In the Chains of Honor: Shades of the Past

In the Chains of Honor: Shades of the Past and Promise of the Present
Tanesa Etaleshya
My Email: tanesa_etaleshya@hotmail.com
Rating: NC 17
Summary: Legolas mourns in the elven waking dream world, lamenting the loss of a love that gave him the reason to live and reliving precious memories and nightmares alike, his mind turning to Imladris and the joy he knew in its hallowed halls.
Disclaimer: I own nothing!
Author’s Notes: This chapter is a bit dark so tread carefully. I am still working up to answering all the questions surrounding Legolas’ troubled life and the reasons he suffers so, but at least some insight will be found here, although you will have to wait for more explanations. Enjoy! Let me know how you like it, please, that is, if anyone is still reading (I’m kidding, of course!)

*~*~*~*~Part 2~*~*~*~*

Chapter 4: Shades of the Past and Promise of the Present

Third Age 2163

It was a fight of overwhelming futility yet he fought until he could no longer move, pressed up against the cold, rugged rock wall. He refused to give in. The seemingly tireless strength of the First Born reached new heights in his actions, and any who might have had the misfortunate honor of seeing this fight would have found within him a paragon of that seemingly unquenchable fire so characteristic of his kind. Through his veins ran a fire oft tempered and then fueled to controlled heights in his seemingly unending fights under the darkened eaves of Mirkwood against just as impressive odds as he faced this day; the only disparity was that the threat he faced with each new day dawned as dark as the evening before in his homeland was as continuous and everlasting as the tides. This fight would end only too soon, and would end with a grim finality if the Imladrin Elves did not arrive soon enough.

Legolas held honor to new heights as he carefully maneuvered himself to a position between the orcs and the other wounded elf still slumped against the floor. Legolas was ever aware of the Imladrin’s position and what would happen if attention shifted from himself to the other who was in no position to put up struggle, even as meager a one as the Sindar managed. He was wehe khe knew this. He could feel the strain in every muscle forced to strive to its maximum effort. With every ragged breath he forced into his tiring lungs he felt the burn not only of pain, but of exhaustion. He not not been well enough, healed enough, to endure long this night, and still he had. He amazed even himself with his resilience. The broken bones had mended only cursorily. Now, his leg threatened to give way beneath him with every new step; his arm ached and it became a struggle for him to simply raise it to fend off a blow. In the end, he managed to lessen the force of the blow by the shifting of his body but he did not either avoid it or block it. He had not the energy to so do. So he danced a dance as old as battle itself: that of spending time, that of fending off inevitable defeat. He knew he could not last long.

Four days had passed since they had crossed the river; his shoulder and arm had just begun to heal. The energy flowing from Mirkwood to his body had diminished with distance, but the distance was not yet far enough to cause its steadying influence to subside. He had grasped onto the ever-increasingly tenuous connection and had used it to full fruition, not only for the benefit of its healing graces, but also he seized upon it as a last grasp upon the Wood he held as home in his heart. The healing benefits to said contact were no more to him than benefits on top of the overt need, thed ted to feel the Wood’s comfort to his battered soul. Heal he had, and quickly, even for an Elf, for the Wood sensed not only his pain, but his unease at being separated for nearing a century. The Wood sensed his despair at being so sundered and sought to allay his fears, sought to strengthen him for the journey and the long exile, and to soothe his discomforts. It gave to him hope of the promise of his eventual return and the welcome it would bid him when he was, at last, able to breathe in the stifling air beneath the darkened branches. He still sensed its presence in his mind though no longer could he hear its words in definable perspective, and he sought to hold onto it as long as he was able, drawing what he could now when he needed it most.

The Wood needed him, that much was clear to him in the Wood’s ceaseless connection. It feared his loss; and he needed it as well. Fear of this loss drove him to resist; fear and the self-loathing smoing ing in him that he had submitted all those centuries ago. That shadow within his past hung heavily over him more darkly than most days and his mind turned to the past without effort. It was within his mind that he felt the touch of that Elf as if in premonition to what would happen here. Suddenly the smells, sounds, tastes were the whispers of the past made real again. He was not here in a cave with orcs, but in a room in the Woodland Palace. It was not orcs he saw before him- it was the one Elf he hated most, and the one he most avidly desired to please, to whom he wanted to prove himself.

As the orcs forced him back to the wall, gradually overwhelming his weakened defenses, his mind turned back to the day he had first found himself at the mercy of another, one whom he could neither refuse nor resist, did not dare so to do and one who had then and after taken his dignity away, stripped him of a source of pride and left him to the mercy of life as it was for him. He had lost any semblance of pride and innocence that day, that one night, having felt the pain of utmost betrayal for it was no stranger who carved out his dignity just as he had carved the word ‘whore’ into his flesh just above his right hip. It had been no careless stranger without ties or without fear of repercussion.

It was the one Elf he had always longed to be held as dear in his eyes, the one whom he had held upon a pedestal, the one who had loved and treasured Legolas’ brother to a fault yet kept the archer ever further than arm’s length. Legolas again tasted the bitterness of his soul’s slow poisoning, the beginning of his final ruin- the opening for the elegy his life had become, his fate lost to shadow then and there. Or so it had seemed to him since that day.

He shuddered against the cold, hard wall as he remembered the bonds that had been used around his wrists a millennia before, the rope chafing until his wrists bled. His arms had been spread out as he lay face down upon the bed. He had not hesitated to stifle his tongue from questioning his treatment, nor had he fought in the least. He had hissed when the braided leather belt had slapped the exposed skin on his back and that was the only sound he made, listening instead to the spiteful words issuing from the elder Elf with malicious intent.

It was not the bite of the belt against his skin, or even the knife the elder had used to carve his flesh, but the words which had carried the heaviest blow. Raw still was the grieving wound of loss upon the archer prince’s soul and the acerbic wounding allegations of his culpability in his brother’s death cut more deeply than any blade. By the time the elder Elf had finished and Legolas’ back was sore and bleeding, striped red and painful pink, Legolas was more than ready to give up this life for the guilt stifled his every breath, cut each short until he was lightheaded. Acquiescent tears soaked the sheet upon which he lay; the tremors of his silent sobs shook his body and the bed.

He had thought the ordeal over when he no longer felt the bite of the blade; his cries had died after the first few strokes, yet his soul still screamed in the harsh reality. I could have saved him he thought to himself over and over again, a scourging litany in his mind. In the words of the Elf behind him then it should have been him. It felt as if the weight of gold in the King’s mythically vast coffers were sitting upon his chest, as if his chest had filled with stone so great was his despair. He had thought it over and was already engrossed in his morbid thoughts.

It was then that he was commanded to rise to his hands and knees. He heard it as if through a thick fog, distant and meaningless. It was the repeated command that he heard, brought out of his reverie as he was by another harsh blow to his backside, as degrading as it was painful. He felt rather than saw the Elf mount the bed in front of him, felt the Elf grab a handful of his hair, twisting it painfully. He felt the Elf press his semi-rigid member to his dry lips insistently. Somehow, even in the depths of the thickening fog shrouding reality in his mind, he knew what was expected of him. Legolas complied, and no lower could his heart sink as he was forced to deep throat the Elf, the hand on the back of his head forcing the steady motion, forcing him to choke upon the stiff, hot flesh. His obvious discomfort was a catalyst for the other’s reaction. It was with some relief that the Elf pulled out before he had come, preserving Legolas some dignity, or so he thought. That dim sense of relief faded sharply when he felt the Elf move down the bed, kneeling behind the archer, nudging the prince’s legs apart. It was no time before Legolas dropped his head in utter defeat, So, this is what he wants of me. The thought came to full fruition with the Elf’s next words to him, words Legolas would remember and rue all his days, the Elf’s voice stiff, cruel, hard, laughing mirthlessly as he forced himself upon the fallen archer, his words piercing the archer’s consciousness even through his cry of pain at being cleaved roughly into two, “Let us put to good use the curse you brought to our house! Let us see who has the final laugh!”

Once the now triumphant other had finished, had pummeled the archer mercilessly until the elder had cried out in climax Legolas found himself alone. The Elf had left him there, collapsed upon the bed, too stunned and hurt to move or to cry. It seemed to him as if no tears would wash away the stain left upon him, nor restore what had been lost to him that day.

It was with the residual fears of that day that he faced the orcs against which he fought, stubbornly refusing to let another undergo what he had, refusing to let the Imladrin feel the pain and humiliation. It was for this reason, and for himself, that he fought though he knew it was for naught but time.

He saw the end before it came. He saw them press further against him and he knew he had precious little time left to him before he faltered and fell. He used what little space remained to him. He held onto the ledge behind him, making itself known against his sore back, then used it to push himself up, swinging his legs up in a kinowinowing this move would be his last effort at an ineffectual defense. His entire fight here under the ground had only bought him minutes of time, minutes he hoped would matter, minutes in which he hoped the Imladrin elves had already begun to follow them.

He felt at last the three-day healed bone in his arm crack again upon the armor of the orc pressing in on him from the side, felt its clawed hands grab his thin wrist, and though he fought to wrench it free, he could not. He no longer had the strength to do so.

Another orc used his moment of unfailing realization to grab his other wrist, wrenching it away from its stony grip and used its own momentum to swing him around and throw him amongst its brethren. The smell overpowered the archer, stale, fetid breath and unwashed bodies filled his senses only adding to his discomfort. Legolas was held against another wall, his face pressed into the unforgiving rock while his hands were tightly bound above his head.

He cringed helplessly as shameless hands groped his flesh, claws biting through cloth to draw his precious blood. He then could smell not only the orc-flesh, but his own sweet, coppery blood, its taste fresh upon his tongue from where his lip had split. He listened with alarmed anxiety in a sort of growing, grim detachment as they argued amongst themselves as to what play they would put him, and who would have the first honors. Long years spent tracking orc and their kind under the dark watch of Mirkwood, following them on silent feet to their dens in the tangled wild had given him ample opportunity to learn enough of their guttural tongue to understand most, if not all, of their gruesome quarreling. It had given him an advantage against his foes, and some source of pride in accomplishments of his own, and a reason others amongst the Guards sought his aid and company. It had alleviated his loneliness, the self-imposed exile as someone had wanted him and so he had fostered the ability in himself. Now, it only served to feed his fears, to intensify the reality around him and so he searched for some source of comfort.

He leaned forward into the rock, desperate for some manner of connection with the earth, only to find he was denied. The stone had no care for the Sindar, and he had no way of connecting with it. He was of the First Born, and not accustomed to the dim, dark closeness of the underground; he was a child of the forest, of the tree, of the Light. And the stone felt not sympathy for his plight; it seemed the very stone had been corrupted by the fell beasts which it unwittingly sheltered and therefore willed his torment onward.

He then slipped outside himself with practiced ease, slipped away from the reality in which he had found himself, to the grim solace of distance. He watched himself grip the rough, well-used ropes in his fists and squeeze until his knuckles were white with effort. He watched himself close his eyes as his tunic was cut and torn from his back to hang in rags from his shoulders and Legolas saw them rip his leggings down to reveal his smooth, pale white skin, the soft glow of his bared skin fought the burning torchlight until he felt the first orc assert himself, pressing against him.

One moment stretched to an impossible eternity in his mind. No matter the distance he had split himself into, he still felt every sensation if from a distance. And thus, he felt as well as saw from the mental distance the orc who had established dominance over both him and amongst the milieu drag its filthy claws across his backside, drawing forth a hiss from Legolas and fine red lines across his already scarred skin, skin scarred the first time that fateful day when he had first felt the cruelty of the Golden King of Mirkwood.

He held his head high again, as if in patent ignorance to what had befallen him then and now, knowing somehow instinctively that the Imladrin Elves would not abandon him or the other to this cruel fate. He knew these strangely friendly Elves would not abandon him anymore than he would leave behind his own men in Mirkwood if their treatment of him up to this point was any indication. They cared not that he was Sindar, that he was cursed and exiled. They cared only that he was an Elf, and a living being. Therefore, he had only to hold on a little longer. They would come for him. They will, he told himself to steady his nerves, to hide his vaulting fears. In the space of a few short days, he had been absorbed as one of their number, and no less now that he had fought once more at their sides. And then, he also hoped there would be little left to find, almost hoping this would be the last time, if only to be released.

He felt the orc sidle up behind him, its fetid breath washing past his ear as it brought itself even with him, “Sweet little Elfling! Tasty flesh I should think. Pretty pink ass ripe for the picking!” He heard it grinning behind him as it stroked itself against his skin, its clawed fingers tracing over the ancient word carved into the flesh of his backside.

Legolas then felt the consistency of fate, its persistency in tormenting him and he wondered if it was the Valar speaking through the mouth of fate, reiterating the oft-repeated curse of his life just once more: that he did not deserve the life given to him, he was not worth it and that he would pay for every breath he took. So close was he to giving in that he barely heard the commotion of the fight stirring at the cave’s entrance. Too wrapped up was he in memories come unbidden to his troubled mind, his weakened spirit was nearly overwhelmed. It had started out that he felt only the orc pressing against him, but by the time it was hard and ready it was no reeking orc that readied itself, but another, one far more refined in nature and heritage, yet no less brutal. It was not the fetid breath of the tortured creations of Morgoth that he smelt, but the scent of ancient oak, of fine perfume. It was not claws he felt digging into the fair skin of his hips, but the nails of one of the Fair Folk.

He felt the soft sheet beneath him, a sensation so incongruous to the rough bindings tied about his slender wrists both then and now. The scent of beech and oak filled his senses, the feel of soft, silken hair upon his back as the Elf above him pummeled him into meek submission with belt and rod, as if the disparate positions of the two elves were not enough. It was as if he lived the affront once more, always once more whether it be in dreams or wakeful thought. That day had come unbidden to him, and the torment within his soul found its first catalyst. He felt again the bitter tears falling from his eyes to drop audibly upon the sheets, the burn of the rope against his skin, the bite of his own nails into his palms. He would not, could not, open his eyes for fear of seeing ingrained in his mind the fair face leering above him, the face of the Elf who raped him, who had claimed the right to do as the elder Elf had seen fitting. Legolas felt every bruise, concentrating upon the aches to stifle the ripping pain in his lower body, a pain mirrored in his soul. The aches all gathered and compounded tenfold in his heart with every breath, every thrust, knowing who his assaulter was and feeling the shame of it. In the end, he had been accorded one mercy, that his father refused to touch him in return; indeed, Thranduil had not the tolerance to lay a hand upon his accursed son and thus Legolas was spared the particular humiliating shame of finding pleasure in so great an act of brutality, even if the distinction existed only in their minds. For the fallen archer it was a paltry hint at the lessening of his eternal shame. In the elder’s mind, he had not soiled himself with the archer’s sinful being, had only taken what was his right to take since the archer had given his son over into death and driven his wife away thus denying him an heir fit to be so honored.

Long had he lain abed thereafter, afraid to move, afraid to think, afraid to leave his quarters, knowing that seeing the face of the one who had raped him would make the reality vivid enough for him. Grief seemed epic then; his brother’s passing fresh as the first spring rains and just as new; it alone had overwhelmed his shattered soul. The ultimate desecration of his yearning heart the combination of the two events had been: the utter destruction of every dearly held hope and dream had been the cruel result of that day’s passing, a day Legolas wished had never dawned, if not for Arda then at least for him. Never now would he know his father’s love and pride, his fatherly touch as his brother had known it to have been. For all that had been taken away by the Golden King of whom he had longed to find love for himself within. Now there was naught but hate, derision and malign disparagement left for Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, from his regal father, Mirkwood’s King.

No gentleness had Legolas felt then, nor did he now in the darkness of the cave. He felt only the tearing sensation of being cleaved in twain; his body pressed unmercifully into the wall, rough rock scraping him as if to add further insult and a reminder of his being alone, without aid. The protruding arrow shaft in his side caught upon the stone and agonizing pain thundered through him. He could not find the space to breathe, so close the cavern seemed to have become, so like now in his mind to the room in which he had lost all semblance of innocence; the room in which he had become the shadow behind the smallest, most insignificant piece of furniture in his father’s office.

He shut his eyes tightly in an effort to still his rampaging thoughts and in the darkness he saw his father, the awful smirk upon his fair face, contorting his unfailing beauty into twisted maliciousness. He felt his father inside him as if he were the orc behind him and he pried open his eyes as if doing so would alleviate the pain of the past, diminish the pall it held over him with the reality of the present. It did not and he found himself suspended amongst raucous orcs all waiting their turn; he saw himself as if he were only an observer, his battle detachment settling in over his battered body and soul, as if preparing himself to pass away from this reality.

Claws ripped across his still-healing back, hands tangled in his hair pulling him back to bring him into position. Legolas both saw and felt the orc’s saliva upon his neck. Its rough tongue against his cheek, its chuckle rumbling first through it and then the elf as it lapped up with obvious delight the few tears that had broken though Legolas’ rigid defenses. Yet he did not cry out. He did not give voice to his pain as he was brutally breached.

No more had the orc accomplished than its first horrific thrust when it found it to have been its last. Reveling in the tight, hot feel of the elf’s soft flesh about its iron-hard shaft it did not hear the fight beginning behind it at the mouth of the vast cave.

Legolas felt the orc shudder and fall against him, its stink burning his eyes with rank odor, the cold sting of the orc’s armor against his bare skin. He then felt it withdraw and collapse in a heap at his feet. It was then that Legolas’ mind returned to the present and to his form. He heard the twang of bowstrings released, the hiss of arrows in flight, and the clanging of sword on sword; he knew the Elves had not abandoned them. It did not matter to him at this time, or later for that matter, that he, in his own mind, was but ancillary to the life of the Imladrin he had protected. All that mattered to him then was that he would endure no more this day. He would be safe once more to relish the warm promise he had unexpectedly found in the dawn-bright eyes of the Eldar Lord of the Golden Flower, eyes that at once seemed as new and bright as the new-dawned day yet ancient as the oldest night before the Sun and Moon had been raised to light all of Arda.

It was to those eyes that he turned when he was released into the waiting arms of Glorfindel himself. It was in his arms that the archer found himself wrapped quickly but gently in the folds of the Lord’s cloak to preserve what little remained of his dignity. He remembered later thinking to himself in biting self-recrimination that he had little right to account such a word, ‘dignity,’ as having any correlation with himself, so long had it been since any semblance of pride and dignity had been wrested from him. Yet the warmth of the Lord’s arms soothed the ache in his soul, and he felt some mild form of peace even in pain as Glorfindel lifted him up and carried him out of the darkness and into the starlight outside.

To be continued…
Calenharn Elflover: I hope that I answered some of the problems you addressed, and I changed a little in the last chapter, so thanks!
To Anon: Love will not be the easy cure-all for the plight of Legolas, but it is not all bad for Legolas in the future, as I promised to have a happy ending for those who wanted it, and a sad ending as well if my heart is in it. I will answer some questions shortly about Legolas' past, we just need to get to Imladris for the questions to be asked. I am glad you are enjoying it, though!
Lady Drea: Yet again a review that makes me blush**, I hope this chapter does not scare you off, but smile, there are good times a comin' (I think) for Legolas, our intrepid Sindar archer. Anyway, thank you for the review, you make me want to write so much more! I would not call Silinde a friend of Legolas, at least I don't think I did (but if I did then oh well), but what else can he do? He does respect Legolas., but he wha what he has to do, I suppose, but then I'll get to both of those things in the near future. Enjoy and let me know how you like it! PLEASE!