short yips and barks of the wargs echoed throughout the vale, bouncing from hill to hill and out into the open sky that was just beginning to turn pastel blue. They were accompanied by the howling of orcs, who rode on the wargs' backs. With a swift and deadly purpose they bore down upon the group of surprised elves.

"I am fine," Elrond gasped, and pulled himself back into the saddle, forcing his mare to land squarely on her forelegs. He reached over and yanked at the arrow shaft. It came away easily, for it had merely lodged itself in a small dent in his mail, and he cast it aside without a second thought. He would likely have a bruise, but nothing more, and even that would be completely healed within a day.

With the ring of steel against steel, Elrond drew Hadhafang, and held him aloft.

"Swordsmen to me!" he bellowed, shattering the shocked pall that had hung over the troop.

"Archers to the back; take positions along the outcropping!" Asgaladh ordered a second later, after ensuring that his lord was indeed alright. He wheeled his mount and kneed her into a gallop, sweeping around the group of elves and heading toward the rear.

Within half a moment, a skirmish line had formed on either side of Elrond, the horses snorting and throwing their heads as the creatures of shadow neared. The elves gripped their spears tightly, couching the butt of the staff against their armored shoulders, and prepared for the order to charge.

Along the far edge of the road, a small hillock of stone rose up to a copse of trees. The archers quickly dismounted and ascended the rocks, gaining a vantage point where they could shoot _down_ upon their enemies rather than attempting to shoot _through_ the fighting.

It felt to Elrond as if time slowed, and he could both see and hear every minute detail. To his right, a horse snorted and pawed the ground, while to his left one of his men shifted his lance to a better position, the wood scraping against his mail.

"Draw arrows," Asgaladh's clear tenor ordered, his voice calm. The sound of a score of arrows being drawn punctuated the morning air. "Hold!"

Elrond waited for half a second longer, his gaze riveted on the oncoming pack of wargs as they dashed down the slopes. The leader hit level ground, and the elf watched as the orc riding the beast drew a scimitar from his belt, his mouth open in a scream.

One breath longer he waited. A silence, a peace filled him, at odds with, and yet one with the adrenaline that coursed through his blood, warming him and bringing him to life. He could hear nothing but the whisper of air about him, could feel nothing but the cool caress of the wind through his hair. All was still, all was silent – waiting.

"Charge!" Elrond roared, shattering the stillness that had descended on him. The silence about him fell like a curtain, and again he could hear the screams of the orcs and the yelps of the wargs. Beneath him, his mare surged, responding to his command just as the other horses and riders did.

With a thundering of hooves and a wordless battle cry, the elves charged, lowering their lance tips. As one, the wargs lifted a hair raising howl, the earth shaking from their driving paws.

Vaguely, from somewhere behind him, Elrond heard Asgaladh shout, "Release arrows!" and a rain of dark death flew over his head to scatter amongst the oncoming throng. A few of the monsters toppled and fell, crushing their riders, while other arrows found their mark in the eye or throat of an orc. The beast would then tumble from its mount's back, and would be crushed by its brethren. Yet only a few fell, and there was another two to take the place for every warg or rider that fell.

With an almost audible crunch, the two lines connected, and Elrond lost himself in a whirlwind of clanging steel, the screams of the wounded, blood, and death.

~oOo~

_~**Present – Night**~_

Heavy footfalls that set the earth quivering brought Elrond back to reality. They would halt every few paces, stay still for a few seconds, then move on again, each time drawing a little closer to Elrond. He waited, listening intently, trying to infer the creature's intent.

The stench of orc washed over him as the thing drew near, causing him to gag slightly. It was an overwhelming mixture of refuse and blood coated over with both hatred and the cloying smell of death.

The orc must have caught a glimpse of the elf's movement, for the creature hurried the last few steps toward Elrond without pausing. It knelt beside him and roughly checked the bindings on his hands and feet, not caring if its claws nicked the tender skin on the inside of his wrist or tore small holes in the fabric of his breeches. Elrond grit his teeth, forcing himself to breathe as evenly as he could. He could only hope that, satisfied with the integrity of his bonds, the orc would move on. It didn't.

The orc grabbed his chin, forcing it up. The foul creature's putrid breath washed over him, filling his nose and mouth, and this time he could not even begin to hide the gag.

Without warning, a fist slammed into Elrond's cheek, snapping his head to the side. His eyes flew open automatically, only to clench them shut again as light assaulted his retinas. A second punch landed directly in his stomach, and Elrond felt the air whoosh from his lungs. For half a second, the only thing Elrond could do was lay there, breathless and unable to see even if he wanted to. After that, he gave up all pretenses of unconsciousness.

The orc grabbed the front of Elrond's tunic and pulled him up off the ground. The elf again opened his eyes, although more carefully this time, and glared at the orc whose face was only a few inches from his own. For the space of a breath, the orc seemed taken aback by the fire in his captive's gaze, and it seemed to him as if the elf blazed with power and light.

The orc growled and, with his free hand, he grasped Elrond's face, its thumb pressing painfully against his cheekbone and its fingers splayed across his other cheek. He shoved his face even closer to Elrond's, his eyes gleaming with malice.

"You trying to challenge me, elf?" it spat. "Or were you just trying to hide like all the other cowards." At that, Elrond twitched. What did the orc mean by saying 'like all the other cowards'? It didn't seem to fit with the circumstances of the battle, which would mean that…would mean that he wasn't the only captive.

The orc chortled evilly at the look of dismay that flickered across Elrond's face before he could stop it. "Ya din't think you were so import'nt that you were the only reason we came, didja?" the orc sneered with contempt. "Why don'tja take a look." The orc forced Elrond's face to the side, directing his gaze downward so he could see the shadowed shapes lying scattered around him. Like him, they were bound, and had been stripped of their weapons, mail, and boots. He could sense that more than half of them were injured, for their fëar flickered weakly, and seemed as if they had been shot through with red, where they should have been a softly glowing gold.

Elrond's face was wrenched back to the front, so that he was once again staring into the orc's hideous face. It was leering at him unpleasantly. "We're gonna 'ave some fun with you," it whispered, as if imparting some sort of secret.

Elrond yearned to say something in retort, yet he knew that it would do him no good. He would only make threats or promises that he knew he could keep, for if he could not keep them, it would only weaken him and whatever power he might be able to gain over the foul creatures. And besides, it would only anger the beast, and would place both himself and his men, for whom he was supposed to watch over and protect, in more a more volatile position than they were already in.

"Oi, Gourdug, what be takin' ye so long?" a new orc grumbled, drawing near. His eyes lit up when he saw Elrond, and his ire seemed to lessen somewhat. "So one of 'em finally be awake, eh?" he asked.

"Aye," Gourdug replied, and sniffed at Elrond contemptuously. "We was just having a nice lil chat." With that the orc dropped Elrond back onto the ground. Unable to break his fall, Elrond landed flat on his back, and for the second time that night, the air was forced from his lungs.

"This be the lordling, ain't 'it?" the other orc asked, bending over to get a better look at Elrond. It gripped the elf's hair and yanked his head upright, while with its free hand, the orc poked and prodded Elrond's chest, stomach, and throat.

Elrond struggled against his bonds, humiliation and, for the first time since he had awoken, a modicum of fear causing him to squirm and fight against the orc's grip. He realized that he was helpless, bound as he was, and would not be able to stop the orcs from doing what they willed with him. Later, and when he had the time to think back on what happened next, he knew that it would have been best for him simply to remain as still as he could

The orc grinned maliciously, and leaned down over Elrond, shoving the elf's head back against the ground, and pressing its other hand against Elrond's sternum. Its nails dug into Elrond's skin with enough force to make it difficult to breathe.

"Ye scareda us, elf?" the orc over him mocked. "Do I make ya squirm?" The creature chuckled darkly. "How about I make ya dance a merry jig? Wouldja like dat?"

Even as Elrond acted, he knew it was stupid. The orc was only goading him, scorning and mocking him and, while the creature was more than capable of carrying out his threats, Elrond knew that it wouldn't. At least not then, not yet. And yet fear somehow mixed with rage, and together the two emotions spurred Elrond on, obliterating reason and logic.

Without sound or warning, Elrond attacked. He snapped his legs up toward his chest, smashing into the orc's elbow. Something cracked upon impact, and the orc let out a pained howl as he snatched his arm away and loosened its grip on Elrond's hair. A fraction of a second later, Elrond was snapping his legs upward from where he had gathered them to his chest. His feet caught the orc in the chest, sending him stumbling back.

Fueled by his anger toward the yrch for killing his people and taking him and his surviving men prisoner, Elrond rolled over and sat up on his knees, turning to face the orc behind him. For the moment, he put Gourdug from his mind, able to concentrate on only one at a time. He lunged upwards, lifting his arms away from his chest and wrapping them about the stunned orc's head before falling back to his knees, dragging the orc with him.

The orc staggered and fell, crashing to the ground with a grunt. Elrond wobbled, but regained his balance, and quickly placed his knees in the small of the orc's back. He lifted his hands away from the orc's skull and gripped its ear. With a savage jerk, Elrond pulled the orc's head savagely to one side. He heard bone snap, and the orc fell limp beneath him.

A clawed hand wrapped around Elrond's throat and tightened. The next second, he felt himself being ripped away from the orc corpse and flung through the air. When he landed, he rolled, before fetching up against a steel-toed boot.

"What's goin on 'ere?" a new, deeper voice growled. The boot that had stopped Elrond's roll cranked back and smashed into his stomach, sending him flopping back in the direction he had come. Elrond merely grunted, unable to make any other sound.

"'e killed Durgil!" Gourdug replied.

Elrond felt hands, once again, grasping the front of his tunic, and he was hauled bodily into the air so that his toes just barely brushed against the ground. He glanced about him, and realized with a twist of his gut, that orcs now swarmed around the prisoners, attracted by Durgil's howls.

"Killed Durgil?" the orc holding Elrond spat with contempt. "An' how'd 'e manage that?"

"Broke 'is neck!" Gourdug spat back, bristling at the other's tone of disbelief.

"Aye, Durgil's dead," another orc called out after kicking the corpse over onto its back. A low murmur of shock and something akin to anger rippled through the small crowd.

"Methinks 'e needs ta be taught 'is place!" an orc hollered. Jeers and howls greeted the suggestion, and the orc carrying him began to walk, dragging Elrond along the ground. The orcs parted, allowing them a clear path toward the fire.

Elrond, unwilling to give up easily, and knowing that no matter what he did now, his consequence would be the same, twisted and fought, attempting to kick or even bite the hand holding him. A blow to the head halted his movements, and he collapsed limply in the orc's grip, stunned.

As they were passing by the other prisoners, Elrond thought he caught a flicker of movement. He turned his head just a little, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his men lift his head. It was Aravadhor, a young elf just past his majority who had showed great promise in both leadership and with the sword. Aravadhor's eyes widened at the sight of his captain and lord being dragged away by the orcs, and made as if to attempt to gain his feet. Elrond could see the determination in the young warrior's eyes, and knew that he was about to do something stupid, just as Elrond himself had done.

Elrond shook his head slightly, his gaze locking with the Aravadhor's. "_Daro_," he mouthed. For a second, the bulk of an orc blocked Elrond's view of the young elf, and Elrond hoped fervently that he had obeyed the command. When they moved on past the orc, Elrond risked one final glance back, and with that last look conveyed as much hope and strength as he could, telling the other not to despair, and that he would be fine. He only hoped that Aravadhor had seen it.

Aravadhor sank back to the ground, yet kept his eyes locked on his captain's form as he was dragged into a sea of orcs. The young elf felt his throat tighten and his gut clench, for he knew what was about to happen to his captain. He pressed his forehead against the cool ground, and squeezed his eyes shut as tears threatened to fall. He felt that he had failed his captain, even though Lord Elrond had ordered him to stay still.

And yet, even as he heard the first thumps of leather boots striking flesh, Aravadhor couldn't help but remember the final look that Elrond had sent him. It gave him enough strength to dare to hope that this wasn't the end. Even so, he kept his eyes shut tight, and clenched his arms over his ears so that he would not have to listen to the taunts and the laughter of the orcs as they played.

~oOo~

End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2: Wolfish Desires

**Disclaimer:** Characters (except for Elrond) are mine and my own and my precious. If you would like to use them (for whatever reason), ask first! Plot is mine. Idea is mine. Elrond? Nope. Middle-earth? Uh-uh. Concepts? No. I think that basically covers everything. Don't sue me - you won't get anything from it except.

**Chapter Warnings:** mild language/gore/violence. Again, nothing too bad this chapter.

**A/N (please read):** It's pathetic...this is the second chapter, and I'm already late in updating. So first: my profound apologies. Second: an explanation/a warning. I found out middle of last week that I'm moving in approximately a week and a half. Which means that life suddenly got extremely crazy, extremely busy, and extremely insane. Pretty much all of my time at home is spent packing (I really should be packing right now...), and the rest of my time is spent either a) sleeping, or b) spending as much time as I can with friends and family that we'll be leaving behind. That being said, update schedule will be extremely erratic due to me having little time to edit, and even less time to write. Again, my profound apologies. I definitely would rather not be having to do this, and would much prefer being able to have the time to write and update.

Again, a huge thanks goes to Galeo for her support and her being a helpful Grammar Nazi. Also, much thanks to **Mirnava **for keeping me inspired. HUGE thank you's go out to both cai-ann and Zammy for reviewing. I was beginning to worry that no one was finding this story interesting, and then you two pulled through. So thank you very, very much. Thanks also to the people who have thus far favorited and alerted.

I hope you enjoy chapter 2. Also, I would love it if you would leave a few words on your way out, even if it's just to say that you liked it, or that you have a question. All I can say is that reviews will cheer me up a lot, and I can really use all of the cheering up I can get right now._  
_

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**Translations: **(if you catch anything else that you would like me to translate, just let me know)

Yrch: orcs

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~*Chapter 2: Wolfish Desires*~

_Some people won't be happy until they've pushed you to the ground. What you have to do is have the courage to stand your ground and not give them the time of day. Hold on to your power and never give it away. ― Donna Schoenrock_

_~**Night**~_

_~**Orc Camp~**_

Elrond was flung to the ground beside the fire. He rolled, taking the brunt of the force of the fall on his shoulder, which popped unnervingly. The crude laughter of the orcs filled the air around him as they closed in, surrounding him like a pack of wolves encircling an injured deer. But these creatures were like no wolves Elrond had ever seen, for orcs preferred to play with their food for many long hours before consuming it.

The blows came hard and fast, raining down on every inch of his body. Elrond struggled to curl into a ball, the better to protect his face, and stomach, but the ferocity of the kicks being delivered to his torso rendered him unable to breathe, let alone move. He couldn't even use his arms to cover his head, bound as they were. The force of the blows threw the elf around like a rag doll, sometimes pushing him onto his back, other times causing him to roll onto his side. Taunts were hurled down at him, like sparks from a fire.

"The little lordling is so weak, 'e can't even move."

"Pah, lordling? 'E's a joke."

"Wha? Can' ye even crawl?"

"O' course 'e can't. 'E's no better'n a worm."

The tip of a boot connected solidly with Elrond's nose, and he felt the bone break. A second later, he felt hot blood gushing from the injury. It filled his mouth and dribbled down his chin as well as his cheek, before splashing on the ground.

The sight of blood did nothing to curb the orcs' ferocity. In fact, it seemed to spur them on, for Elrond felt their kicks becoming more powerful, as if they were hoping to draw more blood. The bloodlust had truly set in on them, and Elrond began to truly fear for his life as his vision darkened after a particularly vicious kick smashed into his forehead.

"What's going on o'er 'ere?" A new voice bellowed. "Break it up!" The sound of leather whistling through the air and then cracking against flesh punctuated the racket. Gradually, the orcs quieted and fell away from their prey, forming a narrow path from the outside of the circle to where Elrond lay in a crumpled heap.

The new orc was bigger than the rest, and a tattered fur cloak was fastened to his shoulders with large iron buckles. A whip was curled around one hand, and he was glowering at his subordinates. When he reached Elrond, who had finally managed to curl up into a loose ball, the orc nudged him with one massive boot. Bruised and weakened, Elrond allowed himself to flop over onto his back. Defiance now would lead to more trouble, and Elrond was finally allowing sense, rather than anger or pride, to dictate his actions.

"You filthy maggots!" the orc roared, looking up and glaring at his men when he saw that it was Elrond. Spittle flew from his mouth as the orc bellowed wordlessly. "You weren't to touch him! Those were yourorders!" With a shriek and a snap, the whip whirled through the air and cut into the first row of orcs. They staggered back, seeking to distance themselves from their irate commander and his leather thong.

"But 'e killed Durgil!" one of the orcs whined from somewhere in the crowd.

"Yeh, we was just teaching 'im some manners is all," a small orc continued. Unfortunately for him, he was standing close to the front, and the leader honed in on the sound of his voice. A second later, the commander was drawing a knife from his belt, and was advancing on the hapless orc.

"You disobeyed my orders," the commander growled, and grabbed his subordinate by the throat and dragging him out of the circle of orcs. Without hesitation, the leader plunged his knife into the smaller orc's stomach, and yanked the blade upward, gutting him. Black blood spurted out of the wound, splattering across the ground where it joined a crimson stain.

"This is what will happen to anyone else that touches the elf lordling," the commander bellowed. He glared at the circle of orcs, ensuring that they were sufficiently cowed. They shifted uneasily, eyeing the limp corpse in their leaders grip. Convinced that they would not touch the elf again, the orc commander released the body of the dead orc, and allowed it to collapse in a pile on the ground.

"Now bring the lordling back te the other prisoners. And make sure he's bound so he can't kill another of you lousy bunch of filth," the orc leader spat. With that, he turned and stalked away from the orcs and around the fire.

Two much subdued orcs approached the elf lying in the dirt and lifted him, their hands under his arms. They dragged him like that, still bound, with his bare feet trailing along the ground. Another orc followed close behind, but whether it was there to guard him, or to aid the orcs in securing him, Elrond wasn't entirely sure.

As he was dragged through the group of prisoners, Elrond noticed more movement than before. Most of the elves were at least stirring, and more than once, Elrond felt them look at him. He did not acknowledge their presence however, for fear that he would direct the orcs' attention away from him. He prayed that none of them would attempt anything foolish, and settled his expression into a warning frown.

"'ow do ya wanna tie 'im?" one of the orcs holding Elrond grunted.

"Let's hog tie 'im," the third orc replied.

Without warning, Elrond's feet were swept out from under him and he landed face first with a thud. His cry of pain as his already much abused nose met the hard earth was muffled by the dirt.

"Now listen 'ere, lordling," one of the orcs rasped in his ear. "One wrong move on yer part will send this here knife into yer throat." Cold metal pressed against the side of Elrond's neck, and he could feel the keen edge already threatening to split his skin. "Ye un'erstand?" Elrond didn't reply, but the orc seemed to take that as an affirmative. "Roll 'im over onta 'is side," the orc ordered.

Elrond knew that the orcs would not dare to actually harm him, not after the incident by the fire. Yet he knew that it would be unwise to fight them, for although they would not kill him, they could kill others of his men, and he was unwilling to risk their lives for his own pride.

Hands gripped Elrond's shoulders, and he was forced onto his side with the knife hovering mere millimeters from his neck the entire time. A second later, something was sawing back and forth along the ropes binding his hands. The bonds fell away, but before Elrond could even begin to think about attempting to move them, his arms were grabbed, and he was forced over onto his stomach.

Elrond's shoulders protested painfully as his arms were wrenched behind his back and retied, with his palms facing him rather than the open air. With his sharp elven hearing, Elrond listened as another length of rope was shaken loose from a coil. He grit his teeth for a second, but then forced himself to relax, knowing that what was about to happen would be much less painful if he was not tense.

Elrond was once again turned over onto his side, and he struggled to remain loose even as the shoulder that bore his weight twinged. His legs were then yanked back, the knees bent, until his ankles were almost even with his bound wrists. The orcs began to wind the new length of rope around both his ankles and wrists, and then tied it tightly, leaving approximately two and a half feet of twine left. The tail end of the rope was secured about Elrond's neck in a noose, loose enough so that he could breathe, but tight enough that he would not be able to slip it over his head. Almost immediately, Elrond's shoulders and knees began to ache, and his wrists and ankles stung.

The knife was removed from Elrond's throat, and then the orc checked the knots. When he was satisfied, he leaned over Elrond so that the elf could hear him clearly.

"Ya won't suffocate 'r strangle," the orc promised. "But ya won't be comfortable either." The orc chuckled. "Pleas'nt dreams lordling," he hissed, and then walked away, the other two following him.

Elrond relaxed his back a little, and almost immediately he felt a pressure against his windpipe. As the orc had promised, it wasn't enough to strangle him, but was definitely enough to cause his breath to rasp painfully. Deciding that he would prefer sore shoulders and legs, at least for the time being, Elrond arched his back.

He needed to rest if he was to keep up his strength for the trials ahead, but rest was not forthcoming. Elrond closed his eyes and sought to calm his thoughts and emotions. Yet it was not only the state of his mind that kept Elrond from relaxing. His entire body hurt, from his flesh down into his bones, and his head felt as if it were being cloven in two with a nail and hammer. With each breath, his nose throbbed painfully. His shoulders and back began to cramp, and his knees ached from the stress of the unnatural position.

As numbness began to set in, Elrond's mind, too, began to drift, although he found he could not quite leave the waking world and descend into dreams. And so his thoughts wandered, and once again, Elrond found himself reliving the events of that morning.

~oOo~

_~**Past – Sunrise of that day**~_

The battle began just as any other battle did, with the sickening crunch of bodies colliding, and blades piercing flesh. An elf screamed and fell from his horse a few feet away from Elrond, his face shorn away by a scimitar, leaving only a gaping, bloody hole behind.

Elrond's focus narrowed, until there was no thought in his mind but _fight_. His mare danced and wheeled through the melee, her own battle training kicking in.

A warg pounced, its jaws snapping for the mare's neck. She reared, striking out with her forelegs and catching the large beast in the muzzle. Elrond took advantage of the slight unbalancing of the creature, and brought Hadhafang slicing downward, severing the rider's head. With a quick flick of his wrist, Elrond reversed the sword's direction, and thrust the tip through the roof of the warg's mouth. It pierced the skull above, sending a shower of black blood into the air to mingle with the stench.

A snarl and the whistle of a blade tearing through air was all the warning Elrond received. With a frantic yank, he jerked Hadhafang from the warg's corpse, and turned just in time to bring the blade up above his head. The jolt of two swords connecting ran up his arm, and for half a breath his grip loosened. Instinct urged his hand to tighten, and he parried a second blow, feinted right, then stabbed the orc through the chest. It fell with a choked gurgle.

Something big and heavy slammed into Elrond's leg. With a scream, his horse fell sideways, having taken the brunt of the attack on her side and shoulder. For a second, the world hung in perfect equilibrium, and Elrond thought that she would regain her balance. But then everything shifted, and the sky turned upside down.

Elrond was flung from the saddle as his horse was knocked to the ground, a huge, riderless warg on top of her. Its head dipped, and her terrified whinny was cut off abruptly accompanied by the sound of flesh ripping and a sudden spurt of blood that coated the warg's face.

Its nose still dripping crimson tears, the warg looked up, and its malevolent gaze fixed upon Elrond, who was staggering to his feet. The beast snarled, displaying for the elf its bloodied fangs in a show of aggression.

Elrond shook his head, seeking to clear it. The impact had left him stunned and breathless for a long moment, and only on pure instinct had he managed to keep a hold of Hadhafang. The world still twisted around him in a slow circle. For a long moment, he thought he was going to be sick.

With a roar, the warg rushed. Elrond raised Hadhafang, its point leveled at the onrushing beast's chest, and braced himself for the impact. It came a mere heartbeat later. The warg impaled itself upon Elrond's sword, ramming its body all the way up the blade to the hilt. It fell at Elrond's feet, pulling the hilt from his hands, a snarl forever etched onto its face. The hate never left its eyes.

A screech sounded almost directly behind Elrond, and before he could react, he felt something heavy slam into the back of his head. He fell forward, landing heavily on his knees, and allowed himself to topple sideways. He rolled, fighting the darkness that threatened to blanket his vision, and came up on his knees, facing his new foe.

The orc leering down at him carried a thick cudgel and a small, rounded shield. It opened its mouth, and the sound that came from it sounded like a mixture between a chuckle and a scream. With a kick, it sent its mount charging forward, and swung its club up over its head.

Elrond quickly unsheathed the small knife in his boot and sank into a crouch, balancing on the balls of his feet. He could either throw the knife in the hope that he would kill the orc and divert the warg, or he could wait for the distance to close, and engage in close quarters combat. He decided on the latter, for the first option was not likely to gain him anything but an onrushing enemy with no weapon in his hand.

Within seconds, the warg had closed the distance between them, and Elrond could feel the beast's rancid breath ruffling his hair. He tensed, watching for the opening where he could make his move.

The orc laughed outright. The elf wasn't even moving! He was simply sitting there, frozen in fear. But then, just as the elf was about to be crushed by hundreds of pounds of scything flesh, he moved. In the few seconds in which the two struggled, the orc had an irrational thought – that he was not actually battling flesh and bone, but was instead fighting lightning.

Elrond sprang to the side in the instant before the warg smashed into him. Unable to stop at such close quarters, the warg hurtled past. With the grace gifted to the Firstborn, Elrond caught a hold of the saddle straps, and vaulted onto the warg's back behind the rider.

The orc in front of him turned with a look of both surprise and anger, and was met with a fist to his mouth. Blood dribbled down his chin as his teeth punctured the skin of his lips, and when he hissed in anger, black droplets splattered Elrond's cheek. He paid them no heed, and slammed his forehead into the orc's, sending the rider reeling. A second later, Elrond's boot knife flashed in the early morning light, and then was buried into the orc's throat. He gave a horrified screech that ended in a burble, and then fell off of the wargs back where he was trampled by a horse a moment later.

Now a new challenge began. The warg beneath Elrond twisted and bucked, seeking to throw its unwanted rider from the saddle. Elrond hung on tenaciously, his body pressed almost flat against the warg's back while gripping the wolf's sides with his legs and wrapping his fingers in the coarse mane.

Without warning, they broke free from the main body of the battle, leaving the writhing mass of orcs, wargs, and elves behind. The warg slid to an abrupt halt, skidding in the loose gravel. He twisted his neck around and began snapping at Elrond, his teeth clicking on open air futilely.

Elrond took a second to glance about him and gather his bearings. They were a few feet away from the thick of combat, on the elven side. A cursory glance upward assured Elrond that the archers were still atop the hillock, firing with deadly precision into the melee.

Elrond's lack of attention nearly resulted in the loss of a hand as the warg wrapped its head around and bit once more at the elf clinging to its back. Elrond glanced down just in time to sit back, just barely yanking his hand out of the way.

Yet Elrond had seen something from the corner of his eye, something that moved up amongst the tree line. He risked on last glance up, and he felt his blood run cold.

A fresh line of warg riders were descending the hill behind the archers. These riders, however, unlike the ones that had engaged Elrond and his men, had knocked arrows drawn to their ears, ready to fire as soon as they were in range and certain of their targets.

_Fool,_ Elrond swore. _Where did you think the arrow that shot you came from? All of the orcs you engaged are carrying clubs and swords._ Even as he cursed his stupidity, Elrond acted.

"Asgaladh! Behind you!" Elrond yelled, fighting the warg beneath him as the beast once more began to buck. The lieutenant lowered his bow for a second, glancing toward the voice calling his name. His shock at seeing his captain riding a warg was evident, but even through his surprise, he saw the warning in Elrond's face. Following his lord's gaze, Asgaladh turned to look behind him.

Elrond watched in horror as Asgaladh turned and was struck across the face with a black arrow. It did not puncture, due to the angle at which Asgaladh was facing when the arrow hit, but instead tore down through one eye, over the bridge of his nose, and through his cheek. He fell to the ground without a sound and lay in a crumpled heap, blood covering his face in a crimson mask.

The lapse in concentration would cost Elrond much for, an instant later, he felt himself slipping from the warg's back and down onto the hard earth beneath, where he lay for long second, trying to regain his breath. It was a second too long.

~oOo~

_~**Present – Predawn**~_

"My lord?" the voice was soft, yet insistent, and it pulled Elrond from where he had been lost among his thoughts.

Elrond realized that his eyes were shut, and he opened them carefully. The sky was beginning to grow lighter, although it was a murky rather than blue, and the light, which should have been pleasant, had a gray cast.

"Captain?" the voice urged again, and Elrond looked around, searching for the speaker.

An elf was lying a few feet away from Elrond, his elbows propped against the ground and his bound hands in front of him. Like all of the other elves taken prisoner, he had dark hair, but unlike most of them, his eyes were a light green. They were clouded with worry. He seemed to relax a little when Elrond's gaze met his.

"How do you fare?" the elf queried, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Aearvith?" Elrond asked. It came out as more of a rasp rather than a whisper. Elrond coughed slightly, and winced at the pain in his throat. At some point in the night he must have relaxed, putting pressure against his throat. It was either that, or the fact that he had drunk nothing for almost a full day. Most likely it was a mixture of both.

"Yes my lord? I am here," Aearvith replied, and inched forward.

"How many were taken prisoner?" Elrond asked. This time he had more control over his voice, and it did not wobble or crack, and rasped only slightly.

"Fifteen, my lord, including you and me," Aearvith answered promptly.

Elrond closed his eyes and rested his head against the ground. So many…so many had been taken. Why had the orcs taken so many prisoners? A group this size was usually quite content with half a dozen. Unless, of course, the orcs had some plot in mind other than their usual sadistic mischief.

The memory of the previous night's incident drifted to the forefront of Elrond's mind, and the sight of the orc leader stepping in on his behalf overwhelmed him. At the time, Elrond had been grateful, but now, the fact made his stomach clench. They had known who he was; they had called him 'the lordling'. And the leader wanted him kept whole and 'untouched'.

"My lord?" Aearvith asked, worry creeping back into his voice. "Captain, are you well?"

Elrond opened his eyes and lifted his head slightly. He smiled as reassuringly as he could, and forced his fears from his mind. He would not allow his apprehension or anxiety show, for it would only cause his men more fear than the situation already brought. And Elrond would do anything to protect his men.

"I am fine, Aearvith," Elrond assured the other elf. At the skeptical look Aearvith fixed him with, Elrond cast his mind about for something else more convincing. "I merely have a headache. That is all." No one could be tied in that manner for more than an hour and suffer from only a headache. Yet Aearvith accepted his captain's explanation, and dropped the matter.

Seeing that Aearvith was not going to press him for more information, Elrond asked his next question. "Who was taken?"

"Mithgu, Celondirith, Tuchir, Lachang, Sídharan, Calenaer, Lalvael, Lainthol, Uialdur, Doromagol, Orodaew, Asgaladh, and young Aravadhor," Aearvith listed, his eyes half shut in concentration. "And then, of course, you and I."

"Asgaladh is alive?" Elrond asked quickly. He couldn't deny the small flare of hope that blossomed in his chest at these words. He had been sure that the lieutenant had died soon after receiving the wound to his face.

_Of course, _Elrond thought morbidly_, perhaps it would have been better for Asgaladh to have died quickly in battle, rather than having to face the horrors that the orcs will force upon him. _Elrond did not yet know how insightful these words were.

"Yes my lord," Aearvith replied, although his words were pensive. "He is badly injured, though. He received a very bad cut across his face. Celondirith, who was tending to him as best as he could, said that he does not think Asgaladh will ever see out of his left eye again…" Aearvith trailed off, and the unspoken portion of the sentence hung painfully in the air – if he survives.

"Thank you," Elrond murmured, although his voice was laced with sorrow. If only he could reach Asgaladh, he would be able to help him. Elrond's healing powers, despite the fighting and the killing that he engaged in, were still much stronger than most other elves'. And yet Elrond realized that, even if he were able to somehow reach Asgaladh, he would never be able to properly treat or heal his lieutenant as long as he was bound.

"You should rejoin the others," Elrond told Aearvith, fixing the green-eyed elf with a look that said quite plainly that it was not a suggestion. Aearvith bowed his head in acquiescence, and began to wriggle back towards the others. Somehow, he managed to make it look graceful.

"How is the Captain?" Lainthol asked after Aearvith rejoined the small group a few feet away. Calenaer, Orodaew, and Aravadhor were stretched out halfway between their lord and their injured lieutenant, where they could hopefully be close enough to aid either, should the need arise. A few feet beyond them, another small group huddled close to Asgaladh's prone form.

Aearvith shook his head, his gaze once more clouded with worry. "I am worried," he finally admitted. At Orodaew's pointed look, he elaborated. "It was not his physical injuries that worry me, despite the fact that he is badly bruised and seems to have a broken nose – I assume that that is the cause of the blood on his face and shirt. It is something else…" Aearvith trailed off, as if uncertain how to continue. "Lord Elrond is uneasy about something," he finally continued. "I know not what, but when I told him that fifteen of us had been taken prisoner, he seemed to be greatly disturbed."

"It _is_ unusual for a band of orcs to take so many prisoners," Calenaer mused, his silver eyes resting on Aearvith. Calenaer was one of the eldest among the warriors serving under Elrond, and was as well known for his wisdom and compassion as his ability to hit a falling pebble out of the air with one shot.

Aearvith shook his head slightly. "It went deeper than that, I think," he said. "You know how skilled Lord Elrond is at hiding his emotions and thoughts," the others nodded, "yet I could sense his worry. Perhaps it was even fear that I saw in his eyes. I am not sure."

Aravadhor raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Everyone is afraid of something, child," Calenaer said, noticing the young one's skepticism. Aravadhor continued to look unconvinced. It was no secret among the men that the newest member nearly worshipped their captain. Strangely enough, Elrond seemed oblivious to the fact.

Silence descended over the small group, and Lainthol glanced toward Elrond over Aearvith's back. His eyes were once again closed and his head was resting against the ground. He was breathing evenly through his mouth, most likely so as to not cause any undue pain to his broken nose. To the casual observer, he would seem almost peaceful and relaxed, despite the blood splattered on his shirt and coating his chin, cheek, and lips and the angry violet bruise spreading from his cheekbone to his temple. But Lainthol saw the slight quivering of his lord's shoulders as he struggled to keep the rope about his neck loose.

"I wish we could help him more," Lainthol said with exasperation.

"I know. I as well," Aearvith replied quickly. "But we can't," he added bitterly. "It would just make everything worse."

"I don't understand," Aravadhor said. "Why would our helping him make it worse? You do not stop the others are caring for Asgaladh."

"If we treat anyone specially, the orcs will be drawn to them," Orodaew explained, "and the captain already seems to have been singled out. However, if none of us look after the lieutenant, he will die. Thankfully, the Captain is not so injured that we risk his life by staying away."

"Besides," Calenaer added, "I doubt he would accept our help. He would see it as too much of a risk on our parts, for it would also direct the attention of the yrch to us as well. He is one that would rather suffer alone and suffer ten times worse than allow anyone to help and share the punishment."

A deep tone blared through the air, cutting off all conversation. It sounded brassy and somewhat muddied, as if the clarity of the note had been somehow warped. It was the sound of an orc horn being blown. It was a signal, a call.

A howl rose, joining the dying reverberations of the horn. After a few seconds, it was obviously closer, and drawing nearer with every heartbeat.

Then the wargs began to appear, circling the camp and closing into a tight formation, each into a spot in the forming ranks. There had to be at least five score of them, Elrond thought, opening his eyes again and gazing around, listening to the discord.

_Just how many riders were sent to ambush us?_ Elrond wondered. _And what about us was so important that there are many troops?_ _They couldn't all have been sent to secure my capture, could they? I'm not that important. Or am I?_

~oOo~

End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3: Day is Done

**Disclaimer:** Let's take a tally... Tolkien: Elrond, Middle-earth. Me: everyone else. Tolkien still wins, for I own naught but a few random characters, and this crazy plot idea.

**Chapter Warnings:** none, really...mild peril/violence. Same as usual. Things'll pick up/heat up next chapter, though!

**A/N:** Amazing...I'm actually getting this out on time, and I've had a _crazy_ week. That being said, next week's update will probably be a bit late. I already had over half of this chapter written by the time I sat down tonight to finish, so that was a huge help. After this, though, I'm striking out into unwritten territory. I still know what's going on, and where this is going (at least...generally...), I just don't actually have anything written yet. And what with school starting in a little over a week, and having to deal with moving...yeah. Apologies for the shortness of this chapter in relation to the first two. I was intending to make it longer, but then I realized that this was a perfect stopping place, and I thought you guys might like an on-time, slightly shorter update rather than a very late, slightly longer one. Forgive me if that assumption was incorrect.

This chapter has not been beta'd, due to the fact that Galeo is on vacation. So all mistakes herein are mine and mine alone.

Huge thanks go to dinopoodle, ElindielForestStar and Mycroft for reviewing the last chapter! Also, I really appreciate all of you who have added this to story alerts and favorites! To all of you lurkers...thanks for reading, and I hope you're enjoying it! It would still be nice if you dropped a few words on your way out, of course. Reviews would cheer me up a ton. I won't beg for them, but I will say that they will inspire me, and will aide in a faster (and maybe even on-time) update. Not to coerce you to review, of course...Most importantly, though, I hope you enjoy!

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**Translations:** None

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~*Chapter 3: Day is Done*~

_A peace is of the nature of a conquest; for then both parties nobly are subdued, and neither party loser. ~William Shakespeare_

~**_Present – Dawn_**

_~**Orc Camp~**_

"Go on ya maggots!" a guttural voice bellowed in the distance, barely audible over the din of the orcs breaking camp. "Get the prisoners up! We don' got all day!" A moment later, the stomp of grumbling orcs broke away from the main company and neared the elves.

"List'n up, filth!" The demand came from a short, stocky orc that Elrond didn't recognize from the night before, whose left ear had been shredded into ribbons. Five long scars cut down his cheek and onto his chin, where a chunk of flesh had been permanently ripped away. "If ya try an'thing, ye'll be torn ta pieces. Ya can' outrun a warg, or hope ta kill it, which means ye'll be the one bein' ripped apart. Ya gottit?" He only received a handful of hateful glares by way of a response.

The first of the orcs stepped forward and grabbed Tuchir, who was the nearest of the elves, and attempted to haul him to his feet. Tuchir twisted, and attempted to head butt the orc in the stomach. A second orc joined the first and delivered a fast, hard blow the back of the elf's head. Tuchir went limp soundlessly, falling into the orc's grip. The second orc grabbed Tuchir's right arm, and together the two orcs began to drag the unconscious elf away. A moment later, they were out of sight amid the lumbering bustle of the orc camp.

One by one the elves were dragged or carried away, with varying degrees of difficulty on the orcs' parts. Asgaladh was the only one to offer no resistance, and that was simply because he had yet to awaken.

Elrond was the last to be taken.

The overall noise of the camp had died down somewhat as the orcs finished their preparations to depart and began to mount their steeds. The howls and barks of the wargs soon became the dominating sound, drowning out all but the most persistent stomping of the orcs and the odd jangle of mismatched mail and weaponry.

The earth beneath Elrond's shoulder quivered as a few orcs finally neared him. He looked up, automatically analyzing the situation, and almost instantaneously his glance morphed into a steely glare. Three orcs, all larger than most of their kindred and dressed in tattered chainmail covered with torn cloaks, came toward him, unpleasant smiles twisting their gruesome faces. One had a short, multi-thonged whip looped in his belt opposite a short sword. The other two carried cudgels alongside sheathless daggers.

One of the orcs drew his cudgel from the loop on his belt and stepped ahead of his companions. Elrond's stare moved so that it rested solely on him, and the orc hesitated for a heartbeat as murky amber eyes locked with glittering silver. After only half a breath the orc averted his gaze with a snarl, unable to withstand the piercing gaze. He lashed out in reprisal, shame fueling the blow.

The toe of the orc's boot slammed into Elrond's chest hard enough to send his entire body sliding a few inches across the dry earth. Pain exploded through his already bruised and aching upper body and he felt as if the air had been leeched from his lungs. For a long moment he was frozen, his limbs and lungs locking, refusing to respond to his mind's demands. He shut his eyes tightly, concentrating on fighting the battle of wills between his pride and his body.

Elrond gasped, oblivious to both the orcs as two of them bellowed at the other and thump of wood striking flesh as his attacker was struck in the shoulder and forced away from him. Slowly, painfully, Elrond forced himself to breathe in as far as possible. The pain flared again, but this time it seemed to center on where the kick had landed – his right side, just beneath where his heart would have been. He had no way to tell if it was simply another bruised bone, or was something slightly more broken.

A hand grabbed Elrond's shoulder tightly, and then he felt the kneeling creature reach across him. The rope linking his bound hands and feet to his neck was abruptly tugged, and the noose about his throat tightened. Elrond opened his eyes slightly, and found himself looking directly at an orc's arm.

"Wai' a minute," a voice somewhere in the region above Elrond cut in. The orc holding Elrond's shoulder paused, then shifted, as if he were looking over his shoulder.

"What?" the orc holding Elrond growled.

"We shou'd give 'im 'is medicine firs'," the other orc said. The orc holding Elrond grunted, and released him.

The whip-carrying orc took the other orc's place in front of Elrond, and unslung a flask from where it hung on his belt. Wiser than his first companion, he did not look directly into Elrond's eyes but instead focused solely on his task of uncorking the bottle.

The orc gripped Elrond's face just below the elf's mouth, his thumb and middle finger against the pressure points on either side of the jaw.

"Stop squirming," the orc hissed as Elrond attempted to jerk his head free. Elrond, unsurprisingly, did not heed the orc's command.

Elrond clenched his teeth as tightly as he could, knowing what was coming next. It was perhaps futile to fight against the strength of the orcs, but it gave him some measure of satisfaction to watch them struggle against him.

The orc pressed the flask's nozzle against Elrond's lips, pushing it so that the skin was pressed painfully against the front teeth. The orc then struggled to force Elrond's jaw open. Elrond fought the orc for ever millimeter. Yet slowly, painfully slowly, the orc managed to force the elf's teeth apart, and the nozzle slipped farther and farther in.

Liquid unexpectedly flooded Elrond's mouth, drowning his tongue and throat with a wave of nauseating liquor. It was extremely bitter, and had the taste of an eel that had crossbred with a slug. Elrond retched, and managed to force a small amount out of his mouth to dribble down his chin.

The orc pulled the flask away and wrapped his hand over Elrond's mouth and nose, ensuring that the elf would not be able to either spit or snort the liquid out again. For a long moment the two remained almost perfectly still but for the slightest jerks of Elrond's head and the watering of his eyes as his broken nose was crushed painfully.

Finally, Elrond gave in and swallowed the noxious mouthful. He gagged at the feel of the slime oozing down his throat and into his empty stomach, but managed to keep from vomiting back up. For a few seconds longer the orc kept his hand in place, then slowly removed it.

Elrond coughed, spitting out the last few drops of the draught. The orc eyed Elrond, but deemed that he had swallowed a sufficient amount and rose, nodding to the other orc standing off to one side. Elrond didn't know where the first orc had disappeared to.

The other orc knelt in front of Elrond, taking his original place. He grabbed Elrond's arm again, but this time instead of simply reaching across him, the orc pulled, forcing the elf's shoulder toward the ground.

Elrond grunted as his face was ground into the earth, and his already much abused nose ached enough to bring tears to his eyes. He felt as if he had been twisted around, what with his bound hands and feet keeping his hips perpendicular to the earth while his shoulders were pushed parallel.

The orc planted one knee on Elrond's shoulder, and leaned over, drawing his knife as he did so. Elrond lay still, focusing on breathing through the pain of his bruised and possibly broken ribs and nose.

The rope about his neck yanked abruptly, and then went slack. The sound of a knife sawing back and forth accompanied faint tugs against his hands and feet. A moment later, the pressure holding his shoulders and back arched fell away, and his hands fell limply apart. A few seconds later and his feet, too, had been freed.

The orc kneeling on him stood, and Elrond rolled back onto his side, coughing slightly and stretching out his legs. It was only then that he realized that his nose was bleeding again, although much less than it had the night before.

Before Elrond could gather his thoughts, he felt his arms being grabbed, and a foot rolling him over so that he was lying on his back. His hands were forced together and his wrists crossed, and once more rope was wound about them, holding them inert.

"Now don' try an'thing, ya hear me lordling?" one of the orcs cautioned. "Ye'll jus' end up gettin' more hurt. No," he grinned as Elrond's contemptuous gaze rested on him, "we're not 'fraid of Vorgod. We'll do wha' we gotta do ta keep ya a pris'ner."

Elrond was seized under both arms and hauled roughly to his upright. As his numb legs were unable to bear his weight, the orcs were forced to drag him, his feet cutting a furrow in the barren earth. With every stone or particularly rough patch of ground, Elrond winced.

_At least I know what the orc captain's name is now,_ Elrond thought vaguely. _Vorgod. _

The world seemed somehow brighter than it had been a few moments ago. Whenever he would glance up at the sky, Elrond would twitch and lower his gaze, squinting his eyes against the dark spots that drifted in his vision. The other colors seemed to become much more pronounced as well, with the dull gray of the orcs' armor appearing silver, and the musty brown of the dirt looking deep and rich.

The two orcs stopped abruptly, and Elrond groaned slightly, his head lolling forward. He blinked lethargically, trying to force the world back into focus. It didn't seem to work, for when the two orcs relinquished their hold on him, he fell to the ground limply, the world spinning aggravatingly around in a circle.

The cudgel-bearing orc nudged the drugged elf with one toe, and Elrond flopped over, his eyes glazed and unfocused. The other orc snorted scornfully.

"Oi, Barzog, 'elp us get 'im mounted," one of the orcs hollered. A few seconds later a smaller orc ambled up, eying the partially conscious elf lying in a heap.

A heavy-bodied warg stood a few feet away, watching the proceedings with a baleful eye. At the first sight of the elf her lip had lifted, revealing yellowed fangs as thick as three fingers, and as they hefted the raven-haired behind and carried him the final few steps toward her, the warg released a low growl.

"Behave," Barzog ordered the warg, striking it across the muzzle. The warg in turn snapped at the orc, but ceased to growl.

With a grunt, the orcs lifted the elf into the saddle atop the warg's back. Unlike most saddles that the orcs used, this saddle was more sturdily built, with loose laces crisscrossing up and down the girth. Elrond's legs were fitted through these, and then the cords were tightened so that his legs were bound tightly to the saddle, and thus to the warg. His hands were then bound tightly to a small metal circle set into the front of the saddle, where the pommel would have been located.

Elrond slumped forward in the saddle until he was lying against the warg's neck. He blearily attempted to wrinkle his nose at the smell, but couldn't quite manage to garner enough strength to sit up, or even move his head, despite the fact that his nose was pressed against the rough hide. One blessing of the drug he had been given was that it doubled as a painkiller as well as a sedative.

Darkness began to creep up around the edges of the world, slithering over the sky and blotting out the light. Elrond longed to welcome it, to allow himself to sink into the clinging embrace of unconsciousness, but some small part of him would not allow him to. Perhaps it was his pride, perhaps it was his fear of being unaware while in the presence of a host of enemies. Whatever the reason, though, Elrond fought the darkness; he strove to remain awake.

A horn blared, shaking the air even as it seemed to Elrond to echo in the far distance. The warg beneath him bunched her muscles and leapt forward, falling into stride alongside a lithe warg carrying a weedy orc.

The earth trembled beneath the pounding of a thousand paws and the air quavered with the yips and howls of the wargs as they ran. To a distant watcher, it appeared as though a sudden wind blew across the land, sending the air and the dust into a frenzy, and that thunder rumbled under the earth. Overhead, the clouds grew darker.

The sound assaulted Elrond's already tenuous grip on consciousness, hammering at his mind, demanding to be allowed entrance. Slowly, it battered down Elrond's final barriers and pierced his foggy thoughts. A headache began to amass, pounding and blinding, weakening his logic, and his pride.

Soundlessly, Elrond lost the battle between him and the darkness, and sank into sweet oblivion.

~oOo~

_~**Past –Afternoon of previous day**~_

**_~Battlefield~_**

_"Above all shadows rides the Sun__  
And Stars for ever dwell:"_

Rhovanhul stirred slightly, his eyes flickering beneath closed lids. A wheezing rasp forced its way from between cracked and bleeding lips as the elf struggled to draw breath.

_"I will not say the Day is done,__  
Nor bid the Stars farewell."_

A cough forced its way from Rhovanhul's chest, tearing at his throat and lungs. Pain tore through his entire body, ripping his thoughts apart and banishing the final vestiges of unconsciousness. He gasped, only to find his lungs paralyzed by a crushing weight. For an agonizing moment, all Rhovanhul could do was struggle, mouth open, trying in vain to force himself to breathe.

He could feel his body weakening as seconds dragged into minutes; he could feel the life ebbing out of his blood. Panic set in, filling his fingers with a strange tingling and setting his head to pounding. Mere seconds later, however, the panic began to fade, and he felt himself slipping away from himself.

He attempted to struggle, yearned to fight against the looming darkness. The fire of his soul burned brightly and valiantly even as the flame slowly withered, deprived of air. He had something left to fight for, of that he was certain, although he could not remember what it might be, and thus he struggled doggedly.

Yet…he couldn't….he couldn't continue. The ever-present darkness drew nearer, enveloping him in a tender embrace. Too weak to fight any longer, Rhovanhul relaxed, his sightless eyes drifting toward a murky figure standing in the distance. The shadows around his vision grew blacker, and as they did so, the being at their center came into clearer focus.

Before Rhovanhul could clearly make out any distinctive features, the being took a step toward him, arms open and hands uplifted. Rhovanhul lay still, watching the figure as it drew nearer. Waiting, although he knew not for what.

~oOo~

End Chapter 3

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**DisclaimerII:** The poem contained within this chapter is the property of J.R.R. Tolkien. It is an excerpt of his poem entitled "Journey's End". It is a very beautiful poem, and I highly suggest finding it to read it in its entirety (if you haven't read Return of the King, of course. I believe it is sung/quoted by Sam).


	4. Chapter 4: Masks

**Disclaimer:** Um...this doesn't belong to me. Enough said, I think.

**Chapter Warnings:** Violence, (very) Mild Torture.

**A/N:** Eh-heh...heh...heh? Yeah. It's been a long time since you've heard from me. I'm terribly, terribly sorry. All I will say is that: school mixed with marching band sucks away all free time, one should not take AP US History and Physics at the same time, and parents (and my own body) have come to the conclusion that a little thing called sleep is necessary.

Honestly though, one of the main reasons that this took me so long to finish was that Chapter 4 ended up being about 12,000+ words long. Now, obviously this chapter is NOT 12,000+ words long, which probably leads you to the logical conclusion that I split it into two (approximately even) chapters. But I finished the entire thing first, and THEN split it...so I basically wrote two chapters before updating. *sigh* The good news is, though, that there probably won't be a long wait for Chapter 5! Updates, however, are now scheduled every 2-4 weeks...depending on my schedule.

Huge thanks to **Mirnava** for betaing the original version of this chapter, and for putting up with my insanity...and making sure I kept writing this. Le hannon seler! All remaining errors are mine, however, for I went back and changed a bunch of stuff since she last had a copy in her hands. Oh yes, and I went back and re-updated all previous chapters with fixed formatting. I hadn't come to a uniform decision on how to break up the flashbacks/scene changes...well, now I have. So, everything is fixed and looking official now!

Many thank you's and sparkles and brownies to all of my reviewers last chapter, CeciliStargazer, Marchwriter, dinopoodle, and Greenleaf's Daughter. You all encouraged me so much, and really were a lot of the inspiration to keep on plugging away at writing the chapter, even when it seemed like there was no hope of ever getting it done. Thanks also to all of you who have favorited and alerted the story! It means a lot to me, it really does! To all you lurkers...thanks for reading!

My plan is to post chapter 5 on October 5 or 6. However, I could be persuaded to update next weekend. And on a completely random note: What did you all think of the new Hobbit trailer? In any case, I hope you all enjoy chapter 4!

* * *

**Translations:**

Yrch: Orcs

* * *

~*Chapter 4: Masks*~

_I know my call, despite my faults and despite my growing fears. ~The Cave – Mumford and Sons_

_**~Past – Afternoon of Previous Day~**_

_**~Battlefield~**_

It seemed to Rhovanhul that the creature who approached him did so cautiously, as if unsure as to whether or not it should draw nigh. It halted a few paces away, face still obscured in shadow, and simply watched him.

"Who are you?" Rhovanhul asked. Or, he meant to ask that, but it seemed to him that no words came from his mouth; it was as if the words froze in his throat, his tongue so swollen and cumbersome that it would not obey his order to move. Whether the other heard or not, he did not respond.

"What do you want?" Again, the other was silent, watching.

Then something began to change. It felt as if the other swelled, growing, expanding, although whether it was in Rhovanhul's vision, or whether it was in his subconscious perception, he could not say. The other solidified, becoming a presence, a character, a personality, rather than merely a phantom.

_Child…_

"What? What do you want?" Rhovanhul asked again, but this time there was a trace of fear.

_What do __you__ want?_

"Me? What do you mean?"

_You have a choice._

"A choice? What choice might that be? I am dying. You are here to collect my soul, are you not?"

_Perhaps._

"Perhaps?"

_Do you wish to die?_

"I do not have a choice."

_You always have a choice._

"So I can choose to live?"

_If you have the will to, yes._

"But how? How can I halt death?"

_What do you have to live for?_

Rhovanhul fell silent, pondering.

A memory, vague and blurred, began to awaken in his mind. The din of battle, the howls of wargs, the shrieks of orcs, the battle cries of elves, the neighing of horses. A scream echoing around the hills; a scream that none should hear. A scream from someone…someone….

Who had screamed?

Another memory replaced the first. A tall elf riding atop a gray mare, his raven locks rustling in the wind, a curved sword strapped to his side. There was a blue gem tied above his brow, and above his head fluttered a standard.

He was important, this elf. But why?

The scream…the scream seemed to blend with the image of the elf, joining and becoming one. But who was the elf, and why was he important? Why did such a scream belong to him?

_Your decision, child?_

He almost answered yes. The decision was on the tip of his tongue. But then the pain returned, wracking his body once more. Of a sudden, he did not have the strength to live any longer. The darkness seemed welcoming, inviting. He longed to slip into oblivion, where this pain would plague him no longer.

The image of the elf with the sapphire gem moved before Rhovanhul's eyes. Slowly, the elf turned away, his face darkening as blood sheeted down the side of his face, drenching his hair and coating his face as with a crimson mask. His eyes flashed, the color changing from warm silver, to cold iron, and then the color faded entirely, leaving only black ebony. The standard above him went limp, the cloth falling into tattered rags that were covered in mold and the stains of blood and filth. The gem upon his brow turned scarlet.

More disturbingly than aught else, however, was the transformation of the elf's face. His eyes, which had previously held warmth and courage, turned dead and cold, emotionless. His mouth curled into a contemptuous smirk, and his chin seemed to lift in arrogance. The grime faded away from his skin, sinking beneath the flesh and bleaching it impossibly pale, even as the shadows cast by his brow deepened. He was the image of a king – a king of darkness, and absolute power. The scarlet gem upon his brow glowed with an unearthly light that sparked an ember in the cold abyss of his gaze.

Rhovanhul found that he was afraid.

"I want to live," he said quietly, a determination that he did not know he possessed welling within him. "I _will_ live."

He did not know why he decided thus. He was afraid, oh so afraid, of what was to come. More than that, however, he was afraid of the pain. Oh how he longed to allow the darkness to swallow him; oh how he longed to slip down into sweet oblivion, where no more pain would consume him. He did not even know who the elf in his vision was.

Yet Rhovanhul knew that he could not leave the world – not yet. He knew that he had to stay; that if he did not, he would curse his decision for all of his eternity. He knew that, should he turn back now – take the easy path that was free of pain – all that he held dear would come to ruin and destruction. And it would be his fault.

_**Present – Midafternoon**_

_**Wilderness; eastern foothills of Misty Mountains**_

The sun was past its zenith when Elrond finally cracked open his eyes. His lids felt thick and heavy, and it took most of his will to force them open far enough to look around. A strange taste permeated his mouth, coating his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and making him feel slightly queasy. The rocking motion of a beast moving beneath him did not help in the slightest.

At first all he could see was short, bristly hair of various shades of brown and black. He thought that that was a bit odd, but his sluggish mind couldn't come up with a reason for why such a sight was out of place.

Out of the corner of his eye, Elrond caught a glimpse of flashing dusty ground rolling past underneath pounding paws. Instantly, a wave of nausea hit him, making his queasiness of before feel like a laughable joke. He shut his eyes tightly, and bit his tongue so as to keep from moaning, or vomiting.

His mind, already lethargic, shut down, blocking out both sight and sound. It simply refused to acknowledge anything but the comforting darkness, where Elrond could feel nothing. He welcomed it, sinking into sleep's soothing embrace.

~oOo~

_**Past – Morning of the previous day**_

Elrond landed on the ground, hard. Every instinct in his body cried out that he should move, react, get up, yet he found that he could not. It was as if every last ounce of strength had been pounded from his body with that last, jarring thud on the hard-packed earth, stolen from him just as his breath had been.

He gasped, forcing air into his much abused lungs, and attempted to roll over onto his side. He wasn't quite fast enough. Something very large, and very heavy, landed on his chest before he could properly move. The warg seemed to have recovered its senses enough to whirl, and pin him to the ground. The beast loomed over Elrond, jaws slightly parted, a deep growl rumbling through its chest.

Elrond writhed, trying in vain to break free of the creature's weight. He knew that, unless he acted fast and somehow managed to free himself from the beast, he would be dead within the minute. One hand fastened itself in the warg's fur, and he attempted to shove off one of the thick legs that pushed him into the earth. It didn't move even an inch. If anything, the pressure on Elrond's chest increased, causing him to cough and wheeze.

The warg leaned down, its growl rising in pitch as it lowered its scarred muzzle to hover barely above Elrond's throat. There it stopped, and gazed malevolently at the elf pinioned beneath its massive paws, its nose twitching as it sniffed at its prisoner. Elrond froze, eyes wide, his gaze fastened on the creature. Surely this wasn't normal bestial behavior, especially when the beast was a creature belonging to the shadow of Mordor.

Elrond saw his chance, and he took it. In that fragile second in which the warg hesitated, Elrond reached up and grabbed the warg's ear, jerking it sideways in an attempt to drag the warg off of him. For a heartbeat, Elrond thought it would work. The warg's head dropped to the side, and the beast's weight listed slightly to the side. Elrond managed to free one leg enough to ram his knee upward into the beast's side, further sending it staggering off of him, and even was able to push himself up a few inches.

Then everything went insane.

As the warg teetered to the side, it let loose an ear-splitting howl. Elrond had never before heard anything sound quite like it. If he had to equate the sound to anything, he would have said that it sounded like the scream of a tortured, dying horse. With that, the warg hopped off of him, twisting its head to yank its ear from Elrond's grip, despite the fact that it left a chunk of flesh clenched between the elf's nails.

Elrond leapt to his feet, whirling toward the warg, ready for another attack. His gaze met a sight that he had not been expecting. The warg had dropped onto its haunches, and had its nose lifted to the sky, and was once again giving voice to the eerie, chilling scream.

A body slammed into Elrond's unprotected back, sending him staggering forward. He only just managed to stay upright by hopping awkwardly and twisting his upper body into an uncomfortable, very vulnerable position. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement, and then something crashed into the back of his legs, just behind his knees. This time Elrond went down, despite his best efforts.

He twisted as he fell so that he landed on his shoulder, the better to be able to roll away from his attackers. To Elrond's surprise, something was holding onto his feet, keeping him from tumbling over and coming to face his adversaries. Elrond grunted as he was jerked backward, feet first, as he tried to roll.

Kicking out, Elrond heard a squeal of pain, and the grip on his feet loosened. Before Elrond could pull his legs free, however, something else grabbed his shins and pinned them to the ground.

He felt like a wild animal that had found itself tangled in a net. Something in Elrond's mind clicked, and it was as if some primal, animalistic instinct engaged. With a cry of anger, the elf sat up and lunged for the orcs hanging onto his legs. There was a crazed glint in his eyes, and as one the two orcs shrank back, hesitating for a split second.

Elrond had almost reached the two orcs at his feet when a third orc joined the fray. The newcomer came from behind, wrapping his thick arms around Elrond's torso and falling back, taking the elf all of the way down with him.

Elrond fell on top of the orc, purposefully driving his own head back into the orc's face. Bone cracked on impact, but the orc didn't even cry out. He simply hung on doggedly, his nails digging into Elrond's chain mail, the better to keep his grip.

Bucking and thrashing wildly, Elrond fought to twist out of his attackers' grasps. He grunted as the orc beneath him tightened its embrace, and reached down to pry the orc's fingers from his mail. His fingernails bit deep furrows into the creature's skin, and black blood oozed out of the wounds and crept beneath Elrond's nails, staining them ebony.

Above Elrond, a pair of orcs arrived above the small, isolated battle between elf and orcs. One of them laughed gleefully at the elf's struggling, and was promptly yelled at by one of his mates at Elrond's feet.

"'Ey, Cuzd, grab 'im will ya?!"

"Wha? Can ye three not 'old one lil' elf?" one of the two new orcs jeered. Elrond snarled and lunged upward, nearly breaking free of the grip of orc beneath him. The scornful orc took half a step back in surprise, but recollected himself quickly. With a snarl of his own, he grabbed one of Elrond's flailing arms and knelt on it, forcing Elrond's arm to the ground. His companion followed suit a second later and did the same on Elrond's other side.

Now completely helpless, Elrond could only strain against his captors. Finally acknowledging the fact that he would not be able to escape his current situation without help, Elrond yelled. There were no words to his bellow, yet any elf within hearing distance would know that a comrade was in trouble and needed assistance.

No help came.

"'urry up, will ya?" the orc kneeling on Elrond's right shoulder hollered to someone out of his line of sight.

A sixth figure appeared over Elrond. This orc was slightly bigger than the rest, and a ragged cloak fluttered in tatters behind him. A whip was looped in easy reach through his belt, and he was carrying a rawhide flask.

The newest orc knelt beside Elrond's head, his yellow gaze fixed mockingly down on the struggling elf lord.

"Surely ya realize it's helpless," the orc sneered. "Why don't you jus' give up an' make ever'thing easier on yerself?" Elrond spat on the orc's cheek.

The orc slowly, deliberately, wiped the spittle from his flesh, then looked back down at the trapped elf, anger glinting maniacally in his eyes. He grinned mercilessly, and grabbed Elrond's head, forcing it slowly to the ground. He planted one knee on Elrond's forehead, ensuring that his foot was on his hair as well, and moved his hand to the elf's mouth. Forcing Elrond's lips apart, the orc ripped the cork out of the flask using his teeth, and lowered the thick nozzle to Elrond's open mouth.

Elrond tried to turn his head aside, but he could hardly move. The spout was forced into his mouth and down into his throat, foul liquid dribbling into his mouth throughout the entire process. As soon as the flask was in place, the orc squeezed the bag, sending a sudden flood of liquid down the struggling elf's throat. Unbidden bile rose in his throat, and he would have vomited but for the obstruction in his esophagus.

With a jerk, the flask was torn away from Elrond, leaving his throat and mouth feeling raw and bloodied. Elrond automatically coughed and retched, seeking to force all the liquid that he could out of him. The orc kneeling on his forehead grinned even wider, and clamped a hand over Elrond's mouth. Elrond promptly forced the last bit of fluid through his nose. The orc's smile slipped somewhat, and he moved his hand so that it smothered the elf's nose as well.

Abruptly, darkness swarmed up over Elrond, clutching at him, yanking on him, pulling him down to the endless depths of unconsciousness. He fought to stay awake, but almost before he knew it, he could see nothing but an eternal void.

He knew no more.

~oOo~

_**Present – Early evening**_

_**Wilderness; eastern foothills of the Misty Mountains**_

When Elrond awoke for the second time, the weak light was almost nonexistent. He turned his head cautiously so that he was no longer lying with his face against the dirt. To his surprise, he was stationary. In fact, come to think of it, he was lying stomach down on the cold, hard ground, not the bristly hide of a warg. His arms were bound behind him, and there was a rod of some sort in the crook of his elbows, between his arms and his back.

Thankfully the nausea from before was absent, as was the dizziness, and the fog that clung to Elrond's thoughts was beginning to lift as well. Whether that was entirely a good thing or not, however, Elrond was unsure, for as his mind cleared, the pain returned in full force.

Elrond hurt everywhere. His legs and stomach throbbed, his back ached, and his chest felt as if it was on fire. The headache behind his eyes was spreading steadily, slowly taking over until it felt as if a drum were being beaten inside his skull. His nose both stung and burned, and there was a strange, uncomfortable wheezing sound that accompanied each breath.

Sharp, shooting pangs rumbled through Elrond's stomach. It took him a long moment before he realized what they were – hunger pangs. It had been a day and half at the least since his last meal, yet Elrond had not even thought of it until that very moment.

Self-inventory complete, Elrond turned his attention outward. The sound of a camp being assembled was the first thing that Elrond noted; the smack of axes cutting into wood, and the clatter of packs and weaponry as they were dropped to the ground accompanied the din of howls and jeers and raucous laughter. He caught a glimpse of movement as dozens of feet tramped along the dusty ground, the orcs' thick, cumbersome boots leaving deep imprints with each step.

Elrond turned his head away from the orcs. He couldn't stop the small sigh of relief as his searching gaze encountered a little more than a dozen shadowed shapes lying on the ground. Most of them were moving restlessly, and all were breathing steadily.

"This 'ere is da last of 'em," a rough voice called out, and soft vibrations filtered through the ground. Lifting his head, Elrond looked toward the cause of the commotion, and found himself watching as two orcs dragged a struggling Mithgu between them.

"Oy," the orc to the left cried as the elf sent him staggering. A swift punch to the gut stalled the elf's movements for the moment, and in the lull, the two orcs dropped their cargo a few feet away from Elrond.

"Hey now, what're you lookin' at, lordling scum?" one of the orcs snarled, catching a glimpse of Elrond's piercing gaze fixed on him and his companion. His partner laughed, and walked over to Elrond.

"I don' see wha's so special 'bout this one," he scornfully called over his shoulder to his companion. "Maybe 'e tastes good, an' the master wants 'im for 'hisself." The orc didn't seem to realize that he had drawn the attention of all of the elves by that point, not just Elrond and Mithgu.

The orc's companion laughed gleefully. "If ya think so, why don' ya try a bite? Tell me 'ow 'e tastes." Elrond tensed, his heart beginning to race. He would have no way to protect himself it the orcs did decide to come after him.

The first orc hesitated a second, then shot back, "Yeh? Well mebey I will!" He took a half-hearted step closer to Elrond.

Everything went deathly still, as if the air itself waited to see what the reaction to the orc's words would be.

"You will not touch him." The words cut through the silence like a knife through cloth, and they were cold as ice and as hard as tempered steel.

Elrond closed his eyes for a second in both dismay and, if he was honest with himself, relief. He opened his eyes again just in time to see the orc looming over him turn to glance toward Lalvael, who had struggled to his knees hardly two paces away. The Noldo's chin was lifted defiantly into the air, his eyes snapping with challenge. Although one side of his face was caked with dried blood, he was rigid and tall; an imposing figure, despite the fact that he was bound, and kneeling.

"Wha' did ya say, elf?" the orc beside Elrond growled.

"I said that you will not touch him," Lalvael replied, his eyes narrowing.

A sick feeling crept into Elrond's stomach, and with a sinking heart, the half-elf knew that something terrible was about to befall his men. Whether it was a niggling of foresight, or simply common sense, however, Elrond would never be certain. He suddenly wished that Lalvael had kept silent and had let whatever would have befallen him come to pass.

"An' how do ya think ya c'n stop us?" the other orc sneered, advancing on the impetuous elf.

Lalvael opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his mouth as Elrond spoke abruptly.

"Enough," Elrond ordered, the Sindarin words an almost soothing balm to the foul, Black Speech filled air about them. Lalvael hesitated, and glanced toward his captain. "Nothing good will come of this," Elrond added, gazing up at the elf a few yards away.

"Shuddup!" one of the yrch ordered. Focused as he was on Lalvael, Elrond did not see the booted foot until it crashed into his shoulder, sending him rolling over onto his side. Surprised, a strangled shout escaped from between his lips as a sudden shaft of pain lanced through his torso, making it hard to breathe. Above him, Elrond could hear the orcs laughing.

"Wha' are ya gonna do now, worm?" the orc above Elrond sneered to Lalvael, who was watching Elrond, his silver eyes wide with worry and shock. Then another emotion crept into his gaze, and the silver orbs took on a wild gleam. His gaze slid away from Elrond to the orc standing over his captain, and his glare hardened.

Elrond tried to cut Lalvael off again, but suddenly found it nigh impossible to breathe as the orc's heavily booted foot pushed against his chest, forcing him over onto his back, his shoulders and arms pulling awkwardly around the rod. The foot came to rest on his sternum and began to press down slowly, constricting his lungs and adding pressure to his already much damaged ribs.

"Now, now," the orc crooned mockingly, "We should let da worm reply for hisself, should't we? See?" he added, turning to Lalvael, "'m touching yer precious lordling. Wha' ya gonna do?"

Elrond, gasping through the pain of his surely broken rib being ground against another, glanced around beseechingly at his other men who were watching the proceedings. Could they not understand that this act of defiance would bring naught but pain and suffering on themselves? All but Calenaer refused to meet his eyes, their own gazes locked on the orc and the kneeling Lalvael, defiance gleaming in their own glares. Calenaer looked at his lord for a heartbeat, but then his own gaze slid away. There was sorrow in his eyes, as if he, too, knew what was likely to come, and yet was not willing to give up this act of defiance to protect his lord, despite the consequences.

"Release him," Lalvael snarled, glaring at the orc half-standing on Elrond.

"Oh, 'm so scared now!" The orc laughed raucously. "Com'on, worm. Make me!"

For a second, Elrond believed that Lalvael would back down, and hope welled within him. But then he caught sight of a tensing in the younger elf's shoulders, and Elrond knew that what he had feared was about to happen.

The orc, still laughing, never even saw Lalvael move.

The elf threw himself forward onto one shoulder and rolled toward his foe. Using his momentum, Lalvael half rose into a kneeling position just as he came out of the roll, slamming his head into the orc's knee.

Unbalanced due to one leg being partially placed on Elrond's chest, the orc fell backwards, stumbling away from both Lalvael and Elrond. He clutched at his knee, cursing ruthlessly in the Black Tongue, and his eyes were wide with both surprise and pain.

"Ye'll pay for dat!" the orc howled, and swung haphazardly down toward Lalvael. The elf nimbly ducked the orc's wild swing, rolled onto his back, and thrust his bound feet up into the orc's knees. The sound of bone shattering accompanied the orc's scream of agony as he fell to the ground.

By then, seeing that his companion was in trouble, the other orc had charged forward, drawing a thick bladed dagger from the back of his belt. With a vicious snarl, he launched himself at Lalvael, the steel gleaming black in the near-darkness broken only by the harsh, orange light of the fire in the near distance.

Coughing painfully, Elrond rolled over onto his side, wincing as the rod between his arms and back dug into his ribs. He did not know what he planned to do, or even what he _could_ do, but he only knew that he had to try to do _something_. He could not bear to lay still and silent as whatever befell Lalvael and perhaps his other men as well came to pass.

Lalvael, just rolling to his stomach, caught a glimpse of the charging orc, and froze. The knife drew back to strike, the stained tip poised above his forehead.

Without warning, the orc stumbled sideways and dropped the weapon. A shadowed form tumbled with the beast to the ground, landing squarely on the orc as they hit the ground, then rolling off. A second shape appeared and seized the fallen blade.

"Wha's goin' on?" a gruff voice yelled from the direction of the large fire. The ground shook as a number of creatures ran toward the prisoners, attracted by the shouts and screams. The scene that they found was both shocking, and infuriating.

Both orc guards were down, one of them screaming, and the other was writhing on the ground, grunting and groaning. Even as the orcs neared and were still attempting to understand just what was happening, an elf stood, ropes falling away from his hands and feet, a dagger in hand. He bent down toward the injured orc. A flash of the blade and a spurt of dark blood later, and the other orc was silent as well, its throat sliced open. The other guard was trying to regain his feet, all the while wrestling with the two elves who pummeled him, ignoring the crimson blood that pooled between their fingers from split and broken fingers. The rest of the elves were closing in around the two orcs.

"The pris'ners are escaping!" The warning howl filled the air, kicking the camp into a sudden frenzy of activity. Orcs leapt to their feet, drawing weapons and grabbing clubs before charging off toward where the prisoners had been penned.

Howls filling the air with a sickening cacophony, the orcs leapt amongst the prisoners, cudgels and clubs whirling and dashing. The elves rose up against the orcs, rage and the faintest tracings of hope giving them strength.

It was a wild, confusing battle, in which friend hit friend nearly as often as foe. The entire space was a seething mass of bodies that tangled and writhed, and dust filled the air with a cloying haze and mixed with misty blood.

The elves were at a distinct disadvantage, bound as they were. Only Orodaew had managed to free himself of his bonds before the orcs were upon them, and he had not had the chance to cut any others free. Even so, the Firstborn's superior strength and agility stood them in good stead, and many an orc fell that night with shattered legs or broken spines. Yet the elves were far outnumbered, and this proved to be their greatest disadvantage.

Elrond struggled desperately to rise to his feet, or even to sit up! Every time he tried, however, he would fall back to the hard, trampled ground, his tightly bound legs offering him no leverage, and the rod holding his arms behind his back unbalancing him and constricting the use of his arms and his shoulders.

As Elrond crashed to the ground for the fourth time, he heard, barely audible over the din of the battle, Vorgod's loathsome voice. "Secure the lordling! You maggots! Find the lordling! Bring him to me immediately!"

Throwing away all pretenses of making it to his feet, Elrond flipped over onto his back, grimacing slightly as his ribs were jostled, and his shoulders popped sickeningly. He brought his knees to his chest, ready to lash out at any orc that tried to approach him. It was an awkward position, and would not afford him with much protection, Elrond knew. But it was better than simply waiting for an orc to stumble on him and, remembering its commander's orders, seize him. He would not give up without a fight, he was determined of that.

A figure appeared in the murk above Elrond and he tensed, ready to strike. He would aim for the knees, he decided, and hope to bring the orc down to his own level, where he would stand a chance of snapping the thing's back or neck.

To Elrond's surprise, however, the creature above him hesitated, as if looking back and forth. Then, with grace that no orc could ever dream of attaining, the being knelt swiftly, still looking over one shoulder.

"Captain?" the elf asked, relief coating his voice as he looked down at Elrond's face.

"Yes?" Elrond replied automatically.

"I am glad that I finally found you," the other exclaimed, and a gentle hand came to rest on Elrond's shoulder.

"Aravadhor?" Elrond prompted. He did not know who else the small, light-voiced elf could be, but he had to know for sure.

"Yes Captain, it is I. Turn over, and I'll cut your hands free."

"Nay, my feet first," Elrond ordered. As much as he longed for his arms to be free from their restraints, Elrond knew that his feet being unbound would aid him more in the long run, should Aravadhor not have the chance to cut him all of the way free.

Aravadhor complied without question, slipping down to Elrond's feet so that he could reach the ropes binding his captain's ankles. The small blade that he carried dug into the ropes, and Aravadhor began to saw quickly, his brow furrowed.

"Aravadhor, how did you get yourself free?" Elrond asked as he waited. Adrenaline and tension thrummed through his blood, and he knew that if he did not keep his mind occupied, he would begin to fidget.

"I took a knife off of a downed orc," Aravadhor replied, his concentration still firmly fixated on freeing his captain. "I cut myself free when no one was paying attention. Then I heard the big orc holler, and started look for you."

The ropes around Elrond's feet abruptly parted and fell away. With a small cry of victory, Aravadhor moved back up toward Elrond's chest.

"Help me sit up," Elrond asked, "That way you can reach my hands." Aravadhor gripped Elrond's shoulder and, offering his own strength, Elrond finally managed to sit up.

With renewed vigor, Aravadhor set to work cutting through the ropes around Elrond's wrists. Meanwhile, Elrond watched the writhing battle around them. The orcs seemed unaware of what was happening at their very feet, so focused on the fighting elves as they were. Or perhaps, Elrond thought distractedly, it was some intervention on Another's part.

The tip of the knife bit into Elrond's wrist as it suddenly tore through the final cord of rope. Aravadhor jerked back with horror.

"Captain, I am so sorry! I did not mean-"

"It is fine, Aravadhor; I am fine, it is barely even a scratch," Elrond reassured the younger elf. Elrond lifted his arms away from his back, sending the rod tumbling to the ground with a faint clatter and thud. "Come, let us help the others." Silence. "Aravadhor?"

Elrond turned quickly, getting his feet under him in a crouch as he did so.

An orc was holding a knife to Aravadhor's throat, and a hand over his mouth, silencing him and his warnings. Elrond froze for a split second, his mind processing what he was seeing. Then, before he could even fully realize what he was doing, Elrond had snatched up the rod that had, until mere seconds before, been helping to keep him bound, and lunged for the orc.

Shock at the elf's actions was all that kept Aravadhor's neck from being slit open. It had been a gamble on Elrond's part but, as he rammed into the orc and elf and sent them both sprawling to the ground, Elrond knew it had been worth the risk.

Elrond rolled off of Aravadhor, landing on the balls of his feet. He wobbled for a breath, his legs trembling from the sudden strain placed on them after being immobile for so long, but then Elrond steadied himself by reaching to the ground with one hand.

The orc grunted and shoved Aravadhor off of him, who had been in the process of rolling away from his would-be captor. The orc started to clamber awkwardly to his feet, but before he could gain even a head of height, Elrond was on him again, knocking him to the ground.

The two rolled, lithe and thick limbs tangling and becoming nigh indistinguishable from one another as each grappled for a good hold on the other. For a second, Elrond was on top, his hands fastening around his opponent's neck, but then he felt himself knocked sideways. An instant later, the orc was pressing down on him, crushing him. Elrond wrapped his long legs around the orc's stomach and heaved, pushing them both over yet again. The orc used their momentum to flip yet again, and Elrond's head slammed into the ground. Dazed momentarily, he was unable to knock aside the orc's hands as they, in turn, fastened around his own neck.

The orc's grip tightened, blocking off Elrond's air passage. The elf kicked, landing a solid blow on the orc's back. The orc smashed Elrond's shoulders and head into the ground in retribution. Elrond fell still, stunned and preoccupied by fighting away the wheels of light that burst in his vision, and the darkness that impinged on his eyes.

Something slammed into his attacker's shoulder, sending the orc listing to one side and breaking his stranglehold about Elrond's neck. Aravadhor hollered as he whirled around and launched himself back at the orc, this time knocking the massive beast clean off of his captain.

Elrond rolled up onto his side, coughing slightly as he gasped. His gaze was drawn almost immediately to the two wrestlers as the orc pulled free of Aravadhor's spider-like embrace, and leapt to his feet.

Elrond, too, pushed himself back to his feet, although more slowly than before, tense and ready. The orc turned toward him, a vicious snarl on its face.

Elrond leapt forward, his fist rising to strike the orc. He never reached his enemy.

A clawed hand grasped Elrond's hair and yanked. Already unbalanced due to his attack, Elrond fell backwards to the ground, landing heavily on his back. Pain exploded in his chest, throttling his breath and knocking away all other thoughts as his already much abused ribs suffered yet another pummeling.

"Now now, we can' 'ave ya getting' away, now can we?" a harsh voice hissed close beside Elrond's ear, puncturing the pained haze that had clouded his thoughts. Elrond subconsciously jerked his head, trying to break free of the other's hold. The orc holding his hair tugged back.

"Let him go!" Aravadhor's angry voice cut through the din close at hand, and Elrond felt a momentary surge of hope. He turned his head just enough to see the youngest member of his company charging, a terrifying look of fury on his face, and the small knife gleaming in his right hand.

An orc appeared suddenly out of the darkness behind Aravadhor, a cudgel raised above his head.

"Aravadhor!" Elrond cried out in warning. He was too late.

The cudgel cracked across the back of Aravadhor's head, sending him to the ground in a boneless heap. The knife remained clenched in his fingers for a moment, but then it was torn out of his grip by the orc who had knocked him unconscious.

Elrond began struggling anew, determined to break free if only to protect young Aravadhor.

"Get up," the orc at Elrond's side snarled, smacking him on the side of the head. Elrond found himself suddenly being released and, surprised, he fell to the side, unbalanced. A vicious grip encircled his left arm and he found himself being hauled upright. "Now move," the orc ordered. Elrond did not budge.

Something cold and very sharp pressed against the small of Elrond's back, piercing the cloth of his tunic to rest against his skin.

"I said, move," the orc growled, digging the blade into Elrond's flesh just enough to sting and draw forth a droplet of blood. Grudgingly, Elrond complied.

~oOo~

End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5: Greater Love

**Disclaimer:** Lord of the Rings, nor anything affiliated with Tolkien or his brilliant writings, belongs to me. Only the actual, original characters themselves belong to me, and even then I don't really have any right to their names (except for Vorgod). If you would like to use any of my original characters, please contact me first.

**Warnings:** WARNING _graphic _violence, torture, mature themes and ideas. Full PG-13 (TV-14) warnings enforced for this chapter

**Important Note:** The year in which Poisoned Star takes place is being moved to **Second Age 1964**. This is being done for various plot purposes, both for this fic, as well as future fics. (I basically spent my entire day today writing as complete of timeline as I could get of Elrond's life, including my own ideas)

**A/N:** I obviously decided to go ahead and upload this chapter this weekend. After today's update, however, please do not anticipate an update for at least two weeks. My plan is to have a new chapter out at least once a month, however. Thank you to everyone who has thus far favorited and alerted. Special thanks goes to my reviewers for last chapter: cai-ann, Ragnelle, and Greenleaf's Daughter. To all of you lurkers, thank you for reading, and I would absolutely love it if you would drop a few words on your way out, even just to tell me that you liked it (or didn't like it). Especially this chapter...I'd really, _really_ like to know how all of you feel about what happens toward the end.

Many thanks to **Mirnava** for beta'ing this chapter for me. I'm afraid I've permanently scarred her, however. Speaking of which, I'd just like to take this opportunity to say: I have plot reasons for everything I'm putting Elrond through.

I hope you all enjoy this chapter...

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**Translations:**

Gil-Estel: Star of Hope (also known as Earëndil)

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**Names:**

Elrond: Star-dome

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~*Chapter 5: Greater Love*~

_Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. ~John 15:13 – the Bible, NIV_

_**~Night~**_

_**~Orc Camp~**_

The battle seemed to be a little less frantic, Elrond noticed. It was more controlled, as if before it had been driven by panic, but now it was driven by command and strategy. The knot of apprehension in Elrond's gut tightened a little more.

Half prodded, half dragged, Elrond found himself being maneuvered across the torn ground of the calming battle field. He caught no sight of his men in the throng of milling orcs, but nearby, he could still hear the shouts and cries of fighting. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and whispered a prayer for the safety of his men.

Elrond was brought away from the scene of the battle to the fire at the center of the orc camp. Standing around the flickering flames in a loose semicircle were half a dozen orcs, all bearing cloaks fastened about their shoulders. As Elrond was forced toward them, it seemed to him that these orcs were somehow darker than most of their kindred, as if evil had somehow stained them a shade blacker than the others. All of them were thick-set, and were taller than the majority of the other orcs in the company.

At the center of the semicircle stood Vorgod. There, surrounded by the other powerful orcs, the commander looked even more imposing. He towered at least a head taller than any of the others, and there was an innate strength that suffused his stature and oozed out of his bearing; he held himself as if he were some mighty nobleman. In truth, an iron circlet would not have been misplaced on his brow.

"'ere 'e is, m'lord," the orc that seemed to be in charge of Elrond's capture proclaimed, jabbing Elrond in the small of the back and sending him staggering forward.

"Who is that?" Vorgod growled, gesturing behind Elrond to where Aravadhor was being similarly prodded.

"'e was there when we got da lordling," the leading orc explained. "'e was cuttin' 'im free," he added, and poked Elrond in the shoulder. Elrond ignored it, and kept his gaze focused on Vorgod. "Wha' should we do with 'im? Kill 'im?"

Vorgod fixed the audacious orc with a cold glare, then he narrowed his gaze. "Nay. Hold him there for now," he ordered the two underlings who had a hold of Aravadhor's shoulders. "There may be some use for him later."

Vorgod turned his gaze away from Aravadhor to Elrond. Almost lazily, he snapped his fingers. Instantly two of the captains leapt forward, shoving the smaller orcs away from Elrond. Elrond half turned, unsure of what to expect, and found himself being seized beneath the arms by the two captains. They pressed against him, giving him no room to move, let alone attempt to escape. Without warning, a foot slammed into the back of Elrond's knees, and his legs buckled, sending him crashing to a kneeling position.

Vorgod stepped toward the elf on his knees between two of the captain, a strange expression on his face.

Here was the beast that was responsible for the death of his men, Elrond thought; here was a vile creature who reveled in blood and pain and death. Elrond found that loathing was building within him at the sight of this…this _beast_, a loathing so intense that it took him quite by surprise_._ Elrond looked up as the commander drew nigh, and it was as if every final shred of anger and challenge poured forth in this one look, and his unsettling silver gaze met putrid did not falter. Instead, he smiled.

"What do you want?" Elrond practically snarled, jerking forward in the orcs' grip. Their fingers tightened painfully, bruising his flesh.

"Well now, I couldn't have you escaping, now could I?" Vorgod answered congenially. "Besides, now is as good a time as any to have a chat, don't you think? All of my men are occupied, as are yours, so we'll be left well enough alone. For a few moments at least."

Elrond felt his stomach contract in disgust. Did life mean so little to this being that, while his own men were being killed and injured, he was content to have a 'chat' with a prisoner? Something of what he was thinking must have glimmered in his expression, for Vorgod chuckled darkly, and took another step closer.

"Now, now elfling," Vorgod mocked, and he reached out and patted Elrond's cheek, "that's no way to treat someone who has you, and your men, at his mercy, is it? Because, if I didn't know better," and here his voice dropped an octave, acquiring a distinctly warning tone, "I would think that you _wanted_ to suffer, going by that look." With the speed of cracking lightning, his fingers wrapped tightly around Elrond's chin, the orc's nails piercing the skin and causing tiny beads of crimson blood to pool around his fingertips.

"I will not bow to you out of fear," Elrond retorted, his voice surprisingly strong.

"I did not expect you to bow to me out of fear," Vorgod replied calmly, but his grip remained cruelly tight. "But you will to bow to me before the end." His fingers tightened for one fraction of an instant more, and then Vorgod released Elrond and turned away, his back to the half-elf.

"Your kind always makes such promises," Elrond retorted, "yet none of them have ever come to fruition."

"Oh elfling, how little you know and understand about me and my kind!" And here Vorgod turned back around and threw back his head and laughed. The sound was alien; a merriment that was coated with thick, oily sludge.

Vorgod slowly quieted, until he was somber once more. "How much you have to learn; how much I have to teach you," he told the half-elf before him quietly. Elrond tensed, and the orc commander chuckled mirthlessly.

"You think to train me like a hound?" Elrond asked slowly, his eyes gleaming as he looked up at Vorgod through his lashes. "I think you will find it more difficult than you think."

"We shall see elfling. We shall see."

Vorgod's gaze slid from Elrond's defiant face to those holding him, taking in their grimaces and their tightly clenched fists wrapped in Elrond's tunic. The others stood in arcs between the prisoner and their commander, watching with nearly impassive expressions. Only the faintest glimmer of ravenous anticipation shone in their eyes.

"Beat him." The order was cold, emotionless, spoken as if the orc commander was giving a command as trivial as if he were sending an underling to fetch wood for the fire. There was not even any enjoyment in his gaze as he turned back to watch the elf lord.

As if by silent agreement, two of the captains stepped forward and stalked toward the tightly held elf, malevolent grins dancing wickedly across their faces. With slow, measured paces, they prowled around Elrond like wolves circling a kill.

Elrond clenched his teeth, forcing himself to breathe evenly, preparing for what he knew was to come. This was the worst part, he told himself as the orcs circled – this waiting for what he knew was going to come. He could bear this; he would bear this. He had no choice.

The first orc struck without warning. The blow struck Elrond just below the sternum and he doubled over as far as the orcs' restraining hold would allow him, the air suddenly gone from his lungs. He felt himself heaving, as if he were attempting to throw up, and a dull, throbbing ache spread through his stomach, joining the flare of pain from jostled ribs.

Elrond gasped, finally forcing his lungs to expand painfully. He barely had time for a second deep breath, when a fist slammed into his jaw, snapping his neck to the side. His teeth clacked together painfully, and for a split second his vision blurred. Less than a breath later, the toe of a boot buried itself in his lower back, throwing his torso forward against the orcs' stalwart grip. His spine popped unnervingly.

After that the blows came faster, with barely enough time for him to register the pain of each strike. He needn't have worried about crying out, for more often than not, he had no breath with which to gasp, let alone groan.

Unlike the night before, however, the blows being dealt to him seemed to be measured, and carefully placed. There was no frenzied pummeling involved, but it was instead cold and calculated. That almost made it worse.

The others had closed in around Elrond and the two dishing out his punishment, their voices rising in taunting jeers. Behind them, watching through the small space that had automatically been left in the enclosing circle, stood Vorgod, his arms crossed over his chest. He watched the proceedings expressionlessly.

"Stop!" The frantic cry cut through the orc voices and the dull roar of blood and pain pounding in Elrond's ears. "Please," the voice begged. The tenor was achingly familiar to Elrond.

Vorgod lifted a hand, and almost immediately the orcs quieted and fell away from Elrond, leaving him kneeling in the center of a loose circle, still held up by two of the captains. His chest was heaving, and blood was trickling from a deep gash in his lower lip, staining his chin and teeth. Tiny droplets of fresh blood had splattered over one cheek as well, and they gleamed crimson in the flickering firelight.

"You want me to stop?" Vorgod asked, turning away from Elrond and toward the source of his voice. "Come here little one," he ordered, and beckoned. A small figure walked forward slowly, back ramrod straight and hands clenched tightly by his sides to hide the trembling. And yet his pace was even and smooth, belying the fear that rolled from him in waves.

Elrond watched with sick fear, afraid of what was about to come, his body quivering – although whether that was from fear, or pain, he did not know.

"You want me to stop?" Vorgod asked a second time after the figure came to a halt in front of him with his back to Elrond.

"Yes." The voice was clear, but there was a slight quaver to it.

"And what are you willing to sacrifice? What are you willing to give me in exchange for me keeping my boys from their play?"

"Have me instead," the other replied. There was a definite quiver in his voice that time, and yet he remained tall and firm, his chin thrust proudly into the air.

"Aravadhor," Elrond barked, and tried to stand. He was held in place by the tight hold around his arms.

Aravadhor half turned his body, as if he was about to look back at Elrond, but then he stopped himself. He looked back to Vorgod. A slow smile broke out on the orc commander's face.

"Let them have you instead?" Vorgod asked, amused. His eyes were half shut, as if carefully examining the young elf standing before him.

"No!" Elrond shouted, and once more struggled to get to his feet. One of the orcs beside him growled and leaned against his shoulder heavily, pushing him back to the ground, and an instant later, a ringing blow was dealt to his jaw. Elrond would not be silenced so easily. "Don't touch him, Vorgod. He's just a child." Elrond could hear the desperation – the near panic, the pleading – in his voice, but at the moment, he didn't care.

Vorgod's smirk grew even more pleased, and his yellow eyes glittered. If he had been a cat, one would have assumed that a large bowl of cream had just been placed on the floor.

This time Aravadhor turned fully around and looked at Elrond, taking in the blood splattered down his chin and down his tunic, the broken nose, and the livid bruises transforming the right side of his face from pale white to sickening violet and black. The young elf was terrified, and the logical portion of his mind was cursing himself for offering his own body as an orc plaything. But as soon as he saw his captain – saw the blood and the pain in his eyes – he felt a rush of strength and resolve. He would gladly die for his captain, even if it only would spare the other more suffering.

His captain, however, did not seem to share his sentiment.

Elrond caught Aravadhor's gaze. There was anger in the silver eyes, but there was also something else – something alien; an emotion that Aravadhor had never seen there before. It took him a long second to realize what it was that he was seeing gleaming in his captain's eyes – fear. Not fear for himself, though, Aravadhor realized. It was fear for him. A heartbeat later, Elrond's eyes flickered away from Aravadhor's, and rested upon Vorgod.

"He's young, and inexperienced in the ways of pain. If you give him to the orcs now, he won't live long; he'll break easily. You won't get any satisfaction out of him." Elrond's words were thick, his voice almost hypnotizing in its desperation. Aravadhor found himself wanting to refute his captain's words, and yet he found himself unable to speak, silenced by Elrond's commanding countenance.

"So you believe that my men would take more pleasure in you?" Vorgod asked, the lazy tone still evident in his voice. He was obviously enjoying the situation immensely.

"Yes." The single word was quiet, and strained, yet it was unwavering.

Aravadhor found that he was trembling. Why was Elrond saying such things? Why, when Aravadhor had been willing to offer reprieve from the beating?

For a long moment, the circle of orcs surrounding the two elves was completely silent, as if it had somehow been removed from the same world as the scuffle still twitching in the background.

"You are very noble, Star-dome," Vorgod finally said softly. "_Too_ noble." Without warning, the large orc whirled, the back of his hand smashing into the side of Aravadhor's face, sending him tumbling to the ground with a startled cry.

Taking that as an invitation, half of the orc captains leapt forward, their mouths twisting into ferocious grins. They had held back when punishing the lordling, but there would be no need for restraint with this young one – he held no import. The rest of the captains tightened their circle.

At first, Aravadhor fought against his attackers, shoving them away and kicking at their knees and stomachs. There were too many for him to stand against, however, and within seconds, he found himself being seized roughly about the neck, the grip tightening until he could barely breathe. Gasping, he scrabbled uselessly at the arm wrapped around his neck, fighting against the dark spots that began to swim across his vision, blocking his sight.

He barely even registered that his arms were pulled away from where they were still feebly struggling to loosen the orc's stranglehold. He did feel the pain, however, as his shoulders were ripped from their sockets. At that second, the hold on his neck loosened.

Aravadhor's scream rose above the din for an instant before it died in a strangled gulp, cut off by Aravadhor himself.

Elrond fought madly against his captors, ignoring the long gashes cut into his skin by their nails as they held on with grim determination. He could not see what was happening in the midst of the seething cluster of orcs, but that did nothing to ease his anxiety. If anything, it made it much worse.

Another orc joined his companions in holding Elrond. His hands twined through Elrond's hair, his nails scratching against the elf's scalp, and pulled up and back, forcing Elrond's back to straighten. His struggles weakened almost instantly, having lost what little leverage he had gained.

"This is your fault, you know," Vorgod said amiably from somewhere above Elrond. A strangled grunt was Elrond's reply as he continued to pull futilely against the hands holding him down. "I was planning on refuting your underling's request. But then you, little Star-dome, tried to play the martyr. You need to learn, elfling, that attempting to save another will only result in their greater suffering."

Elrond stilled his struggles, his muscles quivering with tension, and looked up at the orc commander. Vorgod looked no less pleased than he had before, yet now it had taken on a different temperament. Instead of amusement, the huge orc looked smug, as if convinced that Elrond had played directly into his plans.

A second scream seared Elrond's ears, and his jaw clenched. The sound tore through him, leaving a bloody welt on his heart. This was not the way it was supposed to be; Aravadhor was so young, so innocent, if any elf still could be. He was trusting and so full of hope and life.

"Please, stop this," Elrond begged. The dying echo of Aravadhor's scream was his only reply. "Stop. Stop…stop!" Elrond was nearly shouting by the end, his voice coming out choked and strangled. Again, there was no response.

Elrond closed his eyes, breathing heavily, reining in his fear and his anger. It was getting him nowhere; in fact, it would very well end up gaining both himself and Aravadhor more trouble than they already were.

"What do you want me to do?" Elrond asked finally, much calmer, although his voice still trembled with suppressed emotion. "What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing," was Vorgod's reply. "There is nothing you can do now. This was your fault, now you must pay the consequences of your actions."

_My fault?_ Elrond wanted to scream at Vorgod. This was _not_ his fault! This was Vorgod's fault, and the fault of the blood-thirsty, cruel, sadistic orcs who enjoyed tormenting all living creatures!

Elrond held his tongue.

The next few moments felt like an eternity to Elrond. He was completely still as he knelt, still held by the orcs, but there was a quality to his silence that was reminiscent of a spring so tightly coiled that, at the lightest brush of the trigger, will explode. He gazed upon the scene before him with unseeing eyes. Yet he did nothing to attempt to block out the sounds of the orcs as they played. He owed it to Aravadhor to do that at the least – he would not suffer entirely alone.

Someone came toward the fire, their steps uneven and lumbering. Elrond blinked and his gaze came back into focus as it flickered to the side, attempting to see who it was that approached. A flickering shadow was all that he could see, yet that was enough for him to see that it was a thick-set orc. The orc was limping heavily, favoring its right leg.

"M'lord," the new orc grunted as it halted a half dozen paces away from Vorgod and the circle of captains.

Vorgod turned away from the spectacle at his feet, his arms crossing as he did so.

"What is it?" he snapped, impatience lending a hard edge to his tone.

The other orc gulped, and shifted slightly under his commander's cold gaze. "We have de pris'ners under contr'l," he reported.

Vorgod was silent for a moment. "Very good. Hold them there for the time being. Dismissed." The orc underling saluted sloppily, then scuttled away to rejoin his companions and repeat the commander's order.

Elrond felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. He had forgotten about the battle between the orcs and the rest of his men, the thought driven from his mind by the all-consuming fear and fury that swept through him during his conversation with Vorgod, and the subsequent beating of Aravadhor. He remembered now, however, and he found himself feeling nauseous, a new fear for his men joining that which already festered in his soul.

Vorgod returned to his position beside Elrond, his thick arms still crossed tightly over his chest. His expression had turned from smug to calculating, and he watched the proceedings with a thoughtful gaze.

The knot around Aravadhor had slowly lost some of its vigor. Two or three of the orcs had stepped back, settling on watching. The elf had ceased his struggling very quickly, and had taken to trying to curl into a protective ball. To Aravadhor's undying credit, however, he refused to allow himself to cry out or beg for reprieve, even when the coiling, biting leather thongs of a whip bit into the flesh of his arms, neck, and cheek.

"Enough." Vorgod's voice cut through the laughter of the orcs like lightning through the storm. "Stand down." One by one, the orcs dragged themselves away from the crumpled form of Aravadhor, one or two of them grabbing one of their companions and hauling them physically away from their plaything when they gave no sign of hearing or heeding their commander's order.

Next Vorgod turned to the captains still restraining the motionless Elrond. "Release him," Vorgod ordered.

"B-but…" the orc to Elrond's left stuttered, shocked.

"I ordered you to release him." Vorgod's tone was low and deadly, promising swift and lethal retribution should his underling continue with what he was going to say. The orcs released Elrond immediately, and each of them took a step away from him, as if fearing that their master would exact punishment upon them for staying in close proximity to him.

Elrond stood quickly, eager to gain some semblance of balance and control back in his out-of-control life. He stood a little too quickly. He staggered and then fell, his numb legs giving out on him almost as soon as he attempted to put his weight on his own two feet. He landed awkwardly on his knees, and it was only his elven reflexes and natural balance that saved him from toppling forward onto his face.

A few of the orcs laughed outright at the sight of an elf falling gracelessly to his knees, and Elrond felt his cheeks burn.

A little slower this time, Elrond pushed himself upright. First one leg, then the other, one step at a time. That was what he told himself as he blocked out the quips thrown at him. He gained his feet, and held himself there, ordering his quivering legs to obey him and hold. They did, although barely.

Elrond's gaze fastened on the bundle of flesh and torn cloth that was Aravadhor. He seemed to be alive, thank Illúvatar, but unconscious. Perhaps it was better that way, though, Elrond mused.

Slowly, almost dreading what he would find, Elrond turned away from Aravadhor, and toward the rest of the camp.

The camp before him was in shambles. The earth was torn and splattered with pools of drying blood, and bodies littered the ground. Some were moaning in agony, but the majority of them were still and lifeless.

The orcs who had been fighting the elves surrounded their prisoners, weapons drawn. The elves were grouped together in a small circle inside the ring of orc guards. Most were standing or sitting, and only three were lying on the dusty earth unconscious. Most of them had managed to escape their bonds at one point or another during the skirmish, for only two were still bound. All of them were bleeding from numerous wounds, although at first glance, Elrond thought that none of them looked to be life-threatening.

Elrond sensed someone come up behind him, and he turned his head. He found himself looking up at Vorgod, who was standing barely a pace away. Vorgod's gaze slid from the other prisoners to Elrond.

"Don't try anything, elfling," Vorgod warned quietly. "You won't like the consequences." Elrond stiffened and considered retorting, but decided against it. He knew that he was in no position to make a remark that he would either regret later, or would be made to swallow when he could not follow through on it. "Good boy," Vorgod chuckled, and Elrond bristled.

Vorgod stepped around Elrond, and motioned for the circle of orcs guarding the prisoners to open. They did so reluctantly, shifting so that the side facing Vorgod was open, and there was a clear path to the elves.

"Hark to me, Firstborn," Vorgod ordered, his voice deep and commanding. It echoed around the camp once, twice, thrice, and when the last reverberation finally died away, nothing was moving.

The camp fell deathly silent, and it felt that time had been displaced for that single moment; as if the world beneath the roiling clouds, the world where the orange light of the flickering flame touched small sprigs of yellowed grass and hillocks of dirt, hung for that instant in balance – was somehow frozen; a world inside itself.

Vorgod allowed the silence to reign for an eternal moment. He was the master of the moment, the lord of the silence. He would break it when he was ready, and not until then, and he reveled in his power.

The ring of steel shattered the moment, and the echo of the sword being drawn reverberated through the air until it was as if the sound became an entity of its own, and pressed down and smothered all who heard it. The sound itself carried a resonating power that bespoke dread and fear and horror.

"Do not attempt an escape like that again," Vorgod ordered, his voice carrying across the distance between himself and the small group of elves, and mingling with the final echoes of the ringing metal. "If you do," and here Vorgod paused, threateningly, "It will be your lord who suffers for your insolence." Vorgod whirled toward Elrond, who was still standing behind him, and he brought the blackened tip of his heavy metal blade to rest just below Elrond's neck, even with his collarbone. If such a thing was possible, the air fell even more silent and still.

Elrond was perfectly still, hardly even drawing breath. The blade brushing his skin seemed to hum with a dark, sinister note. Elrond forced his attention away from the weapon, and toward his men. Somehow, in a strange, twisted way, Elrond drew strength in seeing them standing thus – proudly as if they were without fear, even when surrounded by a sea of enemies. Pride welled in his heart, and for a brief moment, he felt as if he could face any horror that would be thrown at him, if only to stand for and beside his men.

Vorgod lifted his sword away from Elrond's flesh, but did not re-sheathe the blade. His point had been made, but it was time to see if the lesson had been learnt.

"Take him," Vorgod snapped abruptly, and pointed a finger at Orodaew, who stood at the center of his kindred. He was wounded, and fresh blood was staining his body from shoulder to hip with a crimson blanket.

The elves made as if to confront the orcs that darted forward to obey their commander's order, but they stiffened as the blackened blade once more moved toward their captive lord. They offered no resistance as Orodaew was seized and dragged from their midst. Surprisingly, even he went willingly.

Orodaew was dragged across the intervening distance to Vorgod, and dumped at the orc commander's feet. The elf pulled himself to his feet slowly, grimacing in agony from whatever wounds he had sustained.

"You think to show me strength?" Vorgod mocked, and a second later the air was filled with the compulsory laughter of the other orcs. They fell silent as soon as Vorgod spoke once more. "You are a fool, _elf_," he said condescendingly. "Your pride will be your downfall, as well as your king's, and it will be by the hand of the one you are sacrificing so much to save. How very…_tragic._"

Vorgod turned to his subordinates, who had remained in formation around the prisoners. "This one is yours! You will feast on elf-flesh tonight!" he howled, and swung his fist into Orodaew's cheek, sending him flying backward. He landed in a sprawl.

He was set upon by the orcs before he could rise.

Out of the corner of Elrond's eyes, he caught a glimpse of Vorgod motion to one of the captains standing behind him. The orc stepped forward, and Vorgod murmured something. With a savage grin, he saluted, then ran toward the gathering crowd of orcs surrounding Orodaew, drawing a knife as he did.

If Elrond had likened the captains to wolves stalking their prey, then the orcs surging toward fallen Orodaew were rabid jackals. Compared to the slavering beasts that leapt on the elf, the captains had been prim, proper, and as well-mannered as stately lords.

Elrond couldn't stop the anguished cry that burst forth from his lips as the orcs fell upon his comrade. He could not stop himself from taking a step forward, some perverse notion that he could help Orodaew planted in his mind. That notion was quashed an instant later, and Elrond froze, his gaze painfully riveted on the stomach-turning scene before him.

Never before had Elrond witnessed an orc feeding frenzy. He wished it had stayed that way for his entire life.

One of Orodaew's arms arced through the air toward the edge of the gathering near to Elrond, spurting blood from the severed end. The orcs beneath it reached up, snatching it out of the air, before turning against each other as they squabbled over each mouthful of flesh. Muscle was ripped stickily from the bone in giant mouthfuls, before the appendage was ripped away by another. The fingers were snapped from the hand and swallowed in large, slick gulps. Blood dribbled from the mangled arm the entire time, splattering the parched ground and dripping onto the orcs' ragged tunics and mismatched mail.

Elrond tore his gaze away from the sickening sight, unable to watch any longer.

Something dripped into a cut on Elrond's cheek, and Elrond lifted his hand to his face. When it came away, his fingertips were wet, but not with blood. He realized that he was crying.

The only mercy was that Aravadhor was not conscious to bear witness to the scene.

Without warning, Elrond was grabbed from behind under both arms. He twisted reflexively, seeking to break free of the orcs' grasp. They held tight, and their grasps did not falter. He was not really expecting any other outcome.

The captain that had run toward the feeding frenzy appeared in Elrond's line of vision, and halted a few paces in front of him. In one hand, the captain carried a long, slightly curved knife with a bone handle intricately carved and inlaid with silver. The blade was splashed liberally with blood that gleamed deep scarlet. In the other hand the captain carried a small chunk of freshly sliced meat, the blood still steaming as it dribbled out of the torn muscle and coating the orc's fingers.

"Very good," Vorgod said to the captain, and he turned to face Elrond. For a few seconds, the orc commander looked deep into Elrond's eyes, as if searching for the answer to time in his steel grey gaze. Elrond stared back coldly, defiantly, despite the shock that was beginning to settle over him. Vorgod smiled broadly.

"Hold him still," Vorgod ordered. The hold on Elrond's arms tightened.

Vorgod extended a hand toward the captain by his side, hand open. Obediently, the captain relinquished the meat to the commander, and took a step back. Vorgod turned his gaze on the other, and again extended a hand. Startled, the captain automatically offered his knife as well, which Vorgod took imperiously.

With one quick, deft movement, Vorgod sliced the meat into quarters, each the size of a small mouthful. When he was finished, he dropped the knife carelessly to the ground, where it landed point-first, in the parched ground. As Vorgod stepped away, the captain darted forward and retrieved his prized weapon.

Vorgod closed the distance between himself and Elrond with four strides. When he halted, he was no more than five inches away from the elf lord.

Elrond watched as Vorgod approached, apprehension knotting his stomach, even as his mind whirled with confusion. What was it that Vorgod intended to do? Then Vorgod reached out and grabbed Elrond's chin, forcing his mouth open, and Elrond realized what was about to happen.

Never before had Elrond fought as hard as he did in that moment. He twisted and writhed, kicked and bucked, struggled to close his mouth. Vorgod was too strong. No matter how hard Elrond fought, he could not break free of the orc commander's impossibly strong hold, even as the other orcs holding him faltered and lost their grip.

Vorgod reached up, and pressed his right hand against Elrond's mouth. Still, Elrond fought him, pressing his tongue against his teeth to keep anything from entering his mouth. But it was already obvious that Vorgod was far stronger than Elrond, and Elrond's resistance barely stood against Vorgod for two seconds.

Something slick and sickeningly warm slid into Elrond's mouth and over his tongue. Immediately, his mouth was doused with the taste of fresh blood, and a thin liquid flooded the area beneath his tongue. He tried to spit, but found that both his mouth and nose had been firmly covered by Vorgod's hand, keeping his lips closed.

He would have died rather than swallow what was in his mouth; he would have been willing to asphyxiate himself rather than swallow the mouthful of raw flesh. Vorgod seemed to have a different idea.

Elrond would never know exactly how it was that Vorgod forced him to swallow. All he would be able to remember was an explosion of pain in the roof of his mouth, and then the feel of the meat sliding stickily down his throat. Then the hand over his mouth was removed, and Elrond was gasping and coughing and retching.

"Ready for another one?" Vorgod asked a moment later, his voice light and airy. He could very well have been asking if Elrond wanted another tart, if one was judging by his tone of voice.

Elrond preemptively shut his mouth with a snap, grinding his teeth together with enough force to give him a headache. Vorgod laughed menacingly.

"That's not going to help you," he grunted as he grabbed Elrond's chin again, and began pulling the elf's mouth open. Elrond fought him once more.

Vorgod snarled as Elrond resisted him, and he exerted more and more force to open the obstinate elf's jaw. His nails dug into Elrond's chin, leaving five bloody scratches in the already bloodied flesh. Still Elrond stood strong. With a sudden bellow, Vorgod released Elrond, and drew back his hand.

Vorgod's fist crashed into Elrond's jaw knuckles first. Elrond's head snapped sideways and his cheek ran into one of the orcs holding him. That, however, was not what Elrond's thoughts were focused on.

A _crack _accompanied the blow, reverberating through Elrond's entire jaw. For a second, he could not breathe from the intensity of the pain. But then he couldn't quite bite back his scream.

The scream died quickly, broken off as Elrond's chin was once again grabbed by an angered Vorgod. This time, Elrond found that he simply could not withstand the pressure as Vorgod forced open his mouth; the pain was too great.

Again, Elrond was forced to swallow the morsel of meat thrust into his mouth, and again he found himself spitting and trying to vomit. The actions were instinctual that time, though, rather than willed.

The process was repeated twice more. By the end, Elrond simply hung in his captor's hold, his anger and fear sapped by exhaustion. Darkness swam in his vision, obscuring the bright light of the fire, and the scuffles over the final scraps of Orodaew's body.

Orodaew's body. The thought made Elrond nauseous with both revulsion and guilt. How could he ever face his men again, knowing what he had done, albeit unwillingly? How could he ever again look an elf in the face, knowing that he…He found he could not even complete the thought, so great was his shame.

Elrond hardly even noticed when he was dragged to the other side of the fire and dumped unceremoniously on the ground. He could vaguely sense the other elves around him, but he did not care. He only wanted to be alone.

"Captain?" the voice was shaky, and familiar. It was Aearvith. Elrond did not respond. "Captain…" the voice trailed off into a despairing whisper, and a light touch brushed against Elrond's cheek.

Elrond seemed to awaken from a sleep. He sat up and violently shoved Aearvith's hand away, his gaze as cold as the ice of the Helcaraxë.

"Leave me be," he ordered, ignoring the hazy pain in his jaw as he spoke.

"Captain," Aearvith began again, his brow furrowing in worry.

"I said leave me be!" Elrond practically screamed, and made as if to stand. He found that he was not strong enough to even rise to his knees.

"Captain, please," Aearvith began, attempting to come close to Elrond again.

"Did you not hear me, Aearvith?" Elrond snapped. "I said leave me be!"

"No. I will not," Aearvith replied stubbornly. "You are injured. At least let me make sure you are not suffering from internal bleeding."

"No," Elrond replied instantly. "Do not touch me." The last was spoken in nearly a whisper.

"My lord?" Aearvith asked, and once again tried to come close. "Are you in pain?" Elrond did not answer. "My lord, I can help," Aearvith plead, finally halting his approach. "If you would just let me…"

"No," Elrond cut him off. "You cannot help me," he said bitterly. "Just do not touch me. Not…not when you do not know what…what I have…" Elrond fell silent, and his trembling intensified.

"Captain," Aearvith whispered, and once again attempted to draw nigh. "Do no-"

"I said do not touch me!" Elrond screamed at Aearvith. The other elf stopped, taken aback, and perhaps a little afraid. Never before had he seen his captain loose his composure thus.

Aravadhor suddenly appeared behind Aearvith, one side of his face swollen, and both his arms clenched close to his body. Aravadhor knelt beside Aearvith, his expression just as worried as his companion's.

Aearvith turned to the younger elf. "He will not listen to me," he said despairingly. "There is something wrong…I do now know what it is…" Aearvith trailed off. Aravadhor simply watched his captain, a strange expression in his eyes. If Aearvith had to name it, he would say that it was a strange mixture of fear, pain, and sorrow. "Aravadhor…you were there, were you not? Could he be acting…could this have something to do with what…" Aearvith trailed off, perturbed by Aravadhor's lack of response.

"Captain?" Aravadhor's voice was quiet, calm, soothing. Elrond's eyes fastened on the young elf, and although there was no joy – nay hardly any emotion at all in his gaze – there was no anger or fear either.

"Captain, listen to me," Aravadhor plead. "All will be well. You are among friends again." Elrond's eyes searched Aravadhor's. "I…I know what they did," Aravadhor finally said. "I was…was conscious enough. And they thought it would be amusing to make me watch. I do not know if this will help, but know that I saw you, and I heard you. And you fought him through the entire thing, even after he struck you." Aravadhor's words were quickening and gaining strength. "Even if you did not fight him physically after the blow, you fought him. He was angry, and grew angrier with each time. So don't give up. He did not win. But if you give up, and let what he _forced_ you to do destroy you, then he _has_ won. And then your fight, your struggle, will have been all for naught."

Elrond looked up from where his gaze had fallen to the ground. He was still trembling, although not as much as before.

Slowly, warily, Aravadhor crawled to Elrond. Elrond did not pull away.

"All will be well, Captain," Aravadhor repeated as he drew nigh. "Look, even the clouds cannot last forever. Gil-estel shines this night, scattering the mask to the heavens."

Elrond looked up, and found that Aravadhor had spoken the truth. A tiny patch of night sky shone through the layer of clouds, illuminated by the brilliantly shining star of hope. It seemed to Aravadhor and Aearvith that, as Elrond looked up, the star blazed with a new light.

"All will be well," Aravadhor whispered once more and slowly, carefully, timidly, pulled Elrond into his arms. "You are not alone."

Elrond seemed to collapse in Aravadhor's embrace, and his entire body began heaving with mighty sobs. The much younger elf, at a loss as to what to do, simply sat there, holding his captain as he wept.

Elrond vomited blood all that night. When Calenaer, who had joined the trio guarding Elrond soon after, questioned him about it, Elrond would say nothing but that it was not his. Aravadhor would say nothing either, even when insistently interrogated, telling the others that it was not his place to divulge what had happened.

Above them, high in the heavens, the clouds drifted across the sky, covering the tiny patch of visible sky. As the light of the Star of Hope was blotted out, it seemed as if he too wept.


	6. Chapter 6: To Dream of Pain

**Disclaimer:** Let me lay it out plain and simple for you. NOT. MINE. Happy?

**Chapter Warnings:** Mild Torture and Violence.

**A/N:** Hey everybody! So, this is a few days late...so sorry about that! I thought that I actually did pretty well in getting this written though. I wrote the entire chapter in about three days (including editing and all that)...I was just busy writing other stuff the past month. Speaking of which, if anyone's reading "Darkness In the Forest" there should be an update coming soon. I just have to catch up on all the homework I put off to write this first.

Thanks to **alexmichelle** who beta'd this chapter.

Many, many thanks to cai-ann, Greenleaf's Daughter, dinopoodle, and Elenast for reviewing last chapter. Also, thanks to anyone who alerted and/or favorited. To any and all lurkers out there, thanks for reading! I'd absolutely love it if you, whoever you may be, would drop a few quick words on your way out, even if it's juts an anonymous "I liked it!" etc. Most importantly though, I hope that you enjoy this chapter!

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**Important Notice(s):**

Okay, first off, I'd like to point out an inconsistency with my important notice last chapter. I accidentally said the date was 1964, when in reality it would be changed to **1694**. My bad. It is correct in the summary.

Secondly, I would just like to take this opportunity to say that this is officially a slight AU as of this chapter (well, more than it was before). This is because I am messing with Elrond and Celebrian's relationship slightly. In the canon in which I am writing this fic, they met in **1299** of the Second Age, when Elrond was ordered to escort Celebrian from Mithlond to Ost-in-edhil. Along the way they ran into some trouble, and Elrond and Celebrian got to go on an adventure together. They courted for a short time, but were quite rudely interrupted by a series of complicated events that sent Elrond dashing off across Middle-earth, and kept them apart for a long while. (All of this will later be explored in other fics. While I have had the time to write the timeline, however, I have not had the time to write the actual fics.) If you are confused, or would like to ask any questions concerning that, please don't hesitate to ask, and I'll try to clear things up.

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~*Chapter 6: To Dream of Pain*~

_Hold fast to dreams_

_For if dreams die_

_Life is a broken-winged bird_

_That cannot fly._

_~Langston Hughes_

_**7 Days Prior – Before Sunrise~**_

_**~Ost-in-edhil~**_

Darkness. That was all she could see all about her in every direction, as far as the eye could see. She spun in a full circle, her unseeing eyes probing still air. Only uniform darkness met her piercing gaze. There was no sound in the prism of darkness. The silence was almost palpable, pressing down on her; it smothered her in a thick blanket. She felt lost, directionless, as if she were drowning in a mire of black despair that she had no chance of escaping.

She realized that she had been forgetting to breathe. The first thing she noticed upon drawing a deep, shuddering breath was the scent of blood and bile. It filled the air, coating her tongue and lining her throat. She choked, and quickly covered her nose and mouth with her arm.

The sound of a key being turned in a metal lock violently shattered the silence and drew her attention toward a place on what she could only assume was a wall opposite her. She tensed, suddenly wary and nervous, for she did not know what to expect. Nay, she did not even have any idea where she was or how she had gotten there. The tumblers in the lock fell into place, and then the sound of wood grating against a stone floor filled the thick air.

Light blazed into the small room in which she stood, assaulting her sensitive eyes and causing her to flinch. She cupped her free hand over her eyes and blinked furiously, driving away the tears and the trails of color that marred her vision.

Something shuffled into the room, boots thudding heavily against the floor. The thing – whatever it was – grunted, then muttered something to a companion still in the hallway. The beast's voice was rough and guttural, and her stomach dropped. She knew of only one kind of creature who spoke like that – orcs.

Dropping her hands, she looked up at the two orcs that entered the room, still squinting despite the glare that she sent their way. To her surprise, the orcs ignored her, instead lumbering in through the door and gazing down at something on the floor.

Following the orcs' gazes, she saw, for the first time, that she had not been alone. A man lay on his stomach, stretched out upon the floor limp and unconscious, one arm trapped beneath his body, the other lying by his head with the hand in a loose fist. Dark hair cascaded about his head, hiding his face from view.

Her stomach constricted painfully, and for a moment she thought she would be sick. He was naked, his pale skin marked with deep lash marks and violent bruises. Other wounds – wounds that she could not quite understand the cause of – dotted his arms and legs. Blood sullied the ground beneath him and dripped down his sides, a few of the lash marks still oozing.

"'E's still unconscious," one of the orcs growled. Grumbling, he stumped across to where the man lay, and delivered a sharp kick to the man's side. "Oi, wake up, bastard," the orc ordered roughly, kicking the man a second time. He groaned as he was rolled up onto his side, but he did not surface to consciousness.

"Gemme some water," the first orc growled, turning his head to his companion.

The second orc chortled. "Why waste some water on de bastard?" he asked, stepping forward and unbuttoning his breeches, "No' when we 'ave somethin' that'll do jus' as well."

The stench of fresh urine joined the reek and she turned her head away, not wanting to watch. The laughter of the orcs filled the room, nearly overriding the pained cry from the man as he tried to roll away.

"Come on, _lordling_," the first orc sneered, and seized the man by the arm. She glanced back just in time to watch the man being hauled to his feet. His long hair fell over his shoulders and tangled on the orc's tunics, to which an assortment of chainmail had been sewn.

"Damn hair," the orc cursed, jerkily tugging it away from him and flinging it over the man's shoulder. "I don' see why 'e won't let us cut it."

The tip of the man's ear pierced his thin hair, showing starkly against the raven tresses. Her blood ran cold. It was no man…it was an elf.

The elf was dragged from the room, his feet trailing along the ground. Shocked and unable to think of what else to do, she followed, ghosting after them on silent feet.

Through a maze of twisting corridors the orcs dragged the elf. It felt, to her, that they walked for a long while, past hundreds of torches burning fitfully in brackets fastened to the stone walls, along countless winding corridors, passing doors and passages branching off innumerable. In all actuality, though, her mind told her, they could not have been travelling for more than two minutes, and both torches and doorways could have easily been counted if she had set her mind to such a task. Every instant, she was afraid that she would be seen, despite the fact that the orcs had been oblivious to her presence both in the cell and even now as she trailed them.

They finally came to a long, straight corridor. It somehow seemed darker than any of the other hallways they had traversed, even though the same number of torches burned upon the walls was the same. Some dark evil hung in the air and stained the dark stones, and she found that she did not want to enter the passage. Yet enter it she did, for that was where the orcs dragged their prisoner, and the compulsion to follow was nearly overwhelming.

Down the hallway they went until, before the door at the very center of the corridor, they halted. The door was made of thick timber, with iron fastenings across it. There was no latch or handle, nor even a keyhole.

One of the orcs reached out and touched the door, and uttered a single word. The word resonated with power, filling her with a twisted revulsion and making her wish to clap her hands over her ears. The elf hanging in the orcs' grip did not even flinch, and she could only wonder how many times he had heard the word. She took a step closer just as the door swung open soundlessly.

The elf looked up suddenly, his eyes flickering toward where she stood as if, in that split instant, he sensed her presence. Cool gray eyes met hers.

She staggered back, her back hitting the wall. She could not move, could not even breathe, so great was her shock. For she recognized those eyes, had recognized the face as the hair had fallen away.

The orcs dragged their prisoner through the doorway, oblivious to what had just happened, and the door began to swing shut behind them. A sudden burst of energy tore through her and she leapt forward, trying to slip through the narrowing crack and into the room beyond. She didn't quite make it.

The door slammed shut, booming hollowly as it locked. She put her hands out quickly, just managing to stop herself from running face-first into the wood. An unbidden scream tore from her throat, before it was lost to the silence that swallowed it whole. She whispered his name again, this time softly, despairingly.

"Elrond."

~oOo~

Galadriel sat bold upright in bed, breathing heavily as she fought against the dry heaves that wracked her body. She shook uncontrollably, spasms seizing her muscles, and her fingers were clenched in the bed sheets beneath her until her knuckles turned white.

"Galadriel, is everything well?" Celeborn inquired sleepily. Galadriel did not reply.

As if he suddenly became aware of his wife's distress, as if the roiling emotions stemming from her mind abruptly managed to pierce through the sleep-induced fog permeating his mind, Celeborn sat up, the light sheet that covered his bare torso falling to his lap. He reached out, placing one hand on the ice-cold skin of Galadriel's upper arm, pouring both comfort and strength into her through both their mental bond as well as through his touch.

Slowly Galadriel began to relax, the dry heaves subsiding and the shuddering easing into mere trembling. Sensing that the worst was over, Celeborn scooted closer to his wife and carefully snaked his arms around her waist before drawing her to him.

He had made the mistake before of attempting to come to close too soon before, and the experience was not one that he, nor Galadriel, ever wished to repeat. He had ended up unconscious for nearly two days, all memory of who he was and who he had been driven from his mind by a whirling vortex of darkness and a thousand shards of memories and images not his own. It had only been with Elrond's help that he had found his way back to himself. Never before had Celeborn met anyone with the gift for healing quite like Elrond's, nor nearly as powerful. It had been Elrond's blazing light that had driven the darkness out of his mind and led him back.

A gut-wrenching shudder coursed through Galadriel, as if she had sensed his thoughts, and was reacting to them. She tried to pull away from Celeborn's embrace, but the silver lord held her tight. She would slowly regain her senses, and the process would be sped up by contact with another, and by the strength that Celeborn could give to her.

"Hush Artanis," Celeborn murmured, pulling her back so that she was leaning against his chest, "Hush my love. You are safe now, safe with me." Celeborn quietly began to hum a gentle lullaby, his soft tenor wavering through the air like tendrils of silver, and whatever they touched breathed free with hope.

_Drink softly_

_Little one,_

_Of soft starlight_

_That gently runs._

_You are safe now_

_In my arms,_

_No nightly monster_

_Will bring you harm._

_All is safe here_

_All is warm,_

_So sleep you gently_

_Till morning comes._

Galadriel slowly began to come to her senses, pulling away from whatever horrifying vision had filled her dreams. Her trembling calmed and her breathing evened out until she was merely lying limply in Celeborn's arms, both mentally and physically exhausted.

Celeborn leaned down and kissed the top of Galadriel's head, which was resting against his shoulder. He remained silent, however. He knew that Galadriel would speak when she was ready to do so, and not a moment before.

"I must depart for Mithlond as soon as may be." Celeborn arched an eyebrow as he gazed down at his wife.

"Mithlond?" Celeborn queried. "Why Mithlond, and why so suddenly?"

"It is Elrond. He is in grave danger."

~oOo~

Celebrían jerked awake, startled from her reverie by a loud thump issuing from the hallway just on the other side of the far wall. The sun had not yet risen, yet the pearly grey of predawn filtered in through the small, curtainless windows arrayed along the top of the westward facing wall. As she lay still, listening, trying to determine what could have made the loud sound in the hallway – for few in the house were up at this time of the morning, and even fewer in the family wing in which her rooms were located – she heard the sound of hurried footsteps pattering down the corridor, and hushed voices whispering rapidly.

Now thoroughly perplexed, Celebrían swung her legs off of the bed and rose smoothly, stretching as she did. Slipping on a loose over-robe and stepping into soft slippers, she quickly exited her bedroom, intent on finding out what the cause of commotion was.

She passed through the small drawing room that stood between her bedroom and the corridor beyond, then opened the door leading out of her suite. She stepped out into a scene of controlled chaos. Servants and men-at-arms hurried up and down the hallway, the burdens that they carried ranging from baskets of hastily folded laundry carried on servants' hips to full field packs and weapons borne by the soldiers.

Brow drawing down into a frown, Celebrían hurried down the hall toward her parents' chambers. Somehow, she had the feeling that all of the questions that were whirling about in her mind could be answered there.

Celebrían knocked upon the door leading to her parents' suite then held her breath, listening intently. For a long moment, only silence met her ears, and she began to wonder if perhaps she had been mistaken, and her parents were not even awake yet. She was about to turn away when the sound of footsteps hurrying to the doors announced someone's approach. Celebrían stepped back and waited for the doors to be opened.

Celeborn was the one to open the door. He was harried looking, his clothing – leather jerkin, breeches, calf-high boots – looking as if it had been rather hastily put on, and his hair unbraided and uncombed as of yet. He seemed to calm slightly when he saw who it was that stood at the door, and he smiled then, before stepping back to allow his daughter entrance to the rooms.

"Adar, what is going on?" Celebrían asked as she followed him into the suites, the door swinging shut behind her. It was only then that she caught sight of saddle bags lying upon the bench beneath the windows. "You are going somewhere?" she asked, turning a wide-eyed gaze upon her father.

Galadriel swept into the sitting room from her and Celeborn's bedroom, dressed in a simple jerkin atop a loose-sleeved blouse and a pair of riding breeches. She was just tying a leather thong about the end of her hair, which had been gathered into a single tight braid.

"Celebrían, dear," she said with a smile, flicking the braid over her shoulder.

"You and Adar are leaving?" Celebrían asked incredulously, looking between her mother and father. "Why? And why did you not tell me of this before?" She would not deny that she felt a little put out by the entire situation.

"We would have told you sooner had we known ourselves," Galadriel assured her daughter. "We only received the message but a few hours past." Celeborn glanced quickly at Galadriel, an unfathomable expression on his face, but she did not return his gaze. Celebrían seemed to not notice the exchange.

"You still have not answered my other question," Celebrían pointed out. "Why do you have to leave, and so suddenly at that?"

This time it was her father who answered her question. "We have reports that indicate that there may be an orc force on the move," Celeborn said, "And it is imperative that I speak with Gil-galad as soon as possible."

"And you both have to go?" Celebrían asked plaintively.

"Celebrían…" Celeborn's warning tone silenced her, and she looked up into her father's chilling blue gaze. "You know that your mother and I must do our duties, to both our people and our land. We cannot shirk our responsibilities. You know that," he reiterated.

Celebrían sank down onto a nearby divan with a sigh. "I know," she whispered. "Forgive me Adar, Naneth. I should not have spoken thus; I do not know what came over me."

What she spoke was the truth. She could not explain the feelings that coursed through her mind and heart at the moment, so jumbled and confusing were they. All she knew was that she feared her parents' departure, although whether it was fear for herself or fear for them, she was unable to decipher. Ruthlessly Celebrían pushed her misgivings away; there was naught that she could do – nay, nothing she could do, and she had no right to try – to change her parents' minds. She was an adult, and did not need her parents by her side to coddle and carry her along any longer.

"Celebrían," Celeborn murmured, and pulled her back to her feet, his hands on under her elbows, "We would tell you more if we could. Right now, however, you need to trust us. I do not know how long we will be in Mithlond, but until the time when we return, I need you to fill in my stead. Can you do that?"

Celebrían's eyes went wide as she gazed at her father in shock. Every time that both he and her mother had left Ost-in-edhil prior, they had left a steward in custody of the city.

Celeborn must have sensed his daughter's surprise, for he tightened his grip minimally, strengthening their contact. He looked intently into her eyes, and there was no smile, nor hidden spark of laughter.

"Can you do this?" he asked her seriously.

Celebrían's chin lifted as she visibly reined her emotions back into check. Her eyes flashed. "Yes," she said simply, her voice strong and resolute.

"Good," Celeborn replied, and then smiled before leaning in to kiss her on the forehead. "I have great faith in you, my daughter, and I think it high time that you take your rightful place." He drew her into a quick embrace, then released her. "Now go along, your mother and I must finish packing."

"When are you leaving?" Celebrían asked, turning back as she reached the doorway to look at her mother and father.

"As soon as all is ready," Galadriel replied. "Hopefully within the hour."

Celebrían nodded and disappeared out into the hallway, returning to her own quarters to change into more suitable attire to greet the day in.

After the door had closed, Celeborn turned to face his wife, and a sigh escaped his lips. Galadriel was watching him with an unreadable expression. He lifted his own eyebrows slightly in return, matching her gaze. If she wished to question him on his decision to choose Celebrían to fill their stead in their absence, then he would question her on her decision to keep the truth from their daughter. True, Galadriel had never once spoken a full lie, yet she had tread a dangerously thin line in what she had spoken.

"You know we could not have told her the full truth," Galadriel finally said, turning away as she did so to retrieve her half-filled saddlebags. "Had we told her all, she would have insisted on coming with us."

"We would have told her no," Celeborn retorted.

"Yes, and then she would have come anyway," Galadriel replied calmly. "I would have, had it been you that was in danger."

Celeborn did not reply immediately, instead crossing to a cabinet standing against the far wall and, opening the drawers, began rummaging through the tightly bound scrolls stacked neatly within. He seemed to find what he was looking for for he withdrew a narrow roll of parchment encased in a thin strip of rawhide and bound shut with a leather thong.

Finally, Celeborn spoke. Two words, two simple words, yet with those words, Celeborn sounded as if he was attempting to carry the weight of the world.

"I know."

_**~Day 1 – Midafternoon~**_

_**~Battlefield~**_

_Gone, gone, gone_. The voice whispered the same word over and over again, echoing through his mind. _Your only hope to escape this hell is gone. What have you done? What have you done…done…done?_

Rhovanhul fought to stay calm, forcing himself to breathe deeply despite the crushing weight of terror and hopelessness that pressed down upon his chest and threatened to strangle him. He had made his decision, told the being that he wished to live, and he would stand by that choice, despite the pain that had returned tenfold as the creature had faded away into shadow.

Yet another wave of agony swept through him, and he felt his chest tighten a little more, the crushing mass settling a little heavier upon his torso. Something groaned, the sound low and drawn out. Rhovanhul froze, and for just an instant, the pain receded into the murky depths of his mind.

Something about that groan did not sound right, his befuddled mind told him. There was something unique about that sound, yet he could not wrap his mind around what that could be. Tentatively, Rhovanhul stretched out a hand toward where he had heard the strange sound…and stopped. His arm was caught fast, trapped between his own body and something lying atop of him.

His mind now having something to focus on other than his pain, Rhovanhul's thoughts began to clear minimally.

Gritting his teeth, Rhovanhul slowly, steadily, worked his arm out from where it had been pinned to his chest. Sharp ridges tore at the flesh of his palm as he pulled it over his armor. The top of his hand suffered its own unpleasantness as something rough and prickly stabbed into his skin at every movement. Yet Rhovanhul persevered, now having a goal in mind: first free his arm, then discover what was groaning.

His hand slid down his side and came to rest on short, coarse grass. Slowly, carefully, his hand crept outward, pushing over the loose, sandy dirt and the tufts of grass. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he sensed that the answer to his question could be found in that direction, if he could just reach it.

His fingertips ran into something hard. It felt like…wood? No, not quite. Hardened leather. His numbed mind whirled frantically as it tried to place where he had felt hardened leather before.

_A saddle._

The pieces fell into place.

_Fighting, never-ending fighting. Slash, stab, hack. Whirl, duck, parry, strike. Don't think, just act._

_A warg barreling toward him, jaws snapping and fangs dripping._

_A single scream, barely audible over the din of battle. His heart in his stomach as he realized what that scream meant._

_The foul stench of the warg washing over him. Not enough time. _

_Lifting his sword in a last attempt to fend off the rushing beast. _

_The warg leaping, claws first. Something hard slamming into his chest, sending him flying backward. _

_A sudden shock lancing up his arms as flesh rammed itself into four feet of sharpened steel. The stench of blood._

_Landing hard upon the ground, the warg collapsing on top of him._

_An explosion of pain in his head._

_Darkness._

The warg must still be on top of him, crushing him. That would explain the difficulty to breathe, as well as the agony in his torso. But how had he survived being smothered by the thick warg pelt?

The saddle groaned again, and the weight of the warg shifted, listing to one side and coming down on Rhovanhul's chest heavier yet.

"Of course," Rhovanhul dared to breathe. The saddle must have somehow, miraculously, kept the warg's corpse off of the ground just enough to leave him enough room to breathe. But now it was beginning to break apart, for it had not been built to withstand such force as it was bearing now. He had to free himself, and quickly, before the saddle gave way completely and he was trapped beneath. He knew that, if he was trapped beneath, he would die. He would simply not be strong enough to force his way out from beneath the warg if it was fully lying on him.

Rhovanhul shifted, wriggling his body in the vain hope of being able to squirm out.

Pain swept over him, driving him to the ground. He gasped for breath, which turned into a wheezing cough a moment later. His head swam.

"No," Rhovanhul gasped. "No! Do not stop." He forced himself to move again, fighting back a cry of anguish as fire seemed to lance up his bruised and broken body. He faltered. "Do not stop you fool," he cursed himself, and moved again. A little farther. Cool air washed over his hand as it broke free of his prison. His feet scrabbled in the loose soil as he attempted to pull himself out. "Push," he ordered. "Push!"

And then he was free. He rolled as he squirmed free, eyes shut tightly, oblivious to the agony that coursed through his veins and pummeled his flesh as his wounds were jostled. He came to a standstill a few feet away from the warg corpse and lay still, facedown upon the ground. Consciousness fled, and he remembered no more.


	7. Chapter 7: Cry For Your Father

**Disclaimer:** See previous chapters.

**Warnings:** Graphic torture and violence

**A/N:** Wow. So this is late...terribly, terribly late. My apologies... Yeah. Writer's block for one thing. Then school, finals, and then the holidays. And then when I finally had time to sit down and work on it, Elrond decided to be extremely difficult. He really didn't want me writing this chapter... Honestly, I don't really blame him (poor elf), but still...it was all very annoying. But never fear, I more than intend to finish this fic,so don't think I've given up on it. This is my most beloved project right now, and I've already put so much work into it, it would be ridiculous not to see it through. Oh, and this is also now the single longest thing I have ever written. I'm very proud.

Really, there was supposed to be more visible plot in this chapter, but as usually happens with me, I ended up saying to myself "Nope, this needs to be more detailed..." and so I ended up rewriting what was originally only about 300 words into about 3,000. It ended up being WAY more graphic than it originally was as well...Oops? There is plot here, I promise (and not just in the first bit)...but it might take a while for you to realize it. Again, I promise that I have reasons for doing all that I am to Elrond.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter: cai-ann, Elenast, AnneWithane, Greenleaf's Daughter, Ragnelle, and Crookneck. Your support has been very influential and wonderful, and I thank you a thousand times from the bottom of my heart. Thank you also to everyone who has alerted and/or favorited! This story is now my most favorited/alerted fic EVER, which is really, really amazing. Thank you all so much. To all of you lurkers, I hope that you are enjoying reading! I hope that you'll consider taking the time to leave a review, for it really does help me and urge me onward in the writing, and it would really mean a lot to me! Please, let me know what you think: too much? Just enough? ...Too little? (I don't think anyone will say too little...*ahem*). In any case, though, enjoy!

* * *

**Translations:**

Elbereth: Queen of the Stars, and the Elves' most beloved of the Valar

Adar: Father

* * *

~*Chapter 7: Cry For Your Father*~

_Pain is for the living. Only the dead don't feel it. ~Jim Butcher_

_**~Day 3 – Early Afternoon~**_

_**~Battlefield~**_

Rhovanhul's mind drifted in and out of consciousness, slipping away into the dark embraces of deep healing sleep then, faster than a bolt of light cracking across the midnight sky, tumbling into the midst of a nightmare. Twice he awoke, awoke screaming although he knew not for what or for whom, and he would not remember either instance upon awakening the final time. In fact, he would not remember the nightmares for many long days.

Sunlight played across his face, caressing his cheeks and alighting tangled, unkempt raven hair with a dull glow. It was the warmth that brought him awake. For too long he had been cold, the warmth leeched from his body by the stones and hard earth beneath his prone body, the clouds overhead blocking any and all warming rays of sun from reaching the world far below.

His eyes fluttered open, consciousness peeling back the shackles of slumber. He moaned softly, attempting to move limbs stiffened both by disuse and injury, and could not help but wince as his both joints and wounds protested painfully. But at least the pain was bearable.

Vaguely, Rhovanhul could remember the overwhelming wave of agony that had coursed through him, pushing him beyond all thought and reason; could vaguely remember nearly giving up in the wake of the pain. No longer, thank Elbereth, was the pain so powerful a force.

But now what was he to do? What _could_ he do? He was in the wild, alone and injured, with no supplies. There was a task that he knew he must complete, yet he could not seem to remember what that task was, despite that he could feel, beyond a doubt, that it was imperative that he address it as soon as possible. He was lost, both in mind and in body.

"Get up." His own voice startled him. It was deep and rough; sounded much more mannish. He pushed such thoughts away. "Get up," he said again, ordering his body to move.

He opened his eyes. And found that they had already been open.

Darkness. He saw nothing but darkness.

Disbelief. No, it could not be true, could not be.

Panic. He reached up, touching his face, his brow. His eyes.

Nothing. There was nothing covering his eyes, blocking his sight.

No, it could not be true – there had to be another explanation. He would not allow himself to believe it.

But he already had.

He was blind.

_**~Day 4 – Early Evening~**_

_**~South of the Ettenmoors~**_

The last three days had passed in a haze of pain and drug induced fog. Elrond could vaguely remember cool hands against his jaw, fingers gently stroking along the bone and up to the joint. There had been soft voices above him, but he could only recall bits and pieces of what they had said.

"The bone is not broken, thank the Valar; his jaw is merely dislocated."

"That is good to hear."

"Indeed it is. Although I fear…" the voice trailed away, and Elrond could not recall if any more had been said.

The next he could remember, the voices had been speaking to him.

"Lord Elrond, we must reset your jaw. Are you ready?" Elrond did not think he had replied, but they had continued on in any case. Hands had gripped both sides of his head, both stabilizing and keeping it still, and then another set of hands had returned to his jaw. An instant later, pain had shot through his jaw and, had it not been for the hands holding his head, he would have jerked away. The pain began to ebb then, leaving behind only a dull, aching throb.

The sharp sound of tearing cloth cut through his daze better than even the pain had, and Elrond had attempted to look around. Still, though, the hands had remained on his head, keeping him still. A moment passed, and then something soft was being twined over his head and under his jaw.

Someone began speaking again, but Elrond had already slipped once more into the half-unconscious daze that he had been resting in since his weeping had subsided.

The following morning had been much the same as the day before. The orcs had dragged their prisoners away, leaving Elrond for the last, and mounting them on wargs. Then they had come for him, once again bearing the flask of numbing liquor.

He had fought them, and it had felt to him as if he had awoken from a dream only to find himself living in his nightmare. Boiling rage – rage that he had not felt in hundreds of years – had taken him and fueled his actions, driving him up and against his captors. Bones had shattered beneath his fists, and flesh had been torn to bloody shreds. But then one of the orcs had taken a club to the back of his head and he had fallen limp, darkness taking his vision and stealing away his senses.

When he had awoken, he found that the binding around his jaw had been removed, and that he had once more been bound atop the warg. Only now, a rough iron collar had been affixed to his neck, to which a short length of rope had been tied. The other end of the rope was looped through the bindings on his wrists forcing him to hunch over awkwardly, and keeping him in a very vulnerable position. He could taste tried blood in his throat and at the corners of his mouth, and there was a lingering, bitter taste on his tongue.

The woozy, blanketed feeling brought by the sedative had taken him once more, but for the first time since his capture, he found that he could deny it the power of pulling him unconscious. He had fought the darkness with all of his will, which had been strengthened by the anger that burned within him.

Again the company had stopped for the night, and the wargs were released, likely to give them the chance to hunt. Before any of the elves had a chance to approach Elrond, however, three orcs had approached the company and seized the half-elf. Again he fought them as they attempted to seize him, and for a moment the other elves had risen, preparing to go to their lord's aid and defense.

Within an instant there were orcs swarming around the prisoners, beating them down and keeping them from getting to Elrond. More than one arm and wrist was broken that night. Then the orcs had parted just enough for the elves, lying kicked and trodden on the ground, to watch as Elrond was dragged away by his hair, still struggling weakly despite the fresh blood that was trickling down the side of his face. His men would not see him again for many days.

After reaching the other side of camp, on the far side of the fire, Elrond had been flung down, and the orcs had proceeded to kick him to the brink of unconsciousness. Just as the darkness was taking his vision completely, he had felt hands grabbing him once more, and he had been hauled into a kneeling position.

The bindings on his wrists had been slashed, the knife that they used slicing a narrow but deep gash down his thumb, and then they had been wrenched behind his back. When his wrists had been rebound, however, the end of his hair had been twined in with the ropes, keeping his head up and his arms twisted awkwardly so as not to over strain his neck. The iron collar had been left in place, the weight of it digging the sharp edges into his collarbones.

No comfort had been allowed him that night, for every so often one of the orcs standing guard would deliver him a sharp kick or punch. The one time that he had settled down from his knees onto his heels, the guards had been on him within seconds, like hounds on a fox, striking every inch of flesh that they could reach with fist and boot and butt of whip.

He did not utter a single sound all that night.

The next day had been worse.

Stiff, sore, and in pain, Elrond's attempts at resisting the drug were laughable – and laugh the orcs did as he tried in vain to move his head away from the flask, pressing his lips tightly together, only to have them pulled open and the spigot thrust down his throat. When the orc administering the drug had pulled the flask away, a faint trickle of blood had dribbled down the retching elf's chin, and the mouth of the flask had been spattered with crimson droplets.

He had not been given as much as the days before. While his mind was numbed and both his thoughts and will to fight were dulled, he did not sleep, nor was he offered any numbness of body. That day of travel had been something of a living hell.

He had been dragged from the saddle by a hand in the hair, and had slammed into stone jutting from the parched soil. The air driven from his lungs, he had been unable to even struggle as he was hauled upright and dragged toward the where the fire was being prepared. He was dropped unceremoniously beside the growing pile of logs hewn from stunted trees and torn from shriveled brush. He had curled up as best as he could, but even so he could not avoid every boot, especially when they seemed to be drawn to him like moth to flame.

An hour passed, then a second. Nothing happened. But it had only been the calm before the tempest.

The heat of the fire washed over him, even as the cold of the ground leeched the warmth from his body. Elrond shifted a fraction of an inch, still curled into the tightest ball that he could manage, the better to protect his already much abused face and damaged chest and stomach. It hurt to move, even just to breathe, and the firelight assaulted his eyes in searing spears, sending waves of pain through his skull behind his eyes and down into his neck.

A hand tangled in his hair and yanked, pulling him out of his fetal position. A startled cry attempted to force its way from between his lips, but Elrond clenched his teeth, refusing passage to any sound.

The now-common sound of orc laughter rang out above him. One of the filthy beasts darted forward and jabbed him in the side with a piece of tree branch that had been lying on the ground. Elrond could feel one of his broken ribs grate, and once again he was forced to lock his jaw to keep from crying out.

"Aww, is da pretty lil' lordling hurting?" one of the orcs crowed.

Elrond started to sit up, but he was yanked back to the ground by the hand in his hair. A growl escaped the half-elf's lips, and he attempted to reach back to untangle the fingers. His bound wrists jerked to a halt as the rope attaching them to the collar ran out of slack. The orc holding him chuckled darkly.

"Silly lil lordling. Now jus' 'old still. It'll all go so much better fer ya if ya do."

Elrond jerked in the orc's hold again, and sent a glare in the general direction that he knew the orc was in.

"You think to cow me," Elrond hissed, "But I think you will find it harder than you supposed." The orc only laughed.

Something approached and Elrond gasped before closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, battling the sudden wave of revulsion and discomfort that accompanied the nearing presence. It was strange, the sense, feeling like an itch in his head and a thorn in the pit of his stomach; never before had he felt such a sensation, and at once it both intrigued and repulsed him. And then, as if a veil had been thrown over it, the feeling vanished, leaving behind only an echo.

Heavy footfalls sent the earth atremble as someone neared, the reverberations echoing through the ground. Yet something about them felt odd, for even as they felt orcish, the lumbering, uneven gait was absent; indeed, the earth spoke of a smooth, even perhaps graceful tread.

Elrond opened his eyes and looked skyward. Above him stood Vorgod, cloak trailing about his shoulders, the hilt of his sword protruding from the shadow cast by the folds of cloth. The light cast by the fire illuminated one side of his face in scarlet gold, even as the other half was hidden by darkness. Even so, Elrond could not help but notice that the great orc's eyes gleamed, even out of darkness, and in the light cast by the fire they looked nearly gold.

Vorgod glanced down to the elf lying at his feet, an impassive expression on his face. Elrond glared at the orc commander and bared his teeth in a silent snarl, even as he once more strained against the hand entangled in his hair. Vorgod looked away, the same uninterested expression still in place.

"You may begin," Vorgod said turning his back on Elrond, and then he stalked away, the reverberations fading as he rounded the fire.

Another orc stepped forward to take Vorgod's place, this time one of the captains. He grinned down at the elf lord, a manic gleam in his eyes.

"The lordling thinks 'e can fight us," the orc hollered suddenly, turning to face his brethren. "Look at 'im, all prideful and arrogant!" Shouts of affirmation rang through the air. "I think 'e needs a lesson, wha' 'bout you?" the captain cried. More shouts, and this time a number of the orcs stamped their feet or beat their fists against their chests.

"Burn 'im!" one orc bellowed, but was cut off an instant later as another cried "Beat 'im!"

Elrond swallowed the trickle of fear that was slowly building in his throat, and purposefully eased his breathing. Worrying about what was coming would not make anything better – quite the opposite, in fact – and he refused to allow himself to show weakness to the foul creatures pressing in on every side. His resolve hardened, and his eyes flashed.

Two more of the captains shoved their way through the thickening crowd, snarling at and cuffing any of their underlings who did not get out of the way quickly enough. Finally they broke through into the small circle of open space that surrounded the elf and orc holding him down.

They bent down on either side of Elrond, one of them kneeling on his stomach, pinning his back to the ground, and the other reaching down to cut the ropes binding his hands. The rope parted and Elrond lashed out, grabbing a hold of the orc's throat. His fingers scrabbled against the skin, seeking for the leverage needed to snap the spine.

The orc kneeling on Elrond's stomach rammed an elbow into the hollow beneath his ribs. Elrond automatically loosened his hold on the orc and gagged, a sick feeling spreading through his gut. Before he could try anything else, the two orcs grabbed him beneath both arms and hauled him upright.

He only just managed to get his feet beneath him before they abruptly released him, sending him stumbling. The hold in his hair, however, had not been relinquished, and he was jerked backwards with a tug. Again he nearly fell, and indeed would have but for his elven reflexes. The orcs laughed all the louder.

One of the captains punched him in the cheek, spinning him part of the way around in a circle. A second later, the same captain latched onto his wrist, swinging his arm back and up behind his back. His shoulder shrieked in protest of the movement, and Elrond fell still. He knew that the orc would not hesitate to break his arm or dislocate his shoulder if he made any sudden or threatening move.

A knife as it was drawn from its sheath, but the sound didn't process until it was far too late for him to react. Cold steel pressed against his collarbone, the tip of the blade dancing tantalizingly back and forth across his skin. The orc gripping the knife hilt leered at Elrond, and pressed a little harder. The point sank into his skin, and a single droplet of blood oozed out around the metal, before dripping down to stain his tunic.

The orc moved suddenly and swiftly, slashing the knife downward with the sound of rending cloth. Elrond clenched his jaw as the knife sliced open flesh as well. Within seconds he could feel blood, warm and sticky, dribbling out of the wound.

Two more slashes down his arms, from shoulder to elbow, left his tunic barely hanging onto his body only by the collar. Then the orc standing behind him pulled the shirt, tearing the final stitching free, and ripping the tunic from his back. He turned and threw it almost lazily into the fire. The blood-stained cloth caught alight almost instantly, the fire eating through the material and turning it to naught but ash.

Elrond's eyes were still on the last tatters of his tunic as it shriveled away when the first stroke fell. Barely an instant later, a _crack_ split the air. Elrond staggered forward, only to find that the orcs had released him. He fell to his knees, biting his tongue to keep himself from crying out as what 1felt like molten flame was pulled from his back.

A second blow pushed him forward, and he only just managed to brace his hands against the ground. The third blow drove him down onto his elbows, a small bit of stone digging into his right forearms. And there he stayed, even as the fourth and fifth blow wrapped around his shoulders and kissed his sides.

Elrond tried once to stand, to turn and face his attacker, but before he could even rise to his knees the whip had curled thrice around his ankles. With a yank, he was sent sprawling once more, one arm just barely managing to save him from smashing face-first into the hard ground.

His arm gave out at thirty-two. He fell to the ground, his right arm still pinned beneath his chest, and his forehead smacking the hardened earth. Blood ran down his sides to pool beneath him, creeping slowly over the parched soil, and there was a strange feeling of emptiness about his thoughts, and a darkness around the edges of his vision. Frantically he shoved away the creeping shadows, willing himself to stay awake and aware.

"Look at 'im." Vaguely, Elrond realized that one of the captains was speaking and focused on what he was saying, using his loathsome voice as something with which to ground himself in reality. "Look at 'im lying der, unable to even 'old 'imself up. Not so 'igh and mighty now, are ya, elf?"

One of the captains knelt beside him, and Elrond could feel the foul breath brushing against the shredded skin of his back.

"Look at ya, weak as a newborn babe," the captain hissed. "An' screaming like one too."

Confusion flitted through Elrond's mind at the orc's last statement. But then he felt a rough hand press against his back, claws sinking down into the stripes torn through his flesh. The orc tightened his grip, arching his claws, and then ran his fingertips down Elrond's back. And Elrond very nearly did scream, his back arching and his entire body tensing. He bit his lip until it bled and held his breath, something within him yet refusing to give the orcs what they wanted so badly to hear.

Every so often the creature would pause and poke at one of the deeper lash marks, or run his claws down the length of the wound, then flick away the blood and bits of flesh that had torn away with his ministrations.

The orc growled, but took his hand away and rose. He turned to his fellow captains and said something to them in their own tongue. Elrond could not understand what was said, the words harsh and bitter, even painful to listen to. They seemed to come to an agreement, for all three turned to look at Elrond and then moved to circle him.

The first captain's boot dug into Elrond's side, forcing his limp body up. Before he could fall back to the ground, however, the captain kicked him again, harder, and Elrond rolled over completely.

He had a moment of sheer, instinctual panic as his mind ordered his body to protect his back from further injury. He tried to catch himself, his muscles tightening and his hands reaching out to steady himself. But he was too weak; he had lost too much blood already, and found that his arms would not obey him fast enough.

Pain exploded in his back, enveloping his chest and making it difficult to breathe. Once more, his mind and body tried to scream, but again his will blocked the sound. He clenched his teeth tighter, ignoring the constant ache and frequent stabs of pain through his jaw. Only the slightest moan managed to penetrate his blockade, and it was lost amid the sounds of the fire and the orcs jeering and howling.

"Come now lil' lordling, last chance. Cry fer us," the smallest of the captains standing above him ordered. Elrond summoned every last shred of defiance that he could muster and poured it into a glare. The orcs grinned.

"Have it yer way," the second captain chortled, then stepped forward and placed one foot on Elrond's sternum. He pressed down, grinding Elrond's back into the hard ground, forcing grime and a myriad of small stones into the lash marks and compressing his already much bruised and broken ribs. Once again, Elrond found that he could not breathe – but perhaps that was a good thing, for his will very likely would have broken had it been able.

So distracted was he, that Elrond at first did not even notice when both of his wrists were grasped by the two other orc captains. He did, however, realize what was happening when both began flattening out his arms, pulling them to their fullest extent straight out to either side of him.

Out of instinct more than aught else Elrond attempted to resist, clenching his fists and straining against the orcs' strength. It was futile, of course, and the orcs merely laughed at his weak effort.

His right hand – his sword hand – was dealt with first. The fingers were forced out of the fist that they had made, and his palm was pressed flat against the ground. The orc reached down to his belt and Elrond suddenly felt sick, although he did not know what was coming – he merely knew that it would be unpleasant, whatever it was. The orc raised the object he was holding to shoulder height, and then brought it down slicing toward Elrond's hand. Metal caught the light of the fire, and the dagger blade flashed as it descended.

The first thing Elrond felt was the jolt as something pierced the skin on his hand, then punched through bone, and then out the other side and down into the ground below. He could hear it, too, could hear the squelch as the blade tore through skin, and the crunch as it fractured bone. And then he felt it, and for a long instant there was nothing in his world but sheer, raw agony.

The instant dragged onward, turning into an eternal moment, and still the pain did not recede.

More pain, only now it was in his left hand. Elrond rolled his head to the left, and caught a glimpse of a bone handle protruding from his hand.

He tried to move his arms, but they simply would not obey his commands. His entire body was screaming, and it felt as if fire was licking at him, both inside and out. His breathing was ragged, coming out in something akin to pants or gasps, and it was taking nearly all of his considerable willpower to not cry out. Tears had been forgotten long ago; they would do nothing to assuage the pain, and they did not even attempt to try to.

"Still no' crying lordling?" Elrond opened eyes that he had not realized he had closed and looked skyward. But he did not look at the orcs standing around him, nor did he watch as the whip was once more shaken loose. Instead his eyes were fixed upon the sky high above, where the clouds rolled and twisted, covering the stars.

Finally, for the first time in two days, Elrond spoke. His voice was no more than a whisper, and his words were caught away by the wind caused by the large fire close at hand.

"Please Adar. If you can hear me, then please…" His plea was cut off as the whip cracked against his chest, the leather biting a long, deep lash mark from shoulder to hip.

The body can only sustain so much pain. Eventually, there comes a point when the mind simply cannot handle the agony of the body, and so it shuts down.

It finally was too much. Elrond's eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed limply, his senses fleeing to the warm and safe embrace of darkness. And perhaps – just perhaps – his plea was answered.

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**A/N II:** When cracked properly, a bull whip actually moves so quickly that it breaks the sound barrier. This causes a very small "sonic boom" a few seconds after the actual crack. Therefore, if actually being flogged with a bull whip (or similar whip), you would feel the whip before you would hear it.

The average human can withstand between 20 and 50 lash marks with a cat'o'nine tails, depending on varying circumstances such as climate, physical condition (including whether or not you are injured, your hydration levels, etc.). While being an elf and likely well used to pain, Elrond was already injured, dehydrated, and exhausted. Factor in the fact that it was essentially a bull whip being used, and it is something of a feat that Elrond was not unconscious by 32 lashes.

Again, thank you for reading, and I would love it if you would leave a review, even if it's just an anonymous "It's good." or whatnot. I can't know if something is liked, or if it is unliked, or if something is wrong unless you tell me. Thank you! Oh, and Happy New Years!


	8. Chapter 8: Golden Flower

**Disclaimer:** Please see previous chapters.

**Chapter Warnings:** Graphic violence.

**Important Notice:** Okay, so I'm changing the year on you all again. Sorry...Really, this should be the last time I change it though...It's just that, as I've been working more and more of my whole timeline out, I've been finding more and more issues with it and that have needed some reworking. So yeah, the year is now **1693.** It is my belief that the War of Sauron and the Elves officially began late in the year, and this is early in the year. So, yeah...

**A/N:** Wow, guys, you all are awesome. 19 reviews on last chapter...it simply blew my mind. Thank you so, so, so, so, so much! And to think, it's only 6 reviews away from hitting 50, which is honestly something that I've always kinda dreamt about, but never really thought would happen. And I have you all to thank for that. So THANK YOU. Seriously, I was living on a cloud for about a week and a half straight, and it was because of that that I felt really inspired to get this chapter out to you this week, rather than next week or the week after. So...yeah. If you want me to update faster, supply me with motivation :) Anyway, thank you all again. As I think I made it clear above, I'd LOVE to hear from you! Enjoy!

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**Translation:**

Meleth: love (noun)

* * *

~*Chapter 8: Golden Flower*~

_Can you hear heaven cry_

_Tears of an angel_

_~Tears of an Angel – RyanDan_

Sindarin has two words for dark magic: morgul and guldur, although it is not defined clearly…It refers to the divine magic of Sauron used for evil, which could be taught to his followers…Sorcery is perhaps the equivalent of the dark magic. ~Tolkien Gateway, on the topic of "Magic"

_**~Day 2 – Near Midnight~**_

_**~The banks of the Branduin River, Eriador~**_

Celeborn sat watching the embers flurry up into the night sky as a log snapped, sending a wave of heat rushing outward. Smoke curled lazily up from the flickering flames, coiling and writhing like an elongated cat twining around its master's ankles, thin and pearly gray. Within seconds, the sparks had turned to naught but gray ash, light as the wind and subject to the air currents' moody ways. The ash blew away into the night, the tiny flakes of solid smoke disappearing into the darkness.

He sat, legs outstretched upon a low log that had been dragged into the clearing from the forest's edge when camp had been pitched earlier in the evening. The bark was springy in a few places, yet for the most part the weathered, ancient bones of the once-proud sentinel had maintained the hardiness of its youth, the bark remaining firm enough to bear the weight of a seated elf and the branches to be valuable firewood – and more than only good for a few faggots. In the distance, the gentle song of the flowing Branduin was audible, forming a soothing backdrop to the crackle of the flames. Celeborn was still as he watched the night sky, the stars blazing overhead and the moon slowly nearing the apex of its nightly journey.

Something rustled in the glade behind his back and Celeborn stirred, shifting just enough so that he could peer over his shoulder. A soft smile touched his lips as his gaze fell upon his wife, who was lying on her side beneath the blanket of her bedroll, her saddlebags very carefully arranged beneath her head. She looked so very innocent, her golden hair pulling free of the loose horsetail that she had tied it in to tumble over one shoulder and her eyes half-lidded in elven dreams. Yet even as she looked beautiful in her innocence, she was also beautiful in her strength. The firelight played across her features, throwing inky shadows across her face and sharply defining the high cheekbones and sharp chin that defined all of her family. Celeborn briefly wondered if that was what she had looked like when leading her people across the Helcaraxë alongside her brothers.

Ringing around their lady in a protective half-circle, weapons and helms close at hand, rested most of the guard that were accompanying Celeborn and Galadriel on their journey to Mithlond. Three of the fifteen bedrolls were empty and their weapons gone, but Celeborn knew that those three were nearby, stationed around the perimeter of the glade as they kept watch.

Celeborn turned back toward the fire, his eyes following the path of the smoke as it reached for the heavens far above until his gaze was resting upon the star-flecked night sky, dimmed only slightly by the flames beside him.

The star of Eärendil was burning exceptionally bright that night, Celeborn noted, his eyes drifting toward the burning beacon of hope blazing high above. As the Silvan elf lord gazed upon the star, a sudden wave of crushing sorrow and…fear rose up, unbidden, washing through him and stealing away his breath. It felt as if a thorn had been shoved deep into his heart, whereat it had been twisted and then pulled out from a different angle. It hurt, it physically hurt…

An instant later the crashing wave was gone and Celeborn drew in a long, deep breath, steadying himself and gathering his scattered thoughts. The pain had vanished just as suddenly as the feeling of hopelessness, leaving only the faintest echo of it whispering in his mind, like the hands of a ghost just barely brushing against his conscious thoughts.

Celeborn frowned, and then stood. Clearly he was far more exhausted than he had deemed himself to be and, uneasy feeling or no, he needed rest if they were to continue at the pace they had been travelling at for the past eight days.

With luck they would reach Mithlond within the next four or so days. Celeborn could only hope that the fair weather would hold and that they would not encounter any unforeseeable difficulties along the road. Already Galadriel was fretting, although she hid it well, fearing that whatever it was that she had dreamt of would come to pass during the intervening weeks that it took to traverse the one hundred-and-sixty or so leagues separating Mithlond from Ost-in-edhil.

Unfortunately, or so it would seem, luck was not on their side that night.

A whistle, a darting shadow leaping from the trees, then a thud. Celeborn grunted, staggering backward as a fang of pain knifed into his left shoulder. His right hand automatically went to the wound. His fingers rasped against thick wood, and he could feel the warmth of blood slickening his hand. He glanced down to see a thick arrow shaft, fletched with black, ratty feathers protruding from his shoulder.

_Orcs._

"Awake, awake!" Celeborn bellowed, reaching up and snapping the arrow shaft in half close to his shoulder. He winced as the arrowhead was dug a little deeper, and a fresh spurt of blood coursed out of the wound to stain his shirt. "We're under attack!"

The clearing leapt to life at Celeborn's words, the elven guards shaking off their dreams and reaching out to grab weapons and leap to their feet. There was confusion as the elves looked around, shaking the last vestiges of reverie from their minds and searching for the enemy that their lord had brought them awake to face.

Celeborn ran toward his packs, cursing his own stupidity in leaving his sword beside his bedroll. At any moment he expected to hear the wild howls of the orcs as they sprang to the attack, expected to hear the heavy tread of iron boots crushing the ground beneath as they rushed haphazardly forward. No sound reached his ears, none but the crackle of the fire behind him and the rush of the mounting wind.

Celeborn dropped to his knees by his packs, left arm held tightly against his side to minimalize the jostling of the arrowhead buried in his flesh, and reaching out to grasp his sword and draw it from its sheath one-handed. He hesitated as the first inch of steel slid out, however, and glanced over to Galadriel, who was yet lying tangled in her blanket, her back to him.

"Galadriel," Celeborn urged, crawling over to her side, sword still sheathed and in his right hand, "Awaken." He did not know how much time they had until the orcs swept into the campsite – likely only a few seconds more – and he would be cursed if he allowed his wife to fall to their blades as she slept. He reached out with his injured arm – his right holding his sword – and gently touched his wife's shoulder.

She did not move.

"Galadriel," Celeborn hissed, and shook her slightly, true fear beginning to worm into his belly. She did not awaken, but merely rolled over limply, her head lolling against Celeborn's knee.

Her eyes were closed.

All else in the world around seemed to fade for the barest fraction of a second as Celeborn felt panic sweep through his heart and mind. He clamped down on his fear, binding it deep within his heart to be dealt with later – he did not have the time to deal with it then, and if he allowed the fear to take control of his body it would likely result in both his and his wife's death, something which Celeborn was unwilling to allow to happen.

Celeborn's eyes darted up and down Galadriel's prone form, seeking out the telltale jutting shaft of an arrow embedded in her chest or her stomach, or the spreading crimson stain of blood oozing from a wound. He found nothing, nothing at all that would account for her unconsciousness.

Yet unconscious she remained, even when Celeborn took her face in his hands and compelled her with both mind and touch to awaken.

_Blackness opened up all around, swallowing him and pulling him down into a quagmire of an eternal void. He struggled, tried to scream as the darkness swallowed him whole, yet all he could feel was the shadow sliding into his open mouth and down into his throat, choking him and muffling his cries. It held him fast, bound his arms to his sides and twined about his ankles like a living rope. He could not move; could not even struggle as the shadow choked off his air…_

Celeborn wrenched his hand away from Galadriel's cheek, his chest heaving as he gasped, his head pounding. His entire left shoulder felt as if it were aflame, the arrowhead embedded within a burning coal. He felt momentarily sick, as if some revulsive presence was attempting to force its way out of his body.

Still Galadriel slept, her face the perfect picture of peace, belying the agony that Celeborn knew was taking her mind.

Celeborn looked up, and beheld a scene of mass chaos with an already jumbled mind. Orcs were streaming into the clearing, their hideous weapons lifted high aloft catching the firelight and causing them to glow with a sullen red. The foul stench that rolled off of the beasts was shredded by the intensifying wind, which served also to mask the orcs' loathsome battle cries.

The guards had formed a protective barrier between their lord and lady and the oncoming enemy, swords flickering back and forth like striking vipers as the slashed and hacked at the oncoming orcs. The din of battle filled the air and the scent of blood was already thick enough to taste if one knew what to look for.

Celeborn did not know what to do. His men, although managing to hold the line thus far, were far outnumbered, and in odds like these, even one more blade could make the difference between life and death for all. Yet going to the aid of his men in the line would leave his wife alone and unprotected – an easy target for a stray arrow or an orc that managed to slip through the defenses.

The choice was made for him an instant later.

Celeborn glanced up quickly to see how his men were faring just in time to watch as one of the guards – he was not sure who it was for their back was to him – was cut down with a heavy ax. Within seconds half a dozen orcs had piled onto his body, their jaws chewing before they had even latched onto his flesh. His screams died less than a moment later when his throat was torn open and his vocal chords dismembered.

The line was broken, and although the warriors to either side of the gap struggled violently to close it – both to close the gap and to beat the ravenous orcs off of their dead companion – they found that they could not, for the orcs had taken full advantage of the break in the defense and were pushing past. For an instant Celeborn feared that the orcs would turn on the guards and bring them down from behind, and he had opened his mouth to cry out a warning. But the orcs that pushed through did not, strangely enough, turn. Instead, their gleaming eyes fixed upon him kneeling beside his limp wife, and they leered even as they charged forward.

Celeborn stood smoothly and drew his sword from its sheath, then dropped the now-useless scabbard off to one side. He stepped in front of Galadriel, barring the orcs' path to her, and lifted his blade high in challenge.

"Give up," one of the orcs – the one who seemed to be the leader – hissed. Off-handedly, Celeborn realized that he was taller than the others, and a tattered fur cloak trailed from his shoulders. "Yer beaten, so jus' give up 'n lay down yer arms." Celeborn caught the orc's eyes flicker toward his wife, and a hungry, triumphant gleam flickered into life.

"If you come one step closer, you shall taste death," Celeborn warned coldly, despite the revulsion and the fury that filled him at the sight of the orc's look. He would not allow the orc to touch his wife, not while he lived to draw breath, a fact which his tone carried clearly. The orc leader grinned.

Without any of the usual warnings – howls, jeers, or laughter – the leader attacked. His men followed.

Celeborn stepped forward to meet them, all thoughts of pain in his shoulder and exhaustion from the lateness of the night driven from his mind by a cold calm. His grip on his sword hilt tightened and he lifted the tip. _Breathe in, breathe out._ They were almost upon him. _Breathe in._ The leader was leaping, sword over his shoulder, tip pointed for Celeborn's heart. _Breathe out._

The two swords clashed together, the impact sending waves of shock up Celeborn's arms and sending the orc staggering back as soon as his boots touched the earth. Celeborn, recovering from the jolt first, lunged forward, sword slicing down to cut through the orc's chainmail and into his heart.

The leader reacted faster than Celeborn had thought possible, grabbing one of his underlings and pulling the smaller orc in front of him as Celeborn's blade descended. Black blood fountained into the air as blade rent flesh, and the smaller orc fell with a garbled scream.

Then the orcs were upon Celeborn en masse, jostling with each other for the chance to take a stab at the whirling elf lord. Dark blades thrummed with anticipation of elven blood, and the slavering beasts threw all caution to the wind in their eagerness for the taste of flesh. In the confusion, Celeborn lost sight of the orc leader.

Celeborn fought ruthlessly, hacking through bone and sinew with the practiced ease of more than an age. Five orcs, then ten fell beneath his scything blade, and the hewn carcasses began to pile at his feet, their glassy eyes staring up toward the star-strewn sky unseeingly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Celeborn caught a flicker of movement – a shadow darker than the night darting around him. He turned just in time to see an orc, small and agile, run around the fighting centered on him, and attempt to reach the unconscious lady that he protected.

Celeborn lunged, breaking free of the orcs that were threatening to encircle him, and sent the tip of his sword through the orc's ribs and into his heart. The orc died without a sound, without even having seen the gleaming sword that would claim his life.

Yet now Celeborn was in a defenseless position, with his back turned toward the orc horde. As he whirled, he felt something cold slide across his shoulder, leaving in its wake a line of blazing flame. The warmth of blood spread down his shoulder blade, thickening the cloth of his tunic.

Celeborn brought his blade arcing up, knocking away the orc's serrated knife as he came about. He reversed the sword's path an instant later, sending the edge hacking through the orc's wrist and severing the hand. The beast staggered back with a howl, holding the bleeding stump to his chest. His scream was cut off an instant later as his head rolled off of his neck, cut clean through.

Celeborn pushed forward, realizing that his wife now lay without anyone to protect her. Should the orcs realize this and turn away from their attack on him, they would have no hindrance should they try to reach her. He could not let that happen.

An orc came at him from the side, and Celeborn smashed the pommel of his sword into the creature's face. The feel of bone snapping could be felt even through the hilt, and Celeborn caught sight of blood oozing from the orc's eyes as shards of bone were forced up into his brain. Celeborn had already moved on, however, by the time that the orc fell dead, his fist connecting with another orc's temple and sending him to the ground to join his companion.

Celeborn twisted and took a step back, once more freeing himself from the crushing press of orc bodies. Behind him, now barely more than a step away lay Galadriel, eyes still closed and chest barely moving as she breathed.

Not for the first time did Celeborn thank the Valar that orcs were both single-minded and driven mad by the scent of blood, for it was likely only that which had kept them from turning upon his unprotected wife.

Now Celeborn stood his ground, even as the orcs pressed closer and closer. Even as they attacked him five and six at a time, attempting to drive him back. Even when a dagger was thrust through his right leg just beneath the hip. Celeborn refused to move from his defense. And still the orcs flung themselves at him, maddened by the scent of his blood and the silent commands of their leader.

The pile of bodies was mounting before him, and the stench of death filled the air all around. The myriad of small cuts that covered his body burned every time he moved, and for one terrifying instant he believed that his leg would give way beneath him as the muscles lapsed into shock. But then it strengthened once more and he fought on, stabbing yet another orc through the gut.

The orc crumpled atop his brethren, and for the first time Celeborn found that he could move his sword without striking orc flesh. He looked up, and standing there before him once more was the leader, cloak fluttering behind him. He was grinning, revealing sharpened teeth that were stained black.

"Coward," Celeborn spat, his voice venomous despite his exhaustion, and his eyes narrowing.

The orc laughed. "Brave _hero_," he sneered, accenting the final word. "We'll see who's still alive at de end of this though, won' we?" With that he attacked.

The orc seemed to have learnt from his last charge. Instead of attempting to attack the much taller elf from above, he came in low and fast, sword held out before him like a lance. Celeborn stepped to one side, allowing the blade to pass by his chest harmlessly, and moved to bring his own sword down upon the orc's forearm.

Celeborn's right leg, suddenly forced to bear most of his weight, crumpled. He staggered, half falling to the ground. Ironically, it was only that misstep that saved his life.

Celeborn had not seen the small knife carried in the orc's right left hand until it was too late for him to react. The orc twisted as he lunged past, bringing the small blade up toward Celeborn's unprotected stomach where a single blow could have meant a slow, agonizing death. Instead of hitting him in the gut, however, the blade punched through Celeborn's side, the edge impacting his lowest rib, which halted the blade's movement inwards.

Celeborn grunted, but gave no further indication of the injury as he went down on one knee, the knife hilt twisting out of the orc's hand. He quickly brought his sword up, knocking away the haphazard blow dealt by the orc's scimitar, and followed through with an undercut of his own.

His leg trembling, Celeborn pushed himself upright once more, knowing that his height and leverage was, tired as he was, one of his greatest advantages. He parried a vicious chop and stepped forward, using his body to shove the orc back a step.

He sensed the movement before he saw it out of the corner of his eye. He turned and ducked instantly, a spear's tip passing over his head. He rammed his shoulder into the new orc's chest, sending him stumbling into one of his companions, and only then Celeborn allowed himself a second in which to curse silently to himself.

_Of course the orcs would not fight fairly,_ Celeborn cursed, turning back to his primary adversary and making a jab at the larger orc's shoulder. His blow was knocked away, and an instant later he was forced to duck once more, this time as an ax made an attempt for his head.

Something large and heavy slammed into Celeborn's chest, sending him staggering back. He twisted, only just managing to stay on his feet as his right leg once again buckled, and his hold on his sword loosened as the air was forced violently from his lungs.

Before he could regain his breath something closed around Celeborn's throat, crushing his windpipe. He struggled to draw in a breath but he could not, and his lungs screamed in panic and in pain.

A savage kick to Celeborn's right wrist sent his sword tumbling from his grasp before he could use it, leaving him weaponless. He reached up to wrap his hands around the orc's wrist, and Celeborn's fingernails bit into mottled flesh as he sought a pressure point that would force the orc's grip to loosen.

Celeborn felt himself growing weaker as the seconds ticked past, his already breath-starved body screaming at him to breathe. As his vision began to darken his struggles grew even more frantic, albeit weaker, and he began to pound against the arm holding him.

As if muffled through a blanket, Celeborn heard an orc howl in agony, and without warning the grip on his throat loosened. Only afterwards would Celeborn be able to recall the feel of bone cracking beneath his fist as he shattered the orc's wrist, but at the time he could only cough and choke as he gulped in large mouthfuls of air.

Celeborn bent, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of his fallen sword, and then lunged for the orc leader still standing before him, shock and pain rendering him motionless as the elf lord plunged his sword through his chest.

With a bitter smile on his face, Celeborn watched the life drain out of the orc leader's murky eyes. Then, with a shove, he pushed the corpse off of the length of his blade, sending the body to the ground to land in a pile of congealing blood oozing from its kin.

The other orcs, sure of their leader's victory, had only stood and watched in shock as the elf lord freed himself and ran the large orc through. But then, as his body sprawled to the earth, it was as if some spell had been broken and the orcs leapt forward to attack as one.

They piled upon Celeborn, their biting blades stabbing and slicing. Celeborn twisted and ducked, fending off their blows as best as he could and dealing his own, most of which resulted in yet another corpse. Yet the orcs continued to come and slowly he was driven back and his defenses overwhelmed.

His parries grew slower and weaker until he was only just managing to block the stabs, and more often than not a blow succeeded in drawing blood, small droplet though it may have been. Celeborn could not help but wonder, in those last few moments of that desperate battle, what had become of his guards. Had they all been slain? Or were they yet fighting as he was, slowly losing ground and blood?

A clear note rang through the night air, cutting through the howls of the orcs and the screams of the wounded and dying. Celeborn looked up, a sudden flare of hope rising in his chest and lending new vigor to his blows. The thunder of galloping horses came next, followed by a second horn call.

And then the horses were bursting through the trees and into the campsite, their riders wielding swords and spears that gleamed silver in the starlight. Arrows sang through the air, claiming the lives of the orcs that turned to flee. Within less than a minute every orc within the glade had been slain, their black blood staining the ground.

Celeborn stood still at the center of the glade, his sword tip resting against the ground as black blood dripped from the edge. He was spattered with the noxious liquid, and crimson stained his fair skin and his clothes alongside the ebony, his numerous wounds continuing to bleed fitfully.

For a long moment Celeborn did nothing, his mind still processing all that had happened in the sluggish way brought on by blood-loss and pain. All around him was chaos, although not the same frantic confusion of the battle.

"See to the survivors." The strong, commanding voice rang out above the snorting of the warhorses and the prancing of their hooves. "Then pile the corpses to be burned. We move out in half an hour."

A large white stallion came to a halt just in front of Celeborn and his rider leapt from the saddle, armor clinking. Celeborn caught a flash of gold, and then he felt himself being drawn into a firm embrace. The other pulled back before Celeborn could respond, and he found himself looking into clear blue eyes.

Celeborn smiled wanly and then reached out to clasp Glorfindel's shoulder.

"You have impeccable timing my friend," Celeborn said softly. "Much longer and you would have had only corpses to rescue."

"Indeed, we feared that we would arrive too late," Glorfindel replied. "When we found the warg pack roaming nearby, still saddled, we knew that something was amiss. After we had dealt with the wargs, we tracked them to the ridge. We heard the battle as we neared the top, however it took us far longer to get down to river than we had hoped, and we feared that we may have come to late."

"Wargs?" Celeborn asked, surprised. "We heard nothing…"

"Aye, wargs," Glorfindel repeated, although his brow furrowed in thought. "Now, however, is not the time for pondering such matters," he said after a slight hesitation, as if he had decided against saying something more. "Come, we must have your wounds seen to – you are covered in blood," he added wryly.

"No, wait," Celeborn said, his voice sounding suddenly panicked, and he turned. Confused, Glorfindel followed the silver-haired elf as he stepped over pools of drying blood and the odd severed arm or head.

They did not have far to go. After only mere seconds, Celeborn dropped to his knees and carefully cradled someone lying limply upon the ground. Glorfindel, unable to see who it was, stepped up behind Celeborn to look over his shoulder.

Shock ran down the Balrog Slayer's spine as he beheld the lady Galadriel cradled in her husband's arms. Her eyes were closed and, although Glorfindel could sense that she still drew breath, he could only just make out the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed shallowly. Quickly Glorfindel scanned her prone form, searching for a wound. He found nothing.

"Celeborn…" Glorfindel trailed off, the question evident in his tone despite the fact that he did not know how to ask it.

"I do not know," Celeborn replied tiredly. "She simply would not awaken. Even her mind is asleep it seems, trapped in a pit of darkness that she cannot escape."

Glorfindel's frown deepened and he made to kneel by Celeborn's side. As he moved however, for just an instant Glorfindel thought that he could feel a dark presence reach into his mind. He froze, instantly erecting his defenses.

Celeborn, sensing his friend's strange movement, turned his head to look up at the golden warrior.

"Glorfindel?" Celeborn queried, taken aback by the empty look that he saw in the other's eyes. Glorfindel blinked, and he seemed to come back to himself. "What was it?"

"I do not know," Glorfindel answered slowly, before looking around, and then down at the ground. "For a moment I thought that I felt…" Glorfindel knelt abruptly, his words dying as he sank to the ground beside the orc leader's corpse. He reached for the body, and then lifted something away from its chest. With a jerk, the cord holding the object to the orc's neck snapped, and Glorfindel rose once more.

"What is it?" Celeborn asked again as Glorfindel came to his side and squatted down. Without a word, Glorfindel opened his hand and showed Celeborn what it was he carried. Celeborn reacted instantly, a wave of disgust rising in his belly and his mouth filling with a bitter taste at the sight of the amulet dangling from a leather cord.

It was small, barely as large around as a coin, and made of a smooth black metal that seemed to absorb the light around it. A single rune was etched into the metal at the center of the amulet, and the lines gleamed sickly white.

"We must destroy it," Celeborn murmured, "And as soon as possible." Glorfindel nodded in agreement, although he did not move at once. "Glorfindel," Celeborn snapped, his temper coming very close to breaking.

Glorfindel looked up from where he had been staring at the amulet, and met Celeborn's gaze. "Of course," he agreed, and rose quickly.

Glorfindel drew his sword, the ring of metal echoing through the silence in their portion of the glade. He bent and carefully placed the amulet upon the ground a little less than a pace from his left foot, and then stood once more. Glorfindel nodded to Celeborn, who then bent over his wife's chest and tucked his own head down beside her shoulder to protect his eyes.

Glorfindel raised his sword above his head, and then with a cry he brought it smashing down upon the amulet. The sword point impacted the black metal, and for an instant all was still and silent, every sound absorbed into the shock of the sword against the amulet.

The blade began to hum and vibrate in Glorfindel's hands, and then the amulet itself began to hum a dark, eerie note. The note rose, weaving around the hum of the sword and strangling it, before reaching out toward the light blazing from the three elves close by.

Then a new note began to rise, clear and clean like spring's first dawn. The two notes clashed, and for a moment they writhed together, each battling for the supremacy of the other. Then the clear note swelled, and the dark note began to wither.

The amulet let loose one final shriek, and then Glorfindel's blade pierced through the metal, shearing it in half. A soundless explosion blew out from the broken amulet, and for a brief instant a responding flare golden light tinged with the faintest echoes of the clear note blaze to life, banishing the final tendrils of darkness.

The light faded away, until once again it was only Glorfindel standing with sword tip buried in the blood-stained earth, the broken halves of an ebony amulet lying to either side of the silver blade.

Beneath him, Celeborn felt Galadriel stir. He sat up and reached down to brush the hair off of her face. Her eyelids fluttered and then they opened slowly, her breathing deepening from the shallow gasps that had marked her slumber. She winced slightly as the light of the fire assaulted her eyes, but a moment later she had schooled her features into the customary serenity.

"Celeborn?" Her voice was quiet and husky, as if she had been screaming.

"I am here meleth," Celeborn murmured reassuringly, touching her cheek with bloodstained fingers. She reached up in turn, brushing her own fingers against his bloodied and bruised cheek. From that touch he could feel her relief and her fading fear, and his heart ached within him. "I am here," he promised.

"Celeborn, Lady Galadriel," Glorfindel interrupted after a moment, coming to stand behind Celeborn, sword still in his right hand and the halves of the amulet in his left, "Come, we should be leaving this place soon. My men have nearly finished gathering the corpses, and setting them to burn will be the work of mere moments."

Celeborn nodded, and made to help Galadriel rise. As he attempted to stand, however, his right leg buckled and he fell to the ground, his left arm crumpling as well as he tried to catch himself. Galadriel was by his side in an instant, worry uncharacteristically evident in her eyes.

"Celeborn?" she asked, rolling him over onto his back. He turned over limply. "Glorfindel!" Now Galadriel's gaze turned to the Balrog Slayer as he quickly knelt. "What is wrong?" she queried.

"I broke the amulet, its magic should not still be active," Glorfindel said. "You awakening should be proof enough of that." Galadriel shot him a sharp look, and Glorfindel realized that she must not have known about the amulet. There was much that she would need to be filled in on, and soon, but Glorfindel shook his head, indicating that it was not the time or the place. She seemed to accept that, although grudgingly.

"I believe he has passed out," Glorfindel concluded after touching a forefinger to Celeborn's neck. "Quickly, we must bring him to Lulvaeth before he loses any more blood."

Galadriel nodded, and then slid her arms beneath Celeborn's legs and arms, lifting him into her arms before Glorfindel could even begin to sheathe his sword. Glorfindel raised his eyebrows, but said nothing as he too stood and turned to lead her toward the company, where hopefully they would find Lulvaeth quickly.

_I always seem to forget that she has always been able to beat me when it comes to feats of strength,_ Glorfindel thought, vaguely amused at himself. _She always seems so…fragile, yet she is anything but._

They reached the main company, and Glorfindel ordered one of his men to run and find the healer. Not even a minute later, Glorfindel saw Lulvaeth pushing his way around a band of grazing horses, healer's sack flung over one shoulder.

"My lord, what is-" the healer cut off abruptly as he caught sight of Celeborn, unconscious in his wife's arms. "Put him down," Lulvaeth ordered quickly, and then knelt as Galadriel complied, setting her husband down as gently as she could. She did not move from his side after he was settled as Lulvaeth indicated, however, but rather moved to his head, which she carefully lifted onto her lap. Lulvaeth glanced at her, but then after a second decided not to say anything, and rather turned his attention back to his patient.

"Will he be all right?" Glorfindel asked after what he had deemed to be an appropriate time had lapsed. He could not quite keep the worry from his voice – he had not thought Celeborn to be so grievously injured; what wounds had the elf been hiding?

Lulvaeth, only just finishing his cursory examination, glanced up at his captain and sent him an agitated glare. "I believe so," he said testily, "Now let me work, before he bleeds to death."

Glorfindel gritted his teeth but he complied, knowing full well that Celeborn would be safest in both Galadriel's the healer's care. There was naught else that he could do for his friend, not then.

As he strode away from the healer toward the fire to check on the status of the burning corpses, Glorfindel unconsciously tightened his fingers about the pieces of the amulet. He felt the sharp ridges dig into his palm, and glanced down. Carefully, he brought his hand up and opened his fingers, the better to look at the broken halves.

They gleamed innocently in the firelight, now looking like nothing more than two broken bits of shrapnel. Glorfindel grimaced at the pieces, fixing them with a glare, and then reached into his belt pouch, drawing out the cloth that he used in polishing his sword. He wrapped the fragments in the folds of cloth, and then tucked it back into his pouch.

Even after the broken amulet was safely hidden from sight, however, Glorfindel could not quite stop a trickle of dark thoughts and questions from creeping into his mind – dark thoughts and questions that he had hoped he would never to have to worry about again.

What would the future days bring? Sorcery of this power and evil had not been seen in the world for many long years, and that such a powerful amulet had been found with a band of roving orcs would indicate that it had not been merely some act of chance or happenstance. No, the orcs were being used for some purpose – used by some higher, more powerful being. The question was, just who was that powerful being – a being powerful enough to enchant an amulet of such strength, or else command one who could?

Glorfindel found that he could not even begin to answer any of those questions.

~End Chapter 8~


	9. Chapter 9: Do Not Go Gentle

**Disclaimer:** See previous chapters

**Chapter Warnings:** Mild torture and violence

**A/N:** I believe this update is coming a month to the day! And I'm feeling quite proud of myself for getting this all written and uploaded in a single day...As has happened the past three or four chapters, what I had thought was only going to take half of the chapter expanded and ended up becoming large enough to need to be a chapter all of its own. BUT! the plot thickens. Thank you SO much to all of my lovely reviewers, favoriters, and alerters from last chapter. Can you believe it?! We hit over 50 reviews last chapter! I am so happy, and so thankful to you all. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU all SO so much!

So, do any of you remember that lullaby that Celeborn sings to Galadriel in chapter...4 I think it was? (going off of memory here, so sorry if it's wrong). Well, a friend wrote music for it, and recorded it. And it's online. Here's a link to it, if you'd like to give it a listen: soundcloud.-com /hcvalentio/ elvish-lullaby (just take out the hyphen between the period and the "com," as well as the spaces)

Oh, and I have a LiveJournal now. It's pretty much dedicated for you all and my fanfiction writing. I plan on posting updates there, as well as sneak peeks, and snippets from oneshots I'm working on...stuff like that. If anyone's interested, here's the link: serenlyall. live-journal .com  
Just take out the spaces and the hyphen :)

I would LOVE it if you would take the time to leave a few words, though...it would really brighten my day, and seeing as how I'm stuck in about two and a half feet of snow right now, that would be really, really appreciated :) Most importantly, though, I hope that you enjoy.

* * *

**Translations:**

Eru: (essentially) God

Yrch: orcs

* * *

~*Chapter 9: Do Not Go Gentle*~

_Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.  
Do not go gentle into that good night.  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.  
~Dylan Thomas_

_**~Day 5 – Early Morning; before sunrise~**_

_**~South of the Ettenmoors~**_

Consciousness returned slowly, trickling back like sand through a sieve. The first thing he felt was the cold; a sneaking, creeping cold that pierced his body through the core, chilling his chest and leaving his arms and legs numb. It was difficult to draw breath, even his lungs responding sluggishly.

Then the pain began to come. It started out as just a few droplets of agony that pierced his back and chest. But then the ripples from the droplets spread, radiating pain outward into his shoulders and down his arms, into his hips and through his stomach. His mind automatically shrunk away from the sensation, seeking to hide within the comfortable white walls that he had constructed for himself, but something would not allow him to escape – something held him, and drew him forth, away from the soothing white.

Elrond's eyelids fluttered as they opened to reveal glazed, silver orbs.

It was as if that one, simple act had been enough to completely undam the river. The searing agony hit him like a tidal wave, scorching his mind and searing his body all at once, even as the crushing weight of it dragged him down, causing him to gasp for air like a drowning cat. His eyes screwed up tightly, seeking to block out the light and the world, but to no avail. The dam had already been broken, the prisoner set free.

He began to shake as his body slipped back into shock. Elrond fought doggedly to control the spasms but he simply was not strong enough to do so. The harder he tried to concentrate, the more his thoughts drifted, and the more desperately he clutched to the thin straws of strength and willpower, the more they snapped and coiled away.

Presently he became aware of someone gripping his chin, and realized that that person was speaking to him. The person's voice was cold and commanding, and despite himself Elrond forced open his eyes and struggled to focus on what that person was saying.

"Open your eyes Star-child. Now look at me." A cuff to the side of his face, sending his head rocking sideways. "I said, look at me." Another cuff, this time harder, and Elrond's head snapped against a small stone.

Elrond turned his gaze toward the speaker, and slowly he came into focus. Eyes glowing predatory gold in the firelight, half of his face hidden in shadow, and his wide shoulders casting a strange darkness as they blocked the light of the fire. A name inserted itself into Elrond's mind until he could think of nothing else.

_Vorgod._

His gut twisted unpleasantly, and had he been able to, Elrond would have shrunk away from the orc's touch. As it was, he could only feel mildly nauseous and try weakly to pull his chin away from the orc's firm grip. Vorgod's eyes turned sharp and cold and his fingers tightened on Elrond's chin, keeping it still.

"Stay awake," Vorgod ordered in that same cold, commanding voice that had drawn Elrond conscious. Elrond resolutely flicked his eyes sideways, some primal instinct fighting even now against submission. But then Vorgod was forcing his chin down, forcing the weak and bleeding half-elf to look at him. "Stay awake, Star-child," Vorgod ordered once again, and his voice was deep and warning and compelling all at once.

Elrond tried to look away, to force his eyes from Vorgod's, but their golden depths seemed to swallow him and hold him fast. He struggled harder, but just as he thought he would be able to break free of Vorgod's hold, his strength faltered and his focus slipped, sending him reeling back down into the amber depths.

Elrond sagged in Vorgod's hold, and the orc nodded once before abruptly releasing Elrond's chin. He stood, turning to face someone who had been standing off to the side for the entire exchange and then nodded curtly before striding away into the darkness. As he left, the worst of Elrond's nausea went with him, although it would be long moments before he would realize it.

As Vorgod strode away and was lost to the shadows, the other orc, to whom the commander had nodded, stepped into view. The new orc looked vaguely familiar, and Elrond had the impression that here was one of the captains that had drugged him…at least one of the many times.

The captain beckoned to someone still standing in the shadows, and two other orcs stepped forward into the light. These two Elrond could not recall. Not that it truly made much of a difference.

"Hold 'is arms down," the captain ordered his underlings. Both were big and burly – nearly as large as the captain himself – and were dressed in plate armor, the jagged pieces overlapping and scraping against one another whenever the wearer moved. In fact, they both looked very similar – nearly identical – and Elrond was struck with the strange thought that perhaps they were twins. Could orcs even have twin children?

Elrond's wonderings were cut off when the two orcs knelt on either side of him and grasped him by the shoulders, shoving his back down into the ground in the process. A groan found its way from between Elrond's lips before he could shut them.

_What are they going to do now?_ Elrond thought. _Eru, please don't let this hurt too much. Give me str-_

Elrond's prayer was cut off abruptly as, without any warning, the dagger was wrenched from the palm of his right hand. At once he jerked instinctively, only to be shoved back into the dirt. This time more than a groan found its way free, and Elrond nearly choked as a startled and pained cry forced its way out of his dry throat.

Forcing his breathing to even, Elrond cursed himself and his weakness. He had fought his way through the torment all the night before without uttering a single cry. So why was he breaking now? _Because you're weak_ a niggling voice in his mind whispered. _Because you are afraid of what is coming._ Elrond shoved those thoughts away, tried to ignore them, to bury them away where he would not hear them.

Again his thoughts were interrupted by the captain jerking a knife from his hand, this time his left. Elrond gasped and once again jerked, but this time he bit his tongue, keeping the groan back in his throat.

The orc captain sniffed and shook his head. "Prideful elf," he muttered as he carelessly dropped the knife off to one side, the bloody blade falling into the dirt. "It's not gonna get ya anywhere, elf, jus' more pain."

"And why do you care?" Elrond croaked, and then coughed as his dry throat protested.

The orc looked down at him impassively, and then chuckled darkly. "I don'" he replied scathingly, and then reached into a pouch hanging at his belt.

The leather of the pouch was stained and cracked, but the container that he pulled forth was sound and even…beautiful, in its own dark way. It was an oblong, metal dish with a lid that looked as if it twisted off. Runes and intricate etchings lined the top and sides, and Elrond looked away quickly, a headache forming behind his eyes just from the sight of them.

The captain knelt by his side, and an instant later he prodded Elrond's chest, first on one side of the lash mark, and then the other. Elrond grit his teeth as the orc inspected the wound, refusing to allow himself to show his pain. The orc grunted a few seconds later and stood up.

"That one's no' that bad. Turn 'im over," he commanded his underlings. They complied, and before Elrond's sluggish mind could even fully process what had been said, he felt himself being rolled over onto his stomach. He twisted his head at just the last second, saving his already broken nose from being smashed into the hard ground and damaged further, and hissed as his badly bruised cheek met a stone half-buried in the soil.

His arms were grabbed lower down than before, the orcs' iron grips fastening around his upper arms rather than his shoulders. Elrond was only left to wonder about the reason for a moment, though, for the sound of the dish's lid being unscrewed dragged his attention up toward the captain. His eyes flickered sideways where just out of his peripheral vision he could catch a glimpse of the orc, and he watched him carefully, waiting for a sign to indicate what was to come. But then the orc knelt, and Elrond lost sight of him.

Biting cold touched Elrond's ravaged back, and he could not quite keep from yelping. The captain laughed at the sound, and pressed harder, working whatever it was that was on his hands deeper into the wounds criss-crossing Elrond's back. It felt like a salve of some sort, oily and thick, and it seemed to leech the warmth of out his flesh wherever it touched.

The cold began to spread, first across his shoulders, then down along his spine and around his sides. By the time it reached his hips, Elrond was trembling, although whether it was from the chill or the pain of his wounds being agitated or the shock, he had no idea. Every so often, the captain's touch would disappear, and the cold would stop spreading. And Elrond would find himself hoping that it was the end and that the orc would stand and leave. But every time it would return, and Elrond would curse at himself for his weakness.

Finally, after what felt like at the very least an hour, the captain's touch withdrew, and the sound of the lid being screwed back into place followed.

"Bind 'is feet," the captain ordered. And then he turned and left, his footsteps receding into the distance.

Numbly, Elrond felt as one of the orcs stood, and he could vaguely hear as a coil of rope was shaken loose. The coarse fibers of the rope twisted about his ankles, binding them fast, but for once Elrond did not struggle. He was too absorbed by fighting the chills wracking his body. Then the other orc holding him stood, and together the two left, leaving Elrond alone beside the fire.

Shaking, Elrond tried to roll up onto his side. His first attempt failed miserably as his battered body betrayed him, sending him flopping back to the ground with a grunt. He tried again, this time using his arms and fists despite the pain in his hands, and he managed to lever himself up enough to turn over, settling himself down on his hip and shoulder. With a small, almost inaudible groan, Elrond then tucked his legs up to his chest as far as they would go without causing his back unbearable agony, and wrapped his arms around his knees. He lay his head against the ground, and closed his eyes, seeking for a sense of internal equilibrium, of some place to retreat to where the pain and the cold seeping down through his back and into his chest was not quite so overwhelming.

Sleep lay on the edges of his thoughts, but never within reach. Every time he seemed to drift close enough to sink into oblivion, Elrond would unconsciously start, forcing his eyes open and his thoughts alert. Something within him simply would not allow his mind and body to slip into the dreams that he so desperately yearned for.

He did not know how long he lay there, shivering, locked in the fetal position, the lash marks on his back still dribbling blood slowly to drip down to the dirt beneath. Time blurred together, until it could have been only moments, or it could have been hours. His thoughts drifted with the seconds, swirling and eddying unsubstantially.

Of a sudden pain speared through his back, crackling up and down his flesh like a bolt of lightning. Elrond spasmed, breaking his hold around his knees. The flare of pain slowly faded away, leaving behind only an echo, and Elrond was left breathing shallowly and wondering what had just happened.

A second wave of pain washed over his back, and this time it was greater than the first. Elrond jerked, a small cry escaping his lips. Again, the pain faded away, but only for a moment. A third wave hit, and then a fourth barely an instant later.

This time, the pain did not fade. Rather, it mounted as the seconds lengthened, until Elrond was writhing soundlessly, his nails digging into the hard ground as he sought to find something to hold on to – something, anything to divert the pain.

And then it felt as if his skin itself began to boil, the flesh peeling away and then growing, stretching, latching back on, digging down, and then tearing up again. It felt like a thousand white-hot needles stabbing through his flesh all at once, like a thousand scorpions stinging.

He did not even realize he was screaming until his throat seized, and there was an almost inaudible hitch in his voice. And then he was gasping and writhing, his fingernails bleeding as he tore them through the dried soil, and another scream tore from him as his flesh was pulled and twisted, curling in on itself and stretching across muscle and bone, before fusing again with the skin on the other side of the bleeding wound. Only nothing was bleeding any more.

He could lay there beside the fire writhing and screaming as the flesh on his back knit back together with terrifying rapidity, leaving in each lash marks' wake only a thin, white scar.

~oOo~

Vorgod stalked across the camp, a thunderous glower on his face. He snarled and kicked at a small orc underling that staggered into his path, sending the smaller creature sprawling in a pitiful heap. Vorgod snarled at the pathetic weakling, and stepped on him as he passed over. He ignored the pained shriek, and rounded the fire.

The three captains who had been in charge of torturing the elf lord were standing in a loose huddle beside the fire, but as soon as they caught sight of the commander they straightened and turned to face him. None of them, however, could hide the fear in their eyes as they caught sight of his murderous expression.

"You slug-filled _fools_," Vorgod spat, and faster than the eye could track he had lunged for the nearest captain and, slamming his clenched fist into the side of the smaller orc's head, sent him tumbling to the ground. "You filthy, brainless corpses!" Vorgod whirled, latching his fingers into the second captain's mail and bodily throwing him backward. He, too, landed in a heap, and Vorgod turned to the final captain, who cowered away from him.

"We din't mean fer it to go that far," the last captain pled, scrambling backwards away from the oncoming orc commander. Vorgod halted, and suddenly there was a haughty glitter alongside the rage.

"Go on," he urged, and his voice was deceptively calm. The captain, either in his fear or in his own stupidity, did not catch the warning in his commander's tone.

"We only wanted te hear 'im scream or cry out," the captain explained, finally ceasing his backward scuttle. "Only…only 'e din't."

"I see," Vorgod said calmly, his voice dripping with poisoned honey. He approached the captain, and wrapped an arm around the smaller orc's shoulders, causing him to tremble slightly. "Well then, if that was the case…"

With a heave, Vorgod sent the captain flying straight into the fire. The captain landed on the coals and screamed in agony, and he writhed and clawed, trying to get away from the searing flames and scorching embers. By the time that he managed to make his way to the edge of the roaring fire, the flames had taken hold of him and had sunk into his flesh. He tottered on the edge, and then with one final shriek fell sideways out of the fire, to lie in a motionless heap of stinking, burning flesh and smoke.

Vorgod watched the entire episode impassively, and then turned to look down at the two other captains, still cowering on the ground, their wide, fearful gazes locked onto their dead compatriot. When they felt their commander's eyes upon them, they scrunched themselves even closer to the ground.

"I made it abundantly clear, did I not," Vorgod asked, approaching the captains and looming over them threateningly, "That your purpose was to weaken him, and to weaken him only?" The captains nodded vehemently, but Vorgod only laughed derisively at them. "You know that I cannot yet break his will without breaking his body or his mind," Vorgod went on, his voice lapsing once again into the cold, calm tone of warning, "Yet you thought to break him. You disobeyed me, and my orders."

The captains began to babble apologies and excuses, their voices fighting and mingling and making both incoherent.

"We'r sorry."

"It won' 'appen again, we swear."

"Ne'er again."

"You nearly killed him!" Vorgod screamed at them, and both of the captains fell silent instantly. "And that, you idiots, would have ruined _everything,_" Vorgod added, his voice dropping once again. The captains cringed at his feet.

"Now get out of my sight, you worthless pieces of troll filth," Vorgod ordered, and turned his back. Behind him he could hear the captains scramble to their feet and then flee.

Even before their footsteps had faded away, Vorgod had put them out of his mind. They were worthless, tools only, and could always be replaced. Instead, his mind turned to more important matters.

It was true that the captains' ministrations had nearly killed the half-elf, but perhaps, ultimately, that would prove to work in his favor. It had weakened him considerably, to the point where he had been able to control him, albeit only for a moment and only to impress something upon him which he had already known, at least subconsciously. Vorgod's lip curled into an agitated sneer. Even with his injuries, however, the elf had very nearly been able to break away from his control.

Vorgod cursed silently to himself as he stared into the flickering flames, the still smoking corpse only a few paces away. It was simply not just for a half-elven _mutt_, a mutt with only a _strain_ of Melian's blood in his veins, to be able to refuse him, Vorgod, so adamantly.

Still, in the end, despite the child's innate strength, Vorgod would have him on his knees, ready to pledge his loyalty Mairon. After that, there would be no halting the shadow, and at last his master would have his revenge upon the Eldar for their defiance.

Vorgod stood there for a long while, gazing into the dancing fire, mulling over the days to come. He would have to play the proverbial cards just right if it was the plan was to work, however. Too hard and fast, and the half-elf would be left a broken, gibbering shell. Too slow and easy, and he would be able to protect himself, would see what it was that Vorgod was doing, and would find ways to thwart his attempts.

When the screaming began, Vorgod smiled a sick, twisted smile of delight, crossing his arms as he gazed through the flames at the form of the tortured elf lord writhing on the ground.

Yes, Vorgod would have him on his knees. Soon, so very soon, the war would be won – would be won even before it had begun.

~oOo~

Aravadhor sat at the edge of the space that had been allotted for the prisoners. His forehead was resting against his knees, which he had tucked up nearly to his chest, and his bound wrists were wrapped about his shins. He sat utterly still and silent, his long dark hair hanging like a curtain around him, hiding his face from view. Aearvith suspected that, should he brush aside the tangled locks, he would find that the young elf's face was stained with tears.

They had all heard the cheering and the laughter beside the fire, had all heard the distinct snap of a whip being cracked. And they had all known what it meant, could all guess as to what was happening beside the fire.

It had been both a blessing and a curse when the sound of the whip cracking finally came to a halt. On the one hand, it meant that their captain was no longer being flogged, yet on the other it likely meant that he had been beaten to unconsciousness. And all knew that even an elf as strong as Lord Elrond could die from the severity of such a beating. Aearvith had not had the strength to count the number of whip cracks, but he knew that it had been enough.

Aearvith knew that he was not the only one with a sick feeling in his heart. All of the elves in the group were silent, and every so often one of them would glance in the direction of the fire, an expression of pain, fear, or anger in their eyes, and more than once one had stood up to pace about the small, confined space, looking much like a caged warg.

Out of them all, however, it seemed that Aravadhor had been the most affected by the events of the night. At the sound of the first whip crack he had gone completely rigid, his muscles freezing as he turned to look towards the fire with an expression of both rage and horror clearly sprawled across his face. He had remained that way the entire time that the orcs had tormented their Captain and for long after besides, his shoulders taught and the muscles in his neck strained. It was only after all had been silent for nearly a quarter of an hour that he had finally sat, and it was then that he had drawn himself into the ball. He had not moved since.

Aearvith stood abruptly from where he had been sitting beside Calenaer, who looked up in surprise. Motioning that all was well and for the older elf to remain sitting, Aearvith crossed to where Aravadhor was sitting, and he knelt beside the young warrior.

"Aravadhor," Aearvith said softly, reaching out to touch the hunched shoulder. Aravadhor jerked at his touch, but then he lifted his head slowly, and turned to look up at the newcomer. As his hair fell away from his face, Aearvith found that he had been right – there were indeed tear tracks trailing down the younger elf's cheeks.

Suddenly unsure of what he had been going to say, Aearvith simply squeezed Aravadhor's shoulder, and smiled at him gently. An idea struck him, and Aearvith rocked back on his heels, the better to be able to look Aravadhor in the eye.

"I was going to see how Asgaladh was faring," Aearvith said. "I thought you might like to accompany my," he offered.

Aravadhor looked startled, and then wary. "Why me?" he asked, and he frowned uncertainly.

Aearvith forced himself to smile again, and shrugged gracefully. "You seem to have a calming effect on those around you, and I was thinking that perhaps Asgaladh would respond to you. It is worth a try," he added softly.

Asgaladh, the squad's lieutenant, had remained unmoving and unresponsive for the entirety of their captivity. Celondirith, the only elf among those who had been taken captive with healing knowledge beyond that of simple field medicine, had done his best to keep the arrow wound running from Asgaladh's brow to his lip clean, but he feared infection in the damaged eye. As the days had stretched on and Asgaladh had remained unconscious, Celondirith also cautioned that the chances of his ever awakening grew slimmer.

Aravadhor closed his eyes for a brief second, and then turned away to look longingly out toward the fire once more.

"There is naught that you can do for him now," Aearvith reminded Aravadhor softly. "Right now, all that we can do is wait, pray, and remain as strong as we can for the moment when we _can_ aid him." Aravadhor bowed his head, and his shoulders slumped.

"If you change your mind," Aearvith said after a moment of silence, "You know where to find me." And with that he stood and turned toward where Asgaladh was lying, a lump of unmoving shadow amongst the darkness. With one last glance behind him to the sitting figure, Aearvith started the short walk toward the injured lieutenant, his heavy heart slowing his steps.

Aearvith was only a few paces away when he heard footsteps coming up from behind him. Turning, he saw Aravadhor hurrying to catch up. His mouth was settled into a firm, resolute line, and his eyes, which were normally so filled with light and the excitement of life, were hard and cold. Aearvith raised an eyebrow at the younger elf.

"You are right," Aravadhor said by way of explaining himself. "Our Captain will need us – _all _of us – and his Lieutenant most of all. I do not know if I can help, but as you said, it is worth a try."

Aearvith smiled then, and clasped Aravadhor's shoulder. Aravadhor grinned grimly in response, and followed when Aearvith turned and strode the rest of the way to Asgaladh's side.

Celondirith was kneeling beside him when they arrived.

"How fares he?" Aearvith asked quietly, kneeling down beside the healer.

"Much the same," Celondirith replied with a sigh, and then turned his attention back to the unconscious elf, "Although I fear that infection has begun to set in." His long, pale fingers probed at the jagged wound just above the eye. Out from between the only partially closed flaps of skin oozed a clear liquid swirled with crimson. He sighed, and then wiped away the fluid.

Aravadhor knelt hesitantly beside the others, and looked down at Asgaladh. He reached out carefully and took the unconscious elf's hand, squeezing his fingers gently. Celondirith looked at Aearvith in question, but Aearvith merely shook his head, indicating that neither should interfere. Celondirith frowned, but finally turned back toward Aravadhor, fixating the young elf with his full attention.

"Come, Asgaladh," Aravadhor murmured, still holding his hand. "Fight. Wake up. We are going to need you soon. Our Captain is going to need you. You can't abandon us, not now, not like this. Come. Wake up." Asgaladh remained still and silent, his eyes still closed tight, and his chest barely moving as he drew slow, shallow breaths.

Aravadhor bowed his head. "It is useless," he muttered angrily, and then dropped Asgaladh's hand. He stood brusquely, and turned to stalk off to the edge of the clearing once more.

Celondirith watched him go, and then turned to Aearvith.

"It pains me that he must be forced through such a horror when he is yet so young," Celondirith said quietly, so that only Aearvith could hear. "None should be forced to bear witness to what we have these past days, and least of all one such as him. He has such life and bright potential."

Aearvith nodded his agreement. "I had hoped that his spark of life and hope would awaken Asgaladh. But I fear that he may have already begun to despair." Aearvith sighed. "Curse these yrch and their foul master," he spat, and abruptly rose, unable to sit still any longer.

An agonized scream shredded the tentative calm of the night, and within an instant, every single one of the elves were on their feet, quivering and gazing toward the fire from whence the sound emanated. They knew the sound, knew the voice, knew who it was who uttered such a terrible sound, and they fought to keep themselves from running to him. They had been told, in no uncertain terms, that if they strayed beyond the boundaries that they had been set, it would do naught but bring more pain for the one they sought to protect.

It was only because he had already been focusing on the young elf that Aearvith saw the tightening of Aravadhor's muscles and realized what he was about to do. With a bound Aearvith sprinted for Aravadhor. Just as the other elf began to move, Aearvith seized him around the shoulders, dragging him back.

"No Aravadhor. No!" Aearvith shouted, even as they both went tumbling to the hard ground. "Think! This will do nothing, nothing but get yourself and him killed." Aravadhor was struggling in his arms, fighting wildly to free himself.

"Captain!" he screamed, clawing at Aearvith's hands and arms. "Captain!"

"Help me," Aearvith bellowed, struggling to hold the crazed elf down. An instant later two more sets of hands reached down and seized Aravadhor by the arms, hauling him upright before dragging him backwards, away from the invisible boundary. Aravadhor thrashed in their arms, tears running down his cheeks.

He screamed again, and his voice mingled with their Captain's, until they became one. And then Aravadhor collapsed in Uialdur and Lachang's hold, sobs wracking his body and shaking his shoulders.

Aearvith stood slowly, the sound of both elves' screams still echoing in his ears.

And he found that Aravadhor was not the only one weeping.

~oOo~

End Chapter 9

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**A/N II:** Well well well...the plot thickens, no? For those of you Tolkien scholars who actually know who Mairon is, please don't spoiler it for anyone who does not. Of course, they could always go look it up if they so desired...

Also, a note on the salve and how it works:  
Basically, it works in the same way that a carcinogen does. The healing is accelerated due to the random and ridiculously fast creation of cells, and they essentially pile one on top of the other haphazardly - thus the scarring, even on an elf. More will be explored about the aftereffects and the like of this salve in later chapters.

There will also be a second sequel to this appearing shortly. It is fully written, and now you all know enough for it to make sense. It is in much the same vein as "And So Night Fades to the Light of an Evening Star" which, if you haven't read yet or seen, is a sequel (of sorts) to Poisoned Star. Anyway, keep your eyes peeled for the next sequel!

Anyway, I hope that you all enjoyed the chapter, and I would love it if you would take the time to review! Thank you again :)

~Seren


	10. Chapter 10: A Mounting Storm

**Disclaimer:** See previous chapters

**Chapter Warnings:** Disturbing images

**A/N:** Wow guys. You continue to be amazing. 11 reviews last chapter, which is the second most I have ever received on a single chapter! Believe it or not, this was supposed to be on time. I have been working on this chapter for over a week now (and pretty intensively at that), and the first draft was complete...Tuesday, I think. But then it needed some major rewrites and revisions, which kept pushing it longer and longer (both in update, and in word count. This is now single longest chapter - ever). *sigh* I'm sorry about that, but I think it's definitely much better and improved for it, and I'm not at all sorry that I did so. But, I did have a sneak peek posted on my LiveJournal Thursday, and that's something that I intend to continue doing. If you would like the link to my lj: serenlyall. live-journal .com (Just take out the spaces and the hyphen :))

My many, many, MANY thanks to **Crookneck** for her _fantastic_ beta job - without her, what you read below would be a fraction as good as what it is. Le hannon, mellon nin!

For those of you who got double notifications that I posted the chapter, my apologies. The site has been having problems today, and apparently emails and notifications have been one of the things affected. I took the chapter down after talking to Crookneck, and she told me that she hadn't gotten the email. So I figured I'd take it down and repost later, when it would (hopefully) be working completely again.

I would be positively thrilled if you would take the time to leave a few words regarding your thoughts of the chapter. I've begun to truly flesh out Celeborn in my writing, and so I would most particularly appreciate any feedback you have on him! Most importantly, though, at least for me, is that you all enjoy the chapter. Happy reading!

* * *

**Translation:**

Meleth - Love (noun)

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**Important Information: _Please read_**

I have three things that I feel I need to address before you begin reading this chapter, for all to make sense.

1) The first concerns part of my personal headcannon, which I had hoped to explain through the tale itself, but have been unable to. What we do know of the time in which this tale takes place is actually quite little. We know that, approximately fifty(?) years before, Galadriel, Celeborn, and Celebrian left Ost-in-edhil, and took up residence in Lothlorien with Amroth. We know that Celebrimbor forged the three Elven rings - Vilya, Nenya, and Narya - and gave them into Galadriel and Gil-galad's keeping. And we know that, a year later, Annatar revealed himself as Sauron and made a move to seize the Three. Basically, this is where my headcannon comes in. Celebrimbor summoned Galadriel to Ost-in-edhil, in order to give into her keeping Nenya (the ring of Adamant, and of water). Celeborn accompanied her, not wishing for her to travel alone, due to the reason that they had initially left Ost-in-edhil - their mistrust and sense of looming danger/doom that hung over the city. Celebrian tagged along, much to her parents' discontent. After meeting Celebrimbor, and him secretly giving Nenya to Galadriel, Celebrimbor left the city to travel to Mithlond, in order to give Gil-galad the two remaining rings. In his place, Celeborn and Galadriel agreed to steward the city for the few months that he would be away. Thus why they were in Ost-in-edhil at the beginning of this tale.

2) I have a terrible sense of direction, and often mix up east and west. The entirety of this story has taken place **_west_**of the Misty Mountains, contrary to what I have stated prior concerning the battlefield. Also, I have been calling the Baranduin River the Branduin (and have for more than a year now. *sigh*)

3) A short history lesson. (If you are familiar with the Silmarillion, do not feel the need to read this). The first woodland realm in Middle-earth was known as Doriath, and it was one of the greatest kingdoms of the First Age. Celeborn was a prince of Doriath, for he was related to the king, Elu Thingol. Now, at this time, the Elves and the Dwarves, although never loving each other, were allies, and often worked together. Elu Thingol got into his possession a necklace called the Nauglamir, as well as a Silmaril (which in short is a jewel with the light of the sun and moon trapped inside of it, and for which a number of wars were fought and atrocities were committed), and Thingol asked the Dwarves to set the Silmaril into the Nauglamir. Here the accounts of what happened vary slightly. We do know that the Dwarves agreed to do so, however they began to covet the Silmaril, and when Thingol came to collect it, the Dwarves would not give it to him. What happened next, none are sure of, but at the end of it all, the Dwarves slew Thingol, stole the Nauglamir and the Silmaril, and ran. The Elves of Doriath, finding their king slain, pursued the Dwarves and slaughtered all but one, who escaped to his kindred. The Dwarf fled to his people, and told them of how the Elves had hunted and killed them all. The Dwarves took up arms, and attacked Doriath. Many Elves and Dwarves alike were slain, and ever since, the woodelves (of whom Celeborn (and Thranduil, actually) is one) and the Dwarves have been enemies.

* * *

~*Chapter 10: A Mounting Storm*~

_We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair. ~2 Corinthians 4:8 – the Bible, NIV_

_**~Day 3 – Early Afternoon~**_

_**~Battlefield; West of the Misty Mountains~**_

Rhovanhul sat cross-legged upon the hard ground, head bowed and eyes closed. All about him lay the carnage left by the ambush, and the scent of rotting flesh was thick upon the sun-warmed air. Although he could not see the corpses, he knew that they were there, lying bloated and stained with dry blood – blood that was now probably brown rather than crimson – eyes open and staring into the eternal abyss of death. His friends, his kin…Manwë only knew who had been slain. He could not be certain of anything, blind as he was, and it was at least possible that he was the sole survivor of the battle.

What was he to do? Should he remain at the battlefield and pray that someone would find him? Did anyone even know the whereabouts of the troop, or know to come looking for them? The king would, Rhovanhul knew, but how long would it be until he began to question the absence of his herald and his herald's men? Days at the least, and likely more than a week. And it would take nigh on a fortnight for any search parties to reach the site of the battle if they knew directly where they were going – and they would not. By the time he was found, he would be dead from dehydration, if not from starvation.

Yet he dared not move. He was injured, with at least two ribs broken, and his right calf having been torn to ribbons by the warg's claws as it landed on him. He had not even noticed the injury until, in his panic of first realizing his blindness, he had attempted to leap to his feet, and his leg had buckled beneath him, the entire limb buzzing and throbbing as blood once more began to flow, awakening both his leg and his numbed nerves. Even after binding the injury as best as he could, Rhovanhul doubted that he would be able to walk far without collapsing again, for he feared damage to the muscle and tendon. It was more than that, however. He was blind. Blind; unable to see, unable to even tell what direction he was facing, or the time of day. He was helpless and lost, and unable to find himself, as if he were alone in an ocean of darkness.

He knew what he could not do, so what _could_ he do?

Rhovanhul sighed and pressed the palms of his hands against his sightless eyes, brow furrowed. There was something that he felt he should do – indeed, something that he _needed_ to do – yet he could not seem to recollect what that task may be. It nagged at him, plaguing his mind and distracting his thoughts whenever he thought he drew close to a solution, drawing him back to the endless cycle of wishing to move, yet logic denying him the ability.

Perhaps a better question, Rhovanhul realized as he once again attempted to force his thoughts to cooperate, was not why he should _not_ go, but rather why he _should_ go. Survival was the blatant answer, yet Rhovanhul could not quite shake the feeling that there was another reason beneath that – that there was something else that urged him to leave, to move on; to find people, civilization – someone that could help.

Slowing his breathing, Rhovanhul allowed his thoughts to wander, only loosely directing them to keep them spinning around the notion of departure. The sun played across his features, lulling him, and slowly his face relaxed, and his eyes opened ever so slightly as he slipped into a light meditation.

_Eyes as cold as iron, then as black as night._

_A scarlet gem._

_A tattered standard._

Rhovanhul reeled at the sudden barrage of images that flashed through his mind; he grabbed either side of his head, fisting his hand in his hair as he whimpered, and fell sideways to lie upon the ground, his head throbbing. The images seemed to change then, as if he were peering through a narrow window, rather than staring upon a painting.

_A raven-haired elf kneeling upon the hard earth, his arms bound behind his back and his face bruised and bloody. A towering orc stood beside him, eyes gleaming amber in the light of a nearby fire, and a pleased smirk dancing upon his loathsome lips. _

_The orc spoke. "__There is nothing you can do now. This was your fault; now you must pay the consequences of your actions."_

The images didn't stop, and it seemed to Rhovanhul that the next wave was different than the first two, as if they were a recollection of a forgotten nightmare.

_A pale face, haughty, arrogant, and cruel, yet so like one that he knew so well._

_An iron circlet._

_And then a star blazing brightly in anger, or in sorrow._

Rhovanhul turned onto his back as the final image slowly faded away, leaving the blazing brilliance of the star burned into his mind's eye. He was breathing heavily, fighting through the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, and he could feel cold sweat upon his forehead.

What had he seen, and what did it all mean? Never before had Rhovanhul displayed the gift of foresight, or of sight in any shape beyond that of the natural world, yet he felt that these images that he had seen – that he remembered – were more than mere flashes of a bygone nightmare, and knew that they were more than the present. He knew his captain's face, and knew that never before had a look of such pure evil been affixed upon his features and in his eyes. Rhovanhul shuddered at the thought of his captain ever looking thus.

In that moment, Rhovanhul knew beyond a doubt what he must do. He had to move, to find help, to find a way to contact the king. Lord Elrond, his captain, was in dire trouble, and Rhovanhul alone knew what had happened – that his captain had been taken by the orcs, yet was being kept alive.

Taking a deep breath, Rhovanhul forced himself shakily to his feet, the lack of both food and water over the last few days taking its toll on his body. He gritted his teeth as he balanced precariously on one foot. Then he slowly lowered his injured leg to the ground, touching his foot lightly upon the hard earth. The leg trembled and threatened to buckle once more, but at the last instant Rhovanhul's resolve hardened, and with a silent snarl he took a step forward, ignoring the pain and the weakness that lanced through his body at the movement.

Almost instantly, Rhovanhul's toe caught the edge of something lying upon the ground, and he pitched forward. He caught himself with his hands before he could land on his face, his right arm thumping against something hard and cold.

Confused and a little curious, Rhovanhul carefully felt around the object lying beside him. First his probing fingers encountered cool metal that curved away, down toward the ground. Then he felt cloth, which almost instantly gave way to another substance, this one smooth and waxen. He felt along it, until his fingers encountered a thick cord woven of many fine strands, and then splayed out his fingers across the object, taking in the soft surface, and the flaking substance dried on its surface.

With sickening realization, Rhovanhul suddenly recognized what it was he had tripped over. Snatching his hand away, he rolled over onto his side and heaved, although there was little besides bitter spittle to make its way up into his mouth, and there was blessed little of even that. He spit as he scrubbed his hand against the ground, trying valiantly to suppress the shaking that had seized him. As soon as he was done heaving, Rhovanhul pushed himself to his feet once more, and stumbled away from the bloating corpse as quickly as he could.

Rhovanhul took a deep breath, and forced his jangling nerves to quiet. He swallowed thickly, and then slowly lifted his face toward the sun. He wrapped his arms about his torso, and then before he had even realized what he was doing, he was speaking.

"Whoever is out there, whoever it is who is guiding me, I beg of you, do not forsake me now. Lead me, and do not let me stumble or fall astray." He fell silent, unable to speak the other, nameless fears that coiled around his heart, and for a long moment he simply stood, listening, although he knew not for what. If he had hoped that some sudden gust of wind or blinding flash of light would answer his prayer, he was disappointed, for nothing seemed to change.

A sharp bark of laughter forced its way from between Rhovanhul's lips, startling him into silence. Who was he, standing out in the midst of a bloody and gruesome battlefield where dozens of his kin lay slain, praying to some unknown deity, and expecting a miraculous answer? Even so, he could not help but feel alone, as if some presence that had been at his side had forsaken him.

There was naught else for it now. He would have to simply chose a direction and hope that it was the right one.

The journey through the battlefield was the worst sort of nightmare. Rhovanhul tripped and fell over the corpses of elf, orc, and warg alike and he would always recall the feel of falling against a slain horse whose entrails had spilled from the five long gouges down its belly. Only a few moments after, he gashed open the heel of his foot on a half-buried sword blade as he stepped down, and ever after that he was much more cautions of testing the way before trusting his feet to walk there. More than once he was forced to detour around an obstacle, and he began to fear that he was wandering in a circle, and would never find his way free of the field of blood and death, only to die amongst his brethren and his enemy.

But then, just as he could feel the sun beginning to set, the world darkening around him, Rhovanhul paused and, turning his head about, realized that he no could longer could smell the scent of cloying death so thickly upon the air. He moved forward cautiously, but his feet encountered no sprawled corpses or hidden debris.

Shortly thereafter, the ground beneath him began to rise, and Rhovanhul realized that he must be angled up the walls of the vale. He did not alter his course, however, for he knew not what else to do, and he had the wild hope that his prayer had been answered, and that he had been guided onto this path.

He collapsed at last when the ground beneath him shifted treacherously, and he crashed to his knees on the scree, his knees banging against an embedded stone. He rolled onto his side, breathing heavily and fighting the new pain that forked through his already battered body, trying to keep tears from welling in his eyes.

The chill of the night air began to seep into him, for the sun had set a long hour before, and Rhovanhul began to shiver slightly. He frowned, confused even as he trembled, for the night was not so cold that it should have affected him, elf as he was. He could only hope that it was due to his injuries, and the shock that his body had gone through the last few days, and not a sign that something was badly amiss within his body. Instead, he curled up into as tight of a ball as his injuries would permit, wrapping his arms about his chest.

Only for a few moments. He would rest for only a few moments and try to regain some of his energy. The farther he moved, the better, and the greater the chances of him happening upon someone. Only for a few moments…

He slipped into an exhausted sleep less than a moment later, his mind following his body as it succumbed to both pain and fatigue.

~oOo~

_**~Day 3 – Sunrise~**_

_**~Eriador~**_

The company of Elves, Glorfindel and Galadriel at its head, crossed the Branduin River at sunrise, leaving behind them a still-smoldering pile of orc corpses. The sky was spangled with hues of rose and gold, and the underbellies of the clouds that had begun gathering on the northeastern horizon gleamed sullen orange and violet. Upon reaching the far bank, the company turned their horses west once more, and toward the Blue Mountains that rose in the distance, although they would skirt the mountains, keeping to the lowlands and the foothills.

Galadriel carried Celeborn before her on her own mount Brégant, his head cushioned against her shoulder as he slept. He had awoken briefly only an hour before, but had almost instantly sunk back into oblivion as his wife cupped his cheek and sent him deep into a healing sleep. When Glorfindel had questioned her about it later, Galadriel had merely smiled serenely and replied, "Believe me, Balrog Slayer, these next few hours will pass much more pleasantly for us all if he remains unconscious."

As the sun rose, its great, golden eye just peering above the horizon, Galadriel spurred her stallion closer to Asfaloth, Glorfindel's mighty steed. The golden-haired warrior looked over as he sensed her approach, and smiled slightly as she drew abreast of him. He could guess what was coming.

"Glorfindel, tell me what happened last night," she asked, although it came across as more of an order than a request. "Please," Galadriel added a moment later, and in that instant, Glorfindel realized just how fragile and exhausted she sounded. He glanced sideways at her, ill-hidden concern gleaming in his blue eyes. If Galadriel made note of the look, she said naught, and Glorfindel returned his attention to the land ahead.

"I fear I only know a small part of the tale," Glorfindel told his companion, "but I shall tell you what I do know."

Over the next few minutes, Glorfindel told Galadriel of how he and the company he was leading were returning from the forest of Eryn Vorn where they had routed a surprisingly large clan of orcs, when they had encountered the saddled wargs, and had followed their tracks very nearly to the battle itself. He told her of the quickly-finished skirmish, of finding Celeborn, and then of finding her unconscious on the ground. He told her of the amulet, of how he had fought the spell that had attempted to throttle him as he pierced it, and finally he showed her the broken fragments.

"I do not know what spell was used to enchant the amulet, but I have not felt the likes of it for many years," Glorfindel said with a shake of his head. He accepted the halves back from Galadriel and, after rewrapping them in the scrap of cloth, tucked them away once more. "What do you make of it?" he asked.

Galadriel was silent for a long moment, lips pursed in thought and one thumb absentmindedly stroking Celeborn's arm, which she had folded over his chest, the better to hold him. At long last, she sighed and shook her head as well.

"As yet, I do not know. I feel that there is some large piece of the puzzle that we are missing, and I cannot shake the foreboding in my heart. Indeed, it has only grown with hearing your tale."

"What do you mean?" Glorfindel queried. "And why do you travel towards Mithlond? I assume that that is your destination."

"The answers to your question are one and the same," Galadriel replied, "and they both begin with a dream that I had ten days past. I dreamt of Elrond being held prisoner and being tortured, although for what purpose I do not know."

Even riding beside him, Galadriel could feel Glorfindel tense, and Asfaloth snorted and tossed his head, sensing his rider's sudden anxiety. For a moment, Galadriel wondered if it would have been best to keep the details of her dream hidden from the Balrog Slayer – she knew how loyal he was to the final heir of Turgon – but then she pushed the thought away. She could have kept such knowledge from him just as he could have kept the information of the amulet from her – he needed to know.

"I do not know if this is the future, Glorfindel," she said softly. "It could be merely one possible outcome of a thread not even yet begun." Glorfindel remained silent, although he nodded tersely, and some of the strain bled out of his shoulders. Galadriel took his nod as a good sign, and continued with her tale.

"When I awoke, I could not shake the sense of dread that had come over me as I dreamt," she admitted. "Celeborn and I left Ost-in-edhil that morning, to go to Mithlond to speak with Ereinion."

"And who did you leave in charge of the city and the lands of Eregion whilst you are away?" Glorfindel asked curiously.

"Celebrían," Galadriel replied simply.

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. "What will Celebrimbor say when he hears that you entrusted the city that he entrusted to you with your daughter, who is as yet still quite young?"

"'Twas not my decision," Galadriel answered. "Celeborn decided without consulting me. Although, perhaps it will be good for her," Galadriel admitted. "She has the skills and the makings of a leader and ruler; however, she has never had the chance to enhance or use them."

Glorfindel could not quite stop the grin that flickered across his face despite the new weight of worry that Galadriel's words had brought him. "You are a mother, Galadriel. It is in your nature to worry for your daughter." Galadriel shot him a disparaging look. "Never fear, Celebrían will be fine," he added with a reassuring smile, "as will the city.

"Tell me, does Gil-galad know of your impending arrival?" Glorfindel asked, wisely changing the subject.

"We sent a message by carrier pigeon before we departed. He should know of our arrival, although not of the reasons for our visit."

Glorfindel nodded. "I see."

"If indeed there is a threat to Elrond, then we must act carefully, both for his sake and for ours." Galadriel inclined her head in agreement. "Have you seen aught on your journey that would classify as strange?" he asked.

"No," Galadriel replied. "Not until this past night."

"Tell me what you know," Glorfindel urged.

Galadriel looked ahead steadfastly, and began to speak after a long pause. "I know even less than you, I fear," she said. "I retired after dinner, although sleep was long in coming. What I next can recall is awakening in Celeborn's arms…" she trailed off abruptly, and her hold on her husband tightened.

"Galadriel?" Glorfindel asked, his brows drawing down in a frown. "What is it?"

"There is something else," Galadriel said quietly. "A dream…although I do not know if it was the dream or the sense that accompanied the dream that was of importance. I saw flames devouring all around me, and darkened figures with gleaming eyes approaching. Wolves were howling in the distance…" Again she trailed off, although this time Glorfindel could sense that she was not done speaking. "Then, a strange feeling overcame me. It felt as if water was rising within me, from my feet to the crown of my head, and then I was drowning. I tried to struggle, but when I opened my eyes, all that I could see was darkness all about me – filling me. It felt as if I were burning…" Galadriel shook herself, and she looked around her as if abruptly coming back to her senses. "For a moment, I thought that I could sense Celeborn, but then he was gone. When I awoke, I had no memory of either dream, or the darkness that had," and here she faltered, as if searching for the proper words, "consumed me," she supplied at last.

"Why would they wish to cast a spell upon you?" Glorfindel wondered. "And why did it affect only you, and not all who slept?"

"I do not know," Galadriel said, shaking her head in agitation. "Perhaps so that I could not warn any of danger drawing nigh?"

"Ai Elbereth," Glorfindel murmured, massaging his forehead with one hand. "We have too many unanswered questions to make sense of the situation as of yet."

"We can only hope that Ereinion will have some wisdom concerning this matter."

"Or better yet, perhaps Elrond will be at the palace," Glorfindel said, although he did not sound hopeful. "The last that I knew, Gil-galad had asked him to stay in court so as to be able to deal with the Númenórean delegation that was coming to speak with the king concerning a new port that King Tar-Minastir wishes to build in Harlindon. That was two months past, however," Glorfindel admitted, "and the delegation has likely departed since."

Celeborn stirred, the slight moan that escaped his lips interrupting Glorfindel. He shifted in his wife's arms, and attempted to sit up. Galadriel kept her hold on him firm, and she held him to her chest.

"Peace, hervenn," Galadriel soothed, reaching up to stroke his cheek. "All is well." Celeborn relaxed at her touch, and Glorfindel could not help but smile at the sight – rarely did one ever see Celeborn so docile – or, for lack of a better word, soft – than when with Galadriel. And indeed, Glorfindel mused, catching sight of the tender expression on Galadriel's face, the same went for his wife as well.

"What happened? Where are we?" Celeborn asked, clearly disoriented.

"You fainted," Glorfindel announced cheekily before Galadriel could speak. She fixed the Balrog Slayer with a withering look, even as Celeborn stiffened in indignation. "But never fear, your wife and I took very good care of you while you were unconscious."

"More or less," Galadriel cut in, silencing Glorfindel. "Glorfindel less. And to answer your second question, we are continuing on our way to Mithlond."

"And you, Artanis?"

"And I what?" Galadriel asked, the amusement still evident in her tone.

"Are you well?" Celeborn asked softly, concern evident in the depths of his voice. "The last that I knew, you…"

"Yes, beloved, I am well," Galadriel assured him, her amusement falling away instantly as she saw how anxious he was. Shifting slightly, Galadriel freed one of her hands and lifted it to cup her husband's cheek, holding his head close to her chest in an embrace.

As Galadriel's grip loosened, her arms both falling down to loop around his waist, Celeborn made as if to sit up. Galadriel's hold tightened, and Celeborn stiffened perceptibly even as his wife held him motionless.

"Galadriel," Celeborn said calmly, although there was an edge to the word that had been lacking. Glorfindel cocked his eyebrows, wondering what was about to come and, if he was completely honest with himself, intrigued as to how this impending battle of wills was going to play out.

"Celeborn." Galadriel's voice matched her husband's tone for tone, although there was a return of the subtlest hint of amusement layered deeply.

"As enjoyable as it is to ride in your arms, beloved, I am perfectly capable of riding a horse without your aid," Celeborn stated.

For an eternal second, neither Celeborn nor Galadriel moved but for the rocking motion of the horse beneath them, and Glorfindel could not help but wonder what was running through each of their thoughts at the moment.

"Very well then, dear," Galadriel replied archly, surprising Glorfindel, "if you say so." She released her hold on her husband, and Celeborn immediately sat up…only to wince and nearly fall from the horse as dizziness overtook him. With an unhappy grimace, he allowed himself to be carefully guided back to lean against Galadriel once more, her left arm encircling his waist protectively.

"You lost a good deal of blood," Galadriel explained, "and although you have no grave injury, you have numerous wounds. I think it best if you ride with me for a while yet." Celeborn sighed, but allowed himself to settle back into his wife's embrace. She held him securely, and after only a moment, he had rested his head against Galadriel's shoulder, her chin pressed against his hair.

"My thanks, Meleth," Celeborn murmured, his voice so soft that for a moment Glorfindel wondered if it had simply been his imagination.

At noon, Glorfindel called a halt to rest the horses and to eat a hasty lunch. The clouds that had been just visible on the horizon at daybreak had moved across the sky with alarming rapidity, driven across the open lands by a surprisingly strong wind. The clouds were thick, dark, and threatening, and the rumbling of thunder was just barely discernible to the Elves' acute hearing. The distant keen of the wind accompanied the thunder's low growls, however only a faint breeze teased at the Elves' hair.

Galadriel carefully supported Celeborn as he slid down Brégant's back, and Glorfindel, who had dismounted soon after calling the halt, quickly grabbed him when he wobbled unsteadily as his feet touched the ground. Grinning at the Sinda's nearly inaudible curse, Glorfindel looped Celeborn's right arm over his shoulders, and then helped him to limp toward the small fire that two of the guards were lighting.

By the time they had traversed the dozen paces to the fire, Celeborn was shaking. With a small frown, Glorfindel lowered the injured Elf to sit on the ground a few feet from the weakly flickering flames. Celeborn did not complain, and he kept his right leg awkwardly straight as he sunk down to the earth.

Glorfindel knelt at his side, fingers already seeking the edge of the bandage that had been wrapped securely around the stab wound through Celeborn's thigh. Celeborn did not try to stop him as he unwound the first layer of thin linen, then the second, but merely sat stone-faced, hands clenched in his lap.

Galadriel appeared at Glorfindel's side as he began to peel away the third layer, and took one of Celeborn's hands in her own, imparting both comfort and strength with her touch. Glorfindel glanced up for an instant, the smallest of grins hovering in his eyes.

"You two-" he began, but then was cut off as Celeborn hissed in pain, his eyes narrowing and his entire body going rigid. Glorfindel quickly looked down, and froze what he was doing. Seeing his reaction, Galadriel shifted so that she, too, could see.

"Go find Lulvaeth," Glorfindel managed to choke out. "Someone, get Lulvaeth!" he barked an instant later, sensing that no one had moved to obey, and unconscious of the fact that the first time he had spoken it had come out as barely more than a whisper. Behind him, Glorfindel could hear a flurry of feet as someone sprinted off to find the healer.

"Celeborn, lie down." Galadriel's voice was soft yet imperious, and Glorfindel was shocked at the amount of tenderness he could hear in her voice.

"Galadriel, what…"

"Hush, beloved," Galadriel cut in. "Just lie down." She placed one slender hand on his shoulder and pushed Celeborn down until he was lying prone on the hard earth, no small degree of confusion in his eyes. She moved to his side, his hand still clasped firmly in hers, so that he would not be able to rise or see his leg.

Lulvaeth arrived less than a moment later in a dead run, the guard that had gone to fetch him trailing after. Glorfindel rose and moved away from Celeborn without request, giving the healer plenty of room in which to work. Lulvaeth knelt and took in the sight of the blood and dark green and yellow pus that stained the bandage, the edges of the linen shrunken and tightened by the drying liquid.

The healer first tried to pull the bandage away from the wound, but the thin cloth was stuck fast, and Celeborn hissed in agony.

"Peace," Lulvaeth murmured, placing his hand on Celeborn's outstretched knee, before turning to look at Glorfindel, who was standing nearest. "I need warm water and a sterile knife," he said calmly, although there was a cold, stern edge to his voice. Glorfindel bowed slightly and turned without question, already beckoning forward two of his men.

"We need a pot in which to heat water, and two water skins," he ordered. "Find the items and bring them quickly," he added, and the guards both snapped smart salutes, and then hurried away to find what their commander had requested.

Glorfindel, meanwhile, unsheathed his belt knife. It was a small dagger, with a thin, straight blade and a smooth, undecorated hilt and pommel. He hoped it would work for whatever task Lulvaeth would need it for, and he crouched down by the fire to place the blade directly into the flames.

By the time that Glorfindel had deemed the blade sterilized, both of his men had returned bearing the items he had requested. With little more than a terse nod of thanks, Glorfindel took the items and, after pouring the water into the small, metal pot, he placed it on a flat stone as near to the fire as he could manage.

It felt to Glorfindel as if the water took far longer than normal to warm, and he caught himself dipping his forefinger in to check every few minutes. He even went so far as to nudge it closer to the flames with his boot.

At long last, Glorfindel judged that the water was an appropriate temperature, and he carefully removed the pot from the fire, wincing only slightly as the heated metal burned his palm. He set the pan on the ground, wrapped his hand with the bottom of his tunic, and then, after retrieving his knife, picked up the pot once more and walked carefully to where Celeborn was still lying on the ground, Galadriel by his side, and Lulvaeth sitting by his leg. Indeed, the only difference about the scene seemed to be that Celeborn's pant leg had been slit down the side, the better to reach the wound, and the loose part of the bandage had been neatly sliced away from that which was dried onto the wound.

Glorfindel placed the pot of water down first, then sat down, still holding the knife. "If there is anything that I can do," he began, even as Lulvaeth tested the water's temperature, and flicked his fingers to dispel them of the trembling droplets that clung to his fingertips.

"I may need you to hold his leg still," Lulvaeth replied. Glorfindel nodded, although he knew that the healer could not see him with his back turned.

Lulvaeth carefully wet the bandage, concentrating the trickle of water around the edges of the bandage rather than on the center, beneath which the worst of the injury lay. Glorfindel watched with amazement as the linen slowly began to expand at the touch of the liquid and the warmth, and then small rivulets of pink droplets began to seep out from the bandage and trickle down Celeborn's leg, until they were caught by his diced pant leg. Lulvaeth waited for a long moment, allowing the water to completely soak the entire strip of cloth, and then he once again attempted to remove the bandage.

The bandage peeled away stickily, threads of drying pus and clots of blood clinging to the linen, but only catching once. With a gentle tug, which elicited yet a third hiss from Celeborn, the bandage came free, and then Lulvaeth was lifting away the square of soiled linen.

"Throw this in the fire," he ordered, and Glorfindel took it gingerly, wrinkling his nose at the scent of infection that hung about the stained cloth. It took him far longer than he would have wished to cast it into the flames and set the soaked linen alight.

By the time Glorfindel had once more returned, Lulvaeth was nearly done inspecting the wound. As he knelt again at Lulvaeth's side Glorfindel was able to see the full extent of the wound for the first time.

The worst of the wound was on the outer side of his leg, a weeping, gaping hole, while only a single, small puncture pierced the inside of his thigh. The skin around the injury was red and tight with inflammation, and as Lulvaeth gently pressed against Celeborn's leg just above the wound, pus of varying shades of green and yellow oozed forth amid the shocking crimson of blood.

"Infection was truly only a matter of time, I am afraid," Lulvaeth said softly to Glorfindel, his voice quiet enough so that only the Balrog Slayer would hear. "I do not have the equipment needed to properly treat a wound so deep as this one, and infection was bound to set in." Glorfindel grimaced at the ugly sight and the news alike, and the healer mirrored the warrior's expression. "At this point, we can only treat the infection as best as we can: keep the wound as clean as possible, and prevent the infection from spreading. Once we reach Mithlond, the procedure should be simple enough."

"He will recover then?" Glorfindel asked hopefully.

"Aye, my lord," Lulvaeth answered. "He should make a full recovery, so long as we can keep the infection from spreading, and can reach Mithlond soon."

"And how do we keep such an aggressive infection from spreading, pray tell?" Glorfindel skeptically.

Lulvaeth sighed then. "We can only do what we can to limit it, and we do that by lancing the wound every chance we get, as well as flushing the injured area daily," Lulvaeth replied, fixing Glorfindel with a steady gaze.

"That is why you asked me to sterilize the knife," observed Glorfindel – it was not a question. Regardless, Lulvaeth nodded in affirmation. "Very well," Glorfindel said at last. "I take it you wish me to hold his leg while you proceed?"

"Please," Lulvaeth replied, and then stood to go crouch beside Galadriel, where he could speak to the both of them and explain what he was about to do.

Lulvaeth reappeared at Glorfindel's side. He took the proffered knife, and then knelt at Celeborn's leg, the knife tip hovering over the wound. The healer looked to Glorfindel, nodded once, and then waited for the Balrog Slayer to grasp Celeborn's leg and pin it tightly to the ground.

Glorfindel closed his eyes and calmed his whirling thoughts and emotions. He had fought in many battles in more than one war, and had seen the terrible sights of the battlefield. The Nirnaeth Ornoediad and the Sack of Gondolin stood out particularly vividly in his mind when he thought of the gruesome remnants of war. Yet even so, tending to the wounded – especially when the wounded was one that he knew and cared for – had always affected Glorfindel in a deeper and more personal way than any battlefield horror. How the healers were able to put aside their feelings and see the Elf or Man beneath the knife as naught but a patient, Glorfindel would never know. He was merely thankful that there were indeed people in the world such as Lulvaeth who could do so.

_And like Elrond. Leastways, like Elrond as he is now_, a treacherous voice whispered in his mind. _Who knows how he will be different if what Galadriel sees comes to pass._ Glorfindel viciously quashed such thoughts and fears, knowing in his mind, if not his heart, that there was naught that he could do at the moment – naught but care for Celeborn, that is. Glorfindel's grip on Celeborn's leg tightened, his fingers digging into the injured Elf's calf.

Lulvaeth began the operation a moment later, and Celeborn's leg bucked instinctively, seeking to escape the biting pain of the knife as the blade sliced through the tortured flesh of the infected wound. Glorfindel hung on tightly, keeping the knee immobilized and the leg still, knowing full well that a mistimed jerk or twitch could send the knife blade deep into his thigh, and even through the artery that coursed through the leg.

Celeborn groaned as a second, and then a third small incision was made into the taught, infection-riddled skin. The overwhelming stench of infection filled the air as pus flowed freely from the three small cuts, only to be caught by the clean portions of the bandage that Lulvaeth had cut away, and was now using to mop up the oozing ilk.

When the pus had turned to clear lymph and blood, Lulvaeth deftly removed a clean bandage from his healer's pouch, and set it upon his knee, ready to be used. Then he lifted the pot with the cooling water, and began to wash away the blood and other liquid still seeping from the wound.

Again Celeborn groaned, and Glorfindel winced in sympathy. He knew just how painful it was to have a wound thus cleaned. Celeborn made no other sound, however, although Glorfindel knew that he must be in agony.

Once Lulvaeth deemed the wound clean enough, he picked up the bandage and then carefully began to rewrap Celeborn's leg, tying it loosely to allow for further swelling.

"This bandage will need to be changed again in a few hours in order to prevent the drying on that it did this past time," Lulvaeth announced, scrubbing his hands with what remained of the water, before rising to his feet. "I will come to you again once we stop for the night. For now, however, I have other patients that I must see to." Bowing to each of the Elf lords, he then turned and left.

Rising, Glorfindel made to go move closer to Celeborn to see how he fared, but then he saw that Galadriel was leaning over him, and could hear her voice speaking softly. Not wishing to interrupt them, Glorfindel instead went about disposing of the sullied water and cleaning his knife.

Taking both items in hand, Glorfindel crossed to the fire. It was only then that he realized that many of the Elves in the troop had been watching him and the flurry about Celeborn. As Glorfindel knelt by the flames, placing the pot upside down close to the fire to indicate its need to be cleaned, and then retrieving a cloth with which to wipe his blade, he felt someone approach him from the side. He looked up from his task, and found himself looking into the pale green eyes of one of the guards that had accompanied Celeborn and Galadriel from Ost-in-edhil.

"How does Lord Celeborn fare?" the guard asked softly, concern evident in his voice, even if not in his face – his pale eyes were unreadable, all emotion well-hidden behind an emotionless wall.

Standing, Glorfindel looked about the circle of Elves seated around the small fire, including them all in what he was about to say.

"Never fear, Lord Celeborn is in no danger. The wound in his leg has become infected, yet Lulvaeth sees no cause for worry at this point, and I trust Lulvaeth's judgment."

The relief was evident, the Elves seated about the fire relaxing ever so slightly and some small measure of the tenseness eased in the air. The low buzz of talk began a few seconds after, and only then did Glorfindel realize that all had fallen silent to listen to his pronouncement. Glorfindel smiled slightly to himself; it was evident that Celeborn was well-loved by his people.

"Our thanks, my lord," the guard said with a small bow.

"There is no need to thank me," Glorfindel replied kindly and rested one hand on the guard's shoulder. The guard merely gazed at Glorfindel steadily, no emotion or sign of what he was thinking betrayed by his eyes.

Dropping his hand, Glorfindel again knelt and turned his attention to the sullied blade that he still held. As he set about wiping the smooth metal clean, he noticed that his hand was shaking ever so slightly, causing the knife to tremble in his grasp. He suspected that it was due to hunger, for he had not eaten since the afternoon prior – Glorfindel and his men had foregone supper as they tracked the wargs – and there had been little time to break his fast that morn after the battle. Glorfindel clenched his fingers tighter, seeking to still the trembling, and calmly told himself that he would eat once his task was complete.

Someone knelt beside him, and Glorfindel glanced up from the knife. It was the green-eyed Elf.

"Let me finish that, my lord," the green-eyed guard urged, holding out his left hand to take the knife from Glorfindel. Glorfindel opened his mouth to refute the guard's aid, but before he could speak, he felt the hilt being pried from his fingers. "Take this time to eat and replenish your strength."

Glorfindel half-raised an eyebrow, but he did not attempt to argue. Instead, he inclined his head, and with a small smile said, "My thanks…"

"Amanthor," the guard supplied with a small smile that mirrored Glorfindel's.

"My thanks, Amanthor," Glorfindel said. Amanthor nodded.

"I shall return the knife to your keeping once it has been cleaned," he promised, balancing the knife on his knee and taking the cloth that Glorfindel still held in his right hand.

"Again, my thanks," Glorfindel said handing over the cloth willingly and then standing. He was just turning away, intent now upon finding food, when he caught sight of Amanthor shift to pin the hilt of Glorfindel's knife against his thigh with his right wrist, the blade extending out into free space, the cleaning cloth in his left hand. Glorfindel frowned, but then he understood as Amanthor's sleeve was pulled back to reveal naught but a stump where his right hand had once been.

Sensing Glorfindel's attention, Amanthor looked up. The two exchanged a long look – one that Glorfindel was not entirely sure the meaning of – and then Amanthor nodded down at his right arm.

"It was taken many years ago, by the bite of a Dwarf's axe," he explained, and then calmly returned his attention to cleaning Glorfindel's knife.

Not knowing how to respond, or what else could be said, Glorfindel left. He shook his head, settling his whirling thoughts – they could be dealt with later.

Galadriel and Celeborn both looked up at him as he neared. Celeborn was still lying down, Galadriel at his side, yet they both looked more comfortable and at ease than they had when Glorfindel had departed for the fire. Wordless, Galadriel motioned for Glorfindel to join them, and after he had sat, she pressed a half wafer of lembas into his hands, along with a strip of jerky.

"Eat," she ordered. "You look as if you have not done so in a day."

"Is it so plain to see?" Glorfindel groused, although he wasted no time in taking a bite of lembas.

"Not to those who do not know you," Celeborn laughed. "Who else made mention of it?"

"One of your guards," Glorfindel replied, swallowing. "Amanthor, he said his name was."

"Ah," Celeborn murmured.

"Who is he?" Glorfindel asked after a bite of jerky. "He said that his hand was taken by a Dwarf's axe, however the last battle between Elves and Dwarves that I can remember is…"

"He is from Doriath," Celeborn affirmed. "He has been my guard – and my friend – from before the rising of the sun, from when I would wander Middle-earth beneath the stars. He lost his hand standing in my defense when the Dwarves attacked Doriath."

"Why have I never met him before?" Glorfindel wondered aloud. "I have known you for many long years, Celeborn, but never before can I recall laying eyes on him."

"He is very skilled at remaining unobserved if he does not wish to be seen," Celeborn said with a small grin.

Galadriel laughed. "Indeed," she said to her husband, and then turned to Glorfindel. "Even I did not meet him, nor even know he existed, until Celeborn introduced us, which was nigh on two months after we began courting."

A quiet chuckle came from behind, and all three looked to see who it had come from. Amanthor was standing a few paces away, holding Glorfindel's knife and cloth.

After returning the items to Glorfindel, Amanthor bowed to Galadriel, then Celeborn. "I am glad to see that you are doing well, my lord," he said, addressing Celeborn.

"It is only a leg wound," Celeborn replied. "I have survived far worse, as you know."

"Yes my lord," Amanthor agreed, a touch of humor coloring his otherwise officious response.

A rumble of thunder rolled through the air not an instant after the words had left Amanthor's mouth, silencing whatever else may have been said. A flurry of wind raced through the air on the thunder's tail, swirling about the Elves and sending hair fluttering and cloaks snapping.

Glorfindel looked skyward, noting that the clouds had darkened ominously. "We must depart," he said tersely, gaining his feet. Turning, he began to shout orders to his men, who quickly began to disassemble their hurried, makeshift camp.

They departed only a few minutes later, riding deeper into the storm's twilight, Celeborn once again mounted before Galadriel on mighty Brégant. Almost as soon as the horses had been urged into a canter, the wind that had toyed with the Elves as they had mounted up died abruptly, leaving behind an empty, hollow silence that hung heavily over everything, and that ate at the air.

Glorfindel looked up to the storm clouds once again, the uneasy feeling that had been stirring in the pit of his stomach strengthening. He glanced over to Galadriel, to see if she felt the same, but her attention seemed to be focused solely on Celeborn, and for once she appeared oblivious to the world and the warning signs around her. Yet just as Glorfindel was about to turn away, she looked up, her blue eyes meeting his, and in that look, Glorfindel thought he could sense an echo of what he was feeling.

They needed to find shelter. And soon.

~oOo~

End Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11: Thorn of Despair

**Disclaimer: **Please see first chapter

**Chapter Warnings:** Honestly, nothing too terrible here. Some mild violence and angst.

**A/N:** I know this is a bit late, and I am terribly sorry. Thank you so much to all of you who messaged me or whatnot, urging me onward to finish writing and update - honestly, you really helped me be able to finish this. This was a surprisingly difficult chapter to write - probably because there isn't a whole lot of action that happens in this chapter. Unfortunately, I'm afraid that this is one of those "obligatory travel chapters" as Crookneck once so astutely phrased it. Yes, all of this detail was necessary. No, I'm not telling you why. Hopefully the next chapter will be up much sooner than most updates have been coming (three weeks is my goal), however I can't make any promises. I have a bunch of tests coming up in these next two and a half weeks (AP tests are finishing up, then finals and all of that other fun end of the year stuff), including both the SAT and ACT. So needless to say, my life is going to be a bit busy. That being said, I apologize in advance for the long wait before I'll be able to respond to reviews.

Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review last chapter! Honestly, you all are what keeps me writing. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart. To those of you who have alerted or favorited, my thanks as well. To all of you lurkers, I hope that you are enjoying the story, and I would love it if you would take the time to leave at least a few words, just to let me know what you think! Especially these next couple of weeks, I could use all of the encouragement I can get. Most importantly, though, I hope you enjoy the chapter!

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**Translations:**

_Black Speech:  
_Dug - Filth_  
_

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~*Chapter 11: Thorn of Despair~*

_I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair. ~Alfred Lord Tennyson_

_**~Day 5 – Sunrise~**_

_**~South of the Ettenmoors~**_

The air was filled with tension as the Orcs broke camp at last, saddling the Wargs and gathering weapons and packs. The prisoners were silent as their guards approached, each of them glaring coldly at the lumbering Orcs even as they were prodded toward the waiting Wargs. They were forced to mount and then once more were bound to the saddle, their hands to the iron ring set into the pommel, and their legs through the laces on the girth.

The Orcs too could sense the unease, for the spoke little and cursed more, delivering kicks and cuffs more freely and ardently, as if the physical abuse could alleviate the agitation that was welling up all about them. A storm was brewing.

Even the prisoner – who had lain still ever since his screams had subsided, falling away into moans, and then at long last into silence – seemed to be affected by the intensity of the air. He was tense, and seemed to grow more so the more time elapsed.

Elrond lay beside the dying fire, his lids half-shut and his eyes glazed as his body trembled from shock and the dying echoes of pain. His hair fanned out beneath his head, forming a dark halo against the blood-stained earth, and providing a stark contrast to the livid bruises mottling the pale skin of his face. His hands were cradled together and pulled against his stomach, the fingers curling in toward the holes bored through his palms.

He gave no reaction as two Orcs approached, nor even realized that it was the supposed twins from the night before. They hoisted him up, hands beneath his arms, and dragged him away from the fireside, his feet trailing in the dirt and his head lolling, chin against his chest.

The Orcs quickly and efficiently lifted Elrond onto the Warg and bound his hands to the saddle, then tightened the laces about his legs. Surprisingly, Elrond did not fall forward but rather sat upright, although his head remained bowed. One of the Orcs growled and forced his head up, fingers grasping his chin, and looked into the dull grey eyes. Just for an instant there was a spark of…something – rebellion, defiance? – but then it was gone, falling behind a veil of pain – pain and the absence of any other feeling. Satisfied, the Orc released his chin, and the two of them stalked off, shoulder to shoulder.

Elrond shook his head slightly as the two disappeared among the crowd and his eyes flickered as he looked up. All he could see was the shifting pelts of the wargs, the leering faces and tattered armor of the Orcs, and above it all the roiling mass of clouds so thick that the sky looked nearly black. He turned away, lowering his eyes until all he could see was his mangled and bleeding hands and the brindle fur beneath.

There was a darkness in his heart and in his mind, he could feel it. It choked him and weighed him down until he had no strength left. It made it difficult for him to breathe for it choked him, sapped him of what will to fight he had retained. He felt empty, weak, and helpless.

Yet at the same time, that very darkness dulled everything else around him. He could not feel the pain quite so acutely, and the sick fear that had clenched his gut was gone. The days stretched on endlessly before him, but he found that he was no longer terrified of what was to come – what would come would come, and there was little could do to stop it. Indeed, there was _nothing_ he could do to stop it, for there were too many Orcs, and they were filled with too much hate and found too much pleasure in watching him bleed and scream. There was no hope, so why try, why even worry?

_Despair_, a treacherous voice whispered in his mind. _You are beginning to despair._ He tried to shut the voice out, tried to ignore its words. He screwed his eyes shut tightly, hunched his shoulders, and grit his teeth.

_No,_ he bit as the whispering voice began to take shape once more. _No, I do not wish to hear you. Leave me be._

_What, so that you may lapse into despair in peace?_ the voice asked.

_No. Stop. Just leave me be._

_I'm disappointed in you,_ the voice said sadly.

_Why? Because I am being weak?_

_Because you are acting like a child. I had thought you were stronger than this, I truly had. I had not thought that one night of agony could undo you so utterly._

_One night? This is not the doings of one night._ Elrond shuddered as memory assaulted him, and he struggled to breathe. His chest heaved, and his shaking intensified until it physically hurt. Of course, not that it would take much to make his battered body flare up in agony.

_So simply because it has been four nights and days of hell you give up? Have you already forgotten your men, whom you swore to protect? Asgaladh, Aearvith…young Aravadhor – have you forgotten them?_

_No. No, of course I have not._

_Then why do you give up? They have not given up on you; yet you, their captain, have already begun to despair? How will they survive this if you cannot lead them through it?_

_Enough. I have not given up._

_Are you so weak that you falter already?_

_Enough, I say. I have not given up!_

_You are weak, Elrond, weak! You have given up, and you will not fight any longer. You are not worthy of being called the son of Eärendil._

_Enough!_

_You are not worthy of being the King's herald. You are not worthy to lead your men – you are not worthy of their love and respect._

"Enough!" Elrond had not even realized that he had spoken aloud until he doubled over, his chest constricted with pain as bone grated, and his lungs froze. He clenched his teeth and fought back the tears that threatened to choke him – although whether they were tears of pain of body or of mind and heart, he did not know.

The Warg beneath Elrond growled and shifted, craning its head around so that it could glare at the Elf perched on its back. Its murky eyes fixed on Elrond and its lips writhed back to bare yellowed fangs as it sensed his pain and his weakness.

Elrond bent over and rested his forehead on his crossed wrists, ignoring the stabbing pangs that lanced through his torso at his awkward position, and the burn of the lash mark on his chest stretching. His breathing hitched, but for the moment he did not care. He only wanted to block out the world around him for a moment, a moment where he could simply be himself and think – a moment where he could hide his eyes and the unshed tears that made them over bright.

It was right, the voice. He could not give up, not yet. He was being weak, and his weakness would do little but bring pain and death to his men. If he gave in and succumbed, then the Orcs would more than likely move on to one of them. Perhaps it would be Calenaer, or Aearvith. Or perhaps even Aravadhor…

_Aravadhor lay in the fetal position, curled up into as tight of a ball as he could manage. One arm was splayed out awkwardly beside his knee, only it was bent almost entirely backwards, as if his elbow had been realigned or twisted around. A jagged end of bone jutted up from his forearm, just beneath his elbow, and there was drying blood cementing his arm to the stone floor beneath. _

_The rest of his body was in little better shape. Bruises and cuts covered almost every inch of bare flesh, and his pants were in shreds, revealing more blood and filth beneath. His right knee was almost assuredly out of joint, and it looked as if all of his fingers and toes had been broken. A wound in his side wept tears of red and white, and the skin around it was puckered and shiny with infection._

_And his hair…It had been cruelly shorn so that he was very nearly bald, and there were shallow gashes on his scalp where whatever knife had done the shearing had nicked his skin. The long raven locks were scattered around the floor, a testament and a reminder to the youth's disgrace._

Elrond wrenched himself away from the vision so violently that he physically jerked. He felt ill, and if there had been anything in his stomach he likely would have vomited. As it was he merely shuddered, his gut clenching and his head pounding in time with his heart.

Was what he had just seen an actual vision of something that was to come? He did not know…His mind and his thoughts were already so addled that it was difficult for him to differentiate between nightmare and actual vision – between fear and foretelling. There was nothing that overwhelmingly indicated that it was a vision of the future – but neither was there anything to indicate that it was nothing but his fears and his tenuous grip on reality.

Fear swept suddenly through him. What if it _was_ a glimpse of the future? Did this mean that he broke? Or did it imply a far worse fate for himself? Or perhaps Aravadhor was singled out for some other reason. Elrond's heart dropped an instant later as he realized something else – while some of Aravadhor's wounds were fresh, the vast majority were days old, if not weeks. That meant no rescue, and no escape.

_No,_ Elrond told himself sternly. _Do not think that way. You __cannot__ think that way. You do not even know that what you saw was the future. And even if it was, the future that you see is only one possibility – it is not set into stone._

A strange sense of determination welled up within Elrond. If what he had seen was indeed one possible future, then he would simply have to ensure that it did not come to pass, if it was at all within his power. He could not, _would not_ allow Aravadhor to suffer in such a way, if it was at all within his power to prevent. How could he allow that to come to pass, if he had the choice?

The lurching of the Warg as it leapt forward barely an instant later jolted Elrond out of his train of thought. He halfway sat up and glanced to either side of him. All he could see were the stocky bodies of loping Wargs and the legs of the Orcs riding them.

Apprehension once more clenched his stomach, and there again was the odd feeling of despair beginning to creep up within his thoughts and into his heart. But then the image of Aravadhor lying motionless and bleeding came to his mind's eye. Elrond swallowed, and steeled himself, forcing himself to breathe, to fight it. The feeling of despair faded, and although it did not completely disappear, it was not so overwhelming as before.

With a small groan, Elrond shut his eyes once more and lay across his bound hands, his head against the Warg's neck. He only briefly wondered at the fact that there had been no horn call to command the Wargs forward, but then his mind and his thoughts were slipping away, driven out of his mind by the pounding of the Warg beneath him.

He could not focus, could not concentrate beyond his throbbing head and his aching body. At last he ceased to fight it, and allowed his thoughts to slip away and his senses to dull. The pounding of the Warg as it settled into a comfortable lope jarred through his body, but the rhythm was steady, and he subconsciously matched his breathing to the cadence.

The world faded away slowly, blurring as a light grey haze descended over Elrond's vision.

Silver flashed in the haze, and for just an instant, Elrond thought that he caught a glimpse of two ice blue eyes. He tensed, his sluggish mind trying valiantly to comprehend what he had seen – or what he had thought he had seen.

And as the grey mist faded to black, Elrond had one final, desperate thought, one that he had not expected, and with it came a sudden pang of fear. _What if he never saw Celebrían again?_

Then at last he slept.

~oOo~

Elrond had no way of knowing how much time had passed when at last he awoke. The clouds were so thick overhead that it was nigh impossible to gauge the position of the sun, and the world seemed no darker, nor lighter, than it had at daybreak. The only indicator at how much time had elapsed was the change in landscape.

They had camped the night before in the cleft between two hills, similar knolls stretching away into the distance, where they at last disappeared into the roots of the mountains. What little grass had grown was thick and yellow. Sage and squat, needled bushes, their limbs and leaves alike adorned with thorns, had grown in clumps, with only a few trees daring to thrust their fragile limbs up toward the wind-swept sky. The only greenery that was actually green grew around what little water ran through the otherwise dry land.

Now, however, the mountains rose up on either side, their cleft peaks reaching broken fingers into the thick, low clouds. The sides of the mountains were dark with shadow, murky blue and gloomy violet. The peaks were riddled with patches of white snow and grey stone, with only a few splashes of dark shadow that indicated tree cover.

The company was travelling through the valley between two such peaks, the ground that trembled beneath the Wargs' paws dry and dusty and strewn with split stones embedded into the hard soil. The grass that grew was thin and half-dead, dying from both freezing and lack of water, and what little scrub brush grew was stunted, starved and windblown.

Slowly, the ground began to rise beneath the Wargs' paws, the growing things becoming more deadened and sparser as the slope steepened. It was not long until Elrond was able to sense the panting of the Warg beneath him as it labored upward, its sides heaving more and more with each passing moment.

The echoing call of a horn blared through the air, and Elrond's attention snapped forward. The pack slowed almost instantly, dropping from their ground-eating lope to a choppy trot. Elrond forced himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the line of fire that raced up his chest, both within and without, as ribs moved and the scabs along the lash mark pulled apart. He looked around, searching for the reason behind the Wargs' slowing – it was far too early in the day for them to be halting for the night – indeed, he doubted that it was yet even mid-afternoon. Only then that, with eyes narrowing and a thrill of unease sweeping through him, did Elrond realize that the sound had come from in front of the pack, rather than within, and that it did not sound quite like an Orc horn. What it did sound like, however, Elrond could not quite place.

A swell in the noise around him brought Elrond's attention to the Orcs, and for the first time that day he took the time to listen to what they were saying. They were speaking in the Black Tongue, the vile words spitting off of their tongues, and Elrond winced ever so slightly as he brought the warped and tainted words into focus. He automatically began to retreat back behind his protective barrier, but then he halted himself – if he was to stay strong, and hope to avert whatever terrors the future would hold, he would need to be fully aware of his surroundings, and what was happening around him – and forced himself to refocus.

A snorting laugh brought Elrond's attention to a thick-chested Orc sitting atop an even larger Warg, whose muzzle sported five long, puckered scars. The Orc laughed again at seeing Elrond's eyes settle on him, and then he lazily drew the serrated knife that hung in a loop on his belt.

"Looky there, da lordling's listening in on our conversation," the Orc drawled, nudging one of his companions. The Orc kicked his mount, and the Warg edged closer to Elrond, ignoring the warning snarl of the Warg that bore the Elf. The Orc leered at the prisoner before reaching out and hitting him in the side, throwing Elrond against his bindings. The Orcs laughed at Elrond's grunt.

Turning to the others, the Orc abusing Elrond laughed again, ensuring that they were all watching him, before running his hand down Elrond's chest, his nails digging through the thin scabs that held the edges of skin on either side of the lash mark together. Elrond hissed as his flesh was torn open yet again, and he grit his teeth to keep from crying out, his eyes watering. The Orc's hand came away daubed in blood, and he inspected his fingers for an instant, before smearing his palm across Elrond's cheek, over his ear, and then through his hair down to his neck.

"Dug," the Orc sneered, and then spat on Elrond's cheek, much to the other Orcs' amusement.

Elrond breathed deeply and, closing his eyes, doggedly fought to keep his calm. There was naught that he could do, bound as he was – and atop a Warg, no less – except somehow find himself in more trouble. He did not know precisely what it was that the Orc had called him, but he could tell that it had been nothing kind.

"Wha', not gonna respond are ya lordling?" the Orc jeered, urged on by the jibes of the others. The Orc snickered, then lifted his dirtied knife and pressed the tip of the blade into Elrond's ear. Elrond jerked his head away, but the edge of the knife skated across the inner edge of his earlobe, opening a thin, shallow gash. Blood dribbled out of the new cut, spattering the knife blade with a few droplets before running down into Elrond's ear and over onto his jaw.

The Warg beneath Elrond growled and sidled away from the Orc, twisting its head so that it could glare at the other's beast. Mottled lips writhed back to bare yellowed fangs, and its hackles rose around the saddle. The scarred Warg snarled in response, lowering its head threateningly.

"Oy, Karkil," one of the watching Orcs called warningly.

Karkil looked over, eyes narrowed and shoulders hunched, as if expecting an attack. With a rasping growl he turned back and fixed Elrond with a dirty look, his own teeth showing in a vicious grin. There was a crazed gleam in his eyes as he fingered the hilt of his knife, Elrond's blood still speckling the dirty metal with crimson.

A second horn blast cut through the air, silencing the Orcs and causing Elrond to glance toward the front of the pack once more. This time the sound came from significantly closer – close enough to even be among the pack, in fact. He frowned, then looked quickly back toward the Orc.

Karkil was glowering and sheathing his knife. Kicking his mount, the Orc moved forward, the Warg bearing Elrond turning as he did so. "Lucky fer you da guards aren't being as useless as they normally are," the Orc growled. With that he was gone, disappearing out of sight among the shifting pack.

With a clack of its teeth, Elrond's Warg began to walk forward as well, although it growled or snapped at any other who came too close in the moving mass. Soon there was a clear space on all sides around the Warg.

On some unspoken command, the Wargs suddenly broke into a trot, then into a lope.

Elrond, who had hunched back over as soon as he had felt the Warg begin to move, looked up just in time to see a wall of shadow looming ahead. Almost before he could understand what he was seeing, the pack was among the trees, the needled branches overhead blocking out the sight of the clouded sky, and most of what little light there was that sifted down through the canopy.

Just before the shadows swallowed the pack, Elrond glanced up once more. There was a flicker of movement high in the branches, as of someone crouched high in the branches. A flash of confusion swept through Elrond, for the movement had not been heavy enough, and had been far too high, for it to be an Orc – and more than that, Orcs were rarely known to climb anything but stone. Before he could properly consider the implications of this observation, however, the movement was gone, and the Wargs were beneath the trees, the shadows swallowing the air.

The darkness beneath the pines was almost complete, with only the vaguest pools of darkness and patches of grey visible between the trunks. The Wargs themselves were little more than darting shadows of mottled grey and black, and only the yellow gleam of their eyes was clearly distinguishable. The Orcs on their backs were hulking outlines, their armor and naked weapons flashing as they swept in and out of puddles of light that sifted through the needles.

Just for an instant, Elrond caught a glimpse of a gleam of silver-white through the darkness, and he stiffened, his eyes latching onto where he had seen it. He had recognized it, the light, knew that it could only be one thing, and in that instant he had felt a brief flare of something akin to joy, or perhaps hope, in some form. The light was that of one of the Eldar – the inner radiance that even those who had never seen the Trees possessed, at least in some measure. But then the light was gone, masked by the shadows once more.

Elrond glanced down to look at his bare, bloodied chest, wondering vaguely if any of the others had glimpsed his light, and if they had, if they would know that it was him. He was shocked to see how faint the glow surrounding him was – it was so dim that he was hardly even able to see it, but for the fact that he could discern the color of the Warg's fur beyond varying shades of grey and black.

Closing his eyes, Elrond leaned forward until his head rested against the Warg's neck. Breathing as deeply as he was able, Elrond tried to allow himself to relax into the rhythm of the Warg's gallop, despite the constant thud of pain throughout his body. He had the feeling that they were nearing the end of their journey, and he didn't think he would be getting the chance to have much rest once they arrived.

The jolting change in the Warg's gait a few hours later was what brought Elrond to full awareness. Every so often during the journey, he had cracked open his eyes only to see the same murky shadows and rustling pines. Now as he opened his eyes, however, he noted that there was significantly more light, grey as it was, than there had been since before they had entered the forest. A glance upward affirmed that the forest was beginning to thin, the needles on the branches not twined so thickly together, and allowing more of the overcast light down to the world below.

A light breeze whispered between the trees, causing the branches to dance and the pine needles to quiver. Elrond shivered as the cold wind brushed his bare skin, and hunched his shoulders ever so slightly.

The breeze smelled of mountain air, growing evergreens, and cold spring water. Elrond swallowed thickly as he sensed the nearby water, and very suddenly he became acutely aware of his thirst. He had been given very little water over the last five days – barely enough to keep him alive – and although after the first few days he had learned to ignore his painfully dry throat and swollen tongue – and he had soon enough had plenty other pain to deal with – now, with the tantalizing scent of fresh water heavy on the air, he found that it was nigh impossible to ignore it, and nearly impossible to stand.

The gaps between the trees widened still further, allowing more and more light down to illuminate the needle-strewn earth. Then the pack was sweeping out from beneath the last of the branches and onto a sloping shore littered with boulders. At the bottom of the slope, stretching away to a mist-shrouded distance was a mountain lake. Waves lapped at the pebbles that lined the bank, and the gentle sough of water beating against stone rippled through the air.

The Wargs turned seamlessly until they were loping around the edge of the lake, the water to their right and the trees to their left. The pounding of the Wargs' paws echoed hollowly across the water's glassy surface, mingling with the crash of waves until the sounds became one. On the Wargs ran, arcing around the lake, striking ever farther north and higher up the mountain.

Cliffs began to take shape far ahead, presumably where the lake at last curved back on itself. The monolithic walls of stone rose high into the air, brushing the low-slung clouds that wreathed the air with heavy vapor. Elrond watched as they drew closer, the cliff faces coming into clearer focus even amid the veil of shadow cast by the clouds, until they were towering overhead, blocking out the world above and filling the world around with imposing height.

A hoarse bellow rose out of the din. The words were unintelligible, but the Wargs still seemed to understand what was being said for they instantly began to slow, once again dropping down into their jerking trot, then slowing further into a sedate walk. At last they came to a halt, and the air was filled with the stench of hot beast and dripping saliva as the Wargs panted.

_What now?_ Elrond thought tiredly, glancing around him. To his surprise, the Orcs looked just as baffled as he felt, and they were muttering amongst each other and casting suspicious glances in the directions of the prisoners.

The Wargs shifted, snarling and snapping, as someone forced his way between them, and the sound of leather smacking against hide was heard repeatedly. At last the Wargs cleared out of the way and the approaching Orc drew up short, his cloudy eyes fastening on Elrond. A wide, toothy grin spread out across his face, and he flicked the multi-thonged whip, sending the tips skittering and smacking together.

Throwing back his shoulders, the Orc swaggered forward, the arrogant smirk still firmly in place. Elrond watched him approach coldly, mildly annoyed by the Orc's haughty attitude – the Orc would not be so smug if he were not bound so tightly, of that Elrond was sure.

"Careful, lordling," the Orc laughed, halting in front of the Warg and seizing its muzzle. The Warg growled, but the Orc paid it no heed. "Ya wanna be careful 'ow ya lookit me, else ya just might find yaself in the same place ya did las' night."

Elrond simply looked away, refusing to make eye contact, and refusing to rise to the bait – it would only give the Orc a reason to hit him. Of course, not rising to the bait was just as good of a reason, at least to the Orcs, Elrond realized an instant later as he felt a fist connect with his mangled hands, smashing them against the metal ring and the hard saddle beneath.

For an instant, he could feel no pain – it was as if the nerves had been momentarily switched off – but then agony was spiking through his hands, into his wrists, before lancing up his arms. He could feel the bone as it ground against bone, and the broken shards buried deeper into muscle and skin alike; he could feel the thin layer of crusted blood that had only recently dried across the gaping holes through his palms ripping savagely open, even as the gouges themselves were widened by the hard edges of the saddle.

He could not quite stop the yell that escaped his locked jaws. It was not a scream – not quite – but there was no mistaking the sound in any case – it was a cry of pain. As Elrond drew in a shuddering breath, he could hear the Orcs all around him laughing and cheering.

"Captain!" Elrond's head snapped up, and his silver eyes scanned the crowd of Orcs desperately, searching for the source of the sound. The cry had been faint and muffled, but Elrond had been sure that he had heard it. As nothing else was forthcoming, however, and none of the Orcs even turned, he began to wonder if he had truly heard it.

So focused was he on locating the source of the call that it came as a surprise to Elrond when the Warg carrying him took a step forward. Elrond lurched, although he quickly regained his balance, and ignored the Orcs as best as he could. Instead, he looked ahead to where the haughty Orc was leading the Warg along by the scruff of fur beneath its jaw. The Warg growled periodically, but as usual, the Orc did not even flinch.

Orcs and Wargs alike parted before Elrond and the Orc leading his Warg, forming a clear pathway to the head of the pack. Elrond stiffened as he realized just where he was being brought, and a sick sense of apprehension knotted his gut.

Vorgod was waiting for them, arms crossed against his chest, his amber eyes gleaming in the murky light. A heavy, unstained cloak was fastened about his shoulders, and crouched at his back was an enormous coal black Warg, whose eyes gleamed pale yellow. The Warg's lips writhed back from its fangs as Elrond approached, its baleful gaze fixed upon the Elf.

The Warg bearing Elrond halted half a dozen paces from Vorgod and the black Warg and refused to take another step closer, bracing its legs and snarling when the Orc attempted to drag it forward. The Orc cursed and rounded on the Warg, lifting his whip to strike the obstinate beast.

Vorgod laughed and took a step forward, his arms dropping to his sides.

"Now, now," Vorgod chuckled, addressing the Orc and halting his blow midair, "you should never punish a beast for being wiser than you are." The Orc turned, confused. Vorgod smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about the action. "This beast is far wiser than any of you _utter_ _fools_," Vorgod murmured, coming to stand before the Warg. He cupped the Warg's chin in one hand and lifted the muzzle until the wolf was looking him in the eye. "Yes, you know to be afraid of me."

Vorgod released the Warg and his gaze slid to Elrond, who had been watching him carefully. Vorgod's smile widened. The smile looked downright predatory – although not in the way a coyote does before it digs up a kill, but rather in the way a panther will eye the fawn prancing unaware beneath its hidden perch. "Ah, but you know to be afraid of me as well, do you not Star-dome?" Vorgod circled around the Warg until he was standing beside Elrond. Reaching up, Vorgod took Elrond's chin in his fingers, much as he had the Warg's, and their eyes met.

Silver met dusky gold as the two gazes locked, and there they held. There they held, even as Elrond's breath froze in his lungs, a phantom thorn twisting into his belly and filling his gut with roiling nausea that he could not describe, an oily sensation covering his skin from the point at which Vorgod's fingers touched his skin. There they held as Elrond grit his teeth and refused to falter, and an overwhelming, burning desire took hold to fight back – he had failed the night before, had failed when he had attempted to pull free of Vorgod's control, but he would not fail again – to not allow Vorgod to cow him again. There they held even as silver arose, unlooked-for strength sparking like stars in the twilit heavens.

There they held until at last, amber faltered and cracked. Vorgod looked away, hand falling form Elrond's chin, his eyes darting downward to escape the weight of the stars that lay within the silver gaze of the Elf sitting bound above him.

Elrond sagged in the saddle, all of what little strength he had left bleeding out of him. He was breathing heavily, as if having just run a mile through thick sand, and his body ached. The first sting of a headache began to form behind his eyes an instant later, the blood pounding in his ears and through his skull in time with his heart.

Breathing heavily, Elrond swallowed thickly and fought to regain control over his body. Gradually, the rush of blood faded away, the darkness receded, and even the headache began to ebb, although it remained seated in his temple.

Elrond sat up slowly, lifting his head to see Vorgod watching him with a strange look in his eyes. Was it…hatred? anger? jealousy? Elrond frowned and shook his head to dispel such foolish thoughts. _Jealousy? _When Elrond looked at Vorgod again, the odd look was gone. For the second time that day, Elrond was left wondering if he had simply imagined what he had seen or heard.

"You are the greatest fool of them all, _whelp_," Vorgod said at last, coldly, then turned away without looking at him again.

"Chain him, and bring him to the others," Vorgod commanded. "But gag him, and do not let any of the Elves speak, even them to him." Vorgod smiled a cold, cruel smile. "For every word spoken, give their _beloved_ _captain_ a lash, Gorgil. We shall see just how intelligent these filth are."

The Orc who had led the Warg to Vorgod saluted smartly, bringing the butt of his whip to his forehead, the tassels falling down across his face. He quickly dropped the whip, although his savage grin never once faded. "Of course, Master," he called after Vorgod's retreating form. Vorgod did not even acknowledge him.

Gorgil turned to Elrond, then motioned for someone standing behind the Warg to come forward – it was the twin Orcs again, Elrond saw. Leering unpleasantly, Gorgil took a step closer to the Warg and Elrond, and brought his whip up until the tips of the cords brushed against Elrond's thigh.

"Come on now, less 'ave some fun."

~oOo~

End Chapter 11


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