LINE

One Shot

Elladan coughs a wet, throaty hack of the lungs.

These Valar-damned orcs had caught him and his brother off guard, attacking in a drove too much even for the sons of Elrond. At least Elrohir escaped, Elladan thinks.

This- to be captured in the same place his mother had- no, let's not thinking about that.

The stab wound inflicted on him came shy of spilling his guts, but it is not something his body can not heal from, given time. The blade that managed the wound had not been special... but the poison in it had been. Elladan presses a stained hand against the wound, wondering if the inside of this dark cell will be where he will led to see the inside of the halls of Mandos. He did not want first hand experience, at least, not yet, but perhaps he has little choice in the matter.

Elrohir would be incredibly cross with him, if he finds him in this tower, halfway fading. So, he can't.

He doesn't know how long it has been since that I'll fated patrol, but his chances of getting out of this tower seems to be dwindling. The orcs have somehow found themselves a rotting building of blood-soaked stone and made their base with it in the center. Of its arcane nature, Elladan has no doubts, for he is unable to use his fae to naturally heal his wounds and that spelt trouble.

He had heard the screaming, on his trussed up journey into this thrice forsaken place. Then, whatever magic lied in these chains cut off his senses and he is left floundering in a cage of darkness only punctured by the occasional orc visit that always end in pain. They tortured him for a day before tossing him into this rank cell without a shred of light save for that of a torch when the singular meal of pig slop gets tossed in.

He doesn't know how much longer he can hold on, the light deprivation is enough to drive him insane. Elves were not meant to be hidden from the light, they craved it more than breathing and almost more than to be with their creators, the Valar.

"Hello?"

Elladan startles, his wound protesting loudly at the sudden and painful movement. The whip marks and bruises on his back and body shudder as he moves, chain rattling. He turns towards the wall, leaning in as far as he can. The scrape of stone is nothing new, unlike this voice his deafened ears is hearing. He spots a little carved hole underneath the wall, where the sound is coming out.

"... Hello?" He replies in common, voice soft.

"Oh. You're... you're another one."

The voice is young, he thinks. The pitch of a child, the sweetness of a toddler. His heart clenches, offering up a prayer to Yavanna, even as he huddles against the wall.

What is a child doing in an orc encampment?

"Are you another prisoner? I'm Elladan. What is your name, child?" He knows he's rambling. He does. But he can't stop or control it.

"... You can call me Line." The tone is cautious.

"Hello, Line."

What an odd name.

"I... are you doing okay?"

"Ah, of course," he lies, injecting as much cheer as he can into his voice. He's slowly descending into insanity but the child should be spared that knowledge. Mostly because he's not ready to face the darkness himself.
"I'm an elf, and us elves are quite formidable."

"You're an elf?"

Elladan makes a small noise of affirmation, frazzled by the darkness and desperately hanging onto this new source of sanity. His pride stings in placing his sanity in a child's hands... but these are desperate times and he is very, truly, desperate.