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Feud	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 27149 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 118
- 119
- 120
Anc-en-Gurth
italics indicate thoughts

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter un-Beta'd

Anc-en-Gurth (The Teeth of Death)

"Heciiiiiilo!"

The word rang out in sing-song style, an ugly mockery of childish taunting, the grating voice an unpleasant amalgamation of menacing welcome. "Masters await Hecilo." There was a ponderous and pronounced metallic jangle. "Chains ready."

Legolas, half out from cover as he prepared to fire, jerked back behind the tree and the bow went lax in his hands; the arrow plopped uselessly into the snow. He shivered in revulsion; the clinking repeated and sweat broke over his body. His gut seized in familiar, clenching pain.

What madness is this?

Skin crawling and lungs straining, his heart raced in macabre anticipation. Twelve years of submission to the torments of Chastisement were ingrained in his very cells; the clank of the chains and the pronunciation of that hated slur triggered his body's responses. A phantom sensation of cold steel manacles encircled his wrists; a stab of pain burrowed into his shoulders in memory of being restrained, arms extended between two posts, for hours and hours. The nerves all down his spine tingled, every muscle tense as though awaiting the first blow of the scourge. Laughter rang out, smutty and satyric, underscoring another rattling shake of the fetters. Legolas shuddered.

"Eager to begin, Hecilo?"

His breath caught, a sharp intake of wintery ether that froze his soul and gushed back out in a noisy cloud of misty moisture. These were words he'd heard before. For a second, he had the terrifying thought that it was Rochendil out there wielding those weighty links, waiting to finish the cruel abuse begun so long ago. He shook his head. I saw the remains. Comprehension blazed through his mind and his heart made a resounding thump of relief. During the torture preceding his death, Rochendil must have told his persecutors the things he had done and the words he had used. Legolas breathed another huge lungful of frigid air. Then as fast as it had come, the reassuring rationalisation vanished.

How would Orcs know to ask him about those days?

They wouldn't and for all he'd boasted of battling the Wraiths, the reality was daunting. An enervating pall of apprehension descended upon him, a sense that the trap had already sprung and he was caught fast. True enough, though unhindered and free to leave, Legolas could not be more surely bound were the chains already on him. Just as he had gone to Rochendil contrite and humbled for the sake of the Wandering Warriors, so for the sake of Lindalcon he would go willingly to whatever punishment awaited him now. Yet, he remained still.

I must; the alternative is unacceptable.

He remembered Lindalcon as a young child learning to use the bow, his adoration of Valtamar, his love for Meril, his polite and respectful manner to Legolas and the other warriors. 'Will you show me how you grip your bow, Legolas?' He recalled vividly the day of Judgement and Lindalcon's confusion and grief. He relived the days of healing in Fearfaron's talan when the young one in essence became his brother, the child's confidence, faith, and loyalty unwavering. 'I do not believe you killed him!'

Then it all poured over him in a cascade of mingled details: the concern in Lindalcon's eyes when he revealed they were brothers in truth with siblings linked by blood to both. Crawling through the stronghold tunnels to meet Taurant, grit under his fingernails and the swaying lantern illuminating Gwillith clinging to her brother, their hair the same coppery colour. The bonding day pranks, Lindalcon waiting for him there on the path, hopeful, happy, and proud. The hurtful words after Berenaur's dunking, standing side by side in the Chamber of Starlight as Thranduil humiliated then exonerated him.

For all the Erebor debacle had taken from him, Legolas felt he had gained much more. His life had been barren of love and friendship all of his days until then, and through the deaths of the three warriors he had received a father in all but blood, siblings to cherish and protect, the respect of his people, a mate for all of time that remained.

Thinking all this galvanised him. He could not just give up and give in. Doomed he might be, but never helpless. Lindalcon was in those caves, hostage to the Wraiths' hatred, enduring what unspeakable punishment he dared not imagine. Legolas summoned courage into his heart and strength into his legs, ready to spring. Bow armed and ready, he crept round the tree, casting a careful evaluation up into the silent, twisted branches as he issued his challenge.

"Tawarwaith seeks talk with your masters. Send word to them that I am here."

"Oh, Master knows. No talk, Hecilo, you die. No Tawar here; no wizard here to save you," the gloating Orc replied.

"Your death is in my hands, Orc. Send for your masters and live or come claim your fate."

Legolas had its position marked by ear and eased himself closer, angling for a clear view and a clean shot, but it was hunkered down in the shadows. The desire to see it before he killed it, this beast that knew things about him it shouldn't, nearly overwhelmed him but he remained cautious, eyeing the limbs above and the trees across the clearing. All fell quiet, but not the respectful attention the forest normally accorded him as the voice of Tawar. It was a predator's stillness, fraught with slavering hunger and malice, a miasma of foul air enveloping the twisted trunks, insinuating the stink of death into his lungs. In it grew an unbearable tension; the Orc broke first.

"Kill you, Elf; eat you. Throw what's left on Thranduil's land; sylvans see and then they know. All elves die; Wraiths rule Taur-nu-Fuin, and Orcs…"

"Dîn!" (Silence!) commanded Legolas, disturbed by the boasting prophesy though he had heard similar promises before. He calmed himself and methodically scanned the area for other foes, detecting none. Yet he mistrusted his assessment even though it was uncommon for Orcs to remain still and quiet when an Elf was near, but none of this was normal.

"Your masters refuse to come forth, so be it; I will ferret them out. And your death is assured, Orc. Not even the worms will deign to eat what's left."

Another round of coarse laughter followed and an arrow sailed his way, but it was aimed with negligence and fell far from his position. Or was that a ruse designed to make him careless? Legolas altered his direction and inched noiselessly through the shadows in order to come up behind his enemy.

"Good, good! Come, Heciiiiilo!"

The dare drifted through the icy air and the chains shook, but the sound was diminishing. Legolas' silently cursed as he stood tall, drew the bowstring taut, and killed the mocking sentry. His sight was sharp enough to note a dark and lanky figure running through the trees toward the mountain caves, his ears sufficiently acute to hear the jingling of heavy iron links, and he cursed aloud. There had been two of them and the one he'd wanted had escaped.

The need to see his kill consumed him and he did not race after his tormentor. He took his time reaching the dead Orc, concerned this might be an elaborate ambush, though Orcs were not given to sacrificing themselves in order to make a greater victory possible. None had ever managed to remain motionless and hidden from him until this day.

The chains distracted me.

It was a disturbing realisation and he determined to immure himself to such tactics henceforth. These Orcs were not behaving like a pack of mindless animals and he had to adjust to that fact quickly. Such intelligence could only be the Wraiths' work and he nodded with satisfaction; his challenge had been accepted at last. Would that he might have the opportunity to test his theory of their weakness.

With no other sentries or soldiers to deter his progress, he soon stood looking down on the dead Orc. It was long in the body and had rather more hair than most of the vile things he'd seen. Its face was hideously scarred with one eye missing, but the nose, though broken more than once, was still a nose and not a snout. These observations suggested that it had not been born in this state and Legolas could not help but wonder how many centuries ago the creature had been an Elf. Had he known him once?

Is that how they know what Lindalcon means to me? Is that how they know about the chains?

This made no logical sense unless this unfortunate creature had once been counted among the number of warriors thrilling over his abasement in the stronghold storeroom. Yet his time with Rochendil was too recent; this creature had long ago ceased being First-born, and he was left with the unresolved quandary and the uneasiness it produced. All his instincts screamed to flee, to avoid any chance of suffering a similar fate, but he stifled them. He could not abandon Lindalcon no matter the consequences. Fael'ur drifted beside him and Legolas watched the shimmering shade examining the corpse.

This was an Elf.

Once. Long ago.

Did you know him?

I cannot say; it is an Orc now, or was. Now it is nothing.

And its elvish soul is forfeit; it will hear no call from Námo.

No.

What of the one with the chains?

What of it? It is an Orc; it does the bidding of its master.

Legolas scowled, disconcerted that Fael'ur understood what worried him yet remained so reticent over his answers. Then again, he was not exactly eager to state the obvious conclusion either. The Wraiths wanted him alive and what they would do with him, and to him, lay at his feet.

I will not permit that; not for me nor for Lindalcon.

He could but hope his link with Tawar was strong enough to waken the encompassing entity long enough to submerge his spirit within it. Such a fate was far preferable to the defilement on display. He felt a sharp and searing jolt of grief for the loss of Berenaur. The desire to fly to him filled his heart and Legolas tried to suppress it, berating himself. Fearing his thoughts would reach the seneschal and precipitate sympathetic grieving, Legolas banished his mate from his mind completely and focused again on his brother.

For Lindalcon, I must go in. If only his Adar had been the one Released all those years ago, the young one would not be in peril now.

Valtamar was freed almost at once, Tawarwaith, but he is bound to stay.

Legolas stared at his ghostly companion, incredulous, for it was obvious Lindalcon had no inkling of this. Nor had he. It cannot be. Life has been nothing but torment for his son, knowing his father Wandered.

Andamaitë remains and so he remains. They are soul-mates.

But Valtamar's memories have been brutal to experience. What father would subject his child to such horror? This makes no sense; Valtamar was not cruel. He loved Lindalcon dearly.

Aye, but he also loved Andamaitë. He thought Lindalcon could understand, but the child possessed a child's mind, and a grieving one at that. There was much he could not understand, refused to understand.

About Andamaitë and his Adar?

Aye.

Still, it would have been better for Valtamar to leave him be.

The dead are not Vala; we do not see all, Tawarwaith. Valtamar erred, wanting Rochendil to answer for Andamaitë's death and so effect her Release.

Rochendil has answered.

Aye. The Judgement is now fulfilled.

Then Valtamar remains for Lindalcon.

Aye, for his child. It is the only comfort he has now.

"Lindalcon is a child no more," said Legolas aloud. "All the pain and anguish an adult may know he has experienced, yet none of the joys and happiness. He has never been in love or felt the surge of desire that accompanies it. He will never taste another's lips nor feel the warmth of his beloved's body move against him in passion. Even I have been granted this grace. He has done nothing to earn such a harsh reality and now all I can hope to do is prevent more suffering, and a faint hope that is." He met the gaze of his spectral guide and nodded sharply. "Lead me to him."

Whatever remained of autumn reasserted itself in the passage of days, Rhîw relenting and relinquishing her frigid hold at last, and the land warmed. The air in the zone of fallen trees acquired the heavy aromas of loam and blood, earth and entrails, excrement and fallen leaves. The patches of clean snow still covering the haphazard stacks of once mighty bolls were stark in comparison, obscenely bright and dazzling mounds interspersed with the putrid gore of what was left of the killing party.

The Orcs had not found the foray as effortless as it might have been and not only because the woodsmen had been unexpectedly aided by a full troop of elven warriors from Lorien and the Orc Slayers of Imladris. The men had fought with a controlled ferocity unlike anything they'd exhibited before, the shouts uttered as they charged proclaiming their allegiance and fealty to Tirn-en-Tawar, the Watcher of the Great Wood, the Tawarwaith.

Elladan was glad for it even as he heaved bile and mucous onto the pristine sparkle of a drift, unable to control this need to purge after battle no matter the remedies he'd tried. After so many wars over so many centuries, it was something he accepted now. The Orcs would have been defeated anyway, he'd seen that as soon as they came upon the struggle, swords aloft, hungry to make some contribution to this war since their mission seemed a failure. No sign of Lindalcon had been found, nor of Legolas, and the trail they'd followed led them ever away from the mountains. When finally this region of destruction had been reached, the indications were anything but hopeful.

Racing across a clearing, Elladan sensed in a fleeting instant the remnant terror of captives of the Nazgûl, caught a minute glimpse of elven eyes, amber coloured and filled with rage and fear. He had actually been happy to fling himself into combat so intense was the communion with that lost young soul. He knew it was Lindalcon; knew the accusing hatred in those eyes was not for him, but it smote his heart with sorrow and regret anyway. I should have been here. What foolish whim delayed me? The illogic of such a thought did not escape him, but knowing this did nothing to ease the burden those eyes imparted. Elladan groaned and swabbed his face with a trembling hand, but the vision remained.

"He's dead," he coughed out, reaching in his tunic for a handkerchief to wipe his lips. The weight of a calming pat on the back drew his notice to Aragorn behind him, anxious questions in his steady grey stare. "The young one."

"Elbereth, no," hissed Haldir and took his bow, beating it in vicious, impotent fury upon the carcass of an Orc at his feet, his ire enough to crack the weapon. With an echoing shout he threw it aside, narrowly missing one of the woodsmen. "You're certain?" he demanded.

"It could be no other," said Elrohir, for he had shared this vision with his brother, as often he did. "It wasn't Legolas; too young."

Haldir turned and stormed through the field of fallen bodies, deflecting an aide's company with a curt motion of his hand. He halted out in the very field where Lindalcon had been taken captive and stood beside the axe-hewn trunk of the lone beech, arms crossed before him, head bowed. He'd deserted his post at the Central Mountains, instinct telling him the division of their forces had been a mistake, and hastened to join the Twins and the rest of his warriors. Now he had to wonder if Lindalcon's fate might have been averted had he remained on watch.

"We did not know this elf," ventured one of the men, approaching Aragorn, "for seldom do any but Tirno come out this far south. Yet, if he was friends with our atheling, then we mourn him, too."

"That is well," nodded Aragorn. "Will you join us?"

"If you are fighting Orcs, we will join you," grinned a second. "We go to the Mountains, for so Tirno ever bade us do, to clear away those demons who have settled betwixt his people and ours."

"We have come from there," said Elladan grimly. "The fighting will not be easy. They have gone to ground and we will be at severe disadvantage. You may lose many of your people."

"We lose people continuously," growled the first, the captain of the small battalion.

"Then let us waste no more time here," called Haldir, striding back to the Twins, his wrath still high. "I will avenge him if I can do nothing more. Come! We have been chasing illusions while our friends have suffered. We can do nothing for them; it is plain now, but we need not let the Orcs feel complacent in their victory." His speech disturbed the men deeply and they shifted in uneasiness, sharing murmured words.

"What do you mean?" asked their captain. "Do you believe Tirno is also dead?"

"It is Wraiths who have taken them," said Elrohir. "We cannot expect them to survive and, indeed, for an elf it is abomination to do so. If either of them live, we must free them, whether by effecting their rescue or dispatching their feär to Mandos."

Stunned silence met this response and the men gaped in wide-eyed horror. Aragorn sighed and sheathed his sword, gripping the captain at the shoulder.

"You live here; surely these things are known to you."

"Aye, but hearing it said is hard. We have not considered losing the Tawarwaith. He is meant to be our salvation and effect the cleansing of the woods."

"He is meant to live free as is every elf," snapped Haldir. "Would you have him turned over slow centuries into your most hated enemy and the bane of your people? If he is as skilled as all proclaim, Legolas would make a potent ally for the Shadow, could he be twisted into that unholy shape." He pointed at a dead Orc.

"Tirno would never turn!" shouted an aggrieved soldier, striding up to confront this out-land intruder. "No friend of his would say it!"

"Aye, he would, to open you ignorant minds," spat Haldir.

"Peace!" exhorted Elladan and got between them. "We do nothing but the Enemy's work arguing like this. We do not know that Legolas is captive, but if it is true then I swear to you we will do all possible to get him free alive. Does this satisfy you?"

The men exchanged glances and reached accord. "It does," said the captain, "and we do not want him to be tormented and tortured either. If he cannot be salvaged, then…"

"Then we will see to it," said Elladan. "He is one of ours." But with Elrohir he shared his desperate panic, for he knew he could not fire an arrow into another elf's flesh. To this Elrohir had no comforting answer, for he was like the men, denying that it might come to such a pass.

The combined troops formed up ranks and retraced their steps, trampling ground already riven by the boots of Orcs and the hooves of the Black Riders. All the elves were afflicted with remorse, for each one saw that they had unknowingly left the captives behind them, wondering if the Nazgûl had taken Legolas and Lindalcon into the caves even as Talagan and his warriors fought. The tortures would have begun long ago.

His chin struck the obdurate stone and stunned him, a blinding flash of light that extinguished all thought in an explosion of reverberating pain that left him limp, crippled and weak, a warrior no more. He was nothing, a groping, floating morass of shifting, fleeting sensations, meaningless, purposeless, devoid of memories. He had no history, no sense of time or place. He was marginally aware yet not self-aware. How long it took to emerge from this un-world, this mindless zone of hurtful light and thunderous silence was expunged by a sudden, fiery assault on every cell in his body. What had been done to him? Garbled shouts and roars and crashing noise pounded on the silence and mixed with the peculiar swash and swirl of a rushing torrent, though he smelled no water near, save that contained in the blood.

The blood.

Blood all round him; he was drowning in it. The scent was sweet but acrid, like butter going sour mixed with honey to hide the taint of spoilage. Despoiled, lying in a pool of blood, he wanted to scream, to cry, to plead and pray, but cold encased him, gagged him. He was a pebble buried in the mud of a crimson flood. Thought coalesced within the random, viscous flow of sludgy sensations: He must rise and fight.

"Rise up and face me, Hecilo."

The voice cut him like blades and he writhed trying to escape it. Ah yes, escape. Clarity was born of confusion. Of course. He was a prisoner. Nazgûl. The rushing river was the blood in his veins, the meaningless cacophony the growling and raging of his tormentors. He was Tawarwaith; his history was legend, his life an evolving odyssey. He was Tawarwaith, and he must rise up and fight.

But the blood…

He blinked, groaned, and pried open his sealed eyes to find them focused on the sightless, lifeless amber irises of Lindalcon, sprawled dead on the floor beside him. The blood was his; it was all his blood. Legolas' cheek was pressed down into it; his arms swam in it, his chest was coated, damp and slippery; he could taste it on his lips. He heard himself cry out, saw his hand sluice through the congealing vermilion lake to touch the face of the child, this corpse, his friend, his brother. Other hands prevented it, yanked him to his feet and dragged him skidding and flailing through that precious stuff, sacred fluid now polluted, ruined, spoilt, and spilt.

From Lindalcon's throat the instrument of his death protruded and the dagger's hilt gleamed garish in the torch light. An ancient weapon finely wrought, the handle and quillons cut from a single green gemstone, the blade of the finest steel, sharper than dragon's teeth, engraved in runes now faint from the wear and use of Ages: a relic from Beleriand, the blade given by Fael'ur. It was fitting in a grotesquely repulsive way: Lindalcon's arrow had spared the older warrior Rochendil's fate; Fael'ur's dagger gave the youth the same mercy.

"Face me, Hecilo."

Legolas had no choice but to do so. Clawed fingers entwined in what remained of his hair and pulled his head up to satisfy the command, but there was no face to confront. There upon a carven throne of black basalt sat the spectre, strangely vital here in these subterranean depths of heat and stifling air, bent forward with elbow poised atop black-clad knee, gauntlet-gloved fist supporting a chin that almost was not there. There was something, though, to catch at sight obliquely, impressions and expressions of features: a full-lipped mouth leering, thick dark brows, hawk nose, an eye-less, malevolent glare. Legolas had the disturbing sense that this was all familiar somehow and it came to him the many times Thranduil had struck the same pose.

Legolas shivered and his gaze wandered back to the cooling carcass, wishing he could take Lindalcon from here, see him buried properly. He would wrap him in the panther cloak and pin upon his breast Oropher's ruby broach, and Fael'ur's weapons he would inter beside him.

"Noss dagnir," croaked the rangy Orc beside him, its crooked digits still embedded in the hacked and ragged relic of his mane. They'd re-enacted the Judgement and burned the heap of twisted golden strands, made him eat the hot ashes, threw rocks at him. "One of us soon." Gloating laughter answered this from the clutch of misshapen warriors ringing them, but the Tawarwaith did not respond.

It was the one with the chains, this orc with its vile fingers fisted in his tresses, and the heavy links lay at the feet of the throne. Legolas' sight flickered there where the Wraith's heavy boots rested, noting the foot gear was of good quality and fine construction. What doomed and cursed soul was forced to make this thing's garments and shoes? he wondered.

"You do not speak," intoned the Nazgul and the thing rose, towering over him. This was the Chief, the eldest of the three and the Master of Dol Guldur. Where the other two had gone Legolas could guess, for there was war in Greenwood. "Do you not know your fate? Have you no words of bargaining? I was told you would have talk with me. For this reason I allowed you to enter my domain unharmed, yet now you are silent. Speak, Tawarwaith, and tell me why I should not destroy you."

Still Legolas said nothing. This was all but part of the torture and he wished they would just move on past the taunting stage and resume the physical brutality. The endurance of the body was always lesser than the strength of the mind, he knew, and hoped to die of the punishing abuses. It would all be over then and someday he would meet Berenaur again in Aman. Surely the Valar would not deny him that, though he had failed in part. He had meant to use the Chief's trap to attempt divesting it of its ring and thus dissolve its shadow of life, but he had to free Lindalcon first and once that was done the Orcs were on him. He never got close to the Wraith.

Instead, they took away his ring, his bonding band, the one blessed by Mithrandir, Feärfaron's gift, the symbol of his troth with Berenaur. Its taking had not been without pain, the words the Wraith uttered to break the wizard's enchantment potent and horrible. They lingered, scraps of the incantation drifting across his thoughts when he was drifting into unconsciousness. This alarmed him and he strove to force the hideous phantom sounds from his memory. Was the bond broken now, too? He didn't know what they'd done with the ring and the notion worried him, plagued him. Could they somehow use it to get to Berenaur, lure him here?

A sharp blow bruised his jaw and would have sent him reeling to the floor again, but the Orc still held him. He spat blood and through the ringing in his ears knew the creature was bellowing at him to answer the Master. Legolas smiled, gathered the bloody spittle in his mouth, and sprayed it over the Chief's boots. He had a strange perspective on the one that rose up and connected with his breastbone, depriving him again of air and reason, distantly aware of wallowing in the blood at the Nazgûl's feet. He slithered through the puddle closer to Lindalcon, reached for the hilt of the dagger. Another bright burst of agony ricocheted through his scull and reality faded into darkness.

He raced through the tunnel, taking the main entrance against all reason and hope, flying down the broad passage, Fael'ur his eyes. Legolas, nimble with the grace of the First-born, easily leaped a yawning chasm, dodged around piles of fallen rock and boulders, skirted narrow pits meant to swallow the unsuspecting, those blind in the dark. Once, he could discern, this had been a clean place, delved by the same dwarves who'd dug the caverns of Ost-en-Thranduil. Here and there was a fragment of a decorative detail, directional runes upon the walls. He had a dim memory, so distant and vague he wondered if it was his first, of being here with his parents, the reason unknown.

Perhaps that is a false memory, imagination.

Or, mayhap it was a glimpse at the future. Perhaps the child was not him at all but Taurant, and Thranduil would bring him here in days to come. The elleth holding the babe, who was it? Not Meril and certainly not Ningloriel. Legolas drove the pictures out, concentrating again as a black bolt bounced off the stone behind him. He was getting closer now.

It had been simple to get in since the Chief wanted him in this unholy place. He entered boldly, Fael'ur his guide, and navigated the vermiform tunnels with confidence. Orcs filled the alcoves along the hall as he progressed; he could feel them, smell them, the heat and weight of their bodies as they jostled one another for position, the weight and malice of a thousand peering eyes, but none opposed him and all fell in behind, stamping, clashing their swords on their shields, gleefully chanting out their victory call. Death! Death! Death for Tawarwaith! The Tawarwaith, caught at last! Into the pits! Cast him in! They wanted to see their nemesis beg and plead for Lindalcon's life while slowly robbing him of it, but he would not give them that.

With Fael'ur's unhindered vision, he saw the two sentries waiting at the doorway to the Wraith's lair long before reaching them. His dagger dispatched one and as the other prepared to fight him, his long knife flashed and cut it down even as its grasping claws pawed the air for him. He burst into the torch-lit chamber at full run, locked on Lindalcon's location through his spirit guide's awareness and beside him, the Chief. Through this augmented sight, he could perceive the Wraith as it truly was: a revolting hulk of wasted, diseased flesh bound up in black garments that seemed to serve the purpose skin once had done. He could see Valtamar there, too, standing behind his son, ghostly hands gripping the youth's shoulder.

And now here was the moment, his one chance, and Legolas did not hesitate.

"Muindor, caro hûr!" (Brother, make ready!) he shouted, barrelling closer, hearing the Orcs hard on his heels. "Fael'ur, pantpathrach gwaedh lin a na lain!" (Fael'ur, fulfil your oath and be freed!)

Orcs could not discern the silent communication when his eyes met the young warrior's, but the Chief did and turned sharply to Lindalcon. It comprehended at once the sudden proud stance the son of Valtamar struck, the defiant lift of his chin, and a dark hand shot out an instant too late; the blade was soaring. None could follow the speed of the Tawarwaith's hand as it hurled the ancient dagger with deadly accuracy at that exposed throat. Everyone could understand Lindalcon's final words: 'Le gohenon! Le melin, muin…' (I forgive you; I love you, broth…)

The sentence ended in a grotesque gurgling hiss as his lungs tried to scream. His hands were bound behind him; he could not grab the blade and pull it free. He tried to remain standing and accept his death, even as he had promised he would, but the body relents to destruction unwillingly. He fell in jerking and twisting spasms to the floor, horrible noises arising from his severed neck, there to watch in wild-eyed horror as his life drained away, bathing him in its grisly red fountain, coating the stone, running in little rivulets over the floor. When it was over, Fael'ur and Valtamar surrounded his spirit and drew him away; the three were gone in seconds.

Legolas fell to his knees in the spreading pool, sick with grief and yet triumphant; the promise of Fael'ur was fulfilled. Bound to Legolas, the Wraith could not influence him nor capture him. Valtamar, bound to his son's fate and his soul-mate's spirit, likewise was inviolable. Together they shielded Lindalcon from the snares of darkness and fled with him, free to seek the Halls of Mandos and Námo's mercy. But Legolas remained.

A sharp, searing, tearing pain retrieved Legolas from this memory and he found he was on his knees again, his back afire. He'd left his pack outside or he'd believe they'd found his old scourge, but of course they had whips aplenty here. This one had teeth in it; he'd seen the metal barbs woven into the leather glinting in the torch light. He gasped, sucking in air desperately as the lash cut him again. He was naked now, stripped of clothes and weapons as he'd expected, but his grandfather's cape was not among the items they rent and ruined, left behind outside with his weapons. He had not thought to try and remove his ring and wished he had.

"Master speaks, you answer, Hecilo!" shouted the Orc and hauled him upright, shoved him so he staggered forward and fell again at the Chief's feet.

The stone abraded his palms. A gloved hand took him at the biceps, squeezed; the Wraith crouched down beside him and Legolas found himself eye-to-eye with it, shocked to find there were eyes to meet. They were as lifeless as Lindalcon's, mud-coloured irises afloat in yellowed, dark veined whites, but there was a mind inside peering out at him in hungry anticipation. From the creature's ephemeral grin wafted a stench of rotted flesh and from this stink substance was born. He saw a blotched and bloated countenance, the thick, chapped lips revealing teeth stained brown, the cheeks like bruised fruit, the chin devoid of flesh where a foul sore festered. A putrid tongue slithered out toward him, rank and dotted with maggots, and Legolas recoiled with a fearful cry.

"A kiss! Kiss him!" Laughter and stamping accompanied this shout as the orcs announced their approval. It was short-lived.

Legolas was fighting, having kicked the Wraith soundly and freed himself momentarily, only to confront his gaoler and the whip. The wicked thong wrapped round his calf and tripped him as he fled; he landed hard on his back and a heavy boot stomped his gut. All air was driven from his lungs else he would have yelled from the pain. The Wraith stood over him, foot resting on his stomach, and leaned its weight into him. Panicked, he strained to breathe and could draw no air. Thus immobilised, he felt iron cuffs tighten over his ankles, heard the clanking as manacles were secured to his wrists as well. The boot was removed and he struggled to get up as the orc dragged him by the chains to the center of the room. Two tall, stout posts loomed there.

In a burst of rage he wrapped his fingers round the links and sprang up, taking the orc unawares and tearing the chains from its hands. In one leap he was on it, draped the chains over its neck and yanked them tight, head-butted its hideous face and followed it down, braced his knee against its sternum and hauled on the chains with all his strength, wishing he could rip the head off this way. It thrashed and struggled and hissed and wheezed as it choked; he watched yellowed claws tear through his forearm but didn't feel it; ignored the minor pain, and though the room echoed with the roaring of the Wraith's minions, none interfered and he was too filled with exultant fury to wonder why. Legolas delivered it death, even as he'd promised. The Orc went limp in the chains but still he strangled it, determined it must not rejuvenate to torment him again. Time ticked by, the cavern went silent, and one by one the torches all went out.

Legolas dropped his prey and crouched low as he ran, hoping to relocate before these foul things could capture him, but the chains hindered his speed and gave him away. They swarmed him, kicking, pounding, beating him with fists and feet and clubs, and he was quickly subdued. They dragged him back to the centre and heaved him upright, attached the chains to the posts. Desperate, he twined fingers in the links and once more pulled himself up, lashing out with his feet, connecting briefly before he was overcome and the ankle restraints were secured, too. His toe prodded the body of the orc he'd killed. Through the shouting and cursing Legolas heard his mournful cry: "No!" He sagged in the chains, shaking uncontrollably.

He knew what was coming and the darkness made it worse. Gradually his mind cleared and he regained some measure of control over his limbs; he stood tall in his bonds, panting. An arrow straight to his heart, that's what he longed for, but he must not beg them. In the depths of his soul, he knew he would before it was done and that more than any imagined abuse broke him. He could not endure this, not alone, and he only wanted to flee, to escape before that horrible living corpse raped him and gave him to the Orcs. From the depths of the cave he extended his spirit, seeking a safe haven in which to hide while these beasts destroyed him. They must not have his soul for their use afterward.

Mithrandir.

He had sheltered within the Maia's being once before and the wizard had not shunned him. Surely he would help him now, if only he could reach him. Frantically, Legolas probed the space about him, stretching, searching.

A feather-light touch stroked his chest and retrieved him from wandering. He twisted away in disgust, a curse on his lips, but it was hopeless. The fingers came back, rough but not clawed, and he knew it was the Chief. A ghostly chuckle accompanied the next foray as his nipples were lightly brushed, his pectoral muscles traced. He aimed another kick but the chains defeated his effort. The fingers returned, stroked his buttocks, and he shouted in fear and anger, twisting away.

"So skittish. But we know this is what you like. The traitor said so. Oh, how he hated you; how you loved to be hated so, Hecilo."

"No!"

"Yes, Hecilo."

"I am not outcast. I am Legolas Thranduilion, Tirn-en-Tawar, the Tawarwaith."

"As you wish."

Something stiff, hard, barbed, and cold was shoved inside him, ripping skin and muscles indiscriminately, and Legolas screamed, jerking in the bonds as his legs gave out. His shoulders burned under the strain of his weight but he barely noticed as the solid tool was worked in and out rapidly. His blood warmed and lubricated it, allowing it to probe deeper with each thrust.

"Daro! Daro!" He pleaded, knowing what they wanted to happen. He could not let them make him feel pleasure and so he clung to the pain, thought about that wormy tongue, and vomited. Loud laughter filled the dark.

"What is fucking you, Tawarwaith?" queried the Wraith, its breath hot and noisome at Legolas' ear. The thick intrusion shifted, twisted, burrowed deeper and struck his tender prostate. He howled in shame and delight, tears gathering. "Truth be told, it does not matter, does it?" whispered the Chief. "You just want to be degraded and mastered." It pulled the tool back for another punishing plunge. "I will accommodate you."

"Baw!"Legolas screamed and tried again to use his legs to get free of his assailant, but no sooner had his foot lifted than a calloused hand reached between his thighs and stroked his hardening cock, palmed his balls and squeezed in time to the penetration. He groaned in misery and set his foot back down, braced into the hold, felt his hips buck into the grip. "Please," he moaned."Death, give me death."

"We are," chuckled the Wraith. "This might take a bit of time, but even an elf so depraved as you will eventually perish, mired in the dark, anticipating the next time, eager for it."

"No…Ai!" Legolas cried as the hand round his erection withdrew only to be replaced by a wet, sucking mouth. The tool inside drove him into that torrid cavity forcefully and he felt sharp teeth rake his cock even as a tongue massaged the slit. He gasped and matched the rhythm of his pivoting hips to the pace of the rod inside. "Oh, nay," he moaned.

Fingers delicately picked at the points of his ears; a tongue, rough like a cat's, grazed over his left nipple; a second mouth feasted on its twin. The sensations mounted in the pitch, reality became twisted and skewed, replaced by this well of agonising, exquisite pleasure, all underscored by heavy breathing, his gasps and moans, the subdued, persistent clapping of a hundred hands masturbating excited flesh. The brutal tool abruptly left him and he cried out in relief and despair, his climax near now. Icy hands gripped his hips and the putrid scent of rotting flesh assailed him.

"So now you know who is master of this forest, Tawarwaith," said the Wraith, and thrust its bone-hard cock in. A satisfied sigh accompanied the invasion and then it commenced a pounding coition. Grunting and wheezing, it fucked him with abandon.

Horrified and terrified, Legolas once more gripped the chain in his fingers, strove to get a firm hold and pull himself up and away from this nightmare. He could not, must not submit to his body's urge, but his motions only served to enhance the friction and prompt his captor to dig in harder, the mouths to lick and suck more fervently, the invisible hands to caress and pluck and tickle and tease. He was unable to stop what happened, but this in no manner spared him the shame and guilt, a thousand fold more terrible than anything he'd experienced in the storeroom with Rochendil. In an exhilarating rush, his seed spurted into the mouth devouring him and his loud cry spurred the Wraith to completion, too.

A long, keening wail reverberated in the cavern as a vile stench permeated the air and the corrupt King excreted the rancid juices of his rotten prick into the Tawarwaith's bowels. From all around the space, echoing expletives and grotesque shouts of pleasure erupted and Legolas had the sickening comprehension that this was only the beginning. Loud panting sounded in his ear and he tried to turn from it; an Orc bit his nipple and he cried out, trembling, as teeth closed down on his lax penis, still trapped in some foul demon's maw.

"So sweet to fuck you," chortled the Wraith, "and know I pleased you so well. We shall be bound, you and I, as is the custom for your kind. Shall I give you my ring, Tawarwaith?" This elicited raucous laughter and shouts of encouragement. The next sensation Legolas felt was that of salt being ground into the lashes. He screamed and writhed in the chains and then the sounds were choked off as the whip was taken up again. The lash sought for virgin skin to tear and he heard his voice climb into an incoherent, animal shrieking. When the beating stopped he sobbed, and when a clawed hand parted his buttocks he wept. The Chief laughed as the Orc entered him, and in that moment Legolas' consciousness fled.

Cut free from the domain of his body, he could see without eyes and sped away through the twisting tunnels, seeking the surface and light, seeking Tawar. The tunnels were not as he remembered, as though all had been reordered, or he had slipped into some other dark place somehow. Far away he spied a door, dazzling white, pristine and pure. Behind it lay peace and safety, refuge from this gross abuse, and his spirit fled toward it, reached out to it.

Blinding, garish, smoky and yellow, torch light dazzled his eyes and revealed the cavern packed with orcs, snarling and stamping and shouting in Black Speech. He shut them, howling his own cry of anger and disappointment; the portal was gone and he was back in this place of dire horrors, alive. The Orc using him had finished; its seed combining with the Wraith's and running down his leg, sticky and smelling of filth and decay. He vomited, retching out bile and mucous that flowed down his chest and mixed with the salt, burned him as it passed. An abrupt flash of pain and a loud clap echoed in his ear and whipped his head sideways.

"Where do you think you're going, Tawarwaith?" demanded the Chief in gloating mirth. "There is no spirit waiting to carry you away to peace in Aman. You are mine."

"Nay." Legolas hoped to sound stern and strong, but his voice was hoarse and croaking and he was aware now of terrible thirst. He swallowed, then twitched in flinching dread as the Nazgûl filled his field of sight, looming over him.

"Yes. We are to be mates, you and I. This, I think, is best: for Tawarwaith to rule beside Hîr o Dol Guldur. See? I have the ring ready. It was meant for your young brother, but since you have stolen him from me, I will have you." The black-gloved hand came up before his nose, palm up-facing, and upon it rested a heavy gold band, plain of design and devoid of decoration. Then the Wraith, chortling darkly, took it up and tipped it so he could see the inside. The under surface, the skin-side surface, was carved with ugly runes and potent symbols, but none of it was elvish. Even so, Legolas did not doubt the spells it could inflict upon him and he thrashed wildly against his bonds.

His energy was wasted and utterly ignored. In frantic, disbelieving denial he watched the gloved hand take his own, isolate the index finger, and force the ring past his knuckles. The Wraith was murmuring, dark tendrils of evil uncoiling from its lips, caressing Legolas as they slid over his face and torso and made their leisurely way into the ring. Immediately it shrank, tightening round his finger, and a sharp spike of agony pierced his heart.

He realised he was screaming and then the horrid face pressed into his, the rancid, rotten tongue probed his open mouth, and instinctively he recoiled, bit down hard. The mobile muscle stilled and in revulsion he spat it out, retching, but all around him the Orcs were laughing and cheering, and even the Chief was grinning. It licked its lips with a new tongue, a writhing, black sphacelus, all the while massaging and squeezing Legolas' lax genitals.

When this elicited no response beyond a volley of cursing and another attempt to kick, the Wraith shrugged and ceased, circling behind to avail itself of the elf's seeping, bleeding hole. "Plenty of time," he crooned darkly, gripping tight to angular hips, ramming the rigid arse hard. "You will learn to love me, Tawarwaith."

Legolas sought to disengage his mind again, seeking freedom from this horrendous fate, but the ring held him bound. His body would require much more torture, he realised, to descend into oblivion again. He vowed silently to deny this unholy bond, holding to his memory of the night he'd exchanged rings with Berenaur, but it was impossible to deny what was being done to him. The futility of it all engulfed him. Behind him, the Wraith achieved orgasm and pulled out. Another Orc took its place. Legolas went limp in the chains.

TBC

NOTE: Here is a Feud update at last. We knew it was coming to this, didn't we? We're all going to have to suffer through this abominable torment with Legolas now. Stopped here because I have struggled to get this far. Still writing, so hold on.
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Feud