A.N.: Hello, dearest readers, I'm so sorry for the long delay, a surgery and a virosis kept me away from the computer and turned my brain into jelly for a while. I'm not completely fine with this chapter, but it needs to get out, things won't go forward without it.
My heartfelt thanks for your continued support to pallysd'Artagnan – there'll be some more 'oh, no!'s ahead…; Mizz Alec Volturi – those two may or may not do serious damage to the orcs yet; Mustard Lady – Sauron was forced away by Galadriel, but remember the Nine…; Celebrisilweth – Not so bad a day that it can't get worse…; That Other Writer Girl – Kíli will have a chance to say all that and much more, in due time; Thorin, unfortunately, is not nearby yet; Salwyn77 – here it goes…

=^.^=

"Dol Guldur?" Tilda shivered as she identified what it meant. "It's an accursed name, a witchcraft place!"

"Indeed. They want us to reach there alive, but… if they have their way, we won't come out alive."

"Honestly…" Tilda lowered her voice even more. "When the orcs charged into my camp, I thought I would die there and then. Being still alive is a bonus I wasn't expecting. Whilst there is life, there is hope, Da uses to say. But I really don't fancy going to Dol Guldur. If half what people say about that place is true…"

"It is. The White Council drove the Necromancer away by the time of Smaug's demise, but evil still lingers there. My father believed it was only a remainder of that dark will. He was wrong. There dwells something…that works on behalf of the Necromancer. It didn't end back then. And if I understood rightly what the orcs were talking between themselves… they're trying to bring more darkness to Middle-earth. And they want to use us to achieve this."

"Use us?" The woman frowned, fear creeping up her spine. "How?"

"Some dark magic. I couldn't figure out exactly what they're up to, but I don't believe anything pleasant will come from their schemes." The elf scrunched his nose. "What is this stench?"

The whiff of smoke reached Tilda's nose and she made a disgusted face. The orcs were shouting and (supposedly) laughing around the fire, and now she understood why.

"Smells like scalded chicken… but worse… more like burnt leather or fur…" She brought her tied hands to her face when she realised what it meant. "They're roasting Tripsy, poor thing!"

"Tripsy?"

"Kíli's pony. He won't be happy when he finds out."

"They ate my horse, too. No wonder no beast stands to be close to them."

"At least Broda escaped."

"Broda?"

"My horse." She answered without thinking, only to quickly add. "Sigrid's horse, actually."

Legolas took that bit of information and stored in the not important now file. Their survival didn't depend on it right now, and the elf knew from experience that whilst in crisis the best was to keep all his focus on actual goals. What meant escape under the current circumstances. But the orcs feasting on Kíli's pony could mean some relaxing of the watch, and he would use it in their favour.

"Tilda, listen. We must act while their sentry on us is distracted by the food. I'll lose the knots on your wrists, but you'll keep your hands as if bound, right?"

"Aye. What do we do with the shackles?"

"They are gross. A hairpin will do."

"A hairpin?" The woman frowned. "And how in Arda will we find a hairpin in the middle of nowhere?"

Legolas shook his head, unbelieving of human innocence.

"My hair doesn't stay as it is by magic, does it?"

"Oh. Understood."

If her eye-roll was noticed, the elf made his best to don't show it.

"Keep watch on the sentry while I do it."

"Right."

Tilda felt him fumbling with the rope on her wrists for a little while, then the knots came loose. A quick twist and it looked like tied, at least enough to deceive an orc, anyway. The sentry made another round, not really bothering to look at them, and went to fetch more horsemeat. Legolas poked at the shackles around her ankles and quickly turned to his own. The same schema of leaving part of the chain hooked in place was used in both cases.

When it came to the shackles on his own wrists, Legolas pouted, angry at his inability to wriggle his fingers in impossible ways to reach the lock with his silver hairpin. Tilda tired of watching a sentry who ignored them and hearing her partner in crime puffing (or partner in escaping a crime, depending on the point of view).

"Give it to me, your flexibility isn't absolute."

"My fingers are longer than yours and my fine motor coordination is far finer than yours."

"Aye, and your pride is far higher than mine too, and it doesn't mean it makes you any better than me. Now give me the hairpin."

Stunned by her impeccable logic, the elf turned the hairpin over, taking over the task of watching the sentry. It disgusted him to see that filth feasting in his forest, cutting living branches from trees that cried in pain as its sap dropped to the soil like blood. To dismember some of the orcs as compensation sounded quite fair in his opinion.

"How come a princess of Dale learned how to picklock, if I may ask?"

"Well… you know, Da was arrested, the night the dragon came…" Her fingers worked around his wrists, staggering now and then. "After that... everything… he insisted we… me and my siblings… learn to get free in such occasion. Mister Nori is a good teacher."

"I see…" A movement at the corner of his field of vision made him freeze and warn the woman in a whisper. "Stop."

Tilda hid the hairpin in her palm, taking care to keep her ropes in place. A couple of orcs stopped just a few meters from them, each with a chunk of horsemeat in hand. They were not ostensibly watching the prisoners, but were close enough to prevent them from trying anything funny, picklocking included. Time for patience, then. At least there would be more time for the spider poison to wear off, the elf thought as an optimism shot. At least one silver lining…

=^.^=

The trail was plain to see. Orcs didn't give a damn to stealth, and Kíli didn't need a Traditional Track the Tracker Tournament award to know where the filth was heading to. He was good at strategics. He was also good at tracking, stalking and shooting. All those things shouldn't be a problem. Actually, they weren't a problem at all.

The real problem was in numbers. Not that he was unable to math. What he was unable was to find a way to overcome fifty-two orcs and a giant spider on his own, equipped with scarcely thirty arrows, one sword and a couple daggers. Worse yet, uncertain if Tilda was alive or not.

Those were the problems he believed to have when he found the orc camp, climbed a tree like an elf and assessed the surroundings.

Sheer force wouldn't do, despite his anger. This required wits, and Kíli missed his mother dearly. And patience. And he could surely do with a dozen hands to help him. Or rather a dozen dwarrow. Or at least Fíli and Dwalin. Not Thorin. He was still too angry at his uncle to consider his hypothetical help.

So, if this were a problem situation proposed by Balin in one of his lectures on decision making in conditions of uncertainty, what would be the answer less prone to result in disaster?

Collect all information available.

Break the problem in smaller ones.

Assess resources and environment.

Consider alternatives.

Set up the scenario.

Act.

=^.^=

The day was old, which meant the same as 'the night was old' in orc time spreadsheet. Tilda had been unable to sleep, despite being warned that they would be marching as soon as the sun set. To munch on her share of mouldy bread was something she forced herself to, knowing she would need the strength when the time to escape came. Because there was no doubt in her mind that a time of escape would come.

Legolas had dozed off a few times, his weakened body needing it to recover from the repeated poisoning. After those few moments of respite when the sentry got his horse barbecue, they had not been left without eyes on them. Whenever he was awake, his eyes darted here and there through the trees, inconspicuous, searching.

Not the last time, the elf wished he shared in the ability to communicate without words as it was told some of the ancient ones were able. The Lady in the Golden Forest, the Lord of the Last Homely House, Círdan the Shipwright. It hurt a little, knowing those Lords had that gift and yet his father, a true King chosen by his people, didn't. Or maybe he did, yet didn't brag about it? Did, yet used it seldom and only when strictly necessary? Nah, if Thranduil had an ounce of that power, Legolas would never hear the end of it. Even in his closed quarters.

Tilda's boot connected lightly with his shin, which was as good a silent communication as any, under the circumstances. The elf looked at the woman from under his eyelashes, still feigning being poisoned, in all accounts. She quivered her chin upwards, just enough for him to notice what she was hinting up.

"Sweet Erú…" Was all Legolas was able to think before hell broke loose.