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: R (will be NC-17)
Category: Drama, Action and Angst
Warnings: Rape and Non-Con - present and past.  Violence and 
                      Torture
	
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, anyone else 
who wants it, please just let me know!


#####################################################



PROLOGUE



The music was rising again to an ear-shattering crescendo.  The 
thudding feet of the dancers echoed in the caverns, a counterpoint 
to the drummer’s rhythm.  The guards outside the heavy wooden 
door leered through the window aperture at the seven huddled 
figures.  The four smallest seemed to have coalesced into a pile of 
arm and legs, each with a death grip on all the others.  The dwarf 
that they had had so much fun with sat to the side of them, he 
seemed so much smaller in simple cloth with his iron mail and helm 
stripped away with his weapons.  The last two sat shoulder to 
shoulder, attempting to block the watchers view of their friends.  
The humans had continued to fight at every opportunity they were 
given.  The two men were bloodied and beaten, the fairer gasped 
when he took a deep breath, his broken ribs bound with scraps of 
cloth.  The darker man had proved his resilience by replacing his 
own dislocated shoulder, this had amused the warriors so much 
that every few days they forced him to repeat the feat as the spread 
of black bruising across his torso displayed.  


The harsh laughter of the guards alerted the cells occupants to their 
presence.  They had quickly learnt that Easterling amusement was 
directly connected their pain and they all drew back from the sound.  
The taller of the guards tilted his head and smiled at the captives.


“Not your turn today.  Today is for the glowing one.”


Aragorn’s hands grasped into fists against the dirt floor, his only 
expression of the hatred that coursed though his veins.  They had 
also learnt that open defiance hurt their companions as well as 
themselves.  Boromir and Gimli had discussed this with the ranger 
when they realised the plan.  All three could well handle their own 
pain but the screams of the halflings had made them circumspect in 
their behaviour.  The three older hobbits had tried to protect the 
youngest, the ringbearer that they had all sworn to guard.  The 
Easterlings had torn them aside as easily as the wraiths had done 
on Weathertop in the ruins of Amon Sul, tossing them away to see 
what they protected so valiantly.  They had been curious as to why 
a large eyed 'child' should be guarded as precious but not overly 
so, simply beating them all for their boldness.  Still for all their 
cruelty the Easterlings saved the worst of their sport for those who 
could at least nominally withstand it.  The shire folk knew that they 
were being held as hostages to the behaviour of the men and the 
dwarf that shared their cell.  However, they all feared that the 
missing member of the fellowship would pay for any misdemeanour 
on their part.



The glowing one they called him.  The Easterling troop had been 
fascinated by what was so new to them. A tall slender being who 
was pale as silk in the daylight yet seemed to glow with an internal 
light under the shine of the moon.  The seven held together had not 
seen their companion since they had been overwhelmed in the 
night and hustled to the cave series where they were now penned.  
The Uruk-Hai who ran with them had recognised him as an Elf; to 
the swarthy men from the east he was a novelty that would fetch a 
high price in their slave markets.  They had delighted in their find, 
certain that the wealthy potentates of their home lands would 
shower them with gold and jewels for bringing them such a rarity.  
Such men were always keen to add variety to the flesh they kept for 
their amusement.  The troop commanders had such fates in mind 
for all their captives.  The men would go for Gladiators or rough 
trade, the dwarf to the mines and the children to whomever would 
purchase them for household duties or perhaps, especially the 
youngest with the starting eyes, the same fate as their glowing 
prize.



The passing of time was hard to measure in their subterranean 
pen.  They saw no natural light, only the guttering flicker of lamps, 
candles and torches.  Their days were punctuated by stale bread, 
brackish water and overly generous quantities of pain.  Their 
rations appeared at irregular intervals, further disorientating them.  
Boromir and Aragorn had talked quietly while the halflings had slept 
and Gimli had recovered from a session with their guards.  They 
had both come to the same conclusions, realising that the Troop 
were using every methodology that they had to confuse and 
confound them, the random deliveries of nourishment and 
punishment together with the lack of light and the pounding drums.  
Everything aimed at breaking their spirits and pacifying them for 
transport.  The two men tried as hard as they could to calculate 
how long they had been there, straining their senses to try and hear 
guard changeovers outside their cell.  Coldly observing how long 
each of them took to heal from wounds inflicted by their captors.  
They were warriors and used to privation, injuries were a part of 
their world and each knew exactly how he healed.  Between them 
they had calculated that they had been held for 19 days.  Almost 3 
weeks of pain and humiliation, all still grieving for the companion 
lost to the depths and all apprehensive for the one they were 
separated from.



#####################################################



CHAPTER 1



The cell door slammed open, flooding the dim space with light.  The 
occupants blinked rapidly to accommodate the change; even 
flickering lantern light was more than they had had.  The seven 
tensed back against the rear wall, protecting each other as best 
they could as guards began to enter.  The last in was obviously of a 
higher rank than those they normally saw.  His bright cloak and 
gleaming plate were covered in esoteric runes that none of them 
could read, runes that twisted and turned around each other 
sinuously, seemingly alive in the dancing light.  He gestured 
towards the pile.


"Bring the humans."


His guards rushed the fellowship and efficiently separated the two 
men from the mixture of hobbits and dwarf.  Aragorn and Boromir 
struggled as they were lifted none too gently.  However, they were 
quickly subdued as the Easterlings leant on old wounds, twisting 
Aragorn's arms up behind is back and kneeling on Boromir's ribs.  


"You will watch tonight's festivities.  Perhaps you can help explain 
things to us."


His heavily accented westron thudded into them.  They had heard 
no festivities thus far in their captivity, only the screams and groans 
of torture over the always-echoing drumbeats of the troops.



As they were hustled out the door Aragorn managed to turn his 
head to the back of the cell, gazing at his five remaining 
companions.


"Stay alert and together, all of you."

"Where else would they go, Ranger of the North?"


With a harsh laugh the leader cuffed the dark head and the men 
were swept away, the door closing behind them with a clanging 
finality.  As the light dimmed again the hobbits and dwarf settled 
against each other for warmth and safety.  Sam wrapped an arm 
around Frodo's shoulders and drew him closer.  Merry and Pippin 
snuggled on his other side and Gimli harrumphed but settled as a 
hairy pillow.


"Stay alert he says and stay together."

"Well together is warmer."


Stated Pippin, his eyebrows drawing together with thought,


"And anyway, if they find Legolas and manage to escape then us 
being together means they can find us in one place."

"Well said Master Took, well said indeed."

"Do you think it likely Pip, really?"


Pippin turned liquid eyes on his friend, smiling slightly at the fragile 
form.


"I think that Strider and Boromir can do whatever they decide to do 
Frodo, and I choose to believe that they will decide to get out.  So 
to that end I think it is imperative that we be well rested for the 
inordinate amount of running and fighting that we shall be expected 
to perform."


He stopped there and ran a gentle hand down Frodo's cheek before 
turning his face into Merry's side and closing his eyes.  Merry 
stroked his best friends curls softly and closed his eyes as well.  
Gimli merely watched their actions and nodded sagely to himself.


"That Ranger will make a plan and this dwarf will teach them all a 
lesson in interspecies politics that they will never forget.  Never 
underestimate a dwarf!"


Certain of this and also of their captivity he closed his eyes and 
joined the halflings in slumber, grateful for their warmth and 
companionship - even when Sam snored and Frodo tossed and 
turned.  While they moved they were all alive, and so was hope.


#####################################################


Neither man was accustomed to being on his knees, yet both 
willingly fell.  Two nobles giving obsequience to the garishly 
dressed Lord of the Rite.  They both turned pleading eyes to him, 
showing submission physically when words had not helped, 
begging for the favour they had asked.  The Lord watched the 
battered men who wore their nobility as invisible cloaks yet bowed 
to him for one they could not possibly be related to.  This confused 
him, his people aided relatives for benefit but never others, and 
even family had to prove their need for help.  He raised his head 
from them and eyed their favour.



When dragged into the cavernous space the two men had felt their 
hearts break.  They could not believe that the huddled mass of 
flesh curled in protectively on itself could possibly be the noble 
Prince of Mirkwood.  His clothing was gone, ragged scraps of green 
and silver cloth hanging from his hips as though he had desperately 
attempted to cover himself.  Heavy chains of iron, banded with pale 
stripes of Mithril for strength, circled his neck, wrists and ankles.  
His glorious sheet of hair fell unbraided across his face, hiding his 
expression from them.  However, the most alarming aspect of the 
sight was what was missing.  Prince Legolas, the Silvan noble, had 
ceased to glow.  His radiance had dimmed in Moria but had started 
to reassert itself under the moons luminosity as they fled the open 
hills ahead of pursuing Orc hordes.  Now his grotesquely exposed 
skin had no lustre, like a pearl kept too long in a darkened case 
away from the treatment it required.  They had watched aghast as 
two guards had seized him up by the chains around his wrists, 
suspending him anew from a heavy A frame in the centre of the 
floor.  His feet had dangled obscenely beneath him and the 
revelation of his back was what had driven the men to their current 
position.


"Ranger."


Aragorn gazed steadily at the swarthy man in front of him, 
swallowing scant saliva surreptitiously in prelude to talking.


"What would you give for this favour?"


Aragorn glanced at Boromir who nodded slightly to his King; they 
had discussed this eventuality and reached a consensus.


"Whatever you would ask."

"Whatever?  Even if I demanded that you both take your 
companions place."

"Yes."

"He is not even your species Human."

"He is my friend."

"Such a youngling as this? Did he draw you from childhood?"

"In a way."


In a way indeed.  Aragorn remembered his fascination with the lithe 
Prince of Mirkwood.  Legolas had treated the young human with the 
kindness and patience that only an expert in children could show.  
Teaching him to use a small toy bow and arrow with as much 
seriousness as he had used when drilling the elite guard troops of 
Mirkwood and Imladris in their defences.  The young Estel had 
shadowed the blonde noble when he visited the last homely house 
to talk with his foster father and meet with his friends.  All in all, 
many happy memories were bundled up in a frame that now 
seemed younger than the years the human carried.  The thin blood 
of Numenor he bore could not totally delay the aging process, 
merely hold off the worst of its ravages and it was this discrepancy 
that led to the Easterling Lords misconception.  Finally the Lord 
thought he saw a reason for the submission, an instructor's defence 
of a student.  This he could understand; to be a teacher was a 
vocation, to defend a pupil was part of this - a noble cause.  


"I will honour your request Men of the West, but there will be 
conditions."

"Name them,"

"The Rite can be delayed by one round of the sun, no more.  The 
Lady requires it and we must be prepared.  You have that time to 
make him presentable.  He must be able to stand in the frame for 
the ceremony.  If he cannot, then one of you must."

"Agreed."

"What do you need for this?"

"A quiet place, with a window if possible - however small.  Water 
and clean linen.  Some fruit to feed him and his chains removed."

"It took 15 of my men to get those on him human, can you 
guarantee it will not be the same again?"

"I do not think that he can fight like that now and even a few hours 
will make little difference."

"I agree to your terms Ranger.  He will be cut down and given over 
to you.  However, remember that I hold five lives apart from yours.  
If there are any escape attempts then you shall witness the children 
in your group strapped to the frame in all your steads.  Is that 
clear?"

"As crystal."


The Lord gestured sharply to the troops surrounding the men.  Two 
stepped forward and untied the knots that held their hands behind 
their backs.  As the rough rope gave way they both drew their 
hands to the front and massaged the life back into their wrists.  The 
two men struggled to their feet and watched the Lord as he in turn 
observed them.


"You can take him down and follow the troop leader in blue.  He will 
take you to a room where your requests can be met."


Aragorn and Boromir both nodded their understanding of his 
instructions and turned towards their friend.  The troops behind 
them separated slowly leaving them to walk down a corridor of men 
towards their goal.



Legolas did not move as they approached him, his head hung low 
with his chin on his sternum.  His feet kicked out intermittently, a 
reflexive searching for a rest.  His back was a ruin of striped and 
cut flesh with seemingly random patterns of burns from pokers, 
daggers and other heated implements.  Blood was caked on him, 
his and others, as well as other biological samples that they did not 
yet wish to consider.  Both men circled the suspended figure to 
stand in front of him, where the damage was no less severe.  Lash 
marks and bruises from fists and feet patterned his pale skin.  His 
nipples stood out from his chest, red and swollen with lash lines 
and bite marks.  There were obscene marks of passion on his neck 
and collarbone along with fingerprints where someone had tried to 
strangle him.



As the two men stood before him Legolas began to awaken, 
rocking slightly in his chains.  Aragorn was pleased at this, a 
demonstration that SOME life remained.  Neither man reached for 
him, instead Aragorn spoke with his voice pitched low.


"Legolas."


Legolas stirred slightly at this, his head rolling gently.  Aragorn 
persisted:


"Legolas, mellon-nin.  We are here."

"Estel?"


The elves voice was a mere whisper on the air, husky and cracked 
from having had no use apart from screaming for so long, but the 
one word raised a new spirit in the warriors.

"Gwador-nin, Cunn Legolas Thrandulian."

"Suilaid Estel i Imladris and Brannon Boromir i Gondor."


Boromir looked askance at Aragorn as he was identified by a half 
dead elf who had yet to open his eyes.

"Never underestimate an elf, they will always surprise you."


Aragorn reached out a hand to Boromir who grasped his forearm in 
a warrior's salute as they prepared for what was to come.  Dropping 
their grasp they moved closer to the stricken Prince and braced 
themselves.

"Legolas?"

"Estel."

"We have been given permission to aid you for a time.  We will lift 
you down and take you to a private place but it will be agonising for 
you."

"Henion Estel.  I can endure."



Aragorn's face betrayed to Boromir that he did not believe the 
Silvan's words but accepted the bravery in the statement.  He 
reached his arms around the battered torso and held him gently.  
When the Prince was braced Aragorn nodded to his fellow man, 
who reached for the first manacle.  The ends of the elf's chains had 
been looped around hooks embedded in the top of the A frame.  As 
his right arm came free from its position Boromir gripped the strong 
forearm lightly and helped lower the limb to tortured sides.  The elf 
gasped almost silently as blood rushed back into his flesh and 
injuries tingles anew.  Aragorn whispered meaningless words of 
comfort into delicate ears that were still hidden by curtains of hair, 
low sibilant sounds of sindarin and westron, as Boromir massaged 
the arm silently, willing the spasms to ease.  When the elf had 
relaxed slightly the Gondorian reached for the other arm and again 
unwrapped the chain from its clasp.  More mellow words and soft 
touches followed and Aragorn lowered the slender body so its feet 
could rest on the rocky floor.  The elf moaned as his feet made 
contact and Boromir bit off a curse at the reaction.


“The Bastinado.”


Aragorn looked at his fellow human in puzzlement as he lifted the 
Prince into his arms and as Boromir realised that an elven 
upbringing had sheltered his leader from some of the more 
grotesque parts of human history.


“A way to ensure a prisoner cannot escape.  The soles of the feet 
are beaten and scored so that any pressure causes agony.”

“I have never heard of this before.”

“Few have.  Learning of it was part of my history lessons as a child.  
My tutors felt that a leader should be knowledgeable of the worst of 
the past.”

“My father often said that those who forget the past are condemned 
to repeat it.”

“Lord Elrond is a wise man.”


The blue clad soldier beside them cleared his throat loudly and 
gestured sharply towards a rock cut passageway.


"Room in this direction."


Aragorn shifted his burden gently in his arms and started after the 
man.  Boromir glared once more at the A frame before setting off as 
well.

"I will burn you."



Aragorn smiled slightly at this, his Steward was still fiery and 
determined despite their situation.  He also would endure.



#####################################################



CHAPTER 2



The narrow window that had been cut into the living rock allowed 
only a fine beam of natural light to enter the cell.  Aragorn and 
Boromir softly laid their burden in its glare, the light hitting the 
tortured body they had carried.  Even their soft movements and 
touches had harmed him.  Slight jostling had re-opened the wounds 
that Elven healing had been unable to mend.  



The Easterling Lord had caused a pallet to be left in the chamber.  
The elf rested on its surface, barely denting the top layer, still as 
light as he had appeared on the snow in the Caradhras Pass.  His 
blood trickled into the rough cloth, small trails that threatened to 
leave pools if they went untreated.  Boromir watched Aragorn settle 
the woodland Prince, easing him as he shifted restlessly.  The 
Steward turned back to their guide and fixed him with a stare.


"We requested supplies for the task ahead.  Water and linen as well 
as food."

"The Lord has filled your list.  Linen is in the sack yonder with bowls 
and the Rangers healing bag.  Food and potable water will come to 
you."

"We must cleanse him and remove his chains as well."


The guard gestured to the far corner of the cell.


"Clean him with that and as for the chains…"


He stormed over to the supine form and knelt at his side, quickly 
unlocking the elf's manacles and pocketing them inside his robes.  
He leant over the figure and ran a finger down the side of the 
Silvan's face.


"Heal him quickly Ranger.  He is a sweet gift to the Lady."


Aragorn's face was thunderous.


"You go to far.  Leave now as was agreed."

"I leave, but we will return."



He stood smoothly and strolled to the entrance, slamming the solid 
door behind him.   Aragorn snatched up the sack that had been left 
for them and opened it, grabbing out his leather satchel and 
dumping out the bag of linen within.  He passed a large bowl to 
Boromir and started to mumble instructions.  A hot spring bubbled 
in a damp corner of the cell.  Following his Lord's directions Boromir 
rinsed out the dish he held before filling it with clear water and 
carrying it back to the Elf's side.  Aragorn had examined the Princes 
body with compassion, testing the level of damage.  Having closely 
scrutinized Legolas's chest he made to remove the scraps he wore.


"Should you do that?"

"I must check for damage."

"After all he has endured, will this not be another violation?"


Aragorn raised devastated eyes to his friends gaze.


"We both know what has happened here Aragorn.  At least we both 
suspect it.  The marks on his body suggest more than simple 
beatings have occurred."

"This will kill him Boromir.  Elvenkind cannot tolerate it.  Three 
millennia of life will be destroyed and I know not how to help him."



Boromir moved from where he had stood and knelt slightly behind 
and to the side of the anguished man, placing his hands on bowed 
shoulders.


"I know something of this.  Together we can help him.  I have not 
the healing gifts that you learned from your father, but this I 
comprehend."



Aragorn twisted slightly to look at the Gondorian, questions in his 
eyes.


"When we are all safe I will tell you the story of a young man, the 
ordeal he underwent and how the love of a brother saved him.  But 
now it is your shield-brother we must save."

"Aye, we must."




#####################################################



CHAPTER 3



Aragorn closed his eyes slightly and lowered his head.

"You are right Boromir.  We must ensure he is comfortable and 
aware before we treat those injuries."

"Where should we begin?"

Aragorn was more confident with this line of thought.  He was a 
human trained in the mysteries of Elven medicine and healing.  The 
routines of the sick room were second nature to him, he knew well 
the procedures for treating wounds and found his balance in the 
practice.  


"Before we can treat any wound we must cleanse his body."


He reached into his satchel and produced a green glazed clay pot 
embossed with Elven script.  The soft blue paste within smelt faintly 
of bergamot, a slightly smoky odour that tingled in the air.  


"What is that?"

"A paste that my father developed.  The herbs in the mixture will 
help the healing of minor wounds, purifying them, cleansing them of 
debris and pollution."



Boromir nodded his understanding of the explanation and moved to 
the other side of the stricken Prince.  Aragorn handed him a length 
of soft clean fabric and placed the bowl of warm water and the pot 
within the reach of both of them.


"We shall cleanse his front first, then roll him gently to clean his 
back.  After that we shall see about other parts of him."


The men regarded the figure before them.  With his white skin, and 
lacking his usual glowing countenance, the elf seemed a graven 
image of marble, as cold and immovable as stone.  Only the stirring 
of slight breaths and the flicker of a pulse in his bruised neck gave 
any sign of life apart from the still oozing streams of blood and 
ichor,  


"Legolas.  We will help you.  Remember at all times that those with 
you are Estel and Boromir.  Gweston Legolas, we will aid you."

"We are here friend Elf.  We will permit no harm to come to you in 
this room.  While we are here you are protected, on my honour I 
swear this."



They watched the elf with bated breath.  He had made not spoken 
since they had cut him down from the hideous frame and now he 
rested, his eyes closed.  This seemed more alarming to the 
Gondorian than it did to his King.  Aragorn knew that grievously 
wounded elves closed their lids.  Boromir had taken days to 
become accustomed to a being that rested with eyes fixed on the 
heavens, focusing on Ithil as she glowed above the travellers, 
another change had left him bemused.


Finally Legolas's eyes flickered open for a moment to look at the 
two men.


"Talk."


Aragorn was puzzled by this and started to frame a question to the 
Prince.  However, the shamed understanding in his companion's 
eyes halted him.


"You wish to hear our voices?  We are not as poetic or musical as 
your kin."

"Familiar."



Boromir nodded his head at this, before realising that the elf had 
closed his eyes again and could not see him.


"Listen then and we shall weave a tapestry of sound to enfold you."


He started to hum slightly under his breath, a folk tune that Aragorn 
knew vaguely from the human traders that intermittently visited the 
last homely house.


"The familiar to ground him and let him know he is amongst those 
he knows."

"How do you…?"

"A story for another time."

"As you said, for another time."



The two men then placed cloths in the water and lifted dabs of the 
cream with wet fabric before turning to their delicate task.  They 
cleansed elegant neck and muscled chest, strong arms and supple 
fingers; removing dirt, blood and sweat from the desecrated body of 
their friend.



Aragorn had thought the Stewards son to be merely a brusque and 
cold warrior at first.  His playfulness and defence of the hobbits had 
begun to soften his opinion as the fellowship had trekked through 
the wilds of Middle Earth.  Gandalf and Legolas had both 
encouraged him to look beyond the surface the Gondorian showed 
the world, to use the talents he had learnt as a youth in Imladris 
and 'see' the true nature of his companion.  The men had started to 
scout and hunt together.  Boromir knew the Rangers well, having 
watched his younger brother train to join their ranks, and his own 
martial skills blended well with the Elven trained man at his side.  
Aragorn had found him to be a devoted man, his country and family 
always at the forefront of his mind.  They had talked and mused on 
life, sharing stories both amusing and heart rending.  Swapping 
tales of loves lost and battles fought, training regimes and 
childhood pranks.  Slowly breaking through barriers and becoming 
friends.  



Now he watched the warrior in a new role.  Boromir may have had 
the calloused hands of a swordsman, but he also had the gentle 
touch of a healer, feather-light over wounds and whole skin alike.  
Aragorn had been taught well by his father, learning his craft at the 
knee of the Lord of Imladris.  He could well spot the learning in his 
Stewards hands.  There was a deftness of touch that spoke of more 
than simply the battlefield experience that a warrior gained in his 
chosen life.  The Ranger looked again at Boromir's face to find him 
looking at him with a slightly wry expression.


"A leader must be able to do more than simply stand his ground 
with a weapon."

"Who trained you?  This is more than simple warrior healing!"



Boromir flushed slightly at his companion's observation.


"There was a time I could neither fight nor train.  I had spent many 
weeks in the House of Healing and was still unfit for active service.  
I needed to feel useful so attached myself to the Chief Healer.  He 
took me on as an extra pair of hands at first, and then he decided 
that I had an aptitude for the art and took me as an apprentice.  I 
learned more useful information in those few months than I had in 5 
years with my tutor.  The Halls of Healing were far more conducive 
to learning than a stuffy solar."

"The House of Healing was not stuffy?"

"Indeed not.  It is situated in a pavilion where fresh air can circulate 
all day.  When the curtains are pulled aside there are views over 
the plains to the mountains.  At night the torches and fires are fed 
with sweet smelling herbs and other aromatics to perfume the air.  
The garden is filled with honeysuckle and jasmine that scent the 
very breeze.  It is cool white marble and painted screens with soft 
blankets and softer voices.  A place where bodies, spirits and souls 
are tended with care and dedication."

"You sound as though you miss it."

"I do.  My mother was a healer, when I am there I feel closer to her 
than I could ever do when I serve as a battle chief."

"You lost her?"

"As a very young child.  I was still in the nursery, learning my letters 
not history or the cipher.  Faramir has few memories of her at all; 
she is a dream to him - silk and golden hair only.  Her portrait 
hangs in my father's rooms but that is all we have."

"Aside from healing."

"Yes, aside from healing."



Boromir's voice had dropped to a reflective whisper as he spoke, 
memories echoing through his words.  His hands always remained 
in motion, soothing as he stroked the Elven paste into the pale flesh 
before him.  Without discussion both men stopped their actions 
when they were a few inches away from the edge of the ragged 
breechclout that the elf had fashioned from the rags of Mirkwood's 
royal colours and shifted their attentions to lax legs.  



The elf had the strong muscles of an athlete, defined by centuries 
of walking and riding in defence of Middle Earth.  There were few 
signs of atrophy as they began again to moisten his skin with cloth 
and salve.  The damage to his thighs and calves was less severe 
than that which had been inflicted on his upper body; there was 
some damage to his knees where he had been kicked and 
strapped but the front of his legs appeared to be whole.  Until that 
was they reached his feet.  



Aragorn gazed at the mass of ruined flesh before him.  Both soles 
had been beaten with a cane and scored with a blade.  His feet 
were swollen with fluid and black with bruising, unrecognisable as 
the finely boned appendages that the Ranger remembered from 
childhood fishing and camping trips.  He looked at his companion in 
confusion; all his training had left him unprepared for this.


"I have never seen this damage before."

"Few have.  I have seen pictures in books and heard tales from 
those who were in patrols that were captured by Easterling troops."

"How should it be treated?"



Boromir swallowed heavily and stared Aragorn directly in the eye.


"This torture is generally fatal for any human who is treated thusly.  
The shock that sets in kills by slowing the heart and weakening the 
frame.  Those that survive take months to heal and most can never 
return to active service."


Aragorn grasped the one sign of hope in Boromir's litany of despair.


"Any human.  Elves can survive wounds that would destroy any 
man.  For that matter, a wound that would kill a man, halfling or 
dwarf."

"Even as grievously wounded as he is now?"

"Legolas has lived through more than you or I will ever know.  He 
will survive this even if he must hold to this side of the Halls of 
Mandos by his fingertips."



The Gondorian looked at the other man steadily, trying to read the 
other man's face.  There were times that Aragorn's elvish 
upbringing meant that he could hide his emotions behind a blank 
façade.  This however was a moment dominated by his human 
blood.  His utter belief in his friend and old teacher was writ large 
upon his countenance and Boromir felt his own spirits rise within 
him at the sight; hope bubbling up from behind cracked ribs and 
filling a fearful chest.  


"We should leave his feet for the moment and complete the task we 
had begun.  Cleanse his skin for now and treat the grievous 
wounds later."

"I concur Boromir.  We told him that clean would come before 
healing so we should remain on our course."



Boromir lifted the now empty satchel that Aragorn had carried for 
most of his adult life.  He rolled the butter soft leather and secured it 
with the straps, forming a small bolster that he placed at the bottom 
of the Elf's pallet.   Aragorn moved back to the head of the 
mattress, casting a speculative eye over the Prince.  The cleansed 
skin revealed the complete horror of his injuries, marks that had 
been hidden behind layers of filth now displayed in their fullness.  
The men both regarded the damage and then looked at each other, 
bracing themselves for what was to come.  No matter how badly 
the Silvan's chest was damaged, they knew that far worse awaited 
them.  


"Are you prepared?"

"As I can be."



Boromir's voice was dulled; knowing what lay ahead had stripped 
what little ease he had had from him.  Aragon acknowledged his 
reply and drew no attention to his tone, merely recognising it from 
inside himself.  The Ranger then leant slightly over the Elf and 
addressed his lax featured friend.


"Legolas.  We have wiped the pollution from your skin but now we 
must turn you to continue.  Enyala Legolas; it is Estel and Boromir 
who are here with you, there is no-one else in this place."


He held his breath as he finished speaking, searching the Prince's 
face for any reaction to his words.  Gradually blue eyes that had 
lost their sparkle to deep-seated pain opened to focus blearily on 
his former pupil.


"Estel."

"Mae govannen Legolas.  Are you prepared?"

"As I can be."



His reply was all they had expected and at his words the men 
prepared.  Aragorn slid an arm underneath his shoulders and 
Boromir wrapped his arms around his waist and knees.


"One, two, three."


The men lifted the elf and spun him over as gently as they could 
before laying him prone on the bed again.  The Elf moaned low in 
his throat but otherwise remained silent as he was moved.  Boromir 
had kept his hold on the long legs and nodded his head towards the 
leather pillow he had fashioned earlier.  Aragorn saw his sign and 
grabbed it up before placing the bundle where Boromir indicated it 
was to go.  When it was placed to his exact request the Gondorian 
laid the limbs he held down softly.  The bag gave just enough 
height that the Elf's feet were clear of the surface, allowing no 
contact to the damaged regions and ensuring no pressure.  
Aragorn quirked an expressive eyebrow at the sight.


"A most ingenious solution."

"You must thank the healer of the White City, it was he who taught 
me the method."

"I think that by the time we leave here we shall all owe your teacher 
a debt of gratitude."

"Indeed.  A kind word and a bottle of your father's fine cordial and I 
believe he will be grateful to have taught me."

"My father's cordial is always a gratefully received gift."


"Miruvor."


The gasped word eased out of the stricken Prince and both men 
startled slightly at the sound.


"Yes Legolas, my father's Miruvor."

"Have you tasted it Legolas?  I was lucky to taste some once and 
have never forgotten it.  There is nothing like it in Minas Tirith or 
anywhere in the world of men."

"Sweet on the tongue.  Refreshing in the spirit."

"Yes, it is."



Aragorn laid himself down on his stomach; head turned to the side 
and made eye contact with his friend.


"Are you awakening Legolas?"

"A little."

"Can we continue?"

"Please."



The pleading note in the sibilant voice touched both men and 
refuelled their determination.


"Then we shall resume our task."


Boromir leant over Aragorn's back to look also at the elf.


"This next will be painful, but I swear we shall not remove your 
garments until you are prepared and we are ready."

"Hannad."



The men picked themselves from the ground and looked to the task 
ahead.  Silently Aragorn picked up the dish they had been using 
and refilled it with clean water from the spring as Boromir sorted 
clean cloths from the pile.  Then they retook their prior positions 
and gazed at the mass of ruined flesh in front of them.  Lash stripes 
and dagger cuts, bites, scrapes and open burns from inexpert and 
drunken cautery.  There were a few scant square inches of 
undamaged flesh but these were few and far between and painted 
with blood and the sweat of his tormentors.


"Legolas, we are ready.  Are you?"

"Keep talking, please."

"What shall we talk of?"

"Anything."

"Very well."



The men set to their task, gently teasing dirt and clotted blood from 
the skin of their friend, the only sign of his pain the increasing depth 
of his breaths.  Boromir took a breath and sighed.


"You said anything.  I have a tale to tell.  A tale that my mother told 
to me and hers to her when we were in the nursery."

"I know few human stories."

"Then listen well and focus on my words."



Boromir smiled at the attentive focus that his fellow man had on him 
as well, an open ear to his tale.


"Once upon a time……."




#####################################################




CHAPTER 4



The chamber fell quiet as Boromir’s tale came to a close, his voice 
husky and hoarse from use.  The legend finished in a flurry of 
reunited lovers as the villains perished and the just were rewarded.  
A fable of the golden age, when all lived in harmony – elf and 
human and dwarf together.  The time when the rings of power fell 
silent.


“You tell that well.”


Aragorn’s tone was slightly surprised, he had met the warrior and 
the healer, Boromir the Bard was completely unexpected.


“Thank you.”


Boromir coughed, swallowing to try and lubricate his throat.


“I remember that time.”


The elf’s voice was also changed, pain filled and broken in tone, 
harsh where it had been sibilant, gruff where it had been 
melodious.


“You remember?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you? Prince Legolas of Mirkwood.”


A small huff of sound came from the prone figure, almost but not 
quite laughter.


“When I was born it was not Mirkwood but Greenwood that my 
father ruled.”

“The wood changed long ago.”

“Not so long, human.”

“So, your age?”

“I am 2981 years old Boromir, born 37 years after the war with 
Sauron, 37 years into this third age.”


The human was stunned into immobility, he knew that elves were 
immortal but to find that the slender ‘youth’ he had journeyed with 
was almost 75 times his age was still a shock.  Now he understood 
why Aragorn smiled to himself whenever the dwarf called the 
Sindarin ‘lad’ or ‘laddie’.  Gimli had reached the advanced age of 
140 years, still a drop of time to the ancient creature before him.



The two men reached for their now cleansed and reasonably alert 
friend gingerly turned him again onto his back.  The elf hissed as 
his abraded and tormented skin lay again against the rough fabric 
surface of the pallet, the salves that Aragorn had used contained 
some numbing ingredients but not nearly enough to cope with the 
level of damage he had sustained.  Seeing him settled and stable 
the Ranger decided to focus on other needs.



Aragorn lifted the skin of potable water they had been left by the 
guards, tipping a small amount into his mouth and swirling it around 
his gums before swallowing.


“A little brackish, but far fresher than that we have had before.”


He filled the bone cup that had swung from the skin by a leather 
thong and held it up to the elf’s mouth.  Legolas tried to reach for 
the vessel himself but Aragorn halted him with a gesture, before 
tipping the liquid gently into his friend’s mouth.  The elf swallowed 
small mouthfuls of fluid, remembering despite his thirst that gulping 
the liquid would merely make him feel nauseous.  The action of 
swallowing was a little uncomfortable for him but the relief as the 
coolness touched abused flesh was unimaginable.  Aragorn 
allowed him his fill, topping up the beaker as many times as his 
friend needed and watching closely as the lubrication eased the 
pain.  When next he spoke some of the gruffness had eased in his 
words.


“Thank you.”



Aragorn merely nodded in response before handing the skin to the 
other human.  Boromir tipped the skin over his mouth, cool water 
cascading from the narrow neck.  He gulped at the liquid, and then 
wiped his mouth free of droplets with his tongue before handing it 
again to the Ranger.  Aragorn wore an amused expression as he 
regarded his friend.


“Story telling is thirsty work.”

“Aye, even for the great Steward of Gondor!”

“Mostly I tell tales to fellow soldiers, there is ale to sup as I talk.”



His indignant tone raised a smile and a slight laugh from the 
stricken prince.


“Elves do not tell tales over ale?”

“Over wine yes, but we tend not to drink human ale.”

“So do you drink wine when you tell stories?”



Legolas looked at his friend, pleased to see his interest in his race.


“Most often we sing our tales as ballads and epic poems, these we 
tell with wine.”

“Do you tell simple stories?”

“I have done so in the past.”

“Why did you stop?”



The elf smiled slightly, the corner of his mobile mouth quirking up in 
humour.


“My daughter grew too old to be put to bed with a story, although 
even now if she is in the healing halls she will beg for one of her 
elfhood favourites.”

“You have children?”

“A child.”

“Where is she?”

“In Mirkwood.  She lives in the Royal apartments as do all the 
family, except of course when she is on duty.”

“Duty?”

“Yes.  My daughter is a warrior of Mirkwood as I am, and as her 
mother was.”

“Her mother?”

“My wife.”



Boromir was shocked, his feelings writ large on his face.  He had 
thought the fellowship to be composed of those without 
dependants, warriors who could leave their homes and challenge 
the Dark Lord without worry.


“I did not know you had a lady awaiting your return.  I apologise.”

”She waits for me elsewhere friend Boromir.  My wife was killed 
some time ago and awaits me in Mandos.”

“I apologise doubly then for raising a sensitive subject.”

“I talk of her sometimes.  There are moments when I miss her 
greatly, her understanding and her beauty as well as her strength.”

“What was her name?”

“Limcalad.”



Aragorn interjected as Boromir tried to puzzle the name.”


“It means ‘clear light’, it is a sindarin name.”

“And your daughter?”

“She is Gelloneth; it means ‘bringer of joy’.”

“Is there such meaning to all names?”

“The noble houses and families of the Greatwood have always 
placed much emphasis on the meaning of a name rather than 
simply its sound.  We are a long lived people and thus our names 
must also live as long.”



Aragorn watched the back and forth of the conversation with 
interest, observing his friends.  Legolas was waking more and more 
as he spoke, telling Boromir of his home and his family.  It was as 
he watched this that realization struck him.  Boromir had started the 
conversation deliberately to awaken the Prince.  The men knew 
that unless Legolas was alert as they treated his final injuries that 
they could cause him more damage.  The Steward’s son rose again 
in his estimation, he had more than a healer’s touch, he showed a 
true healer’s understanding and compassion as well.  Boromir was 
still quizzing the elf.


“So, Gelloneth.”

“Yes.”

“Is she beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“Are not all daughters beautiful to their father’s eyes?”

“You doubt my judgement?”

“Of course not, after all – to challenge a father is to risk everything!”

“Will you defend my family, Estel?”

“Lady Gelloneth is indeed a truly beautiful maiden, and a fierce 
warrior.”

“Fierce and beautiful, a deadly combination.”

“Yes.”



The sense of pride in Legolas’s voice was palpable, a fatherly tone 
that both humans recognized, Boromir from Denethor and Aragorn 
from Elrond of Imladris.


Legolas watched the two men who sat at his side.  He had known 
one better than the other as they departed Rivendell but felt certain 
that he could now call them both friend.  He had known Aragorn for 
many years, had watched him grow from childhood, through 
awkward adolescence to adulthood.  He had joined with the 
Nolodhrim in his training; sword work and archery, tracking and 
riding, training the hidden King of Gondor in the methods of 
Mirkwood and Imladris alike.  The young Estel had come to the 
Silvan for help on a few, and mostly memorable, occasions, often 
with questions or problems he felt unable to take to his siblings or 
noble foster father.  Thus it had been a blonde Prince who had 
listened to a humans first stuttering and shamefaced confessions of 
love, who had reassured him that his physical changes were 
normal and had helped him to grow into the confident man he had 
become.  As he matured Aragorn started to see Legolas as more 
and more of a brother rather than the quasi-fatherly figure he had 
been but he still held a place of prominence in his heart.  A captain 
of Mirkwood as well as one of its Princes, a spy who crossed into 
Dol Goldur to observe the machinations of the Dark Lord.



As he knelt in the cavern cell, having walked Middle Earth for 87 
years, Aragorn was certain of one thing, this was the first time he 
had seen his friend in such a state of desolation.  He had sat vigil 
with him at his daughter’s bedside as she fought the orc poisons 
that rampaged through her body.  He had seen the confusion as 
they exited the mines having lost Gandalf at Khazad-Dum.  Yet 
nothing he had ever seen, no emotion in an elf or a human, had 
ever wrenched at him in the way that the blankness in Legolas’s 
eyes did at that moment.  As he looked into those deadened globes 
he realized the truth of the tales he had been told, elves could not 
tolerate the punishment he had been given.  He had grown with the 
tale of Celebrian, who was assaulted and chose the Grey Havens 
ahead of her dishonour and with the stories of elves who did not 
last even long enough for Valinor but instead faded and departed to 
the Halls of Mandos.  As a Ranger he had been witness to the 
devastation left after an attack, he had seen and aided traumatized 
humans before.  Had used his healing skills on men, women and 
worst of all, on children.  The emptiness in them was shocking but 
paled next to what he now saw.  The elf was usually bursting with 
life, glowing with the energy of the first-born race.  Now he was 
dulled, even his hair had lost its shine, lying against his head as 
flat, lifeless strands.



Boromir had gently rested a hand on the elf’s shoulder during their 
discussion.  The Prince had initially stiffened at the contact but then 
relaxed again, accepting the unspoken comfort.  A silent 
communication passed between the three friends, all realizing that 
they could delay treatment no longer.  Legolas’s tormented feet and 
private areas had to be ministered to or else infection could set in.  
Any putrefaction would kill the Eldar as easily as it would any other 
being; they were immortal but not invulnerable.  


“Are you prepared for this?”


The elf’s response was a whole body shudder and his muscles 
tensing.  Boromir watched him and sighed in understanding.  He 
released his shoulder and laid himself down next to the pale figure, 
turning his head to look the elf in the eye.


“There is no shame here, Legolas.  There can be no condemnation 
and no embarrassment.  This is about power, nothing more.  They 
are small and weak, the only way they can feel strong is to cause 
pain.” 

”I do not comprehend this.  It is… I have not the words for this.”

“This is the deepest dark of men Master Elf.  The fear in our hearts 
can cause us to do harm, to others and to ourselves.”

“Why?”



The plaintive note in his voice tore at both men, striking a cord in 
the depths of their souls.  Boromir closed his eyes and exhaled 
slowly before opening them again and fixing the elf’s gaze.


“I cannot tell you why.  I have tried for so long to understand.  All 
my years of thought and debate have come to naught.  The 
libraries of Minas Tirith hold books, journals and scrolls – all the 
written knowledge of men and much of the ancient knowledge of 
the elven race.  My brother and I would spend hours, days even, 
rummaging through the texts in search of answers.”

“What did you find?”

“That no learned writer has solved the problem that lies at the heart 
of man.  The wise have written of the ignoble savage impulse and 
of the darkness that can permeate a soul.  Yet no one has ever 
been able to explain why violence is so often the first and not the 
last resort of our race.  It is our weakness and our contemptible 
base.”

“You talk as one afflicted.”

“Affected yes, and perhaps afflicted as well.  I know the darkness in 
my depths.  My temper is widely known, to troops and civilians 
alike.  I almost disgraced myself in the midst of the council hosted 
by the Lord Elrond.  I fear the package we carry because of it.  
When I touched the chain that bears its weight an evil voice 
appeared in my mind, calling to me and trying to wipe out all 
vestiges of my better natured youth.”

“Legolas and I saw another side of you on the journey here.  You 
spent your own strength to aid Merry and Pippin on the pass.  You 
taught them to wield a blade and listened to their tales of Shire life.”



Aragorn’s voice was gentle as he lay next to the others, 
surrounding the Prince in warm walls of protection.  



“Boromir is right mellon-nin.  There is nothing that has happened 
here that is accountable to you.  Indeed, take heart in this, you 
have survived.”

“How long?  How long has it been that we have been in this place?”

“As far as we can calculate it has been 19 days since we were 
taken.”

“I have never been away from the sun for so long.  There is nothing 
living here, nothing from which I can draw strength.”

“The sun?”

“And the moon and the stars friend Boromir.  I am a Prince of the 
Greenwood, a descendant of the Silvan people.  A true wood elf.  I 
can hear the songs that the trees sing and the poems that living 
things breathe into the air.  Without them I am bereft.  My father is 
known as the only elf to build his halls in caverns but this is not 
altogether true.  We reside in talans and eeries built in the tree 
canopy, the halls are for gatherings and for protection.  We spend 
time in the mountain but always return to the wood to refresh 
ourselves.”

“Is this lack why you do not heal?”

“In part.  For the rest, the way in which I have been hurt has 
exacerbated the wounds themselves.  There are things which my 
people cannot tolerate, and this is one of them.”

“Do you hear the call?”



The sudden query from Aragorn startled the Gondorian and he 
raised his head to look at the suddenly fierce man on the other side 
of the elf.


“I hear it faintly in the distance and the dark.”

“Will you follow it and answer its siren song?”

“I do not know.  I have a task to perform here and I would see it 
done, but this is not the first time I have heard this sound.”

“The last time?”

“I would have followed Limcalad after she passed.  I was anchored 
here by love and compassion, alongside the knowledge that I could 
not leave an elfling here alone.”  

“Anchored.”

“By Gelloneth and my family, by Elrond and his family and by 
Mithrandir who joined us all.  He said it was not my destiny to pass 
then to the Halls, he spoke of the future times when my bow would 
be needed – to train the future of Middle Earth and to protect all the 
free peoples.  I did not know his meaning then, I did not know it 
until a few scant decades ago when I was summoned to Rivendell 
to meet with Lord Elrond’s new fosterling.  You were part of my 
destiny Estel i Imladris, Aragorn son of Arathorn, the true High King 
of Gondor.”

“You are still a part of it.  You have been a part of my life for as long 
as I can remember.  While Elladan and Elrohir journeyed far and 
wide to wage war on the evil that destroyed their mother, you 
taught me.  My father Elrond taught me kingship and nobility.  You 
and Glorfindel taught me the other skills I would need.  To fight with 
sword, knife and bow.  To track across grass, marsh and solid rock.  
To plan and organize.  To ride with the permission of the horse, 
talking with their spirit instead of chaining it to my will.  You listened 
to my prattle when I was a child and soothed my woes as I 
approached manhood.  On my 18th birthday the truth was revealed 
to me and I fled.  You followed me but did not talk; you shadowed 
my every step for 4 days as I circled the bounds of Imladris.  I had 
run wearing only the robes I had donned for the celebration and I 
was weaponless.  After the first night I awoke to find warm clothing 
draped across me and a sturdy knife at my feet.  It was not until I 
stopped and sank to my knees that you came to me.  Only when I 
had run out my fury and anger did you enter my camp.  Even then 
you did not talk but let me vent my emotions.  You let me scream 
and rage, rail against my perceived fate and bemoan my future like 
a child.  Then after all this had happened you did something else.  
You held out your arms to me in silence and I flung myself against 
you and wept out my fear.  My wrath had merely hidden the terror 
in my heart - you saw that.  You let me cry until I slept then you 
held me through the night in peaceful slumber.  When we returned 
to my father he simply held me and sent me to bathe, he had 
trusted me to your care, knowing that you would guard me.  You did 
not sleep for the entire time I wandered.  You neither rested nor 
meditated.  It was not for another 6 years that the twins revealed to 
me that they had found orc bodies at the boundaries.  You had 
killed them before they found me.  I bathed and ate before talking 
with my father.  You bathed and slept for two solid days.  I owe you 
my life Legolas Thranduilian.  I owe you everything I am and all I 
will be.  You have believed in me even as I have doubted myself, 
and that is a debt that I can never repay.”



Boromir looked at the two in stunned silence.  He had sensed the 
bond between them but could not have suspected the true nature of 
their connection.  He realized that he still saw the elf in human 
terms; he had seen a beautiful youth and missed the age in his 
eyes.  He had watched graceful movements and missed the 
warrior’s calluses.   His attention had been taken by gleaming blond 
tresses, glowing skin and lean legs, missing the musculature that 
only a lifetime of training could bring.  He had watched the elf as 
they journeyed, had seen him lift his head as though listening - 
even in the silent dead of night.  He had assumed him to be lost in 
thought, now he realized he had been caught up in the sounds that 
only one of his race could hear.  He was amazed anew by the 
mysteries of the Prince.  Deadly warrior, devoted friend, light as a 
feather over snow capped peaks yet strong as an ox in the haunted 
depths.  He remembered slim arms that had wrapped themselves 
around his broad frame and hauled him back from the precipice.  
He had landed heavily on his rescuer and apologized, the elf had 
merely smiled in acknowledgement before racing ahead to leap the 
gap in the path and catch the fellowship as they jumped ahead of 
the Balrog.  Assassin accurate with blade or bow, how could he 
ever have thought him untried?


"Your bravery is matched only by your spirit my friend." 

"When you were...?"

"How do you..?"

"Your eyes reflect the turmoil in my soul"

"How did I survive?"

"Yes."



Boromir looked away, unable to speak with two sets of eyes on 
him.


"My apologies. I intrude with my questions."

"None are needed.  I remember the Chief Healer telling me that my 
experiences would change me and that perhaps one day they 
would allow me to aid another. That day has come. I did not survive 
on my own. I felt myself ruined and unclean, unfit to meet with any 
other. Even as I healed I hid myself away, when I ate it was in my 
rooms alone. It was Faramir who saved me. My father had lost 
patience with me and ordered me to table. I came on my own as I 
knew that to defy him again would result in my being dragged there 
by force. Faramir had arranged to sit at my side. I was shaking like 
a leaf in a high wind, trying not to show it and almost succeeding. 
But he is my brother, he knew then even as he still always knows 
now, in many ways he knows me better than I know myself. I 
choked down the meal, tasting it as nothing but ash in my mouth. 
The ale I drank burned my throat and threatened nausea. He held 
my hand under the cloth, keeping me grounded. He selected plain 
fare and asked the servers to bring me milk in place of the alcohol. 
After the meal had finished in its interminable time we went to his 
rooms. I had wanted to return to my chamber but he would not let 
me, he had decided that I had had far too much time alone to 
brood. He organized for the servants to fill a bath with warm water 
and drizzled oils into it. Then he argued with me until I stripped and 
sank into its depths. He washed me then as no one had done since 
I had left the nursery behind me. He smoothed over old white scars 
and new wounds still pink and shiny with their healing. He made no 
comment, merely washed me over and over again. My back and 
legs, chest and stomach, my arms and neck. Only when all had 
been thoroughly cleansed did he ask me to kneel up so that he 
could clean the rest of me. I wept as he carried out his self 
appointed task. I felt as though I tainted him with my very presence, 
as though my skin would burn him on contact. He did not talk, only 
murmured reassurances to me as he worked. When I was clean to 
his satisfaction he gestured me out of the tub and then used a new 
soft towel to dry my skin. He draped me in a warm padded robe 
and settled me on the rug in front of the fire. He combed out my 
hair and trimmed what beard I had then. It was his kindness that 
was my eventual undoing. He was so gentle with me that I could 
scarce stand it. I wanted him to scream and rage at me for 
permitting my attack; instead he purified me by his actions. I fell into 
his arms and wept for what I had lost, for what had been taken from 
me."


Aragorn's eyes shone bright with unshed tears.


"You were a virgin?"

"Aye."

"He took the physical act, not the emotions behind it. A physical 
penetration is not the sole act that takes innocence. He took you, 
not your virginity and not your honour."

"So Faramir told me, repeatedly and frequently until I accepted it for 
myself. It took time, but my brother is nothing if not determined."


Boromir stopped talking and stared the elf in the eye.


"There can be no apologies required between friends. I survived 
because my brother was determined that I should. It was he who 
held me as I cried and soothed me as I slept. It was his strength 
that I secured myself to, his faith and trust that held me together in 
spirit and in mind. We are here for you Master Elf. Use our strength, 
our spirit to heal you. Sense our living energy and bind yourself to it 
until we can find you the life energy you need. I am no tree but 
perhaps I will suffice until we can reach the safety of your preferred 
home."


His earnest tone forbade any amusement at his words, his offer 
genuine and sincere in the dimness.


"Think only on what I have said here. My offer is not for immediate 
answer, consider how I may aid you and then we can discuss it."

"I will think on what you have said."

"That is all I can ask."



Aragorn sat up from where he had been reclining and moved 
towards his herb bag. He began to shuffle through the packages 
contained in it, looking at the writing on the parchment and mentally 
tallying which to use. Boromir nodded once to Legolas and moved 
to aid his King in his selections. When both were satisfied with the 
decisions made they separated, Aragorn taking the now empty 
bowl to the spring and Boromir returning to the elf’s side.


"Legolas, it is time."


The elf’s eyes opened and he gazed at the earnest face above him.


"You must turn again onto your stomach; it will be easier for 
Aragorn to treat your wounds in that way."

"I will not be able to see."


The tremulous note in his voice annoyed the elf greatly, but he 
could see no way to avoid it as his emotions over-rode his control.


"You must trust in Aragorn. He will not allow more harm to come to 
you here. I will stand watch as well, we will not allow it."

"There will come a time when that vow will run out."

"Perhaps, but perhaps there will be another way."

"I will take your comfort and aid here my friend, but you must not 
under any circumstances think that I would allow any other to suffer 
this torment in my place. The walkers must escape this place. We 
lost one soul in at the bridge; we cannot afford to lose any other 
here. If I am to fade then that is my fate, let me at least use it in a 
purpose. The men of the troop have savage lusts, let them be 
spent, perhaps then you can all flee."


The rapid mood swing would have stunned the man, had he not 
been a victim to that particular effect of trauma before.


"We will all flee this place. You will see your daughter and your 
father again before you ever see your wife. My word on this as a 
Gondorian."


The solemn vow eased the sudden rage in the elf and he sank back 
again into stillness. Boromir regarded him and his position then 
made his recommendation.


"To make this treatment easier why do you not lie with your head in 
my lap? You can hold my arms and then feel grounded as your 
wounds are treated." 

"You would not object?"

"No."


The elf nodded in agreement and again slowly and painfully rolled 
himself over, his feet remaining suspended above the floor on the 
leather roll of Aragorn's satchel. Boromir settled himself on the 
pallet, one leg tucked under the other to provide a resting place for 
his friend's head. As the prince positioned his head he reached out 
and grasped the man's hands. Pale, slender and clever fingers 
wrapping themselves around blunt and calloused ones, gripping on 
for dear life.

"Remember Legolas, it is us and we shall not harm you."

The elf squeezed his hands once and lay silent.



Aragorn cleansed his hands thoroughly, scrubbing them with the 
elven soapwort salve he carried. When he was satisfied with their 
cleanliness he returned to his friend's side, laying the bowl of water 
carefully on the ground.


"Hold firm."


He was not sure which friend he addressed, the elf that lay in 
physical pain or the man who held him. However, both nodded in 
acknowledgement of his words. With a final deep breath he 
proceeded.


As he started his final observations before treatment the words 
Boromir had muttered to him as they selected herbs echoed in his 
mind.

"Go at his pace. Always tell him before any touch. If he tenses 
uncontrollably then lighten your contact. He will know that this is 
required but it will simply feel like another violation. However, at all 
times remember who he is. He is a warrior of long standing. He is 
damaged but not yet destroyed. We must allow him to feel in 
control, even if it is illusory. Rape is a weapon of power; he must 
take back that power into himself. He must re-learn that his body is 
his own and that all must have permission to touch."

"Will this not cause more pain?"

"In the short term, yes, but he will heal faster with the detritus and 
soil of his attackers removed from him."


Boromir had moved away then, back to sit with the patient leaving 
Aragorn with much to consider.


"Legolas, I am ready to begin."


He laid his hand on the small of the elf’s back, avoiding the worst of 
the wounds. The gentle warmth of a friendly touch settled the 
Prince and his tremors eased allowing the man to start.


He carefully teased at the rough knots that held fabric to narrow 
hips. Blunt, sword calloused hands pulling at the scraps of fine silk 
and heavier suede that were all that remained of the Prince’s noble 
attire. The elf had managed to twine the fabric into a makeshift 
breechclout that ran between his legs and over his buttocks, tied at 
the waist with a hastily made 'rope' of more scraps. It was this belt 
that Aragorn attempted to loosen, deciding that slackening the 
support would be simpler than tearing at the coverings themselves. 
Painstakingly he worked them loose, finally freeing the cloth to be 
pulled aside and allow a clear view of the wound he had to treat. 
The elf had obviously attempted to help himself in the midst of his 
torment. More pieces of fabric had been bundled together and 
placed between his buttocks before the rest had been tied on. The 
makeshift padding had absorbed his blood and prevented the clout 
itself from rubbing too harshly over tortured flesh. This he plucked 
away in increments, dried blood having adhered it to pale skin. 
When he was fully exposed the elf tensed again, the entire extent 
of his degradation revealed. Boromir's face blanked above the 
pallid form, memories all too clearly flashing in his mind. Aragorn 
looked at his fellow man, catching his eye and forcing him to focus 
on him. The ranger nodded slightly and received a slight head dip 
in response.


"Legolas, I am going to wash you now. The water is warm and the 
salve should not bite."


The elf muttered an affirmative reply and burrowed his head further 
into his supporter’s lap. Boromir leant over the blond head, 
murmuring assurances into delicate ears. Aragorn soaked a clean 
cloth in the warm water, squeezed the excess from it and dabbed it 
into the pot of salve. He laid his empty hand again in the small of 
the elf’s back then let the wet cloth touch the abraded skin. He 
worked in small circles, just as he had over the larger areas of back 
and chest. He kept the circles neat and precise, cleaning saliva and 
blood as well as other stains from firm muscle that was hatefully 
patterned in cuts, welts and bites. The circles gradually moved ever 
closed to the dark cleft separating the cheeks but as the cloth 
approached the elf stiffened; heeding Boromir's warning the ranger 
backed off and instead leaned across to clean the opposite side.



When all was clean, with sweat and soiling removed, Aragorn 
paused – uncertain how to continue.  Boromir sensed his confusion 
and decided again to act.  He knew he had not the sheer talent for 
healing that the other man possessed but he knew also that the 
current circumstances made it hard for him to concentrate.  Boromir 
separated one hand from the elf’s strong grip and reached across 
abraded flesh to grip the blunt fingers of the other human.  Aragorn 
looked up into his friend’s determined face.  Boromir nodded and 
spoke.


“Legolas, the outer skin is clean – the damage can be seen there.  
Now we must inspect the intimate hurts you have.”

“I will be as gentle as humanly I can.”

“Remember Legolas.  No shame, no fear, no condemnation.”

“No pain, no hurt, no harm from our hands.”


Boromir released Aragorn’s fingers and grasped the archer’s strong 
hand again.  The elf gripped at his friend’s hands, wrapping long 
fine fingers to twine with the human’s.  He swallowed heavily, his 
eyes fluttering as he controlled his emotions.


“No fear, no shame.  I am prepared.”  


Aragorn breathed on his palms to warm them and proceeded.



The hidden entrance was bright red and swollen, a small tear had 
started to slowly heal but showed as a bright line running up his 
perineum.  A trickle of blood still flowed from the damage, winding 
its way down over the scrapes and small cuts that patterned the 
delicate tissue.  Closer examination revealed that the elf’s scrotal 
sac had not escaped injury.  There were teeth marks in the soft 
flesh, red rings against pale skin.  Shifting slightly Aragorn 
managed to look at the elf’s shaft.  It also held marks of violence, 
bite lines and whip cuts, a perversion of passion and a betrayal of 
hope.  The damage was obscene, made even more so for its total 
lack of reason.  Most wanted to venerate the Eldar, awed by their 
beauty and grace.  These troops wanted nothing more than to 
desecrate and destroy, to finally extinguish a light that had shone 
for almost 3 millennia.


“The damage is severe, but not irreparable my friend.  You can be 
restored to full health.”

“What must you do?”

“Clean the area as we have the rest of your body.  Then apply 
certain salves and unguents that will keep infection to a minimum.  
However, there is one ointment that is essential and it will not be 
pleasant to apply.”

“How so?”

“There is a tear inside you that is still bleeding slightly; I cannot 
imagine how bad it must have been for this to be.  I must place the 
medicine directly on the cut itself, inside you and it will sting.”

“My whole self is a fire with pain, additions will make no difference.”

“If you are certain then I will begin.”

“I am certain of this at least, I trust you as a healer and as a shield 
brother.  You are my captain in this as I have been yours.”


The elf’s assured words struck at Aragorn.  All too often he still felt 
himself a child with his mentor; for all that they were now friends.  
Legolas had submitted to his authority for this mission but he was 
still his teacher, and his trust was not easily earned.


“I begin.”


The elf tightened his grasp of Boromir’s strong hands, almost 
desperate as he clung to sword hardened limbs.  He tried so hard 
to relax his brutalised lower body that all his tension was expressed 
in his arms, his muscles screaming with the stress that ran through 
him.  The human simply tightened his own grip and clung to him, 
trying to express his wordless support through the pressure of his 
fingers and the soft murmurs that fell unchecked from his bitten lips.


“We are here Master Elf.  Legolas Thranduilian of Mirkwood that 
once was and will be again Greenwood the Great, Captain of the 
Elven Guard.  Guardian of the forests.  Companion of Aragorn, son 
of Arathorn – the true King of Gondor, and of his loyal and devoted 
Steward to be Boromir, son of Denethor and brother of Faramir.  
Father to Gelloneth and husband to Limcalad.  Noble son of 
Thranduil, Elven King of the Woodland Realms.  Faithful protector 
of the Halflings of the Shire and Gimli son of Gloin.  We who are 
human and mortal are honoured to hold the trust of you who is 
elvish and immortal.  It is our privilege to guard you in this place of 
iniquity and pain, to stand as much of a guard as we can whilst you 
are with us.  Hold tight to my hands, feel my support in the grip I 
have on your wrists and in the truth of the words I speak.  Focus 
your attention on the here and now, the reality of our presence at 
your side and our strength joining to yours.  Hold tight to this now 
my friend, as you supported us on our long trek here let us now 
support you in your time of trial.”


A heavy shudder rocked through the elf’s body and he gripped 
even more tightly to Boromir’s hands.  He stopped talking and 
looked up from the blonde hair where he had been focused to 
watch what Aragorn was doing.  The reasons for the elf’s actions 
were suddenly clear.  The healer had his forefinger buried in the elf 
up to the second knuckle and even the thick paste that he had 
anointed his digit with had failed to totally ease his passage.  
Aragorn’s voice had taken over the soft murmurings that seemed to 
help ground the prince.


“The pain will decrease as the numbing agents take hold and the 
healing starts.  I am nearly finished mellon-nin, I promise that this 
will help you and I swear that it will stop the bleeding.  My father 
made this salve with his own hands and gave it to me before we left 
Imladris; it is made to his own recipe that he has adapted over the 
centuries of his healing.  It is a purifier as well as an antiseptic and 
a mild astringent.  I am sorry that I must perforce do this, I wish it 
were not so.  You have been my teacher, my advisor, my confidant 
and my friend.  You have celebrated and commiserated with me 
about life’s circumstances, held me when I cried and danced with 
me for sheer joy.  We will dance again my friend.  You will stand at 
my wedding and dance with Arwen Undomiel and myself as we 
pledge to each other.  I would beg your advice as I take my throne 
and learn again from your patient teaching.  You said I was part of 
your destiny, mellon-nin, I believe that you are also a part of mine.”


As he finished speaking Aragorn withdrew his finger from the 
reddened rosebud of the Prince’s entrance and rubbed across it as 
if in apology for the additional hurt he had caused.  He spread what 
little of the salve remained on his finger over the small cuts that 
scattered the perineum, watching closely as the thick unguent 
coated them and sealed them away behind a protective layer.  
There was no way to bind the wounds to keep them clean, he had 
to hope that the salve would prevent too much air borne debris from 
adhering to the open sores and causing infection.  The caverns 
were dry but any movement kicked up dust and dirt from the floor 
into the air where it circled and danced in the scant light from the 
narrow window slit and the glow from the torches that hung from 
the rock walls.  There was an almost balletic grace in their dance as 
they sinuously twisted and turned in the air, settling on skin and 
belongings alike.  


“I have treated the wounds that lie inside you my friend.  I will bathe 
the rest with a mix of herbs and water to cleanse them and that 
should be sufficient.  There are other remedies, but I do not have 
them here.  As soon as we are quit of this place I will hunt for the 
herbs I need to brew the mixtures.  They grow wild and free in the 
woods of Lothlorien and we are but a short run from that place, we 
will be safe below the spreading branches of the mallorn, we can 
rest secure in amongst their roots.”  


Aragorn fell silent as he finished the sad task; in his quiet he lifted a 
ragged blanket from the pile of fabric that had been left for their use 
and laid it gently over the elf, covering him from small of back to 
middle of thigh.  It was a scantly piece of cloth but it covered 
sufficiently what he feared to have revealed and so was a welcome 
weight.  


“Thank you.”


The prince’s voice was small in the quiet, a muted whisper in the 
gloom.  The two men rested their warm hands on his skin, a final 
comfort after the unavoidable insults that he had borne with barely 
a sound.  They rested there for a few moments, offering 
reassurances that their presence was irrefutable and dependable, 
that the Prince was not alone and that the warriors were still with 
him.  


“It is my honour, I have only to treat your feet and then you can 
rest.”


Aragorn shifted back on the pallet to kneel at the elf’s suspended 
feet, looking again with healer’s eyes at the damage he had 
sustained.  There seemed to have been some small improvement 
in his condition and this surprised him until he remembered that 
comfort allowed elves to heal as much as medicine.  He had set a 
mix of herbs and plants to steep before treating his friend’s intimate 
wounds. 


“The bathing liquid is ready for you.  A warm blend of tathar bark, 
meril, athelas and camomile.  It will cleanse the wounds and softly 
purge the incipient infection.  There will be a little stinging but less 
than there was before.  Hold tight to Boromir again and this shall 
soon finish.”


The elf nodded his head again before gripping onto the steward’s 
forearms.  Aragorn looked at the pair that were again braced for 
treatment and proceeded.  Again soft cloths were dipped in warm 
fluid and applied to a mutilated body part and as he worked 
Aragorn felt his eyes moisten as the tears he had held in for so long 
forced their way out.  His tears fell onto the cloth he held, blending 
with the healing liquid he had made and being applied to torn flesh.  
Boromir watched his King as he silently wept; he had expected the 
tears but knew that the other man had hoped they would not be 
shed.


“There is no shame in grieving.  We have all lost here, and we still 
mourn our loss in Moria.  My teacher always held that a healer who 
simply treated and felt nothing was worse than no healer at all.  
Only when the emotions are involved can true healing occur.”



Aragorn heard and accepted the words.  His father Elrond had told 
him the same during his training but sometimes he needed 
reminding.  He finished wiping over the tormented limbs and 
dropped the cloth back in to the basin of herbs.  Picking up the jar 
of ointment again he smothered his hands in a thin layer and gently 
massaged it into the skin, sealing cuts as he had over the majority 
of the Prince’s body.  Finally he was finished and he sank back 
onto his heels to gaze at the pair before him.  


“It is done.”


Legolas nodded at his words and slowly released Boromir’s hands.  


“May I turn over again?”

“Are you sure?  There will be more pain.”

“I wish to see.”


The two humans concurred with his wishes and helped him to roll 
again but they placed additional soft cloths beneath him to cushion 
his wounds before letting him settle back.  The cloth was again 
wrapped around his loins to cover his private parts from the air and 
other exposure.  The Prince looked steadily at the two men, both 
looked as haggard as he felt, his wounds affecting them in spirit as 
well as in mind.


“It grows late mellyn-nin and you have both tired yourselves as you 
have aided me.  Let us rest ere they return.”


This was a sound suggestion to both men and they laid next to the 
Prince, murmuring soft words of comfort as they relaxed.  For his 
part the elf closed his eyes again and merely felt, opening his 
senses as he had not dared for so long.  



Aragorn was a recognised presence in his mind, a warm and 
acknowledged aura that slid into his with practised ease, he and 
Lord Elrond had taught the human child the basics of this very 
elven talent, the boy having just enough access to his ancient 
heritage to be able to form rough bonds, to be able to connect with 
another as long as they had some talent also, he could not reach 
the untalented as a pure elf could but for a mere human, even one 
of the Dunedain, possessed remarkable skills.  His new friend was 
a different presence inside his head.  Boromir’s mind was 
remarkably organised for a human with no experience of mental 
communication.  His thoughts were clear and precise with a 
delineation of purpose in the pattern.  It was a surprisingly 
reassuring mind to touch and had a slight hint of familiarity to it.  



As the fellowship had walked through the expanses of Middle Earth 
the elf had automatically reached for their minds, joining to them 
lightly as they slept and tramped as he would with any elven troop 
he commanded on patrol, forming light connections to them as they 
slept to help him find them when they were awake.  The death of 
Gandalf had shaken him; the line between their minds had been 
formed when the Maia had supported him when his wife had died 
and its snapping had ricocheted through him, rocking him to his 
core.  When their captors had begun to harm them he had been 
forced to close down the other links, their pain in conjunction with 
his own had been too much to bear.  The cautious opening of the 
threads was welcomed by Aragorn, the gentle touch familiar to him 
from childhood to present.  He relaxed as much as he could to 
allow the bridge between their minds to re-form, a grounding that 
they both needed.  Boromir felt the tender contact that met his mind 
and sank into it, he too recognising the reaching out of a friend’s 
mind, a silvered glow that reached out over and through him, 
sweeping him into its gleam.  There was a sudden rush through 
them as they fell into each other, elf and humans joined in a triad of 
power and security.  The bond wavered slightly as it strengthened 
then stabilised before rushing out into the depths of the caverns, 
seeking its missing members.  The other five walkers were dozing 
in a warm huddle, hobbits and dwarf together for heat and comfort.  
The silver gleam touched their minds gently, a soft request for 
entry.  Frodo, Sam and Gimli shook their heads and allowed the 
tender touch a light entry to their surface minds then sank deeper 
into sleep.  Merry and Pippin woke at the touch and rolled to face 
each other.


“Legolas?”


Merry looked puzzled as he looked at his friend.


“Aragorn and Boromir as well.”


Pippin looked as confused as his companion.  


“I used to think I felt this as we walked but never this strongly and it 
was always just Legolas.”

“Maybe they are looking for us?”

“Maybe.  Tell you what, let’s focus on them.”

“How would we do that Pippin?”

“Um, imagine that you are trying to see a long way away.”

“Like trying to spot the Farmer when we’re picking carrots?”

“Exactly like that except inside our heads.”

“Alright.”



The two squinted, their faces curling as they strained to reach their 
friends.  


“I don’t think this is working Pip.”

“I agree Merry.”

“Any more ideas?”

“Yes.  How about we stop trying to reach them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, perhaps it’s more like guddling for trout.”

“Lying on the bank on a warm day with your hands in running 
water, wiggling your fingers to tempt them in.”

“Exactly.  Maybe we need to relax and let them in, let them come to 
us like the fish do.”

“Alright.”



Again the two fell silent but this time their faces were smooth and 
calm as they allowed the silver glow to wash over them, sweeping 
them into the twined mix of minds.  They rolled against each other 
and wrapped each other in warm embraces and their eyes closed 
as they melded with the distant trio and slept.



Legolas felt the walkers join them, three light touches and two who 
had allowed the melded trio further into their minds.  The warmth of 
the minds enmeshed with his comforted him and he sank into 
reverie, his eyes glazing over and becoming unfocused as though 
he were looking at the stars through the rock above him.  Aragorn 
roused himself enough to check over the ailing Prince once more.  
His battered body had begun to heal, friendship and companionship 
reassuring his spirit and allowing his powers to expand.  Secured to 
Middle Earth and with Mandos receding he felt comfortable enough 
to rest as he should, cradled by those to whom he had bonded and 
reaching over distances for his family.  Even his tormented feet 
looked healthier, the swelling decreasing and the redness fading 
back to porcelain whiteness.  Aragorn smiled at this, knowing he 
would rest better now assured that the Prince would last the night.  
Boromir shifted slightly in his sleep, moving closer to their friend 
and Aragorn decided to follow the excellent example of his steward.  
He laid himself down on the opposite side of the elf, two men 
encasing him in friendly security.  There had been a blanket in the 
bag left by the Lord of the Rite and he shook it out and flicked it 
over all of them and closed his eyes, quickly slipping back into the 
silver glow of the fellowship, falling asleep to prepare for what be 
feared was to come.  They had healed the elf as much as they 
could, but he knew deep in his heart that the worst was yet to 
come.



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