"Shadows Amongst the Leaves"
by Rinoa Destiny
Chapter Two: Only the Beginning
Aragorn
closed Boromir’s eyes, grief heavy in his heart. The Ringbearer was gone,
missing and doubtlessly on his way to Mordor because of Boromir’s succumbing
to the ill token. As for Gimli, he had found the Dwarf lying prostrate
on the blood-drenched ground, a dent in his helm. Gently, with the hands
of a Ranger and healer, he aroused the Dwarf to his senses and tended to
his needs; however, Gimli cared not for his wounds, but cried out for Legolas.
For amongst the missing, the younger hobbits and the Elf were nowhere to
be found.
It
had chilled the Dunedain’s heart to find the silver-hafted long knife buried
in the troubled leaves, for the Elf never kept his weapons far from hand
and Aragorn sensed an ill omen. The knife now in his own belt, Aragorn
swore that he would one day return the weapon to the young prince.
That
is, if the Elf lived to claim it.
“Boromir
is slain and the Fellowship scattered,” Gimli said dryly behind him. “Legolas
is missing along with Merry and Pippin – where should we proceed?” The
grief and clipped tones in the Dwarf’s voice did not escape Aragorn.
He turned to the bandaged Dwarf, eyes fixed on sorrowful dark ones. “Frodo
and Sam no doubt went their way to Mordor. And Boromir is fallen – oh,
a great man of Gondor! I cannot say any good will for the other three,
for dark are the paths they are walking and with Orcs, no less!”
“You
believe Legolas is captive amongst Orcs?”
“Yes,
even if Orcs hate Elves with a hatred that burns hotter than the fires
of Mount Doom, they will take them for sport. I will not tarry longer here,
for while the Halflings may be safe for as long as the Orcs are deceived
– the Elf will not last perhaps more than two days and nights.”
Gimli
glanced at Aragorn, darkness veiling his bearded visage. “Then when shall
we depart?”
“After
we lay Boromir to rest, Gimli, son of Gloin.”
Darkness
lay in his dreams, unceasing in its relentless fury. Legolas shrank from
the horrors of the unknown shadows, for which no weapon at hand could harm
and vanquish. He glanced at the trees, horrified at their wilting leaves
and rotting branches – sicknesses that he once thought could not fell the
land of the Elves. Rivendell and Lothlorien, under siege, under fire from
the Dark Lord. Elrond and Galadriel, living sacrifices to Sauron and their
subjects enslaved and slaughtered. His father, led in chains from Mirkwood,
tossed to Orcs and mortal Men for sport and blood. His brothers, elder
and second youngest, slain in brutal ceremony.
Blood
flooded the land, destroying all beauty in its crimson wake. Orcs roamed
lands foreign to them, slaying all who would not bow down to Sauron’s reign.
Legolas, overwhelmed by such horrid visions, turned his eyes skywards.
Alas, though! There were no stars and the moon hid herself from such violence.
Starless nights, harried subjects, subjugated lands and rulers…
“Stop
it!” Legolas heard himself cry out, frantic and fraught with horror
at such tidings. “Stop it!” His screams of terror halted the speeding line
of Orcs, who turned back to glare malevolently at the awakening Elf. Grishnákh
growled, annoyance and hatred welling deep from his throat. Motioning the
others to proceed, he clanked towards the back of the line.
Legolas
thought he could make out a shadow advancing his way, but whether it be
from his dreams or reality the Elf could not tell. Roughness gnawed at
his wrists, cutting the soft flesh beneath and staining the ropes with
blood. Pain throbbed in his chest and the Elf stumbled, his gait uneven
with weakness. Strong arms from both sides of him yanked him upright, nearly
throwing him to his feet.
The
shadow advanced closer and suddenly, a slap jarred his vision, arresting
his dream in a bloody haze. The strong arms released him and the Elf fell
ungracefully to the ground, pain wracking his body. Eyes opened, Legolas
stared at the Orc glowering down at him and his blood chilled.
He
was a captive of the Orcs.
No
Elf ever survived being any Orc’s prisoner, for their hatreds ran deep.
“Legolas!”
Frantic and childlike voices called his name. “Legolas!” The hobbits –
Merry and Pippin. So they were unharmed. Legolas struggled to free himself,
but found his wrists raw and bleeding. His body ached and the arrow wound
burned, searing fire along his chest – he found it difficult to draw breath.
Black
Speech hissed and grated around him and the Wood-Elf cringed, wanting to
cover his ears. He heard the hobbits’ cries of concern, but they soon faded.
Where were they taking the hobbits and why did they take him prisoner?
A sword point arrested his motion and brought him face-to-face with the
Orc before him. Yellow eyes burned into the Elf’s being, cruelty like molten
fire in the creature’s feral irises.
The
sword point scraped along the Elf’s throat and Legolas fought back an urge
to cry out, for blood soon trickled uncomfortably down his neck and into
his torn and filthy tunic. The Orc smiled, sinister in appearance and mood,
and withdrew his sword.
Legolas
fell back in fright, his breath becoming shallow.
*****
“Their
tracks are easy enough to spot even without Elf eyes, Gimli.” Aragorn raced
past the many torn and stripped trees, reading signs in the trampled foliage
and dying flowers. “Although if Legolas were still here with us, we could
much benefit from his sight.”
“I
wish him alive after this,” the Dwarf replied, tramping through the abused
grass after the Ranger. “Orcs are foul and cruel creatures – I hope the
darkness of Mordor will not kill our companions’ spirits.”
Aragorn
sighed, knowing that while Halflings could resist, an Elf would be hard-pressed
in such times. He had seen many a time the mutilated body of an Elf while
wandering. It would not do if Gimli were to see such horrors – even Aragorn
himself hoped that Legolas would find life amongst death.
But
how long could the Elf resist?
“Hurry
on, Gimli. The sun falls short towards the horizon and the Orcs have advanced
farther than us by several hours. Hope will remain if our feet remain swift.
Let us not doom our friends and allies to an untimely and brutal death.”
*****
Night
fell fast with an unnatural shroud, black and starless in its void. The
Orcs, seeing no need for rest, hurried on with rough feet and uncouth commands.
While the hobbits made no complaints, fearing the wrath of their captors,
the Elf found himself surrounded by hostility and brutality. Although he
said not a word, Legolas found his footing unsure and wavering, stumbling
forward many a time and thereby receiving abuse on all ends. His chest
pained him and his face throbbed where the Orc captain slapped him.
He
wanted to sing to bring some light into his agony, but his songs would
bring him a swift death.
Legolas
did not wish death so quickly, even in such darkness.
“Move
it, you lousy soldiers!” Grishnákh growled, moving from the beginning
of the ranks towards the end. “How fares the Elf?” he asked, Black Speech
splintering into hisses from his foul mouth.
“He
wearies fast and falls with the weakness of mortals,” one of the Orcs answered,
spite dripping from his voice. “Do you wish to see his failing steps, captain?”
The
Orc captain motioned for the two to cease, then stood in front of the Elf.
“So, this is what becomes of Elves,” he mocked, glaring at the listless
form of Legolas. “Speak then, carrion, for you will soon be given to darkness!
You will serve the darkness and leave the light behind!”
Legolas
looked up, a strange fire burning in his soul – it burned in his eyes.
He could feel it even in his weakness. “Nay! Sauron and Saruman shall not
take me! And I shall not serve with ranks of fell beasts such like you
and your kind!”
The
Orcs drew away from Grishnákh, fear in their eyes. The Orc captain
snarled angrily at the defiant Elf, his hand whipping towards his sword
hilt. “You have spoken folly, Elf!” Behind him, the other Orcs held their
breath, afraid of their captain and gleeful of what was to come. Merry
and Pippin watched with alarm as the Orc unsheathed his sword, its evil
blade pointed at Legolas’ chest.
And
yet, the Elf prince stood tall and proud – Thranduil’s son.
Minutes
passed, then Grishnákh smiled. Turning to the other Orcs holding
Merry and Pippin, he growled out a command in his dark and accursed tongue.
The Orcs began to march; the hobbits screamed in fear, for themselves and
for the lone figure of the standing Elf. As their screams disappeared,
the Orc captain turned back to the two that watched and held Legolas captive.
“Beat
him.”