Voices In The Dark

Title: Voices In The Dark
Author: Nikkiling
Pairing: Legolas/OC, Legolas/? (haven't quite decided yet)
Rating: NC-17 (just in case)
Warnings: NCS, Mentions/Memories of child abuse, WIP
Summery: Thranduil sends one of his sons to Imladris, fearing that the stresses of constant battle against the encroaching darkness may be too much for the young prince. Little does anyone know the prince's true state of mind...
Disclaimer: This wonderful world belongs to Tolkien. I'm just borrowing the characters for a time and adding a few of my own.
Author's note: Reviews will be greatly appreciated. This is my first time, so please be gentle. Also, mental health tends to be a nebulous science in some aspects. Any inconsistencies will be attributed to the unknowns of elven physiology. Ha!

Prologue: Nightmares

He raced swiftly through a dark, malevolent forest, dodging the sharp, grasping limbs that threatened his passage. The ancient beings seemed to reach for him with their leafless branches, lifting their roots from the ground to trip his nimble feet. It was as if they sensed the evil in this creature’s being and sought to slow his flight until others came to their aid.

Fear drove him onwards, and terror dodged his footsteps as persistently as the warriors that tracked his wild flight. He could feel them closing in on all sides, and he had no weapons for which to fight them. His only garments were a ragged grey tunic and breeches; even his meager armor had been somehow left behind.

As he ran he glanced down and caught sight of his hands: misshapen claws covered in tough, scarred flesh the grayish-green color of rot. He stumbled to a halt, a ragged cry of denial ripping from his throat as he lifted both grotesque appendages to his face. Shock and horror crashed in around him with the knowledge that what he had always feared had finally come true. Yet it was the force of the arrow slamming into his shoulder which knocked him to the ground. Gasping for breath around sharp fanged teeth he attempted to rise, but stilled as a large party of golden-haired elves emerged from the hostile wood. They bore bows and knives, swords and flame, and with them the knowledge concerning the best way to torment this poor creature crouched before them.

“Foul orc!” One spat, a slimy gob of saliva landing on the victim’s face.

“Filthy, disgusting beast,” another sneered, his musical voice dripping with venom. More curses were thrown as the fallen orc attempted once more to rise, wincing in pain from the arrow still lodged in his shoulder. They barely let him straighten to his knees before knocking him back down with a swift kick to the abdomen. One of the elves standing behind him thrust a flaming torch at his exposed back, the bright flame burning through the tattered remains of his tunic and searing his leathery skin. With a sharp cry he fell forwards to escape the pain and the scent of cooking flesh. He hated fire, and also feared it. It was a formless entity that destroyed not only the body, but the soul as well. He had many reasons to hate the gaily dancing flames as well as the slow burning embers that birthed them. Yet his mind wouldn’t give forth the answers as to why. They weren’t needed.

The prodding continued, the cruel elves laughing as he dodged this way and that to avoid their painful torches. His breathing came in short gasps for they left him no moment to recover from their assault. He wished they would just kill him and be done with it, would have begged if they’d allow him the chance. Yet it was not to be.

Suddenly they threw aside their instruments of fire and fell over him, fists and knives raining down in all directions. Once again he endeavored to fight back, to defend himself, to flee, but found he could barely move under the mass assault. Razor sharp knives sliced through his partially blackened flesh, at times flaying patches of grey skin from his body and leaving streams of black ichor pouring from the resulting wounds. Gauntleted fists and heavily booted feet continuously stuck at his defenseless body, leaving behind bloody gashes, deep bruises, and fractured bones.

The resulting pain was as terrible as the burning before. At first he was able to clamp his mouth shut against the cries that fought to escape his bleeding mouth, but soon it became too much to bear. First the sound of grunts, then guttural screams broke through as the pain became all encompassing.

And through it all he couldn’t help but think he deserved this slow, agonizing death. He had finally become the thing he had been warned against. Perhaps they would finally kill him. Death would be a welcome release.

Then with a disturbing suddenness they were gone and he was left alone in a nearly deafening darkness. It was so complete he couldn’t tell if his eyes were still open or if they had swollen shut, nor did he care. Every breath was a struggle , every tiny movement an agony, yet the denial of a final release was the greatest pain he could possibly feel.

A heavy breathing reached his torn, bloody ears, and his own breath hitched, although the pain that involuntary movement caused was intense as broken ribs pushed deeper into his lungs. He was not alone.

“I will show you what orcs do to elves,” came the breathless whisper, familiar and yet more terrifying then anything he had yet experienced. He felt a cool hand trail across his backside, and whimpered in fear…

He knew death would be once again denied.