Chapter Twenty-Seven: Unspeakable

The bright sun danced through the elegant panes of spidered glass shattering into a thousand shafts of light to dance upon the rich carpeted floor. The room was still, a play of shadows whirling in the corners as a tree beckoned outside the window in the chill afternoon breeze. Winter still had not released its harsh grip upon the land though the snow had melted.

Anariel sighed from her place by the curtained window, her heart aching as she stared out at the deceptively bright sky. She sat shrouded in her own fear and sorrow, her noble face illuminated by the sun filtering through the panes.

Her writing desk was spread with a parchment and a quill, drying in the inkwell with the letters she had tried to answer, those that she received that had not already been opened or intercepted, furtively passed to her by loyal servants. The elven people were frantic that their King had not reappeared. They were frightened and confused, not understanding what was going on, worried about their prince and their queen. But Anariel could do nothing to reassure them for she herself was a prisoner to her own doubt, caught on the edge of a breaking storm.

She sat surrounded by her ladies in waiting who bent over their embroidery or books. It was too quiet. There was no laughter and no song as there had been in days of old. One of her ladies, sat bent over her book, her eyes on the page but reading not the words. Her fair face was grave and sad. Her son and husband had been missing for days and she shared a mother’s pain with the Queen for their boys had grown up together: Lóthmir and Legolas.

Uncertainty shrouded the air, a tension that threatened to break at any moment. Ainan had realized just how far his power stretched.

Already several of her friends and closest advisors had been taken and not returned. Where they were now, she did not know. The prisons or the executionerÂ’s block floated before her mindÂ’s eye but she ruthlessly crushed it down. If she gave into despair then there truly was no hope left for any of them. She had to cling to hope and weather this storm as she had so many others in her long life.

I am safe, she tried to think composedly. Her brother could not kill her- the people would surely riot if their beloved queen was taken from them. He could not afford that now. But what would stop him from taking everyone else that she cared for? Her blue gaze drifted to where her maids sat working, one even tried to laugh and another who saw her gaze smiled. Anariel looked away towards the door where the young sentinel who had watched over her ceaselessly in her sleepless night long vigils sat near the door.

A tentative knock on the chamber door roused Rinniad, who stood stationed beside it, startled from an impromptu doze. He had not slept for days and exhaustion had finally taken its toll. Blushing at being caught sleeping at his post, he rushed to answer it.

“Who is it?” he questioned gruffly with his hand on the bolt.

“Loyal compatriots and allies of the Queen,” came a voice from the other side.

Rinniad froze, scarcely able to believe his ears as he glanced over towards the Queen for permission. Anariel nodded.

The young guard slid back the latch and threw open the door, his face whitening with shock and amazement at who stood upon the threshold.

The elves of Lothlórien smiled at his obvious astonishment. Thick cloaks were wrapped about them and they stood uneasily in the corridor. Ancadal glanced over his shoulder.

“Are you going to let us in or not?” he demanded impatiently and Rinniad stepped numbly back to admit them.

“We thought you were dead,” he gasped aloud before a soft inquiring voice from within made him turn apologetically to the Queen.

“My Lady, they’re here! They’re alive!” he gasped out, throwing the door wide for Rameil and Ancadal to enter.

“Thank the Valar,” Anariel whispered fervently, rising from her seat. Her sympathetic gaze ran over them; they looked haggard as though they had endured much pain but had mastered it now. Quickly, she bade them sit and take their ease but they refused, remaining standing in agitation.

“Glad am I to see you free,” she breathed in relief, a small measure of hope returning to her.

“Your messenger was a great help to us, Lady,” Rameil said, bowing respectfully. Anariel cocked her head in puzzlement.

“I sent no messenger,” the Queen said with a slight frown gracing her fair features. Rameil and Ancadal exchanged an uneasy look but Anariel disregarded it.

“What matters is that you are safe. Where is your commander?” she asked, momentarily forgetting her own sadness when she did not see the third among their company.

Neither of them answered and the Queen felt a shiver of fear.

“What happened?”

“We do not know,” Rameil answered honestly.

They had been sick with worry when they had woken to discover him missing. When the young woman had returned, she had replied that she had not seen him but bade them to come to the Queen anyway. She would try to find their friend if she could and get a message to them as soon as she was able.

Anariel searched their faces, reading the anguish in their eyes and felt her own hope falter.

“My son?” she asked in a whisper, steeling herself against the unbearable sense of loss she felt when she saw their faces fall.

“We have seen him, Lady,” Rameil said. “When we went searching for him, we glimpsed him briefly and to our knowledge, our commander was with him before we were captured though he was taken as well. I fear unless the prince escaped, he must be here, somewhere.”

Anariel sighed, torn between the relief that her son was no longer lost in the forest and terrible, gripping fear that he had fallen into her brotherÂ’s hands again. She sank slowly into her chair beside the fire, her face white as she twisted the ink-stained quill in her grasp.

“Lady, can you not speak to him?” Ancadal pleaded naively, unable to even speak the name of the tyrant. “He is your brother; he may listen to you.”

Anariel shook her head with a dark, surprisingly bitter smile on her lovely face like a storm cloud in a clear sky.

“He will no more listen to me then he would you,” she said softly. “I am his deepest fear now. I am the only one who still holds the throne against him. We are rivals he and I.”

“Kin and enemies at once? That doesn’t make any sense,” Ancadal said almost plaintively.

“No,” Anariel responded dully. “No, it doesn’t.”

Rameil, looking down at the top of her golden head, guessed shrewdly.

“He is keeping you here as well against your will,” he said softly. Her head lifted at his words but she did not deny his statement. Ancadal blew out a frustrated breath but said nothing.

“Then it is war.”

RameilÂ’s words dropped through the silence like a stone into a still pool. The ladies who had been attending avidly to every word as they worked, looked away shame-facedly as though he had said something indecent.

“This can’t be it! There must be something we can do!” Ancadal burst out, horrified by his own helplessness.

“What is there?” Rameil replied calmly, but his eyes were still on the Queen.

“We can wait no longer,” Anariel agreed quietly, looking out the bay window. “We have lost too much time already. I do not know what my brother is planning but I will not stand idly by anymore.” The news of her son’s imprisonment seemed to have galvanized her.

“Who are our allies? Who will stand by us?” Rameil asked.

Anariel looked up at him thoughtfully.

“The border guards. They have been out there for several weeks- as is their wont- to patrol the borders of our kingdom. There are refreshing posts out there so they need not return to the palace often. They do not know what is happening and may be persuaded to join us if we can get a message to them.”

“If Ainan has not gotten to them first and if we can get a message to them,” Rameil stipulated.

“Your Majesty-” a timid voice offered.

Anariel looked up at Rinniad who hovered still near the doorway. He stepped forward as the Queen beckoned to him. For too long he had been trapped here, and finally here was his chance to stop hiding and do something at last to help his friends. His shoulders firmed with resolution as he looked at their expectant faces, waiting for him to speak.

“Let me go,” he said staunchly. “I can do it. They will suspect me to be only a runner- a go-for for the Regent,” Rinniad spat his title as though it were poison.

“It might work,” Rameil answered doubtfully but Ancadal eagerly nodded his agreement.

Anariel looked from one to the other and then to the determined young elf that had never left her side since her son had gone missing.

“Kel, Rinniad, (Go,)” she commanded him at last, granting him a kiss on his brow in blessing. “And may the Valar go with you.” Rinniad looked up at her fondly, bowed and spun on his heel, disappearing swiftly out the door.

“What must we do in the meantime?” Ancadal asked, taking a seat at last in the window, his leg bouncing nervously.

“We will be patient,” Anariel said calmly, her face a mask to her thoughts. “If he has not returned by nightfall…”

“I cannot wait that long!” the younger elf groaned, rising and pacing restlessly to and fro. “Our friend is missing! Your son! What happens if Ainan discovers what we plan to do? What if he-?”

“Ancadal-” Rameil began passively, trying to calm his friend with a hand on his shoulder.

“He will kill them!” Ancadal burst out, twisting away, his blue eyes wide.

Anariel hushed him, a hand raised to ward off his words. Her posture had stiffened and she stood rigid, tense, listening with her head tilted towards the door. Someone was coming.

“Hide yourselves in my chamber- hurry,” she bade them, pushing them towards the other door that led into another part of the Queen’s vast rooms.

Her elven ladies, discreet to the last, kept their heads bent over their work, one even hummed softly. The illusion worked well as the Queen seated herself regally beside the window once more as her servant opened the door to admit an unfamiliar messenger garbed in the green of Mirkwood.

He glanced around the room and walked slowly forwards, halting before the Queen. He did not bow.

“My lord commands you to attend him, madam.” He did not call her ‘Your Majesty’ as he should have.

“My brother may ask what he wishes of me but at another time. I am weary,” Anariel stalled, putting him off.

The messenger would not be deterred.

“The King commands it.”

“I was not aware that the King, my husband, had given such an order,” she said evenly, deliberately misunderstanding him. The messenger twitched awkwardly under her challenging gaze.

“His Majesty, King Ainan, my lady,” he offered into the increasingly uncomfortable silence.

“Ainan is not the King,” Anariel returned coolly. “But Regent until my son or husband should return.”

The messenger left unanswered.

~*~

A cold draft chilled his skin as Haldir awoke. He grimaced and a repressed groan escaped his lips as he wondered how many times he was going to be rendered unconscious before this was over. He could feel the throbbing knot at the back of his skull and dried blood clotting in his hair. There was a lump the size of a fist to grace his crown, he was sure for his head felt as though it had been split in two. He felt sick and horribly dizzy as he tried to reach a hand to touch his head and found that his wrists were bound over his head with leather thongs looped over a low beam. He hung with his feet scarcely brushing the ground which was littered with jagged and broken stones.

Before him, he saw a spot of light and wondered at it. There was a single narrow slit that looked out east on his left and a shaft of sunlight fell onto the dusty stone floor. He was not back in the dungeons as he had supposed but in some kind of chamber on the other side of the palace.

He craned his neck over his shoulder as a sound came from behind him: the distinct click of a door unlatching. He could not see who it was but he could feel it and a prickle of fear raced up his spine and set the hairs on the back of his neck astir.

He had felt this oneÂ’s dark aura before.

“Ah, you are awake at last,” that sinister voice spoke almost casually. “All rested are we?” He laughed. “Good.”

That tone made Haldir nearly shiver as it sounded close to his ear. Still he could not see his enemy. “These chains… you don’t like it do you, Haldir?” The voice goaded.

“How does it feel to be completely at my mercy? Helpless? Vulnerable? Tell me. It was very foolish of you to go off on your own like that. Wanted to save your friends did you? Or perhaps,” Tindómëtir slowly stepped into his line of vision, a wicked light in his eyes. “You thought to follow your noble crusade to save the young prince,” he mocked.

This elf seemed to know his every doubt, his every fear and each barbed word cut deeper than the last.

“I assure he is being well taken care of.”

His hungry, avid eyes stared out from a pale leonine face. Haldir felt as though they were raking right through him, stripping through flesh and bone to lay bare his soul and he quickly looked away.

“I can smell the fear on you… the anger… You would strike me down had you the chance, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you, Haldir?” he jeered. Again the elf captain made no answer.

Yes, he thought, I would. But a hard, cold knot of fear lodged itself in his stomach and he swallowed hard to try to keep it from rising out of his throat.

“Well, you do not. And you will not. You are alone. All alone- bound and chained, bereft of friends–an animal in a cage–and you will never be free until I command it.” Haldir merely glared at him in return but he forgot what the dark elf had said as soon as he looked at him.

For the first time, Haldir noticed that Tindómëtir twirled the Lórien captain’s own sword idly in his hands. He was clearly unused to wielding such a heavy weapon but his eyes shone with a covetous glee.

“You are not fit to handle that blade,” Haldir snarled, ignoring the sharp spike of pain that shot through his head. The dark elf merely smirked at him.

“This is very like to the one of the elf I killed. Stupid fool. Did not even bother to draw his fine weapon against me.”

Tindómëtir smiled evilly at the expression of barely controlled fury in the other elf’s eyes as Haldir raised his head, the leather cords creaking and tightening against his wrists.

Laughing, the dark elf touched Cálivien’s sword to Haldir’s neck, his deep eyes filled with wickedness.

“How easy it would be end your life now!” he sneered, twitching the blade to nick the soft skin under his captive’s throat. A trickle of blood welled from the small cut. But Tindómëtir withdrew the blade and tossed it carelessly into a corner.

“But where would the amusement be then?” he inquired to no one in particular as he stepped out of Haldir’s line of sight and returned a moment later, holding a lengthy piece of sturdy fire-blackened wood in his hand about as long as a walking staff but hollow and slightly pliable with knobs dotting its frame. He bent it idly and gave the elf-captain a sharp slap against his side. It made a sharp crack as it resounded against flesh and Haldir hissed in pain.

The dark elf smiled openly taunting now.

“You will learn that a thing does not have to be sharp in order to hurt,” he said, almost as if reciting a prepared litany or a long-remembered lesson. “I shall show you what true pain is, Captain of Lórien. And this time, your friends will not save you.”

From the doorway, Kirar winced in distaste and looked away, bitterly wishing he had been somewhere else when Tindómëtir had found him while carrying his unconscious burden and unwillingly enlisted his help. Kirar wondered if Ainan’s captain feared that the Lórien elf would escape again, but looking at him, the elven lieutenant thought that rather unlikely. The bound elf looked dead on his feet; he was bleeding from a cut on his forehead and his bare back was already marked with long, red lacerations that had bled anew when Tindómëtir had stripped the bandages from his back with negligent indifference.

The dark elf seemed to like an audience when he ‘questioned’ the prisoner and had commanded the other’s assistance in ‘preparing’ him. Kirar had half-heatedly agreed only because of his fear of the wild elf who had been quite a terror to the guards under his command, those who had joined Ainan rather than suffer the prisons at least. Kirar almost wished he were there now rather than here.

He was all for the good of Mirkwood but somehow this did not seem to be for the good of anything- it was mindless, senseless torment for a confession they would never get. But he dared not voice this aloud for fear of taking the Lórien elf’s place under the lash. So, he ignored his conscience and turned his attention grimly to the matter at hand.

Tindómëtir was slowly circling the elf, touching the end of the pole lightly to his captive’s temple, causing Haldir to jerk his head away irritably. The dark elf chuckled at the reaction he drew from him. He had seen the way the others deferred to him for instructions during that poor excuse for a trial. It would be interesting to see how long it would take to break him.

“It was very clever of you to try to free the prisoners and incite a rebellion. Very clever indeed and I would dearly like to know how you came upon the keys. But I assure you they are being punished as we speak. However, I have been granted special leave to teach you how to obey your liege-lord.” If that ended in the Lórien elf’s death, so be it. His master had commanded him to slay any that Legolas came into contact with other than his mother. Ainan apparently had special plans for the Queen.

But the Lórien elf would linger long before death came for him. He was going to make sure of that. The dark elf had overheard the argument between the prince and his prisoner as he lurked in the corridor and he used those biting words to his advantage now to further break this proud elf dangling before him. Dragging his head back by his hair, he pressed his lips very close to the other’s ear.

“Now you will know how he suffered. In small part,” he chuckled wickedly. “But first, I will offer you a choice if you like, Haldir,” Tindómëtir said. “You will tell me where the Queen is and you will tell me where your friends are- and perhaps, you may go free. But if I must rip the words one by one from your lips I shall- and gladly.” He flashed a wolfish smile of white teeth.

Haldir spat at him.

Tindómëtir merely grinned all the wider. “Then we will do it my way.”

The second stroke to his back jarred Haldir forward against his bonds, his long hair falling limply over his shoulders, hiding his grimace of pain.

Slowly, at first, almost softly, the blows fell on him. Stinging enough to hurt but not so much that it was beyond endurance. Haldir did not move, did not give his tormentor any satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

But Tindómëtir was far from finished and the blows fell strategically with a frightening rhythm that had Haldir struggling uncomfortably in his bonds as the pole struck at his legs, his shins, his ribs. He jerked and tensed against the pain, twisting away from the blows as much as his restraints allowed. But Tindómëtir only drew nearer, striking harder if he shied. Haldir refused to let a sound pass his lips and pressed them so tightly together his jaw hurt and the piercing pain in his head intensified.

“Come now, Haldir. Don’t be tedious,” Tindómëtir sneered lazily. “Your friends were much more responsive.”

Haldir merely shook his head irritably to move a strand of hair that dangled in front of his face, shuddering as hatred burned inside him.

Annoyed by this lack of response, the dark elf changed tactics and began to circle him slowly again, halting to hover close behind the other elf’s right shoulder. “He cried, Haldir. He sobbed for mercy; did the little prince tell you that?”

Haldir closed his eyes against the foul words that drove the knife deeper into his hurting heart.

“He trusted you to keep him safe… and you couldn’t even do that. You couldn’t.”

The pain came swiftly. And with it, a curious sense of relief. He deserved this punishment for what he had done to Legolas; he could have laughed if it didnÂ’t hurt so much. His skin was flushed and the clear imprint of the staff burned upon his skin as he closed his eyes against the growing agony.

But it grew worse as Tindómëtir thrashed him mercilessly, plying new welts on top of the old, yet un-healed ones. The sheer unrestraint of the other elf was alarming.

Instead of using the flattened edge of the wood, the dark elf flipped it around in his hand so he held it like a sword. The cracked edges of the wood were sharp and splintered and they raked small bleeding lines across his already hurting back. The splintered ends caught in an already open wound, tearing the skin and Haldir reared back with a quickly stifled cry.

A blow to his head caused the sickening ache in his head to redouble and black spots to swirl menacingly before his eyes.

The pain was coming too fast and too sudden for his already hurting body to take. Stroke after stroke after stroke leaving trails of stinging fire from shoulders to lower back, on his chest, even his arms. A sharp crack to the crook of his elbow and his reflex overcame will, jarring him hard against the restraints that had already cut into his wrists.

Sweat poured down his face as he strained to hold back a scream. He closed his eyes, trying to empty his mind of all thoughts, to not think about the pain or the maniacal triumph of the one hitting him as he tried to keep his breathing even. That is until Tindómëtir drove his horrendous implement into the elf’s gut.

Haldir grunted, his breath whooshing from his lungs. Instinctively, he tried to curl up and his back seared. For a panicked moment, he gaped helplessly, unable to draw in a breath. Alarm bells began ringing wildly in his head. Breathe! Breathe! He needed air! Dark spirals gathered at the edges of his vision and the bells screamed piercingly in his ears.

Then he inhaled sharply, his lungs inflating with the pure joy of breath. The tension eased though the terrible, stinging pain remained. He sucked in another breath just in time to release it in a pained groan as the splintered edge tickled his ribs, scoring his flesh like a rending claw. His knuckles clenched white, his fingernails digging into the palms of his numbed hands.

Hang pride! His pride could suffer later- if he lived long enough to allow it. He wanted to free himself from his agony and he knew it would not stop until Tindómëtir had heard him scream. But still his will was telling him ‘no!’ It obdurately refused to yield though his body was trembling uncontrollably now.

Tindómëtir paused for a moment, his breathing coming harsh, smiling with the bestial self-assurance of one who knew he was close to getting what he wanted.

Haldir’s breaths sobbed raggedly in his throat, burning his chest as the previous lashes on his back flamed underneath the new bruises. The fiery agony slowly, steadily ate away at his tolerance and the elf could feel himself shaking. He was going to die just like Cálivien- to disappear and never be found until it was too late. His world funneled down until he could see nothing but blackness and feel the tearing pain. He couldn’t do this anymore! It was ripping him apart inside.

The black-knobbed pole came whistling down and smashed into his shoulder and he felt the bone slip free with an audible crack.

He screamed.

But even screams did not travel far through the thick stone walls.

“That is just one of many bones in your body, Haldir,” Tindómëtir chuckled wickedly. “We have a long ways to go yet.” The staff slapped at his bruised and bleeding legs in dark promise.

“How would you like to never wield a sword again?” he wondered as he paused with the cane poised a hairsbreadth above his captive’s right wrist. Haldir moaned softly, blinded by pain. But the dark elf withdrew.

Still not satisfied, Tindómëtir cut him loose with a terse slice of his short double edged dagger. Haldir landed hard on his hands and knees, wincing as the jagged stones cut into his palms and agony shot through his dislocated shoulder. The dark elf’s boot connected solidly with his ribs and he tumbled onto his back, gasping at the sharp pain that stabbed through him. Before he could recover himself, the dark elf was on him, a boot planted firmly on his chest, grinding him slowly into the broken floor.

Haldir’s face screwed up in agony and a sharp groan escaped his lips. A harsh strike with the very tip of the weapon slammed the side of his face against the ground and the needle-sharp tip of a rock gouged into his cheek. Releasing his hold on the other, Tindómëtir walked casually around the bleeding, battered form of the Lórien elf.

“It would be entirely too easy to kill you,” he laughed cruelly, twitching the pole in his hand and enjoyed watching the elf flinch away. Pain-filled grey eyes lifted and caught Kirar’s who was staring at him in abject horror, frozen, unable or unwilling to interrupt.

Sliding out unnoticed, the elven lieutenant leaned against the closed door, passing a trembling hand over his eyes. He took a deep steadying breath as a cry from within electrified him into motion, sprinting down the hall as fast as his legs could take him from the horror he had witnessed.

Tindómëtir did not even notice. But Haldir felt a sinking sensation in his chest. He couldn’t even blame the other elf for leaving him to his tormentor. All of them had in one way or another, whether serving him or against him, had suffered under the hands of Ainan or his allies. This was no different. But it didn’t blunt the sharp disappointment Haldir felt and the shame and vulnerability that burned in him as Tindómëtir leered over him.

The dark elfÂ’s cutting voice dragged him back into awareness of his position accompanied by a reminding touch with the staff.

“This would be so much easier for you, Haldir, if you would just tell me where the Queen is and her rabble.”

“I would rather die,” the elf captain spat boldly. His defiant remark seemed as though it would come true as the crippling pain roiled through him. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt the implement on his back though the dark elf was no longer hitting him.

He closed his eyes, feeling the floor sway beneath his knees. His senses were in overdrive and he could feel and hear everything: the crunch of the stones under his tormentorÂ’s boots, the wind in the trees outside, howling amid the chinks in the stone, the slam of a door down the hall. He tried to focus on these sounds rather than on the agony flowing through him.

“That can be arranged,” Tindómëtir leered cruelly. He tilted the insolent elf’s chin up with the tip of the bloodstained pole, staring down into his pain-glazed eyes. “Ainan may have some use for you alive but I have no compunction against making your end long and slow.”

He left Haldir lying upon the floor, scarcely clinging to consciousness. His world had become pain and all was dark before his eyes. He felt as though he were floating in a sea of fire and did not even realize it when Tindómëtir stopped and left him slumped and shivering against the wall.

His senses were shutting down, closing off everything, all light, sound, feeling.

“I want you to linger for a while, Haldir,” he said. “I cannot let you die in the first hour.”

It wasnÂ’t possible. Had it only been an hour? Haldir thought desperately with his wavering coherency. LegolasÂ…IÂ’m sorryÂ…I failedÂ…

“I only need you to suffer long enough to make a lasting impression.”

Haldir didnÂ’t know if he was talking about his mind or his skin but decided at the moment that he didnÂ’t care.

He felt dizzy and ill, able only to lie there and absorb the terrible abuse. His ribs and chest ached from where the dark elf had kicked him and he was sure he would have some rather impressive bruises to account for later. Rameil would be cross at him, he thought, giddily. His shoulder throbbed relentlessly, a piercing white hot pain that shot all the way down to the tips of his fingers.

Resting his forehead slowly against the coolness of the stone floor, he lay there, unable to move and not wanting to though the jagged tips of the rock dug into his hurting ribs and forehead.

He was so far gone he almost didnÂ’t hear the dark elfÂ’s last words to him.

“There shall be none left to mourn you when you are dead and forgotten.”

~*~

Legolas raised his heavy head as his cell door swung open. He hung from one wrist this time and his shoulder and still unhealed wrist throbbed abominably from the tension he was placing on them but he couldn’t get his feet under him. He flinched away as a shuttered lamp shone in his eyes and his visitor’s face was revealed fully in the light. The prince tensed, shrinking back against the wall as close as he was able as he recognized Tindómëtir’s lean form. His heart clenched as he looked closer at the elf who stood surveying him without a word.

Spatters of blood, scarcely visible against his dark clothes, showed clearly where it flecked the pale white skin of his hands and neck. Legolas felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as he wondered whose blood that was. But he had no further time for thought as Tindómëtir stalked towards him, freeing him from his chain with a vicious jerk, causing Legolas to cry out as the manacle ripped from his wrist, gouging long jagged scratches into his skin.

The dark elf nearly lifted the prince right off his feet as Legolas struggled fiercely against him, hating this elf with every fiber of his being.

“Let me go!” he roared, fighting savagely against the evil creature. Tindómëtir cuffed him hard across the face; Legolas stumbled only to be dragged upright by the thin elf’s cruel strength as he manhandled him out of the room and down the damp corridor. They halted before a thick set wooden door which the dark elf proceeded to open.

“This is what happens, little prince, when you do not do as you are told,” Tindómëtir smirked, throwing him to the broken stone beside the still form sprawled on the ground.

The prince scuttled away from the body, disgusted and horrified, his stomach turning over with nausea. But as his stomach settled, macabre curiosity overcame him and he leaned forward to try to glimpse the limp figureÂ’s face. He uttered a small cry and collapsed beside his friend, recognizing the gentle face in the dim radiance.

“Haldir,” he whimpered, his voice abruptly caught in his throat as he glanced over his friend’s oddly angled shoulder and saw the horrible dark purplish bruises marring the pale skin and the splintered remnants of what looked like wood. Legolas swallowed hard, feeling the bile rise in his mouth.

He whirled back towards the door, red hot anger burning in his small body. Unconsciously, his hands clenched into fists, longing to strike the horrible one who had done this. Tears of anger and sorrow stung his eyes but he did not allow them to fall.

Not for him.

Tindómëtir still stood there in the doorway, watching him with a small, satisfied smirk on his thin face. Without a word, he turned away from the heat of the elf-prince’s eyes and swung the door shut behind him.

With the loud thud of the door, Legolas felt his anger drain away and cold fear rush in to take its place as he turned back towards his friend. Horrid, gut-wrenching dread squeezed his chest.

One by one, he began to dig out the shards of stone and splinters deeply embedded in HaldirÂ’s flesh with shaking hands. It seemed to take forever and his fingers were smeared with blood when he was finished but Haldir had made no move and his eyes had not opened.

“Please, Haldir–IÂ’m so sorry–everything I saidÂ… Oh, please wake up,” Legolas pleaded softly, shaking his shoulder urgently.

But Haldir did not move. He lay so still and so quiet on the sharp-toothed rocks of the floor; his golden hair fallen limply over his face, shimmering in the dim light. He looked so peaceful as to be almost asleep- except his eyes were closed. The young elf, looking down at his serene face, thought him dead. Tears slipped from his eyes at last and fell on HaldirÂ’s face as the prince leaned over him, listening for breath and hearing none.

“You promised,” Legolas whispered, slumping beside his friend, staring tearfully at his still face. “You promised you would not leave me.”

Heartbroken, the little prince lay down, draping one of HaldirÂ’s limp cold arms over himself. He didnÂ’t know what he held onto any more. What kept him here? For the first time since this entire affair had started, Legolas wished he could die.

His last words to his friend had been ones of hate.