Vicious || Legolas

Eight

The only reason that Namir knew that his lover wasn't dead was Saruman's continued growing frustration. The wizard spent more times in the deep mined wells that had been gouged out of the ravaged earth that now surrounded the tower. It glowed from within with the red embers of fires and putrid smoke poured out into the rapidly darkening sky. The day light hours grew weaker in a way that was too unnatural to be apart of the approaching winter. The light vanishing and the cold bearing down on them too sharply to be anything other than the effects of the rise in dark magic.

He could hear the mournful groans of the trees as they were ripped up and thrown over the edges of the pits to fuel the fires from below. The creaking groans echoed over the valley and resonated deep in his chest. He loved the forests. They were his home and the pain emanating from Foghorn Forest seemed only to amplify his own sorrow. The crash of another tree being pushed down into the fire made him flinch from where he was curled up on the roof of the tower. Thick black fur keeping him warm against the frigid wind. Below him, the black dots of orcs swarmed over the ground. Namir growled at them. He was practically itching to claw at them and rip them apart. It was only the collar around his neck that stopped him. Skin around his neck and shoulders bumpy and bubbly from the cruel burns it inflicted. 

He knew from Saruman's frustrated mumblings as the wizard paced his study, that the quest to destroy the one ring was still on track. The hobbit carrying it had disappeared from all sight and the rest of the fellowship were on various tracks across Middle earth. All he could hope was that Legolas wasn't wounded. The elf was an amazing warrior so all the captive skin-changer could do was wait and hope.  

Something down below caught his attention and his tail flicked as he peered down over the drop. A human man was running through the grounds of Isengard. A long black coat billowing out behind him as he stumbled. Namir peered at him, taking in his waxy pail skin and greasy black hair. The man stank of dark magic and it was only when the man stuffed round the orcs guarding the front doors of the tower that he recognised him. Saruman had once brought a human man back to the tower a few years ago. A young man slimy and ambitious. It was the same man back, years later. Grima Wormtongue. 

Once he had shifted back to human and crept down the tower, Saruman and Grime were already speaking in the study. Namir pressed his back to the wall and listened to their voices echo through the slightly open door. "He won't stay in the city. He knows its vulnerable, unprotected. No, Theoden will take his people to Helms deep. An impenetrable fortress that has protected the people of Rohan for generations". 

"How do we break that fortress?" Saruman's voice rumbled back. 

"Four feet thick walls. The only weakness it has is a opening in the outer wall, gated by iron. It is nothing more than a drain. And too heavily guarded. It would take a force of thousands to storm the keep. My lord, where would we get a force like that?" 

"Don't worry. I have that accounted for. Tell me more about the journey to Helms deep". 

"He will take the women, children, the elderly. They will be mostly on foot and slow". 

"Good", there was cruel satisfaction in Saruman's tone. "I shall send my warg riders". 

Footsteps approaching the door. Namir darted round the corridor and listened as he heard the white wizard walk away down the other corridor. His staff thudding rhythmically against the floor as he disappeared. "You", Namir snarled as he turned round the corner just in time to catch Grima slinking out of the study. The man jumped and upon spotting him, took several steps back. 

"Oh", Grima glanced up and down. "You're the lord's captive". 

Namir stepped closer, lips pulling up in a feral snarl. His dirty and baggy trousers combined with the scars on his skin and the wild, untamed long hair that curled round his back, made him look wild. He looked half mad and savage. Grima visibly swallowed, face nervous. "You", Namir repeated. "You were in Rohan? Was there an elf?" 

"Pardon?" Grima blinked in surprise. He had eyes a weak blue, like puddles. Namir itched to claw them from his skull. He took another step forward, fingers curling as the claws extended from his skin. He hadn't been able to do that before but captivity had forced him to adapt and grow more in tune with the beast in his chest. Grima paled even further, the dim light and gloomy corridor making him as white as a ghost, as he spotted the black gleaming claws. 

"An elf", Namir repeated. "Blonde and dressed in green. Answer me before I carve it out of you". 

"You can't harm me", Grima tried to smile. It was horrid. "I am under lord Saruman's protection and the collar around you next forbids it". 

"I am sure I can make you bleed out before the burning begins", Namir grinned, it was all sharp teeth and wild eyes. "I have been patient long enough and I am just craving the feeling of someone's throat ripping under my teeth". Another step forwards and Grima stumbled back. 

"Wait, wait. There was an elf. A blonde one with a massive sword on his back. He arrived with Gandalf, a dwarf and the man, Aragorn". He threw his arms up as if that would protect him from Namir's rage. 

"Who's Aragorn?" Namir asked, intrigued by the way the man's name was spoken. So Legolas was running round with a dwarf and a human? That was amusing. His mate had friends. He hoped they made him happy. 

"The heir to the throne of Gondor, descendent of the last king". 

Namir hummed and trailed one claw along the stone wall. It made a satisfying scratching noise and Grima flinched. "Run along before I decide to feast on your organs", he snarled. Grima fled as fast as he could. His long coat flapping as he skidded round the corner. Namir sighed and let the claws sink back into his flesh again. He flexed his fingers with a frown. Having claws in human form hurt. They broke the skin of his fingertips and left tender red skin behind. But still, his hopes were higher than ever. Legolas was coming. He was coming and when he did, he would tear the wizard and his accomplice limb from limb. 

Content with that mental image, he turned and padded back to his cell as outside, thousands of orcs gathered to march on helms deep. 

unedited