Chapter Text
Legolas kept perfectly still, his back pressed flat against the stone wall. He almost dared not breathe, which was quite a difficult task, with his blood charging through his veins as his body fought to contain the storm rising within him. From the dark corner where he hid, he peered through a slit in the wall. He had found what he was searching for.
But he had not anticipated the force of emotions it would unleash.
Two girls were chained inside, their wrists bound behind them, ankles shackled, heads bowed in silent dread. The image mirrored what he and Aragorn had witnessed earlier — but now it was worse.
Two guards at the open gate stood at ease, distracted, their attention fixed on the scene unfolding within.
Legolas' fingers twitched toward his bow.
Not yet.
He forced himself to stay still — one breath, then another. But fury coiled beneath his skin, taut and waiting.
"Are they not pretty?" the man who seemed to be the Lord purred, stepping close. He reached down and tipped one girl's chin upward, forcing her face into view. Her skin flinched beneath his touch. Fear was etched into every line of her face and shimmering in her dark eyes... then she shut them tightly, as if willing herself away, retreating into the only refuge left to her from the men's greedy stares.
The lord laughed, the sound low and self-indulgent. "A pack of dirty Haradrim!" he scoffed, turning to the others. "These ones are quite fair, only a light brown tinge. The desert breeds them fierce — arrogant rats who'd sooner die than kneel."
He paused, gesturing with a flourish toward the girls. "But look how pretty their whelps are."
The room responded with lewd grunts and dark laughter.
Legolas did not move. Could not. His jaw clenched, nails biting into his palms. He would remember every word. Every voice.
And soon — he would silence them.
"A delight to look upon, indeed, Lord Flambrol!" said a tall, broad man, his voice slick with amusement, a filthy grin splitting his face.
Flambrol smiled at the praise, slow and sinister. He ran his fingers along the girl's arm, mock-gentle, as if caressing fine silk. She flinched at his touch, her muscles tightening beneath his hand. When he reached her shoulder, he paused — then closed his fingers around her throat.
She shuddered. Her lips parted in a shallow gasp, and her eyes clamped shut, as if darkness could shield her.
"Not dark like the last brats from Far Harad," Flambrol mused, "Those were stronger, coarser stock. Useful in their way. But these..."
His grip tightened slightly.
"These are little jewel-whores."
Rough laughter erupted around him.
He slid his hand through the other girl's long, black hair. His fingers tangled in the strands at the back of her head, and he pulled roughly, forcing her head up. A strangled cry escaped her lips, and she kept her eyes forcefully shut.
"Their skin is so even, so young. Literally screaming to be touched. I am pleased indeed to offer you this opportunity."
The girl opened her eyes for a moment. They went wide with horror as she stared from one man to the other, terrified, before she shut her lids again. Her slight frame quivered.
Legolas pressed his back so hard against the wall that the jagged stone dug into his muscles, sharp and unyielding. But he welcomed the pain — it anchored him, kept him from shattering.
His heart pumped with such force that it felt as though the very stone thrummed and reverberated with its rhythm. He suddenly feared they would hear it, the vile men, their laughter still echoing inside the chamber like the snarls of carrion beasts.
The scene had cracked something deep within him.
Old memories surged — unbidden, unwanted. Centuries buried, now clawing their way back to the surface as if they had never truly faded.
He could not move. Not yet. His chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm, breath coming in shallow, panicked bursts.
Control. He needed control.
But it was slipping.
He forced his gaze away, teeth clenched, straining to anchor himself in the present. He could not afford this, could not be dragged down by memories, not now. The past was over. Buried. Locked beneath years of friendship and fire, of sorrow and song, of blood spilled and lives saved.
His breath slowed. His gaze wandered, inch by inch, steadied.
And then — there. In the far corner, where the lantern light failed and shadow clung to the stone, he spotted it.
An opening. Narrow. Low.
He focused, sharpening his senses.
A soft sound — a whimper. The faint rattle of chains shifting with movement.
The others.
The remaining children were there.
The realization struck like ice water. It cleared the haze. Snapped his thoughts into sharp lines.
That was all he needed.
He had to reach Aragorn. The lock would be open by now.
And they needed a plan — fast.
But just as he was about to retreat, movement caught his eye.
Two figures — veiled — ghosted around the far corner, swift and silent as moonlight on steel. One slipped through the darkened doorway and vanished into the shadows beyond, where the soft chain-rattling sounds had hailed from. The other pressed flat against the unlit wall, barely more than a dark silhouette.
But Legolas' eyes, keen beyond mortal sight, caught it.
Blue.
Not just any blue. That blue.
He froze, struck and mesmerised alike.
The Blue Riders.
He knew now what they were here for.
Legolas strained to listen, every sense attuned. From the darkened chamber where the blue-veiled figure had vanished came the soft clink of metal, followed by a hushed exchange—too faint to decipher, but unmistakably urgent. Purposeful.
A voice cut through the slit in the wall at his side.
"They are yours!" Flambrol declared, his words thick with twisted delight. "Do whatever pleases you."
Legolas' stomach turned.
"The two on the other side I am saving for myself alone," the man continued, grinning audibly in his tone. "I will send the guards to fetch the remaining two, for our shared pleasure. Just go ahead!"
A ripple of eager laughter followed, ugly and full of anticipation.
Legolas did not flinch. He could not. Every muscle locked in place, bracing. He no longer heard the laughter, only the rushing of his blood and of time slipping away.
He had seconds.
And if the guards reached that far cell before he or the veiled rescuers acted—
It would be too late.
Legolas dashed out of his hiding place, shooting the guards before they could even see him. He leapt through the gate and felled another one. Ire flashed inside him, hard and cold, and he drew his knives—for the men, although horrified, moved close, heaving at him with their weapons. He barely registered the stunned expressions and the fear on their faces, as he was almost dizzy with rage. He nimbly avoided their blades, ducking, twisting and spinning around in a wild dance. His twin knives struck flesh, slashing one man's shoulder and another's arm. A third one was unlucky enough to draw too close in his attack. Legolas plunged his blade deep into the man's chest. A surprised outcry left his throat, and as Legolas jerked his knife out of the body, it bumped heavily to the floor. Legolas whirled around and was charging again as a frantic voice rang in his ears, grabbing his attention.
"Cease! Drop your weapons or she will die!"
Legolas froze mid-movement. His eyes locked on Flambrol, to whom the voice belonged. The man had pulled the girl's head back roughly by her long hair, her slim throat exposed, the blade ready for the lethal cut. Legolas' eyes widened in shock.
"Drop them! Now!" Flambrol yelled, pressing the blade tighter against the tender skin, drawing blood.
The girl gasped in fear. Legolas had no choice. His knives fell to the ground with a loud clatter. The men grabbed his arms, and twisted them painfully behind his back.
He knew he could have wrenched himself free; they could not match his strength…but there was the girl, and the knife at her throat.
He was trapped.
His thoughts swirled uncontrollably. He steeled his jaw, glaring at the men — cold, sharp, fearless. But beneath the surface, a silent panic clawed its way up.
No! They could not take him! Not like this!
The memory of past times, when he had been captured by men, crept over him like a waking nightmare. His breath hitched. A surge of raw defiance overtook him, and he thrashed in their grip, nearly breaking free despite knowing it was futile. They had the hostages. He could not risk it.
"Hold him!" Flambrol barked, shoving at the heavy stone door until it groaned open. More men rushed in, piling on with brute force. It took all of them, their combined weight and strain, to keep Legolas subdued.
Whatever was coming, he would not go quietly.
"Bring him to the other side," the Lord snapped. "Bind him to the poles!"
Aragorn had bent the pin with utmost precision. He had then worked it into the lock and carefully lifted the barb, turning slightly...
…until it gave a sharp, satisfying spring.
He exhaled sharply, a mixture of thrill and relief flooding through him. He had unlocked it!
But there was no time to savor the moment. Suddenly, the heavy stone door screeched open with a harsh, grating sound. Instinctively, Aragorn slipped back into the shadowed passage behind the hole, pressing himself flat to the cold wall to watch unseen.
His heart plunged as he saw the men roughly shove the struggling Elf inside. Legolas fought fiercely, muscles taut, but was overpowered. His face was pale, yet his eyes burned with fierce defiance.
Flambrol stalked after him, a cruel grin spreading across his face as he barked orders.
"Bind him to the poles!" the Lord commanded, voice cold and commanding.
Two guards stepped forward, chains rattling ominously in the still air.
Aragorn clenched his fists, tension coiling within him. The lock was open, but the danger was far from over.
"I thought all your kind had long vanished from the Southern Lands," the gallantly clad man bellowed, his voice thick with fury. "Yet here you are, still skulking in shadows, aiding these desert rats and spoiling the finest of moments!"
He struck Legolas full force right beneath the ribs. Legolas bent over at the violent blow as the air was forced out of his lungs. The men seized upon his moment of pain, forcing his limbs against the cold metal rings fixed to the poles. Rough hands tightened the ropes. Legolas writhed, muscles straining as he twisted and yanked against his bonds — but they held fast.
After the initial shock, Aragorn readied himself to rush to his aid. The gate was now unlocked. He knew he had only a slim chance of facing them all alone and surviving — but he had to try. He could not bear the thought of leaving Legolas in the clutches of these men another moment. He refused to imagine what they might do to him.
His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.
If he could just reach him — if he could cut those bonds — then, together, their strength might be enough.
He took a steadying breath, muscles coiled like a spring.
But as he was about to charge, a hand suddenly gripped his shoulder, and a blade was pressed against his throat. Aragorn gasped in shock.
How could he have been caught so unawares? He had sensed nothing — no footstep, no whisper of movement. Nothing. How…?
"Shhh!" The figure behind him breathed, a quiet but commanding hush. A gust of warm breath grazed his ear.
The blade at his throat did not waver. Its presence was chillingly precise. One wrong breath, one twitch, and it would open his skin like parchment.
Aragorn dared not move. From the corner of his eye, he tried to catch sight of his captor. He glimpsed slender, long fingers resting on his shoulder — delicate, yet firm — the hand cloaked in a flowing sleeve of deep blue.
A woman?
Was it truly a young woman restraining him?
The grip did not bruise or shake him. It was controlled. Steady. Almost gentle — if gentleness could be found in the cold edge of a blade poised at his throat.
Pinned like this, Aragorn had no choice but to obey the unspoken command: remain still.
"But then again..." Flambrol sneered, his face twisting into a loathsome smirk, "Look what opportunity offers us..."
His voice had taken on an oily, gloating edge. Legolas felt a chill crawl down his spine.
"Oh yes," the man continued, strolling slowly between the captives like a predator surveying prey, "we have young, tender flesh waiting to be initiated..." He paused, eyes glinting with vile intent.
He gripped one of the children's chins, forcing it upward. The girl clenched her eyes shut, trembling.
"...but what about having our fun with an elf?" Flambrol said, turning his gaze on Legolas, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. "What say you, gentlemen? How enticing such beauty, such grace, and strength—chained and bent for our pleasure. Pride and fierceness to break…A prize unlike any other, tempting even the darkest desires."
A low, ugly chorus of laughter and confirmations rose from the men around him.
Legolas had given up on struggling against his bonds. He steeled his body as the man began to stroll towards him playfully slowly.
"The children will go nowhere...In the meantime, they can watch!"
Legolas fixed the men with a glare, cold and unflinching, though within him, hatred surged like a tide. He clung to his pride and fury like armor, shielding himself from the creeping dread that threatened to break through. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, the fear knotting in his gut no less real for being suppressed.
But his control faltered when Flambrol seized the front of his shirt and tore it open with a brutal tug. The sudden exposure sent a shock through him — his heart pounded a wild rhythm against his ribs, each beat sharp and jarring. It was as though the years had collapsed in on themselves, and he stood once more in the midst of that long-buried nightmare, as real now as it was then.
He writhed against his restraints, wrists twisting hard against the ropes that bit into his skin. Pain flared, sharp and raw, but he welcomed it — anything to break the feeling of helplessness, anything to remind himself that he still had fight left.
His thoughts drifted to the trees of his home. He needed to reach out to them, cry to them of his agony. But they were far and could not soothe nor help him. His silent screams lost on their way.
"Look at how pretty he is, the elf-boy!"
Flambrol's voice dripped with lust. His hand cupped Legolas' face.
Legolas tried to let his mind drift up high and away into the sky, deep blue and bright with Anor's golden light. He longed to lose himself in its infinity. But the sky was cut out from him, spreading freely over the vast desert — and he was trapped, restrained.
Hate flared in him, and he bit hard before he pulled away in disgust, spitting the blood to his tormentor's feet.
The man gave a pained groan, and his face turned a dark shade of red. Pain flashed beneath Legolas' collarbone as the dagger buried itself into his shoulder. He bit back a cry, but the dagger already slashed into his side. He cried out and jerked at the repeated attack.
Legolas clung desperately to the memory of a slender waterfall in spring, rushing into a clear pond. Cool and pure water, enveloping him, a cool caress upon his skin, liquid and soothing as he dived into it. But reality surged back, merciless and sharp — the searing throb of his wounds, the stifling nausea of disgust. There was no escape.
"This will teach you not to fight me when I touch you, elf!" Flambrol spat.
Aragorn winced as the stabs struck his friend. The bile rose to his throat. The woman behind him tensed, but she did not release her firm grip on him.
The men watched with a broad grin on their faces, enjoying the violence.
A sharp punch made Legolas' head drop back. When he lifted it again, Aragorn saw that his lip was split. He glared at his attacker, eyes hard and ice-cold.
"You are a coward!" he hissed.
"Using children to satisfy your nasty desires! I will kill you! — All of you!" his voice sliced low and lethal.
"You are not in a position to threaten me, elf!" The filthy Lord stepped close, slowly, as if he wanted Legolas to feel his absolute power over him, and then he grinned at the men surrounding him expectantly.
"He seems so proud, the pretty boy! Never did I guess to get a fair one like this to toy with! Gentlemen, after I am done, every one of you can have his turn with him!"
Aragorn felt a surge of frustration and helplessness twist inside him. Fury flared. He burned to kill…
…the men…this woman...
He was about to shatter with the need to eliminate anything that prevented him from rescuing his friend.
But the woman held him firm, and if he moved, his throat would be sliced in an instant.
The blood rushed loud in Legolas' ears, and his heart raced away, making him dizzy.
He would not survive this again. Those children would see. They should not see! And Estel..where was he? Had he been captured?
Legolas hoped Aragorn would not risk capture to reach him. He wished his friend would retreat—save himself, return later with a plan.
But deep down, he knew that was not Aragorn's way.
At least he should not be forced to witness his weakness, his shame!
Flambrol's thick finger, stroked slowly over Legolas' lips, smearing the blood from the cut. Legolas did not bite this time. He knew the man would drive the dagger straight through his heart if he dared to fight him again. Briefly, Legolas thought that at least death would come quickly then, he would not suffer.
The fingers stroked down over his chin, his throat. The man's breath was on him.
His own breathing quickened uncontrollably. His muscles went rigid, like stone, like steel. And as the fingers wrapped around his throat, and the hand pressed on his airway, he writhed and tossed, the horrible feeling of suffocation clawing at him.
It seemed to arouse the man, who let out a groan.
And then he let go of his throat. Legolas' lungs heaved, greedily pulling in oxygen.
"I cannot kill you now, it would be such a pity," the man sighed and panted through his open mouth.
Legolas saw the cruel glint in his eyes and felt the fingers tracing the fine line between the tense muscles of his chest, down, trailing over the ripples of his abdomen.
"Hard, defined the muscles…how dangerous a warrior you could be, impossibly handsome…but look now…how tender the fair flesh is," the man moaned, "Perfectly smooth, the pale skin…The pride will soon be gone from these pretty blue eyes!"
Legolas then closed his eyes and tried to escape in his mind to the moon and the stars in the night.
But the moon was pale, and the stars about to fade. And all he saw was increasing, menacing darkness.
Aragorn thought he would burst, forced to watch his friend shudder in the agony of his deepest fear. A buried memory, catching up with him, becoming once more reality.
It could not happen before his eyes! He had to stop it!
It was to him as if the figure restraining him trembled as the events evolved. Just barely. But enough for him to feel it through the press of her hand on his shoulder, the blade at his throat.
Something was shifting. And he dared turn his head cautiously, seeking her face, heart pounding.
To his surprise, he met dark eyes glistening with compassion in a face concealed by a blue veil.
He should have killed her!
Instead, his eyes pleaded. But the veiled woman did not relent her grip on him.
Slowly, she shook her head.
"Not yet—" she whispered, so softly it was more breath than voice.
The knife remained, hard and cold at his throat, a silent threat. She did not want to hurt him; Aragorn was certain of that. But if he fought her... she would.
His throat burned, from the pressure of the blade and from the pain of this twisted situation.
Suddenly, two figures slid past them, swift and silent. Clad in flowing blue robes, they seemed to glide over the earth. Their garments masked everything but their eyes and hands, heads crowned with elaborate turban-like coils. As they passed, they cast fleeting nods toward the woman — acknowledgement without a word — and vanished toward the iron gate.
"Now!" the woman hissed into Aragorn's ear, releasing her hold on him.