Chapter 10

Legolas' POV

Legolas lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. As usual his mind seemed to keep circling back to the mysterious elleth. Her perfect form, clad in clinging silk. Her alabaster skin, her silken shoulders, one of which (when he drew close to her) had a tiny picture of a graceful, sinuous leopard ready to pounce, inked on her skin. An image which did not mar, but rather enhanced her beauty. Why was he so drawn towards a pair of almond shaped green eyes, wild dark red hair and the most tempting lips he'd ever seen? Lips he could still feel on his, lips that had caressed, then opened against his own. A kiss that had been as eager, as fiery as his own – until that slap.

Gimli stomped around their room in the citadel, gathering his meagre collection of possessions (the most important of which was the whetstone he used to keep his axe sharp) and stuffing them into a leather satchel. He was packing for the long march to the Black Gate. Every so often he threw a glare in Legolas' direction.

"Master Elf, I cannot believe you could be so dense. 'A diversion!' What possessed you to state the bleedin' obvious as though it was the key to all military strategy, past, present and future?"

"I was caught unawares. Aragorn clearly expected me to say something. So I said the first thing that came into my mind."

"The first thing that came into your mind? If that was the best you could muster, your mind must be pretty damn empty at the moment. Anyhow, why not pay attention to what was going on? It's not as if it wasn't, let me see, the single most important discussion barring the one in Rivendell, that you will ever be privy to."

"I lost my train of thought for a moment."

"Lost his train of thought, the lad says! As if..." Gimli sounded sceptical to say the least. He continued to stomp, muttering, "Pipeweed, where the hell did I put my pipeweed?" under his breath.

"Now the loss of that foul smelling herb would be a blessing indeed," said Legolas, naively believing the dangerous point of the conversation to have passed.

Never come between a dwarf and his nicotine addiction. Gimli stomped over to the side of the bed where Legolas was reclining and stood four-square in front of him. "Master Elf, you are insufferable to be around at the moment. And do you know what? I think it's not unconnected with that red-headed lass that stopped you being spitted through the guts at Helm's Deep. The same one that was with you on the Pelennor – you thought I didn't see that, didn't you... And the other night, coming back to our room with dabs of women's paint and powder on you! And, if I wasn't mistaken, the imprint of a hand on your cheek. Lost your train of thought, indeed. Gained an entirely different train of thought, I'd say."

A rush of conflicting emotions surged through Legolas. Absolute fury with the dwarf for catching him out, embarrassment, and... something else... something he couldn't put a name to at first. Not until he registered the words he'd just uttered.

"The slap... I didn't force her. She was as keen as I – just for a moment. Then the moment was gone and out of the blue she slapped me." Legolas realised the other emotion was shame. Shame that his friend (for unlikely as his relationship with Gimli was, he thought of the dwarf as his friend) would think he had deserved the slap for trying to take a female against her will.

Gimli took a step back till his legs met the other narrow bed in the room, then sat down heavily on the mattress. He looked at Legolas, expression inscrutable behind his ginger beard. "So, who is she then?"

Heaving a sigh, Legolas told Gimli most of the events of the previous week or two. He left out some points he thought were too embarrassing – his wash of jealousy on seeing the way she touched the whey-faced young archivist, for instance. Though there was something most disconcerting about the way the dwarf's eyes seemed to glint, the penetrating gaze he shot towards him every time the elf was economical with the truth. Legolas began to think Gimli was gifted with an uncanny ability to fill in the gaps in the narrative. The story done, the elf looked expectantly at the dwarf. The dwarf remained silent for some long moments while he mulled over the information. Eventually, he spoke. His words offered little comfort.

"You've got it bad, haven't you laddie?"

Legolas took refuge in a show of bravado. "She's pretty, that's all. It's months since I saw a pretty female of my own race, even an Avari. You expect me not to notice? We elves may be immortal, but we're still made of flesh and blood just like mortals. And I'm intrigued by the mystery of it all."

Gimli gave a grunt of disbelief. "Yeah, yeah. A pretty face and a bit of mystery. That's all, sure it is."

Eruanne's POV

The fiery writing on the dagger was etched into her mind.

Seek thou the paths amidst the rocks
Which lead where water falls from high
Above thy head; mid paths of owl and fox
The Window on the West you'll spy.

Here was the clue to her quest to find the artefact of hidden power that would defeat Elohtolpa. But what did it mean? Some sort of riddle. The dagger had been made by her own kind, the Avari, but back in the ages before the Last Alliance. So the answer must lie in her own people's mythology.

The owl. The owl... sign of the huntress... And when did the huntress lead her wild maidens and their hounds in pursuit of their quarry? The full moon. But at this point, Eruanne hit a dead end. She couldn't think what the huntress and the moon could tell her. And, try as she might, it was hard to stay focussed when her body continually battled with her mind, memories of a pair of deep blue eyes gazing at her, the feel of a pair of lips upon hers, coaxing and demanding at the same time. The heat of his body, hard and muscled, pressed against her, heat that flooded through the thin silk she'd worn.

And her body not only betrayed her now, by continually interrupting her concentration with its demands. It had betrayed her yesterday in the crypt. For she had leaned into that kiss, she had pressed herself against that lithe, strong body. She had wanted the kiss, had wanted him to deepen it. It had taken every last drop of willpower to pull away when she did, to stop herself sinking into his arms, losing herself utterly in his embrace. Why? Why had she wanted this? After so many centuries, walking the plains and mountains of Middle Earth, content only to have Naurwen's companionship. Why did she suddenly yearn for a male body? And why did she yearn for the son of her sworn enemy?

When she pulled herself back, it had come flooding back to her. The devastation Thranduil had wrought on her sister's mind, her sister's heart, her sister's fea. The slap she'd delivered had been for the father. And nagging at the back of her mind was a sense of the unfairness of it. For the slap had landed on the son, who was surely blameless. No. NO! Not blameless, not Thranduillion. The blood of his father must run in the son's veins. Yes, he was tempting, tempting to the point of madness. But had that not been the mesmer Thranduil had cast upon her sister? She was not going to make that mistake with the son.

But again that little voice nagged at her. The son had been brave in battle, fighting beside his friends and comrades, even beside a dwarf. And all of Arda knew how much Thranduil hated dwarves. There was a difference between father and son, a difference which spoke in the son's favour. And he had met her challenge on the battlefield with good humour, and had acknowledge her win as good sport. How many ellyn would take being bested by an elleth with such good grace? And now, if the rumours running the length and breadth of the White City were anything to go by, he was setting off to near certain death with the Captains of the West in a desperate last throw of the die against the Shadow of Mordor.

She shook her head, as if to try to shake sense into herself. Why should it matter? He would surely die. Her only aim was to survive the chaos and see if she could carve out some modest measure of freedom for her people in the dark chaos that lay ahead, by overthrowing Elohtolpa. She would watch the Prince of Mirkwood ride to Ithilien and from there to the Black Gate, then she would pursue her quest.

Suddenly it hit her... the huntress of the moon. Ithilwen! The land of the moon – Ithilien. That was the first part of the riddle.

She brushed her hair back from her eyes. The elven prince's fate seemed twined with hers in a most mysterious way. It looked as if her path also took her to Ithilien – she would be dogging his footsteps for a while yet.

So – the mystery thickens. Let me know what you think! I love to hear from all of you in reviews.

Shout outs:

Thanks for all the reviews.

Bad Ass Female Fighter – yes, Legolas is stung by it! Looks like it still stings the next day ;-)

Allanna Stone – thanks!

Overlordred – yes, what forces indeed. But we've got a way to go yet before either of them admit what's going on.

TheParanoidGraveRobber – thanks.

Venessa – I love a good fan girl scream :-D

SisterofBattle – glad you liked the creepy dungeon, and the kiss.

Mt – trying to update at least once a week...

And thanks to everyone who's followed/favourited: Annamorgan96, BDoven, StupidOtaku, Mistgirl1423, Aoine, Nikieboy, and Mtager.