He watched the group of elves below him warily, no sound or movement betraying his position in the tree. They were heading for a nest of giant spiders that was a little too close to their caves to be ignorable. They're going to need help. Lots of it, he thought, faintly amused that a dozen elves thought they were going to eradicate nearly three dozen of the huge arachnids. Shaking his head, he followed them, taking a path through the trees parallel to the one on the ground, a silent shadow moving through a realm of deeper shadows.

When the hunting party reached the edge of the nest clearing, they stopped and fanned out along it, surrounding the sleeping spiders inside. At some unseen signal, they all nocked arrows and drew their bows, each taking aim at a different creature. In the space of a breath, twelve arrows shot into the clearing, each striking a beast with a rather sickening THWACK. Instantly, the nest came alive.

Spiders shrieked and began flailing wildly, the chaos making it nearly impossible to pick one from the others. Arrows continued to pelt the creatures from all sides, as the silent observer sat unmoving in his tree, his startling silver eyes and elegantly pointed ears accounting for and tallying every shot fired. Wood elves almost always carried about a score of arrows, and if his count was right, there were only six arrows left unspent.

And nine spiders still moved about the clearing.

The spiders seemed to have targeted the sources of threat, and were hissing and shrieking as they charged at the elves concealed around their nest. They live forever, yet they never get any smarter. You'd think they'd have figured out by now that one arrow to the eye will do it. Stupid elves. Sighing, he drew his bow and took careful aim, holding steady for a moment with keen eyes fixed on his target.

He loosed. A spider dropped dead.

Two more fell before the remaining six charged his tree. Flipping the bow over his shoulder into his quiver, he drew his long hunting knife with the other hand and dropped from the tree onto the nearest spider's back. He slammed the knife through a chink in the creature's armor and yanked it back out. "The eyes, dammit!" he yelled as he back-flipped to another before the first had fallen lifeless to the ground. The second got the same treatment. Another spider slammed into its falling comrade before he could retrieve his knife, sending him tumbling to the ground. Rolling to his knees, he drew his sword and waited as the spider jumped at him. At the last moment, he swung the sword up and braced the hilt against the ground, allowing the lunging creature to impale itself on the five-foot blade. The elves seemed to have understood his shout; the remaining three spiders lay on the ground, each with an arrow sticking out of an eye.

He cleaned his sword on the bracken and retrieved his knife, disgusted at having had to intervene and betray his presence to the elves. He'd hoped to make the eastern border of Mirkwood by nightfall and continue his journey unhindered. Now it looked as though he was going to have a rather extended stay in the wood.

"Who are you?" demanded one of the elves in their own tongue. Most of them had drawn their knives and were looking at him with a mixture of anger and fear.

Rolling his eyes, he took the hint and adopted the melodic language as he replied, "So much for courtesy. You'd think that speaking to guests in the Common Tongue would be best. What would you have done if I didn't understand you? Shoot me without a second thought?"

The elves glanced at each other nervously. One, apparently the leader, crossed his arms over his chest and retorted, "It doesn't matter, since you obviously do understand, and therefore have no excuse not to answer the question."

"I don't need an excuse. I'm just not going to answer it." The elf looked indignant and started to protest, but he cut him off. "You didn't answer my questions, and you didn't give me your name either, so we're even. If you'll excuse me, I need to be going." He turned on his heel and began picking his way through the mass of giant furry legs.

"Legolas." The single, tartly-spoken word made him stop and look back over his shoulder. Legolas? Thranduil's son? Hmm, I may have just saved the Prince of Mirkwood from a gory death wrought by stupidity. Typical.

"The prince?"

"Yes."

"Leading a party that small after a nest this large was ridiculously stupid. Have a nice Midsummer." He started to walk away, then paused and said just as tartly as the elf had, "Aragorn."

"The Chief of the Dunedain?!" The elf's incredulous question made him wince. He was uncomfortable with the reaction his ancestry often elicited, and the inevitable question that followed confirmation of his title got extremely exasperating. He nodded, knowing what was coming.

"The Heir of Isildur?"

Stupid Ranger! Stupid, stupid, stupid! He turned around to see that the elves had all sheathed their knives and several of them looked in danger of having their eyes fall out of their heads. Legolas had seemingly recovered more quickly than Aragorn would have given him credit for. The elf prince gave him a rather insolent little smile and said, "I'm very sorry, my lord, but you cannot travel through Mirkwood without the permission of the king. You'll have to come with us."

Well, I did wish to be treated like a normal person. Sighing, he followed Legolas out of the clearing.