In the Chains of Honor: Shades of the Past

In the Chains of Honor
Author: Tanesa Etaleshya, Email: tanesa_etaleshya@hotmail.com
Author’s Notes : Thank you for all the great reviews! I cannot believe I get reviews from such wonderful auth


Part 1 In the Darkness, Two Beginnings…
Chapter 7

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TA 2163

The dawn broke over the horizon and they set out early. It had been several long days since they had left the safety of the Wood proper. Legolas felt the distance keenly although the distance between the wood and himself did not grow much, it was still very real to him with every step putting distance between himself and his home. He watched the sun move across the sky if only in increments so minute. He ran his fingertips across the feathery tips of the tall grass, combed his slim, bow-calloused fingers through the willows as he walked in order to turn his mind from dwelling upon his aching body, the sharp pain coursing through his leg where it had been broken and then set, splinted. His back still was laced with agony, exacerbated with every movement as the cloth of his shirt rubbed across the lashes left in the wake of a whip. He remembered it vividly, each flash of stinging pain and the corresponding crack of the supple, woven leather whip against the bare skin of his back. He shuddered at the memory; the King’s denigrations as he was beaten until he could no longer stand on his own.

At that time he was bound at the wrists and held up in this manner, the rope around his wrists looped through a ring suspended from the ceiling. He had bitten his tongue to stop his cries of pain, but it had only been the first crack of the whip that had broken his silence. His cries had echoed shrilly in the cold, dank cell to be swallowed by the flames in the torches and absorbed into the unfeeling walls before it ever reached the free air under the trees far above where he had first let voice to them. He felt again each of the ten lashes that had left him weakened, hanging limply with his full weight upon his wrists and very little upon his feet seeing that his knees had given out. The rope had cut deeply into the tender skin of his wrists, blood seeping into thbersbers of the rope and from there dribbling down his arms, dark against the pale light from his skin. He had cried bitterly, his salty tears did nothing to assuage the aching in his chest at seeing the King looking on with an impassive expression, unaffected by the sight of the wretched, disgraced elf before him sobbing quietly.

Legolas stifled the burning sting of tears threatening to break the calm façade he had so far managed to keep in its accustomed place, so as to let none see into the soul hidden behind his deep blue eyes. So enshrouded was he in the horrendous memory that he missed the cut banks of a small rivulet or offshoot of the main river. It had cut deep into the soft earth and had been largely covered with the thick carpet of grass. So consumed was he in controlling his expression and maintaining his detachment that he managed to cut off his yelp of surprise and the pain following the impact of his broken leg upon the soft bottom, twisting his ankle. He heard and felt the crack of the bone, but knew it had not been dislodged, only fractured. He sat there for a moment, breathing hard in an effort to control his detachment in the face of the renewed agony upon his back at the sudden motion tearing open the wounds there and elsewhere. He leaned forward, his forehead against the cool, moist ground, his knees beneath him, drawing energy from his bond with the forest. It was several minutes before he moved again, limping heavily for the first few minutes before he swallowed the pain so that he would draw no further notice from either of the two groups of elves in front of him.

It was only midmorning when the Sindar Prince began to fall slowly further behind the main body of the group. Elrond studied his movements from afar, the movements stiff, favoring his right leg ever so slightly. Evidence of injuries that had not been there before, or not so strong as this. He noted with growing unease that fresh bruises marred the sculpted elegance of the elf’s face when the sun penetrated the shadows beneath the hood the archer kept drawn over his features. He came to only one conclusion, that the Guards were beating him again. Elrond knew it, was sickened by the reality of it, but was powerless to interfere as they had not reached either the river or protection of Imladris. Still were they under the care of the Mirkwood Guards and therefore could not, diplomatically and respectfully, criticize their practices. The problem was that the beatings were getting steadily worse, and the young elf-Prince was not healing as fast as he should.

Glorfindel rode beside Elrond, surrounded by their own Guards. From their places they could hear the slight whispers of two of their own guards who had glanced back at the Prince sorrowfully, remarking with dislike in their eyes at the Woodland elves nearest them that they had seen several of those Guards leaving the small copse Legolas had spent the night in. They knew what had been going on, but were as powerless as Elrond himself under the Lord’s orders that no interference in the Laws of the Greenwood be allowed while they were yet in their realm and before they had crossed the river. The Rivendell Guards knew the Sindar Prince was accompanying them back to Imladris though they did not know the reason why, nor the reason why the Prince of Mirkwood was beaten and walked behind and outside the protection of the Guards. They wondered at the cruelty of these elves much as the golden-haired elven lord did. Yet they held their tongues and actions in check as they had been ordered so to do though it distressed them more each day. Glorfindel did not know whether to be comforted and proud that they would keep their Lords’ orders despite their personal feelings or distraught that they did so as well as they did.

Glorfindel glanced back again at the Sindar Prince as he had done for dakeepkeeping a surreptitious eye on the archer. He had seen what had happened to the disgraced elf the evening before when they had stopped for the night on the banks of the river. They had stopped only after all the light of the sun had fled the sky to favor the stars. It had been with some measure of apprehension that he had watched Legolas slip through the willows to make his way down to the river by himself, far upstream from the rest of them. Some woodland warriors had followed his lead and made their way to the river downstream from the archer prince. Glorfindel and three of the Imladrian elves also chose to bathe in the cool water. The four of them had slipped into the water in silence, enjoying the peaceful tranquility of the night. For the elven lord it was not the night that attracted his attention, but the archer and his well being. He marveled at his incessant habit of dwelling upon the fallen prince, the way the light in his deep blue eyes lingered in his mind’s eye, the wonder of the softness of his skin sliding beneath his own fingers, the taste of his bow-shaped lips, and he had to shake himself rather than allow that train of thought to continue. It was then they heard the harsh splashing upstream. One of the three Imladrian elves smiled and chuckled, “At least they know how to have some kind of fun. I have never seen a more solemn group of elves.” He was joined in smiling with the other two, and the start of soft conversation between them.

But Glorfindel was not so comfortable with the assumption that had been made. He could hear something else, a slapping sound well masked with the sound of water moving over the rocks on the far side of the river and the splashing ‘play’ of the woodland elves. He could not see either those elves or the archer for the sharp turnings of the river’s course and the dense thickets of willows. He stepped further out into the current, leaning forward into it so that he could better hear. It was then that his heart jumped into his throat when he saw the bobbing tail of an arrow floating towards him, the metal-tipped point submerged, catching on the rocks and in the dark green moss. He caught it, began to untangle the strands of silky moss from the arrow he had quickly recognized as that of the Legolas, then stopped abruptly when he noticed the normally yellow fletching was splotched with a darker, coppery scented fluid that had not fully washed away from the feathers.

He immediately ran for the shore, drew his sword from where it lay upon the shore, threw the scabbard back and made his way up the river swiftly and quietly, unsure of where the danger the fallen archer faced came from. He left the others behind without a word, his clothes as well, all thought fled his mind but his concern for the wood elf who had stolen his concentration.

Though he had suspected the Guards above the chance that orcs had set upon him, he was not prepared for what he saw. The archer was sitting quietly on the bank, a grim expression on his face as he replaced his scattered arrows into their quiver. He was unclothed, and looking around, Glorfindel did not see the missing garments anywhere near. It was strange to feel, but he felt it anyway- the steady warming of his face, a telltale sign that he was blushing at the sight of the striking wood elf, glowing slightly in the starlight, as if he soaked the light in and then emitted it from deep inside. To Glorfindel it felt as if the stars and the elven prince seemed to have been crafted from the same material, both directly from the hands of Elbereth herself, both crafted with all the love in her heart, the perfection vested in her hands. Glorfindel could scarcely breathe for the vision before him, the slim lines of his body, the aquiline nature of his jaw, the glint of gold in his hair and the ethereal paleness of his skin lit with a soft sheen from starlight on the water. He swallowed hard. There were fresh bruises starting to purple upon the finely wrought high cheekbone. He noticed this first, then allowed the steady pull of gravity to guide his gaze lower to note the purples and blues upon his ribs, then lower down to the slim hip and the fresh cuts there. At the motion of the archer’s arms, he saw the bruises there marking out where he had been held more than once, but most recently tonight as the marks were still red. He twisted to the side, and Glorfindel stopped thinking, seeing the lash marks upon his back, stark and dark against his pale skin. He saw again the cruel black letters carved into his flesh and Glorfindel wanted to touch it, touch the elf prince, to soothe away the pain that had been inflicted. Some of the lash marks had wrapped around to lick his ribs with its fiery tongue. Glorfindel allowed his eyes to drop again, forcibly this time. One of the prince’s legs was still splinted crudely, both bruised.

The archer knew he was there staring, at the realization of which Glorfindel cleared his throat of the rising lump and shifted his gaze elsewhere than the battered but still exceedingly lovely form of the Sindar. Glorfindel wordlessly handed over the arrow he had collected and sat down, his own nakedness not at all a problem for him. He sat in silence for a time, letting the archer finish then settle down before he spoke, “I see they have left you with nary a stitch to wear,” he said looking around to demonstrate the fact, trying to make it seem a jest, to lighten the tension in the air about them. Legolas said nothing, just stared forward without seeing the current and the moving reflection of starlight on the swiftly flowing water.

Only when Legolas moved forward, kneeling on the edge of the water then leaned towards the water to drink from his cupped hands did Glorfindel realize the source of that slapping sound he had heard. He moved to the elf’s side and grabbed his hand, carefully so as not to hurt him further, or tear the cuts upon his wrists now healing. And there what he had thought he had seen was laid out for him, the red welts upon the palms, fingers and backs of the archer’s hands spoke when the elf did not, needed not. Some of the welts had broken open where their paths had crossed, others where the tip of the arrow had bit deep. The arrow had been used as a switch, and Glorfindel had returned the instrument to the fallen elf.

He studied the Sindar’s hands; saw the swollen digits, the slight tremble, the awkward way the archer held them, as if unwilling to bend them to any use. Glorfindel knew that the Sindar was probably barely able to hold anything, let alone his wield his bow or his knife should they fall under attack. Glorfindel bristled that his had been done while he had listened, and kicked himself for not investigating earlier. Then he thought it might have not been a particularly good idea to interfere either, since Legolas made no attempts to end this torment or to bring attention to the fact that it was being done. In fact, the archer seemed to believe it necessary or at least part of his lot.

Legolas said nothing, just looked at the elven lord and was stunned to see the care written upon the lines carved deep into his forehead as he examined the wounds, cradling his hand almost tenderly. Legolas caught his eyes as Glorfindel looked up, met them and held them, ever sure of controlling what the other could see, showing only what he was willing to reveal. Tonight that meant that he allowed the Eldar to see he was in pain, that he wanted not to be alone, and that he wanted silence. He did not shirk from the elf lord’s touch; rather he focused on the warmth of it, the tingling sensation in his skin where their skin touched. Glorfindel tenderly moved, pushing his stinging hands into the cool water, soothing the burning. Legolas did not fight it as he was bewildered that the illustrious Eldar would deign to care for him, and that his touch was so light.

Then the elf lord spoke, breaking the silence between them, “Let me get some salve, my prince, else if we are attacked your aim may not be so true.” He smiled warmly, stood, “Please stay here.”

He stood gracefully, his sword in hand, and swiftly moved through the shadows, returning to the camp after retrieving his clothes as fast as he could, giving Elrond only the most minute of explanations accompanied by upraised eyebrows and a small smile. From this and from what his friend had taken, he discerned that it was for the Sindar prince. Elrond was divided in his opinion of this, joyed he was that Glorfindel was on the brink of happiness, but saddened that it was with the Sindar prince, an elf weighed down with so much grief.

It was with shaking tenderness that Glorfindel applied the salve not only to the archer’s swollen hands, but his back as well, and from this experience even he was nauseated at what had been done to the beautiful elf. He stopped breathing each time he pressed a little too hard and drew a hiss from the prince accompanied by a wincing motion. Yet Glorfindel was pleased that the Sindar did not move or attempt to stop his ministrations. He remained silent, pleased as he was that the tension between them had faded to nothing. Glorfindel finished, recapped the small nearly empty jar, then turned to unfold the cloak he had brought with him, revealing the archer’s stolen clothes. He could not help but smile when the elf in question met his eyes with clear surprise written in the starlit blue orbs. Legolas nodded as he stared into the other’s eyes in unvoiced gratitude and he went about dressing.

Glorfindel stood to help him dress, but stayed himself when he saw the cle clearly did not want help. He could not help but look at the Sindar. It had begun as admiration for his fine form, but shifted once again to barely restrained anger at seeing the condition of the elf, and his anger burned bright when he saw that the elf’s hands had not been the only part of him that had received the harsh treatment this night. When Legolas stood to pull his leggings up, the backs of his thighs were raw and laced with bleeding welts as was his behind, a sight Glorfindel found would have been a lovely sight indeed if it had not been so marked. In its current state, it was rendered only anger-causing rather than the awe it should havspirspired with the supple curves of his hips, the round tautness of his cheeks. Glorfindel kept his eyes averted, but handed Legolas the salve again that he might apply it himself before he dressed. The Eldar forced his eyes to the Sindar’s face and from thence out into the night, but not before he had seen Legolas in all his glory when the elf had taken the jar from him. He had been hard put to tear his vision upwards; the flicker of starlight on metal had drawn his eyes to the rings in each of his nipples and the ring that caused Glorfindel to shudder at the thought of what it had felt like when it had been placed at the tip of the Sindar’s member. He tore his gaze away lest his eyes betray his feelings.

Glorfindel centered himself again, breathing deeply and it was not until the rustle of cloth had ceased. When Legolas was finished, they returned to their former positions on the bank. Glorfindel almost did not hear him when Legolas spoke, “Thank you, my Lord.”

“For what?”

“You have sought to help me as I am. You have accepted it, and me.” He spoke softly and quietly, without looking at the Eldar, instead distracting himself by picking at the grass between his feet.

“You are welcome.” Thereafter, they found it enough to simply sit and listen to the sounds of nature around them, the song that was always beings sung; only those singing changed from moment to moment. There they sat until the late-rising moon made its appearance overhead.

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That had been the night before. Today saw Glorfindel’s attention again divided between the road ahead and the elf behind. The two elf lords had shown the inclination to slow their progress to allow the Sindar to catch up more easily, but the Guards clad in Mirkwood’s greens and browns stopped, their leader approached Elrond, “My Lord, why do we slow?”

“Legolas falls behind. We will slow to a speed he can manage.”

The woodland leader’s eyes were a mixture of emotions, laughter, guilt, sorrow, but still he emitted an affected chuckle at the innocence of the elf lord, “Pay him no mind. He can care for himself if for no one else; he has proven that more than once. We can make the river by nightfall if we leave now and maintain our pace. It is not safe to tarry here in the open, as well you know, my Lord.”

“But the Prince…” Elrond began, but was cut off.

“He knows better than to walk among us. We must go, my Lord.” The wood elf clipped, looking back toward the fallen prince with what Elrond interpreted as sadness and regret if only in small measure, “It might be better if he should be left to die, my Lord, as callous as that may seem. It would be easier for him, and for others, if it were that way. Few there are who think themselves wizened to the truth of his life and fewer still are those who do. I am of the latter.” The Sindar paused, gripped the handle of his bow with a white-knuckled grip and continued, “What he may call home has never truly been that, nor will it ever, yet he has too much honor and dignity to abandon the elf even he refers to as ‘the King’, and far too much does he strive to gain his father’s unattainable affection. I trust you to keep this in mind in your dealings with him. There are those loyal to him, but there is little we can do else find ourselves in similar position or sent to the South of Mirkwood against the stirrings in Dol Guldur.”

“But how can Thranduil treat him in this manner?” Glorfindel could contain his anger no longer, and as a result he felt the restraining hand of his friend upon his arm, warning him to control his temper. “Legolas is his son, a potential heir to the throne if something should happen to his brother or his father, this is inexcusable- and also that you all let it continue!” He hissed vehemently.

“A possible heir he may seem to those who do not know better, but never will Thranduil set this son upon the throne by death or by stepping down. There is some hidden reason the King detests his only son. Long have I been in the service of Thranduil himself, and his trust puts me here today to ensure Legolas is delivered to Imladris or dies in the journey, and to assure your safety to the river. Long have I watched the royal ‘family’. Legolas has never had his father’s love or his attention, only disgust and dislike, yet the elf comes back to him for the sake of honor and duty, my Lord. Those things above all else are the Prince’s family, his reasons for breathing.” The leader sighed slightly, looking the two elf lords in the eyes one at a time, “There is little we can do for him; those who follow the King are in the majority. If we voiced our objections few of us there would be to aid him when we can.” He paused again, dropped his gaze then let it drift to the archer once again before looking deep into first Glorfindel’s then Elrond’s eyes, a warning in his voice, “There is more at work here than is apparent, my Lords, be aware of this and take care.” With that Silinde left them and led the party forward again. More questions than answers swam in the heads of the two ancient elves.

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The river was as far as the Mirkwood Guards would accompany them; already they had come so far outside the borders of the Woodland Realm. They had reached the Old Forest Road and now turned to face the river where once there had been a bridge built to accommodate the armies of the Last Alliance. As with many of those who fought, the bridge, too, had fallen into the vale of myth leaving travelers to ford the river in this, its shallowest point. Deep still it was, and swift. It was not the best of fords, but it was the only since the river picked up swiftness and anger in the leagues downstream, white-frothed fury which did not end until well after the rivers of Lórien joined the fray. Glorfindel watched as the party crossed the deep river and started out through the scattered pines and willows lining the river valley, following the road towards the Misty Mountains.

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It was some time before Glorfindel caught up with where Elrond rode in the front of the small column, worry staining the blue of his eyes with grey streaks. He had stayed back at the riverside out of sight waiting for the golden elf prince to catch up now that they were out of Mirkwood’s realm, but had been greatly dismayed at what he had only begun to witness. In haste to return, without the aid of words in explanation, he grabbed his Lord’s reigns without a word and pulled the elven Lord’s horse along as he turned and hurried back the way they had come all in silence. The storm on the Balrog-slayer’s face and in his now darkened blue-green eyes warned the Lord of speaking. He was plainly furious.

Just short of the river, he reigned in his horse and Elrond followed him to what he could assume had been the golden-maned elf’s previous vantage point. Elrond followed his friend’s pointed and angry gaze across the river to where he could see a circle of the Guards moving around. Neither elf lord said anything, until they glimpsed Legolas in the center of that circle when two Guards stepped apart. The beleaguered archer was struggling to stay on his feet, but not raising a hand in his defense as the woodland elves beat him, taking turns. Elrond could see the red glint of blood from his nose and lips, few drops landing on his green tunic. He was holding his left arm against his stomach after several strong blows left him doubled over, his hair dangling and shimmering in the setting sun. Another blow to his back broughm tom to his knees while another kicked him in the face, another in his belly again. The two elf lords could hear the few but cruel taunts they threw at him as the harsh beating continued. Legolas himself did not cry out, nor did he plead with them to stop. He mutely fought to remain standing whilst he could, to remain kneeling and then to remain on all fours as the blows continued.

After the archer was on the ground fully, then managed to pull himself up to his hands and knees but was beaten down again, Glorfindel finally spoke, “Enough of this, Elrond. How can they do this to another elf? And to him, the son of their King?”

Elrond held him back from running back across the river to defend the degraded elf though he, for his own ill ease, felt sickened at so restraining his friend. “Their ways are different. He is not their King’s son to them today and, if my suspicions are correct I do not feel the King has paternal feelings for his son no matter the day. If Legolas wanted, he could make it away from them, could make it across the river, but he does not even try. There is more here than we understand, as Silinde told us. Because we do not understand, we should not interfere no matter our personal feelings,” the last words were for Glorfindel alone. “Notice how Silinde and a few others stand apart. There are those who are not so agreeable to this either amongst the Sindar. Yet, even then, I feel that this is something he must endure, that Legolas believes he must endure. He will cross the river and will be under our protection, until then he is in the hands of the Woodland Guards.”

The beating continued some long minutes longer, until the elf prince no longer struggled, but remained a bruised, bloody lump in the tall, thickly grassed ground. The Sindar guards slipped into the shadows and disappeared before Legolas was able to rise. He pushed himself up painfully slowly, gathered his few belongings, and began to cross the river after first wrapping his cloak around him, the hood once again over his face, hiding the hideous evidence of what had been inflicted upon him.

He stepped into the river, the frigid water sweeping past his feet and legs as the water seeped into his soft boots, soaking his leggings. The water felt good on his bruised legs, chilling the screaming pain of his splinted leg and the thudding aches of the now-forming bruises. Legolas concentrated on his footing in the strong current; the water grew deeper, swirling around his thighs. It felt to him that the water was trying to comfort him in some respect, cooling the hard, throbbing heat in his legs, soothing the bruises he could feel growing and sending the chilling numbness throughout his beaten body no matter how distant from the cold water. He felt the energy of the water, felt it lend him some of the rushing force of its downstream course flow into him through the contact. It felt different, yet much like the energy given him by the Wood itself. He was not able to reconcile to himself whether he was grateful or resentful of the gift.

He drew his cloak up around him so as not to tangle his legs in it. The water was now around his waist, caressing him deceptively, cleaning the evidence of what he had endured on this journey thus far. The water pushed at him hard, his cloak was wet now. He concentrated on his footing, but the river pushed him in seeming anger for his ingratitude, and he slipped, the cloak fell out of his arms, fell into the swirling water, and started to pull him down. He threw his bow, his quiver, and his pack to the far bank before the water pulled him down. He fought to keep his regained balance, but when the water flowed over him the first time, he let go. He ceased to fight it, but let the water take him under.

“Would that I wish he were not, but my son he is. Perhaps this time you will take the path you should have taken long ago rather than prolong this malediction you seem to bear.” The words echoed in his mind, his father’s voice booming, condemning him. He felt the chill water in him, beginning to quench the fire inside him, the eternal light of the elf dampened, and a corresponding crushing pain in his chest as he deliberately inhaled water.

He was oblivious of the two elves on the bank, running swiftly to catch up with him. They had watched his progress across the river, studied his stiff, pained movements as he forced broken or fractured bones to bear his weight, forced bruised muscles to propel him forward through the unrelenting current.

Legolas had closed his eyes to the world. He was doing what he should have done long before. He was a disappointment, a disgrace. He would never know anything but the shame he had brought to his family, his people. His head burst to the surface as he coughed uncontrollably before he fell back under water again and he inhaled again, this time deeply, pulling a great draught of choking water. Still the river fought to grant him part of its strength, fought seemingly to push him to the surface, spinning him in toward the distant shore and the saving hands of Glorfindel and Elrond.

The disgraced prince could not bring himself to do this, though. He wanted to live; he wanted to prove to his father that he was not always to be a disgrace. He needed to prove himself to his father, and he would. He fought to keep at the surface, gulped for air, grabbed for a fallen tree trunk, but when it was within his grasp, he let go again, let the opportunity fall through his fingers without thought. He knew he was falling into the same trap again, the same desperation cajoling him into believing he could prove to his father he was not a disgrace. The horrible fact settled into his mind and he accepted it: he was a failure, a disgrace and his father would never love him. He let go. He slipped silently into the frigid grip of the water, the relief of the lack of feeling and he felt… free. He could see the reflection of the sunset on the surface of the turbulent water, but he did not care. He let the water take him.