Disclaimer: I own NOTHING of middle-earth. All places and characters are JRR Tolkein's, and New Line Cinema. NO monies are made from this. It is strictly a work of enjoyment.

The use of Trelan and Raneian from the Mellon Chronicles, as well as said references to events in said Chronicles, was given by Cassia when I sent her the synopsis. As far as I know, Fingolfin and Iswilen are constructs of my own imagination. Any resemblence to anyone living or dead is strictly in the mind of the reader, though the name of Fingolfin comes from the Sillmarillion. This Fingolfin was named for that great hero.

To Alexa: I feel I really need to address your question. Legomance? Let me assure you the answer is no. It is my intention NOT to have this a Mary Sue. Iswilen is there because I love Eowyn, and because I have set this story way before her time, I wanted a strong female in there. Does that help? I had never heard the term Legomance – I love it!

To Jambaby: Yes, Melech is in reference to The Mellon Chronicles and their Prisoner of Darkness. I sent her a synopsis and gained permission.

To those who have reviewed for me, a great big THANK YOU for your time and consideration.

Chapter Two

Recovery and death

The Present…

Spring aided in their trek over the Misty Mountains. The days were warm and sunny, but not overly so as the night's frost gave them reason for small fires, conversation and stories. They encountered small gatherings of orcs sprinkled about the mountain paths and with stealth born of Númenor and Noldor, watched in the brush and listened. Little was gained by way of useful information for the Orc's descent from Gundabad, only that they drove onward to the southeast over the Gladden Fields.

Toward Dol Guldur.

Twilight, that dimming of the world before night that came upon all things alive and set them to sleep, found the trio camped on the edge of the Gladden River. Strider sat high in one of the sparce trees on the mountain's edge. His bow rested low, yet ready in his left hand. His quiver hung within easy reach upon his back. His grey gaze watched the marshes which lay as the gateway before the forests of Mirkwood. This is where his ancestor Isuldir had lost Middle-Earth's greatest prize.

His muscles gave a shiver, yet he was unsure if the response was from the cold, or memories locked within the marsh waters before him. These lands had seen much evil, much torture, and much deceit. Even now he could see the last of the Orcs he and his brothers had tracked as they made their loping way toward the dark forest.

A small sound, no more than a slight disturbance of water. caught the Ranger's attention. His muscles tensed. Strider's bow came to be ready, an arrow knotched, its fletching placed. He turned in the direction of the sound, only to spy a tall, dark-haired Elf standing beside the water's edge, looking up at the Dunédan.

"Is it also your plan to stay in the trees all night as well as the day?"

With a sigh and a quick glance at the darkening wild, Strider returned his bow to his quiver and with an ease taught to him by his Mirkwood brother, leapt easily and gracefully to the ground, his knees bending deep to keep himself from injury. Legolas' words always returned to him upon this action. 'Tis not a matter of landing, but of allowing the ground to greet your approach for always the grass and rock remain in their place, unyielding to any manner of fall.

He gave a slight chuckle as he stood and faced his brother. "Where is Elrohir?"

Elladan's eyebrows folded in upon the bridge of his nose, giving him all the resemblance of his father. "It unnerves me that you are able to do that with such ease, where it seems that I, of Elven-kind, should break my foot."

"And how astounding that you should admit this to me?" Strider allowed himself a deep laugh as he reached out and clapped the tall Elf on his shoulder. "You should learn much from your Sindarin kin. Watching Legolas these long years has aided me in my understanding of the trees." He turned to his right, his intention in leading the other toward their concealed camp thwarted when his soft boot found snag upon a gnarled root, and the Dunédan found himself falling forward.

Elladan's laughter rang about the air like clear bells on wing. "Oh brother I suggest you not boast so loud in the presence of the trees. It seems they are not as appreciative of your abilities as you are."

Unable to suppress his own laughter, Strider nodded. "Aye." He gave a deep sigh as his Elf brother leaned forward and gave him a hand up. "Again I ask, where is Elrohir?"

Elladan nodded toward the mountain's edge. "I left him that way."

Unsubstantiated fear clenched at Strider's stomach. He narrowed his eyes as his gaze tracked the darkening mountain's edge. "Why did you leave him?"

"He would not come...Estel?" the Elf's own gaze narrowed as he took in the expression on the man's face. "Did you sight something from the tree's perch?"

"No…but I-"

The thrash of brush against rock and stone against water set the two searchers into a defensive posture. Strider's sword was drawn as quickly as the Elf's as Elladan's twin came crashing into view, a specter appearing before them from the dark.

"Elrohir…?" Elladan called.

The younger Elf shook his head and made a motion of his finger across his neck. "Men approach," he hissed as he neared the two. He was nearly winded and his voice rough as he informed his brothers. "Twenty or so ride from the south."

"Men?" Strider shook his head. There were no settlements near the Gladden Fields and Lothlorien lay to the south.

Elrohir nodded. "On horses. Their girdle and standard are of Rohan. I watched them for only a brief time, for I sensed their scout along the mountain's ridge. They ride on this side, their gallop slow and steady."

Strider looked at Elladan. Rohan horsemen? Along the Gladden Fields? It seemed odd placed, as the horsemen of the plains rarely rode north of their borders below the Misty Mountains. With a narrowed eye, the Ranger looked back to the younger Elf. "Did you see if their scout searched for particular importance?"

"I was not able to purchase close shelter from their eyes." Elrohir glanced behind him. "They are near here. I do not have a dislike of men, nor a fear, but since our ride to Dol Guldur is in restriction, should we not conceal ourselves until we can understand their intentions?"

Elladan nodded and Strider was forced to agree. Their camp was only a few paces away, and a good scout would spot the disturbance if he were on foot along the path. The three of them ran with speed and gathered their things. Near to the northern edge lay a cave the Dunédan had used on occasion for overseeing, and the three hid themselves away.

Vibration within the ground warned of the horses' approach. They did not ride in speed, but their seemed to be a purpose in their gallop. Strider peered out through a spindling bush, just bursting with spring newness as the Riders came into view. Elrohir had been right in their standard, held high over their heads. Their number was less than twenty, and he gauged their days in travel to be few. They did not have the look of being travel weary.

"The scout," Elladan hissed in the grey tongue.

The Ranger saw him as he picked his way along the Gladden River. A man, dressed in dark clothing, spattered with mud and grime from the marshes. A sword remained sheathed at his hip and a folded short bow was strapped at his back beside a small quiver of arrows. The scout paused at the river's edge, his gaze scanning the far shore which sat only a small walk's distance from where the three watched.

I know that man. Strider narrowed his eyes, wishing for all the world that he had the Elves' keen sight. He could not see the scout's face - yet his movements, his stance - pulled at the Ranger's memory.

A horseman wearing a jerkin decorated with the Rohan standard kicked his mount forward and reined in beside the still scout. "You sense something?" His voice rang loud and clear in Strider's ears.

The unhorsed man shook his head. "I am unsure, my lord. Many have been through here - some orc - some not."

"What may be the some not?"

The scout looked at the horse lord. "Elf-kind."

Elrohir gave a snort. "He's guessing."

Strider knew the cause of the Elf's distress. "He's tracked you." He glanced back at his Elf-brother. "I told you to watch your boasts."

"Quiet to both of you." Elladan's grey tongue commanded obedience.

The Ranger leaned in. "Did Glorfindel not dispatch to their King? Mayhaps these riders are in response?"

Elladan nodded. "You say we greet them?"

"I say we gather information, where ever we can." Strider gave Elladan an open look, beseeching the Elf to agree.

The Horse Lord spoke. "We stand between Lothlorien and Rivendell. An Elven presence is expected." The Horse Lord looked about the mountain. "The news we bare would be better used for the First Born."

Strider touched his brother's shoulder."What news could the Riders have for Elves?"

With a sigh, Elladan nodded. "I do not know. But I now agree we should make a presence known. I suggest only myself greet them. If they mean harm, and such a thing is possible, Estel," he glared at his mortal brother, grey eyes flashing. "Then you both are free to continue on."

Elladan's logic was sound, yet Strider could see the younger twin blanching at the idea of hiding while his brother went forth. The light was dimming still, twilight nearly spent. Soon there would be only darkness and the Rohirrim would need to camp. It would be best to perhaps join forces, but patience and caution were essential.

The Noldor moved quietly out of concealment of the cave, but kept his form still well hidden from the eyes or the horsemen. Elrohir filled the space left by his twin and the two, Ranger and Elf, kept a close watch on the men.

Only Strider's trained gaze continued to rest upon the scout. Something puzzled him about the way he moved. A familiar test played against his senses, and again he was plagued by the feeling he knew this being.

"Strider…your face is aggrieved."

"Ro," Strider lapsed into his childhood name for the younger Elven twin. It had been easier for him as a small mortal to pronounce only the first syllable - yet the sound had become more of a personal expectation between the two. Its use now signaled to Elrohir that Estel was worried. "I know that man. I have seen him before."

"The Rhohirrim?"

"No, the scout."

Elrohir pursed his lips. "Then I would say by the expression that lapsing memory gives you, it is not a pleasant recollection. Is he dangerous?"

Again the memory escaped the Ranger and he drew air in between his gritted teeth. He put a hand to his brow, pressing in on his temple to perhaps force the elusive information forth. Why did he seem so familiar? And why do I suddenly fear for Elladan's life as well as the Horse Lord I do not know?

The older twin was now close to the riders, who were dismounting. Indeed they intended on camping here. The Horse Lord dismounted and stood beside the scout, who now looked at the darkening wood as the last of twilight dimmed.

It was in that look that Strider found recognition. Early in his travels with the Dunédan he had encountered a Ranger who claimed to be from Enedwaith. This Ranger's relations had soured within the ranks of the Northern Dunédan, and the foul intentions of this man came to light. Long had there been evil blood, a dark feud between the Wild Men of Dunland, and the Hose Men of the Riddermark. Strider did not know the reasons for the two people's hatred of one another, only that the Dunlendings warred upon the Rhohirrim with bloodthirsty attacks and raids. The exposed Ranger had been one of those of Dunland - his purpose revealed to spy upon the Rhohirrim to gather what he could from the Northern Dunédan and report this much back to his chieftain.

Strider would never forget the name of Granlyn Tovick. The very man that now stood beside a leader of the men he and his kind vowed to destroy.

Strider clutched Elrohir's shoulder. "I know that man." He kept his voice low, a hiss in the Elf's ear. "He is Dunlending!"

Six months ago…

Evening sun twinkled as it filtered through the wafting leaves outside the room's windows. A light breeze, still chilled by the autumn's dawn, moved the white, soft-spun sheers about the open doors of the terrace. The candles upon the room's dressing table flickered in protest to the wind's teasing. A bell echoed in the distance, announcing the evening meal in the palace of Eryn Lasgalen.

Legolas gave a soft sigh as he slumped in the wine and gold chair beside the bed of his friend. Two days had passed since their return from the northern woods. Seven of the Elves that fought bravely lay as Trelan did, in a state of sweats and pain, issuing little more than groans and muddled Sindarin. His own leg gave a throb of recovery only when he walked upon it. The medicines of Iswilen had proved thorough as had her cleaning of the wound. Yet his dear friend had not faired as well, his wound not cleansed as evenly. All would recover. The Prince's only fear was that the wound would damage the archer's aim.

That is all Trelan would fear, if he would only wake and cease speaking nonsense to me.

Legolas looked again through the open doors. His thoughts strayed to those he had lost to the strange battle. Five dead. Immortal lives banished to the House of Mandos. The weight of responsibility again pressed down on him, as had his father's countenance when he'd come to look upon the condition of his son. The Prince did not assume to know the King's mind, only that he felt blame, whether directed at himself by his own misgivings, or by his silent father, he did not know.

But again his thoughts returned to the spiders and their behaviour. They had been fleeing - of that he was sure, even if no other in the whole realm agreed. They had fled north, skirting the edges of the Elf-held lands, and the Prince's party had stumbled into them. Fingolfin and his sister had been tracking a band of orc at the same time, heading in a southernly direction.

And the two should meet. Yet the Prince felt he was missing some vital connection between the two paths. There was a subtle assurance in his instinct that told him he had to pay attention. Something dark was moving, from whence direction, the noble Elf could not be certain.

He wished to speak to his father about his musings, yet he had been told his father was busy with the wounded. Trelan moaned and Legolas looked to his friend.

How had the taint of an orc's blood so wantonly been changed? Fingolfin claimed there were ways to see the changed orcs, though it had taken his people several months to set their senses keen on these subtleties. Legolas saw one orc as he saw many.

They are enemies; a blight upon this world. A defiled, warped and foul version of our own people. "Such thoughts, my Prince, shall not aid in your friend's recovery."

So preoccupied with his thoughts, he had not heard Fingolfin's foot fall upon the marbled floors. Legolas did not turn, but allowed his old friend to come around and stand by Trelan's bed. The tall, elegant Elf leaned forward, the tips of his dark blond tresses stroking the sheets cast over the sleeping archer.

How proud and strong Fingolfin had grown. Since his own recovery, only late in the previous night, the Prince had desired to press the returned kin with questions. Why were he and his sister not in the Grey Havens? Where was their Father? How had they come to be so close to King Thranduil's lands and yet he had not laid eyes upon them in centuries?

Questions, questions. Legolas gave a long sigh. Will my mind never tire of them? Why does the sun rise and set? Why does my calf still throb if the poison was removed? Why do I feel as though my own Ada will never be pleased with me? Why did so many have to die? Why had I not paid enough attention to where I replaced my knife?

Why am I sitting here in the darkening room, asking myself these errant questions?

"Mayhaps you take too much of the world's burdens upon yourself, Greenleaf,"Fingolfin now stood before him and knelt down in front of his chair. The Elf's eyes were bright, their pupils dilated wide to allow in more light. "Much have you changed in these long years. You have aged, though you look not a day differently than last I bade you farewell."

"I am old," Legolas gave his friend a small smile. He put his hand to his right temple and pressed hard at the dull throb. Iswilen's medicines were strong and well mixed, yet they had given him a foul headache. "And spent. Your sister's remedies cleared the infection, but they did not allow me rest. Too painful did they burn."

"As they do now with Trelan," Fingolfin glanced back at the ailing Elf. "She has something for you tonight, after dinner. It will allow you a deep and healing sleep."

Legolas felt his dark eyebrow arch. His head throbbed dully. "She mixes a potion to finish the job her remedies had not finished?" He winced and pushed at his temple again. "Yrch...she means to dispel me."

"Do not think lightly of her work, Greenleaf. She has mastered my father's gift of healing, much as Elrond of Imladris. I too have felt the sting of the Orc's blood - and she has healed me."

Somehow it was comforting to know the strong Elf before him had sustained the foul black, and come through unscathed.

"You must tell me more of this new Orc menace - of how you tracked them to where we battled. I should speak with my father of the week's events. Is he-?"

Fingolfin raised a hand to silence the Prince. "King Thranduil is with Iswilen. All will be told in time. Even your Father has not asked us too much, instead making his people available to my sister and her herbs. He has watched closely, and nervous was she in administering to you." A twinkle came to the Elf's eye. "The King loomed over her shoulder, watching every more lest she make a mistake in your healing."

Legolas stared at his old friend. "My father you speak of? Nay, I would believe more that he would pay more attention to the twins of his oldest friend, and least to his errant, failing son."

Fingolfin's eyes narrowed as he studied Legolas' face, and the Prince felt the hairs on his neck prickle as the Elf's thoughts touched his. I had forgotten his gift of whisper - that insane ability to speak with thought. I am now not surprised he has known my worries since my awakening.

"And before," Fingolfin said. "It was your thoughts that brought our group to your battle. I recognized them, even as guilt-ridden as they were." The Elf pursed his lips as he studied the Prince. "Always I remembered you as Iswilen did - battered, soul-bruised, unable to quail the cries and night terrors that prevented you from a simple night's sleep. I remember the sleeplessness of your father - I can still hear his voice thundering from the tops of this palace, declaring war on all men for what they had done to his son." He smiled. "You do not remember your father's worry. But I do. Iswilen does. And it was under Lord Elrond's tutelage that she learned her first herbs, and grew fascinated with the Healing arts. It was the sight of your battered body and soul that drove our father from this place, away from the troubles of Middle-Earth and men. To the Grey Havens, he had promised."

Legolas' memories of that time were clear, yet muddied. He had been a babe, just past a hundred years in age, and the malicious King Melech had possessed him - taken his freedom and nearly beaten his spirit into submission. Those wounds were long to heal, and he carried the hatred for me with him as a torch that burned fiercely. Had it not been for his meeting of Aragorn, Estel of Imladris, and their subsequent friendship, he would probably still feed such a fire.

Fingol had taken his family, sometime later., while Legolas had been in the wood, lost during one of his quieter times – upon one of the sojourns he would take to mend his mind and soul. There had been no goodbyes – only a vacant space where laughter and camaraderie had once lived.

Banishing the memories, the Prince looked longer at Fingolfin, aware the Elf had become silent. His blue eyes were distant, himself lost in memories of some poignant event in his life. "Fingolfin...why are you still here? Did your Ada have a change of heart in sailing home? Did you and Iswilen decide not to follow him?"

A cooler breeze than before traveled through the open doors. It brushed at Legolas' forehead, moved the stray hairs about Fingolfin's face as the Elf swallowed hard and drew his gaze to the Prince's. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but was halted by a scream.

Within that shrill, piercing sound lived all manner of emotions, most birthed from regret and anger. Torment road the wings of sound and Legolas put his hands to his head as the scream continued about the palace walls. Sorrow, abounding love, surprise, anger, disbelief...all these things did this one agonizing sound encompass.

Memory lashed at Legolas, yanking him back thousands of years to a day he wished long buried, when his mother was taken from this world to forever dwell in the House of Mandos. His father had made that sound as she slipped away. And he, as a small child, had been unable to bear the grief and anguish of the King then...

...and now.

Fingolfin cursed as the sound died away. The Prince shakily pulled his hands from his ears, greeted by the sounds of quickly moving servants and attendees outside Trelan's room. The emotions born on that wave of panic were slow to dissipate and Legolas found he had been holding his breath. He released it and gathered more air into his lungs.

"She has told him the truth," Fingolfin leaned down to Legolas. "Greenleaf, I must go. Stay here with your friend."

But the Elf Prince could not remain alone, not with the memories that scream had resurfaced. He trembled as he had trembled that day, all the years of acceptance of his mother's passing wiped away with a single sound. He gripped the tall Elf's hands and Fingolfin knelt down beside his friend.

"My father..." the Prince looked into his friend's blue eyes. He could not draw a breath. Such grief! Ai...what has happened? "That was my father."

Fingolfin's pupils widened, and it looked as if his eyes were black. "Iswilen has told your father a grievous truth. News we had not wished upon him for over two thousand years." He looked down for a small space of time, then with a deep breath, took in Legolas' gaze again. "My father, Fingol of Eryn Lasgalen, friend to King Thranduil, is dead," his fair face darkened, his countenance stern. "By the hand of men."

TBC