Author'sNote: Thank you everyone, for your wonderful reviews. I love knowing people are along with me for the ride. Here's the next chapter – I hope you enjoy.

~.~.~

Chapter Ten

"The Men of Minas Tirith will never be overcome."

- Bergil

~.~.~

When his finger pressed too tightly against the wooden shaft for what seemed the millionth time, Legolas cursed loudly and put his throbbing finger in his mouth. How on Arda could one measly little fragment of wood cause so much pain? It was a splinter, for Eru's sake! Out of all of the things wrong with his body, a splinter was momentarily giving him the most trouble.

Sighing after sucking on his finger for a few moments, Legolas again grasped the stick and raked the spoon against it, shaving off another coil of wood. It dropped to join the hundreds of others on the floor. After several more times, the Elf put the silverware down and appraised his work of art. The tip of the stick had been honed to a deadly looking point. Standing, Legolas grasped the spear in his hand and whirled on the spot, striking out violently at the molding table. A small chunk of its leg snapped off and hit the wall with a satisfactory 'clunk'.

Nodding and feeling quite pleased with himself, Legolas lowered the spear and took a moment to stand in silence. He considered going over his plan, but dismissed the thought. 'The plan' – if it could even be called that – was in reality a desperate attempt at doing something to try to escape. He had been sitting in the room for too long, and too often had his thoughts drifted to what could be happening in Minas Tirith while he sat there, trapped.

Every several hours or so, an Easterling would come to check on him. And every time this had happened so far, Legolas was lying in the corner, weakened by the pain coursing through every part of his body. The Haradrim would merely laugh at him – sometimes prod him with his spear – and then leave. Once he was brought water. Despite the fear that continually rose in his heart at the thought, Legolas knew that they were waiting for him to die.

During the times that he was alone, Legolas moved around the room, examining every inch of it. Eventually his efforts were rewarded. Underneath a tumble of crates, he found a pair of wooden doors in the ground. Of course, they were locked, and Legolas could have shouted in frustration, had he not remembered the spoon that he had hidden long before. The others had been confiscated during one of the times the Easterling on duty was securing the room.

After grueling hours of prying and prodding – careful work, for Legolas knew that if he pushed too far the spoon could very well break – the doors finally opened. And what he found inside was more thrilling to him than mounds of gold. It was a small cove, delved into the dirt ground, and inside was packed rows of logs and tinder and strong sticks. They were all dry and well-kept. He even found a canteen of oil. As he laid there, gazing at his newfound discovery, a sudden idea popped into Legolas' mind. A look at the torch bracketed high up on the wall cemented his plan.

He waited for awhile. And just as he'd predicted, not long after he had re-closed the doors and covered them, the Easterling opened the door to do his routine check. The man walked to where the Elf lay in a new corner and nudged him with a booted foot, muttering something in his native tongue that Legolas did not understand. And then he left once more.

As soon as he was gone, Legolas threw open the doors and set to work. He stacked logs along every wall of the room, putting more of them closer to where there were crates and tables. After this was finished, he scattered tinder among the logs, and followed this with the oil, careful to ration it and wet every single morsel of wood. He even had some leftover, of which he emptied closer to the back of the room. Throwing the empty carton in the corner, Legolas then took one of the sticks and set to sharpening it to his liking.

There was not time to wait too long, now. Shaking himself once more into action, Legolas clamped his spear under his armpit, put the spoon between his teeth, and grasped the ragged edges of the stone of the wall. Ignoring the pain his splintered finger gave, he began to climb.

~.~.~

Elladan froze the instant that he felt his twin do the same. "Valar," the Elf breathed.

Rigid, Elrohir reigned the horse to a sudden halt on the grass of Pelennor and stared at the archway of Minas Tirith's first wall. The gate was open. Inside he could see the fighting forms that filled the courtyard; hundreds of them. He could just barely make out the black headdresses that shrouded some, and the silver helmets of the Gondorian soldiers glinting under the sun. It was a sight that was becoming more and more grievous for both of Elrond's sons – they never would get used to seeing violent battle in the White City of Gondor.

Elrohir's heart was heavy as he once more gripped his horse's reigns. "Alae, amarth faeg," he whispered softly.

The fury in Elladan's heart did not soften his voice as it did that of his brother. He gripped the saddle he sat upon, steeling himself for the battle lying ahead, and shouted, "Noro!"

~.~.~

"Haythalm! They flee! Haythalm!" Aragorn's voice became frantic. He feared for a moment that the commander wouldn't hear him; the Man was surrounded by Easterlings on the other side of the courtyard. Though struggling with his own enemies, the King fought to move closer to Haythalm and the new threat that had arisen. A group of Elves was resolutely making their way towards the path leading higher into the city, taking advantage of the fact that none of the Gondorian soldiers had thus far noticed them.

"Haythalm; the Elves!" Aragorn shouted again, locking blades with an Easterling. "Hayth–" He stumbled, therefore effectively cutting off his cry. Heart pounding, Aragorn thrust his sword up into the Easterling's outstretched arm and severed it before killing him.

"My lord!"

When the King looked back towards Haythalm when he called, he saw that he had the commander's attention. "They flee!" Aragorn repeated desperately, pointing at the Elves. "Stop them! They must not go far!"

Giving a sharp nod, Haythalm barreled through his foes and yelled at the soldiers closest to him. It was not long before a solid Gondorian wall blocked the Elves' path.

Feeling his fear lessen somewhat, Aragorn turned and deflected a scimitar that flew towards his head. He felt as if this battle had been raging on for ages; his lungs were burning and his arms were beginning to smart with familiar tingles signifying that numbness was close at hand. This worried him, for even though his Men were fighting valiantly against Darcyn's army and seemed to be gaining the upper hand, the King did not want his strength to fail before the fight ended.

And something else tugged at the corner of his mind; something that had distracted him more than once, and almost fatally at that. His eyes darted continuously around the courtyard, scanning the combatants that surrounded him for a certain form. Despite knowing that it was selfish – and witless – Aragorn continued to hope that he would find him. That by some chance, in the midst of the battle, they would be brought before each other.

He did not know who would come through the encounter with their life. But he knew that even if it were not to be him, he would unleash upon his enemy the wrath that had been building in his heart since he had read the blood-stained letter. And such a wrath, even from an Adan against one of the Firstborn, would be so great that the immortal being would never forget it.

~.~.~

If it had not been for the way the stone of the wall was crystallized into odd, protruding shapes, Legolas would never have reached the top. He found himself thanking the Men of Gondor for their crafting techniques more than once as he climbed.

As soon as the flickering torch was in reach, Legolas planted his feet on the two widest slabs of rock he could find and studied the bracket holding it. He had been prepared to have to pry the torch from the iron handle, but he felt a surge of joy when he saw that it was not secured. Turning his head over his shoulder, the Elf let the spoon fall from his mouth to the floor, and then carefully moved the spear until he could grasp it in one hand. With the other he held onto the wall.

And then he waited.

He could not quite say how much time passed. Enough so that his legs were beginning to go slightly numb, his fingers began to ache, and the anguished expression he had last seen on Aragorn's face ran through his mind unceasingly. Staring at the wall in front of his nose, Legolas clenched his jaw and shook his head against the image.

Finally the guard came. As the door was pushed open, Legolas swiftly grabbed the torch from the bracket and held it over his head, watching the Haradrim walk into the room and stop almost instantly. When the man uttered his first confused expletive Legolas threw the torch onto the oil-drenched log directly underneath him, setting it instantly ablaze. The flames began to leap from each log to the next. The stunned Haradrim whirled around in surprise, and the last thing he saw in that life was the tip of a spear.

Landing silently on his feet, Legolas left the weapon in the Easterling's face and caught the body as it fell. He kept his eyes resolutely from looking at the damage and made quick work of exchanging he and the Haradrim's tunic and leggings. Throwing the black cloak over his shoulder and pulling on the leather boots, Legolas wrapped the dark headdress around his face, leaving only a small slit for his eyes as he had seen it worn. He then dragged the dead man to the back corner of the room and rolled him under the table, which was already on fire. Everything was on fire. Looking around at his handiwork, Legolas counted to ten before stumbling from the room.

"Help!" he called, gathering flem in his throat to make his voice sound more gruff and alike to the Haradrim. It didn't take much effort, for the smoke had made its way into his lungs already and thickened his voice. "Help!" he repeated, staggering down the narrow stone hallway and leaning heavily against the wall. "Fire; help! The prisoner! Fire!"

A band of Easterlings rounded the corner ahead of him. As soon as they saw him they sprinted forward, and despite his disguise Legolas found himself holding his breath. One of the men grabbed his shoulders and shook him, speaking quickly and angrily in their native language. Unable to understand, Legolas merely nodded frantically and pointed back at the room. Smoke was pouring from the doorway. As the Haradrim all stared at it in astonishment, Legolas pushed against the arms of the one holding onto him and began to cough violently, grasping his throat to signal a need for air. Annoyed, the Easterling said something else he did not understand and nodded, shoving him down the corridor and away from the room.

Holding his breath, Legolas ran as clumsily as he could down the hall and followed the smell of fresh air through several twists and turns. To his relief – and surprise – he met only several more Haradrim along the way, whom he pointed back to his previous prison room as he coughed compellingly. They gave him strange looks before they smelled the smoke on his clothes and all began to shout in alarm, running past him and back the way he had come.

As he was running down yet another corridor, he saw a shaft of light coming from one of the walls and almost cried out in relief. The sun! Stopping next to the window, Legolas peered out and saw a strip of rocky grass directly below him, leading into dense trees. And suddenly, with a jolt, he realized that he had no idea where he was.

"Calm down, Legolas," he growled to himself, planting his hands on the window sill and taking a deep breath. "Think. You are in a beacon tower, and it is either in front of or behind a forest. It must be Amon Dîn. The Grey Wood." Opening his eyes, Legolas felt a smile pull at his lips as relief coursed through him. "You must go south."

Without further talk, Legolas hoisted himself onto the window sill and put his legs through first. He dropped to the forest floor silently, his eyes darting around him in every direction; he almost half expected a horde of more Haradrim to come running around the side of the beacon tower. But it was oddly hushed in the glade.

After counting to ten, Legolas took off in a run. He ran as quickly as his tired legs allowed him. His ears remained attuned to the tall stone building he ran from, and he glanced continually over his shoulder, looking for any signs of followers. There remained to be nothing. Legolas wondered at how fortunate he was; how simply he had escaped. But as one who had been forced to avoid many different captors in the past, he didn't let this wonder keep him or slow his pace. He simply ran.

He had not gone more than a quarter of an hour when he stumbled upon something he never would have expected to see in the forest. In fact, he came upon it so suddenly that it startled him. At first he did not see what it was; it was merely a movement out of the corner of his eye, therefore to him it was a threat. Sliding to an abrupt halt, he threw himself behind some bushes and onto his stomach, peering through the leaves.

He laughed at himself when he realized what 'the threat' was.

A horse. A Gondorian horse for that matter; the silver head-wear on its snout gave it away. It was across the path from him, sniffing at some sparse grass and stamping leisurely in the brush. Standing, Legolas whistled softly and the animal's ears perked up at the sound, turning towards him. Whistling again, the Elf began walking towards it and watched as the horse rose its head and caught sight of him. To his relief the animal trotted towards him almost happily – it seemed pleased to see a human life form, no matter his dress. Grinning, Legolas took ahold of the horse's reigns and swung himself lithely into the saddle. One word from the Elf's lips had the horse bounding down the forest path.

~.~.~

"Elessar!"

Aragorn froze. He had just straightened, wiping a sleeve across his sweat-soaked brow in a brief moment of respite allowed him by the space between he and his adversaries, when he heard the shout of his name. Clutching the hilt of his sword, the King slowly turned to face the Elf who stood no more than a yard away from him, his stance full of arrogant complacency. Darcyn lazily swung his longsword back and forth, a smile spreading across his lips. "Mae govannen."

"Where is he?" Aragorn snarled.

Raising an eyebrow, Darcyn glanced at the people fighting around them. "Why, you get straight to the point, don't you, pretty king?"

Aragorn took a threatening step forward. The world had narrowed in – the men and Elves in the courtyard became blurred shapes, distant and quiet. He only saw the dark Elf that gazed at him amusedly. "Where – is – he?"

Darcyn chuckled. "Well, it is quite apparent that he is not in the crate." Pausing, the Elf nodded at the broken wagon that lay near the gate in pieces. "You made quick work of confirming that."

Aragorn's eyes smoldered.

"Now let's see." Pursing his lips, Darcyn tapped a blood stained finger against them and pretended to muse deeply. "He could be far, or he could be close. He could be underground, or above it. He could be alive..." Meeting Aragorn's eyes, the Elf smiled again, his own gaze wicked. "Or he could be dead."

Clenching his sword so tightly that his knuckles ached, Aragorn said nothing.

"The poison is always worse at the end." Darcyn tipped his head towards the King; almost as if he were bowing to him. "I'm afraid not even I will see the Prince again while he still lives. It's a price I pay for coming to visit you in your lovely city."

"You are all going to die," Aragorn said fiercely. "You willingly gave me your life by stepping foot inside the gate. You have no chance of escape. No chance of survival."

Though he would never say anything of it out loud, the Man marveled at the unfaltering confidence that shone in Darcyn's eyes. "And you will kill me?"

Lifting his sword, Aragorn held it against his chest and said quietly, "Yes. But not yet. Before I do, you will tell me where Legolas is."

"No, Estel." Spitting the name like a curse, Darcyn raised his own weapon and stalked towards the King. His posture had changed; instead of an arrogant victor, the Elf was now a deadly force waiting to unleash an attack. "I don't think I will."

~.~.~

He already knew what to expect when he rode into the city. His keen eyes had saw the battle from far off; the gates, gaping open, showed chaos in Minas Tirith. The lack of a weapon, the ache in his stomach, the weariness of his mind – none of these things had slowed him. He pressed his feet all the more urgently into the sides of his steed, urging him on faster.

As the horse's hooves pounded the stone path before the gates, Legolas clenched his jaw and raked the fighting forms with his eyes, seeking out a familiar face. When he saw none, the Elf instead searched the ground for a weapon. A scimitar caught his eye, and as soon as he was close enough, Legolas leapt from the saddle and sprinted into the city.

Scooping up the abandoned scimitar, the Elf continued to run until he collided with the first wave of Haradrim. Swinging the blade in wide arcs, Legolas felled man after man, his eyes repeatedly darting around the yard even as he worked to rid Minas Tirith's first level of foes. The prince fought with the seasoned skill of a warrior, but all too soon his fire began to dim. The poison was clawing at him. It twisted his stomach in violent knots; his legs started to weaken as he had to fight harder and harder to draw in full breaths around the pain. But still he fought.

And finally, as he pushed farther and farther into the crowd, he saw him.

The Man was across the courtyard, facing him; Legolas of course saw the blood and sweat on his friend's face, but that was not what made his heart quicken with fear. It was the hatred. Aragorn's expression was one of pure, unadulterated hatred. Whoever the King was furiously fighting, the Man loathed. And that could only mean one thing – could only signify one person.

Darcyn.

Valar.

"Elladan! Elrohir! Elladan!" Legolas could not quite say why he found himself screaming for the twins. He couldn't even see them; they were somewhere locked in their own combat. So far away that they didn't hear his cries. But Legolas yelled for them nonetheless, his heart in his throat as every thought of his own pain and his own weakness vanished from his mind. He saw only Aragorn – tiring quickly under the merciless blows from Darcyn's longsword.

Legolas didn't become aware that he was whispering breathlessly as he ran until another Easterling leapt in front of him, blocking his path with a long wooden spear and therefore abruptly halting his words. But the Elf didn't even blink. His scimitar sliced through the wood before doing the same through the man's flesh, once more clearing the way between Aragorn and himself. He ran as fast as his quickly failing legs would allow him; cursing the poison and Darcyn and his own body as he did.

When he saw Aragorn's left leg twist out from under him, Legolas shouted his friend's name. And when he watched Darcyn lock their blades and rip Andúril from the King's hands, he found that he couldn't breathe. But he ran – he ran faster than he'd ever run before in his life. He didn't notice that the angry stream of breathless words falling from his lips wasn't directed at Darcyn, but at Aragorn. 'Don't you dare; you stand tall, get your sword; don't you dare let him win, don't you dare wait for the blow, don't you dare give up before I can reach you. Don't you dare.'

~.~.~

Darcyn did not strike right away. He waited for a moment; allowing his prey to be consumed with terror. As he stood in front of Aragorn and gazed into the Man's grey eyes, he searched for any sign that his hesitation was weakening the King, frightening him, disheartening him in some way.

What he saw was the opposite.

In fact, Aragorn only stared back at him for several moments. And the strength and courage that shone in the Man's gaze for those several moments made Darcyn grind his teeth, his grip on his sword-hilt tightening. But before he could raise it, the Elf watched in confusion as Aragorn's eyes shifted, locking on something only he could see and filling with an emotion that Darcyn never would have expected.

Love.

It was the final straw. That this Man – this evil, lying, murderous Man – had the audacity to think of something that he had been blessed with; something that made his heart soften and fill with hope and love while he stood awaiting his death; made Darcyn's searing contempt for him overflow. The Elf resented Elessar more than he ever had in that moment; resented that the Man still had those people who gave his life meaning even in the face of his end. Who, even when not with him, made him unafraid. He resented that the King of Men still had those he loved – when it had been the King of Men who had taken the life of his beloved fifty years ago, on a veranda in The House of Elrond.

White hot rage burned in Darcyn's heart, and the fingers around his sword-hilt clenched violently. He was not sure if the dark scream that echoed in his head had been uttered aloud as he grabbed Aragorn's shoulder and yanked the unprepared Man forward, onto his waiting blade. And as he felt the sword run through flesh and broken chain-mail; heard the choked gasp of pain; Darcyn rested his cheek against the King of Gondor's head and whispered, "Legolas is dead."

When the Elf stepped back and released his grip on the Man, pulling his blade free of flesh, Aragorn's hands went instantly to the hole in his stomach as he fell to his knees. Blood trickled from between his fingers. Darcyn's chin rose triumphantly, but his brow furrowed when Aragorn looked not at him, but at something once more behind him.

"You coward," the Elf hissed, taking a threatening step towards the King. "Look at me."

Aragorn's eyes didn't move. Irritated, Darcyn frowned and turned, seeking out the object of the Man's focus. And for the first time since he had begun this wicked plot, the Elf was completely taken off guard by what he saw.

~.~.~

TBC.

LiteralElvishTranslations:

"Alae, amarth faeg." — 'Behold, evil fate.'

"Noro!" — 'Run!'