TRYING TO PUSH THE PAST AWAY

BOOK ONE

DISCLAIMER: I do not own „Lord Of The Rings". Whole recognizable belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. Written only for fun, no money made.

WARNINGS: *MAJOR TORTURE SEGMENT!* Please heed the warning! Leave or read at your discretion. You have been warned.

In these chapters feedback is very important for me. Please, even if you read the story usually and just do not review because you don't want to involve in painstaking reviewing these long chapters PLEASE this time just write few words about THIS chapter. I want to hear your opinions about this part.

Chapter 15: LEGOLAS' STORY – PART THREE: FATE

/*/

Legolas has awoken in a dark dungeon.

'Where am I?' he thought. It was pitch black in there, and he could not remember a thing. He was stiffen, sore and very cold. His head was heavy; as he tried to move, he came to a conclusion that all his body hurt.

After a few minutes his eyes has gotten accustomed to the dark and he started to see things around him. The stone walls were wet; rich colonies of moss inhabited the ceiling and in the middle of the floor a huge puddle could be spotted. Legolas was occupying the fairly dry corner. He could see some chains hanging from the opposite wall and a small door with granting. The darkness was frightening him, he hated the darkness, and this one here was strangely overwhelming, so he decided to relocate closer to that door, since a bit of torchlight seeped from under them and through the bars.

'Why I am here?' Legolas asked himself, trying to get up. In an instant he was reminded of his beaten body: the pain returned at once, blinding him with a blunt impact. He looked down to asses his injuries and realized he is naked.

He froze. Memories returned one by one: the Merchant's arrival, the dinner, the desperate fight with the guards and the following struggling in the Merchant's room, whipping with the belt, the pain of his ribs breaking, the lack of air and Petrel, doing…

No.

No.

No, that could not be true. He desperately wanted to remember what was next, but he could not. Did he violate me? Legolas asked himself. Feeling tears well in his eyes, he sat upright and a sudden, sharp pain in his crotch halted him. His buttocks hurt as well and the insides of his thighs were smeared with dried blood forming thin, dry rivulets almost down to his knees. It answered him. Petrel the Merchant took him yesterday, while he was unconscious, and sent down here. That discovery rendered him immobile, deaf and breathless, cutting out everything except his frantic heartbeat and cold sweat on his forehead. Legolas slowly slid back down, panicked that he suddenly cannot breathe; his eyes watered and his throat clenched, and all he could do was to curl his limbs to his chest and give out an unnatural, strained, animal-like whimper.

It took him a good while to come to his senses again. Through his stupor he heard a noise outside his cell. He strained his ears to hear better, for he had no strength for a crawl to the door, and no wish either. Stiffen with fear he could only listen.

"Get off me!" he heard a terrible shriek. It must have been a young girl.

"Shut up, you whore... You exist only for one purpose! Shut up, I said!" there was a sound of a backhand across somebody's face, and a thud of a body falling on the floor. Legolas' heart missed a bit. There was spasmodic crying and the shut of the heavy, wooden door, then quickly retreating footsteps.

And Legolas realized where he was. That was the lowest part of the dungeons, reserved for the murderers waiting for the death penalty, bandits, thieves and whores. There was a special wing to that level, for ones forced into prostitution.

Just like him.

Legolas felt chills wracking his body violently and churning of his stomach so abrupt that he had to tense in anticipation of a heave. He was starved, though, and a distant memory of his last meal was not enough to vomit with. Even if he tried to tell himself to be brave, not to give up, at least not yet, he could not stop the cold claws of genuine panic ripping at his chest. From that moment to the rest of his days he would be working differently than others. He would be a pleasure slave, during the day kept in the dungeon, during the night violated and beaten by an unknown someone. There was no fate worse than this one. There was no way out. Only horrible torment and finally death. Legolas felt his entrails roll and cringe, and the blood freeze in his veins. He curled on the wet floor, embraced his legs by his hands and cried, cried so long and so violently as he had never cried before in his whole life.

When the fit was over, something else gradually won and total panic shook the elfling from head to toe. He had to get out, he had to run, he had to save his life! He just couldn't stay here, he had to do something, anything…! But his whole body was hamstrung and too weak to rise, not to mention escaping from Mirkwood… realizing he will not escape, he will die here tortured to death, Legolas screamed horribly, hitting the floor by his already scratched fist. He was screaming and screaming until all the strength he had left went out of him. This scream must have woken all the slaves and prisoners in the dungeons, but not even a single voice responded him. Everyone once screamed. Everyone knew how he felt.

He lost his consciousness again.

/*/

Icy cold water splashed on Legolas' face and he was roughly lifted up by the two pairs of strong hands. To his astonishment, he saw the King himself standing in front of him, holding his long robes gathered in one hand not to get them dirty and putting an embroidered, perfumed kerchief to his nose.

"Awaken now?" he asked. Legolas had no strength to respond, but he greedily licked the water from his lips. At least he tried; he was very thirsty and his tongue was like a piece of dry wood.

"Again," Lathronios ordered. Another bucket of water was poured on him and Legolas blinked it out of his eyes, trying to get his sight back. He licked the water again and swallowed that tiny bit down. His throat still burned.

"Do you hear me?" Lathronios asked Legolas. He nodded, breathing heavily. "Good. Now listen intently. You are here because you committed a crime. You have stolen the healing supplies from the store in order to help your friends," the King spoke.

So he knows, Legolas thought. Fine. There is nothing worse he may do to me than what he has already done.

"Do you admit to the stealing?" Lathronios asked. Legolas' head was pulled up by his hair to make him look at the King.

"Yes, Master," he rasped. It sounded like a death sentence, but there was no use in denying. Lathronios stood motionless for a while, his eyes cold and uncompassionate.

"You confessed, so I will show my mercy to you," he said finally. "I will not punish Moreth or Silcan. But you cannot avoid the penalty."

The guards lifted Legolas more, so that he was standing. They marched him to the wall and turned him to face it; his arms were stretched and chained to the wall. His legs were wobbly, but he managed to stand on his own, only he could not know for how long would he manage.

"Use the whip," Lathronios said. One of the guards took the lash out from his belt. "First you will be punished for speaking without leave, as you transgressed yesterday evening during the dinner. Five lashes," the King ordered.

Legolas kept looking at the clammy stone wall in front of him, tensing in anticipation of a blow; when it finally came he could not stop the scream. The hit was malicious enough to break the skin and Legolas soon felt the warmth spreading on his back, slowly oozing from the lash. He bit his tongue and tasted blood; he did not want that hated, accursed Elf to hear him scream in pain again. Five he could surely endure with some remnants of dignity.

"Good," Legolas could detect a smile in Lathronios' voice. "Good, Legolas. So brave, as always. Good slave." The King came closer and lovingly stroked down the blood-streaked flesh. Legolas yelped at the touch and trashed violently, trying to wriggle free with all his might; the King's hand was coated with salt.

"My, my… poor elfling… be brave a little longer, it's no fun to see you give up so quickly." Lathronios chuckled, observing Legolas writhing in place, being powerless to free himself from the pain. Soon he stumbled and had no strength left to rise again, so he hung on his strained hands.

"You disappoint me." Lathronios snorted. "Now the flogging for stealing. Brace yourself, weakling," he said and moved back.

Legolas tried once more to stand, but he slipped on the wet floor when another blow fell. He stopped fighting. He focused only at enduring the penalty. He stopped counting when he came to twenty; even if the strokes were lighter and did not wound him now, they kept tearing the already opened skin. His head was spinning, arms shuddering when trying to accommodate his dead weight. Soon red whipping marks covered whole his back and the guard moved lower, to his thighs and buttocks. Shudders went through Legolas after every blow.

"Enough," Lathronios said abruptly. "That's enough. Unchain him."

He approached Legolas as the guards opened the shackles and threw the limp form off his balance. The Elf curled on the stones; he had his eyes closed and he panted heavily, still trembling. Lathronios smirked delicately.

"Are you not going to thank me?" he asked.

Legolas did not dare to raise his eyes, but he wondered stunningly: for what, in the name of the Valar, should he thank him?

"Because you should thank me for sparing your friends the penalty. Or maybe you want me to make them suffer as you do? Share your pain? I think that would be only just, little Legolas. Don't you?" the King continued and Legolas felt a wave of panic sweep through him.

"No, Master, please don't…!" he whispered quickly, choking on the words. "Thank you, Master. Thank you," he repeated, desperate not to put his friends in trouble. They were everything he had. "Thank you for sparing them, Master… I shall bear the guilt alone."

"Very well." Lathronios smirked. Your punishment starts from now until I say it is enough. Later you will be told what will happen with you. Of course you must realize that returning upstairs is quite impossible," the King mocked mercilessly. "Taken once by the Merchant you will stay here as one of the pleasure slaves. Here is your place now. Do you understand, Legolas?"

The Elf was silent. When he spoke, he was barely audible.

"I do understand, Master."

"Good. You know what to do," Lathronios said to the guards, leaving.

/*/

Legolas was dragged to the head of the dungeons' wing, Oretian. He was responsible for the slaves, the prisoners and the guards at this lowest possible level of the castle. He reigned this dark place with an iron hand, sending orders and notices from his room, like a knowing-all spider from his den.

Legolas was in too much pain to resist, so the guards led him to Oretian's chamber meeting no fight. Legolas noticed somewhat bitterly that when he was not thrashing, the whole thing was quicker and less brutal than always. He found it even little better than walking by himself. He could not move quickly enough because of his whipping wounds and the dislocated ankle, but above all other things, one exact wound deep inside him made him hiss every time he moved. He didn't know if that was his imagination or reality, but he had an impression that a thin rivulet of blood is trickling down the inside of his thigh.

Oretian granted them entrance. When he saw the pitiful picture Legolas was creating and the sickening fear hidden not quite well in his eyes, he asked only to be sure:

"Another whore?"

"Yes, Sir. And the King gave me this," one of the guards said, giving to the Elf a small parchment secured with wax. Oretian read it and threw it to the fire, frowning.

"So," he turned to Legolas, "what is your name?" he asked sitting behind his desk and taking a large book to write down the details to the register. Legolas remained silent.

"Don't make the whole thing more difficult than it already is," Oretian advised, seeing the determined look in Legolas' eyes. It looked quite out of place, given that he was naked, beaten and barely standing on his own.

"Legolas" the Elf whispered finally. He could not raise his voice, his throat was too damaged to do so and burned painfully.

Oretian asked a few more questions about Legolas' parents and his status before he landed here. Then he rose and attempted the examination.

"Move him a little closer to me," he ordered. Wild fear made Legolas struggle, so he received more hits on his already abused head and his legs gave up beneath him completely. The guards lifted him roughly for Oretian to see better.

The head of the wing firstly lifted Legolas' head to evaluate his face. The beauty of the Elf was evident and the pair of clear blue eyes widened in fear as the other man smirked.

"Lovely creature," Oretian said. "Do not shave his head, leave his hair as it is."

"But every slave…" one of the guards interrupted.

"But not this one. He is no ordinary pleasure slave, and I need his face to stay like this," Oretian said coldly. "Do I make myself clear?"

A murmur went through the guards, but they said nothing. Oretian raised his hands to Legolas' shoulders, slid them down his arms, testing the slight muscles. The Elf started to squirm, feeling quickly rising uneasiness, and the grip of the guards tightened on his arms. Oretian inspected his fair chest, checking on the ribcage. Some of the bones were broken and Legolas yelped in shock as the pain shoot through him.

"Well build youth," Oretian said finally. "He will be suitable. Turn him around," he ordered. When he saw the bloody back, he shook his head. "Why do you always bring me the most abused ones? If the infection settles, he will die in days. How am I to…" he did not finish the sentence, but sighed irritatingly. Legolas could not understand anything what was happening, but he realized that he was being evaluated. Would he make a good pleasure slave or not…?

Legolas' thoughts darted to that message on the destroyed parchment. It must have been about him. Lathronios would not simply leave me like this, the Elf thought; there must be something more to this. Oretian knows something, that was why he did not allow the guards to cut my hair, as they use to do to every slave kept in here to avoid lice.

Oretian noticed the line of blood slowly finding its way down Legolas' thigh. He reached between his legs to check if it was just a bloodstain or a serious injury, quick and indifferent; Legolas pulled back instinctively to break the touch, feeling a sudden wave of nausea biting into his entrails. Oretian moved back, but Legolas did not stop his thrashing or the panicked scream; memories swarmed into his head, and he was terrified that it started to happen again. His incoherent screams were muffled when one of the guards gagged him with a gloved hand and his arms were wringed behind his back. They stomped on each of Legolas' delicate feet hardly, pressing them to the ground. The injured ankle started to hurt terribly with every movement.

"I am not interested in violating you, boy. Stop it," Oretian said coldly. "Alright, I won't touch you. Had he been taken?" he asked the guards, who nodded. Legolas whimpered; tears started to fall from his eyes immediately. He suddenly felt very, very weak and dizzy, only able to hung limply in the guards' hold.

"Who had taken him?" Oretian asked, cleaning his hands in a small washbasin put on a sill on the opposite wall.

"Petrel the Merchant. Yesterday," the guard replied and Oretian grimaced at the name.

"That explains much," Oretian sighed. "Take the hand away, let him breathe."

The Elf opened a wooden chest standing near the washbasin and rummaged through its confines. When he approached Legolas again, he was holding a phial made of red glass.

"You will drink it," he told him. Legolas shook his head. "It's for your own good, a healing potion. I need to keep you alive for a while, and you do not want to die, do you? Then be good and drink it to prevent the infection."

Legolas did not know if he could believe this, but knew that he had no other option anyway. The Elves would just force the liquid down his throat, and it would be unbearable, damaged as it was. He nodded and Oretian put the flask to his mouth surprisingly gently, giving him the drink in small portions. It was bitter and unpleasant, but he was given some water after emptying the flask. Legolas looked incredulously at his tormentor, wondering at this show of mercy.

"So, is he good enough? We are to place him with the others, right?" the question came. Oretian stared at Legolas for a short while.

"He is not ready," he announced sharply. "Put him back into his cell. We have to work on him a while longer."

/*/

And work on him they did. Three days have passed since that talk and every morning the guards came to Legolas' cell to take him to another dark chamber where he was receiving beatings and tortures. Legolas had no clue what the punishment would be and exactly what was he punished for. Simple stealing of the medicine could not be worth that kind of prolonged penalty. Legolas wondered in panic what had he done apart of that to deserve such treatment, to be able to show his regret or to say or do anything to halt it. But they were not giving him any questions he could answer or orders he could comply. They simply day after day tortured him, without demanding anything, without giving any reason why, with only mocking laughter. Eventually Legolas concluded the medicine must have been worth more than he previously imagined and because of his deed something really bad could have happened. He also vaguely understood that his behavior in the merchant's room was unacceptable. He could not remember everything, and that only added to his distress: had he killed the man in his rage or did something to hurt him permanently? He could not remember. But if I killed, Legolas kept repeating to himself, I do deserve everything they are doing to me.

What he was being put through must have been due to the fact he had been taken, anyway. Legolas realized that when the guards started to abuse him sexually. First they would make sure he is unable to fight back and then they used to start 'playing' with their newest captive. Legolas went into a state of shock after they first used him thus. He was not raped again, but he was made to pleasure them instead. He was escaping from that as far as he could go into himself, shutting his mind down, and found that he simply cannot remember what had transpired between him and the guards when he was left alone in his cell and tried to recall anything. He could remember the beating, yes. But nothing else.

Uncountable number of wounds and bruises was slowly making him weaker from the blood loss and exhaustion day after day. The pain was overwhelming, blinding out all the rest, causing him to escape deep, deep in himself. He could not stop the guards, but he could endure everything indifferent like a wooden figure, and that worked to some extent: he was too boring to deal with, after a time. Even so, Legolas was usually too dazed and exhausted to notice when or if they were dragging him back to his cell at all. He realized he can no longer rely on his senses and consciousness.

Each evening he was presented to the head of the wing, who inspected his new injuries and assessed him each time. Legolas went noticeably thinner and white as a sheet. Broken ribs caused pain with every movement, as well as the internal wound, which should have healed already, but it had not. Oretian knew that is because of the lack of proper nourishment and both physical and mental exhaustion. The boy was difficult to break. He has not reached that level yet where he should lose all his previous experience with people and remember only the basic scheme of behavior. He was not cringing from every move yet, he was not constantly afraid of the possible blow, he would not comply every order without thinking. He had run inside himself instead. Oretian was a bit afraid that Legolas would die or earn himself some kind of irreparable mutilation before his spirit will yield, which was an eventuality he could not allow. He tested his reactions each time, and always when he was about to touch his lower back level, Legolas would freak out. That exactly was the proof that he was still mentally intact: he had some areas which he was defending, and they had to erase that instinct out of him. He was to serve others with his body, after all.

And though difficult it was, Legolas finally gave up. After a couple more days of abuse, hunger and lack of sleep all defense reactions have ceased. The Elf was brought to Oretian exactly when he was eating supper and that sight has shattered something inside Legolas, causing a fit of an uncontrolled cry. Oretian slowly moved a piece of meat towards the prisoner, close enough to have a bite, and let him eat. The piece disappeared immediately, so Oretian prepared another one, cutting it carefully on his plate and jabbing it on a fork to move it closer to Legolas. The Elf strained his neck to reach, choked when swallowing the food along with bitter tears, without looking at the Elf above him. When Oretian deemed he has had enough, he casually ordered him to undress and inspected him thoroughly again. Legolas did not oppose to any of the touches, tears falling down his dirty face, leaving long smudges down to his neck.

"Exactly," Oretian said to himself, when Legolas was roughly lifted to upright again. "The will to survive is the strongest urge of all. It causes us to lie, kill other beings, or even allow others to debase us," he mused, returning to his meal. The guards waiting for the orders were not interrupting. "I have never met any slave yet, who would not yield to the basic survivor instinct. Observing this one is even a pity of sorts, he was fighting so hard… I actually feel a bit disappointed." Oretian smirked without real amusement. "Given a proper motivation anyone will behave. Isn't it true, Legolas…?"

He was silent for a moment, observing the fractured blond Elf hanging lifelessly in the guards' arms, sobbing quietly.

"Your time has come, little Elf."

/*/

After an especially cruel beating he had received afterwards, Legolas stopped thinking rationally. He forgot everything: why he was here, what did he do to deserve such a fate and what was he doing before the prison door closed behind him. He could not recall the faces of his friends or the silent whisper of the trees in the evening, the one and only music which had lulled him to sleep through so many years. He was forced to the very brink of his mind, where he could not escape any deeper, where he forgot how to speak, only screamed out his distress. Anybody could be attacked in a helpless act of self-defense.

The wounds must have been infected regardless of the potion and suddenly Legolas developed a high fever. Lying in his cell on the cold floor, he was still seeing that cruel Elves under his eyelids, holding the burning torch above him. He had been tied immobile to a wooden table, and the four had sneered at him as he thrashed; the more he begged to set him free, the more brutal they became. The torch had been moved close to Legolas' side and a terrible, pained shriek echoed in the dungeon; the awful scent of burning skin attacked Legolas' nostrils and he could stand no more. I will die, he had thought. I will not endure it any more. I will die. Enough of this. Enough…

But he had not died. He had only lost consciousness.

Oretian was expecting them. He was not entirely pleased with the state Legolas was in; being responsible for his staying alive and preparing him, he would greatly displease the King if he failed to complete the task. He quickly ordered the guards to lay Legolas on the rough, wooden bed near the wall and leave.

Oretian sighed, frustrated, and attempted to clean the wounds. In the middle of the process Legolas awoke and started to fight, trying to push his hands away, but Oretian had no time for this and simply tied him to the wooden frame. A piece of fabric acted like a gag, to muffle the sobbing and the eventual screams. Oretian applied an antiseptic salve to the worst places and forced down Legolas' throat the strongest healing potion he had in store; the Elf was hamstrung with fear and tense as a bowstring, as he lay flat on his back, following every Oretian's move with his frightened eyes. Oretian could feel the constant trembling of the malnourished, fractured body under his hands.

He doubted if this creature would ever regain his strength fully back, but, to begin with, it was not his problem. He had no wish to be punished because of Legolas' death, but the Elf's well being was the last thing he cared about. He only had to prepare him, and send on a journey. Legolas could just as well die during the road; that would be somebody else's fault, though.

But still, it would be a pity to lose such a masterpiece. Oretian was darkly proud of himself. Looking at Legolas he could positively say that this Elf would never be normal again. He would never again look at someone of a higher status as on a person he should not be afraid of. He would never get rid of the ingrained habit of complete obedience. He would never even think that he might lead a different life, life without pain.

And the best part was that he would indeed believe it was all because he deserved nothing better.

"Guards!" Oretian called loudly and the two men came back into the room. "Take him away to the detention," he ordered. "Leave him some bread and water, but nothing else."

/*/

Awakening was the worst thing he had ever endured in his life.

He was sure that his eyes are open, but he could not see anything. He could not know where exactly he is. He did not remember a thing about how he landed in here. And he was pretty sure he is blind.

Movements were causing unbearable pain, so he stopped moving. There seemed to be not even one place on his body which wasn't sore or painful. Even lying motionless was uncomfortable.

And the horrible fear came: what if he was dead? What if he was doomed to be in this utter darkness for whole eternity, without anyone to talk to, without any light, alone, hopeless, bearing this pain? How could that be…?

Only with time, when the first wave of panic ceased, he concluded he has to be alive, because he can feel. The dead do not feel pain, do they? They don't feel at all. If so, he realized, he still has to be in the dungeons of Mirkwood fortress, in some kind of a cell. And in a tiny, dirty cell he was, without any window or granting, and it was so pitch black in here that he could not see where the door is.

But as for now, he stopped caring. He was relieved to be finally left in peace. It was so silent in here: no terrified slave voices, no whip sound. Silence uninterrupted by anything. It was damp in here, but Legolas did not mind as long as he was lying on a dry piece of ground.

That first day was a bliss. Legolas realized it was supposed to be another part of his punishment, but he welcomed its form, since he was left in peace to heal and to be alone with his thoughts. The potions and medicaments affected him and he felt dazed, but overally better. He had been sleep-deprived for long, and so he decided to make up for it. He curled in a ball and rested, welcoming the healing sleep that befell him. When he woke up the next day, or so he assumed, there was no change in his surroundings and no one in vicinity either. It unsettled him, but he discarded such thoughts for that moment. He was left alone and that pleased him. Maybe he was left here to die? But, on the second thought, was it not what he wished for?

He slept the most of the second day as well, but once he woke, it started to get much worse. He was now conscious enough to feel cold, wet, famished and unthinkably thirsty. And the pain would not go away: if anything, it only intensified because the effects of the drugs had worn off. The chill from the wet stones seemed to settle down in his bones. Legolas tried very hard to move and finally succeeded, but he could not stand upright in the tiny room or even stretch on the floor. He was trapped in so small a space that he felt frightened.

But he found a metal pitcher of water and some bread put on the floor in the close neighborhood of the heavy, iron door. He drank quickly, eager to swallow something at last. The water tasted strangely and he could not force into himself more than few bites of bread, but at least it was something. He lay to sleep again; a strange feeling of dread overwhelmed him and it was long until he found some rest again.

Three days had passed. Legolas was terrified to the core. Claustrophobic as every Elf was, he curled into a ball near the wall, covering his head by hands. He tried to eat something more, but he thought he is going to be sick at any time, so he lay back down. He was left completely alone, without edible food or water, without any light, without any sound, without any living being. He could tell no more where he is or why he is here. He could cry long hours, without any tears as he was dehydrated, he could cry out and scream desperate to hear something. He was so scared that the walls will suddenly move on him to crush him or that something is lurking in the surrounding darkness. That irrational, paranoid fear was driving him crazy, frightening him to the point he thought he is going to vomit. And although the pain faded slightly again, the need of water in his system was mounting up. In those rare, short moments, when he was asleep, he dreamt about water. About large pools, lakes and streams in the mountains. Of cold, crystal, clear water.

Finally the thirst conquered the despise and totally desperate, the Elf moved closer to the wall, where the tiny droplets were falling to the puddle on the floor. Legolas knew he can survive no longer without water, so he drank a little from the puddle. The water tasted horribly bitter and the sand gnashed between his teeth. In one quick motion Legolas turned away and arched painfully to throw up – but as he had nothing inside his stomach, nothing came out. The dry vomit was tormenting Legolas long in the night.

He stopped believing he will ever see the sun or trees again. He dreamt about them, but he could not tell if he was awake or asleep; he could not tell the border between sleep and reality. It was obvious to him that he is going mad, and it terrified him even more, for he imagined it will bring only more of this unbearable suffering. He thought he could hear somebody speaking, somebody laughing, but when he tried to hear better, there was nothing. He called: 'I am here!' to prompt where he is in case that somebody was looking for him or wanted to help him, but he was answered by heavy silence. The imaginary voices returned later to torment him further and ensure that he is indeed turning to the world of madmen.

Once he rose on his feet and started hitting the door with his fists with all remaining strength, screaming, begging, pleading to let him out. He knew they can hear him. He begged until he could say no more word, he cried until he made himself sick, he hit the door until his hands bloodied. Then he was calling that he was sorry. Whatever he did, he was so sorry for it. He was apologizing over and over again, hoping that it was the right thing to say, but no one came. All his strength left him and he calmed down, curling on the floor again, staring into the darkness.

Five days passed.

Nothing beside the emptiness, fright and silence.

Nothing changed until the end of the sixth day. The door suddenly opened and Legolas was blinded with the light coming from the torch. He covered his eyes with his hands, but the wave of relief washed over him when he realized he is not blind. The guards roughly grabbed him and marched away from the cell; Legolas had no idea where he was being led to and what was going to happen to him, he could not see, because the light was blinding him, but one he knew: he was no longer in that cell. He almost cried from relief.

He was dragged once again to Oretian. The guards were granted entrance immediately.

"Legolas?" Oretian asked tentatively, as he beheld the Elf. He had no guarantee that Legolas was not mad after all this time alone.

"Y-yes, Master," Legolas replied quickly, with voice so hoarse that he barely recognized it as his own. He was still keeping his eyes shut.

Oretian sighed imperceptibly with satisfied relief. The Elf was able to reply, and that was a good sign.

"Open your eyes, Legolas." Oretian ordered. The Elf tried to comply, but could not do it. His eyes were teary and fiery red, clumped with brownish puss. He looked horrible: so thin that the tunic he had been given was hanging on his famished limbs and the leggings, made to cling to the body, were completely loose. His hair was a dirty mess with severe knots. His hands were scratched and bloody, fingers matched with splinters.

"Open your eyes and come closer," Oretian repeated. Legolas did his best to comply, moving stiffly on his legs, which seemed to have forgotten how to walk. "Is there anything you wanted to tell me now?" Oretian asked cruelly.

"I-I a-m so sorr-y," Legolas said quietly. "I will n-never anger y-you again, M-master. I beg y-you not to put me b-back there, I w-will do whate-ever y-you want me to. I am s-sorry…" the Elf sobbed, trembling all over. Oretian smirked.

"I want you to discard your clothes and lie on the bed."

Legolas immediately lifted his hands to the collar of his dirty tunic and unbuttoned it, then slid the leggings off and stumbled closer to the wooden bed to slide on it and lie flat on his stomach, stretching the hands above his head for the guards to tie them.

"See?" the head of the wing smiled. "Now he is ready."

/*/

When taken to Lathronios, Legolas' trembling did not lessen even a bit. Otherwise, he was so terrified that he could not remember his own name.

Lathronios was very pleased. When Oretian walked into the room followed by the guards leading the thin creature by his arms, he already knew that Legolas is ready to be sent to Rivendell.

Looking at the pitiful Elf, Lathronios saw nothing of his former pride and defiance. He was beaten severely, but his face remained untouched, as the King ordered. He could not risk the Elves in Rivendell reject the gift seeing in how bad state he is. Legolas was limping and his breathing was shallow, the evident sign of broken ribs. The King once again wondered at Oretian's unique talent; two weeks in the dungeon made Legolas a completely different Elf. Only so short a time Oretian needed to change him into the frightened out of his mind, completely passive slave, prepared to fulfill every order, even the most cruel or unnatural demand.

"Listen to me, Legolas," Lathronios started. "You have disobeyed me greatly, but now I reconsidered your situation and your punishment is over. Now listen carefully, because I will not repeat myself." Legolas nodded quickly his understanding. Lathronios came closer.

"I can throw you back into the dungeons, if I think it is what I fancy to do, and after a day you will die from your wounds, blood loss and exhaustion. And this is a terrible death, believe me. You had a sample in the detention. I can as well heal you and make you stay in the prisons, as one of the pleasure slaves." He grabbed a handful of Legolas' hair to force him to look at him.

"But I don't need another whore. Especially if you are quite talented and diligent, and quite pretty as well. It would be a waste to leave you there." Lathronios said slowly and quietly. Legolas opened his eyes; he couldn't believe in what he heard. Is Lathronios going to let him work with the household again? His heart was beating wildly. It was simply impossible, but the weak light of hope does not acknowledge the word.

"Are you listening to me still?" Lathronios asked.

"Yes, Master," Legolas stammered hoarsely.

"Good. I will not let you stay there. I will not allow to waste you." He said and arched an eyebrow. "Are you not going to thank me?"

Legolas wanted to kneel, but was being held fiercely. He closed his eyes instead and whispered his thanks again and again, in his heart recalling Moreth and all these people he loved. He would see them all again! After that dark prison, after everything he had been through, he recalled his friend again and his heart almost burst with the pain it caused. Valar, he would see him again…

Lathronios smirked ironically, as if sensing what the young one was thinking.

"You will fulfill your duty to your homeland. Mirkwood has debts which must be paid. We have to thank Imladris for help," he said shaking the blond head a little to silence his sobbing. "Listen carefully. I'm sending you to Rivendell. I'm giving you to Elrond the Peredhel, and you will serve him well, just like you served here. I have no doubt that Lord Elrond will be glad from the gift of a pleasure slave, my pretty."

If somebody could hear the frightening sound of a spirit breaking and a willpower shutter into pieces, he would have definitely heard it in that moment. Lathronios released Legolas' head from the grip and the Elf fell on the floor, unable to stand or kneel any longer. He knew he would be punished for the disrespect. But nothing mattered anymore. Nothing was important. All Legolas truly wanted was to be killed, but it was not to be. The guards pulled him up and dragged away from the room back to the dungeons.

/*/

It was evening already, when Moreth hurried into Legolas' cell. The guard opened the door and let him in. Moreth placed the torch in a handle on the wall and spotted Legolas, curled in a foetal position near the wall.

"Legolas!" Moreth shouted and knelt near him. He tried to uncurl his friend, but Legolas whimpered and only shrunk tighter, pressing his knees to his chest.

"Legolas, please, let me help you!" Moreth said, feeling tears in the eyes. "Let me… move, my friend…" he put more pressure on his limbs, causing Legolas to moan and shield his head by one arm.

"No…" he whispered.

"Legolas, please" Moreth embraced him. "It's me… it's Moreth… I won't hurt you," he repeated. Finally, with difficulty, Legolas recognized him and whispered his name very hoarsely, as if he could not believe that it was really his friend. Moreth realized he had to scream long to damage his voice so badly.

"M-Moreth?..."

"Aye, it's me, it's me… Valar, what did they do to you… I will help you," Moreth whispered, spreading a blanket on the hay. "Legolas, can you sit here?"

The Elf shook his head no. He could not move at all. Moreth helped him to move, but Legolas was so badly beaten that every movement caused throbbing pain. Tears fell down his cheeks immediately despite his will to stop them. He was red from shame, he wished to have no witness of his weakness, but he had no strength to say this to Moreth. He allowed his friend to drag him on the blanket and lay him down. Every single muscle in his body trembled from exhaustion this very few movements caused.

"I know it hurts, I know… shush, now it's over," Moreth whispered, laying him securely. He took some clean cloths from the bag he had brought. "I will need hot water!" he called to the guard outside the cell. The Elf disappeared and returned shortly with a full bucket.

"Thank you," Moreth said, wetting the cloth.

"Hurry up," the guard growled.

"It will take a lot of time, and I will not hurry," Moreth snapped back. He attempted to clean Legolas' wounds. The Elf was lying still with his eyes closed, but when Moreth touched his ribcage, he jerked and whimpered pitifully like a beaten dog would if somebody touched his broken leg, pushing Moreth's hand aside.

Moreth did his best to clean the wounds, but Legolas was not very cooperative. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, and most of the time he wasn't recognizing Moreth. He struggled weakly against his friend's hands, and did not let him touch his ribs. He curled back on the blanket and buried his face in hands.

"Leave me be…" he moaned, sure it was not Moreth, but another guard, who was here to torture him. "Go away…" he whispered.

"I cannot, Legolas. I have to help you first." Moreth repeated once again, even if it hurt to hear Legolas' plea.

The fair Elf was now covered in filth, dry blood and bruises. Moreth had cleaned most of it, but his friend still looked like dirty. He had difficulties with tending to Legolas' back, for the Elf fought to shield them all the time. It hurt Moreth to the core, but he had to wring Legolas' hands and hold him down to be able to touch the whipped area. The Elf immediately stopped moving. He was lying motionless, staring right in front of him, and Moreth become seriously scared of it. When he finished, he turned him again to look in his friend's eyes. He saw fear.

Comforting him would not work. Talking to him would only worsen his state. Moreth swallowed the tears and wrapped Legolas tightly in another blanket. He had to do one more thing, convince him to take a medicine against the possible infection. He dissolved some of the medicine in a mug full of water and did his best to coax Legolas to drink. That wasn't easy, the Elf was turning his head to the sides, avoiding the mug. After some time Moreth gave up, put the mug aside and hugged his friend.

"Please… please, Legolas… it's me, it's your Moreth… Wake up and be yourself only for a while… please," he repeated, close to tears. He had never seen his friend in such an oppression. He was really worried about his life. If he could not recognize him even, his mental state must have been quite unsteady.

Long minutes passed and Legolas calmed down gradually. He did not know why somebody would hold him in his arms, but at least he was not being beaten again. He let his guard down; whoever it was, he had no intention to hurt him. He focused on the warmth slowly filling his body because of the blankets and a warm person embracing his upper body. He started to feel a little bit more comfortable, so when he heard a silent voice speaking softly pleas and gentle encouragements, Legolas was conscious enough to recognize it once more:

"…oh, Valar, I beg you… let him be awake, only for a minute, but let him… make him live, please," Moreth prayed silently.

Legolas stirred. His eyes opened and were once again focused, even if not any clearer. Moreth smiled through tears.

"You're awake?" he asked. Legolas whispered a silent 'yes' and tried to smile, but did not quite succeed. "That's good. You need to drink something before you fall into unconsciousness again, alright?" Moreth told him, desperate to use every opportunity. Legolas blinked and nodded his agreement with considerable effort. Moreth lifted the mug to his lips. The liquid was horribly bitter and Legolas turned his head away from it.

"No, no, please! It's against the infection. Try again, there's not much of it. Only a few sips." Moreth said hurriedly and put his palm on Legolas' jaw to turn him once more to the mug.

"…have to…?" Legolas moaned.

"Yes. You have to," Moreth said, observing his friend sipping at the liquid. "How are you feeling?" he asked when Legolas finished.

"N-no… well," came the whispered reply.

"Sleep. You have to rest. I will come to you tomorrow at dawn and later in the evening. I'm leaving you water and some food. Try to eat something later, or at least drink… You're dehydrated," Moreth said.

"M-oreth…" Legolas whispered closing his eyes. He took his friend's hand and squeezed it faintly. "T-thank y-ou."

Moreth embraced him. It was cold in here even for him. He was glad and thankful for these few words from his friend, but he still feared about his life. He did not know how Legolas will survive the cold in the night.

"You, leave him and get out," the guard said to Moreth. The Elf laid the limp head of his friend on the blanket and left Legolas' side. He hoped that when he would return at dawn, Legolas would be still alive. He was looking at Moreth pleadingly, observing him leave the dungeon, and Moreth with the last effort of his willpower did not come back to him. If he did, he would cause Lathronios to forbid his visits in the cell. And one thing Moreth knew for sure, without him Legolas would die.

/*/

Legolas has spent two more days in the dungeon. Moreth used to come to him every morning and evening, only to notice that his state was getting worse. He suddenly got high fever and he was thrashing on the blankets, moaning in obvious pain. He must have simply given up on himself and lost the fight with the illness.

Moreth forced him to take one more portion of the medicine and he smuggled into the cell some of the drug Legolas had stolen for Silcan. The infection faded a little, but the fever stayed. Legolas was burning.

When he was awake and recognized Moreth, he could not remember the previous visits of his friend. He refused to eat, only drank a little. Most of the time he was unconscious and limp as a rag doll. Moreth lost the smallest amount of hope he had. His friend was dying.

That night Moreth was sitting near Silcan in the cellars and could not sleep. His girlfriend was well now; she was embracing Moreth and rocking him gently, listening to what he was saying with tears in her eyes. She liked Legolas so much. He was such a good friend, such a kind person.

"We're losing him, Silcan. There is nothing I can do," sobbed Moreth. "He might be dead already. When I left him, he was delirious."

"If he died, they at least wouldn't take him to Imladris," she whispered, but found no consolation in this words.

"Don't say such things," a sudden voice from the corner spoke. It was a newly bought slave from the latest transport. He was tall and still had his long, beautiful hair unshaved, and his eyes were shining when he crawled closer to them. He was wounded, but seemed strangely relaxed.

"Why?" Moreth and Silcan said in unison.

"Because Imladris is his only way to survive," the Elf said. "I know this place. It is a beautiful land, full of sun and fresh water, and green trees. There is no hunger, no draught, no danger. Lord Elrond rules this realm. He is very old and very wise. He is a good Elf. He won't hurt that friend of yours, on the contrary, he will heal him. He is the best healer in Middle Earth, at least I don't know of any better, and I have seen things, believe me."

"How can you know?" Moreth asked, taking the Elf's hands in his. If he was telling the truth, it would be all too wonderful.

"I had been there. Once I was trapped by the orcs, me and my companions. The Elves from Imladris found us and took with them. They welcomed us in the realm, took care of our wounds. Never before had I known such kindness, gentleness and hospitality…" The Elf said in a dreamy voice. His eyes were little unfocused.

"Listen to me, brother," he said to Moreth, leaning forward to him. "If you want to save your Legolas, you have to keep him alive. When he is in Imladris, you won't have to be worried any longer. Lord Elrond will help him. He knows medicines no one else knows. Believe me, I saw him once; he is good to everyone. Elves in his realm are happy, clean, healthy. Beautiful. He rules his land well. This place seems to be an Elven heaven in comparison with… this," he snapped the last word. "You have to keep your friend alive. It's a way to happiness for him. He is unbelievably lucky to be allowed to stay there. Keep him alive no matter what!"

"But I cannot any longer!" Moreth sobbed. "He is dying already, and I can't do anything!"

"Give him this," the Elf said, thrusting into Moreth's hand a tiny bundle. Moreth opened it hurriedly. There were dried leaves wrapped in paper.

"What is this?" he asked.

"A drug," the Elf answered calmly. Moreth tilted his head up to look in his eyes.

"That's why your eyes are shining so much! You're groggy!" he whispered terrified.

"Yes. It keeps the pain at bay," and he showed to him a hideous wound on his side. It was infected, dirty and smelled badly. "And has some more… abilities. Put it in his mouth, when no one will be able to see you, because you have to know that possession of this is punished by death. The pain will fade, and your friend will be dazed, but he won't be suffering so much. There is even a possibility that he will wake. In that case don't tell him that you are drugging him. Lie if you must. One leaf will be enough, don't give him more until at least twenty four hours pass, because an overdose will kill him. As for now don't force him to eat, Elves may go without nourishment long; but make sure he is hydrated and fight with the fever. He may still have a chance. Do you understand?"

Moreth nodded and took three leaves from the bundle. He gave it back, but the Elf closed Moreth's hands on it.

"Keep it all," he whispered. "I won't need it anymore."

"You're wounded, you will need them!"

The Elf shook his head and smiled. He was so calm that Moreth thought he may be insane.

"Poison," the slave said. "The blade was poisoned. By the dawn I will be dead as a doornail, brother."

Moreth went pale. Silcan whimpered and buried her face in the dirty mattress.

"Don't be so scared," the Elf said, patting his hand. "I will just fall asleep. I have lived long enough, quickly and intensively. Now I am glad to help you. If your friend survives, make sure he stays in Imladris. And tell him to thank Lord Elrond from me for the last time. If he dies, we will meet in Mandos' Halls. I go at peace, brother," the Elf said. "I go at peace… Rest. You need some sleep."

"No. I will stay with you." Moreth said, holding his hand.

"I'm glad." Came the reply. The Elf sighed and supported his back by the wall, sitting. Talking for so long exhausted him and he laid his head on his shoulder.

"Thank you, my friend," Moreth said to him. The Elf smiled, looking at him.

Moreth stayed by his side. The Elf was muttering, humming something for a longer while, then laughed quietly as he remembered something; 'Glorfindel of Gondolin', he kept repeating for a while. Then he simply fell asleep with that calm smile on his face and never woke up again.

/*/

"Easy, my friend, easy," Moreth said, helping Legolas to sit on the blankets. After giving him the drug, the strange Elf's last gift, his state improved considerably. He managed to stay awake few hours, ate some of what Moreth had brought and talked with his friend more or less at ease.

"How are you feeling?" Moreth asked.

"Better," Legolas said quietly. He was very feeble, but sober as never before since he landed here. Moreth was glad.

"Listen carefully now. We will set out tomorrow at dawn. I will come to you a couple of hours before it, I will help you wash up and I will find clothing for you. Be prepared, alright?" Legolas nodded his understanding. Moreth handed him a cup of water. "Drink this. You are horribly dehydrated."

"I don't want to go to Imladris," Legolas whispered, taking the cup.

"Don't say such things," Moreth repeated the strange Elf's words and his heart clenched with pain. "I talked about it with one of the new slaves. He had been there. He… knows Lord Elrond, to whom you will be given. He told me that he is a healer, and he will help you. He said that whole Elrond is good, that he can be trusted. He won't hurt you. He described Imladris to me, it is a sunny, beautiful land. You will feel much better there. This is your way to escape from here, to end this torment, at least improve somehow your conditions. If you stay in Mirkwood, you will… Legolas, look at me, please."

"I don't want to go there," Legolas repeated, staring deadly at the wall.

"You prefer to stay in this dungeon?" Moreth asked.

"I was thinking…" Legolas started. "I could simply escape on the road, during the night…"

"They will capture you again and it will cost you dearly. Legolas, in your state you will not run away far, and you will not survive another beating. Do you want to die?" Moreth whispered in outrage.

Legolas was silently avoiding his friend's eyes.

"Yes," he whispered. "I wish that. And I would not escape to gain my freedom. I would escape to gain some time. I need time and something sharp, like a knife, to end it finally."

That was enough for Moreth. He clenched his hands on Legolas' shoulders and shook him violently; he paid no attention to the pitiful whimper he elicited and continued the shaking, angrily pulling his friend closer.

"So I was helping you for naught? You want to say I've done all this only for you to commit a suicide? You fool, if you once more say or even think about something like that, you can stop considering me as your friend! I'm giving you the way to escape, and you wish to die? Have you lost your mind utterly? You said they will never break you, and what I see? You said they won't break you, that you will not allow this, you said that, I remember! Promise me you won't try to kill or hurt yourself in any way! Promise me that!" Moreth continued the shaking, keeping his voice down as much as he could, aware that the guard might be listening. Legolas was sitting still with tears in his eyes, refusing to look at Moreth. He shook him strongly one more time. "Promise me, Legolas!"

"I promise," Legolas moaned in despair. "Let go… It hurts…"

"Remember that promise. Remember what you promised me," Moreth snapped. "I'm going with you, so I will keep an eye on you."

"Why are you going with us?" Legolas asked worriedly.

"The King ordered me to guard you. I have to make sure you won't try to escape. And I will," Moreth said, leaning forward. "I will do everything in my power to securely take you to Imladris."

/*/

To the final visit at the Oretian's office Legolas was escorted by Moreth. The Elf was clean and dressed in new clothes, ready for the journey. His hair was combed; it was one more terribly painful experience Legolas had to endure, even if not caused on purpose.

Oretian chained Legolas' hands together with a pair of heavy cuffs and instructed him one last time how he should behave in Imladris.

"You have to remember that you are only a slave, nothing more, and nothing they may say or do will ever change that. You are worse than they are. They are royalty. You are a mere plaything. You are tainted, taken, and so you will be again. That is what you deserve and what you have earned yourself. Now you have to be useful to your homeland. Understood?"

Legolas nodded quickly.

"You will behave, Legolas. Whatever you do reflects back on your preparation and training, so remember to be polite. Don't raise your eyes not to show disrespect. Do not speak without being spoken to. Remember the etiquette. Clear?"

Oretian glanced at Legolas questioningly. He nodded once again to show that he acknowledged the warning.

"You are to never leave the valley without their permission. It will be considered as an escape, and the penalty for it is death. I do not know where you should sleep; Imladris has a noticeably warmer climate, so I suppose outside of the palace. At winter they may let you shelter in the stables, but if I were you, I would not count on that. They are also much less merciful than we are, so besides pleasuring them you will be working during the day." Oretian said and smirked sadistically. "I heard that Elrond is very possessive. That's good in your case: if you interest him, he won't let anyone else lay with you. Of course, you should expect they will most certainly find a way, with or without his permission. But you must be ready for it, do not imagine any romantic moments of loving bliss. Rather quick and harsh treatment. And do not make scenes. No fighting, no struggling, no screaming. Unless, of course, you are ordered to do so." Legolas shivered at the revelation.

Oretian walked around Legolas, assessing his state of clothing.

"They have special robes for the household. Maybe you will be allowed to wear them as well. Personally I think they will want to brand you somehow. Oh, and they are addressing themselves 'my Lord' there, they may want you to use that title… they will let you know. But remember, it is the same as 'Master', do not have any illusions. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Master." Legolas replied obediently. Oretian now turned to Moreth.

"I believe that's all. You are responsible for him; if he escapes or disappears in some mysterious circumstances, you will pay for it. If both of you run away, just remember that you leave family behind. You are responsible for his safe delivery. In the pack I prepared you will find some antiseptics in case he ran a fever or fell ill. You must get him to Imladris alive. And now, off you go," he dismissed them.

Moreth had to help Legolas to walk. It was still dark, but they had to set off early. The horses were already waiting.

"How long will we be riding there?" Legolas sighed softly in a beaten tone.

"I suspect two weeks." Moreth answered, helping his friend to climb the stairs.

"Long." Legolas sighed. "I don't know if I manage."

"Yes, you will. I will see to your being safe in Imladris, I promised that." Moreth so much as hissed in irritation, squeezing Legolas' shoulder.

/*/

Journey from Mirkwood to Imladris was the last life-shattering experience Legolas had to endure. He had too few days to heal fully and rest after being given to another keeper, and these were days of tiresome travel. Every morning Moreth was giving him one leaf to chew, and Legolas was taking it always without a question. In fact he allowed Moreth and the guards to do with him whatever they wanted. He didn't care, for he wished to die severely; Moreth's actions always served to keep him alive, so he was allowing them, albeit reluctantly. He was still very weak and, to Moreth's horror, beaten into submission. He would not stay ahorse on his own, so he was sitting in front of Moreth, supported by his friend's chest and the strong hold of his arms.

Riding was a sheer torture. Legolas' crotch still hurt terribly, the internal wound was reopened too many times during his stay in the dungeons and never actually healed properly. He was stumbling with stiffness if he was forced to make a few steps, and after the whole day of riding he used to just slide-fell off the horse to lie on the ground motionlessly, because he had not the strength to dismount and sit down. He lay like this to the dawn, not caring where he landed. He still refused to eat much, only drank water in huge amounts. Finally Moreth succeeded in forcing him to eat more, but it was most certainly not enough.

Each time the guard shouted at him, Legolas cringed and obeyed the order. Moreth's heart bled when he was looking at him. His injuries were healing slowly, not quite properly, but always healing. The strength was coming back each day more, and when they reached Imladris' borders, his friend could walk and ride more or less normally. However, his breathing troubled Moreth: some of his ribs were broken. Legolas was not complaining, but he wasn't able to take a deeper breath. Besides, broken bones could be knitting together in the wrong way, which would be disastrous. There was nothing Moreth could do though.

Moreth came to the conclusion that this would be the Elf's final shape from now on. Before he had been slender and agile, but it was replaced by a famished, stumbling form. Before he used to laugh and hum during work, but it died into mute submission. His mental state was even more damaged than his body. Legolas was a wreck: obedient, quiet, broken. He had problems with his memory. He could not remember all that happened, and sometimes after waking up he could not recall where he was or why he is here. Moreth was explaining patiently, but that was always eliciting a fit of spasmodic crying. Guards didn't like that and always took the opportunity to stroke the crying, defenseless figure with a whip or a crop.

Generally, though, Legolas was silent. He was staring the whole day at his bound hands or the horse's neck, allowing his thoughts to run over and over again this fatal happening in Mirkwood; at least the part he was sure of. He was unresponsive, unless somebody threatened him by a blow. He did not allow Moreth to enter his closed and beaten mind, but in the same time he wished his friend to stay with him. He was frightened of this new land he was being taken to, his new Master, new household and labours. He did not quite believe Moreth when he told him that Elrond will not hurt him. He was sure another violations and beatings would take place, and it will be so much worse, because there would be no friend by his side. He would be totally alone. And yet the promise… He promised he would not hurt himself. So there was only one way left for him: day after day slowly dying, to finally never wake up again. But it was a painful and long way. And Legolas was so tired of tortures.

Tortures did not end with him leaving the fortress' prison, though. The guards kept up their habit of using Legolas to spent their own pleasure during the road. Moreth was both terrified and outraged when he found out Legolas had disappeared with a guard in the forest. He was sure Legolas had done something stupid and now was being punished privately. But when he saw the guard leading his friend back to the camp, with visible traces of semen on Legolas' cheeks, Moreth took a step back. So that was the truth. Legolas had been indeed turned into a whore.

Not really knowing what to think about it, torn between disgust and pity, Moreth did not comment upon that.

The last stop before Imladris' border was somehow a relief. Legolas suddenly appeared more conscious and more aware of things. To Moreth's surprise, he initiated a talk, remarking that the beauty of this land is stunning. Moreth was overawed too; for him this journey was a wonderful, bittersweet experience. For the first time since his capturing he was allowed to leave Mirkwood, to see the blue sky instead of the dark one, to smell fresh air. He was happy to be out, to escape from the dreadful reality if only for a few days.

They could have laughed, that once, a tone too loudly. Or maybe it was simply the fact that they dared to voice their fragile relief at all. The guard turned to the pair of slaves with fury on his face.

/*/

"…there must have been a human village somewhere near, for there was a shrine hanging from a tree," Legolas swallowed thickly, speaking with that alien, absent voice he had developed through the last three hours. "And there was a small figure of some kind of a deity carved from the wood. Antelas brought me closer to that tree and told to look at the figure. He said that nothing in this world, be it law, mercy or money, be it Elven or human God, nothing will change my fate or who I am, and I am a slave, an abominable whore. He ordered me to look at the figure. And he started beating me. Everywhere… on my head, on the back… he kicked me in the stomach. I was looking in the dead eyes of the wooden deity and I thought… I knew… Antelas was right."

Legolas sighed briefly. His eyes were fixed onto something far, unfocused. He had been trying to remember things through most of the time, and his friends were not interrupting, too shocked to move.

"I don't know how I recuperated, really. Maybe he didn't beat me that badly…? Next thing I know is a green clearing… a pool, and a whispering tree… Moreth cleaned me in some kind of a pool. I don't remember. I think I was given new clothes. Later… there was a hall, Imladris Council Hall, yes… and I saw Moreth the last time. And I was scared, so scared… but I was accepted… and there was… there was…"

Legolas hung his head. His voice seemed to finally give up.

"Our father," Elladan spoke silently. "Right?"

Legolas nodded, unable to make a sound, trying to fight the first tears off his eyes.

Elrohir had his jaw hung open, Elladan stared at Legolas with terrified, shocked eyes. Verién had difficulties with holding the tears back. They all haven't said a single word during the story, and they did not know how to react now. Finally Verién crawled out of her bedroll to approach Legolas. She embraced him tightly, and he let her do it.

"I don't want you to pity me," Legolas said quietly, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "I don't want mercy. I want you to… be as you were before you knew… I want you to be my friends, as you were… I beg you," he said hugging Verién back and glancing worriedly at the twins. They crawled to him too.

"We will always be your friends. Always," Elrohir said. Legolas uttered a sigh of relief so hard that he almost choked on the air, as his throat was still clenched. The twins leaned closer and hugged him too, figuring he would need some safe physical contact now. All of sudden, even if he managed to stay detached through all of the painful story telling, Legolas shuddered with a wave of tears he could not stop.

"Shush, Legolas, we are here," Verién whispered, coaxing them all to lie back in their bedrolls and hold Legolas close. "You don't have to be afraid. This will not happen again. This was all injustice, this was all wrong… you didn't deserve it in the slightest. Shush, Legolas, you are safe among friends, who will never let any harm come to you."

They tried to calm him down by such whispering and ease him into slumber, but it worked only to some extent. The Elf clutched at Verién's waist and wept, catching the air with difficulty, covering his face with a free hand.

"Cry as much as you wish," Verién told him eventually. "Cry as much as you have to. We are here with you, you are safe. We would only want to make you feel better… what would calm you down, little brother…?"

Legolas raised his red eyes on her and his lips trembled evidently.

"M-Master… Elrond," he sobbed out, "…I w-would want Master Elrond… Master Elrond," he mewled and his cry developed a hysterical note. That name was more than he could bear silently.

The twins and Verién exchanged looks. They understood that Elrond meant more to this little creature than the whole world. They could not blame him as in that moment they understood fully hat kind of position Elrond has taken, what kind of a savior he was. Legolas shook in their embrace, exhausted and mentally unwell, reaching for comfort only his Master could give, clinging to every small ounce of warmth the friendship could offer him. The twins and Verién understood suddenly that without Elrond Legolas will fade off or hurt himself, and without them he will not be able to regain his footing in the normal daily routine. He needed them both equally desperately.

They stayed hugged until the spasmodic cry ceased. Legolas stopped wiping the tears away after a time; he hid his face in his bedroll and slowly, slowly stopped moving, with tears still running down his cheeks, only slower. Eventually he cried himself to sleep, slipping into oblivion out of genuine fatigue.

His friends watched over him in turns. When the lamp was going out, it was lit anew. Legolas would appreciate some light whenever he woke, and woke he did often. His sleep was a disturbed, twisted kind of rest.

The sound of rain filled their ears again. It was welcomed. Cleansing. It had a steady, calming pattern.

It washed down the past.

/*/

King Lathronios of Mirkwood Forest was sitting in his office and calmly signing some papers. It was a quiet hour of late evening and he could think in solitude. Today his thoughts were wandering around one blond boy, who had caused him that much trouble.

"So much trouble, just as his father… oh well." Lathronios reached for his wine, admiring the smooth feeling of crystal under his fingers, steadily glancing at the acts of dispossession, reports on people and death sentences scattered on his desk.

He had thought it would be troublesome, but eventually it showed to be a great way of getting rid of the boy, Lathronios admitted reminiscing about the past. It had been an early summer evening after the dinner when the merchant left him for some sleep in his bedchamber, where little Legolas was supposed to wait for him. And he did. Lathronios had heard the noise of fight and curses, but paid no attention; it was always noisy when the merchant asked for a slave for the night. He got accustomed to that, even fancied listening sometimes. But that day it had been lauder in the merchant's room than ever before. Some time later Lathronios' majordomo had ran to his King's room and announced that the merchant is coming. Lathronios had been just about yelling at his guest and turning him out from Mirkwood, but one thing had stopped him; that time the merchant had not asked for an Elf Lathronios never saw and never cared about. That time he had asked for his brother's son, Legolas. Lathronios had been simply curious what had happened.

"I think I killed him," the merchant had said, all shaky. "I choked him by accident."

Lathronios wanted to know the details. The merchant told him everything in a state of utter shock. Lathronios recognized immediately that his merchant has never killed anybody, by accident or not. Such a weakling, Lathronios had thought.

"If he carried him out it means he is still alive, stop shaking," Lathronios said. "Kelfran."

"Yes, your majesty?"

"This whole… Moreth," Lathronios said slowly. "Somebody from his family is ill, am I right?"

"His beloved, your majesty."

"Exactly. So we can figure out that it was his friend Legolas who had stolen supplies from the store to save the girl's life…" the majordomo nodded at the words, smiling cruelly. "Check on him. If he lives, tomorrow at dawn I want to see him in my dungeon, make sure he will be there. And now both of you get out," Lathronios walked to the window while Kelfran knelt respectfully and then left, taking the merchant with him.

Lathronios had been amused. Did Legolas really think he won't notice the lack of medicaments? Well, eventually, it was not about the medicines. It was about his disobedience. A slave dared to resist his will. The king briefly thought about punishing Legolas' friends instead of him, but he finally decided it won't be that amusing and he would certainly give Legolas a reason to revenge. No, he had a plan already.

When over two thousand years ago he claimed the power in Mirkwood, he had made his brother flee, accused of a murder he did not commit. Thranduil left to save his life, leaving his beloved woman in an advanced pregnancy. She could not have escaped with him, so she stayed and gave birth to Thrandruil's son instead. And she died.

This time Lathronios had nothing to do with it, it seemed to be a natural death. The labor was long and there were difficulties, Lathronios did not know the details and cared very little. Of course there had been a possibility of, for example, a poison added to some water, but it wouldn't have been his order. He could suspect Kelfran. The Elf was devoted to his King and he might have done it, but the woman did not concern Lathronios in the slightest.

The child was a boy. He was given a name Legolas, "little leaf". Lathronios felt strangely reluctant to kill the infant, especially when his father was gone and probably dead, just like his mother, and in mysterious circumstances all those who knew the truth about Thrandruil and could conspire against the new King were dead as well. Some of them he ordered to kill in public, some of them died in quiet or were murdered. Lathronios could see no reason to kill the newborn baby. He made the child his personal slave, watching his humiliation with mounting pleasure. He observed him when he was building fortifications and working with household. The King kept him close to be able to witness his struggle and with time he found lasting satisfaction in punishing the young Elf. He liked to watch his penalties, which were sometimes performed in his own chamber. The courtiers quickly learnt that humiliating Legolas during the feasts or a well-timed punishment can earn the King's favour. Time passed and Legolas learned to live with that, kept quiet and obedient, trying to give his tormentors no real reason to make him suffer.

The King came to love the evenings when his brother's son was being whipped in front of his armchair. His silent fight in the bonds was incredibly alluring, and more and more often Lathronios would get aroused at the sight. At first it unsettled him, but he quickly grew comfortable again after getting a habit of bedding another slave after such a show. Several times he ordered the guards to bring Legolas to his chambers without him transgressing anything at all.

Many times Legolas was in a dangerous oppression, but somehow he always managed to survive. The King didn't want his favourite toy to die, so if the healer was needed, Legolas could be sure he would get one. Such an open interest from the king resulted in alienating the Elf from his fellow serfs. Nobody wanted to risk getting the same attention.

It proved to be a good thing, too, because Lathronios noticed worrying things with time. He became aware of the young, strong Legolas, who resembled his father so much. The same eyes, the same hair. The same pride. There could still be people who could connect the previous King of the realm with this boy. Lathronios decided to keep him close, to be able to watch him. And with every, even the smallest opportunity, punish him strictly.

And then the merchant demanded him for the night. Lathronios agreed, curious how it will change the proud Thranduil's son; he wanted to break his pride and make this blue, father-like eyes shut with fear and degrade. Petrel the Merchant had been a perfect tool for this purpose. Lathronios grew restless when hearing his royals joke about the boy and the 'affection' the King was giving him. The best solution would be to get rid of his enemy's spawn and this way seal the secret for ever. The opportunity for that had been all too beautiful to be real.

Even when that idiot merchant screwed everything, I handled it perfectly, Lathronios mused with a smirk, taking another sip of the ruby liquid. The plan had been simple. Legolas never found out that Petrel had failed and left him untouched. He paid dearly for stealing the medicaments. And there had been the issue of Mirkwood's debt. Lathronios had to thank Elrond from Rivendell for the help he had showed. Healing supplies and food were desperately needed after very long and very strong winter and a poor harvest in spring and summer. If it hadn't been for the help from Imladris, they would have starved. And it would have been easy for some kind of a disease to spread, firstly among slaves, then among others.

Elrond, that honorable, weak, old fool, Lathronios smirked. Such a strange mixture, and yet he rules. I'm sure he had been quite fond of a little plaything just for him. His wife had left him, and he had never been keen on the ladies… He had to fast long. I'm sure he enjoyed a little whore for his leisure. Or maybe it was too difficult to tie that supple body down and just use it?

"Oh, in that case surely there were others…" Lathronios muttered to his glass.

But it would be good, by the way, to find out how my brother's seed is managing. Is he still alive? If so, I hope he did not change his habits and is still just as beautifully obedient as we taught him…? It would be good to send somebody there to check…

"Soon," he sighed and decided to wait until Dinlir returns with the troops to send him out before the first snow. Lathronios waited impatiently for Dinlir's return. He would probably be carrying some new information about Thranduil's place of abiding. He glanced casually at the various acts of dispossession, reports on people and death sentences.

"Soon, Legolas. Soon."