Dark Leaf

by JastaElf

 

Author Notes:

The long-awaited first appearance of Legolas.  For those of you who asked, the "he" to whom Glorfindel referred at the start of the last chapter is the same person as the singer of chapter one: Thranduil Oropherion of Mirkwood, Legolas' grief-tortured father.  It is part of the back-story that Thranduil has stopped in Imladris every year on his way to Lothlórien, there to catch up on his son's life and existence by listening to Elrond tell the story of various visions he has received from Legolas.  This year, he went straight to Lothlórien without stopping.  It is not necessarily a good sign.

Also, since the majority of the characters in these stories are Elves, I have been endeavouring to use their own nomenclature for things and people--hence, Imladris instead of the Westron "Rivendell", and Curunír and Mithrandir for Saruman and Gandalf.

Allow me to reiterate the rating.  NC-17.  I might be a bit overcautious with that, but I want to be sure folks realize, the Squick Starts Here.  Some of this chapter is Real Time; the flashbacks take us to Legolas' earliest memories of what happened after the Nazgûl gave him that potion ("Leaf and Branch", chapter 6), when he awakened in the darkness of Dol Guldur, among other memories.

Standard Disclaimers apply.  No Easterlings were harmed in the writing of this chapter.  None of these characters belong to me except named Orcs and the mouse in the corner; all copyrights are retained by their owners.  Legolas, I hope you can forgive me….

 

Dark Leaf, Chapter Three: The Young Prince of Dol Guldur

 

My name is Legolas, which means Greenleaf in the language of my kin.  I am the son of Thranduil the son of Oropher, of the Sindarin Kings of Mirkwood the Great; I am a child of Eru Ilúvatar, and somewhere in the sky at night, whether I can see her or not, Elbereth Star-Kindler smiles down upon her captive child…

A cold, clammy paw of a hand slapped across his face, breaking off the litany he had been using in one form or another for eighteen years in the attempt to hold on to his sanity, to remember who he was and of what folk he had sprung.  Legolas felt his head snap up and back painfully, impacting with the stone of the wall behind him; the chains rattled ominously, striking him, and the iron collar bit into the tender flesh of his throat.  He tried to remain silent, his even white teeth splitting his lip as he bit down, because it was far too early in the day, and he knew he would have no voice left at all if he started screaming just as they began.  The blood was sweet, and sang to him of kindred and his long-lost home.  It was very hard not to give in to that song.

"Pay attention, boy!" the guttural voice of the Orc shouted, very close to his face.  Legolas knew it was pointless to close his eyes, but he was exhausted–a perpetual state these days–and he could not always obey.  No surprise, then, that the Orc dug one hand into his hair and another into his cheeks, bearing down hard.  "Look at me, damn your eyes!"

Some days, like this one, the Orcs were nothing but pain–harsh words, hard fists, insinuating, painful, intrusive fingers and hands, slapping, poking, clawing, and worse.  On other days it was almost as if Legolas had become a kind of pet for them–the dog chained beside the door, to be given rough affection and a bone for its whimpering, rather than be kicked and ignored.  Legolas was not sure, any longer, which was worse.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The first sensation that returned was pain, writhing along every nerve in his body to such an all-pervasive extent, that he could feel it like the motion of snakes across his skin.  Only the sensation was under his skin, and part of it, not just slithering over it.  The insinuating nature of that pain was like a violation, a ravishment of every pore and fiber of his body.  Every instinct he possessed told him to fight it, to crawl out of his skin if necessary to be free of it.  The horror only compounded itself when he realized he could not move…all he could do was lay there, face down on the stone floor, whimpering.

His only coherent thought was to wonder where the sun had gone.  One hand came up, shaking and hesitant, to feel his face, to see if perhaps blood or dirt was encrusted on him, making it impossible for him to open his eyes to see whatever there might be of light.  When he realized, to his utter horror, that his eyes were quite wide open--yet could see nothing--with no light from anywhere to let him know whether he was blind or just shut away somewhere--that was when he began the low, keening wail of mourning and terror.  It went on forever, into the darkness into the damp cold darkness….

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Once upon a time, he had been an affectionate child–always singing, full of joy and wonder, beautiful to look upon and for those reasons and more, constantly the center of loving attention and regard from his kinfolk.  To be deprived of such a thing was hard, so very hard–and when the only affection came from the same Orcs that beat him, starved him, tortured him--well, it was a thing that twisted the mind and hurt far too much to sanely contemplate.  He had become madness incarnate: one moment lucid and determined to fight, determined to survive, the next moment feral, wary, closer to forest animal than Elf.  And when neither of those scenarios fit – which was far too often–he was both feral and lucid, more fey than any Elf in Middle-Earth had been in long centuries.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Half of forever later, there was silence all around him once more.  No wail, no tears, no other sound save the harshness of his own breathing.  His eyes stared straight ahead, nothing to see, no light in which to see it.  'Ada?' he whispered, the word hanging in the silence like the cold mist of breath on winter air.  His voice sounded alien in his own ears, a harsh, dry-throated plea of quiet desperation.  'Ada, where are you?'  But there was no reply….

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The Orcs were delighted by his ever-changing moods, of course, and constantly entertained.  It had become a kind of competition between them, to be the first each day to discover what state their pet was in, and to exploit it in the most amusing manner.  It had been the alpha female Orc who had discovered the need for affection of any sort, and she had become the most talented at making her pet twitch.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Several days later--or was it longer?  Shorter?--he realized he had not moved for a very long time.  Every muscle was a cramped packet of agony.  All he could smell was sweat and urine and damp fear.  His lips were dried and sore from lack of water; his empty stomach hurt with an exquisiteness that went beyond reasonable hunger.  He was no longer bound, but that did not seem to matter.  Cold… he was so terribly cold!  But surely it was summer?  Why would it be so cold in summer?

Unless he had lain here all summer long, and it was now winter… terrified at the thought, he made himself move, panting and whimpering, reduced to the animal need to know where he was, to do something, anything, that might seem even the littlest bit normal.  He had no idea how long it took him to move the small, painful bit that he did; eventually he was on his knees, the rough surface of the floor cutting into his flesh.  He felt blindly about, stretching as far as he could make himself reach; he found nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

Half of forever later, he sat down in defeat and waited to die.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

"It’s your lucky day, Elf!" the Orc continued, pulling Legolas forward to the extent his chains would allow.  "Master needs more Orcs for his army, and guess where we shall get such things?"  She laughed, squeezing harder on the sides of Legolas’ face until the eyes opened and a shudder ran through the overly lean form.  "There you are–I was afraid, I was, that you weren’t home to callers!"

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

A hundred years later, or maybe even longer, light streamed into the darkness, and there were sounds that were none of his own making.  Voices… the Black Speech of the Orcs… then Westron, and strange sounds of things being dragged across the floor, wood over stone, and the ringing of metal.  Curled into a fetal heap in the middle of the floor, he did not have the strength to resist, could not even summon the energy to cry out, when rough hands seized him, stretched him out flat; his lips parted as if he might scream, but there was no sound that anyone could hear, save what he knew he was making on some level within his own mind.  At first the brightness blinded him anew, and he could see only vague fuzzy painful light, with bright sparkles of agony within.

"Gods, it's filthy," said one voice, and there was laughter.  Something even brighter than bright flashed through the haze, and he cringed, fearing a blade; the rasp of knife on leather and linen hurt his ears.  He was cut out of his clothing; then he was unceremoniously dumped into a tub of hot water.  The rough hands dunked him again and again, then scrubbed at his limbs with a cloth and soap that stung, smelling of potash and lye; he could barely breathe, and whimpered in panic.  As the warmth uncramped his muscles, he began to fight, striking out wherever and whenever he could, occasionally connecting with something.

"Little bastard!" a voice roared in Westron.  A powerful hand came out of the dimness, struck him hard across the face, once, twice; then he was dunked again, coughing and sputtering.  "Here, you, get this thing dressed and off my hands."

He was flung across the dimness, and hands caught him--cold hands, clawed hands.  A voice--female, to his complete surprise--swore roundly and cursed, complaining:

"Master said he was not to be hurt, stupid pig of a Man!" and then there was crooning, and at least the attempt to be gentle; he was toweled off and efficiently bundled into dry clothing, far too big for his slender little frame, but warm, blessed Valar be thanked, warm….  Horribly embarrassed, he felt his body convulse with one great sob, and the tears came.  She of the cold hands rocked him in her arms, crooning, stinking of Orc, but kind, Ai! Elbereth!  Kind….

He slipped away into the dimness to a place of darkness once more, but softer, and warm, and he almost went mad with relief when he found the familiar presence of the grave-faced, dark haired Elder he had dreamed of before.

Oh please, dear and good Vala, you said you were coming… please, I do not know where I am, and I am afraid… please be here soon….

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Legolas stared at the Orc in revulsion.  So it will be one of those days… Elbereth help me….  Master needed more Orcs.  Orcs were made from Elvish stock, one way or another; either an Elf was tormented and broken, then transformed by the foul magic of Shadow into one of its own creatures, or Elvish blood and parts were mixed into a disgusting vat of something Legolas did not wish to know more about, and out came an Orc when the process was done.

There was, of course, a third way… and it was looked forward to as a favourite here at Dol Guldur, since a strong young Elf had come to be in apparently permanent residence.  Too young to have experienced the ways of Elves with one another before he left home that fateful day, Legolas nevertheless knew what went on–why Elf-maidens and their lovers, embracing in the friendly dark, went from low-voiced laughter to cries almost indistinguishable from pain.  He knew why warriors fresh from the battlefield (or on their way to one in the hours ahead) sometimes found solace and sanity and another form of more pleasant combat in each other’s arms.  And yes, he knew whence came baby Elves, when two Elves of opposite gender finally found the one true love of their eternity and came together for the many pleasures to be had in the marriage bed of immortal beings such as they.  He knew darkly that there was some connection between his much-awaited majority and Orc plans for his body, but it had always seemed safer to not think about it.

The alpha female among the Orcs--named Morgal, a corruption of morgul, twisted dark magic--grinned now at the Elf she had come to think of as her personal pet.  She had shared care of him with the other four females since his arrival with the Master some eighteen years before; in that time, he had gone from a disgustingly cute little child to an unbelievably pretty, and therefore just as disgusting, fey-faced lad on the brink of adulthood.  Morgal put bruises on him on purpose, from time to time, because she found his beauty quite hideous.  Poor little Elf, to have been born so deformed… she could only hope for his sake that someday, Master would take pity and make him an Orc, so he would attain at least something of true comeliness.

"Smile for me, pretty one," Morgal crooned at him now, grinning even more widely, showing her fangs, when Legolas turned his face away and closed his eyes, shuddering in revulsion.  "Time to come down to the dungeons with Morgal, that's a good little pet.  Master wants your blood for the making of Orcs!  Maybe even an Uruk-hai will share your blood this day--would you not like that?"

Legolas spat in her face.  Morgal slapped him without particular malice, laughing uproariously at the surprise in his blue eyes.  After all these years, she could still hurt him, make him jump.  It amused her to do so.  Blinking away the tears, Legolas stared at the one spill of sunlight from the window high up on the wall of his cell.  So lovely…I wonder what the forest looks like today.  So lovely….  Dust motes floated in the sunbeam, lazily, like dancing little gnats.  He watched them hungrily, wishing he could feel the sunlight upon his flesh.  He almost smiled.

Of the fifty or so Orcs who remained regularly at the Tower, five were females; all fifty of them were in residence this day, since the sun was fierce and bright outside, and they could not venture forth until the night came.  The night before had been quiet, as the males had gone forth hunting and committing depredations on the surrounding countryside, and the females had spent time doing whatever it was they regularly did.  Especially when the Nazgûl were in residence, the denizens of Dol Guldur were exacting in their Orcishness, wanting to show the Master that they were worthy to serve Shadow.

Bored though, Morgal had wandered into Legolas’ cell at daybreak; she had developed a habit of doing so from time to time, at first just to see him twitch, for she hated Elves with a deep passion.  Jests at the expense of the captive were a long-standing tradition with the Orcs of Dol Guldur, and Morgal had taken to making an occasional check of how the little Elf was maturing, and then announcing to the great delight of the other females just what was her assessment of his progress.  Legolas’ shame and hideous embarrassment with this process was just part of the fun….

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

There were a number of Men from the East, disaffected Men of the Dale, perhaps, or bandits from Mordor, outcasts from Gondor, who had attached themselves to the Orc garrison at Dol Guldur for the hope of gain, or the insanity of dangerous adventure.  One of them lounged in the doorway of the cell, watching as the Elf-child was locked into chains.  Small chains they were, for no others in the Tower would fit those scrawny little limbs; these had been made to order, with many a jest about the Royal Brat and his special chains, crafted lovingly by the Orcs for the son of Thranduil.  Morgal force-fed the child, made him drink, as one of the warriors locked the shackles about wrist and ankle, threading the chains through stout rings set into the stone of the cell wall.  When she was finished feeding Legolas, the Orc warrior locked a collar about the slender little throat, and smacked the Elfling for daring to stare at him.

"Mind your manners, brat," he commanded in a growl.  Then, as the captive shook his head, trying to clear his vision, to stop the ringing in his ears from the blow, the Orc bowed low before him, mockingly obsequious.  "There's your finery, Prince of Dol Guldur!  Your humble servant is grateful for the chance to adorn his liege!"

They had all laughed at that, the Man and the Orcs.  Legolas stared at them, confused, not completely comprehending; but with a child's instincts, he knew he was being taunted, and tears of shame and humiliation rolled down his pale cheeks.  Crooning in mock sympathy, Morgal dabbed at his eyes with the hem of her filthy skirt.

"Aww, Grelber, you've made the little Prince weep!" she remonstrated, and they laughed all the harder.  Legolas did his best to ignore them, and sat down with a disheartened thump, relieved past endurance that the chains were long enough to allow such a maneuver.

"Why keep the brat at all?" the Man asked from the doorway, gazing down at the child with a look of sneering disdain.  "Seems like a lot of trouble.  Were it up to me, I'd slit his throat and let that bastard Thranduil believe his whelp was alive.  You needn't feed what isn't alive, Morgal!"

The alpha female laughed knowingly. Fists resting on her ample hips, she too bent a considering gaze upon the youngest Prince of Mirkwood.  "He may not look like much, Man-child, but he will grow," she said, and her thin lips curled back in a horrible smile.  "Until he's old enough, Master can use his blood and little parts of him to make Orcs.  He'll heal from whatever we cut off 'im."

"And when he's old enough--what then?" the Man asked.  "Old enough for what, I wonder?"

"Old enough to stand stud," Grelber interposed, chuckling.  He gave Morgal a knowing leer, and goosed her; she swatted his hands away, laughing.  "Master will then make a fine little army of Orcs from the House of Thranduil--and this little tree-rat will be their progenitor!"

Legolas closed his eyes and wished himself away from here.  He had only the vaguest idea what they were talking about, though his brother Brethilas and their cousins had teased him, scaring him when he was very young with tales of how Orcs were created.  He had never believed them--not really--and Adar had said he would be told when he was old enough to understand.  Legolas did not now wish to know, ever, thank you very much…  Not ever….

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Morgal went through her usual motions, choosing to be rough with the captive Elf just to keep him on his toes, as it were.  She decided this day that she did not like the way he was looking at her–those luminous blue eyes almost silver in the dimness of the single torch she had brought with her–and so she gave him a beating until he hung limp in his chains, to remind him of who was in charge.  Then she scrabbled roughly inside his leggings to check on the progress of his maturing as she always did, laughing at his tears, blushes, and squirming.

Suddenly Morgal froze, and sniffed, detecting something new about the way the young Elf smelled as she abused him.

She brought her mottled hand up out of his leggings and sniffed harder, then licked at her own flesh.  A look of calculating lust came over her features; the gaze she bent upon the youngster made him quail, more afraid than he had been in a long time, and that in itself was saying quite a bit.

"So, my little pretty, we’re becoming an adult, are we!" she whispered, pulling the Elf to her bosom, her free hand touching him in ways he was sure he did not wish to be touched.

"Leave me alone!" he exclaimed, trying to worm away from her, until he reached the end of his chains and could go no further.  Morgal hauled him back unceremoniously, nuzzled him, laughing quietly to herself as Legolas struggled in panting silence.  She let him wear himself out with the exercise for a few moments, then reached up and seized the chains that bound his wrists, pulling them up tight behind the lad.

Before he could do more than wince and cry out in pain, Morgal seized his face in her free hand and fastened her mouth over his, forcing her tongue between his lips and licking his clenched teeth.  Legolas struggled all the more, whimpering in disgust and terror; Morgal’s questing hand left his chin, tightened on his groin, and she squeezed expertly.  He could not help the cry of pain that burst from him.  As his mouth opened around the cry, she forced herself past his teeth, wrapping her tongue around his and sucking.  He moaned in denial, but could not break free of her; the hand that held the chains had moved up to the nape of his neck and held him there, pushed back against the wall.  He heard the delicate bones of one wrist snap and grind under the pressure.

Morgal’s hand gripped tighter upon his groin, and to Legolas’ complete horror, he felt a stirring and hardening of his own flesh within that merciless grip.  Morgal made a harsh kind of growling sound against his mouth, a vile parody of the singing purr Elves sometimes made in moments of great emotion or excitement.

"Ready, and more than ready," Morgal grated, releasing his mouth, questing her tongue down the side of his throat, licking at the base of his neck above the heaving chest.  "Master will be so pleased!"

Legolas was helpless to resist as she efficiently stripped him of all his clothing, though he fought with a renewed panic, kicking and biting and scratching when he could find flesh.  Unfortunately, it only served to increase Morgal’s lust.  She dove for the ring of keys beside the door and unlocked the chains a fetter at a time, replacing iron with leather straps and binding his wrists behind him.  Each time she touched his left arm, Legolas cried out in pain and tried to bite Morgal to make her stop.  Stuffing a wad of leather into the Elf’s mouth, she buckled another strap around his face and between his lips, muffling his outraged cries and effectively putting a stop to the biting.  Soon he was completely unable to defend himself, and Morgal descended on him with a gleam in her eyes.

Unfortunately, the struggle had attracted the attention of other of Dol Guldur’s denizens–including the warriors.  Soon the round tower room was filled with Orcs–the males calling out encouragement as the females, inflamed with lust and the desire to be first to have the young Elf, fought each other for the privilege.  The noise was hideous; Legolas curled to the floor, sobbing, his breath panicked and inadequate because of the gag.  His broken left wrist throbbed and ached; he gave a smothered yelp of pain as something seized him by forearm, hauling him upright.

"Well, little Prince, what a fine celebration we shall have of your coming of age!" said the Orc warrior, one Legolas had not seen before.  It pulled the young Elf up against its chest, grinning at the look of terror in the blue eyes.  "We've been waiting for this, all these years!"

Legolas tried to pull free, but every wrench on his arm shot exquisite agony into his wrist and hand until his vision swam and little explosions of starlight clouded his sight even more.  Then another Orc came up behind him, squirming between him and the wall, sandwiching him intimately against the Orc before him.

"And so has he been anticipating, it would seem!" that warrior noted with a crow of triumph, as a hand snaked around from behind and seized Legolas' genitals.  The Elf could not have known that terror and the instinct to flee or fight could arouse a male; Legolas only knew his own body was betraying him with apparent readiness for this horrific rite of passage, and he writhed in pervasive shame, his head moving back and forth in refusal to comprehend, refusal to believe this could be happening.  As the females fought on, he endured ever more intrusive mauling from the onlookers, until he was half-mad with grief and fury.

Finally Morgal prevailed, bloodied but unbowed; she stood there, panting with blood-lust, and the alpha male–the Orc captain Galgrim–declared a celebration.

"Morgal shall have our little Prince first, my pretties -- the rest of you will just have to wait your turns!" he announced, to catcalls and jeering cheers, and the mocking, scornful bowing before their terrified so-called prince. "But it is summer, and therefore a long day – we shall all have plenty of time to make new Orcs for the Master!" Galgrim finished. "Morgal -- come and claim your prize!"

And thus began the longest, worst summer’s day Legolas of Mirkwood had ever known.  Held under either arm by the two warriors who had so cheerfully molested him, the son of Thranduil was dragged, naked and struggling, over to the small bedstead where he generally spent the night, if they remembered to put him there.  Expert Orc hands tied him to that bed, his limbs anchored helplessly to make him the most accessible; then Morgal's impressive bulk was straddling him, and she gazed down at him with possessive lust, grinning.  Galgrim greased her palm with some oily substance that stank of animal grease; she reached beneath her and rubbed the stuff on Legolas' erect organ, eliciting cheers when the young Elf bucked helplessly at her touch.  Then she sat down on him, sheathing his traitorous flesh within her, grinding her hips hard against his.

Legolas had no frame of reference for the feelings that shot through him.  There was a word for this horror--and that word was rape. He knew what it was, though no sane Elf would practice it; he had a vague sensation of disbelieving terror, utterly unable to comprehend why something so awful could feel so unaccountably--pleasant.  No, please, it cannot be--this just is NOT possible…

But there it was.  He thought back, barely coherent, to when his father first began his weapons training, and had taught him the ways of pain and blood:

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Thranduil sat before him in the company of the finest warriors of Mirkwood; their matched blue eyes locked together, father and son. The King held out a hand and waited… waited until Legolas willingly put his hand in that of his sire….

Then Thranduil's knife came up, and he deliberately, lovingly drew the blade across his son's palm, squeezing his small fingers to steel him against the fear, teaching him in this safest of places what it felt like when iron and flesh collided, so that when he inevitably came to take his first wound it would not come as a complete and horrible surprise, taking away his ability to cope.  Legolas felt his nostrils flare, bit down hard on the inside of his cheek so that he would not shame his father with a cry of fear, but it burned, dear sweet heart of Elbereth how it burned!

And the blood flowed across his hand and down his wrist, calling to him seductively with the tickle of its wet heat.  Legolas was stunned at how intimately pleasurable it felt, even as it hurt so, as the cold iron of his father's blade cut him deep, tracing frozen fire across his flesh.  He heard the words of his father like the knell of history and tradition, telling him this is what it feels like to face death, to look it in the eyes and not fear it, my son, my brave little bird, someday when the enemy does this, you will look them in the eye and show them who you are, what you are made of, and you will meet the test without fear….

He waited with taut patience, still and silent like a proper Elf, looking Thranduil in the eyes, terribly, wonderfully aware of his sheer power as Elf and King and sire.  As Legolas' own healing abilities rose up to meet the intrusion of the knife, as the wound began to close and the blood to clot, and the tension sang through him with an even sweeter harmony than the blood had done, he knew an intensity of love and devotion and amazed worship of his father, and all the proud Elves who had made him whose blood flowed in Legolas' own veins as well as down his wrist, and if he had been older, he might have actually called it erotic, so hot and strong and beckoning was its call….

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

But this Orc-ravishment, this was no proper rite of passage. There were no sweet cries of joy mingled with pain, no low-voiced laughter or loving murmurs.  No maidens in the shadows beneath the ancient trees, no fellow-warriors clinging to one another for the sake of existence and comfort and sheer lust for life.  And if he could not stop Morgal, the babies made would not be little Elflings, cherished and adored as he had once been….  Legolas cried out behind the gag, and knew an all-pervading horror as he felt his body helplessly respond to the Orc female's knowing ministrations.

Tension filled his guts and groin as Morgal shifted up and down on his body.  He tried to wriggle free of her, but could not, the bonds held him fast.  His head thrashed from side to side in denial and disgust, but his body rose willingly, needfully.  Morgal dug a finger into his most private flesh, rubbing expertly against a spot deep within his body.  Quite suddenly, with a force that left him gasping for breath and unable to see for the explosion of painful light behind his eyes, Legolas bucked against her again and again, spilling his seed within the Orc female as Morgal cried out in triumph and writhed hard against him, grinding her hips into his.

Pandemonium erupted among the Orcs, cheering and catcalling and screaming their delight.  This had been a long-awaited day for them, knowing that new life would be injected into the line of Orcs from Dol Guldur, especially by breeding their females to a royal Eldar princeling.  Morgal was flushed with delight as she stepped off the young Elf, bending down to salute his limp member with knowing lips, which earned her a round of applause from the onlookers.

The next female in the pecking order stepped up then, determined not to be outdone; she too set to work on the resisting, struggling body of the hapless youngster, doing all that she knew to bring a male to breeding readiness, to the amusement of the crowd….

Later, much later that night, by the time all five females had had their turn at him, Legolas was a pitiful wreck of a thing on the bed, weeping helplessly, writhing with ever increasing weakness in his bonds, and yet retreating within his own mind to some safer place--a place of floating Eagles of Manwë, and starstuff, and Elders who would never break their promises because they were, after all, Elven Elders and Valar, were they not?  Retreating to a place where he was still a cherished child, and his brave and powerful father waited to awaken him from the nightmare, and coming of age meant lessons of love from the hands of sweet-faced Elves who were kind and gentle and caring….

A place where he could still pretend his innocence was intact, and stars still shone in the velvet of the night….

Ada, please, I beg of you, do not leave me here.  Do not leave me here, or I shall die….

 

**********

 

Note: Ada is Sindarin for 'daddy', a diminutive of the noun Adar, father.