TITLE: Lamath AUTHOR: LadyEigh (ladyeigh@yahoo.com) Pairings: Legolas / Boromir (comfort - not sex), Merry / Pippin Boromir / Eomer (eventually), Slight mention of past het (no details) Rating: NC-17 Category: Drama, Action and Angst Warnings: Rape and Non-Con - present and past. Violence and Torture IN THIS CHAPTER THERE IS REAL HARM TO THE ELF – PLEASE TAKE WARNINGS SERIOUSLY Disclaimer: They belong to JRR Tolkein and his Estate - I'm just borrowing them and WILL put them back - eventually! Summary: Based on a Challenge from Cheysuli at Library of Moria site. -The Fellowship are captured (after Moria but before Lothlorien). Legolas taken to a different cell and the rest of the Fellowship have to listen to his screams as he is raped. After they escape, a member of the Fellowship takes care of Legolas. Pairing is your choice. Extra points for graphic rape. Extra extra points (and a plate of Lembas) if the person who takes care of him, doesn't heal him with sex. Sex is the LAST thing Legolas will want after being raped. Notes: Many thanks to Hergerbabe for the Beta Archive: Library of Moria, Characters In Bloom, Daemel. Anyone else who wants it, please just let me know! ############################################################ CHAPTER 5 The narrow window slot that had been cut in the living rock allowed a shaft of natural light to enter the cell. It illuminated where it touched and cast long shadows around the rest of the space. As Aragorn started to wake he realized that the room looked different than it had. As they slept the sun had moved across the sky, its movements sending the beam of light to mark an arc on the dusty dirt floor. The sunlight seemed paler and weaker than it had; its illumination less clear – piercing less of the gloom. In this waning light he moved and looked at his friends. Legolas was ivory pale; his skin seemed almost translucent in the thin light. He was an un-real graven image of elven beauty marred by man. Boromir was huddled against the elf’s right side, his ruffled hair hiding his face from view but his unspoken distress apparent from the lines of his frame. The noble captain had bared a part of his soul, dark places that he had sealed away from everything. Aragorn had never formally met his younger sibling, but he had heard many details of the Gondorian Ranger in his role as Dunedain Chief. All had praised him for his level head and noble manner. He was reported to be a wise man, cunning with his strategies but never wasteful. A thoughtful man who was well liked by all, except his father the current Steward Denethor. Aragorn remembered the man from his childhood, and an unpleasant memory it was. Even as a youth the man had shown none of the graces and virtues that both his sons displayed in such measure. The sons had their flaws, both could be proud – however both had skills to be proud of, they were the true summation of Gondorian knighthood and either would have made a far better Steward than their father. Boromir had told tales of their childhoods as the fellowship had rested around scant campfires at night. Tales of scrapes and pranks played in secret, boyish tussles and lessons learned. While the Ranger Chief mused, his steward had awakened and was easing himself away from the warmth he had snuggled up to in the past hours. “You look thoughtful.” Aragorn turned at the soft tones before moving to his friend and helping him sit up. He cast an eye over the other man before nodding to himself. “Was that the review of a healer or a War Chief?” Aragorn was amused to realize that the other man could read him so well. He had always prided himself on his inscrutability amongst humans, having long since given up on hiding his innermost thoughts from members of the elvish race. “I am both myself, I merely wondered which had woken in command.” “Both I think. After all, I cannot be certain of your ability to take my commands if you are not fit.” “Indeed. A fitting and political answer. Are you certain you are not yet the head of Gondor?” Aragorn smiled and chuckled lightly. “Your smiles and amusement shall not divert me from my course My Lord. You were deep in thought when I awoke.” “Yes.” “Can you share your thoughts with your steward?” “The Stewardship was the basis of my debate.” “The Stewardship, or the Steward.” Aragorn looked sharply at his friend. “Care to elaborate?” “I have no illusions about my father. I have not held any since I was a youth and I returned from a training patrol to find my brother had been locked in his room since my departure. He would have me on a pedestal and Faramir in an oubliette. Worse, he would see me on the throne and all others dead.” “The throne?” “He knows that there is an heir, but he cares not. Our family has held the Stewardship of Gondor for centuries and he feels it is now our birthright to rule.” “You said that you had and needed no King.” “A test alone My Lord. I needed to know your heart for the country. I love Gondor, my life is sworn to her defense and protection and I needed to know if you felt the same. I do not want the throne, I do not even want the Stewardship – I am a War Chief, a battle leader and a healer. For all my father’s pressure and insistence on lessons – I am no politician. My brother is the one who should sit at the base of the throne. When you come to Gondor – as you shall – as her King – I will kneel and serve as you ask, but you should ask Faramir to serve at your side.” “It is rare to hear a man talk himself out of a place of honour.” “I need no honours. My honour is in my friends and my brother. My fears are for them as well. Faramir is left with Denethor and Legolas with these barbarians. Neither will be treated well and I cannot help except to pick up the pieces that are left.” Aragorn placed a hand on Boromir’s shoulder, gripping it in a silent acknowledgement of his words. An agreement between men, leaders and friends. “I am not yet shattered.” The soft voice startled the men who whirled in place to watch the waking elf struggle to consciousness. “I am fractured perhaps, as a clay vessel when dropped onto a rug. There are lines of damage, but not so bad as would have been had the cup fallen to the flags. I think perhaps I shall mend,” “A vessel once cracked is often changed.” “As I am, as are we all. Not just by this but by all that has occurred. The council began the changes, they have progressed in all of us as we journeyed. Through privation, hardship and death; through joy, friendship and life itself. It was not for nothing that My Lord Elrond did name us a fellowship.” The two men looked at each other and then at their rapidly awakening friend. “How do you feel?” “More rested, stronger.” “You are certainly more verbose.” “This puzzles you?” “I am more used to the taciturn and reserved scout that you have been on this journey.” “Have I been so?” “You know that you have. You have been the perfect elven warrior ever since we left Imladris. Always alert, scanning the environment for dangers and hazards. You saw the Crebain long before anyone else and bid us hide. Your senses have kept us all alive.” Legolas dipped his head in embarrassment as Aragorn spoke. His reticent nature making it hard for him to accept such praise at that moment. His feelings echoed into the men, the silver connection still binding them together. The elf realized that the connection was still active and straightened himself upright before closing his eyes. He drew in a sharp breath and sharply dipped his head to the right. The connection dimmed to a low level, a mild hum in their minds that let them know each was alive and well. ############################################################ #### In a distant cell Merry and Pippin awoke as the gleam in their minds diffused to a muted glow. They rolled to lie face to face and sleep heavy eyes each focused on a beloved visage. “Things have changed again.” “Quieter now.” “Indeed Pippin.” “Strange as well.” “I agree Pippin.” “Not all gone though.” “Right again. Can you still feel them?” “Sort of. It’s like they are on the far side of the river and the mist has made it hard to see the other bank. You strain your eyes and then you can see your friends but if you blink you have to start looking all over again.” “Exactly that, but inside our heads. A thin curtain between us, like the filmy cloth that the elves used as drapes.” “But we can still see them.” “Yes. They are shadowy now, but we can still find them.” “Good. I’m glad they haven’t gone all the way away,” “So am I Pip.” The two hobbits looked at their other companions. Sam, Frodo and Gimli slept on, unaware of the changes that were occurring inside their friends' heads. “I don’t think they felt the glow.” “Me neither.” “Should we tell them?” “Let them sleep. In fact, I think we should join them.” “Good plan. Perhaps the mist will clear.” “Indeed.” With that the two settled down again. Pippin rolled to face away from his comrade and sighed in pleasure as Merry’s arms unerringly found their way around his chest and waist, securing him in a loving embrace. He placed his arms directly over the ones lapping his torso and linked their fingers together. Safely ensconced in each other, they drifted back to sleep. ############################################################ #### Now that the others were awake and alert Aragorn pushed himself upright, walking stiffly over to the cell door and picking up the tattered satchel that had been tossed into the room while they slept. He brought it back to the pallet and dropped it lightly into Boromir’s lap before sitting down again with an audible groan. “You look pained.” “My muscles are stiff and my joints ache as though I were an old man.” “You are an old man, human.” It was a feeble joke but it raised a smile on the faces of both men, the elf had a dry sense of humour that appeared on infrequent occasions – generally at the precise moment that any lightening of the mood was required. Boromir opened the bag and upended it onto the ragged blankets. “Generous to a fault are these Easterlings. We have rough bread that will probably break our teeth as we chew and an ancient waterskin full of, I hope at least, water.” “Perhaps the bread is not so bad.” Aragorn picked up a hunk of the dark brown loaf and perused it thoroughly. There was no clean white to be seen. The surface was a dirty beige colour scattered liberally with pieces of unground meal and what looked like a combination of chaff and pieces of the millstone that the miller had used. He closed his eyes and took a generous bite into the piece, chewing slowly and thoroughly with a look of determination on his face. “So, how is it?” He kept on chewing and swallowed the whole bolus in one before replying. “Well, it is certainly not lembas, but it is edible.” “Edible?” “Yes.” “This review from the Chief of the Dunedain Rangers who are alleged to be able to survive on the bark of trees and the moss from river rocks.” “Nay friend Boromir. I heard it told that the Rangers could survive on the mere rocks themselves.” Aragorn cast a disparaging look at both his smirking companions before tearing off two good-sized pieces and tossing them into their laps. “Perhaps we can, but lacking bark and moss I suggest we all break our fast on this. Unpalatable it may be, but we have little choice in the matter and we must eat. We cannot afford to lose what little strength is left to us and further starvation will do exactly that.” All bent to their food, chewing and swallowing with far more determination than pleasure, the three passed a silent few minutes. Finishing his share first Boromir reached for the new waterskin that had been packaged with the rough bread. Pulling out the stopper he tilted the bag and poured out a measure into the attached cup. He saluted the others and tipped the liquid into his mouth, then immediately turned his head and spat his mouthful onto the floor. The fluid merged with the dust to form a muddy pool. Aragorn grabbed the bag from his unresisting hands and sniffed cautiously at the spout. “Tainted.” “Poison, or something else.” “I am not certain. There is a tang to the scent.” “It tasted almost metallic and the contamination lingers in my mouth.” Legolas gestured towards the skin and gripped its neck firmly when it was handed to him. He also pulled the flask to his nose and sniffed the liquid before taking one judicious sip. This he swirled around his mouth before spitting onto the floor as Boromir had done, although in a far more decorous manner. “Cael Naegra – fuin-gwath.” “Pardon?” Legolas looked the puzzled Boromir straight in the eye. “A pain causing sickness or disease. There is a particular pollution in the water, based on a particular herb. We call it fuin-gwath; humans tend to call it Night Shade or Foxglove. It sedates those who drink it, slowing their hearts and the flow of blood to their bodies. It can also act upon other herbs in a solution, changing their properties and their actions.” “Why give it to us.” “I can only speculate.” “I did not know you were a healer.” The Prince looked straight at the puzzled human. “I am no healer, not like you and Estel. I can field dress wounds and follow the orders that trained healers give me. But, I am a war Captain of Eryn Lasgalen and as such have been trained in many ways of battle. We do not use saew but we learn of it. Much as you learned of the Bastinado when you were a youth.” “You heard me talk of that?” “I heard everything.” Aragorn’s voice broke the tense silence. “The question still remains. Why the taint in the water, why now and not before?” “The sedative effect I think. Meant more for me than for either of you. They had a few difficulties securing me to the frame the last time they came for me, difficulties I think they would rather avoid this time.” “You said it also slows the heart and the flow of blood?” “Yes. I must be awake and alert through the Rite. If my heart is kept slow and my rate of blood loss decreased then I will survive their attentions for much longer.” The elf’s dispassionate recitation of his probable fate sent shivers cascading down the spines of both men. They were used to the matter of factness of the elven race, but this was a whole new level of detachment. “We have until dark to consider if you are correct. For the moment I suggest that we treat your feet and other injuries again.” The others nodded in agreement, unwilling to pursue the path that Legolas had laid out before them. Aragorn turned to the bowl he had left aside before they rested and dipped a finger into the cool fluid thoughtfully. “It is cold, but should still be vital. I am reluctant to add any hot water from the spring to the mix incase it diminishes the power that is left.” Legolas simply smiled a small half smile in acknowledgment and moved himself more upright. “Friend Boromir…” Legolas needed to say no more before Boromir shifted his position to sit behind the elf, allowing him to rest back against his chest. Legolas took the proffered hands and gripped them. Their connected hands rested across the elf’s bruise spattered chest, holding him securely in a caring grasp. Far more alert than he had been for his previous treatment, Legolas watched with interest the actions of his friend. Aragorn carefully wiped the remains of the salve from the soles of his delicate feet, before examining the surfaces. “There has been a substantial amount of healing. This looks good Legolas.” The elf grimaced in reply, he knew that the situation was improved, but his pain was still apparent in the tense lines of his frame and face. Aragorn decided that the best way to proceed was as fast as possible, to minimize the additional pain the treatment would cause. He dipped the last of the rags into the bowl and carefully wiped the damaged areas, smoothing the healing liquor over the flesh. When he was satisfied that he had cleaned all the wounds he reached again for the salve and was about to smear it over the injuries when Legolas interjected. “Not the balm this time.” Aragorn reared back in puzzlement. “Why ever not?” “Because in a short time I will be removed from here back to the central hall. I will walk or be dragged along grit and dust strewn corridors. I do not want to have anything on my feet that will aid in the adhesion of detritus.” Again, neither human could fault the elf’s logic; however desperately they wished that they could. Aragorn put the salve aside and rested his hands on still strong shins, bowing his head in defeat. “I know. If there were any way to change…” “There is none. I have already said, for either of you to take my place would be insanity. Better for one to be damaged than three.” Aragorn moved to his friend’s side and rested his hands on the clasped grip that still rested against the elf’s ribs. The three sat in silence, drawing strength from each other in the passing of time, awaiting what they all dreaded. ############################################################ #### The sun's rays were still illuminating the room when the trio were disturbed by the sound of scuffing feet outside the solid door that sealed them in. The footsteps stopped and there was a rattling of metal as the heavy door was unsealed and slammed open. The three companions sprang apart and the two men jumped to their feet, blocking the intruder’s view of the elf. Both held themselves ready for a fight, feet braced for balance and hands free for combat. Aragorn’s voice was commanding in the silence. “Why are you here? The sun still lights the sky. You are early.” A troop leader pushed to the front of the group and eyed the two men, a sharp signal from him prompting his men to draw heavy clubs and stand ready. “It is time now. The Priest demands the attendance of the glowing one.” “The Lord gave us more time.” The Easterlings began to move forward, approaching the ill prepared duo. Their faces showed all too clearly that they were spoiling for a fight, violence to prepare them for the ritual that was to come. Legolas had watched as his friends defended him, placing their wounded and fragile bodies between the incomers and his own battered frame. He took a deep breath and rose to his feet, his actions a gross parody of his usual graceful movements. It took him a moment to find his balance on his unnaturally sensitive feet, pale flesh on the dark rough blankets they had slept on. “Daro. Far Estel, Boromir.” His voice held a timbre that grasped the attention of all in the chamber. All turned to face the regal elf. He was pale as milk, the meager strength he had recovered showing in the minor aura that surrounded him. His hair was limp and loose, trailing over his shoulders and his eyes were still dulled but still he held the notice of all. “There will be no fight here. The Lord has reversed his previous decision but he still rules here. We will obey.” His nobility was clear to any who looked for it, shining out in his diminished radiance and upright bearing, his stature and disposition. Aragorn and Boromir started towards him but he held up a hand to stop their objections. They closed their mouths but still came to him, encircling him in their arms, an action he copied. The three stood for the space of several heartbeats, trying to pass strength and hope in their touch. They managed to whisper into the close space between their heads. “Why?” “I already told you both. Better one hurt and two able to fight than all incapacitated and the Halflings left without help or hope.” “What will happen?” “I do not know.” “Open yourself to us again; let us help as we can.” Aragorn’s tone was pleading, his face a mask of desperation. Boromir looked much the same, but his mask was overlaid with a veneer of memory. “If I join with your minds there is a chance that you will feel what I feel. The pain and hurt as well as the emotions I feel. I cannot risk it.” “It is not your risk but ours to take. A mere surface touch will help ground you but should shield us from your innermost thoughts.” “Boromir?” “I will not deny that I am afraid, but I made an oath to defend you and I made it on my honour. I said that if I could aid you in any way up to death I would, I will not backtrack on that so soon.” The elf could not back down from the determination and dogged faith that the two showed and nodded his acquiescence. “I am prepared.” Again the silver cloud rose between them and threads uncoiled to join their minds, a light bond securing them together in a mesh of familiarity. They gripped each other tightly for four heartbeats before separating and turning back to the troops. “We are prepared.” The troop leader gestured five of his men towards the passive trio, all of whom merely stood as their hands were bound together with heavy manacles. When he was satisfied that they were secured the troop leader swept out of the chamber, the bound friends marched behind him. Legolas walked down the grit-strewn passageway slowly, his face passive as he took steady and deliberate steps towards the main hall. Aragorn and Boromir kept their faces as impassive as their friend kept his, ignoring the looks of incredulity on the faces of their captors. The Easterlings were bemused again by the nature of the elf. They had been puzzled by his glow and by his reserve, then amazed by his denial of pain. They had no knowledge of the first race, they knew nothing of his abilities, and they merely wanted to test them to their ultimate limits. The group entered the large hall, walking through serried ranks of uniformed soldiers, as they passed the ranks they closed behind them, leaving the three encircled by the rank and file as well as the officers of the company. Legolas walked steadily to the centre of the room, standing between the legs of the A frame from which he had so recently been cut down. A muted muttering ran through the room at his actions, they knew he was aware of what was coming and were astonished that he did not need to be dragged to his fate in screaming terror. However, this was another facet of their interest in him, no sacrifice had ever behaved in this manner, they were desperate to break him, to fracture his composure and see him crawl. The two humans were brought before the Lord of the Rite, who tossed his cloak back over his shoulders to reveal his oiled chest and strong legs, his only other garment being an elaborately decorated loincloth. They were forced to their knees in false homage at his feet, but rather than bow their heads both fixed their gaze at his face. “You have done well. The sacrifice stands proud in the frame. I thought you would fail and we would be forced to use virgin flesh for the Rite.” He stepped past the kneeling figures and looked straight at the upright elf. “They made a bargain with me. If you did not stand then they would take your place. You have good friends Glowing One, very good friends.” The two humans were dragged to their feet and hauled over to heavy posts that had been sunk into the living rock of the floor. Their manacled hands were pulled over their heads and the chains that they had carried from their cell now suspended them from sturdy brackets affixed to the poles. They could see the A frame on its slight plinth, their friend fully exposed to every view, a living sculpture. He remained standing still, hands bound, hair loose, and the scanty cloth that Aragorn had wrapped around his hips still in place. As they watched his hands were untied from the manacles then pulled above his head and secured so that he was spread-eagled in the frame, displayed and open for the Rite. From the shadowy depths of the hall the rhythmic drums began again. A rolling noise that built in intensity until all could feel it reverberate in their chests. As the drums climbed to their crescendo the soldiers began a wordless chanting that echoed in the vast space, merging with the beats to form a wall of sound. The Lord of the Rite stepped back to his place and raised his hands high, throwing his head back at the sound. “IT IS TIME.” ############################################################ #### The whole group that filled the hall, Easterling, Gondorian and elf turned as much as possible as a cavalcade of priests entered the cavern. A tall, bold man whose face was full of cruelty headed the procession. His sun- burnished skin was oiled so that his heavily cut muscles gleamed. His head was adorned in an elaborate headdress of bronze and copper, intertwined with red and green fabric strips and unpolished gems. It added to his already impressive stature, making it clear to all that he was the leader of the Rite, that he alone now ran the situation in which all found themselves. Behind the Chief Priest came his immediate subordinates, also oiled and decorated in extravagant style. Some had their bodies painted with sigils and signs that echoed the cloak that the Lord of the Rite wore, obviously linked to the ceremony that was about to occur. After these men came a team of six priests that looked very different to their brethren. They wore long white tunics and robes with veils that covered their heads and faces, allowing for only their eyes to be seen. Harsh eyes ringed heavily in kohl that gazed with rigid focus on their path and their purpose. Balanced on their shoulders was an ornate bier of gold inlaid with precious jewels and overlaid with fine silken fabric. On this was displayed a statue that was all at once glorious and terrifying, seductive and horrible. She was the representation of the Lady in that place. An effigy of a woman who was all at once beautiful and terrible, her face haughty and her pose proud. She was fashioned of gold and a dark wood that was polished to an ebony gleam. Her eyes were cut emeralds and her naked torso was decorated with strings of pearls, jewels and bones. Her head was crowned with a headdress that was similar to that worn by her Chief Priest, bronze, copper and gold with polished stones and silk ribbons. Arrayed around her were the gifts that her followers had bestowed upon her. Knives and other weapons, booty from raids, jewellery and precious items as well as bones and teeth pulled from their victims. She was marched around the hall for all to see and worship, exhibited as the Rite commenced. Boromir managed to turn away from the sight and catch the eye of his fellow captive. “They seek the blessing of the Lady, their goddess of torment, devastation and despair. She desires above all a tithe of fear, blood and pain, her right in all their battles.” “I have heard only rumours of her existence.” “My tutors were thorough. I fear what is to come.” “We can only endure as Legolas must. We will survive this night, all of us.” Their brief conversation was halted as the drums fell suddenly silent, the lady placed to see the pinioned elf’s back. The teams of priests walked slowly to the Lord who was standing motionless holding a blazing torch in both hands. All genuflected to the Lord of the Rite who nodded solemnly in acceptance of their regard. He held out the torch and the Chief Priest reached out two meaty arms to take it from him. As the torch was passed the drums began again to beat out their rhythm, there was no crescendo this time, simply an immediate and pounding cadence that thudded into the hearts of all. The white clad priests retreated to kneel at the side of the figurine that was the hub of the Rite. As they did so the Chief Priest touched the blazing tip of the immense torch to a series of bowls held up to him by his subordinates. The incense within them caught light quickly and started to smoulder sending a cloud of heavy fragrance up into the air. The Chief Priest placed the torch into a stand, and then walked slowly down towards the plinth that was the centerpiece of the chamber, pacing steadily towards the unwilling sacrifice that was bound in the frame, Legolas. He picked up a flask that had been placed at the side of the dais and pulled the stopper from its narrow neck. He poured a generous amount into his hand and showered it over the bound figure. He continued his actions, tipping the oil into a cupped hand and tossing it onto the elf’s flesh until he gleamed in the torchlight, much as the cult priests did. The anointing liquid had a definite odour with a tang of ginger or cinnamon and Aragorn winced in sympathy as the scent reached him, discernable even over the incense that still burned. He knew that the essential oils in that now doused his friend would tingle on his skin and burn in his open wounds. It would seep into any new injuries and start to scald the flesh as soon as they were made. It was a new devilry to add to the old that had already been used and Aragorn feared what else they would use before the night was ended. The subordinate priests began a whirling dance around the base of the plinth, bodies twirling and jumping to the ever-pounding beat. As the dance continued they began to swirl around the bound figures, intermittently leaping onto the platform and continuing their movements around the Chief Priest and the motionless elf. Then five of the priests picked up narrow canes and began to spin them in the air above their heads. They made a thin whistling noise as they were swung that added an odd counterpoint to the drums. To a hidden signal they converged on the tied figures and landed stinging blows upon their exposed flesh, on Legolas’s back and across the human’s chests. Then they danced on for a count of thirty seconds before again striking their chosen victims. All the time the drums pounded, the voices chanted and the incense burned. Suddenly the Chief Priest threw his head back and all became silent, the dancers sank to their knees where they were and the watching hordes began to sway in a noiseless wave of motion. When he was satisfied that his audience was fully attentive he reached onto the goddess’s bier and lifted a flogger that had two feet of leather thongs suspended from a heavy wooden handle. He circled it above his head, much as his juniors had swirled their canes, the thongs twirling in the air before he brought the weapon down upon pale skin that had only slightly healed from its previous damage. He swung in a measured manner, first a strike from the left shoulder down then one from the right shoulder down, marking large X’s across the elf’s shoulder blades. The cords left slight lines across his back but there was no associated rush of blood to the surface as there would have been in a human, his flesh remained as white as milk despite every strike laid upon it. The Chief Priest tossed the flogger aside in disgust, his mouth turning up into a snarl. He stepped back from the elf and held out his right hand, gesturing impatiently to his assistants. One quickly stepped up and placed a heavy rattan cane into his palm. He closed his fingers around the handle and pulled it in front of him, examining it with a small smile of pleasure. He waved it above his head as he had before, allowing all in view to see his next weapon of choice. He moved to the elf’s right hand side and brought the heavier stick down across his shoulder blades. The next blow was exactly one inch below the first and so he proceeded down the line of the elf’s spine. Legolas swayed in his bonds with each strike and every swipe left a raised welt. Still he was silent, rocking with every impact but impassive in response. After covering his whole back down to the top of the fabric that still covered his loins the Chief Priest moved around to the front of the elf and stood on his left hand side. His first blow to the chest laid a bright line of pain across both sensitive nipples and then the blows came thick and fast along his sternum and stomach. When the elf’s entire torso was patterned in red lines he stepped back, breathing hard from his efforts and eyeing the still silent elf in puzzlement. He gestured to his assistant who came to him and accepted the rattan from his hands, placing into them the oil jar he had previously used in exchange. Again the elf was anointed with the fluid, but this time it was not sprayed onto him but rubbed in with deliberate movements, ensuring that every welt was covered, old and new. Legolas’s hands clenched in the air above where they were secured as he rode out the burning sensation but still he was soundless. The Chief Priest stepped away again, handing off the jar and exchanging it for a cloth that he wiped his hands on. As he cleaned the viscous liquid from his fingers he walked meditatively around the elf, eying him closely. The Rite required the sacrifice to respond to the actions inflicted upon them, the goddess demanded it. He walked towards the white clad bearers and gestured to a figure that had been hidden behind them. The man who was summoned stood up with a lithe grace and prowled around the kneeling figures, genuflecting to the figurine as he passed. As he climbed onto the plinth he shed the all-enveloping cloak that had shadowed his form thus far. The maroon silk puddled at his feet, showing a finely wrought naked frame beneath. This priest was a model of perfection, every muscle defined, and his movements languid and seductive in every gesture. He moved towards the bound sacrifice in languorous steps, every move encouraging all to watch and desire him. He stepped in front of the prisoner and reached out to him. He was tall for his race and therefore stood only slightly smaller than the Prince, almost eye to eye with the elf. This was a man trained for one purpose, the seduction of fellow beings, male and female alike. His body dedicated to the gods that his people worshipped, it was now his task to rouse the sacrifice to the heights needed for the Lady to accept his pain. He surveyed the individual before him; scanning his mind for everything he had learned in the past and from his previous responses to plan his attack on the sacrifices senses. Deciding on a scheme he set about his task. He stepped closer to the bound figure, rubbing his finely muscled frame against the welt patterned torso, mixing the oils from his chest with the ginger and cinnamon on the elf’s. Then he reached closer and attached his mouth to the elf’s dry lips, licking across them in a silent pleading for access. Legolas kept his mouth resolutely shut to the seductive touch, withdrawing his head as much as he could. When he was denied access to that sweet mouth the priest moved on to another tack, running his tongue along his chin and down the proud neck. He moved ever onward and downward, licking as he went, apparently immune to and even enjoying the spicy taste of the oil he was consuming. He sank to his knees and reached up slightly, craning his neck to put himself in exactly the right position to gently tease at previously tormented nipples. He began by touching them lightly, butterfly kisses and soft licks with a flat tongue. He lapped at them with delicate cat licks, swapping sides all the time, fingers busy with the one that was not currently in his mouth. When both were pebbled from the stimulation he moved down again, licking across the muscled abdomen to the edge of the cloth at his waist. He nibbled at the flesh and dipped his tongue into the indented navel before progressing back up to where he had begun. Again he licked at unresponsive lips but this time he lifted his hands and ran them through the glorious unrestrained mane of hair that cascaded loose. As he did this he touched the very tips of the elf’s delicately pointed ears and Legolas shivered, his first response since his ordeal had begun. Boromir tore his eyes away from the bewitching scene and turned his gaze to his companion, a look of confusion on his noble face. “The tips of an elf’s ear are incredibly delicate, so full of nerves and sensations that we could never imagine what a touch could involve.” Boromir turned back to the plinth in time to watch the Chief Priest come up behind Legolas and pull back his hair and knot it into a thick braid, securing it with a piece of leather thong. This left his ears, neck and face fully exposed with no place to hide. When he had finished he stepped back and allowed the beautiful priest to return. This time he had a definite target for his talents, he licked up fine cheekbones and attached his mouth to the very tip of his right ear, suckling on it with a delicate caress. Both hands found pebbled nipples and stroked across them, plucking at them with sensitive fingers. He dropped to suckle at the right nipple then the left before attaching his mouth to the left ear. As he began to tease this tip he dropped his hands to the fabric that was the elf’s sole covering. He pulled the tuck apart and let the remnant fall to the rock at their feet, exposing the elf fully to the throng. The elf’s shaft had begun to twitch slightly with the stimulation, a delicate flush of blood beginning to stir quiescent flesh. His face took on a slight tinge of embarrassment as his body began to react against his will, an autonomic response to the priest’s motions. The human left his ears and returned to his nipples as his hands found the stirring penis and began a tantalizing stroke, twisting along its not inconsiderable length to bring it to full life. The Chief Priest then came up behind the pair and took his place, bracing his feet a shoulder width apart for balance before swinging a new implement, a heavy whip that cracked in the silent hall. The elf was torn between the two, the incredible physical pain in his back and the equally harsh emotional and spiritual pain that the seductive man was inflicting on his front. He could feel that blood was starting to flow from his new wounds, narrow tickling trails that curled down his spine. The naked human had sunk again to his knees and lifted his head to look at the Chief Priest from his new posture, at his leader's nod he moved his head forward and engulfed the rising elfhood in his warm mouth, coating it in his saliva and treasuring it with his tongue. His diligence was rewarded as against every will and fibre of his being the elf became fully erect, growing too large to fit in even his talented mouth. He pulled back totally and simply licked at the proud shaft, tracing the vein on the underside and placing sucking kisses on the reddened tip. Legolas closed his eyes as his body betrayed him, a new humiliation to add to those that had gone before. Behind the humiliated elf, the Chief Priest was planning his next move. He watched the kneeling man licking the shaft and stroking the testicles that hung beneath it, keeping the sacrifice on a knife-edge both desperate and despairing. He pulled out a long needle and came up behind the elf as silently as he could then suddenly grasped his head from behind and rammed the needle through the very tip of his right ear, an obscene penetration at the hypersensitive edge. Now, finally they had their response as Legolas threw his head back and screamed his pain to the ceiling, his agonizing cry echoing in the vastness of the space. His arousal faded with the pain, and he hung from his wrists, sagging in his chains as he fought to get his breathing under control. The needle was pushed all the way through his ear and then a solid silvery ring was pushed in behind it, sealed by the Chief Priest as a complete circle, an obscene adornment in testament to agony. The leader stepped back from the gasping sacrifice and the still kneeling man readdressed his task, opening his talented mouth and swallowing the softened shaft again. As Legolas had screamed Aragorn had shrieked with him, pulling at his bound wrists until they began to bleed. Boromir did not fully understand what was happening but the responses of his two friends were so unexpected that he knew this must be virtually disastrous. He opened his heart to the bonds they had formed and the silver cords he was expecting were vibrating with red and black sparks. As disturbed as those in front of him but still providing no explanations. Aragorn calmed his breathing slowly then turned pain filled eyes to his friend. “There are traditions to do with an elf’s ears. They are so sensitive and delicate that to touch them is a rare privilege. It is an honour granted between close family and spouses. If an elf’s ears are inadvertently touched by one who is not so closely linked then an abject apology is required. This is a new torment that no elf has undergone in their living memory.” The concept of such brutality took Boromir’s breath away and he watched the action in front of him with new eyes. He watched as Legolas attempted to regain his composure, his hard fought for serenity against this new and unexpected torture. He was still a dignified sight, he had regained his footing and his eyes were once again closed as he calmed his breathing and tried to ignore the head that was bobbing at his crotch. Still even the immense pain he was in could not overcome the talented mouth and throat that worked at him and the naked human crawled away on his knees when the elf was again aroused. The Chief Priest eyed this new spectacle with glee, finally the ceremony was falling into place, and finally the Lady would receive her due. He began to pace around the bound figure, showing off to the crowd. “Behold all ye who are faithful to her grace and majesty. Behold here her due, the beauty of pain and flesh she demands, for only in desolation and blood can she be honoured, only by this sacrifice can we earn her blessing for our upcoming endeavours.” As he pontificated, one of the white swathed watchers climbed up onto the podium and handed his leader a handful of white silk swatches, after passing them over he bowed low enough for his forehead to touch the floor, remaining motionless in his subservient position. The Chief Priest lifted the squares of cloth to his nose and inhaled deeply. “The clean scent of her temple.” He lifted one square from the pile and wafted it in the air before the crowd before stepping close to the elf’s exposed and bleeding back. He touched the fabric to Legolas’s right shoulder blade and wiped down the length of the longest cut he found there, pressing into the wound until the spotless white was dingy red with blood. He stepped back two paces and dropped the anointed cloth into the outstretched hands of the white clad priest who was still folded into a submissive curl. He picked a second piece and repeated his movements, this time wiping from the left shoulder blade down towards his waist. Again he dropped the fragment into the open hands that waited patiently to collect it. He carried on these actions until he had soaked five of the squares from the bleeding stripes that spanned the sacrifices back. The sixth remnant he lifted higher and draped over the still bleeding new piercing that adorned the right ear tip. The merest touch of the cloth was agonizing for the elf but this did not produce enough blood for the priest’s satisfaction. He cupped the ear with his hand and squeezed down on the still oozing wound, pressing the ring into the flesh and abrading it further. Legolas screamed again at the new contact, it was as though he could feel every single particle of the metal that made up the ring and every one was grinding into his delicate tissue. The man smiled broadly at the screams that emanated from the sacrifice, finally the Lady was receiving her awaited honour. He dropped the scrap onto the other five, making an even half dozen in his acolyte’s hands. There was still one square in his grasp and he waved it like a small banner as he paraded around the elf again, stopping when he was in front of the bound figure. With a truly malevolent grin he dropped the seventh piece onto the proud shaft that jutted out from slender loins. He ground the cloth into the prince, catching the small drips of pre-ejaculate that had pearls on the rosy tip. They soaked into the silk, leaving a small translucent patch of shame. The Chief Priest lifted the fabric away from the devastated elf and lifted it again to his nose. Inhaling deeply of the Prince's intimate scent as only a lover should, he walked back to where he had begun and knelt before the statue that still sat in hideous state. “Glorious Lady. Mistress of our past and future glories. We who are gathered here pay you homage and worship. Accept now these gifts we have collected from the sacrifice we present. Awake now we plead as we begin the ceremony that your majesty demands and deserves.” He bowed deeply to the icon, his head to the floor as he briefly mimicked the pose that his subordinate still rested in. He stayed for a space of ten heartbeats before shifting his posture to a more dominant posture. His knees were widely spaced and his muscles shifted under his skin as he reached his hands high above his head in salute to the Lady. “BLESS US” His shout echoed around the walls of the cavern, bouncing back and repeating as though a host had spoken together. He clicked his fingers and the white veiled priest smoothly rose from the coiled position he had rested in, carrying the six red scraps before him as precious offerings. He laid the pieces in a fan between her feet as a carpet of delight. After this he bowed again, both to the Lady and to her Chief Priest, and retook his place with his veiled brethren. The leader took the intimate offering he still held and placed it into the statue's outstretched hand, in a place of ultimate privilege as was deserved by such a special gift. He rocked back up onto his feet in a smooth movement and swiveled in place before walking back to the centre and the Prince. “She is pleased with the gifts we give her. His pain is a worthy honour and his blood is as perfume in her nostrils. His screams are music in her ears as finally she receives that which she craves.” He ran a lascivious hand down the elf’s silken skin, coating his palm with the still running blood. When he had a good amount on his skin he lifted the hand to his mouth and began to lick it, tasting it with pleasure. He continued with his obscene snack as he walked back round to face Legolas. Then he held out his still dripping fingers to the elf’s mouth, running a wet forefinger along the closed seam that separated the pink lips, leaving an offensive stain on the still pristine orifice. Legolas reared his head back, away from the man and his distasteful digits. He lifted his clean hand and cupped the back of the blond head, winding the thick braid to secure his hold. Hauling him forward so sharply that his whole body swung in the chains, he pried his mouth open and rammed two fingers into the unwilling mouth. “That’s right beautiful, taste what you give to the Lady. Your bountiful present to her grace.” This disgusting show was too much for the two men who fought their bonds, futilely trying to reach their humiliated friend. Aragorn found his voice first and screamed into the gloom. “No. Leave him. This is too much, you must stop this NOW.” Before he could say more one of the troopers moved to his side and slammed a hand over his face, silencing his shouts. The Lord of the Rite came to them and grasped Aragorn’s chin in a harsh hold, digging his nails into his cheeks and wrenching his face towards him. “You are here on sufferance, Ranger. You must not interrupt this Rite. Your presence here is not required.” He looked deeply into Aragorn’s troubled eyes and a smirk began to grace the Lord’s lips. “We can assure your co-operation in this matter.” “I will not yield to you. Whatever you do to me.” “You must merely continue to watch as you have previously done. We have another hostage to fortune.” He swung Aragorn around to fully to see what had happened while they talked. Two troopers had grabbed Boromir and twisted him in his chains so that now he faced the pole to which he was bound. A wickedly curved dagger was produced and this was used to slice away the rough tunic that the Gondorian had worn. “See now what your insolence has wrought.” A heavy leather belt was produced and put to good use. Red welts sprang up as the trooper put more and more effort into his swings. Boromir moved under the strikes, swinging with every blow. He was biting his lips to stop any sound from escaping as he endured. Legolas saw this from where he was still struggling with the heavyset man who had finally pulled his now clean fingers from his mouth. He took a deep breath and then opened his mouth, letting free with a simple snatch of sound, elven singing in the depths of hell. “Gurth a chyth-in-edhil. Ortheritham han” (Death to the foes of elves. We will defeat them) The Easterlings did not understand his words but his tone was as sweet as all elven voices were, clear as bells and sweet as honey. The man striking Boromir stopped in mid strike, his arm dropping to his side. The song carried in the large space, rolling through the corridors and passageways that had been tunneled into the living rock. The sound eventually reached one small chamber at the end of a narrow hall where five sat close together, uncertain of what was occurring around them. It was a gruff voice that asked the question they all had in their minds. “What is that elf doing?” Frodo was sprawled across Sam’s lap, a small huddle trying to take up even less space. Merry and Pippin were still clasped in each others’ arms. Ever since the drums had begun again they had been silently weeping, soundless tears rolling down their faces without ceasing. Gimli had watched them all the while. As he had woken they had been burrowed into each others' arms. This was not a new situation by any means to the dwarf; the two Halflings had spent most of the nights in each others' arms, sometimes against Boromir for extra warmth but always together. However, there was a new sense of desperation in the grip they had now. He moved to them and gently touched Merry on the shoulder. “There is something new with you. What is it?” The two unfurled themselves and rolled to gaze at the kindly eyes that peered out from the red hair. “We can feel them.” “What do you mean laddie?” Merry took over from his still sobbing lover. “Aragorn, Legolas and Boromir; they are in our heads. Silver cords that connect us together.” “Silver?” “Yes. Legolas is the starting point but we can feel all of them.” “What do you feel?” “What they do. But at a distance, as though through a mist or down a tunnel.” Pippin took over the tale “They are in pain, terrible pain.” “If we feel only a fraction of what they do...” “Then it must be truly horrific.” “More than we could ever imagine.” “Worse even than the tales of old.” They fell into silence again and wound round each other again. Gimli watched for a moment then opened his arms, encouraging them both to rest against his barrel chest. “Lean into me.” “Thank you.” “What are you going to do?” The two looked at each other then up and their friend. “We think that maybe if we think good things we might be able to send them back to the others.” “Can I help?” “I think you are helping. It’s easier to feel them when we are touching you.” The dwarf smiled broadly. “Well then, reach away. They may be tall and that elf may be, well, an elf but we can still try.” Merry and Pippin burrowed in again and closed their eyes. They began to breathe in unison and sank into a reverie, reaching for the silvery bonds and sending their love along them. The Chief Priest was not amused by the elf’s actions that halted the Rite. He had fallen silent again but he decided to take no chances. He picked up the scant length of cotton that had protected the elf’s genitals and tore off a two-inch wide strip from along the long edge. This he twined into a rough cord and slammed into the elf’s mouth, pushing it until his lips opened and pushing still until it rested between his back molars. He passed the ends to the back of Legolas’s head and knotted them there in a tight bind, making certain that he would not sing again. He leaned in and licked up the side of the elf’s face, leaving a wet trail from chin to hairline. “Your screams are not needed now. You will be silent, my sacrifice.” He stepped away and raised his hands to the ceiling, strutting around the very edge of the plinth and eying the massed throng that still swayed in unison. He stopped dead and pointed both hands into the crowd. The man he indicated moved through the multitude and stepped onto the platform dropping the maroon silk cape he had worn. In this much he was like the beautiful naked priest who still knelt on the dais, but this man was very different. Where the first was slender and lithe as a youth this one was striking for very different reasons. As he approached, the troops span Boromir around so as not to hinder his view. “Now the Rite.” Neither of the bound humans had ever seen a man like him. He was half a head taller than any of them and his muscles bulged all over him. He was huge in all his dimensions and his already erect cock would not have disgraced the finest stallion in Lord Elrond’s stables. He was oiled and painted in barbaric patterns, all over his arms and legs. There were heavy gold rings in his nipples and his navel and his massive upper arms were decorated in bracelets of enameled black and red. Legolas’s eyes widened as the priest walked in front of him. He took a deep breath through the barrier in his mouth and tried to slow his racing heart. The Chief Priest came up behind him and ran his hand along his back again, collecting more blood before stepping in close enough to whisper into the ear he had so tormented earlier. “You have brought his on yourself. This could have been easy on you. This man would not have been a part of the ceremony. Your disobedience earned this. Your insolence offends her majesty and must be undone.” With that he moved away and walked to the huge man who was grandstanding to the horde. He lifted his blood-smeared hand and laid a red palm print over the massive left pectoral. Then he dipped his clean hand into a bowl that was being proffered by an acolyte who had crawled onto the platform when he was talking to the elf. His hand emerged dripping with a blue dye that he then placed over the right pectoral muscle. “THIS IS THE ONE CHOSEN TO START THE RITE. BY BLOOD AND BY PIGMENT HE IS IDENTIFIED. THE SACRIFICE IS HIS.” Legolas had defiance still in his eyes as he watched this moment between the two men, watched as his defilement was discussed and passed on. The gigantic man began his own pacing as his leader went to stand with the Lord of the Rite. He picked up the heavy whip from where it had been tossed and cracked it against the floor then against his back. He beat him harshly until his blood flowed freely, wounds that had begun to congeal flowed again and old wounds reopened. When he was satisfied with the streams he tossed the whip to the floor where flowing blood pooled and mixed with the dust. He screamed out his pleasure and began to beat on his chest. As he howled the multitudes began their chanting again and the drums picked up the beat. He came up close behind the shivering sacrifice and licked at the blood trails that patterned his delicate flesh. They were delicate licks and laps, a perversion of intimacy that toyed with the spirit as it did with the body. Huge hands wound around the suspended frame to pluck lightly at his nipples, twisting them with soft movements. He let go of one to gesture to the still kneeling beautiful one who was watching the actions with wide opened eyes. With a sinuous prowl he came forward and took over, licking at the newly teased nipples, bringing them back to pebbled hardness. As he moved down the elf’s chiseled abdomen the other took over again, plucking now at saliva wet points. The beautiful one enveloped the presented shaft in his hot mouth. Every motion as gentle as he could be. A seduction, expert mouth and hands on penis and testicles, bringing him back to full arousal. Legolas’s eyes began to glaze as his humiliation was increased further and still further. His friends could see his mortification and his pain echoed through the silver connections that bound them. They were powerless to stop anything from happening and could only stand as mute witness to his anguish. With no warning, the beauty began to take harsher bites at the large shaft he was toying with. He tugged roughly on heavy testicles, plucking at the skin. Crescent shaped nail marks marring the membrane, tooth marks on the shaft that began to ooze blood. As he did this the massive man started to pull hard on the nipples in his hands. Wrenching them away from his chest and twisting them with abrasive and callous intent. Legolas threw his head around, his hands grasping in the air as though seeking for anything to ground him. The massive man at his back let go and screamed into the hall. “FOR HER GRACE.” With this the beauty moved back and the huge one grabbed the elf’s hips and RAMMED himself into the unprepared and already abraded hole. He gave Legolas no chance to adjust to the intrusion, instead he simply began to saw away at him, swinging him by his chains to get deeper into the limp body he held. Legolas was almost beyond pain, strangled moans edged past the gag in his mouth, tears ran from his eyes and were caught in the cloth. Aragorn and Boromir fought their shackles; their tears ran freely down their faces. They screamed for him, but their voices were lost in the hubbub. They would have taken any punishment given for interruptions but they could not make themselves heard. Deep within the mountain the other five captives were alert and listening. Merry and Pippin suddenly fell to the floor and moaned as the agony from the cavern ricocheted along their connection. “No no no no no no no no no no no no..” Two voices in unison, pleading whispers from tight throats. As the other three touched them they were sucked into what the two Halflings felt. The anguish of Legolas and the screaming pain of Aragorn and Boromir from where they stood. The two little ones were lifted and enclosed by the other three, their moans subsiding as their throats closed from use. They had no tears left to cry, nothing left to give. They had heard the screams. They did not know any details of what had happened but they knew deep in their hearts that nothing would ever be the same again. The massive man howled as his orgasm overcame him, at the moment of his release he pulled the elf in as tight as he could to release deep into his bowels. He pulled out and held out one hand. A square of white silk was placed into his outstretched palm and he wiped his slowly softening shaft, collecting the blood, semen and filth, staining the cloth with the signs of his actions. He walked to the bier and placed his cloth into the hand that had so far remained empty. Then he bowed to the Lady and left the platform, sitting himself behind the white clad priests. The beautiful one then stood from where he had been kneeling all this time. He too was erect, not as large but still no mean size. He stepped behind the elf and grasped onto the bruises that his colleague had left. Pulling hard he also impaled the elf, beginning where the other had left off. The beauty left his face as he shoved himself brutally home again and again. Legolas’s head had begun to loll to one side and his legs were giving way beneath him, he could not support himself, he was undone. Aragorn and Boromir were sobbing and gasping but still fighting their bonds. They were inconsolable as they watched the scene before them. The Lord of the Rite walked down to them and stood between them, directly in front of the sagging sacrifice. “This is the beginning. The sacrifice will bring us much pleasure and great favour with Her grace.” With that he walked past them to the base of the plinth. The pretty one finished with a shriek and pulled out, repeating the ritual with the silk and then resuming his place with his Brethren. The Chief Priest dabbed between the elf’s buttocks to soak another square, then took a second, draped it over three of his fingers and pushed it inside the elf’s passage to take another offering. These cloths were donated as a prayer then the leader shed his breechclout and rammed himself home. The elf was almost insensible by this point but was still alert enough to throw his head back at the new violation. He moaned again as the Chief Priest finished and the Lord of the Rite took his place. Boromir was hanging in his chains, blood running from chafed wrists. His face was covered in trails of tears and his eyes were closed. Deep in his head he tried to reach the bond past his heartbreak, stretching himself to try and find the core of the elf where he hoped he was still intact. Aragorn closed his eyes as well and joined in the plea. The two humans melded their thoughts and pushed them to the suffering elf. Boromir felt the words Aragorn crafted thudding through him and both pushed them to their friend. “Flee my friend. Flee as only you can. Send your fea out. Seek what safety you can find. Reach for security and sanctuary. Find your father. Find whomever you can. Drego mellon-nin. Drego. Bad an lin Adar. Iaun.” In the depths of his agonizing pain Legolas heard his friends and listened to them. Estel was his battle leader in that place and that time. He had spent all his adult life in obedience. As a novice and a warrior he had obeyed his captain, now as a Captain he obeyed his king. He had placed his honour with the human he had trained and trusted implicitly. With effort he opened his eyes and stared straight at the two men, they felt his gaze and opened their tear stained lids. Everything was said in that gaze. All the love and protection that they could give, sent over the howling mob. Legolas closed his eyes again and exhaled sharply, his body sagging as he set his fea free. The silver cloud that was his soul brushed over all who were connected to him as he fled that place of pain and degradation. He touched Aragorn and Boromir then swept over Merry and Pippin as he searched for peace. Aragorn watched the empty body that was still pinioned on the platform, a fifth man now raping the insensate form. There was nothing more they could do but endure the night to come. To endure and hope that all would survive until dawn and the end of the hideous ceremony in which they were caught. ############################################################ ####