If you're reading this, I'm so glad you're here. I'm so excited to share this chapter with you. My heart is woven between these words. Happy reading.

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Chapter Ten

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When his finger slid hard against the wood for what seemed the millionth time, Legolas cursed loudly and quickly put his finger in his mouth. How in all of Melkor's fire could one measly little fragment of bark cause so much pain? As his body viciously battled a poison beyond his time, he condemned with all of his might a tiny stitch of wood.

With a sigh, Legolas picked up the stick once more and raked the spoon against it, shaving off another delicate coil. It dropped to join hundreds of others on the ground. After only several more strokes he put the spoon down and appraised his work of art. The tip of the stick had been honed to a deadly 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'. He felt quite pleased with himself.

Every several hours, an Easterling had come to look in on him. And every time this had happened thus far Legolas had made sure to lie in the corner, still and quiet – though in all reality it was not a mere act for his captors peace of mind. He suffered; he swallowed nausea and the metallic taste of blood, he felt still the fire below his heart, and often he found darkness clawing his eyes to shut. The Haradrim would curse or laugh at him – often he would be prodded with spears of their own. Once he was brought muddied water. Despite the fear that continually rose in his heart at the thought, Legolas lay in the knowledge that each time they opened the door they hoped to find him dead.

During the times that he was alone, he moved around the room, familiarizing himself with every inch of it. Eventually his efforts of search were rewarded. Underneath a tumble of crates, he found a pair of wooden doors in the ground. They were locked, but the moment he felt them refuse to give he remembered the spoon. The others had been confiscated by one of his guards after the Easterling had swept the room himself. After grueling hours of prying – careful work; he knew that if he pushed too far the spoon would 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, and inside was packed rows of logs, strong sticks, and tinder. It was all well-kept and dry. To his further joy he found underneath it all a canteen full of oil. As he lay there, gazing at his prize, the sudden flicker of a plan had brightened the darkness of the fear and the pain in his mind. A look at the torch bracketed high up on the wall cemented it there.

He had known to wait. He closed and covered the doors and returned to his position. Soon the Haradrim had pushed into the room and kicked him in the side, glowering back at the glare Legolas sat up and leveled at him. No words were exchanged, for which he was grateful. He watched the man leave before throwing open the doors and setting to work. Along every wall of the room he stacked logs, and between them the sticks and the tinder, packing more of it closer to the tables and the stores. After this was finished he doused it all with oil, careful to ration and wet every morsel of wood. He had some left in the end, which he emptied at the back of the room. It was then that he set to the task of sharpening one of the sticks to his fashion.

Shaking himself once more, 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 and the way that he could taste blood constantly now. He began to climb, and found himself instantly grateful for the the crystallized fashion of the stone. He was both humbled and amused to find himself profusely blessing the crafting techniques of the Men of Gondor as he swiftly reached the top. As soon as the torch was in reach he planted his feet on the rock so he could examine the bracket that held it. He had been prepared 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, he 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 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 agony 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 found himself having to swallow more desperately his grief than his infirmity.

Finally the guard came. As the door was pushed open, Legolas swiftly grabbed the torch from the wall and held it over his head, watching the Haradrim walk into the room and instantly stop. 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 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 man's face and caught the body as it fell. He kept his eyes resolutely from his work and quickly exchanged 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. Holding his breath, Legolas counted to ten before stumbling from the room.

"Help!" He knew enough of the language of his captors to frantically shout the word in their tongue, gathering flem in his throat to guise himself more. His eyes watered and his chest ached as he staggered down the narrow hallway made completely of stone. "Help – fire! The prisoner!"

Almost instantly a group of men rounded the corner ahead of him. As soon as they saw his form through the smoke they surged forward, and despite his disguise Legolas found himself drawing back in instinctual panic. One of the men grabbed his shoulders and shook him, speaking too quickly for him to understand. He merely nodded and pointed frantically back at his burning prison, holding his throat. Annoyed, the Easterling shoved him out of the way and followed his companions back the way he had come.

Still holding his breath, Legolas ran in the opppsite direction. Suddenly he found himself following the smell of fresh air; twisting through corridors that were identical, dark, and long. But the fullness of green and fresh grew stronger and deeper in his lungs and after nauseating twists and turns there came an abrupt glare of light that blinded him. The sun.

Blinking hard, he stepped up to the window, his legs shaking viciously both from his ailment and from his utter awe at the fortune of such a streak of luck. He leaned out of the tower and gazed down at 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.

"Think," he breathed to himself, planting his hands on the window sill and forcing in a deep breath, ragged still with smoke as it was. "You are in a beacon tower, either in front of or behind a forest. Amon Dîn. The Grey Wood." Opening his eyes, Legolas felt a smile pull at his lips as some relief coursed through him. "You must go south."

He hoisted himself onto the ledge and put his legs through first, dropping silently to the forest floor. His eyes darted around him in a full scan of the trees; he half expected a Haradrim army to surge round the tower side. But it remained oddly hushed in the glade.

After counting to ten, Legolas took off in a sprint. His ears remained sharply fixed on the stone building behind him even as his eyes remained fixed to his front. He heard not a single clamor of pursuing feet. There remained nothing. He 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 did not let this wonder keep him or slow his pace. He knew not to linger. He knew he ran for his life.

He had not gone more than a quarter of an hour when he stumbled upon something that was so bizarrely out of place in the forest that at first he did not recognize it. He came upon it so suddenly that it startled him. Sliding to an abrupt halt, he threw himself onto his stomach behind some bushes, peering through the leaves.

Clarity hit him not a full moment after, and he found himself choking on a hoarse laugh as he stood once more and made his way towards his 'assailant'.

A horse. A Gondorian horse. The silver head-wear on his snout gave him instantly away, and when Legolas whistled softly he rose his head and turned his eyes and ears towards him. He could not fight back his smile of joy as he took hold of the horse's reigns and swung himself lithely into the saddle. One soft word from the Elf's lips had the horse bounding down the forest path.

–

"Elessar."

Aragorn froze. He had just rested his free hand on his knee, wiping a sleeve across his sweat-soaked brow in a brief moment of respite that he knew was only allowed him by the wall of his loyal Men. They were not tiring, and they were brave; braver than Aragorn felt he could ever ask them to be. He was sucking in air and staring at the stones under his feet when a familiar voice rushed around him like death.

Clutching the hilt of his sword, the King slowly straightened. He closed his eyes, centering himself, breathing in deep the hatred he felt, the fury, the surety. Surety that he would kill Darcyn this day. As soon as his tremors subsided and his body was once more fully attuned to his sword, Aragorn turned to face him.

Darcyn stood no more than a yard away. He had waited – patiently. He appeared almost as if he was bored. Lazily swung his longsword beside him, back and forth, and he smiled as soon as their eyes met. "I am overjoyed to see you, Adan."

"Where is he?" Aragorn snarled.

Raising an eyebrow, Darcyn took a pointed glance of the chaos around them. "Well. You get straight to the point, don't you?"

The world had narrowed farther in. It was just them; he and the serpent. He took a threatening step forward, the disquiet he felt overshadowed by his rage. "Where – is – he?"

"I suppose we've ruled out the crate." Darcyn jerked his head back towards the direction of the gate where, they both knew, they wagon lay in pieces. "You made admiringly quick work of confirming that."

Aragorn could not breathe around his rage.

"Now let's see." Pursing his lips, Darcyn tapped a blood stained finger against them and pretended to deeply muse. "He could be far, or he could be close. He could be underground, or above it. He could be alive, or…" Meeting Aragorn's eyes again, the Elf smiled softly. "Do you realize that he could already be dead?"

He was clutching his sword hilt so tightly that his knuckles ached. But he said nothing. He continued to size the Elf up, waiting, seething.

"The poison is always worse at the end." Darcyn's voice held that sickeningly soft tone, his eyes shining the same. "It was a mercy you do not deserve that I took him from you. A mercy for you both. You could never imagine it, Adan, and I'm afraid not even I will see the Prince again while he still lives. It's one of the very few downfalls of coming to visit you and your lovely people, in your lovely home."

"You will die now," Aragorn quietly said. "You should not have come back into my city. You have walked willingly up to the death that you have deserved for an age."

Though he would never say anything of it out loud, Aragorn could not help but marvel at the unfaltering calm that always stood in Darcyn's eyes. "And you will kill me?"

He pulled his sword against his chest. "Yes."

"That is rather unfortunate." Darcyn tilted his head. "Don't you want to know where his body is, so that you can burn it?"

Every last shred of his composure left him then. Instantly he forgot the wish to wait and begin the fight on the defense. He saw red. Only red. He heard a furious roar that he knew was his own and the sun glinted sharply off his blade as he lurched forward and swung it towards Darcyn's neck.

–

Legolas already knew what to expect once he'd reached the city. His eyes had easily been able to see the battle from far off; the gates, gaping open, showed chaos in front of and within them. The lack of a weapon, the pain in his stomach, the exhaustion of his body – none of these things slowed him. He pressed his feet all the more urgently into the sides of his steed, urging him on faster, his heart pounding in rhythm with the horse's hooves.

As he finally felt the change of the stone path before the gates he clenched his jaw against nausea and raked the fighting forms with his eyes, seeking out a familiar face; any familiar face. When he saw none he 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 towards the city.

Scooping up the abandoned scimitar, the Elf continued to run until he collided with the first wave of Haradrim. Legolas swung the blade in wide arcs and didn't blink at a single, sharp edged death. His eyes searched ever ahead, through the gates and into the yard as his heart pounded with the fear of being too late. Soon another terror roared alongside; the terror of how he weakened. The poison clawed at him. It twisted his stomach in violent knots; his body thrummed with pain as he fought harder and harder to draw in full breaths. But he fought. He did not stop.

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

Aragorn was across the courtyard and halfway up a street. He was facing him; locked in combat with one of the blurred forms slaughtering each other across the white stones. Legolas of course saw the blood and the sweat on his friend's face; the exhaustion. But it was the one whom he fought that made the Elf's heart stop with crippling fear. It was him; it was Darcyn.

Valar.

"Elladan! Elrohir! Elladan!" Legolas could not quite say why he found himself screaming for them. He couldn't even see either; they were somewhere locked in their own fight. So far away in the death and the noise that they wouldn't hear his cries. But Legolas screamed for them nonetheless. He felt as though his heart was falling through his feet, obliterated on the ground behind him as he pushed desperately towards his friend. Every pain he felt; every pang of agony completely erased from his mind. He saw only Aragorn – tiring quickly under merciless blows from Darcyn's longsword.

Legolas did not know that he was speaking breathless words as he fought until he was just about to dart through a hole and another Easterling leapt in front of him, blocking his path with a spear. Legolas did not blink as 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.

Focus. Fight. Do not stop. I am here – hold him.

When he saw Aragorn's left leg twist out from under him, Legolas tried to shout his friend's name. It was drowned by the terror in his throat. And when he watched Darcyn finally lock their blades and rip Andúril from Aragorn's hands, he heard screaming and could not tell if it came from his own lips or another's. But he ignored it and he ran – he ran faster than he could remember ever running before in his life.

Evade.

Do not give in before I can reach you.

Pick it up.

Fight.

–

He knew that the moment had finally arrived. He knew that finally he had him. He had him. He had gotten his hands around the King of Gondor's heart and crumpled it like dust between his fingers, and now here he stood, fresh from a desperate spin, his enemy unarmed and his blade digging fiercely into the man's neck.

But he did not strike right away. He waited for a moment. He wanted the man to feel it; he wanted him to stand and stare his death directly in the face. He willed with everything in him that Aragorn's last thoughts were dark and cold. That he felt the hole where his loved one had once been; that he felt the defeat in falling before he knew the fate of his city. He wanted him to die broken and alone, and he breathed slowly, waiting for the King's eyes to meet his so that he could know this.

"Finally the wrong is righted," he whispered to himself, surprised by the way the words pressed fiercely against his chest.

Aragorn stared back at him and did not flinch. His eyes did not allow a single shred of whatever fear he felt. His fingers shook around the hilt of his sword as he pressed father, enraged that even here the man was unfaltering. Aragorn seemed unaware of the blood that trickled from his neck onto the blade, his eyes calm and clear.

His chest began to heave. "You have nothing, Adan?"

"No," the King said softly. "I have everything. And you will never know."

He resented Elessar more than he ever had in that moment. He resented that here stood the man in front of his bloody death and still his heart was full of nothing but those who gave him comfort and surety and peace. Those who made him unafraid. He resented that the King of Men still had those he loved – had those he loved when he had no one.

Still he searched. He stared at him – he knew it was wildly – and he waited, but there was nothing. As his fingers tightened sinister around his sword hilt, still there was nothing. And when Aragorn turned his eyes away, refusing to look at him further, he could almost smell the King of Gondor's blood spilling red over the stones of his city. He waited for the peace, and the very moment that it washed warm through him, like a balm, that was when he moved. He was at peace as he grabbed Aragorn's shoulder and pulled the man forward onto his blade. As he felt the sword run through flesh and broken chain-mail; heard the instant exhale of pain; he rested his cheek against Aragorn's blood soaked hair and whispered to him softly, "Legolas is dead."

When he 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 steadily from between his fingers. They both were very aware that it would not be long, and he breathed in deep of the unfaltering calm as he stood in front of his prey and reveled in his kill. In his victory. His persistence, his reward, his right. He nearly felt as though he could weep with the overwhelmingness of all he felt.

But then something happened. Something that, for the first time since he had begun this, completely shifted the course of everything in his work. Because then he chose to turn and see what the dying man had watched while he fell.

—

TBC