Author’s notes: Hardly any torture in this one, but there is resolution. Hope you enjoy it anyway.
And All Hope Fled (Part 3)
It took Grima and his men seven days to travel to the forest of Rivenna. When they finally arrived, weary and aching from the long trip, they saw only trees and stone and the majesty of the white river. The men glanced furtively at Grima, too frightened to look at their king full in the face. They were afraid of his anger. And they were right to be afraid of it. Grima shook with it, his face twisted and almost unrecognizable from the overwhelming strength of it.
The ring that sat on his finger enjoyed the anger. It fed off of it, drew strength from it, and in turn it gave strength to the man who bore it.
It took only five days for Grima and his men to return to Isengard. None of his anger had abated in that time. It had instead grown into an ugly, mindless rage.
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Gimli looked at Legolas out of the corner of his eye, trying very hard not to appear as if he were looking at him. Four days ago Legolas had accused him of being a mother hen, and perhaps he was, but he was very worried about his friend.
Legolas had healed of course; at least physically. Mentally, emotionally...in those ways he had not healed quite so well. He was sullen and withdrawn and he slept too much and ate too little.
Gimli sighed inwardly. Yes, he was very worried about his friend. And the worst part of it was that he had no idea how to help him.
“Gimli, I can see that you are staring at me,” Legolas said suddenly.
Gimli almost jumped at the sound of the quiet voice, then he steadied himself and snorted as if the very notion were absurd. “Nonsense elf, I was staring at the wall behind you.”
“I can see you perfectly well, you were staring at me with that look on your face again.”
“What look?” Gimli asked innocently.
“Pity,” Legolas said softly. “The look is pity.”
“You know, for someone whose eyesight is supposed to be so good, you are quite blind,” Gimli said as he stood.
“What?” Legolas asked, a touch of anger in his voice.
Gimli heard the anger and almost smiled. He had not intentionally provoked Legolas, but now that he had, he found that he preferred the anger to the sad lassitude that had emanated from his friend since he had been violated.
“You heard me, or are you ears as faulty as your eyes?”
“Why do you speak to me like this?” Legolas asked as he too stood. There was an undercurrent of hurt in the elf’s voice but the growing anger easily overrode it.
“Perhaps because you need to hear it,” Gimli said loudly.
Legolas took a step forward. “What?” he asked.
“You heard me.”
In two quick strides Legolas was across the cell and in front of Gimli. He grabbed two fistfuls of the dwarf’s shirt and shook him forcefully. He repeated the question. “Why do you speak to me this way?”
“Because I need to see something from you other than this overwhelming depression,” Gimli answered loudly, almost shouting at his friend. “You are angry now. Perhaps if you can hold on to that and turn it away from yourself, towards the ones that hurt you...perhaps you can begin to overcome this.”
Legolas looked at him for a moment, searching his eyes, then he let go of Gimli and dropped his hands to his sides. “If I allow myself to feel the anger, then it will turn into hate, Gimli. I do not wish to hate.”
Gimli sighed, a little defeated. “No, of course not, Legolas. That is not in your nature. Sometimes I almost forget that you are an elf.”
Legolas leaned his head to the side, his expression curious and confused.
“You are such a good friend to me...sometimes I see you as a dwarf,” Gimli explained, shrugging.
Legolas chuckled softly.
Gimli crossed his arms and looked personally affronted. “That was a compliment.”
Legolas sobered up immediately. His face was solemn. “I know. And it was one of the kindest you have ever bestowed upon me.”
Gimli reached out to him. Had they been the same height, he would have placed his hand on Legolas’ shoulder. As it was, he settled for touching his arm lightly. “ I do not pity you, Legolas. I am concerned as any friend would be. What was done to you...”
“Let us not speak of it, Gimli,” Legolas said as he made to turn away.
Gimli tightened his grasp on his friend’s arms and swung him around. “We will speak of it,” he said firmly.
“Gimli...” Legolas began.
“I do not pity you, Legolas,” Gimli interrupted. “I admire you. I admire your courage and your strength. So many others would have given in under that torture. Would have begged for mercy. Would have told all. But not you.” Gimli paused for breath. Now that he had started speaking, he found that his feelings were not all that difficult to put into words. “ Legolas, you and I have been through much together, seen much together. And yet I have never been more proud of you as I was at that moment.”
“You were proud of me?” Legolas asked, his eyes suddenly very wide.
“Very,” Gimli answered.
Legolas smiled and opened his mouth as if to speak. An instant later he closed it tightly and tilted his head to the side, a look of concentration on his face.
“What is the matter?” Gimli asked.
Legolas shook his head. “He is here. And he is very angry, Gimli. Very angry.”
“Grima is here?”
“Yes. His anger...it is so black...” He looked into Gimli’s eyes. “He will kill us both. There is no room in his soul for anything else.”
“Then he kills us. At least this will all end,” Gimli said resolutely.
Legolas stared at him a moment and then nodded slowly. “Yes, this will all end. For us at least.”
“Just promise me one thing, elf,” Gimli said.
“What is that my friend?”
“That when we die, we die as warriors.”
A ghost of a smile flitted across Legolas’ lips. “We will die as warriors. I swear it.”
At that moment, Gimli heard the first light touch of footsteps approaching. As they grew steadily louder, it was obvious that there were many, as if a small army strode towards them.
Perhaps it did.
Before too long the sound of the footsteps had turned thunderous and Gimli knew they were right outside the cell. A moment later the sounds stopped and Gimli hazarded a glance through the bars.
Grima himself stood outside their cell, with what appeared to be at least a dozen men behind him. He motioned impatiently for one of the guards to open the door. The guard hurried to do so, nearly tripping over his own feet to do it as quickly as he could. As soon as it was open Grima stalked inside, his movements stiff and precise. He headed straight for Gimli, like an arrow to its target.
“You lied to me!” he growled as he reached out with a gloved hand and grasped Gimli’s neck. Legolas sprang into action immediately, lunging at Grima, but the guards were prepared for him. Two of them ran into the cell, and grabbing his arms roughly, pushed him to the ground.
If Grima noticed the elf coming at him he made no move indicating he did so. He lifted Gimli into the air until their faces were only inches apart and with one swift movement he pushed him against the wall. Gimli’s back took the brunt of the impact and he groaned. Grima pulled him away from the wall and then slammed him into it again; this time with even more force than the last. He was about to repeat the action yet again when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that the elf had almost succeeded in freeing himself from the grasp of his men. He cursed softly and dropped the dwarf, then turned quickly to face the other prisoner. He balled his hand into a fist and smashed it into Legolas’ face, catching him low on the cheek.
He paused and watched as the blue eyes filled with pain and something akin to amazement. This was good; but it was not enough. He wanted more of the elf’s pain. He kicked Legolas in the stomach, feeling immense pleasure when he felt bones crack beneath him. He looked down into Legolas’ pain-filled face and spoke.
“I know what you must be wondering. How can he possibly be so strong? The ring enjoys my anger, you see. It feeds off of it, uses it to grow stronger and it in turn feeds me. It is the perfect. Symbiotic. Relationship.” His last three words were punctuated by brutal kicks to the elf’s mid-section.
Legolas was on the ground now, his arms wrapped protectively around his stomach, his breathing harsh. Grima knew instinctively that he had inflicted serious damage and that the elf would not be a threat for awhile.
He turned his attention back to the dwarf. Again he picked him up by his throat and slammed him against the wall. This time his head took most of the impact and a thin moan issued from his lips.
“I have not forgotten about you, friend. You lied to me. To what purpose? To gain some time? When all you gained was death?” He tightened his grip cruelly, watched as Gimli struggled for air, as the dwarf’s small, compact hands clutched uselessly at his own. After a few moments of this he dropped him back onto the stone floor.
He bent down slightly so the dwarf would be certain to hear his words. “For your insolence and your deceit, you shall both die. Your friend will die first. Slowly, painfully, and you will watch every moment. And as he screams in his death throes, I want you to understand that this was your doing.”
He stood up fully and announced. “Their punishment is death by flaying.”
Shocked silence was his only answer for a few moments. Finally one of the guards gathered his wits and said, “Yes sire. We will be ready by the morn.”
“No. Now!” he shouted. “I want them dead now!”
“Yes sire. Now...of course.”
“I will be waiting in the courtyard. Do NOT make me wait long.”
“Yes sire.”
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Their hands were tied in front of them with rough cord and they were led outside.
Already a crowd was forming, the promise of a painful death calling to them; enticing them. They were led through the crowd to several whipping posts that were sunk deep into the ground. Except they weren’t going to be whipped. They were going to be flayed to death. Their skin would be taken off, piece by piece, inch by inch, until their bodies gave in to the shock and the blood-loss.
Death would be a mercy.
As they were tied to the posts, Gimli looked over at Legolas. He saw that his friend’s face was unreadable, a blank mask. If there was fear there, it was completely hidden. He hoped that his face looked the same way.
“I will make the first cut,” Grima announced as he pulled from his robes a wicked, lean metal instrument and walked over to where Legolas stood. As he lifted the weapon in the air, Legolas stiffened and fought the urge to turn around and see what was about to be done. Instead he took a deep breath and let it out very slowly.
The sharp metal touched his shoulder blade, and it felt cool, almost comforting. Then it began to dig into his skin, and that sensation was quickly lost. Only a moment later it was under his skin and moving downward quickly. The pain was searing and sharp and he gave a strangled scream, his body tensing up against the assault.
Grima smiled as the elf’s blood flowed freely from his body. A raw narrow wound now stretched from the top of his shoulder blade to the middle of his back. And this was only the beginning. By the time this was over, the ground would be drenched in the elf’s blood.
He let the long piece of skin that he had shorn from the elf drop to the ground. Then he prepared for the next cut. If this continued to be so entertaining, perhaps he would completely skin the elf himself.
Before he could proceed however, a far away shout was heard. Then another and another. War cries.
Grima stopped and turned towards the sounds. “Who are they?” he demanded of no one in particular.
The “they” he was referring to was a host of men, some on horseback, most on foot, that was quickly drawing closer to them. Grima squinted and stared at the man in front of them all, a man who sat tall and imposing astride his horse. He blinked once to clear his eyes...no it could not be! The man was in the deepest dungeon. No more than a hole in the earth and stone. How could Aragorn possibly be riding towards him?
He shouted “No!” and threw the metal implement to the ground, whirling around completely to face the oncoming men.
“No!” he screamed again. The ring heard him and filled him with fury.
“Kill them! Kill them all!”
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Legolas could hear the distinct sounds of war behind him, could feel battle vibrating in the very air around him, but he could see almost nothing; almost everything was happening behind him. Every once in a while soldiers stumbled into his line of vision, only to fall dead at his feet. Legolas, frustrated, tugged ineffectually at his bonds, succeeding only in causing himself pain from his recent wound.
He looked over at Gimli and found his friend to be in the same predicament. Itching to get into the battle, but completely unable to. It was then that he felt someone running directly towards him. He turned his head as much as he was able, and saw a tall, thin man reaching for the ropes around his left wrist. He stilled and watched warily as the man undid the ropes, then moved to untie his right wrist. Once free he staggered a little, but was able to catch himself on one of the poles before falling.
He looked at the man and said, “Thank you.”
“Come, we need to get you to safety,” the man said hurriedly, his eyes constantly moving, searching for immediate danger.
“No, give me a weapon. I wish to fight,” Legolas.
“But surely,” the man began, then stopped. He stared at Legolas incredulously. “You are wounded. You cannot fight.”
“I can fight,” he said. He dropped his eyes to the ground and found exactly what he was looking for. A sword, still clutched in the hand of a dead man.
He pried it from the fingers that still held it tightly and lifted it into the air. “I can fight,” he repeated.
The other man merely nodded and took a step back. “As you wish.” Then he turned around and ran to battle.
Legolas spared a moment to look for Gimli. He was nowhere to be found, the ropes around the poles that had held him now hung swung loosely in the air. He had been freed also, and was already fighting.
Legolas rushed into the field of battle, feeling more alive and right than he had felt in a long time. He swung his sword with a ferocity and certainty that he had never possessed with such a weapon, the pain from his back almost forgotten.
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When the fighting at last ended, it was Aragorn and his men that stood victorious.
Those loyal to Grima were either lying dead on the ground, being taken as prisoners, or fleeing into the woods.
Legolas laid down his borrowed sword and looked around. His eyes soon found Aragorn and he hurried over to him. Aragorn saw him approach and smiled at him.
Legolas reached the man and embraced him without thinking and Aragorn returned the embrace warmly. He winced when Aragorn’s arm came in contact with his damaged flesh, but he made no sound.
They pulled away and appraised each other. “You’re alive,” Legolas said breathlessly.
“And so are you,” Aragorn said.
“Where is he? Where is Grima?” he asked.
Aragorn looked frustrated. “He is gone. He escaped.”
A cold chill ran through Legolas. His chance at avenging himself... was gone. Something of his pain must have shown in his face because Aragorn looked at him closely. “Legolas?” he asked. “Are you ill? Hurt?”
Legolas shook his head, dismissing the questions. “No, no that isn’t it. I had hoped to capture him, regain the ring. Finish this,” he said as he spread his arms wide.
“I understand Legolas. But we must remember that we won a great victory today. We defeated Grima on his own land. We took back Isengard and forced him to flee from his own castle.”
Legolas was about to protest, say that it wasn’t enough. That it would not be enough until that evil snake was dead, but then he caught sight of Gimli moving towards them and he silenced himself.
Gimli looked dirty and tired, but as he neared them, he graced them with a glowing smile.
“Victory!” he said loudly. He ran the remaining way and embraced Aragorn enthusiastically. After they parted he turned towards Legolas.
“Victory, Legolas,” he said again, this time much more quietly and with a deeper meaning.
As Gimli watched Legolas’ face, he pleaded silently
Please see what I’m saying. Please see that you are still strong and that Grima is weak and that one day you will avenge what happened to you.
Legolas looked at the open field, at the wounded and dead and sighed. Yes, there was victory here and he would not belittle it simply because his need for personal vengeance had not been satisfied.
He nodded, feeling his damaged back protest the movement. Now that the adrenaline of fighting was wearing off, the pain was returning. In another few minutes he would be agony. He could only hope that he would heal quickly.
A hand on his arm effectively stopped his thoughts. He looked to see that both Aragorn and Gimli were staring at him with identical faces of worry.
He gave them a smile, the best one he could manage under the circumstances. Gimli’s hand was still on his arm, so he covered it with his own hand and squeezed.
“Victory,” he affirmed, as he held back tears. “Victory.”