Chapter Text
"Get up, Elfrat!"
Elrond gasped as an iron-shod boot connected with his aching ribs, his body jerking. The movement caused his leg to flare with bright, intense pain, and for a moment, his eyes fluttered shut again.
They'd been marching almost a full week, hardly stopping. Elrond's leg was practically numb from the exertion, and whenever he faltered, he was kicked or lashed cruelly. Or worse; they whipped Sirea. His body shook; slicked with sweat and shivering from a bone-deep chill which never went away, even in his sleep, as he struggled to curl as close to Sirea as he was allowed.
When Elrond came to again, he saw a hideous captain leaning over him, sniffing his bandaged leg.
"It's rotting," the captain scowled, glancing up at the hulking commander. "He's getting the shakes. He'll be dead before we reach Mordor."
The commander growled and stalked forward.
Elrond screamed as the commander seized his bandaged flesh, and with a sickening tear of rending fabric, shredded the bandage with his claws.
Elrond gagged at the stench which rose from the wound; the reeking, heady rot of infection. His skin throbbed with heat, offsetting the feverish chill in his limbs. He couldn't even bring himself to look at it, as the commander poked it critically, causing Elrond to shriek again.
"Last thing I need," the commander spat in the dirt. "Fetch me a tonic—if he dies, we're left with the defective one," he hooked a thumb at Sirea, who was curled up, panting behind her gag. "And Sauron will have our skins."
"She's not defective," Elrond rasped, instinctively.
"Shut it!" This was punctuated by another kick to the ribs. "You better hope she is, Elf-runt! Sauron may take pity on her miserable little hide. You on the other hand," the captain grinned a sharp-toothed leer, "You better pray you have enough information in that little mind of yours to please him. Because you are the one he wants. Believe me, that is no good thing!" He laughed at this.
Elrond groaned, closing his eyes, briefly, trying to focus on his breathing.
A sharp, white-hot stinging pain shot through his leg as a liquid sloshed on the gash in his flesh. Elrond's body convulsed and spasmed as he screamed out loud.
He probably blacked out; because the next thing he knew, the orc captain was tying off a leather bandage on the wound—which prickled and stung painfully but felt number than before.
"That ought to put you back on your feet," he leered, pulling Elrond upright. "Better hope it does, or the little one gets the lash today!"
Another orc was hauling Sirea to her feet, laughing as she whimpered and mewled.
"You two," the commander pointed the butt of his whip at Elrond and Sirea, "Better stay swift today. We're entering Stromcrow lands, and I don't fancy lingering while those blackguards put arrows in our throats. Now. Move!" He cracked his whip overhead.
Sirea jolted forward with a squeak, much to the delight of her handlers, while Elrond staggered after her. To his surprise, whatever medicinal toxin the orcs had sloshed upon his wound seemed to provide a numbing, placebic sense of relief.
Enough, at least, to allow him to keep walking—which Elrond suspected was the point.
To distract himself from this, Elrond tried to catch Sirea's eye.
The poor girl looked awful—her hair was matted and clung to her tear-streaked face. Her hands were swollen and purple, the bonds sunken into her puffy, scabbed wrists. The gag was beginning to cut into the corners of her mouth. She'd lost her shoes at various points over the last week, and she was walking on blistering, swelling feet—squeaking loudly whenever she trod on something sharp or hard.
Oh Varda. Give me the strength to keep her from this, Elrond prayed to himself. If I die, so be it. But let me save her. Let her not suffer this fate.
The march went in on an agonizing rhythm. The orcs did not chant today. Nor laugh or jeer or push their captives. In fact, they seemed furtive and even frightened. Elrond could not perceive why.
The sky was overcast—the sun long choked out by the lingering fumes of Mordor to the southeast—and besides which, the pebbled ravines and lowland fields had given way to dense woodlands of pines and deciduous trees.
The air here was cooler, as well; a biting nip was in the damp atmosphere, and it smelt of cold—a far cry from the subtropic sunny warmth near Pelargir.
Elrond guessed they were in the woodlands to the north of Mordor's northern mountain range—a land which, as far as he knew, was uninhabited except by thieves and scavengers. There was a canyon carved in the northwestern corner of the old Southlands; a gullet-like valley which acted as a road through the mountains in the old days. Why were the orcs so tense?
Sirea suddenly stumbled over a root and let out a cry of pain, slamming hard to the ground. She burst into tears, as if jolted from her haze of shock.
Elrond swiftly knelt, driven purely by instinct.
"Shhh," he whispered, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Shh, it's alright. Please, Sirea, it's alright..."
Sirea kept sobbing.
"What is the problem now?!" the commander roared, storming from the front of the column to loom over Elrond and Sirea. "Get that brat to her feet, or I will see her dragged and lashed!"
"She cannot go any farther," Elrond stood up, forcing himself not to wince as he put weight on his leg. "She is spent. Her body must rest."
"Well, she won't," the commander sneered. "She will come to Mordor one way or another—you!" he pointed to a regiment of orcs, who grinned hopefully. "Bind her to a leash!"
"No!" Elrond leapt in front of the smaller group, who started forward eagerly. "No. I...I will carry her."
"You will?" the commander snapped, doubtfully.
"Yes," Elrond said quietly. His heart lurched at the thought, for he knew he himself was almost to the point of breaking. "I will bear her forward."
The commander considered this, while the other orcs grumbled nervously. They truly did not like these woods.
"Very well," he finally snarled at Elrond. "But you will not fall behind. If you do, I will see you both dragged. And don't touch her bonds!" he added, as an afterthought.
Not trusting himself to answer, Elrond knelt again and wrapped his arms around Sirea, cradling her gently to his chest and wobbling to his feet. She was deathly light—neither of them had eaten nothing but hard trail bread and a few sips of water over the grueling march. She trembled in his arms, but leaned against him nonetheless, her breathing jagged.
"I've got you," he whispered, running a hand across her matted head, "I swear, I have you."
Sirea only whimpered.
She was no dim child; she knew how this march was going to end. Elrond could see it in her eyes. She knew she was going to her death.
Anger flared within him.
No child should ever have that look within their eyes. This was horribly wrong. Sauron had to be stopped.
For now, however, Elrond knew they had to survive the next steps of the march, and forced himself to push the fury down as he lurched forward.
And so they continued. Hours through the piney woodlands. Dense mist crept in slowly around them. Crows rasped and shrieked laughingly, though they never showed themselves. The orcs did not even stop to hunt and eat, as was their wont. They were very hurried.
Perhaps they were eager to return to Mordor? But that did not seem so—every cackle of the crows made them flinch and glance round; as if the birds were some evil portents.
Sirea was restless, occasionally squirming and squeaking in Elrond's arms as she glanced round. Elrond soothed her to the best of his ability, with soft words and whispered reassurances. But she seemed to find the woodlands unnerving.
Elrond's arms were beginning to ache from the weight of the child. His leg shook beneath him, and his knees buckled. When the company halted, Elrond gratefully sank against a huge, glacial boulder lying in the midst of the trees, allowing the stone to support his and Sirea's weight for the moment.
Up ahead, there seemed to be some kind of commotion at the front of the ranks.
"Shut up!" The commander's voice suddenly rose above the rest. "We are NOT going back. We continue forward as planned. If there are any crow-rats in these woods, we cut their throats. Do you hear?"
"They're watching us," another orc whined, "This is a warning. We should turn back before they skin us."
"You want to turn back? Go ahead," the commander mocked. "Go ahead and run through the woods with the crow-maggots on your tail. We serve Sauron. We fear no other!"
"Oh really?" the tall, swaggering orc captain who had tended Elrond's leg pushed through the crowd. "Why haven't we gutted these cowering crow thieves yet? Why does Sauron not yet overrun their hold as he does the others? I tell you; these crow rats are not like other men! They reek of ash and iron—and they command the shadows. When they've finished, their crows pick your flesh."
"You are stupid," the commander said bluntly. "You listen too much to pit stories and ditchdigger's tales. We will continue. Anyone who disagrees can take their chances in these accursed woods! Now. Get the elf maggots to their feet! We march!"
Elrond staggered back to his feet as their captors prodded at them, shaking their whips threateningly as they herded Elrond forward. Sirea whimpered in his arms as she was jostled repeatedly in his struggle to take her weight.
As they rushed onward, with a new, furious pace, Elrond caught a glimpse of what exactly had halted the orc company. His blood turned cold, burning like black ice.
A crow's skull had been pinned to a tree trunk with a long, black-flighted arrow. Beneath it, scrawled hastily in some black, smoky substance were the words: You were not invited.
A crow screamed in the trees above, taking flight with a laughing series of croaks and gibbers—feathers ruffling and sighing in the breeze which crackled the bare treetops.
Elrond swallowed a massive lump in his throat, as he glanced down at Sirea. The girl was now perfectly still in his arms, looking at him with very clear, very intense blue eyes. Something was out there.
And it did not like the presence of strangers.
"Keep moving!" The commander screamed, cracking his whip above his head. Thunder rumbled in the distance, punctuating the sound. The mist was growing thicker—as the heavy, moisture-rich prelude to a storm began to wrap around the woodland.
Elrond gasped, his chest heaving as he struggled to keep pace with the frantic, furious march of the orc company around them.
They were turning southward, toward the mountains, as if they were trying to outrun an invisible enemy.
Elrond's mind spun. Who had left the note? The arrow? The skull? Were they friend or foe? The orcs spoke of "Crow-rats" and "thieves." What mortal band of brigands could possibly deal such harm Sauron's own forces feared them with passionate hatred? Were they mortals?
Sirea whimpered suddenly, burrowing her face in Elrond's shoulder. Elrond shook her loose, afraid she might suffocate there, due to the gag around her mouth.
"Stay with me, Sirea," he whispered.
There was another crack of thunder—this one far closer. Elrond's heart slammed into his ribs, and he flinched hard, startled by the flickering flash of light and the concussive sound.
Sirea squawked.
There was a cry of dismay from the orc pack, as they slammed to a hard stop before a cluster of boulders among a copse of old oak trees.
Another raven skull perched atop the rock, along with another black message, still wet; Leaving so soon?
"What madness is this?" Elrond rasped, cowering, as if the rock itself were cursed.
He did not earn remonstrance from the orc pack, who were busy fighting amongst themselves.
"We should not be here!" one of them screeched.
"Well we are!" The commander barked back. "And I will not be scared out of my hide by sniveling mortal blackguards, cowering in the mud! Do you hear?!" he raised his voice to a roar. "Come and face me, you reeking mud dogs!"
Silence, except for the rumble of thunder, and a plip plip plip of water striking metal. The rain was beginning to fall.
Cold, sheering wetness which burned Elrond's skin, dripping into his hair, onto his face, soaking him to the bone.
Sirea instantly began to shiver, and Elrond pulled her close, struggling to conserve their body heat.
The note on the rock was beginning to blur and stretch as it washed away. Soot and oil, then. That was all it was.
"Let's go!" the commander snarled. "Before the elf maggots freeze to death! Forward!" he cracked his whip again. Elrond's mouth went dry.
"Wait," he rasped out, "If there's someone out there, maybe we should—" Elrond was cut off with a hard, stinging blow to his chest from a whip. He staggered backward, gasping in pain, while Sirea wailed and squirmed, having caught part of the sting across her small cheek.
"You keep your mouth shut, Elf, if you know what's good for you!" The commander barked. "Now. Forward!"
Elrond's chest constricted in a painful wheeze as he staggered forward, driven by snaps of the whips behind him. Yet, an ugly tension surrounded the company; there was no jeering, no cruel laughter, no taunting. It was as if the orcs were simply trying to disappear.
Elrond thought suddenly of a fox, hunted and terrified, struggling to keep to the underbrush as it evaded the huntsmen's hooves.
They had only made it a few steps, before there was another note, this one carved into the skin of an oak tree with a very sharp blade.
Too late.
Howls of anger and fear rose up among the company.
"This is madness!" one shrieked. "Why do the cowards hide amongst the trees and taunt us? Why do they not fight us?"
Roars of agreement rose up from the crowd. Elrond was shoved into an alcove between tree roots as the orcs convened. He staggered, hard, crashing against the roots, gasping in pain as the air was struck from him.
"Let them come!"
"Flee! We must flee!"
"And go where?"
Sirea suddenly squirmed hard against Elrond's body, kicking and thrashing.
"Shh, Sirea, stop," Elrond whispered, rocking her frantically as he tried to get her to stop moving. "You must be quiet."
Sirea looked into his eyes, gasping behind the gag, and then looked upward.
Elrond followed her gaze, and froze.
There was a person in the tree above them.