HP!AUfic	

	The road reached up to grasp at his legs as he ran, muddy fingers 
seeking to pull him back into their depths.  He didn't sob, he never sobbed,
 but he swore and perhaps his voice shook while he did so.  Perhaps his 
voice shook greatly.  He pretended not to notice.  It was easy not to care.
  His chest was burning, his right side being sliced by invisable knifes 
with each breath.  The rain battered him like icy Iron nails, seeping into 
his clothes and chilling to the bone.  It made his hair cling to his face 
in dripping tendrils, easily ignored given the wealth of other distractions
 that haunted him.  Most of those were not so easily put aside.  
	Fever sapped his energy, causing him precious moments spent in 
forced resting, unable to move.  It pulled at him, at his strength, and 
even one of his kind felt it, was unable to shrug it off, when normally the
 wails and wants of mortal men and their kin were never felt.  That point 
had been passed long before.  It was the numbness that worried him, that 
caught him off his guard and threatened to join forces with the exhaustion 
already dragging him down.  Pain could be ignored; for all of the human's 
loathsome games, it had not been the worst he'd felt.  However, exhaustion 
was harder to escape than pain.  Pain eventually faded, but exhaustion 
remained, merely grew stronger the longer he ran.  He wanted to lay down, 
to rest, ease the sharpness in his side and restore sensation to the legs he
 could barely feel.  
	The blackness that danced before his eyes threatened to overcome 
the fear that kept him running.  He pressed on anyway.  He knew, he held 
the cold realization that if he failed now, if they caught him again, then 
it was over.  He'd been lucky for this chance, they'd underestimated him.  
Who would have thought he'd still be capable of destruction, given his 
damaged state?  
	Not the two he'd killed on his way out of their camp.  Certainly 
not the first who had thought to experiment with their prisoner in ways 
usually reserved for the unlucky women that crossed the bandit camp's path.
  More the fool him, then.  Easy enough to ignore an unwanted caress when 
it brought a knife within his grasp.  Easier still to ignore false nothings
 and lusty eyes when they would soon darken and still due to the magic of 
steel between ribs.  He only wished that the blade hadn't jammed, and that 
he hadn't been too weak to risk actually touching anything other than a 
blood slicked handle to pull it out before he left.
	The other hadn't expected danger either, had been slain as he ran 
from the untimely death of the first.  That one he might have regretted, 
had he the chance for it.  That one had startled him, reached a hand to his
 arm, a light touch that had panicked one already running scared and he'd 
slammed his elbow into the man's nose and watched as his eyes rolled back 
and blood let from parted lips.  An unexpected, unprovoked loss of life 
that pained him, even after all this time in the lands of Men.
	They would want revenge for that, more so than for the first.  They
 would want revenge for a lot of things.  He wasn't entirely certain how 
much more "revenge" his body could take.
	Out of the darkness to his left branches moved.  Someone dove from 
the bramble, tackling him, knocking the breath away from his lungs.  His 
thoughts scattered as he hit the ground and rolled, dodging arms and fists 
and legs that sought to entangle his own and rose to leap over the man who 
had thought to capture him.  He heard cursing in the dark behind him.  He 
ignored that too.  It was the cursing in the front that would bother him
 more, but that he wouldn't hear until it was too late.  
	Panting then, dangerously loud, a siren call to those seeking him, 
but he was unable to stop the harshness of his breath, unable to calm, and 
he tripped, tumbled to the ground in a flurry of arms and legs, smacking 
his head against a rock as he landed. Pain as tortured limbs impacted the 
rough ground.  He threw an arm out to catch himself, and regretted it 
immediately as his full weight landed on his right shoulder, an arm that
 had been dumb and good for naught after having been dislocated, a gift 
from the first dead, who had thought torment to be as good a form of 
foreplay as any.  Smirking waves of agony from the dislocated joint washed 
over his body, leaving him shaken and shivering from pain as much as from 
cold.  Again he fell.
	Darkness flooded over him.
	Then light.
	He groaned, unable to help it.  It took a long moment to regain 
his senses, to force his vision into something other than sparkles and 
black diamonds.  Took longer still to get the energy together to gather 
legs under himself and force his body into an awkward sort of crouch.  He 
prepared to rise again and was halted by the feel of a banded staff 
pressing down against his shoulder.  It brushed against bare skin, against 
where his tunic hung torn and gaping, and even that slight pressure sent 
him gasping.  He knew that staff, knew it far better than he should have 
liked, had he his way.  Knew that it was six feet long, or over, knew that 
the ends of it were crossed with Iron.  Knew that it was covered in banded 
crosses and lycopaths, symbols of arcane jibberish that meant nothing that 
it was meant to, but knew far, far too well how much those symbols hurt 
when pressed into his skin to see how long it took to caterize an elf with 
Cold Iron.  
	"Going somewhere, efling?"  It was the leader, he recognized that 
voice, needed no face to match with it to remember the cruel hands that 
held the staff.  He held the vain hope that it was just the one; iron bound
 staff or not, body damaged and pride wounded, he could handle himself 
against a single human.  He deserved to die if he couldn't.  If there was 
just the one he could tangle and disengage, to run further, and hopefully 
this time not to be caught.
	"Gotta bone to pick with you..."  But that voice was from his right, 
and he shifted his eyes to see two of the men lounging against trees.  One 
of them grinned at him and scratched at his crotch.  The other simply 
regarded him with a stoney visage, eyes cold and unconcerned.  He looked to
 his right then, but knew before the sight registered in his mind that it 
was hopeless.  There was a flickering of torches there, overlapping circles
 of bright fire lights and infinately recast shadows as more streamed from 
the trees, the normally rancerous sounds of Men moving silenced by the ever
 falling rain.  
	Laughter from somewhere outside of his line of vision.  The muted 
sound of shuffling feet as more entered the area.  Booted feet made 
squelching sounds as they moved towards him.  He risked another sideways 
glance but saw no avenue for escape.  Fully surrounded now, the staff left 
his shoulder, butting against one ear as it raised.  The leader stepped in 
front of him, kneeling down in the mud to capture his chin with one hand, 
other still grasping the oaken length.  His dirt brown eyes glinted with 
cruel amusement.
	"Thought you'd leave us, efling?  We weren't through with you yet.
  And then there's the matter of what you did to poor, poor brother Makr..."

	An exhausted fury rose at those words.  Considering what he had 
tried, poor, poor brother Makr had got off remarkably easily, as far as he 
was concerned.  Had he the time, he would have drawn out the death, forced 
retribution on one who dared lay hands on an unwilling.  He said nothing 
though.  Any words regarding what Makr had wanted of the elf in their midst
 would have been taken as a challenge, or worse, as a suggestion.  That 
much he wanted none of, too tired now to do anything but glare impotently 
and gather his breath for the struggle to come.
	A smirk was leveled at him, but made no further comment for the
 moment, not even of the other dead.  Perhaps he hadn't been found.  The 
elf rather, rather hoped that was so.  The man's fingers squeezed, his 
thumb moving up to trace split lips.  He jerked away from the hand on his 
face.  The man let him, chuckling at the defiance still visable under the 
bruises.
	"Don't worry though, efling, we'll make it up to him.  We'll figure
 out some way for you to pay penance.  Won't we?"  This last said to the 
circle of men around him.  Laughing agreement from them.  The man turned to
 look at them, still smiling.  He patted his prisoner on the head, idly 
running his fingers through the hair behind one pointed ear, scratching the
 skin there regardless of previous cuts and gashes.  
	/Not today, human bastard!/
	Tremors calmed for the moment, the elf lept at him, spitting and 
tearing, struggling to reach the man's dagger.  They both went down, the 
man yelping with surprise, loosing his grip on the staff, the elf hissing 
in pain as wounds were reopened in the struggle.  His fingers brushed the 
dagger hilt, and he strained to take advantage of those few, precious 
seconds when shock gave him the advantage.  He didn't make it.  
	With a curse, the human tossed him away, grunting as he rubbed a 
pinked bruise on his chin.  From where he lay sprawled, the elf couldn't 
help but be proud of that.  He might die here, but at least he'd had the 
chance to strike back, if only a little.  Hopefully with more to come.  
He'd be damned if he didn't go down without a warrior's finish, killed as 
a weak child or a craven, whimpering in the dust.  
	He rolled into a defensive position, one knee down, right arm 
tucked into his chest, the other arm and leg braced to push off.  Grey eyes
 cast warily for the human, but before he could gain his feet again, the 
man fell on him.  One elbow caught him in the stomach, driving the air from
 his lungs.  Instinct cut in; his mind was too distracted by the wealth of 
new pains rising from protesting ribs to do much for it.  He pushed at the 
man, kicked when he could and twisted one leg up between them.  He was 
rewarded when a knee struck something soft that squished uncomfortably and 
the face above his twisted with pain, eyes rolled back in a poniagnt moment
 of pure unadulterated masculine agony.  
	He took advantage of the distraction, twisting to bite down on the 
hand that had been about to slam blade first into his wounded shoulder, 
pushing off from the ground with his good arm and rising up to smash his 
forehead into the man's face.  He'd thought to strike nose, but the man 
recovered from the double pain of squashed groin and bit palm in time to 
turn his head and the blow landed harmlessly on cheek instead.  Still 
painful, but more so for the giver than the receiver.  He retaliated with 
thick fists that clipped side and face regardless of the marks of previous
 bruises, letting his legs out from under him to fall with all his weight 
on the elf, who gasped and strained away.  Those around them cheered and 
yelled as the human gained the upper hand, straddling the elf and letting 
loose with a flurry of blows. 
	The world was fading, he noticed, as the jeers of Men fading into 
the sounds of flesh meeting flesh.  Even that was nearly gone, the pain of 
it vanishing until there was only the dull sensation of impact to let him 
know of new pains formed.  The world was fading, but he could still see the
 rain falling, silver streaks that fell into eyes and stung his face.  
Ironic, that.  The rain still felt like Iron and he could still feel it, 
even as his vision blurred red.  
	There was a voice then, one that he couldn't hear clearly, and a 
cessation from new pains, and even the heavy weight of the man astride him
 was ripped away.  Two emeralds glittered at him and he strained his face 
upward, squinted at them, trying in vain to make them fall into focus, but 
they disapeared into the darkness that swirled on the edges of sight.  
Moonless night flitted in again then, and this time he embraced it.  With 
any luck he wouldn't wake up...