"Nasty elves. Nasty little buggers." The man in the opposite cell muttered, rocking back and forth as the chains around his neck rattled.

"Nasty. Nasty. Nasty."
Tathar's ears twitched.

He was in pain. So much pain he ought to choke on it. It hurts, by Elbereth, had he not worry for the lives of his warriors in his absence, Tathar would've pass for the Halls of Mandos.

It did not help that the man in the cell across them was cursing at his kin.

"Nasty elves, nasty. Nasty being. Vile creatures-"
Tathar fought the urge to smack his head to the stone wall.

"Mellonenin [friend of mine], are you well?" Haulë whispered quietly from his side. He was unable to reach his captain due to the bars that kept them sepparated, yet he still could've reach him, had the latter wanted it.

"I am. Len hannon, do not worry." Tathar hushed.

Haulë looked conflicted. Worry passed his features for a moment before he settled down to sit, pale eyes dim and glossed.

Tathar sighed, shifting his weight as to not injure his back further. It was alright. It was fine. Atleast the other elf did not need to suffer from the fight.

The gladiator.

Tathar inwardly shuddered at the thought of it.

It was so vile. Disgusting. How men find joy in such quaries and deaths were beyond him. It was absolutely deranged.

Pitted against eachother. Killed or be killed. For what? Entertainment? Bets? Golds? It was sickening.

Tathar wished he need not to partake in it. That none of them ever needed to. He was unable to prevent it, and it made him sick. He was the captain, he was supposed to take every thing under control.

Supposed to.

Oh how he hated that word by now.

He was a nobody. In this cell, this prison. Stripped off from his title, his name, even his kin. He was a nobody. He worth lower than a slave.

"Nasty nasty nasty-"
A loud clang reverberated. Tathar winced at the sudden light. He saw the trap door opening.

How long had he been there? Had they all been there? Days? Weeks?

Before Tathar could ask Haulë for answers, the very same man, one that carried whips, appeared from the doorway. Grinning for ear to ear.

He was holding up, much to Tathar's horror, the limp figure of Mailithin. Half-dead, dying most likely. Tathar barely noticed the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

As expected, Lalaith roared. Slamming at his doors, eyes wild as he urged for his brother. Cursing in the silvan tongue whilst Haulë struggled to keep him down.

The man ignored him. Instead, he stared at Tathar. Shaking Mailithin's body lightly, as if he was offering a 'treat'. Taunting, sneering.

The look of his face made Tathar wanted to spit.

The man spoke then, a leering note of disgust and amusement. It didn't take Tathar to know their language to understand.

He was being used.

He was being baited.

He knew. He understood the game. But the consequences would be dire if he did not play along.

So, Tathar stood. Ignoring the pain that flared every where. He glared at the man, then stepped out from the door.

As he stepped out and an uproar greeted him, Tathar knew he was nothing. Knew he was lower than a lecherous leech. Lower than even those vile orcs. He was no longer a living being, but a toy. A pet.

But it was alright.

As long as his warriors were safe,

Pride and honor be damned.

X

He was lucky to be alive.

He still felt the pain in his wounds, yet it was nothing compared to his turmoiling feelings inside him.

He was safe.. safe.. he was safe.

It felt strange.

For the first time in all of his life, Legolas felt at ease. After centuries of running, hiding, an endless chase with unknown shadows. He was finally having the first rest in his life.

It felt odd.

Legolas stared at the boy, his saviour, carefully, assessing the young man. He was but seemed to be naught in his sixth summer. With stanky limbs beneath his hanging clothes and tousled dark hair. Yet he carried himself with a weight, and his grey eyes were fel deep.

The boy seemed like any other. Reckless and was but a child. Legolas would've thought he was the types to be terrified of 'Boogeyman', had he not came to aid the elf, were but strangers, in the middle of a damp swamp at night.

And even after the elf pointed a knife at him.

A strange child. Brave but strange. Perhaps a little foolish.

Legolas could not help but wonder,
"Why were you in these waters, last night? At such hours..?"

The boy rolled his eyes as he folded Legolas' torn cloak. Although his voice carried no venom,
"I should have ask the same, sir elf." He seemed to be quite fascinated by the fabric of the elf's cloak.

Legolas quirked a small smile. Albeit for a second, it was still a smile, nonetheless.

"Do your injuries hurt?" The boy then asked, after a shortwhile. His eyes flickered at the makeshift bandages wrapping around the elf's body.

"Nothing I could not surpress."

"You lie." The boy narrowed his eyes.

Legolas raised his left brow in return,
"Do I?"

It was really a moment of shock when the boy lunged for the elf's right leg. Legolas was unable to stop him from tearing his shoe off. Revealing a wide gaping gash.

"You lie." The boy repeated, glaring accusingly at the elf's shocked face.

"Did you try to move last night when I told you not to?" The boy asked as he poured water on the gash. He knew it was a fresh wound, barely overnight.

Legolas hissed, scrunching his nose up as his leg stung like fire.

"...Perhaps."

The boy shook his head, like a grown man fussing over a child,
"You people should've known better to stop moving once you're injured. Had you not realize it'll take longer to heal if you keep struggling?" The tone he used reminded Legolas of his father, as if the boy had been repeating these words over and over, exhasperatedly, as none seemed to hear him.

"I was... assured that I could move."

"And pray, do tell; what had you realize by now?"

"I.. could not."

"Exactly." The boy deadpanned, all the while tying the ends of the bandages he freshly wrapped around the leg wound.

Legolas hissed, yet the pain washed over him as fast as it came. He frowned. He had been expecting more that a mere sting.

Surprisingly enough,-as if the boy himself was not much-, the boy was very careful on wrapping the wounds. It had taken Legolas the years of his cold facade to mask his surprise. He had never thought men would be so gentle.

Legolas should've felt unease, wary at the very least. Yet he didn't. He felt comfortable, safe in the boy's hands. He trusted him.

They had only met for few hours. By the Valar, had those years in the wilds softened him instead? Legolas shook his head.

"May I ask for your name?" The boy asked, out of the blue as he helped the elf to shift to a better position. Legolas winced before replying,

"I... beg pardon?"

"Your name. As in what you are called." The boy gestured. It came to Legolas then none of them even knew their names.

Ai Elbereth, what happened to him?

Legolas opened his mouth. Then froze. It was too fast. Too quickly. How had he been so trustful with the boy?  What sorcery he had?

So the elf bit his tongue and uttered out another name,

"I am called Greenleaf."

The boy stared,
"That is not your name."

"How so?"

"I am not daft, I know you elves speak in another language. Not westron, so that is not your rightful name."

Legolas raised a brow. The boy was brighter than he seemed. Perhaps he had underestimated the men too much?

"Forgive me, then. But I truly am called Greenleaf and if that is not sufficient enough, Master Man, do accept." Legolas thought it looked funny how the boy's face turned a shade of red as he pouted.

"Fine then, Greenleaf." He drawled,
"I am not giving you my name."

Legolas surpressed the urge to laugh that bubbled in his throat.

"As you wish then," Legolas smiled softly, fondly.

He never meant to, however, to let the word slipped his tongue,

"Estel."

X

It's been so long... *blows nose on tissue* *sniffs*

Hey guys! So uh, yeah. That took a darker turn than expected. Poor boys. Heh.

Okay okay ummmmmmmmm ye.

Enjoy and leave a review!