Siege of Dread
Chapter 11: Playthings
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Chase me down to the end of my rope
Bind me fast but you can’t steal my hope.
Chase me down to the end again
So many times I can’t remember when.
Doesn’t matter what you do
I’ll still breathe in spite of you.
Can’t touch a fire you don’t understand.
Hope reach out and hold my hand,
Courage come, make all fear flee...
You can take my body, but you can’t have me.
The glen stilled. The dust still hung in the air, coating beast
and plant alike with a white, ashen snow. Mrdhdúk stood
slowly to her feet, shaking her mangy mane and dusting her rider with
bits of stone. Guruth wove unsteadily on his feet, his face a
mask of rage as he stared at what was left of Daradwayn. The cave
had collapsed, taking with it a good portion of the mountainside.
Water seeped from cracks in the newly formed cliff face forming tiny
waterfalls that pooled in the mud at the base of the hill, the only
remnants left to attest to the Dwarven cavern.
The orcs around Guruth were stirring; those that were uninjured and
still among the living stood to their feet and looked to their captain,
wondering what to do next. A warg sniffed the body of the fallen
ranger. The mount’s rider kicked the human roughly. Aragorn
rolled over, his bloodied face obscuring the fact that he lived.
The orc grimaced and pushed his mount away from what he perceived to be
nothing more than a dead human; their captain was calling for them and
any delay would cost them. For the second time the orcs’ lack of
careful scrutiny cost them a victim, although they did not know it yet.
“What of that human and the elves that escaped, where are they?” Guruth barked at the riders around him.
“The human is dead. His body is over there,” an orc spoke up as he walked into the circle of riders.
“Good,” Guruth growled, turning in a semi-circle, waiting for news regarding the rest of his question.
Tmarkz stumbled into the meadow. He was holding his right arm
tightly to his chest. “The golden-haired elf and the younger brat
that tried to rescue him have been recaptured, my lord.”
“Where?” the captain demanded, shoving his way through his companions
until he reached the place where Tmarkz had led him. Two blond
elves lay on the forest floor, their hands bound behind their backs
with thick rope. The younger of the two moaned softly, his eyes
barely fluttering open. Faster than his men were prepared for,
Guruth leaned over and struck the fair elven face sharply, knocking the
young prisoner out once more.
Legolas stilled beside his unconscious father and was not aware when
they were slung over the backs of two wargs. His slim frame was
placed none too gently across Mrdhdúk’s broad shoulders as Guruth
mounted up behind the prisoner. The orc wrapped his gloved finger
in the blond hair and pulled Legolas’ head up, sneering into the elf’s
“I think this is that one I wanted you to kill before, Tmarkz,” he
glowered slightly at his underling, but wasn’t ready to start a fight
right now. Instead he grinned somewhat wickedly at the other
“Maybe this means that we’ll have fresh meat for dinner tonight!”
He laughed cruelly as he slammed the elf’s face against the warg's
coarse hide. “To the rendezvous! Gather up every warrior that can
make the trip and head out. In fact...” Guruth turned on the small
makeshift saddle that straddled Mrdhdúk and looked over what
riders and soldiers he had left. “Tmarkz, lead a group out that way,
Shelzkahz you take the foot soldiers over that hillock and meet up with
us. If anyone decides to come after these two before we’re ready
for them, they’ll have a hard time finding which tracks to
follow.” He watched as the older elf was thrown over Shelzkahz’
mount and the orc soldiers followed the warg rider out.
He was more than positive that Dehlfalhen and Glamferaen had somehow
made it out of the cavern with their father and was not about to be
surprised by them twice.
When Legolas came to, he realized that he was bound. His hands
were tied together and he was hanging from the low branches of a
tree. A large fire burned in the center of a cleared glen.
Dark shapes moved in out and out of his line of vision, but it was hard
to clear his mind. He floated between waking and unconsciousness
for several minutes before the world darkened and the fire was blotted
from his sight. He squinted, frowning, wondering what had
happened when sudden realization hit him.
A large orc was standing in front of him, sneering. “So you’ve
woken have you, pretty thing? That’s good, ‘cause the cap’n is
awfully curious about a thing or two and your other friend ain’t
“Guruth! This one’s awake now!” the orc on guard called back to his superior.
A round of laughter and harsh cheering met the announcement as Guruth
called for the elf to be cut down and brought to him. As he was
dragged nearer the fire ring, Legolas could see that he was a prisoner
of the warg riders. They had set up camp near the base of a rocky
shale cliff. Their rendezvous took up the circumference of a
large glen. He noted with dark pleasure that their company had
been severely decimated and less than half the orcs and wargs had
survived the collapse of Daradwayn. Desperately he searched the
grounds for Aragorn or his father. Of the ranger there was no
sign, but he briefly caught sight of his father being roughly held on
his knees before the younger elf was yanked onward and hauled before
Guruth. Blood caked the side of his father’s face and it was
obvious what kind of questioning he had already endured. Legolas’
blood boiled. They could hurt him, but the instant they touched
his father they had just made themselves all dead orcs.
The warg rider stared hard at the prince for a long moment without
speaking. He ran one black, dirty fingernail down the side of the
prince’s face, his eyes tracing the elven form.
“I’ve seen you before. You come and go from the Healer’s house
with that dead human. What place do you hold there? Who are
you to them?” the orc asked; his tone was almost conversational
as though he really expected Legolas to talk civilly with him.
The orcs holding the prince’s arms dug their fingers into his skin
Legolas’ heart skipped a slight beat at the mention of Aragorn, but he
was not ready to believe a word Guruth said right now. Orcs
always lied and they had been wrong more than once already.
“I have many questions and we have all night. Your friend was not
forthcoming with me. I had hoped you would be smarter than
he. Now, who else attacked us? Were Dehlfalhen and
Glamferaen with you? Do they really still live? Do you know
them?” Guruth was almost positive it was them he had seen, but he
wanted to be sure. Things in the cave had been chaotic, after all.
“Answer him,” the creature on the prince’s left purred in his ear, as
Legolas tried to shy from the unwanted touch. “It will go better for
you if you do.”
Turning his head Legolas spat viciously at the orc. He had no
doubt they were going to kill them if they couldn’t get away and he was
not about to divulge any information.
He was surprised when his reaction brought laughter from Guruth and he glared into the face of the orc before him. //Keep laughing,// the elf’s glare warned. //You’ll laugh yourself into your grave filth.//
The defiance in Legolas’ eyes was unbridled and Guruth sobered quickly. Reaching out, he backhanded the young elf.
Legolas licked his bleeding lip, but didn’t even register pain in his
features. His eyes remained hard and taunting. Guruth was
going to have to hurt the elf a lot worse than that before he even
began to scratch the surface of the prince’s extremely jaded endurance.
“You came into my house and stole from me. You brought our home
down upon our heads and killed some of my soldiers and wargs.”
Guruth paced in front of Legolas, his ire rising, “I bring you here
and spare your life and ask you simple questions and you respond like
this. You are lucky you still have a tongue in your head to spit
with, you elven brat.” The orc grabbed Legolas’ face in one hand
and drew him closer, “Who are you and what do you know of Dehlfalhen
and Glamferaen? Are you close to them? What are they up
to? Answer me, or I will let my soldiers get the answers out of
you.” Guruth turned his back on Legolas as he paced closer to
Thranduil, “And trust me, you won't like that one bit.” He
grabbed the elven lord by the hair and tipped his head back, “Will he?”
“Tell him nothing,” Thranduil said firmly in elvish. His defiance earned him a backhanded slap.
At the abuse of his father, Legolas thrashed in his captor’s grip,
nearly breaking their hold on him. Guruth stalked back to his
position and grabbed the prince by the throat, lifting him up onto his
toes and stopping his fighting. “No answers?” When Legolas
still refused to speak, Guruth’s fingers tightened around his neck.
“Fine. Then my soldiers would like to talk you.” He shoved the
elf backwards into the hands of the orcs behind him.
Pulling his sword from its scabbard, Guruth stalked back to where Thranduil was being held.
“Sit still or it goes a hundred times worse for him, understand?”
Guruth pressed his long, wicked blade against Thranduil’s throat as he
crouched down next to the struggling Elvenking. This threat alone
subdued Thranduil’s resistance and he settled down a little in the
hands that held him, his gaze boring deadly holes into Guruth’s
smirking face. Guruth seemed singularly undisturbed by the elf
king’s wrath. He smiled evilly, turning his attention back to
where his minions were grappling with the younger elf. “Relax,”
he told Thranduil. “Enjoy the show.”
The orcs holding Legolas’ arms manhandled his back up against one of
the cliff walls, pinning him there. For half an instant Thranduil
saw something disturbing flash through his son’s eyes, something raw
and vulnerable that was out of place in his fierce and unbending
offspring. Then the guard around his son’s icy blue eyes slammed
back down quickly, shutting off whatever he might be thinking or
feeling from any outside scrutiny, even the insightful gaze of his own
Legolas flinched as the dark creatures harshly peeled his tunic off of
him, exposing his upper body to the cold, mountain air. He could
hear his father’s voice still protesting and cursing the orcs
violently. He almost smiled. He hadn’t known some of those
words were in his father’s usually refined and highly polished
Rough hands tangled in the prince’s hair and closed around his arms as
they shoved him down to his knees. Legolas pressed his eyes
closed. He was not going to be afraid of these beasts; he was not
going to let them humiliate him in front of his father that way.
He was not going to let himself remember just how cruel orcs could be
or how much he still dreaded them. Instead he let his ire rise up
to cover his fear, allowing himself only to feel the less
degrading of the two emotions battling for control of him.
“Rhach bo le gwaur hu.” //A
curse on you filthy dogs// Legolas said coldly, his lips curling in
disdain as the orcs holding his arms pawed him with malicious
amusement. Their sharp, ragged, claw-like nails scratched his
pale skin and he found their mere touch repugnant.
They did not understand his words, but the meaning was clear and the
orcs snarled in anger. One grabbed the archer’s chin and tipped
his head down to meet the creature’s disapproving glower as the orc
crouched in front of him.
Legolas’ breath almost hitched at the over-familiar movement, but he
did not allow the momentary swell of emotion to rule him. He was
not in Mordor anymore and these creatures might temporarily control his
body, but that was all it was, they never had and never would capture
“Keep your filthy elf-speak to yourself, maggot!” the orc ordered
gruffly, backhanding Legolas. “If you’re going to beg for your
pitiful life, use words we can understand!” he sneered.
The warg rider’s spiked glove opened a bleeding abrasion across the
elf’s cheek, but Legolas’ pain tolerance was high, built up by the many
trying experiences in his life, and he barely even flinched.
The prince tasted his own blood as it trickled down the side of his
face and he licked it out of the swelling corner of his lips. He
smiled slightly, a cold, mirthless grin.
Thranduil groaned inwardly. He was fiercely proud of his son’s
unbending nature, but he recognized the look in Legolas’ eyes right now
and it usually meant the younger elf was about to do something
“Lang an trî hûn pân heniach, orch.”
//A sword through the heart is all you understand, orc// Legolas
growled, spitting at the creature. Despite how it might seem to
an outsider, it was not as if he had any wish to antagonize them into
making this any worse. Unfortunately however, his experience had
already taught him that it didn’t matter what he did. The orcs
were going to have their sport with him as roughly as they pleased
whether he begged and pleaded or screamed curses at them, it was all as
one to them. He had come to recognize that trait in some beings.
His own reactions were the only thing Legolas had control over now, and
even a small and seemingly counterproductive act of defiance and
provocation gave him a little bit of victory. They couldn’t take
his will away from him and, even in a powerless situation, he still had
the ability to anger them and get under their skin. Legolas had
learned to take the small victories when they were all that was
available. So he grimly enjoyed the look of irritated rage that
blazed across his captor’s face right before the hard-gloved hand
snapped his head to the side once more, followed by a gut-churning spew
of ugly words in the black speech.
The prince instinctively drew in a deep breath and held it as he was
yanked back to his feet, closing his eyes before the expected punishing
barrage of blows hammered into his unprotected chest, face and
abdomen. Orcs it seemed were predictable at least.
Legolas fell quickly into the rhythm that he had adopted in order to survive
in Mordor. Take a breath, hold it. Let it out slowly in
time with the impact of the worst of the blows. Accept the pain,
let it burn through him and then fade. Suck a second breath in
quickly before another hit to his diaphragm could steal it away and
repeat the process all over again. This was important. If
once he lost his breath he knew that that was when the situation would
change from painful to terrifying. There was something supremely
panic-inducing about not being able to breathe and that could undo a
strong resolve quicker than any amount of pain.
The orcs pounded the captive body viciously, slamming Legolas back
against the rock wall behind him repeatedly as their fists and
axe-handles drove deep bruises into his unprotected flesh.
The prince focused on the rhythm of his breathing and let his mind go
blank. Do not think. Never think, or if you do, think about
something else. The comforting white noise that his vague focus
on reality created in his mind helped to keep the prince detached from
what was happening, giving him an ability to ride above the pain to a
certain extent. He had discovered that a long time ago, and not
necessarily in Mordor. That lesson went back a great deal
farther. He had his uncle to thank for his consummate ability to
detach his mind from what was happening to his body and let it float
somewhere else while his physical frame absorbed the beating.
Thranduil was horrified; his anger and hurt rolled together into a
seething serpent of rage coiling tightly around his heart.
Legolas’ face had gone strangely impassive and his body seemed all but
unresponsive to the malicious abuse being heaped upon him. The
level of control required to achieve that both impressed and sorrowed
the Elvenking, because he could not help but wonder how much suffering
it had taken for Legolas to refine this level of indifference to so
severe a beating.
Thranduil watched helplessly as Legolas’ eyes moved swiftly behind
closed lids, as if the prince were trapped in a state of
semi-nightmare. Impassive as Legolas was, he could not deny all
expression of the pain being inflicted on him and his pale lips
trembled slightly, his chest heaving raggedly with the forced effort to
maintain his breathing pattern. Still the prince did not make a
sound, even when the orcs, irritated by his lack of response, struck
him in the gut with an axe handle. Drawing back only to repeat
the move twice more in rapid succession, they nearly drove Legolas to
his knees except for the hands that held him pinned upright against the
A second set of rapid, brutal blows to the same area did finally send
the young elf to his knees when his legs gave out and his captors
allowed him to slide down the wall.
Bright lights exploded behind Legolas’ clenched eyelids, swirling in
brilliant patterns of pain against his consciousness. Short,
quick gasps had replaced his attempt at deep breathing in the wake of
the latest assault. He wanted to curl over his aching stomach, but
was not allowed to do so. It was all the prince could do to not
cringe away from the blow he knew was coming when a heavy, sharp-toed
boot slammed into his chest, adding one more burst of pain to his
already over-loading system. Nothing could have prepared him to
have that boot joined by three or four others in rapid tandem, forcing
the last control over his breathing out of Legolas’ grasp and leaving
him reeling and unable to inflate his lungs.
Doubling over violently, Legolas’ mouth opened in a silent, air-starved
scream that he did not allow to carry any sound. Only one soft,
half-trembling word slipped unconsciously from his lips as the prince
sobbed for air and battled the fierce burning inside him.
The serpent that had been squeezing Thranduil’s heart dug its claws in
with full-strength vengeance, tearing bleeding gashes into his emotions
at the soft sound of his son’s well-borne distress.
“Legolas!” Thranduil bucked wildly against the hands holding him
down until Guruth was forced to tear his gaze away from the enjoyable
spectacle of the suffering prince and turn his annoyed attention on the
“I told you to be still!” the orc leader growled. Purposefully
grabbing Thranduil’s injured arm, he dug the nails of his mutilated hand
into the still raw and feverish lacerations, eliciting a sharp hiss of
pain as he twisted the injured limb, driving Thranduil back down hard,
pressing his knife under the elf’s chin until it drew blood.
Thranduil couldn’t see what was happening to Legolas from where he was
now held, but the cadence of scuffling thuds and jeering orcs had not
slowed. He heard a soft grunt of pain followed by a
Thranduil did not care about the danger. Bringing his legs up he
kicked Guruth in the stomach and knees, knocking the old orc away from
him, even though that motion caused the knife in Guruth’s hand to carve
a deep gash across the Elvenking’s collarbone. “Morgoth spawn!”
Thranduil spat angrily, struggling to his feet. “Release him!”
Guruth rebounded like a coiled wire, springing back to his feet once more with a glint of feral rage in his eyes.
The orcs beating Legolas stopped at the sounds of the scuffle and
turned to look. Holding the prince by his elbows against the
stone wall, they let him sag between them a little, although he was
struggling to remain upright under his own power.
The Elvenking’s burning eyes said just exactly how much he would like
to strangle the life out of the twisted creature before him with his
bare hands. More than that, they had behind the threat the actual
ability to carry through on that desire. Thranduil probably could
have taken Guruth in a fight, perhaps even with his hands bound if it
had just been the two of them.
Unfortunately it was not just the two of them and Guruth had no
intention of engaging in combat with the enraged elf king.
Instead, the orc just grinned and shook his head, glancing meaningfully
at where his minions were holding the Elvenking’s son. He did not
know they were related, because to him all elves looked more or less
alike in the end, but the golden-haired Lord obviously cared what
happened to the younger brat, and Guruth could use that.
“What exactly do you think you’re going to do, elf? Take us all on
single-handed with no weapon? You’re welcome to try, but rest
assured the young one will be the first to die for such a foolish
attempt.” Guruth expertly played one elf against the other and
Thranduil scowled darkly as he realized that this creature had learned
very well how to manipulate them.
With thick disgust, Thranduil did not resist when three or four orcs
rushed forward to grab his arms from behind, wrestling him back to his
knees and cuffing him liberally.
Legolas had opened his eyes when he heard his father speaking and
watched with quiet dread as the orcs manhandled the elf king into
submission. He flinched when Guruth backhanded the Elvenking,
splitting his father’s lip and adding to the alarming amount of blood
already staining Thranduil’s blue-green tunic. Struggling stiffly
against his captor’s clawed hands, Legolas reacted far more to his
father’s pain than he did to his own.
“You do not listen very well,” Guruth growled at Thranduil, pointing
his bloody knife at the elf warningly. “You know, I had thought I
might keep you two to try a trade for Dehlfalhen and Glamferaen if
they’re not too big of cowards to turn themselves over. But if I
neither of you will tell me whether or not they would care if you were
dead or alive, then I have just as good a chance with one as two, don’t
I? Keep pushing me and you’ll be the one who doesn’t make it!”
Thranduil met Guruth’s gaze icily without any trace of fear and the orc
scowled. He hated these blasted elves and their damnable lack of
self-concern; it was so foreign to his mind and such a nuisance.
At the end of his scanty store of patience, Guruth gave a frustrated
grunt as he grabbed Thranduil’s hair, tipping the elf’s head back and
exposing his bloody neck. He had had enough of these stupid
creatures. His rational mind wanted the elf lord alive, but his
burning anger and frustration won out. Things had gone so wrong,
he needed to kill something and the elf glaring at him right now was
too good a target to ignore. “Keep on glaring, elf. It will
look very good on you when your head is no longer attached to your
Legolas felt his heart drop out at the goblin’s words and the obviously
deadly intent that was being turned upon his father. Taking a
deep, shaky breath he mustered his strength, prepared to do anything
other than watch his father be killed in front of him. The orcs
holding Legolas had become lax in their grip as they eagerly looked
forward to a blood-letting, considering the younger elf too battered to
be much trouble at the moment. Legolas used this misassumption to
Dropping suddenly back to his knees, Legolas’ perspiration-slicked arms
slid out of his captors’ hands in one deft move. Pushing aside
the dizzy nausea created by his burning bruises both inside and out,
Legolas somersaulted forward as the orcs cried out in surprise and
The prince rebounded to his feet behind Guruth’s back in a remarkable
display of lethal fluidity. Grabbing the orc’s knife hand, Legolas
wrenched the weapon away even as Guruth spun to meet the sudden
attack. The other goblins were already reacting, rushing after
the loose elf. Legolas had only half an instant to act, but he
seized the moment. Flipping the knife in his hand, he plunged it
into Guruth’s unprotected side. An experienced warrior, the
prince would have preferred the chance for a clean, instantly fatal
blow to a more deadly region, but he worked with the limitations of
time and movement that were upon him.
The warg rider howled in pain but reacted with surprising
ferocity. Before Legolas could even pull the knife free, Guruth
swung around dragging the knife, still in his side, with him.
His spiked fists struck out with consummate speed, forcing Legolas to
duck in order to avoid being clubbed. At the same instant another
orc struck the prince hard in his low back, knocking him forward.
The blade jerked out of Guruth’s side, but Legolas lost his grip on the
knife handle as his hurting body was propelled forward faster than it
could compensate against. He quickly turned the tumble into a
controlled roll before dancing stiffly back to his feet. He knew
he could not give up this time; the orcs would kill he and his father
Thranduil made the most of the opportunity presented by the sudden
attack. He tried to kick off the orcs holding his arms.
Twisting and spinning he daunted their attempts to gain a firm hold on
him again. Lifting his arms to ward off a sweeping scimitar,
Thranduil used its momentum to cut the ropes binding his wrists.
He tried to get into the clear, but the creatures were gathered too
close around and he didn’t have enough room to maneuver. All he
could try to do was keep them from getting their claws on him again.
Legolas parried the whirling strikes of the orc attacking him with
quick, firm moves. Dodging the swinging sword and blocking the
orc’s punches and clouts with his forearms, he kicked the creature in
the stomach. Suddenly his mind screamed a warning as a dark,
fetid scent of death washed over his perceptive senses. He tried
to turn but made it only partway around before the heavy, massive frame
of the warg pounced on him. The force of the beast’s rush knocked
Legolas to the ground facedown, slamming his already battered body
against the sharp rocks and forcing the air from his lungs.
Legolas’ head swam as he struggled to turn onto his back and face the
creature crouching on him. A sharp, burning pain ripped suddenly
across the back of his right shoulder. He cried out at the
surprise of it as the creature’s claws tore his flesh. With
desperate effort, Legolas managed to flip over onto his back, only to
find himself face to face with the open, dripping mouth of the foul
creature. Grabbing handfuls of the beast’s filthy mane near it’s
slobbering maw, Legolas pushed up with all his might, trying to put
more distance between himself and those snapping jaws of death as he
scrabbled backward on the sharp, rocky earth, trying to get out of this
Thranduil heard Legolas cry out and turned quickly, seeing the
desperate situation. At the same moment the orcs finally got his
arms again and something heavy slammed into the back of the Elvenking’s
head, knocking him forward and sending the world spinning out of focus
for a few moments.
The huge warg placed its forepaw on Legolas’ chest, its claws digging
painfully into the unprotected flesh and its massive weight pressing
crushingly against his ribs and lungs. The prince could not
breathe and his desperate struggles turned awkward and uncoordinated as
darkness edged his vision. He was vaguely aware of the warg’s
frightening, fanged face hovering right over his. This was not
the way he would have chosen to die.
“Uzb, Mrdhdúk!” Guruth, gripping his injured side, called harshly for the warg to halt in their own, dark tongue.
Mrdhdúk, with the scent of blood in her nostrils and her prey
helpless beneath her, was obviously loath to obey, but her master’s
authority was not to be disregarded and the beast’s primitive mind was
aware of that. With a disgusted snort, she restrained herself
from literally biting the prone elf’s head off. The warg shifted
part of its weight off the prince’s chest as it resettled into a more
relaxed stance, but maintained enough pressure on Legolas to keep the
elf struggling for each breath.
Legolas tried to move but the warg growled warningly. Dropping
her frightening maw back down to gape threateningly near the elf’s
face, she reminded the captive being that he could just as easily turn
into dinner at a moment’s notice if the creature so desired.
Legolas nearly gagged on the foul stench of the warg’s breath.
Coupled with his lack of air, the reek was nearly enough to make him
pass out, but he struggled to retain consciousness.
Guruth limped slightly as he made his way over to the huge warg,
patting the creature’s mangy hide in approval. The orc leader was
obviously in pain from his wound, but he was a survivor and had lived
through much worse. He did not intend to let this little incident
take him down, nor did he intend to let it go unpunished.
His eyes were dark and deadly. Guruth was through playing.
These elves were going to pay for their meddling troublesomeness.
“Good job, Mrdhdúk, you always obey me, don’t you?” he praised
the warg, whom he had raised since she was a wargling, after he killed
her mother. “Mrdhdúk does her work well, does she not?” he
nodded towards the creature. “Better than some fools,” Guruth
looked in recrimination at the other orcs who both scowled and cringed
at their leader’s displeasure.
Guruth glanced from Thranduil to Legolas with a malevolent glare. “I
think she’s earned a little reward.” The orc whistled around
the fingers of his mutilated hand and Mrdhdúk’s ears perked up,
obviously awaiting instruction. Two other wargs that had been
hanging back nearby appeared over her shoulder.
Switching to black speech, Guruth said something to the wargs that
appeared to please them, for a hungry, delighted fire lighted
immediately in their small, dark, beady eyes.
Legolas, still trapped under Mrdhdúk’s grip, could feel the
change in the creature’s demeanor and did not think it boded well.
Guruth moved stiffly over to a rock, holding his side as he sat
down. He turned a dark grin on Thranduil. “In case you
wanted to know, I just told them that they can have fun with the young
one, so long as they don’t eat him... yet.”
Thranduil reacted with a blinding fury of helpless rage, tugging
uselessly against the orcs holding him and spitting epithets at
Guruth. The scarred orc was unfazed and leaned back, resting
easily against the rock he was perched on. He was going to enjoy
Legolas tried not to feel terrified at the pronouncement, but the dark
waves of malicious anticipation radiating from the creature above him
did not help.
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