What's in a Dream?

Title: What's in a Dream? (1/1)
Author: Nikkiling
Rating: NC-17
Characters in order of appearance: Melpomaen, Erestor, Lindir, Elrond, some orcs...
Disclaimer: Not mine. Places and characters belong to JRR Tolkien... and Peter Jackson...I think... and I get nothing for it but the pleasure of watching them suffer!
Warnings: Torture, Rape, Angst and all that fun stuff!
Summary: Dreams are not always what they seem. Melpomaen suffers terrible nightmares, but what is the cause?
A/N: This year I decided to give myself a birthday gift all can enjoy... kinda. I enjoyed it at least. *smirk* No safe, sweet, happy fic is this... I merely needed to vent a little, and poor Mel seemed the perfect victim. So enjoy or not, it makes no matter to me. But any comments are definitely welcome!
I only hurt 'em 'cause I love 'em!




The elf bolted out of bed, a scream of horror threatening to claw its way from his throat. Terror gripped his lithe body as he stood shaking in the darkness, clad only in pale blue night-pants. Waves of alternating hot and cold passed across his flesh. His hands came up to wrap about his chest; fingers clutching so tight to his upper arms that they would surely leave bruises come morning. His dark eyes stared wildly at nothing, just as it seemed there was nothing present that could give claim to his fright.

He bit at his lower lip, but could not stop the mewl of despair from escaping his throat; a sound so desperate and animalistic that it struck a new cord of fear within him. It was not a sound that should ever come from the lips of an elf, so despairing did it sound. He choked, one hand flying up to cover his mouth as he sank to the floor, coiling up into a protective ball.

Another nightmare had once again laid claim to his mind. What started as simple dreams of fearful darkness were now evolving into something more tangible. Shapes and feelings had begun to emerge from the shadows. Immobility within chains or stone prisons, flashes of malformed bodies and deep soul-rending pain which caused his body to twist and contort in his sleep. So violent had these dreams become in fact, that he often woke with bruises and strains in his muscles, and felt more exhausted than he had before attempting to rest. Even now his body hurt as invisible wounds throbbed in time to the rapid beating of his heart.

This night he had seen both knives and flame wielded by maliciously grinning grayish-green orcs. They had cut his body, slowly mutilating his flesh and burning him in ways that would only prolong his torture. He recalled the agony and the heat in dreams so vivid they could have been memories, yet no memory could he recall having contained such utter torment.

And worse, just beyond all the suffering waited something more; some dark shape that hovered beyond his acumen and instilled a greater fear then any torment he had thus far endured.

Eventually his breathing slowed, and the straining vocalization held in the back of his throat eased. He still wished to scream, to cry out, to whimper in fear, yet it was slowly becoming easier to hold the feeling in check. Could it be visions of the future he was experiencing in his sleep? Could he have been gifted with the sight? Such a thing was highly doubtful however, for no sign had he ever shown of such a gift before.

I am going mad, he bemoaned, dropping his head into his hands. Such things were not unheard of, and at the moment it seemed the most likely possibility.

Finally he crept back into his bed, hobbling like an aged man instead of the fairly young elf he was. And although he was certainly exhausted, he knew that there would be no more sleep for him this night; he didn't dare.


* * *

"You do not look well. Did you have another sleepless night?"

Melpomaen started at the voice. These days he felt more and more skittish, as though something terrible was lurking just beyond his ken. He turned his nearly bloodshot eyes from his work and looked up to find Erestor standing above him, concern evident in his normally stoic gaze.

Melpomaen nodded, but said nothing. He had mentioned the sleeplessness to the advisor when it became apparent that his work was starting to suffer, but kept the recurrent nightmares to himself.

Only a few centuries old, Melpomaen had lived in Imladris nearly his entire life. He worked as a scribe, and was utterly content in his small contribution in the running of the realm. His life was simple and pleasant, at least until this recent affliction. Yet it had become so he couldn't keep his concentration centered upon his tasks, and his normally sure hand had become sloppy. It now took four or five tries to complete a missive free of errors when before he had been able to succeed upon the first.

"Have you spoken to Elrond yet?" Erestor asked. It was something the dark elf had suggested before, but Melpomaen had not wished to bother the Imladrin Lord with something as paltry as a few bad dreams.

"No," he murmured, shaking his head slightly. "Not yet."

"I really believe you should speak with him," Erestor pressed. "I happen to know that he is free at the moment; out gathering herbs from the gardens. Go to him. Then take the rest of the day off, and tomorrow as well."

Melpomaen opened his mouth to protest, but lost the energy to do so when he noted the set look in Erestor's eye. It was no use to argue, even if he had felt well enough to do so.

He finished the report he was working on, put his quill, ink and papers away, and left the study. His body and mind felt lethargic as he walked through the halls, not quite seeing those whom he passed and letting his feet tread the familiar path to the gardens. He really didn't wish to bother his Lord with this, but perhaps it would be best. Maybe the master healer could prescribe some sleeping draught to at last ensure a deep and dreamless sleep.

"Mel! Wait!" A voice called out and Melpomaen paused, turning to watch as a white haired elf trotted up behind him. He couldn't help but crack a smile at the taller elf's presence.

Lindir looked momentarily shocked at Mel's wan appearance. "You don't look well," he commented with a frown. "What is wrong?"

Melpomaen shrugged and fought to suppress a yawn. "More nightmares," he told the bard. This was one of the few elves to whom he had spoken of his sleepless nights and of the evil dreams suffered, although the details of his nightmares had been left unsaid.

Lindir nodded, and gestured that they continue along the corridor. "You haven't been coming to the Hall this past week. I was worried."

The exhausted elf looked up into the carefree eyes, and he could see the obvious warmth held there. They had been long friends, and although Mel had often found himself wishing they could be something more, he didn't know how to initiate such a change in their relationship. Not to mention that he didn't wish to inadvertently ruin what friendship they did hold.

As he looked into the fair countenance his vision suddenly wavered. The face became twisted, dark tracks of blood staining the pale skin, and the silvery orbs became almost dead in appearance as though having seen horrors too great to be endured. Melpomaen sucked in a breath in an effort not to cry out as he turned his face quickly away. Where this vision came from he knew not; only that it must somehow be related to his terrible dreams. It seemed this madness was spreading from his sleep into his waking hours.

"What is it?" Lindir asked anxiously, reaching out to rest his hand on his friend's shoulder. He had seen the look of horror cross Mel's face, and couldn't help but wonder if he had inadvertently done something wrong.

Melpomaen flinched at the touch, drawing away further into himself. "It is nothing," he murmured. "I am only tired, and in my exhaustion I think I am seeing things."

"What did you see?"

He shook his head, not wishing to tell his friend of his terrible vision. He felt that if he spoke the words, it would only make the madness more real.

"You should really speak to Elrond," Lindir finally said, sounding concerned.

"That was where I was headed, actually." He hesitantly turned back to look at Lindir, and was relieved to see the comely face had returned to normal.

"Would you like for me to escort you?"

"Oh no, that is quite alright," Mel told him with a smile that he hoped looked more reassuring than he felt. "I will be fine. But perhaps I will be able to join you in the hall tonight after dinner."

"You needn't feel obligated. If you are able to sleep peacefully, then do so, and you can come another night."

Melpomaen nodded with another wan smile before turning away to continue down the corridor, leaving the worried bard behind.

He was nearly to the gardens when he suddenly felt himself sway as a wave of exhaustion struck him. Perhaps I'll just sit a moment, he thought, moving towards one of the alcoves that lay scattered down the corridor. He sat down and leaned his head back against the cool stone, closing his eyes for only a moment....

He dangled from a heavy chain, completely nude, his hands manacled together above him. His body half knelt upon the cold stone floor, which was so infused with blood and excrement that hardly any of the gray stone could be seen. If he had the energy he would have risen to his feet, but such a feat of strength was nearly impossible, not to mention the fact that the flesh on the bottoms of his feet were blackened and burned from the latest torture he had endured.

Dimly he could feel thin rivulets of blood trickling down his curled hands and along his arm. The beasts had taken several fingers at the knuckle, crudely ripping them off his hands while he screamed in agony. He had nearly fainted from the pain, but had been forced to remain awake to watch the foul creatures one by one eat the small appendages, laughing gutturally and making sounds of great satisfaction as they did so.

He didn't know how long it had been since he had been captured. Time was meaningless and eternal, measured only by the beating of his heart which continued steadfastly on despite the suffering endured. Why they had not killed him yet he couldn't say. He had nothing to give them besides his flesh to torture, and yet given who his tormentors were, that seemed reason enough.

Rough voices suddenly reached his ears, once gracefully tapered like a new spring leaf, but now bitten and torn; the cartilage mutilated beyond repair. The voices came closer, mingled with the sound of shuffling footsteps. A hard knot of fear within his belly constricted further. What now, he wondered dimly, his body and mind too lost in pain to form thoughts any more coherent that that.

He struggled to open his pale green eyes, and succeeded in cracking one open slightly. The other was too swollen, too caked with blood to see out of properly. As he watched the blurry forms of three orcs crossed his view, holding crude whips, bits of chain, and other instruments of torture. He could barely suppress the whimper that escaped his cracked lips at the sight of their cruel visages.

There was a clattering sound, and the chain he was dangling from suddenly tightened, lifting his body up until only his broken and burned feet could touch the ground, pure agony in itself. He did not cry out, although he hurt so bad his head swam with nausea and his stomach rolled with the urge to vomit.

Then he did scream hoarsely as the tails of one of the braided whips bit deeply into his back. He made no attempt to stifle the sounds of his pain as he had in the beginning of his capture; to assert his strength and control through the lack of vocalization. Such effort was a futile gesture, not to mention the fact that he was exhausted beyond caring. His body moved instinctively, twisting away from the lash, but it only served to make matters worse as his charred feet were pressed more firmly upon the ground, sending more waves of pain up his body. He could hear the orcs' laughter, clearly enjoying the double torment they inflicted.

Again the whip struck, leaving behind long, bloody stripes which criss-crossed older, slightly infected wounds. Although elves were renowned for their healing abilities and insusceptibility to illness, the flesh and the spirit could only take so much in the conditions found within these dank stone prisons.

As his world blurred into a haze of pain, his gaze traveled to a patch of solid darkness lurking in the corner... watching...waiting...

Suddenly everything shifted, tilted, and then as the pain lessened he felt as though he were bundled in something warm and soft. His body automatically flinched, struggling away from the warmth as though confused as to its purpose. Hands moved across his body, stroking his forehead, trying to restrain his struggling limbs. A distant screaming sound reached his ears, as well as the deep murmur of other voices nearby. He couldn't make out what they said, only that their intention seemed to soothe and calm.

As his awareness sharpened, the screaming lessened, and he realized that the sound emanated from his own throat. It was at that point that the hoarse cries dissipated and he opened his eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought for air. The white stone ceiling of the healing house appeared before him. Turning his head another apparition in white caught his gaze, a form which he initially mistook for some spirit of the dead.

Its hand reached out to smooth his brow with cool fingers before speaking. "Elrond, he wakes." Melpomaen recognized the voice, which in turn solidified the elf's identity not as some divine spirit but as his dear friend, Lindir.

Movement to the side caught his eye, and he turned his head again to watch as Lord Elrond approached, mortar and pestle in hand.

"What happened," Mel asked, only slightly surprised at how rough his voice sounded. He shifted to sit up, wincing in pain as he did so. He was once more reminded of his nightmares, but kept from closing his eyes lest they descend upon him once more.

Lindir moved to help him, shifting the pillows that he might sit more comfortably, and then settled back upon the edge of the bed. His pale eyes shone with distress, and Melpomaen could also see the faint traces of tears creating silvery tacks down his cheeks. It made him feel suddenly guilty and ashamed to know he had somehow caused his usually jovial friend to weep.

"Lindir found you in the corridor near the gardens," Elrond answered, moving to stand beside the bed. "You looked to be having some sort of fit, and he could not wake you."

"Was it... another nightmare?" the bard asked softly.

Melpomaen nodded. "I was so tired, and I only sat down for a moment. I've never dreamt during the day before."

"Tell me of these dreams," Elrond said, setting the mortar aside and pulling up a nearby chair. "How long have they been plaguing you?"

"Over a fortnight now." He paused, feeling uncomfortable. He had yet to speak of the contents of his nightmares to anyone. Yet taking a deep breath he started, staring at his hands as he did so. He spoke of being held captive by orcs in some prison of the Dark Lord, of being tortured and tormented with no end in sight. Lindir's pale visage grew even more so with his telling, although Elrond's face remained stoic.

"What is happening to me?!" Melpomean finally shouted, unable to keep the frustration inside. "Why am I seeing these horrible things?!"

He caught the glance that Elrond and Lindir shared, immediately pounced upon it. "What? Tell me! What do you know?"

"Mel," Elrond began, speaking softly as though to calm a frightened child. "Nearly a century ago you were captured by the Dark Lord's servants. Do you not remember yet? We feared your mind had blocked out the incident, for you never spoke of it afterwards. For the longest time everything seemed well, but now it appears those memories are resurfacing."

"What?" Melpomaen looked dumbfounded. "How...Why? How could I forget something like this? From what I have seen-," he chocked briefly on the words, "I should have faded."

"But not if you could not remember," Elrond replied, then leaned forwards. "You had been with the escort traveling with my wife to Lothlorien. Your party was attacked by a large band of orcs. Celebrian and a few others managed to escape, although she was grievously wounded. Yet you and many others were taken by the orcs to Dol Guldur."

Melpomaen swallowed heavily. So the dreams were real. His heart twisted at the thought, and while his mind screamed in horror, his face remained passive. "And how did I escape?" he asked, although for some strange reason his body shivered at the words. There is no escape, came the reply in his mind, although from whence it came he was not certain.

"We do not know." Elrond said softly. "By pure happenstance you were found on the border between Mirkwood and Lorien, nearly mad with grief and pain."

Funny, he could not recall any of it. It was as though the nightmares and his real life were two separate entities. He could remember Celebrian's attack, although not of being in the traveling party.

He looked down to stare at his hands, the long tapered fingers stained with spots of black ink. Slowly he flexed them, and his brows furrowed in thought.

"My fingers," he said, confused. "They tore off my fingers and... ate them. How is it possible that I remember that?" He closed his hand into a fist and looked up. "All my fingers are now intact."

"It has been many years since the incident," Elrond told him smoothly. "They have long since healed to their former state."

"I do not remember this," he frowned. It did not seem possible, and yet Elrond was a healer, and if he said such healing could happen, then it must be so

"You have forgotten much. It was your mind's way of coping with the atrocities committed against you."

"Did anyone else survive?" He remembered the screams of other elves, and wondered what had happened to them.

"No." Elrond said, his steady voice tainted with sadness. "You were the only one found."

"So what happens now? Will I fade?" Melpomaen said it calmly, as though the idea held no matter. In truth no emotion could he feel at such a distressing thought. But when he looked to Lindir, he could see the shocked expression upon the bard's face. Here was one who definitely cared whether he lived or not. The expression gave him some hope, although he couldn't help but think back at the brief vision he had seen earlier superimposing Lindir's face. He still had no idea what it meant, and kept silent on the matter for now.

"That all depends on you," Elrond told him, interrupting his thoughts.

Melpomaen nodded, understanding. His survival depended upon how much he remembered, and how he was able to cope. At the moment, he didn't think he could take much more; his body still ached dully, and his spirit trembled. If he was lucky there would be little else to recall; but he didn't have much hope that was so.

He leaned further back into his pillows. "Despite the dreams, I feel as though I have yet to sleep. I am so tired, but I am afraid."

"I may be able to help with that." Elrond rose, picked up the mortar, and crossed the room to where a cup and a pitcher of heated water waited. After a moment he returned, steaming cup in hand.

"Drink this," He told the scribe. "Is should put you into a sleep beyond dreams."

"Thank you." Melpomaen took the cup and drank down the contents, nose wrinkling at the bitter taste. He handed back the cup to the healer, letting his eyes slowly shut. As he began to drift, he felt a long-fingered hand rest reassuringly upon his own...

He huddled alone in a tiny dark cell, eyes open but staring blindly at the opposite wall. It was so small he could sit in the middle, stretch out his arms and feel the cold stone walls to either side. His mutilated hands were free but for the heavy iron manacles which embraced his emaciated wrists. His missing fingers hurt as though they were never gone; a strange ghost pain that affected even the littlest which had been missing since a childhood accident a long time before. The sound of his labored breathing was the only noise to reach his ears, deep and rasping in the darkness. His entire body throbbed in a single dull ache; endurable as long as he didn't shift too much. Cold seeped into his bones, a feeling unfamiliar to him yet not unexpected as his health continued to slip away.

His mind traveled down roads of the past and visions of possible futures. Sometimes he found himself shocked that he was still here; his dreams of happier times sometimes engulfing his mind so completely it left him disoriented and confused. Sometimes he even forgot why he was here at all. Even now he could barely remember the only journey he had taken to Lothlorien. They had only made it halfway to the golden wood before they were attacked and brought low by forces too great even for the skills of the elves. He knew not what had happened to the others that had managed to survive, although occasionally he could hear screams of anguish from throats other than his own.

The cell door opened unexpectedly, the bright torchlight causing him to close his eyes and duck his head. He hadn't heard any approach, but that wasn't unusual. Sometimes he was able to loose himself so completely he heard and saw nothing for hours or days at a time.

"Out!" Came a guttural shout, but he paid it no heed. After it was repeated a second time with no outward response the large orc stepped inside. A clawed hand reached out, grabbed the docile elf by the back of his neck, and dragged him out of the tiny room. He barely resisted, his feet and hands scrabbling lightly for some sort of purchase but without much success.

He was taken into the main room, his body dragged along like a broken doll. Several other orcs waited there and he could hear them vocalizing amongst themselves in their strange guttural language. Occasionally they would laugh crudely, a sound which sent shivers down the elf's spine.

The orc dropped him near a table bolted to the floor on the far side of the room. He grunted softly as he landed, falling to his knees and mutilated hands. His limbs quivered and threatened to drop him further to the floor due to his complete and utter exhaustion; yet they didn't give him time to fall on his own for one of the orcs kicked him in the side, sending him sprawling to the bloodstained ground.

He gasped for breath, hands scrabbling painfully upon the stone as his body automatically sought to get away from more anticipated blows. However none were forthcoming and more hideous laughter reached his torn ears. Then large clawed hands grasped his arms, lifting him and heaving his body against the table which caused another grunt of pain to slip from his lips.

As his head thudded against the wooden surface, his gaze was drawn towards the far corner where the shadows gathered thickly. Once again something lurked there, a form of shadow more solid than darkness which hid it. It was infused with indefinable terror, and he knew that no matter what he had suffered thus far, it was nothing compared to what this shadowy creature could bestow. He shivered uncontrollably and turned his face away.

Suddenly he realized there was something else in this room, another creature that was neither shadow nor orc. Crouched in the opposite corner, manacled to the wall by a single heavy chain attached to a heavy iron collar, was another elf. Long white hair was crudely chopped off in a similar fashion to his own; his pale body horribly marked by whip, chain, knife, and fist and stained with streaks of blood and excrement. The silvery orbs that stared at him were almost dead in appearance as though having seen horrors too great to be endured.

"Lindir," he mouthed, his voice too strained from screaming to make a coherent sound. A tear formed in his eye as he watched the bard, his heart faltering from sheer sorrow. He hadn't seen the elf since they had been attacked, and had hoped he would have been one of the few to get away.

Claws clutched at his sides, rending deep bloody furrows into his flesh as they trailed down to his hips, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. Then his eyes snapped open as the rough hands grasped his buttocks, spreading them and exposing his most private flesh to view. His eyes met Lindir's desolate ones as his own hands pushed against the table in a last effort to get away. He knew what would happen next, and might have endured it had it not been for Lindir's presence. Having the one he cared about most watch while he was violated was more then he could bear.

Yet his meager attempts at struggle were nothing to the strong orcs who held him captive, and before he could make much more than a token effort he felt the rough, twisted shaft pierce his body. The pain was sharp and intense, the vile arousal too thick for his small body. He found himself screaming as he was brutally torn, the wail of agony and despair echoing through the room and inciting more laughter from the other beasts. His remaining fingers scrabbled uselessly against the wood of the table, his belly shoved against the rough edge leaving bruises of its own, although he barely noticed it. His eyes once more focused upon the other elf, and his soul struggled for escape as he watched the tears flow from Lindir's grieving eyes.

The orc continued to thrust within him, each deep stroke a renewal of extreme pain and soul rending anguish. He could feel the blood running down his thighs, and the orc's claws piercing his hips. When the beast finally let out a bellow of satisfaction, foul seed bursting from the orc's loins into the elf's torn body, he screamed again as his insides burned from the poisonous fluid.

He sobbed hoarsely as the orc withdrew from his body, trying to will his spirit free. He could hear the other orcs drawing closer, each intent to use his body for their own foul pleasures. Closing his eyes he welcomed the darkness beyond his sight and let it carry him away...

Melpomaen woke with a strangled cry, both his mind and body engulfed in agony. He felt lost and confused, and could no longer decide what was real and what was a dream. Ignoring the shouts of those around him he struggled up out of bed, slapping away hands which sought to restrain him. At one point his fist flew and connected with Elrond's face, sending the Imladrin Lord reeling to the floor.

"You lied!" He screamed, slowly backing away from the bed, from the junior healers who had rushed in to help, from Lindir's shocked gaze.

"You were there!" He pointed a finger at the bard, and continued to back up until his back hit the wall. "You suffered, you watched, and now you are here! Yet he said there were no other survivors!"

He turned his wild eyes towards Elrond who was slowly rising from the ground, hand pressed against his bleeding nose. "And this!" Mel held up his hand, all five digits healthy and whole. He had believed Elrond at first about them healing, but in his nightmare one finger had been gone long before the attack, and remained unhealed. "Limbs do not replace themselves, even after centuries! I want the truth! What is happening to me!"

None of them spoke, and in fact other than Elrond rising to his feet none of them even moved. Melpomaen's world blurred, and it suddenly seemed as if every pain inflicted within his nightmares was felt once more. He cried out, and looking down watched as blood dripped from his once more mutilated hands. Cold iron manacles now encircled his wrists. His deep auburn hair which once fell so lush down his back was suddenly gone and his clothing disappeared revealing welts, cuts, and bruises upon his suddenly sallow skin. He screamed again, reaching out to Lindir for help, but received no response from the statuesque bard. All the elves in the room merely stared at him with dead eyes.

He collapsed to the floor, closing his eyes as he felt his backside burn with intense pain and the slick feel of blood and other fluids coursing down his legs. His heart beat heavily in his ears, faltered momentarily, then struggled to beat again. His spirit lay shriveled and weak, fluttering uselessly against the bonds of the flesh.

When he at last opened his eyes he was back in the stone room, lying sprawled upon the cold stone where the orcs had finally abandoned him. Yet he wasn't alone. The shadow that had lurked in the corner had parted from its brethren, revealing a creature horrifying in its dark beauty.

"Awake at last," the velvety voice purred, and Melpomaen whimpered as a single pale hand caressed his cheek. "Good. No more dreams for you."

With those words Sauron laughed, and Melpomaen truly knew despair.


~END~