Title: The Capture Author: White Rose of Rivendell Author's Email: lexxquisite@comcast.net Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn Rating: NC 17 Summary: Begins after Moria, but before Lorien. The fellowship is captured. What will be their fate…? Disclaimer: I will neva own any of these characters or movie, book, etc. But since I no longer play with dolls, I must amuse myself with other characters. Warning: Rape Authors Notes: This is my first, but don’t be gentle. I love hard honesty-please give me some feedback! And then they were captured. None of them seemed to know how. Confusion swept over the small fellowship. Each travel-worn face looked about the sea of assorted weapons that mirrored their own weakened forces. The elf, his keen senses all but supernatural, had let the horde of mangy, disheveled warriors appear unbeknownst. The dwarf, his courage and veracity undaunted by his stature, did not make the first swing; and so the ambush was unscathed. The Four hobbits, who had been drawn into this intrigue by chance or perhaps by fate, were not warriors. They hid behind the man from Gondor who towered above them, his mind reeling; and yet he seemed as calm as a panther gauging his prey. And the king, not yet a king, felt his doubts growing with each passing moment. A trail lost, signs of a large traveling mass unseen, a mistake that could cost his companions their lives. But here they stood, though here they would not stand. A large, bearded, armor-clad man rose above the surrounding lemmings. His jaw jutted proudly, arrogantly forward. His men did not move; he seemed to rise forever, as if the sheer malevolence of the group before them was surging toward the now looming canopy of the forest. The sounds of the foliage, of the ground, of Middle Earth seemed to halt. A piercing silence filled the circle now narrowing around them. They were obviously some kind of subterranean forest peoples. There was sticky dirt enveloping each muscle-bound, tensed body. Their armor was uniform indicating an organization level equal to their own. Though it was not the clean, shinning brilliance worn by neither man nor elf. But what struck the fellowship most harshly, most violently, was the sickening lack of pigment in these emaciated faces that stared at them with a grotesque thirst. It tempted their imaginations; the horror factories of their minds produced images that made all inwardly shudder. Neither man, nor elf, nor dwarf, nor hobbit could stand to their natural height. They had succumbed to the mere fact that, while on a journey of concentration, the utmost security, in which the fate of their reality hung in the balance, they were captured. Frodo looked to Aragorn; he was frightened and Strider usually succeeded in reassuring him. But he would not find solace in the tight face of the ranger. He could see the same fear marring the man’s features. Aragorn always tried to keep his emotions under control, but he could not ignore the growing sense of danger plaguing his thoughts. Frodo looked at his fellow hobbits. They too stared at the horde with trepidation. He could see that they were thinking of the Shire, asking themselves why they had ever left. Now they did not know if they would ever see their beloved home again. Frodo’s eyes wandered to Boromir and Gimli. The two stood motionless, ready for anything. Their warrior eyes darted around the large group before them, looking for a weakness. In their hearts, they knew there was no escape, but nevertheless they continued to scan their surroundings. Finally, Frodo looked to Legolas, a last attempt at finding some comfort and strength amidst his fear-stricken companions. Though he was not particularly close with Legolas, he knew of the elf’s vigor. Even so, restrained apprehension showed in every part of the prince’s body. He sensed, as Aragorn did, an air of peril. A vile threat played at the back of his mind and it involuntarily made his strong chest tense and his stomach turn. Frodo dejectedly took his eyes off the group around him and instead looked to the steady ground on which he stood. And so they walked, knowing that each move could set off a flurry of weapons. The Leader had commanded them to move upon penalty of death; they realized a fight now would succeed in nothing. They knew not where they were going, nor what would happen when they got there. They only knew that their spirits, already heavy from the events at Moria, would receive an insurmountable blow. ~ ~ ~ Pippin was knocked to the ground, “Move faster hobbit!” a large captor growled. Pippin tried to scramble to his feet… but it was not fast enough. The leaves rustled around him. Small jagged rocks burned his hands. The captor lunged forward and grabbed the back of the hobbit’s tunic. In an effortless move, the threatening man lifted the half ling off the ground. The beast held him in the air; six feet above the earth, he was in the balance. “Let’s get rid of the half lings, they slow our pace,” the Captor’s large, callused hand closed over Pippin’s groin and he was lifted high over the Captor’s head. A small cry came strained from Pippin’s grimacing face. He was terrified; an unabated tear fell off of his tiny cheek. The rest of the fellowship tensed nervously as the Captor shouted to the surrounding beasts. “Kill them! We have no need of them!” the Captor rallied, “We have our prize,” His eyes shined red, the thirst he carried… and the greed… resurfacing his features. “You would die first,” Legolas stepped toward where the Captor stood tall and steadfast. But he was stopped by every sword and spear wielded in his direction, for they were seconds away from lacerating his ivory skin. “Enough!” The Leader’s voice boomed over the noise, silencing any sound that that moment had contained. “You will not harm him,” the weapons dropped sharply. The intense faces of the men were suddenly calm and disciplined under the command of their leader. “Kaelas, release the half ling. They still may fetch a price,” his smile pierced Legolas more forcefully than any spear or sword. The Leader’s fixed stare on the elf revealed a strange glint in his eye. “ We will bring them in unspoilt.” ~ ~ ~ The Captor’s dwellings were underground, built in the rocky hillsides. Large caverns were transformed into a clamoring market. Some appeared to be housing, some appeared to be shops, and some appeared to be…their destination… a dark prison. Another order growled by the Leader and they were dragged further into the earth. Massive torches lighted the way down the dark, musty passageway. The air was as thick as the red clay and chiseled, brown rocks that made the walls of their cage. The tunnel was narrow. The enclosure made Legolas shudder, as he was accustomed to being in the open forest. The fellowship walked single file, the four guards maintaining uncomfortably close positions to the front and rear. They were armed with long-handled axes; the sharp blades glimmered in the wavering light of the torches. The guards at the front seemed to be swallowed by the darkness of the cramped passage as they made their way further and further down. The two men walked first and the hobbits followed. Gimli was next; he maneuvered down the unending stairs with all the grace a dwarf could muster, while keeping his thoughts to himself. Being a dwarf, he was not uncomfortable in the tight space, but he knew of the danger ahead. His eyes searched for a fault, for some way to escape. He found none and so his frustration and anger grew with every step. Legolas was last, which was not a coincidence. The cell they were thrown into was a stone and iron box with remnants of the masses of folk and animals that previously resided there, no doubt from those who would not catch a price, or would not let a price catch them. There were equal sized cells on each side of the hallway. At the end, there were a few smaller compartments with large wooden doors and naught but a barred window for what little light the torches provided. However, these special cages only took up one side of the wall; they faced regular cells on the opposite side, which seemed to double as storage space. As the bars on their cage slammed home, the companions could not help but have their hearts sink even further. The sinister noise indelibly etched itself in their minds and the small fellowship let out the breath they had been collectively holding. The One Ring had begun to grow heavy on Frodo’s neck and he leaned his head against the rough cylinders that held them captured. “What now?” Merry asked looking around the group. He was tired and had little hope left. His eyes came to rest on Aragorn whom he had learned to trust. The ranger would know what to do. “We will wait,” Aragorn evenly answered. “Wait,” Frodo whispered to himself, his face falling under the weight of self-doubt. He turned to face his companions; looking at each one, his eyes fell to Aragorn. But the words of protest would not be uttered. His face contorted with worry and horror. Seeing this, Aragorn looked about the room… and leapt to his feet. It was Frodo’s words though that finally stilled the confusion. The chaos that had been their capture and imprisonment came to a stiffening conclusion. “Where’s Legolas?” ~ ~ ~ For a long time the corridor lay silent. The muffled footsteps of the guard were the only sign of life in the dank prison. All had been quietly pondering their situation in the cell. Then the echoing screams began. The sentry routinely walked the hallway as if he had heard nothing. But Aragorn felt it spread through his veins. Sam, Merry, and Pippin’s heads flung up in unison from their positions against the left side of the cage as Boromir listened, head tilted to the side, opposite them. Frodo had lingered at the front, a testimony to his failing resolve and desperation to continue his quest. The Ring called to Sauron, it hung upon his neck as a gauntlet. And the cries of pain, that he knew to be Legolas’, combined with the darkness, all but crushed his gentle hope. Pippin slowly and silently came to stand beside Frodo. His sweet face was in stark contrast to the stoic iron. He peered out into the hallway. Perhaps if he looked hard enough, he could see his elven companion. And perhaps if they could all see him, their sheer will would allow them freedom. Would allow them to retrieve their lost allies on this perilous journey. But this was foolish, and his thoughts turned. “What are they doin’ ta…” Pippin looked across the room, “What will they do ta us?” Aragorn stood, his determination lighting his rough features. The strong frame of the ranger was imposing and yet his wisdom and experience softened his face, “I have seen them before, though only once. They are underground warriors and tradesmen of the Black Market. They trade whatever may be traded; put a price on whatever may be desired. They do not travel conspicuously, for their profession does not allow for comfort of…”a brief silence echoed his last word and he paused as if contemplating a new idea, “…light.” The thought came to Aragorn in an instant. But the rest of the cage’s residents, however, did not follow what Aragorn was thinking. He looked down to his companions who were still spread across the cell floor. Seeing the confusion on their faces, he continued, “They do not leave the cover of this place, this dark forest, except under cover of nightfall,” his voice lowered as he leaned into the center of his fellows who now stood close about him. “We can make our escape during daylight. If we can make it to the woods of Lothlorien, we will be safe,” Before any of them could answer, another scream prompted the group to look up in time to see the sentry on another round. They quickly dispersed. Aragorn watched the scruffy guard saunter down the hallway and back again as yet another cry of his friend rose up and through the deep caverns like a thick, ominous mist. It clawed at his soul. He came to stand at the front of their enclosure, grasping the cool bars with both hands. Even with his ranger instincts and consummate control, his eyes shed a tear and he quietly confessed to the air before him. “I fear we will be tortured." ~ ~ ~ The outside air felt cool on their faces. Though it was the early fall months, the night in these woods left no comfort of heat. The prisoners did not mind for the air was fresh, even fragrant compared to the dusty, cave-swallowed humidity that permeated their cell. They could see the woods disappearing into the darkness. Under different circumstances, the motley assortment of trees would provide for a happy setting, perhaps a torch-lit party as they often had in the Shire. The grey, moss-covered rock wall of the caverns rose up behind them, a reminder that they had nowhere to run. There were three guards, two to the sides and one in front. Their torchlight played upon the shivering leaves and steady, uneven surfaces of the tree trunks. The fellowship had been lined up out here. Perhaps in case these monsters had decided to get rid of a few of them as they had so threatened. The hobbits shifted nervously under the scrutiny of the guards. Boromir and Gimli’s form was solid, but their eyes gave away their apprehension. Let the psychological torture continue, Aragorn thought looking to the ground. The last to be brought out was Legolas. And though they had been told to strictly face forward, Aragorn regarded his friend. The elf stood tall with but a piece of tattered cloth wrapped about his waist; no shoes, his delicate braids had been taken out and his hair now lay haphazardly around his shoulders. The light strewn across this meeting ground seemed to be drawn to this pale beauty. It played across his barren chest and slid down his arms and out into the night. All were glad to see him, for they had not been sure he was alive. Aragorn slyly attempted to get Legolas’ attention, for the two of them did not need spoken language. But his head hung and he would only face the ground. Aragorn, at first, did not understand. Legolas always stood tall and statuesque. He was a proud warrior of Mirkwood with skills and poise, unwavering resolve and control that surpassed his own, even on the best of days. Legolas’ body showed no signs of punishment or torture save for a few crimson scratches on his back. His friend would stand up to torture, Aragorn was sure. But his eyes searched deeper into his friend and he realized it had not been torture. The Leader once again appeared before the fellowship. He did not speak, but walked down the line appraising each of his captures. “My Lord,” the guard from the prison spoke, “You should be made aware that this one,” his jagged finger pointed to Aragorn, “ Has been plotting with the others.” “Hmmm,” the Leader mused, “These seven we will sell at auction the day following tomorrow. But this one…” he raised his hand and felt the muscles on Legolas’ arm, “Raise your head elf!” Legolas did as he was commanded, his crystal eyes coming to rest on the ugliness that stood inches from him. “What is your name elf?” Legolas did not speak, his mouth set firm, his eyes holding back the indignant rage inside. The Leader was displeased. His hand rose once again, though this time he struck Legolas across his face. The force nearly knocked his head from his shoulders and he had to take a step to the side to keep from falling. The Leader’s sour, hot breath was upon him. “What is your name elf?!?” Legolas stood up tall, his head now raised to its natural height. With a renewed strength that he gathered from the Leader’s sheer arrogance, he proudly answered, “Legolas of the Woodland Realm,” His eyes were straight forward, staring into the lush woods, the darkness not twenty feet away looking every bit better than the darkness that was here. “Good elf. Now…” the Leader’s tone was gentle, “Forget your name. This is not the ‘Woodland Realm’,” His voice grew strong and forceful, “You are not a being! You are property, my property. And my property does not have a name unless I see fit to call it by one. Do you understand elf?” He now circled Legolas, looking as if her could tear him apart at any moment, “What is your name, elf?” Fury burned bright beneath the archer’s clear eyes and he responded even more forcefully than before, “Legolas…” he shouted into the night, “Warrior of the Woodland Realm!!” He glanced in defiance at the Leader, apathetic to the atrocious consequences that lay in store. The beast became enraged at this act of insolence, his body swelling to the point of near explosion. A solitary vein pulsed at his temple as he viciously grabbed Legolas’ silken hair, pulling the elf down to kneel in front of him. He took the long sword from the sturdy guard next to him. Bringing the gleaming blade to the prince’s neck, he began to slowly draw blood, his hand moving with practiced calculation, “I own you, and until you are sold and make me a wealthier man, I will use you as I do the door to my dwelling…,” He tugged fiercely back, causing Legolas’ head to painfully jerk. The elf winced as the self-righteous Leader continued, “… anytime I wish. And you will obey.” And with that he tore the cloth from Legolas’ body. The elf’s eyes closed for a second as this action inflicted a slight sense of humiliation, even for his kind. “Beast!” Aragorn’s voice burst forth, full of indignant rage. He tried to grab the Leader, but the guards stopped his efforts. Boromir went to Aragorn’s aid, but was slammed over the head by the third guard. Aragorn struggled in the Captor’s humongous arms. The Leader walked slowly and calmly toward the ranger, “Perhaps we will only sell the dwarf and half lings at auction. These two men may need some…breaking.” ~ ~ ~ They were again escorted down the long, dark tunnel to their cell. Only this time, Aragorn was escorted much further down the hall; down to the end where he was thrown into one of the small, dark cells. The old, splintered wooden door crackled as it shut behind him. He looked out of the small iron grate and squinted to see through the dimly lit hallway. The doors continued, maybe three or four more down the corridor toward his former cell. He could not see his friends, but the quiet of the low-lying prison allowed for him to at least hear their muffled voices. It was a comfort, even if he could not make out what they were saying. Aragorn sat at the far end of his cage. The dim light of the torch, under the control of darkness, aimed a straight line into his soul. This darkness was not unnerving; he had been in worse. Besides, the worry of what would happen to his companions now that they were separated, what would happen to Legolas… That worry would soon be sated as Aragorn heard one of the doors to the regular cells opposite him scream open. He rushed to his door and peered out the tiny opening. He was relieved to see Legolas being escorted into the cell, “Legolas,” he whispered. The elf tilted his head slightly to see Aragorn. His delicate features were now heavy upon his face. The guard slammed his spear against the wooden door of Aragorn’s cell. But Aragorn did not move. His relief soon left him as he saw his friend being pushed in, and then followed by, the Leader. Legolas was thrown to the ground under the force of the callous man. His smooth skin scraped against the rough stones of the cave floor. The Leader came to hover over him, “Stand elf.” Legolas hesitated, uneager for what he knew would happen. The Leader grew angry with this and kicked Legolas hard in his back. He cried out in pain as his spine arched. His breath became heavy as he attempted to breathe out the injury. He slowly lifted himself off the floor and stood up tall in front of the Leader, his eyes squarely set on the hideous face. His naked body seemed to glow despite the awful darkness and muted flicker of the torches. His frame was narrow, not particularly that of a fierce warrior, but he was sculpted, strong; a calm intensity flowed through his veins. Like all elves, he was a beauty of the rarest form, and that is why he would be so highly desired. The Leader lifted his enormous hand and ran it along Legolas’ strong collarbone. Legolas pulled his shoulder away, a small act of defiance. He knew he could not stop the plans set in motion for him. His resistance had not worked before and it would not work now. The sickness that invaded his body was overpowering to say the least. Little did the Captors know, if he could not be healed from this promptly, there would be no saving him, and anyone who might see fit to purchase the beautiful elf would undoubtedly be dissatisfied. And yet, he wanted this Black Market trader to know that there was still fight left in him. He would not be defeated easily. Unfortunately, this declaration was met with stars as the Leader slammed him across the face and punched him brutally in the stomach. It was so hard that Legolas thought the man’s fist might have reached all the way back to his spine. He doubled over in pain, his chest heaving. The Leader maintained his violent silence. He grabbed Legolas by the shoulders and threw him up against the cold, iron bars. Their bodies collided and the Leader held the elf’s wrists tightly. He proceeded to kiss him, the hardened lips forcing themselves upon the elf, grinding against his teeth. His arms were forced above his head, now held in but one of the Leader’s massive hands while the other searched his body. He grabbed soft folds of skin as his tongue entered the elf’s mouth. The smell and feel of it revolted Legolas and he tried to turn away. But the Leader forced their bodies harder against the unrelenting bars and he could not keep from crying out. The man, taking this opportunity, once again dove into the sweet mouth of the elf. He began to grind his hips into his soft skin. He kicked open the elf’s legs, separating them till his callused hand came to rest on the silky flesh between them. The elf’s face contorted as the hand began to massage him in long, smooth strokes. Then, Legolas’ hands were suddenly released. “Touch me elf,” his voice rasped with lust. His eyes tore into the elf. Slowly, the archer’s hands lowered, his shoulders thankful for the relief, and lightly caressed the dark, filthy skin before him. Across the severe muscles of his chest and down the plains of his stomach the elf’s elegant hands reluctantly searched. A slender hand stayed at the mud-encrusted belt of the Leaders’ trousers. He attempted to glide his fingers back up, but his hand was caught once again. The Leader grasped the back of the elf’s head compellingly, threatening to tear out the exquisite flaxen tresses; he forced the elf downward. The elf was now being made to kneel before his captor. Aragorn could only watch in horror from his cell. Each sadistic move reached deep into his soul. Try as he may, he would not be able to help his friend. Legolas’ agony would spread through the cave like wildfire. And Aragorn would be there to listen to it, to witness it. The Leader unfastened his trousers, letting his erection spill out before the elf. Legolas’ mouth instinctively tightened. The back of his head was soon gripped a second time and brought forth against the Leaders’ groin. There was no hair, just skin as course as the rest of this soiled body. Legolas closed his mouth tighter as the Leader attempted to insert himself. This act of insolence was met with a stinging slap in the face by the Leader’s formidable erection. This stunned the elf for a second, but that was all the Leader needed. He thrust into the elf’s warm mouth. He rocked back and forth, pulling the elf’s head further down upon him till it reached deep into the elf’s throat. The silken, blond mane spilled over his shoulders and flowed like water as each motion was repeated. He wanted to choke, he wanted to fight, he wanted to scream. But the force of the man raping him was too great. Even if he fought, a guard would soon be upon him, and once more, he would be shackled. Incarcerated for no more than resisting a man who would inflict pain on him for his own pleasure. Manacled because he was who he was, and as an elf, proudest and fairest of all beings, he would still not be seen as such. His thoughts quickly subsided as the Leader grew harder in the elf’s mouth and he grunted with nauseating pleasure. The sound would have made the elf vomit, had he been allowed any food or water since the capture. The Leader soon drew the elf up to stand before him. He licked his own salty liquid from the Mirkwood elf’s trembling lips. The elf’s breath caught in his throat, “I…am Legolas of the Woodland Realm and you…will NEVER… own me!” The Leader’s rage came upon Legolas like a hurricane. He grabbed him by the neck and threw him against the rock wall of the cell. He bounded toward Legolas with all the malice this tiny cage could hold. His hand closed around the princes’ arm. His crumpled body was lifted up and almost off the ground as the Leader flung him forward like a rag doll over one of the leftover barrels stored in this cell. Legolas’ breath was taken from him as his chest hit the hard wood. The Leader spread Legolas’ legs wide open as he made himself ready. Finding the taut ring between Legolas’ supple cheeks, he drove his hardness into the pinky flesh without preparation or warning. Blood from the fresh tears in the soft skin was the only lubricant. Legolas howled in pain. Frodo’s head popped up hearing the now familiar sound. The cry resonated against the cave walls. All in the cell became silent. Sam and Merry looked at each other, worry clouding their little faces. They quickly looked toward the scream; not being able to stand the horrified looks on each other’s face. Pippin sat alone, a small tear visible on his petite face. Merry walked over to his friend and sat down next to him, immediately wrapping his arms around Pippin’s body. The hobbit inched closer and defeatedly put his head on Merry’s comforting shoulder. Boromir and Gimli tried to not listen to Legolas’ shrieks in the darkness. They sat together, secretly attempting to gain strength from each other, trying to make a plan of escape. Aragorn beat against the solid wooden door. He could not help his friend and this impotence was taking him over the edge. In a tormented fury that rivaled the helpless elf’s, he shrieked at the Leader to stop. The malicious man seemed to enjoy Aragorn’s participation and forcefully ground himself further into the elf eliciting an even more pained cry from his victim. Being a man of honor and knowing the resolve of his friend, Aragorn would not beg. His footsteps heavy and purposeful, he paced in his cell. Nothing, he could do nothing, he could think of nothing, no escape, and no relief. A muffled cry came from Legolas’ cell and Aragorn ran to the small window in time to see the Leader closing one hand over the elf’s mouth and the other around his delicate throat. He would kill this man; he would not let Legolas’ pain have no purpose. The Leader aggressively thrust into Legolas. Harder and faster they became as his lust grew. He reached down till his foul breath buffeted Legolas’ ear and his forcible chest scraped the even skin of his back. A coarse hand once again closed around Legolas’ manhood. His touch was as intense as his grinding hips and Legolas, though he desperately tried, could not stop what he felt budding inside; he became hard. The Leader’s smile was predatory, “See, I own you, elf,” his voice sliced through the thick air around them. He used that word as if it were a slur, a badge of inferiority. Legolas was an elf, a proud elf, but he had never been called by his people’s name in a way that intended to bring shame upon him. The Leader ran his fingers gently over the tip of one of Legolas’ pointed ears, making him shudder with terrible pleasure, in order to accentuate his point of ownership. The salty sweat of the Leader’s brow and neck drizzled onto Legolas’ back, falling into the open scratches. A strained cry turned into a light moan as it escaped Legolas’ lips. He raised his head, biting back another pained whimper. Looking out through the cold, iron bars of this hell he was trapped in, he could see Aragorn’s frustrated face starring out through the small grate in his cell door. Legolas met his compassionate gaze with an aggrieved expression that ripped Aragorn’s heart to shreds and made his muscles tense with anger. He wanted to look away from his friend. He wanted to sit down and cover his ears, for he could not bear this torture. But to Legolas, Aragorn’s face was the only comforting thing in this cavern of darkness, and Aragorn knew it. He must not turn away for the sake of his friend. He must somehow project his strength to Legolas. And though they did not need them, he whispered the elven words, “Hold on Legolas.” The tears, already welled in his eyes, spilled over as he lowered his head. His face fell with anguish till it was unable to move any more. The smell of the wooden barrel let him know that there had once been some kind of spirit in there; it nauseated him even more. His hands were now restrained behind his back, held by both hands of the Leader. They increasingly pushed on his spine, cramping the muscles around it. The Leader pulled one of Legolas’ hands away, bringing it to his mouth. He licked and bit the thin flesh on Legolas’ wrist. The Prince tried in vain to wrench his hand away from the slobbering, depraved creature, but this act was only met with heated anger. His arm twisted as the Leader jerked back. Lightning shot through his shoulder and he gritted his teeth to halt his cry of excruciating pain. The Leader’s erection delved deeper into his opening as the jagged teeth threatened to tear his ivory skin. Their breathing harmonized as the Leader once again turned his attention to Legolas’ hardness. Legolas gasped, the pain running like currents through his body was exquisite. The strokes became faster as the thrusting became more urgent. The atmosphere surrounding them became thick as dew and hot as a bonfire. The unearthly energy surged inside and Legolas was now aglow with light. The Leader came inside him violently, pulling himself out with contracting force. His member dripped with the candy-sweet blood of an elf. And though he urgently tried, Legolas could not withstand the pressure built up within him. His hot, white liquid flowed down the side of the barrel as hot tears flowed down the sides of his face. Legolas’ last cry out was not particularly caused by the physical pain that burned in his body, but of the grotesque guilt, the overwhelming emotion, and on setting denial. This night had held a double-edged sword. Legolas collapsed onto the floor, crying openly; the loose sticks of straw stuck to his sweat and entangled themselves in his hair. He bled freely onto the red clay rock of the cell floor. Slivers of wood from the barrel had become lodged in his chest. The whole of his nakedness pulsed as he lay on his side in a fetal position, staring coldly at the Leader, his elven eyes shinning. The Leader stood proudly above him. Still out of breath from the rape, he smiled. “Just as I do the door to my dwelling, elf,” And with a final kick in the stomach, the Leader turned and called for the guard. Aragorn angrily watched. The Leader came to pause in front of his cell and again smiled triumphantly. Aragorn pushed on the door, slamming his fist against it with all his might. The Leader just strolled away, laughing. And though the white-hot anger raged inside him, he turned his concentration back to his friend. Legolas lie in the same spot; he did not move, save for an occasional shudder. “Legolas,” the elf did not respond, “Auta yevalme, Legolas.” Hearing Aragorn’s assurance that they would escape, Legolas pushed himself up on one arm, his legs folded to the side. His hair cascaded, appearing unusual without the restraint of his fine braids. It took him what seemed like ages to finally lift his eyes to Aragorn. And, though his look was imploring, Legolas said nothing. His lower lip trembled, his face heavy, falling once again under the weight. He wanted to believe his friend, but his mind was filled with darkness, no thoughts of light would be allowed to enter. He scooted his sore and ravaged body to the wall far opposite the barrels. It was there he hung his head. ~ ~ ~ The remaining members of the fellowship sat huddled together. Boromir and Gimli had come up with a plan. On the last round, the guard had inadvertently kicked a piece of metal toward the cell. Boromir quickly picked it up before the man had a chance to turn. He had noticed that these creatures were not of the brightest variety. So, as he had predicted, the sentry passed without incident. They would now wait for the changing of the guard and then use the piece of metal as a makeshift tourniquet. If they could open the bars a small amount, one of the hobbits could squeeze out. “Well, yes, but who will go? They’ll see us before we can get the keys,” Pippin said worriedly looking from his fellow hobbits to the skilled warrior before him. Boromir took in Pippin’s frightened face. The fear had never left his eyes since they had been captured. It was one of the few constants in this dark underworld. The man from Gondor hated the way it disfigured the young hobbit’s pure features. He did not respond to Pippin’s question. Instead, he shifted himself to look upon the Ringbearer. Frodo caught Boromir’s glance and knew what may have to be done, his overwhelming sense of duty causing him to respond with his own quiet brashness. “I’ll go.” They figured it would be near morning when the guards changed, and, if they could make it out of the caves and into the fields, the Captors may not follow. They all watched as the new guard took his first round down the hallway and back. He carried clothes in his hand, which the group all recognized as Legolas’. Perhaps it had been decided to sell him with the others at auction that night. He would look more pleasing, more elvish, to a buyer interested in an elvish sex slave. They had become more popular as the immortals had begun to leave these shores for the Undying Lands. As soon as the guard left, their plan went into action. They knew that they would have to work fast before his next round. Frodo pulled off his tunic and Boromir soaked it as best he could in the murky water that ran down the cave wall. They skillfully tied it around two of the bars at the end of the cage. Each one strained to turn the metal. It inched and inched as their muscles began to burn. Frodo tried to squeeze through. But it was to no avail. They were not yet far enough apart. The other hobbits gathered some water and mixed it with their own saliva in an attempt to grease Frodo through. Merry and Pippin pushed on his shoulder as Sam spilled more water down his chest. With a small thud, Frodo hit the ground on the other side. They unwound the cloth and backed up into the cell. The rest was up to Frodo. He crept down the hallway, stopping at the corner just before the guard’s post. Luck was with him, for the guard was asleep. Naturally, this was not his time, these Captors conducted most business at night. But he could not have hoped for a better situation. Frodo did not wish to use the Ring if he did not have to, as the Wraiths would be warned of his position. But if he had to, he would not hesitate to do so, for they would eventually find him anyway. He started toward the keys that hung on the back of the guard’s chair. Slowly, cautiously, he crept along the cave floor. Suddenly, the guard stirred. In an instant, Frodo disappeared. The world swirled about, threatening to take him along. He could feel the eye of Sauron upon him. It was a most horrible, wretched feeling. But Frodo was focused; he tiptoed up behind the guard and waited. In another minute, the guard fell back asleep, his slow, rasping breath souring the air around them. Frodo grabbed the keys and held them close so as not to let them jingle. He ran back down the corridor and hurriedly took off the ring. The sudden appearance of the Ringbearer half startled the group. But, knowing they had no time to spare, they quietly opened the cell door. “Wait here,” Boromir said as he ran down the hallway. He stopped at Aragorn’s cell and quickly opened the door. The ranger jumped up off of the cold, hard floor where he had been crouched. He thanked Valar not only for rewarding his faith in his kin, but also because in Boromir’s haste, the Gondorian had failed to notice his moist, reddened eyes. The loud creak had alerted the guard who swiftly ran down the corridor. He did not stop to notice that, while the hobbits and dwarf were in their cell, the door was not secured. As he reached the wide-open wooden door whose cell was apparently empty, his eyes shifted away to the other cell where Legolas sat undisturbed, eyes downcast. The guard turned back and foolishly stuck his head into the darkened cell and was met with a sharp blow on the base of his neck. Knocked out on the floor, Boromir came out from the spot where he had hid behind the door, in order to help Aragorn. They bound his hands to his feet and gagged him using pieces of the guard’s own uniform. “Go ahead. I will free Legolas,” Boromir threw the keys to Aragorn, understanding the insistent look that was first thrown his way. With that, he ran down the darkened corridor. Aragorn approached the cage door and swiftly unlocked the heavy bolt. He kneeled beside Legolas, not knowing quite what to expect as the elf had barely looked up. “Auta yevalme,” he repeated, gently putting his hand on Legolas’ shoulder. He could tell something was wrong, more so than just what damage the rape had caused. He continued ardently, his strong voice echoing in the hollow of the cell… “We will escape, Legolas.” ~ ~ ~ The small group, thankful to be together again, ran up the narrow stairwell. Aragorn grabbed a torch as they hastened to the bustling marketplace. Dozens of Captors and buyers rushed about, yelling and arguing to get the best price, the best deal. The fellowship moved like a flock of silent birds through the dense crowd. It was a wonder anything was ever sold over the calamitous din. Shops were set up haphazardly around the edges of the cave. Each boasted the rarest, most expensive and desired goods, while looking as if they had been given to ruin. The air was humid and seemed to weigh on the tattered canopies of the various booths surrounding them. The fellowship pulled their hoods over their faces and heads. They moved progressively, stopping behind carts and protruding rocks. They deftly maneuvered to the hidden opening of these massive caverns. Few even raised their heads to the sight of the escaping band of creatures. The buyers were busy, angry and frustrated by the haggling dealers. The only visible Captors were obviously salesmen and served no purpose in the acquiring of such goods. Believing that they had made good their escape, they began to run through the forest. Then the rustling of leaves began. A few twigs were heard snapping in the distance behind them. The Captors had discovered them missing. They now ran for their lives, knowing if they were caught, the punishment would be…severe. Faster and faster over hill and dale; they bounded over fallen branches and forded the creeks without hesitation. The sound of the Captors’ chase was deafening. The footsteps were hard, pounding in their ears, squeezing their hearts and lungs till they could barely draw breath. The Captors no longer needed stealth; they openly pursued their prey. Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin were falling behind; and Gimli was not much further ahead of them. Their short legs hindered their pace. Ahead, Aragorn briefly stopped to give the half lings time to catch up. As the hobbits reached him, he drew Frodo up and onto his back. Boromir did the same with Sam. Legolas looked at Gimli, who half expected a smart remark from the elf, but Legolas said nothing and went about picking up Pippin. His arms labored under the weight, which normally would not have been a problem for the warrior elf. Gimli was a bit confused, but that confusion would dissipate in an instant as the reality of the Captor’s proximity shattered the moment. Fear washed over the eyes and bodies of the fellowship. Though fresh air flowed freely through the autumn forest, it was now thick with trepidation. With every ounce of strength they ran. The outer edge of the forest drew near. The Captors would not follow them across the large rocky clearing for fear of exposure. And no one would follow into the woods of Lothlorien, for they were believed to be perilous, overseen by an elf witch with horribly tremendous power. The horde of Captors was ready to pounce. Looking back for a split second, Merry caught a first glimpse of them tearing through the landscape. Their armor was slung over them, dirt and stench marking their insolent path before Mother Nature. Merry pumped his little legs as fast as they would go. Dread drove him; it sent rivets of adrenaline rushing all over his body. They passed the line of trees that marked the end of this terrible woodland. But, even knowing this, they did not drop their grueling pace. It was not certain that the Captors would not pass, merely hopeful speculation. All were out of breath; their muscles ached under the strain, their chests heaved for air, and the one who was normally in the lead with unending stamina, was falling behind. Finally, Legolas could not carry Pippin any further. Aragorn and Boromir were also forced to put the hobbits down. Their strength could no longer withstand carrying two people in this sprint-like long distance. And so they all ran. Their feet dug into the soft grass to propel themselves toward their destination. For a moment, it seemed as if Lothlorien was becoming further and further away. They were now a good distance from the forest where they had been captured. Merry warily looked back once more. The Captors had indeed not followed. A smile crept over his exhausted face. “They’ve not followed!” he called to his companions. Aragorn stopped momentarily and turned. His eyes confirmed what Merry had said; no one was now in pursuit. He nodded his head with relieved acknowledgement, “Nevertheless, let us keep pace till we reach Lothlorien.” They ran a little slower now, relieved that they had succeeded in their escape unharmed. The previous events of their journey weighed like lead in their shoes. But they jogged up to the mouth of the woods thankful for the cover. Vulnerability had haunted them in the clearing. They now walked through the beautiful wood. The sun shone in streamers through the trees. Their heads turned round to take in the mythical surroundings. Leaves that gently fell around them breezed through the light wind creating a rainbow of fall color. This could distract anyone should they not know the rumors of this forest. “Stay close young hobbits,” Gimli said, “They say a great sorceress lives in these woods; an elf witch of terrible power. All who look upon her fall under her spell…” His words both intrigued and frightened the four hobbits, but they pressed on. “Frodo…” the lovely voice whispered like the very wind that carried these enchanted leaves falling before his feet. And though all was quiet and gentle, Frodo’s eyes darted warily around the forest. “…And they were never seen again,” Gimli finished dourly. But his words were drowned out by the growing voice surrounding Frodo. “Your coming to us is as footsteps of doom,” the voice whispered. Frodo closed his eyes attempting to shake the voice from his mind. He did not want to hear predictions of failure. He could not endure more negative fortellings. His brow furrowed and he barely realized that he had ceased walking, “You bring great evil here Ring bearer,” she warned. Frodo’s worries were once again creeping over him like a thick pall. Combined with the exhaustion he felt, it was difficult to even think. “Mr. Frodo?” Sam’s words barely touched Frodo’s ears. “Well, this is one dwarf she won’t ensnare so easily,” Gimli grumbled, “I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox,’ he boasted. But for all the bragging, he would soon come to turn around to the point of an arrow in his face. Once again they were captured, though this time it was not by lascivious traders. The striking faces staring evenly at them were undoubtedly elven. Even so, the same fear washed over them. To be captured twice? This time by the guard of she who is said to be an eloquent elvish witch? Everyway the fellowship turned, the delicate yet deadly arrows were there to meet them. Legolas reflexively pulled his bow and arrow, aiming right back at his fellow elves. He stood tall and steady as they did, but his stare betrayed him, for it was not tantamount to his kin. Aragorn raised his hands in peace, he was a friend to the elves, and growing up amongst them he learned how to effectively deal with precarious situations. But his worries diminished a bit when he saw the strong leader of the troop walk smugly to the front. His silvery hair beamed in the sun’s preparation for twilight. The Lorien elf was handsome with a powerful frame that was rare among his people. Though the marchwarden sauntered with leagues of confidence underlying his forceful exterior, the future king did not falter. “He’s so loud we could have shot him in the dark,” Haldir quipped. Gimli responded with a dirty look, but Aragorn went right over it, for they were in need of assistance. “Haldir of Lorien, we come here for help,” he implored, “We need your protection,” he motioned to his companions and turned back to see Haldir’s still even stare. “Aragorn, these woods are perilous. We should go back,” Gimli protested. Even his courage and resistance had been tested in these past few days. They now were all not sure that they had made the right decision in coming to Lothlorien. “You have entered the realm of the Lady of the Wood,” Haldir replied, “You cannot go back,” There was an arrogant pause, then, turning reluctantly, he sighed with disapproval and beckoned them to follow, “Come, she is waiting.” ~ ~ ~ They were taken to a city in the trees, built in the lofty heights of entangled branches and fortified outcroppings. It emanated a blue softness that seemed to come from a light hidden deep within. The intricate staircases reflected the elves’ attention to detail and beauty. The archways ascended high into the blustery canopy. It was here, in a wonderfully luminescent chamber, that they had the honour of meeting The Lady. She was saliently arresting. If one did not know better, they might think the clouds and the morning dew had joined with one another and out of the brilliant light this union created, she so gracefully stepped. But though the spectacle of it all was glorious, her words were not. They held the terrible reality they all had tried exceedingly to ignore. She told them what they all knew in their hearts to be true; the position of the quest was precarious. The fellowship was failing. She could see into the sunken hearts of them all. The events and setbacks became just as real to her as it had been to them. Gandalf had fallen into shadow and flame; his death weighed heavily on them all, but Frodo especially. She then saw the capture and the deep caverns in which they had been imprisoned. And she saw Legolas. ~ ~ ~ After meeting with the Lady Galadriel, they were lead to a place protected by trees, which provided comfort, for their fatigue had nearly overcome them. Putting down their heavy packs, they began to set up their beds and settle in for the night. It was a welcomed change. There was one, however, who was absent. Legolas slowly walked around the outer edge of the city. He had no destination, rather just a pace that he could set his thoughts to. So much of the journey, expected or not, had been total chaos and upheaval. He now just needed a few moments of routine, of rhythm. The growing feeling inside him made his chest pull tight. He was trying to fight it as best he could, but the back of his mind was already beginning to become quiet and full of shadow. “I was not expecting to find you alone out here after all your troubles,” The unexpected voice resounded through his reverie, startling him. Legolas turned, muscles tensed, as if he were readying for a fight. When he saw Haldir, he relaxed and his face softened, but he still said nothing, “She told me what happened, Legolas, though I sensed it myself. Why have you not let us look at your wounds?” Legolas remained silent, his eyes lowered themselves slightly but nothing in his demeanor showed that he was ready or willing to answer the elf, “You know that we can help Legolas, let us,” Haldir pleaded. He stepped toward his kin with benevolent intent, his eyes lighted with a gentle love. Legolas merely turned his back to the elf. Even with the warm offering, the prince of Mirkwood’s heart ran cold. Haldir was right, being with his own kind would help to relieve some of the pain he carried. And though it was imperative that he be healed, he still felt he could not. “It will not be necessary,” The solemn immortal finally replied. Haldir’s voice dropped. He was suddenly filled with compassionate anger. It flamed within him, threatening to lash out. To grab the archer and shake the sense back into him. He understood how Legolas felt, for he could feel the pain in his heart even as he stood meters from the weakened elf. But what he could not understand was the limp resignation coming from one so strong. “Necessary? Legolas do not let your pride stand in your way. We are your brethren…you carry too much on your shoulders. The events of late have been untimely. We cannot help them,” Haldir noticed Legolas visibly begin to shrink from him. He didn’t intend to speak so forcefully. Knowing the elf may be hesitant with another strong male, he continued more softly, “Gandalf’s fall brought great sadness to us all,” Legolas shot a pained yet angry look at Haldir. The arrogant elf barely had a sympathetic bone in his body, and yet Legolas felt guilty for thinking of his kin as such, “You know that no one has come back from flame and shadow. And of your capture…”The marchwarden put his hand out to gently rest on Legolas’ shoulder, “You cannot…” But he was cut off sharply as Legolas violently pulled away and spun about. He glared at Haldir with more coldness than he had really anticipated. Had they not been elves, this would have looked to be a stand off. But the compassion showed on Haldir’s face and Legolas’ thin frame was almost collapsing under the strain of his ravaged body. After a few seconds, Legolas turned and staggered into the darkness. Haldir saw him come to rest on the large, knotted root of a tree. He sat, his eyes wandering off into the woods. As the first tear began to roll down Legolas’ otherwise unspoiled cheek, Haldir lowered his head. His benevolent energy had been vanquished. Knowing that the elf would soon begin to fade if he did not receive help, he dejectedly walked away. ~ ~ ~ Aragorn did not know why he had been asked to once again have an audience with the Lady of Lorien. Still, he climbed the wondrous stairways that wrapped around the knotted trees. When he reached the top, he found the Lady accompanied by Haldir. Though the Marchwarden stood proudly at her side, a hint of sadness burned in his portentous eyes. Aragorn did not know of Haldir’s attempts to help Legolas, but he knew all too well the intimation of defeat. The ranger had seen it too any times to recall; it hung on the shoulders of bombastic warriors after they had fought whole-heartedly, and ultimately lost. Aragorn kept his eyes on the imposing elf as he took the last few steps toward where the Lady stood. “You are wondering why I have asked you here a second time Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” “Yes,” he rasped. “You have long been a friend to the elves. You have come to earn the respect of many, and even the love of…” she glanced to Haldir and stopped. Not wanting to betray the secrets of the man’s heart, she turned her attention back to Aragorn and began anew, “It is for that reason that you are here.” Aragorn stood motionless and silent; he was more confused now looking from one elf to the other. Haldir spoke next, “We know of your capture and subsequent imprisonment. It has weighed heavy on your already tired hearts. Not many have escaped as you did, and almost unharmed.” His dark elven eyes saw right through the man before him. The future king knew why Haldir had chosen those words. The elves had an uncanny sense about them. Even though Legolas had tried desperately to hide his pain, his kin knew the moment they laid eyes on him. He shifted uncomfortably under the memory of their capture. Haldir’s stare was naturally a bit unnerving, though the irresolute air of this meeting was what caused him to look away from the elf. Out over the silent purity of the mallorn trees, he searched for absolution. “Almost,” Aragorn quietly said. “Then you know of whom I speak?” “If you know of our capture,” he retorted, again looking from elf to elf, “then you know of what has passed. I ask you to help him,” his voice broke sharply betraying his feigned control. Unshed tears shined behind Aragorn’s dark lashes as he closed his eyes,” …please.” “We have tried,” The Lady broke in. Her delicate beauty was a testament to her humane nature. And though her head never dipped below a soft curve to the heavens, the long pause that ensued managed to decrease her lofty gaze, “…but he has refused us.” Aragorn was shocked, but the looks on the two elves’ faces finally let him know the reason he had been summoned, “You wish me to talk to him,” he let out, his voice barely audible. The two elves exchanges anxious glances, “We wish you to heal him,” Haldir corrected him, inclining his head, “You were there to experience his pain. He feels very strongly for you,” he cautiously said, “He will not survive if he is not helped soon.” Aragorn’s voice caught in his throat. He had forgotten this about elves. If he could not help Legolas, his friend would fade away as the result of a broken heart. All his light would spread out into the forest, his spirit allowed to be taken away and forced to oblivion by his despair. He leaned forward a bit, cursing himself for not seeing it earlier, apprehension miring his thoughts and dread pulling at his heart. “All we ask is that you try. You must offer yourself to him as a friend. It is up to him to accept you,” The Lady finished. ~ ~ ~ Aragorn found Legolas just as Haldir had. He was sitting where the edge of the city met the woods. Clearly the blonde archer was deep in thought for he did not notice his friend walking toward him. Though the ranger was quite familiar with the customs and practices of elves, he was still unsure of exactly how to heal Legolas. As he moved closer, Aragorn was taken aback by the limpness of the elf’s figure. His body had seemed to recede into itself and his face was wracked with fatigue. He approached slowly, his voice resonating softly, “Legolas.” Hearing the voice he knew so well, the golden-haired elf turned to face Aragorn. Though tears flowed like shimmering springs down his cheeks, his face was almost unscathed with sorrow. But Aragorn knew the young prince too well and saw the hurt clouding Legolas’ violet eyes. Even if he had not been a witness to the violent rape, Aragorn’s heart would have plummeted to the depths of Middle Earth from his friend’s solitary glance. “You have been sent by Haldir?” Legolas’ words had been breathed out with much effort, Aragorn fought to ignore it, “I come of my own accord,” the man replied. Just then, a small grouping of elves walked by. They barely took notice of the conversation being held not five feet from them. Nevertheless, Legolas could not bear the proximity. “Let us walk Aragorn,” the statement seemingly more a question, a plea. They silently walked further from the immaculate city. Legolas lead them out, though he kept a close watch to make sure he could still see the lights of Lorien. They came to be in a hushed clearing. The trees grew smaller here and the moonlight was allowed to intrude upon the two visitors. The song of the crickets had faded many paces ago and Aragorn found this ethereal place to be curiously quiet. He looked out over the shadowy glade. Small particles of light danced along the pinpoints of the surrounding emerald blades. These companions of the night seemed drawn to the elves, as their light echoed the diffused sheen of the immortal beings. Legolas suddenly stopped and turned to face his companion. Beams of the lunar radiance cascaded down upon him and his hair shone silvery-white. The delicate braids had returned, though he wore the same dirty clothing as he had before they reached Lorien. Aragorn stood still and their warrior eyes met, though Legolas’ seemed to glow. It was the only life Aragorn could see left. “You do not have to help me Aragorn.” The elf’s voice sliced through the silence. Aragorn had not been expecting these words nor the tone in which they had been uttered. Legolas seemed apathetic, as if he did not know of what fate might await him if help was not sought. His pride was gone, his tenacity and veracity were gone. The elf that had been so filled with life not 3 days ago was now an empty shell, a body transformed into a tombstone impossibly seeking solace in a void of restraint. “Yes I do old friend,” he replied simply. Legolas felt the sincerity profoundly in his darkening soul; he could not resist Aragorn as he had Haldir. The shadow grew within him and he knew that before long, the night would claim him into its translucent arms. Crystal blue eyes kneaded into him and he averted his gaze, looking to the ground beside him, unsure if he was ready for this; unsure if Aragorn was ready for this. He dismissed his doubts as the ranger walked toward him bringing his hand up to caress the elf’s alabaster cheek. Legolas felt his muscles tighten and fought the urge to flinch and pull away. Instead, he brought his gaze up to meet Aragorn’s. “Please…”he breathed heavily. Like his lithe body, Legolas’ voice trembled. Aragorn grasped his shoulder, bringing the elf in closer to him. His smooth bottom lip began to quiver. His fearful eyes went wide, the pupils rapidly dialating till no color was left in the elven victim’s unfathomable depths. The Prince’s expression turned from that of shaky insecurity to unabated panic. “No…Aragorn…” he cried. But the man held his grip on his beloved friend. For he now saw that Legolas’ skin had taken on a transparent hue. Fear gripped his heart as he held tightly to someone, as he finally admitted to himself, he might lose this night. Their eyes locked, their frames locked. The very air they breathed halted sharply. Aragorn’s opaque eyes mirrored the hesitation, but he was ready to do what it would take to secure that Legolas would be with him for the rest of their journey. The future king stepped back and began to pull his shirt over his head. The strong plains of his chest threw shadows over his taut body. He proceeded to take off his boots and trousers, which he discarded on the cool grass next to them. Though the feeling of being fully unclothed in front of Legolas was strange, he came to stand up tall and strong, if nothing but for the sake of his friend. It was now Legolas’ turn to wear the badge of hesitancy; there were too many emotions swirling around within him. Aragorn was not a threat to him, and yet he found himself holding his breath. He could not help the suspicion of danger as fear stole through his svelte body. The elven archer felt guilty for inwardly accusing his friend of this impurity and his heart twisted like a whirl even further into his soul. He could not think straight and the once minute shadow was now threatening to draw the whole of him away. It was custom to present yourself unadorned and therefore pure in order to heal another. Knowing this, Legolas wanted to speak. He wanted to thank Aragorn for making this sacrifice, for forgoing his own feelings. He wanted to let him know that this was the most beautiful sight he had seen in his long years, but the words would not come. All he could manage was an accepting, though wary, nod to Aragorn. The man’s naked body approached the elf, coming about to face his back. His supple hands swept the blond tresses away from Legolas’ shoulders. Their bodies touched as Aragorn put his arms around Legolas; their faces touching cheek to cheek. Legolas was frightened. Though he knew the man’s touch, he could not stop the panic inside. Reaching his hand into the elf’s shirt, Aragorn ran his hand along the smooth skin of Legolas’ chest. It came to rest over the malignant immortal heart thumping wildly in its’corporal cage. He gripped the elf’s soiled tunic and slowly pulled it off, tossing it aside. He again lowered his searching hands until he felt the hem of Legolas’ undershirt. The elf closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax, reminding his thoughts over and over again that Aragorn was his trusted friend. He raised his arms compliantly, and in one measured movement, Aragorn lifted it over his head. The fair-haired warrior shuddered, though elves were impervious to temperature change. The air enveloping his frame felt like ice; his weakness was beginning to show. Not only this, but Aragorn had unintentionally traced hot lines up the sides of his body. A perplexing feeling of hot yet cold, rushing yet calm, was stirring within his chest. Legolas’ body was stiff and unsure. He had been this close to Aragorn many times, though never unclothed. But even as the man tenderly removed the remainder of his clothes, he stood motionless. Aragorn once again embraced Legolas’ supple body, his warm chest beating against the lacerated skin of the elf’s back, his lips lightly caressing the gracefully pointed ear as he spoke. “I will not hurt you.” Ardent warmth surged inside Legolas and he could not resist turning to face Aragorn. Showing the effect this man had on him, for it was not customary in this healing process, Legolas gave Aragorn a fervent hug. “I would trust you with my life Aragorn,” his voice barely above a whisper. Nervous joy swelled in the man as he held his friend close. His ears had secretly longed to hear words of affection and faith, though if he knew it would come under these circumstances, he would have preferred to let them wait. After a long pause, they parted, both with renewed energy. Legolas’ words rang in Aragorn’s head. He was entrusted with Legolas’ life, and though his confidence was rising, he could not help but feel wary at the night’s outcome. While thoughts harried in his mind, Legolas brought him to a modest creek that emptied into a round pool. It looked to be made of glass, as the water did not stir; and though the night air was wintry, the spring managed to provide heat. Legolas stepped gracefully into the clear, sparkling pool. The elves believed this water held magic within it. Lothlorien was built in proximity to it for this very reason. It was often used in their ceremonies and medicine. Aragorn did not enter the water. Instead, he sat behind Legolas, knowing that normally this area was reserved for elven folk only. The archer lay back as the ripples lapped over his chest. He looked almost peaceful and yet Aragorn stifled a cry, as he could not see his companion’s reflection in the mirror-like pool. Legolas was slipping away. The prince had closed his eyes, preparing to enter the elven dreamscape and begin the healing process, all the while feeling that it may be too late. Legolas’ mind wandered back to the forest, back to the caves and the torturous dungeon, back to the splintered wooden barrels and rusted iron… He grimaced at the memory forcing itself upon him. His mouth opened to cry out, but there was no sound to be heard. The shadow had overtaken his voice. Aragorn dipped his hands into the water and ran them over Legolas’ forehead and down across his hair; the elf had gone cold. He repeated the motion, desperately trying to keep his friend from slipping from him completely. “Tormented reality washed away,” Aragorn quietly repeated the invocation over and over as his hands circulated the water in tiny circles around Legolas’ weakened form. He was careful that one of his hands always touched the elf, his stage of despair being advanced, one instant of broken contact could allow Legolas to be whisked away by the impending night. Legolas would now have to relive the terrible rape and degrading actions taken out on him in order to heal. His body rose and fell with the violent visions. The Leader once again appeared to him. His sour tongue once again searched Legolas’ sweet body and mouth. He wept with shame as his erection grew, as he could feel the Leader’s dirty, callused grip tear over him, forcing his arousal. Aragorn held Legolas’s head in his hands, his forefingers touching the elf’s temples as he repeated elvish prayers. He begged Valinor to let these demons be satisfied… but to no avail. Legolas’ back arched as he felt the penetration race through his innocent body, and he gripped Aragorn’s hand with all the strength he had left. The man winced but still leaned in to steady his friend. The elf’s hold on him was firm and painful on his arm as he violently thrashed and convulsed, pulling Aragorn down into the water with him. Visibly startled by the abrupt action, Aragorn sputtered to the top of the water. In the throw, Legolas had released him, but he now offered his hand freely. Their fingers interlaced as the elf’s torment continued. He could smell the blood, the sex, the breath all around him, threatening to swallow him whole. The Leader was pushing him till the point he might break. Legolas’ body writhed and turned, his back now facing Aragorn. The man saw the numerous scores pulsing along Legolas’ shoulder blades, which had seemed to reopen by themselves. Aragorn reached out his other hand, pressing his fingers along the bloody wounds. He concentrated all the energy he could muster on healing Legolas, hoping his partial elven blood would be sufficient in the transfer. The elf’s back arched once more, his body halting in a dog-like position. Suddenly, he turned to face Aragorn; his eyes brimming with tears, his body appeared as if tiny hands grasped his most sensitive areas. He raised his chiseled jaw, the once immense vastness of his indigo eyes now lidded and diminutive. “I fear, dear friend,” he choked through his tears and aggrieved gasps, “That this is where I leave you.” “No,” Aragorn helplessly whispered, tenderly putting his arms around Legolas. “Protect the little ones. I …I…have always held you close to…my heart…Aragorn, my light… amidst this shadow…” The elf’s head flew back in soundless agony as he felt the last vile thrust infinitely inside of him. The besieged body went flaccid in the future king’s arms. Panic ensued over every fiber of Aragorn’s being as he called over and over, his voice rising frantically into the unforgiving shadows of the night “Legolas? Legolas!?! LEGOLAS!” Tears gushed forth from Aragorn’s eyes as he shook the unresponsive elf. His face twisted with anguish as he felt his companion slip away, his body suddenly becoming the same color as the dark water of the night. Only a dark sillouette of the once vibrant elf remained. “Please…” he pleaded with desolation. Aragorn clutched Legolas’ body close to him. He wished he could take the elf inside him, bring him back to health with the sheer love he carried in his otherwise hardened soul. His mind whirled; he was too late, he was too late. He was entrusted with Legolas’ life by the very being he held lifeless in his arms. His passion and love for this immaculate prince of the woodland would never be requited, sentiments never spoken; Legolas would never know…know how much he… “Loved…” With the last word spoken aloud, he encompassed the body of his companion. His face settled into the hollow of Legolas’ collarbone. He could smell the aroma intimating fresh lilies of the meadow. He longed for life, for one last look at Legolas’ smile, for he too felt as if he would fade away, swept into the night by some cruel joke of nature. Fear and loathing turned to desperate vexation as Aragorn saw his tears fall through Legolas and make expanding rings in the pristine water. “Aaaarrhhhh…”he screamed into the nocturnal sky. He picked up Legolas’ nearly invisible body under its arms and lifted it high above him. Beads of water rode down the hills and valleys of Legolas’ opalescent torso, dropping off of his delicate fingertips into the waiting pool. His wet hair hung freely behind his back, for his neck arched as if he were looking skyward for peace. Aragorn shrieked in defiance of death, hot tears of rage bursting forth from his flashing eyes. “You cannot leave me!" He paused in a confessional haze before beginning anew, anger and despair underlying each of his words. “I am nothing. And I cannot do this alone. So much rests upon me, my birthright, our journey. You have always been my pillar to lean on, my strength and connection to my elvish nurturing in childhood. How could this beast have so ruthlessly taken you? Do not go silently into that good night, Legolas!” He passionately shook, his arms finally giving way, though the elf was lighter than air. Holding Legolas to him, he openly wept. Finally, duty set in. He laid Legolas down amidst the fresh grass and elegant white flowers of the pools’ banks, kissing the fading forehead one last time, and turning, unable to bear the grief striking his heart. “Though you have not let him leave this earth peacefully, please let my love be carried on devotion’s tender wings to his next stage of essence. I’ll see you again, Legolas, sometime…somewhere. Good bye, old friend.” ~ ~ ~ The water behind him stirred a bit and Aragorn suddenly felt a warm, supple hand run over his shoulder, an arm followed as it snaked down his firm chest. His breath stilled, his heart stopped. He did not dare turn around, for all at once he wanted to see who stood behind him bringing warmth body to body, but he was terrified. “By the grace of Valar, I have yet breath in my body,” The velvety voice was as music on the wind gracing his keen ear. Aragorn watched, his eyes wide, as Legolas’ exquisite, glowing body stepped gracefully out from behind him, his nimble fingers trailing along behind him in the gentle water. Aragorn now wept tears of utter joy and he smiled, something he had thought moments ago that he would never do again. He gingerly stuck his trembling hand out to touch the vision before him, petrified that it might be false. His strong fingers came in contact with honeyed skin. Entranced, he moved his whole hand to rest on Legolas’ chest, holding steadfastly over the elf’s pounding heart. “I am real, Aragorn, you have succeeded.” Aragorn’s heart soared at his spoken name flown forth out of his friend’s glorious lips. He unabashedly took the elf in his arms and they sank into the healing waters till its kiss welcomed their faces. Aragorn’s voice was soft on Legolas’ elven ears. “Confess to me.” His eyes searched the elf’s face, now as calm as a mountain lake, yet it covered a tumultuous ocean. Legolas’ eyes roamed over the man before him. How beautiful Aragorn was. He could feel in his soul all that the future king held in his heart; and in doing so, he found a mirror. “I was raped,” Legolas slowly confided, “I was afraid. I did not want him to think he could hurt me, but…when he…” the Prince’s eyes shifted, the recollection of losing control not yet fully freed from his mind, he could not look his fellow warrior in the face, “The pain came too great and I could not stifle my cries. I did not fight… I could not fight. It would have been no use. I felt weak…” His voice rose, his hands squeezing Aragorn’s arms with unexpected strength, “I am an archer, a warrior, a Prince of Mirkwood… An Elf!” His eyes burned with rage. For all his strength, for all his years on Middle Earth, he had not been able to stop it. Why? Why had he not been able to stop it? He should have been able to! Able to stop what was forced upon him as any warrior would! Now who was he? “And yet I allowed my pride, my life, Aragorn, to be taken from me! I contested when he alleged that he owned me, but he was able to control me as a puppet!” Legolas’ eyes blazed and his words permeated the meadow with indignant ire, as Aragorn evenly countered. “You felt ashamed.” The air between them froze. Legolas’ face went blank. “He aroused you did he not? You do not know how, but it confused you. There was no control save for his insistence. You felt the burgeoning pleasure seethe against the violent rape befalling you…and you’re ashamed of it.” Legolas’ eyes once more brimmed with tears. Aragorn’s words held true and yet with them spoken so simply to him, he had not expected them to affect his soul so deeply. All the suffering in his heart found rest in the ranger’s eyes. “Yes.” Tears now flowed freely over both warriors’ pallid faces. They held to each other tightly as if one loosened grip and they would be lost forever. Legolas could feel his heart beat fiercely in time with Aragorn’s. He felt safe as his pain slipped away, becoming a distant memory. Aragorn clung to the elf’s body securely seizing every moment his friend’s reawakened life would give to him. Though only a man, he had risen beyond his own culture, beyond his reservations to help relieve the anguish. For this, Legolas felt he could never pay him back. “There is no need, Legolas,” Aragorn whispered, their faces hovering close together. The elf looked in disbelief at his beloved friend. A luminescent glimmering haloed Aragorn, a luminosity solely produced by the elven people. All Legolas could do was gape. “All I will ask of you Legolas is what you already give to me. For that is payment enough, Melamin.” “Then all I may ever ask of you, dear friend, is for your love in return.” Aragorn smiled as Legolas cradled his face in his now steady hands. He slowly brought the man down upon him, brushing his silky lips against the future king’s. Aragorn closed his eyes and pressed his moist lips back. He was infinitely gratified that Legolas had not only confessed his love, therefore opening a new door to their friendship, but he had lived. And now they were set free. Waves of consummate joy danced around them as the surrounding trees laughed into the starry nocturnal wonderland. They locked in a passionate kiss; their bodies warm against each other. Together, the brilliant glow grew, enveloping the entire pool. It pulsed rhythmic white in the navy night as the two beings’ energies collided. They quietly moaned into each other, delighting at the sweet intonations. Aragorn’s arms wrapped around Legolas’ pale body; he ran his hands down the muscles of the archer's defined back. The prominent wounds were gone, now healed and disappeared. Though Time seemed to give up its power this eve to the wonderfully unexpected, this moment of rapture would inevitably have an end. But their lights would only slightly part. “You’re trembling,’ Legolas said running his fingers through Aragorn’s damp hair. A light-hearted smile crept over his face, “So are you, dear one.” “I’ve…become chilled,” he jibed. “I find that hard to believe, my elven friend,” Aragorn answered. The man sat back. Legolas’ face beamed in the moonlight, now as opaque as the first time he laid eyes on the magnificent young prince. All the anguish had been released into the wind and it swirled up far from them. As they looked deeply into each other’s eyes, it was made perfectly clear that in all their years behind and yet to come, they would never be closer than at this very instance. The only battle that would now trouble their drained hearts was that of surrendering this moment back to Father Time. ~ ~ ~ Back in Lorien, the hobbits were settled. Gimli slept rather loudly and Boromir sat up, unable to rest. Legolas, clad in a silvery satin tunic, which reflected his healing ascent from death and his resulting calm soul, slowly paced in front of the entrance to the room they had been given. The rest of the fellowship had paid little mind to the return of the two, knowing that elven matters may have taken up their time. All minds lingered on Gandalf and the events that had ensued. Frodo’s eyes shifted about the room, over to the pacing elf, around to Boromir who sat away, his back to them, back to the room and Aragorn who seemed weary, resting quietly on his bed. “I lament for Gandalf,” Legolas’ voice spoke for all who remained silent. He lamented for all the hardships they had endured, and all that would inevitably come to pass. As he listened to the lovely voices singing brightly despite the sorrowful lyrics, Legolas accepted his lack of control. For two thousand years he had sought ownership over his life, never fully accepting the natural ways of his people, the trust of the woods’ care. He knew now that though these things may weaken his heart and push him beyond what he may think he is capable of, he will not be beaten, for they would all hold a purpose. Legolas gazed back at Aragorn, his beloved, his light in time of great shadow, who steadily met his stare. Yes, there would be a purpose.