AN: Just a quick note: this story is a friendly version of a more violent story that is posted on AO3. I have toned down this story to meet this site's ToS, but if you would prefer the original work or if I stray too far from the ToS and this story is removed from here, please see my profile for a link to my author's page on AO3 where you can find this tale unedited. Thanks.

Fulton, thought Aragorn as he fingered idly the stitches on his long leather overcoat, is by far the most unpleasant place I could spend this night. Despite his misgivings, with a sigh and a minute tap of his foot upon the hindquarters of his horse, the Ranger began the ride down the incline that lead to Fulton. Sitting in the basin between several small mountains, the isolated town was accessible by winding roads often fraught with vagabonds, thus Aragorn had taken the direct route down the mountainside to avoid such trouble. After traveling without respite for several weeks, anywhere was better than the floor of the forest for sleeping tonight – even a place like Fulton.

His travels had taken him further south than he had traveled before. Although a Ranger, one of the Dúnedain, and unbeknownst to most, the rightful heir to the throne of Gondor, Aragorn was young in years. Experience, however, belied this lack of time spent in Middle Earth. His countenance was drawn and long with a few small scars and the thick bristle of beard decorating his face. The underlying hint of nobility that he exuded commanded respect regardless of the youth and handsomeness of his countenance, and once they had spoken to him, even those that distrusted his ragged appearance did not mistake him for the vagrant that he appeared.

I will only spend the night. Besides, it will be good to see human faces again, although what I would truly prefer to see, he told himself dryly, are Elvish faces. Having grown up among the Noldor of Imladris, he often felt more at home in the company of Elven kind, rather than human. Of course, a few faces may not be so happy to see me. If Elladan and Elrohir ever get their hands on me... He didn't bother to finish that thought, for he knew full well that his brothers by adoption would throttle him happily. As his mind turned to the memory of their response to his parting prank, he laughed aloud, drawing more than one openly suspicious glance his way from the bystanders on the main road through Fulton. I hate to think of what revenge my brothers have concocted for my return!

A few moments later, Aragorn stopped in front of what he knew to be the best inn in town, an opinion that didn't mean much, given his choices. The wooden building was run down, to say the least, and dilapidated to be truthful. The foundation seemed to shake with the moving, raucous crowd within the place. Jumping down from his horse, Estel walked the loyal beast to the neighboring stable and handed the reins and a coin to the groom in attendance. Normally he might second-guess leaving his horse to a stable in a town like this, but Aragorn's horse would not let himself be easily stolen; so, with a fond pat upon the beast's nose, Estel instructed the groom to feed him well and left without worry. He hefted his pack onto his shoulder and braced himself mentally in preparation for the noise and smell before stepping into the inn's foyer, which was also the busiest bar in town, from the looks of it.

More suspicious glares followed his progress from the door to the innkeeper's counter, though Aragorn paid them no mind. If any were hostile, he could well handle himself. Still, he wished silently, Please, Valar, no trouble this night. I only want to sleep.

The innkeeper, a thin, short man with what Aragorn decided had to be the ruddiest nose this side of the Misty Mountains, ceased his bickering with a bar wench to greet the Ranger with a smile that didn't make it to his calculating eyes. "My name is Jimson, and this is my inn. What can I help you with, stranger?"

"I need supplies…" Aragorn listed the items he would need for his return trip to Imladris and watched while the man's eyes grew large at the prospect of the coins earned from such a tall order. The Ranger had lost much traveling to Rohan, and even more while on his way back after running into an unpleasant band of Orcs who had taken him by surprise, and thus had forced him into leaving many of his supplies at his overrun campsite.

"It will take some time to gather these items, good stranger. Will you be staying the night? We've plenty of room. What about dinner?" The innkeeper's eyes now gleamed as if Aragorn were a pile of mithril waiting to be plundered.

"Yes, both room and dinner, please, and a mug of ale, as well."

"Good, good! Just have a seat and Marie here will bring it right over."

Aragorn chose a table away from the most boisterous part of the crowd with his back to the wall and his hood pulled down to hide his features. This town hasn't changed much, he pondered as he awaited his ale. The last time the Ranger had come this way, the town was much as it was now; that is, filled with ne'er-do-wells and thieves whose bad luck had left them penniless and stranded in the crumbling remnants of what used to be, from what he could tell of what was left of it, a quaint town. Any moral people who had once resided here had been driven out, leaving only the destitute and desperate; a mixture that oft incited violence and rashness in the stupid ones, and cunning from those with the intelligence to try their thieving hands at plotting.

The curiosity his appearance had provoked went unchecked. Few strangers ventured into Fulton and even fewer ever made it out. Soon after the bar maid set down his mug, the other patrons appeared to lose interest in him when a small fight broke out at a table across the way. As chairs were smashed and a table upturned, the innkeeper leapt over the counter with sword in hand and a grace unbefitting a man of his stature or age, and dispelled the two drunken fighters. When some semblance of peace was restored, the Ranger was all but forgotten.

Just a few more weeks and I'll be back home. Back to Ada, back to Elrohir and Elladan, back to my bed. Just a few more weeks and then I will not leave my bed for a month. Ever watchful, he sipped his ale slowly while casting his gaze around the room. His tired mind wandered back to the prank he had pulled on his brothers. They would never forgive or forget this one – not that they usually did. No, they always find their revenge. If only I could have seen their faces when they discovered it, instead of just hearing their screams of outrage.

Aragorn grinned to himself. He also hadn't been there for the aftermath. The twins were notorious in Imladris for pulling relatively good-natured pranks on everyone else when Aragorn wasn't around to withstand the worst of their weird humor. Had they not been the sons of one of the most respected and powerful Elven Lords in Middle Earth, the twins would have been strangled long ago by one of the servants, tutors, or many citizens of Imladris.

Luckily, though, he told himself, I am here in Fulton, where it is safe. The Ranger had to stifle weary and cynical laughter at his own facetiousness. Fulton? Safe? I must be losing my senses. I've spent too much time by myself.

The loud voice of an egregiously drunken farmer broke Aragorn's reverie. "It's no lie! I've heard about it from my old man, and he never was one to tell a lie! Are you calling my old man a liar?" The drunk's voice increased with his outrage at whoever had doubted his father's veracity. "It's true, I tell ya. If we had it, we could wipe them Elves clean out of these lands, fight 'em fair. Ain't no fair fighting someone who can't die as easy as us, I say. If we had it, we could kill the whole lot of 'em. And I know where it is, and it could make me a rich man one day. Lotsa people would pay for a chance to drink from it."

At the mention of the Elves, Aragorn clenched his jaw, his frustration at the ignorance of humans concerning the Eldar making the Ranger's mood darken. Hatred for the Firstborn among the race of men ran rampant, though not for any particular wrong committed against men as a whole, but more from lack of understanding of the reclusive race.

The old drunk fell down in his chair and people turned back to their conversations or ale, ignoring the man's continued, although much less vociferous plea that he was indeed telling the truth. The Ranger watched as a lanky man from a table near where the drunk had been sitting sidled up to the farmer, catching the man by his soil-stained tunic, and with a feral grin, told the drunk, "I believe you, old timer. Why don't you come sit over here? My brother and me, we'd like to hear this tale you've been spinning."

The farmer stood with a grunt. "At least some around these parts can respect the knowledge of their elders."

An onlooker at the farmer's table claimed, "Elder don't mean better, you old fool."

Before the drunken orator could respond, the lanky stranger had pulled him away from the table and coincidentally much closer to where Aragorn was seated. He could now see that the stranger had shockingly red hair that bushed out from under his cloak's hood in a torrent of flaming spirals. Had the man not also looked like a mercenary, Aragorn might have thought the hair a bit comical, but the stranger's demeanor showed that his business was shady, and his hair was comical only to those who hadn't yet learned to fear the cut of his blade.

The red haired stranger and farmer sat down next to a burly, mountainous man. This is his brother? They look nothing alike! Aragorn knew that this didn't mean much, especially considering he didn't look anything like his own, albeit adopted brothers.

"My name's Ament and this is my brother, Ramlin," offered the lanky fellow to the farmer. The farmer, on the other hand, was looking around him as if he had misplaced something. "What is it, old timer? What're you looking for?" Ament was a little miffed, it seemed, to be ignored.

"Where's me drink? I've lost it," the older man said, throwing his hands up in the air and then slapping them against his thighs in disturbance.

Ament sneered at the farmer, who did not notice, and then ordered of his brother, "Ramlin, go get the nice fellow here another ale."

Ramlin looked less than pleased at being bossed around but complied to his brother's orders all the same. When he stood, Aragorn could tell that the man would be formidable in a fight. His hair was a much darker shade of Ament's, hung in greasy strands about his face, and might have been curly, had it been washed. Why do I get the feeling I would have been better off in the forest? he thought, feeling a niggling sense of doom at ever having seen these two strangers' faces.

"Now, come, tell me, you say you know where to find the witch's goblet. Where is it?" asked Ament in a loud whisper. "I've heard tell that you knew of where to find it, and my brother and I came a very long way just to speak to you."

Obviously, the farmer was a shrewd businessman under his ale-induced haze, and somewhat suspicious as well that his newfound friend knew of him. He huffed a time or two, sitting back in his chair as if prepared to start haggling and feeling as if he'd the upper hand. "A long way? Who's told you this?" The drunken farmer huffed a time more, getting succinctly to his real concern, asking, "What's in it for me?"

"Why, me and Ramlin here have the same goals that you do. We hate them Elves, the nasty creatures. We'd like nothing more than to bring that goblet back here and start a revolt against the pointy-eared animals. They've done nothing but make it hard for good people like us to get by. Imagine what we could do with all the wealth they've hoarded for themselves! Come now, we're in this together."

Aragorn couldn't believe his ears. If the old farmer falls for this insincere ploy, I'll kiss a Warg.

He then smiled briefly to himself when the farmer answered, "What? I tell you, and then I'd never see you again, nor any of the profits. I ain't that daft, young one. Besides, I ain't ever seen the goblet. It's a story me pa told us."

And a good thing you didn't fall for it, too. Wargs are not the friendliest creatures to court.

Ramlin returned with the old man's ale. The farmer snatched the cup from the mammoth mercenary's hands and gulped the amber liquid greedily, perhaps afraid that his noncompliance to Ament's offer would force his new friends to take their alcoholic gift away. After most of the ale was gone, Ament nodded slightly to his brother. Ramlin moved his chair closer to the farmer's seat and put a mighty arm around the drunk's shoulders, weighing them down with his heavily muscled limb. The Ranger's view was blocked from seeing either Ramlin or Ament by this change in seating, but he could still see the farmer.

"We give you our word, isn't that enough?" Ament responded, his words deathly sweet. Their word wasn't enough, more than likely, but from the terrified look on the farmer's face, it would have to be if he cared to drink another pint in his life.

"Now," Ament asked, his voice pleasant in contrast to the farmer's fear, "how would your pa ever have known about the witch's goblet?"

"He used to travel to Laketown from here." Settling his cup carefully upon the table, the farmer appeared for a moment as if he would flee, but Ramlin's falsely congenial hold of his shoulders kept him seated. "He heard all sorts of stories from there and everywhere in between about the witch, but him and his own pa and the merchant convoy he rode with were set upon by the witch's fiends, where half of them died trying to fight while the rest were trussed up and taken to some vile place."

Ament was nodding to himself as if the farmer's story matched up to something the mercenary had knowledge of already. He settled back into his chair, and as Aragorn watched, the lanky stranger snorted. "And he saw the goblet himself? He saw the witch?"

Growing paler by the second, the farmer began to ramble again in explanation, now afraid, it seemed, that if the pair he'd sat down with didn't believe his story, he'd be in bigger trouble than if he hadn't told them to begin. "The witch was dying, was why the Orc had caught them, to appease their master, but they needed an Elf, right? So they began slaughtering the merchants just for sport. My father's pa didn't make it out nor any of the others, but my pa did. He was just a kid, and the rest made sure he got the chance to run, although they all died for it. He used to tell us that likely the witch was dead before my pa even made it out of the forest, as sick as the witch was, and that there would still be all that gold and treasure down there, with the goblet as well, and none but he knew where it was because he was the only one to live to tell the tale."

Ramlin finally raised his arm from where it hung about the farmer's shoulders. "And where is it, then?"

Picking up his mug again, the farmer fiddled with it a few moments, until Ramlin and Ament both leant in close to the farmer. Without even being touched or threatened, the farmer conceded, "Ah, boys, I'll tell ya. No need to get riled up about it. I'm too old to go get it myself. You boys promise you'll get rid of all them Elves, and I'll tell you."

As the two brothers sat back once more, Aragorn could see that Ament's feral grin had returned. "Of course we promise. The Goblet of Melfren would be put to good use in ridding us of those damned Elves."

Melfren? I hope this old fool is joking. Aragorn recognized the fabled goblet from stories that his Ada, Lord Elrond, used to tell him at bedtime when he was a child, and his mild interest in their story became avid. He knew the information Lord Elrond gave him about it was accurate because the Elf Lord was a renowned lore master, but Estel's memory was hazy on the details. The powerful witch Melfren created it…but for what? If they truly know where it is, then indeed the Elves may be in trouble.

As the farmer began to impart the whereabouts of the goblet in secret, pointing out the location on a map Ament pulled from his pocket, the barmaid brought Aragorn's dinner to him, effectively, although unknowingly, making him miss the important information with her call, "How's the ale, stranger?" Slapping the plate of food on the table noisily, she added, "Here's your dinner. If you be needing anything else, just come to the bar."

The plate of bread and cheese reminded Aragorn of why he was here. He needed supplies. He needed a good night's rest. He needed… I need answers. I'll not get any rest until I am sure that these men have not discovered the goblet. He was lost as to what to do, though. As much as he hated to, he would have to find out what was going on: he couldn't leave Fulton with a clear conscience otherwise. Too many Elven lives, lives with which he was personally acquainted, could be affected by this Darkly created goblet. With an inward groan and all thoughts of rest pushed to the farthest reaches of his mind, he moved to grab a chunk of cheese and returned his attention to the brothers' table.

The farmer downed the dregs of his ale and moved to get up. Ramlin's meaty fist on his forearm stopped the farmer. "Look now, friend, don't go telling anyone else what you've told us. Stop your gibbering here in the bar, and if you have lied, you'll be very sorry, right?" Ament's face was inches from the farmer's horrified visage as he spoke.

"No, no. Wouldn't dream of it. Kept this secret my whole life. Made a promise to my pa. Gods' honest truth!"

"Looks like you just broke that promise, fool," replied Ramlin, who removed his impediment to allow the farmer to leave, and then guffawed as if he had quoted Middle Earth's greatest joke.

The farmer had the mind to look somewhat shamefaced at Ramlin's comment, but nodded and hurried away, stumbling over anything and anyone in his haste to make it out of the inn. Aragorn would have liked to follow him for questioning but knew it would surely arouse the suspicions of Ament and Ramlin. Perhaps no one else in the bar had ever paid the farmer's stories any mind, but these two mercenaries had cause to believe him. If the farmer's story was indeed true, then trouble was brewing. Melfren had been one of the Dark Lord's human sorcerers, fashioning for his master creatures and items of power to be used by the Dark One's forces in their effort to embattle and overtake Middle Earth. That Melfren was dead was believed, as no one had seen or heard from him in years, but none had ever found the terrible cache of weapons and wealth Melfren had hidden.

"Go get us a room, Ramlin." The huge mercenary, for his part, looked ready to protest his brother's order. "Now, idiot," Ament hissed. Ramlin ambled to the counter.

Aragorn was relieved, for at least he would get to sleep in a bed tonight. He would just have to be sure that he was up and ready to follow the brothers in the morning. Which means I won't sleep at all because I will be too worried that these Elf-haters will leave without me.

With a grimace of annoyance, the Ranger teased himself sarcastically, I could just ask them where they are headed. Wouldn't that be easier? Following the two brothers could lead him anywhere. He couldn't think of any other way to ascertain the veracity of their intentions, however. Suddenly, the opportunity presented itself.

The usual chatter of the forest had ceased. All was eerily still. Better take to the trees, thought Legolas Greenleaf, son of King Thranduil. The trees tell of no one around but I feel a sense of foreboding nonetheless. Perhaps the scouting party I am looking for is near.

However comforting the thought, Prince Legolas knew that the forest would not quiet due to the presence of the Wood-Elves. The Silvan were the keepers of Eryn Galen, its champions against the encroaching darkness, and the trees were more likely to increase their chatter than fall silent if Wood-Elves were near.

Still, no point in taking any chances. In a swift motion, the Elf had swung himself up into the lower branches of a poplar tree and took rest there for a moment. Legolas straightened the quiver of arrows on his back so that they wouldn't catch on the limbs as he passed through the canopy of the forest. His lithe form moved with serpentine fluidity as he bounded from limb to limb, closer, he hoped, to where the scouting party was supposed to be camped. Although not his normal duty, Legolas had offered to take message from his father to the outlying camps as a means of relieving himself of his own Princely duties. Besides which, it was his belief that being out amongst his fellow warriors, doing the mundane tasks that they did, also, would show that their Prince did not believe himself better merely because of his station.

To any creature below, the Wood-Elf would have been practically invisible, for his tunic and leggings blended in with the forest perfectly, as intended. His golden hair shone in the sunlight, matching Anor's color and radiance. The creature was beautiful, and cherished among his people for this beauty, yet more importantly, the Elf Prince was admired for his abilities as a warrior. In Mirkwood, all were warriors in some way in the fight against the darkness tainting the forest and the creatures therein, and since the time Legolas had reached his majority he had been fighting spiders, Orcs, and other tools of the Dark One without pause. His talent with the bow was unsurpassable, and his aptitude as a strong and fierce warrior made the Silvan Elves proud to call him their Prince.

As Legolas neared his destination, his feeling of impending doom only increased. I must hurry! What if the scouting party needs help? He wouldn't forgive himself if his dawdling had created problems for his fellow Elves. With urgency, he slipped back to the forest floor without sound and ran headlong towards the camp, light of foot amongst the roots and brush. Not more than a few feet later, Legolas heard before he felt the great jaws of a hunting trap close about his leg. In wonderment, the Elda found himself flying through the air with the momentum of his running. The colors of the forest merged as he tumbled onto the ground, giving him no clue as to what was occurring, before he was pulled abruptly to a halt by the weight of the trap – with this violent recoil came the pain.

Ai Valar! Legolas lay face down in the leaves and forest debris. Not yet aware of what held him, Legolas twisted his torso rapidly to sit, holding his long sword drawn to ward off his attacker. The twist of his body also twisted his leg, and despite himself, the Elf yelped in response to the intensity of the pain. Looking quickly to his injured leg, Legolas was more than surprised to find that his leg from below his knee was entrapped in a steel cage whose jaws were rimmed in sharp teeth. What in the name of the One is a trap such as this doing in the forests of Eryn Galen?

Replacing his weapon in its sheath on his quiver, Legolas inched himself closer to the trap, intending not to stretch his leg any more than necessary in the hopes of reducing further injury. Ada will kill me. I was only supposed to take orders to the scouting party. His father had not been pleased that Legolas wished to go out into the forest alone, and his coming back injured would only prove that Thranduil was right.

When he was within reaching distance of the mechanism of the trap, he attempted to pry the teeth apart with his hands, to maneuver his fingers between the teeth or jaws of the maleficent device so that he could widen its mouth to slide his leg free, but the jaws would not budge. As he found that impossible, he looked for a switch or release, but found nothing that would aid him in removing the device. The trap was, in effect, trapped around his leg. I will never live this down. Caught in an animal trap in my own home.

The pain was unbearable. Moreover, the bleeding from Legolas' leg was steady and not likely to stop, for the teeth of the device dug deeply into his flesh. If he didn't get the trap off, he wouldn't be able to tend to the bleeding. He considered trying to walk back to the palace, or even to the camp, but knew that the wound would only be aggrieved by such rash action. Besides, the Prince thought to himself as he inspected the remainder of the trap more closely, it appears to be chained to the tree. Why would anyone seek to trap an animal this way? What kind of animal could they have been trying to catch?

Only a few minutes had passed but Legolas was growing alarmed from more than just his injuries. Plenty of Elves knew where he was and when they should expect him back. Should he not return on time, the King would send Elves out searching for him. I do not want anyone to find me like this, he told himself stubbornly, but I guess that's preferable to staying the night in the forest. This thought only increased his panic. He was caught in a trap in one of the most tainted parts of Mirkwood, injured, and virtually unable to defend himself since he could not stand to fight. Dark, silvery red blood was flowing freely from between the teeth of the trap.

Legolas' sharp Elven hearing caught a rustling in the leaves behind him. Unable to stand to see, he picked himself off the ground with his hands and dragged himself bit by bit closer to the underbrush. The footsteps did not appear to be Elven because of how loud they were, and it did not seem as if the source was trying to be particularly stealthy. Where has my bow gone? The beautifully crafted weapon, Legolas saw, had been thrown from the catch on his quiver and now lay too far away to reach. Cowering in the bushes like a rabbit. This had better be someone from the camp. At least then, I can command him to keep his mouth shut about this. As the footsteps approached, the Prince's foreboding returned full force. As if this weren't bad enough... this couldn't get any worse. Again, he tried frantically to remove the trap from his leg, tearing the skin on his fingers in his effort, but to no avail – the jaws would not loosen.

"Well, well. Looks like I caught something wild."

In his efforts to be free, and though realizing the footsteps were growing closer, the Elf had lost track of how close they had come until he now found himself face to face with a foul looking man. The hunter, if that was indeed what he was, was covered from head to toe in dark clothing, though the black cloth was encrusted with maculate stains of what could be blood or red clay mud. Legolas could not see the hunter's face due to the hood the human wore.

"It would seem so, Master Human. Perhaps you could lend a hand." The Wood-Elf decided to try to be as congenial as possible. In his current situation, he could do nothing less.

It burned him to ask the man for help. However, he could not stay like this, and when he was freed, the man would pay for trespassing in Eryn Galen and for laying the trap that had injured her Prince. No doubt, this Adan is from Laketown. He ought to know better. No hunting is allowed in these parts of the forest. The game here is poisonous.

"I could lend a hand, Master Elf," the man said with derision, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't think I will, however."

The Prince shifted painfully on the ground, his unease mounting. "You seem to be unaware that you are in an Elven kingdom, and that such a trespass carries a harsh sentence."

"I am more than aware, Elf, of where I am and what I am doing. Looks like you could have been paying closer attention." The man snorted in laughter while Legolas was quickly becoming angrier.

"This is your trap?"

"It is."

"And what kind of prey were you hoping to catch with this?" The man still stood in place, not having moved toward Legolas at all. Besides anger, Legolas was also beginning to feel his unease turn to anxiety: the human hunter wasn't planning to help him.

"You'll do."

I guess that answers what kind of animal this trap was intended for, Legolas thought despondently. The blood loss from his leg wound was making him dizzy, and the mindless banter was irritating. He could not have been bleeding for more than ten minutes, and the flow, while potentially life threatening, hadn't yet relieved him of enough claret to cause the dizziness he felt. Why am I so nauseous?

"Why do you not fight fair, then? Remove these teethed jaws. Even wounded I would best you." Legolas knew better than to believe such a taunt would work though he hoped it would.

The hunter only laughed. "I am not so dim that I would attempt to fight a Wood-Elf. I will just wait."

Legolas shook his head, willing the darkness to fade from his vision. "Wait for what? My fellow Elves to find you?"

"For the poison to finish its work, Elf. Once you are out cold, we'll be on our way."

All hope that the man might help him, or at least be stupid enough to remove the trap, was now gone. Swiftly, he pulled his long knife from its sheath on his quiver, intending to throw it at the hunter. It is better that he be dead and hope someone will find me than to be taken, the Prince decided. But before he could pull his knife free a sharp pain in his leg disrupted his movement, and instead of flinging the knife expertly at the hunter, it fell to the ground several feet away from the man. Legolas grabbed the teethed jaws about his leg, trying to stifle a cry at the throbbing in his limb as the trap was jerked.

"Can't believe this worked, Meika!"

Whirling his head towards the sound of another voice, the Elf was surprised to see another human, but his world did not stop spinning when his body ceased moving. Legolas could feel himself slipping into darkness, into unconsciousness. Stay awake, he told himself. He could not be unconscious in the presence of these men.

"And they say it's hard to catch an Elf! Boss's plan worked without us even having to lure him towards one of the traps." The new voice's owner held the chain to the trap in his hand. He gave another sharp tug. "Went and caught himself, he did."

"Careful now, Jalian, don't want to make him bleed too much. Boss said not to hurt him too bad. Wait till all's done, then maybe you can have some fun."

Legolas managed to rasp out, falling back onto the ground from vertigo, "With what have you poisoned me?"

"Not to worry, Elfling," Jalian said, "we've got plans for you. Or rather, the boss has plans for you. Don't worry, you'll live."

"For a while yet," laughed Meika, as his companion joined in his amusement.

I must have my eyes closed, the Elf thought as his weary head, too heavy for him to keep upright any longer, hit the ground with a thud. He was not yet unconscious, however, and could hear the men; he just couldn't seem to keep his eyes open or to focus on their movements or speech. I cannot be taken by these men. Images of the horrors that the oft-bigoted race of humans had foisted upon the Elves ran through his mind, stories of slavery, torture, and death he had heard came to him. They won't make it out of the forest. The scouting camp is expecting me, and when I don't meet them, the whole of Eryn Galen will be out looking for me. When the Prince finally convinced his lids to open once more, he saw that the humans seemed less than petrified at the prospect of any oncoming Elves. Their blurry forms advanced on the archer with caution, but as the poison had worked its effect at immobilization, they did not hesitate for long, and Meika bound Legolas' hands while Jalian unlocked the trap with a key from his tunic's pocket.

The Prince could feel his body being moved, yet it seemed distant, as if he weren't really there; that is, until the pain of the device's removal hit him. He couldn't shout for help. He couldn't even cry out from the pain, if his pride had not been too great to prevent him from doing so anyway. With an uncaring shove, Jalian threw Legolas' leg to the ground. Finally, the agony was too much, and as one of the men grabbed him, slinging him carelessly over his shoulder, the Elf gave way to the darkness and knew no more.