Sarah here! *bows dramatically* OH! And she wants to hug you all!! *beams down upon all the wonderful — albeit shivering — readers* :D

Maranwe1: LOL! Well, we have it pretty close to Halloween at least. ;P Actually, both of us need to stay alive. What, you didn't think all the angst and torture came from only one of us, did you? *tsk tsk* ;D The part with the boy was all Hannah's — her crazy scheme, her brilliance! I must say, I loved it too. :) *huggles Maranwe* I love it when people notice details — and the branch bit was rather close to my heart. Why? Because I didn't really have any intention of putting it there! It just sorta… happened. *Sarah decides to let the Mimble Wimbles in her head do her writing more often* :D

Gwyn: STOP SELLING YOURSELF SHORT!! Believe it or not, we (being: Sarah and Hannah/Siri, the authoresses, the crazy people, etc., etc.) read every one of our reviews at least twice through, including yours! You are neither corny, nor stupid, nor any other such epithet, but are a loyal reader and good feedbacker, no matter how long your posts are. *pauses to gain her breath* 'Kay? :D

RainyDayz: Our best yet, you say? *Sarah glances nervously at Hannah/Siri* Um, Hannah, is it possible for us to keep this up? *Hannah shrugs with a 'gee, I hope so' expression* Yeah, I hope so too. Wow, Rainy, thanks! Especially on all those details; it really helps to know what contributed the most to scenes like this. :) Umm… 'Good law'?

Lady Sandry: Don't worry, it wasn't a silly question! To be perfectly honest, it's kind of bizarre that we have our stories and Cassia/Sio's stories supposedly co-existing like this — because such a coexistence would be utterly impossible! There just aren't any gaps in the original MC stories that our fics could fit into. Still, Cassia and Sio don't seem to mind, so we continue to pretend. ;D Oh, and yes: (fortunately? Unfortunately?) we share the same brain. :P I think you're probably right about elves repelling dirt. It makes more sense (though I may be saying that because I'm a human… ;). Ah yes, the twins… Well, we'll be seeing them again — yes indeed! When? How often? Er, you'll see. :) *blushes to the roots of her hair* Wow, Sandry, thanks! That's got to be one of the nicest compliments we've ever been paid. :D

Lurker_elf: Sometimes I think the only thing keeping these two alive is that having two targets keeps the bad guys distracted... ROTFLOL! That's gotta be it. ;D *Sarah begins to recover… and then keeps reading* Because you're characters in a Siri-and-Hannah story based on a Cassia-and-Sio universe, Legolas. If you don't get at least one near-fatal wound per person per story, they don't feel like their doing their jobs. The readers get restless without their requisite angst and friendship scenes, as well, and believe me, Ringwraiths have nothing on unhappy fans. Wait, you wanted an explanation that wouldn't shatter your universe? Um...destiny? *collapses completely and disappears under her desk, from whence hysterical giggles emanate for a full five minutes* Excuse me? *stifled giggle* Who's entertaining who here? :P Ah yes, the wonderful Oregon weather patterns (i.e. rain, rain, shower, rain, etc.); we used to live in Portland, so we feel your damp — and it actually played no small part in this fic. ;D Is the Lindamar thing really making you miserable? Oh. We're sorry. *smiles in what she hopes is a decently sympathetic manner* :) Poetry: The Barrow Wight verse in the last chapter was not ours (*gasps and hides from the plagiarism police*), but any stuff you find from now on IS ours. We'd planned to write our own Barrow Wight incantation, but when we looked up the FOTR one to copy the style, we realized it was unlikely that the wights would choose a new incantation for every visitor. :) Tom? Lurker, sometimes you seem almost… psychic. :P Alas, we fear that Legolas' bow is gone for good! Sentimentality for weapons becomes a very tricky stumbling block in times like these, and in this case we could only do our best. :P *checks under Lurker's bed, turns on a nightlight, and hands the shivering reviewer a mug of cocoa* Don't worry, the next one isn't that scary. ;)

Belothien: I am (pleased? sorry?) to hear that our freakiness was so affecting! We do our best. ;D LOL! In the contest of Dirt vs. Arrows, I think I for one would prefer the dirt. You're right, though, Aragorn doesn't seem to have his preferences consulted much, does he? :P 'Pickpockets' — a nice touch indeed! *Sarah hugs her crazy sister (aka Hannah/Siri)* She's so great! Even when she drives me batty by inserting unexpected twists into perfectly cohesive plot lines. :P Yeah, getting caught there was probably the best thing that could have happened; though I'm sure they don't think so just now. ;D And don't worry about us wrapping it up *too* too quickly because we've only just passed the half-way mark on this fic! :) Or maybe I should say: worry. ]:D

Laswen: Great to have you! Glad you're enjoying this so much!! :D Evil purple hamsters?? Um, no. Don't worry. ;P *grins* Really, I can't think of anyone who is normal! Then again, I have Hannah/Siri and Chloe for sibs. :P

Cassia: The pickpocket was Hannah's brilliant little idea; credit where credit is due — especially where cute little boys are concerned! ;D *watches Cassia die laughing* AAH! Cassia!! You can't die; who'll post Curse of Angmar if you die?! *Cassia sits up and continues to giggle* Uh-oh. NOW what did we do?? Oh well. Hazards of sharing the same brain, I suppose. I can't wait to see what it is that has been keeping you so hysterical through this — then again, maybe I don't want to know. :P You like that line too? So do I!! ;D *Sarah reads Cassia's responses to Hannah's review and nearly leaps straight through the roof* Review? Feedback?? I KNEW I FORGOT SOMETHING!! Ack! Don't worry, I've started it — I just don't remember finishing it, let alone posting it… Oops. :P Thanks SO much for reviewing on this!! You give us warm fuzzies all over. ;D Oh, could I have one of those apples? :D

sabercrazy: Don't you think we've copied enough from Cassia and Sio? :P

Marianna Nimeneth: *watches Marianna cycle through more life/death stages than a phoenix* Good heavens! :O *pats Lenablin-zapper* Glad you're getting use out of it! ;D Well, to be fair to poor Aragorn, he *did* give the boy what he needed, and he didn't exactly *mean* to be so menacing. Not that that is likely to make the boy feel any less freaked, or anything… :P *snorts* All you have to hope is that your friends don't read any Shakespeare. ;D

[Insert Appropriate Apology Here] we're late again! [Insert Appropriate Excuse Here] and I need to scoot off now. :D Thanks again so much for all you oodles of marvelous feedback!!

Now then, more you ask? Off we go…

______________________________________________________________________________

Darkest Night

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries

available at the top of chapter 1)

Chapter 11

The Book

The faint patting of dew slid from the leaves and down the back of Bartho's tunic. Reaching back he pulled his hood up. He had been awake nearly all night, but amidst the many lines on his weathered face his steady dark eyes betrayed only slight weariness. In the distance faint sounds came of the farms around Bree waking up; the occasional bark of a dog or neigh of a horse. Beside the Dúnadan something stirred, but he did not turn his head.

"Bartho?" a voice asked, hoarse from sleep.

"Aye?"

"Why did you not wake me for my watch?" the voice this time held a frown.

"There is rain on the air," Bartho replied evenly, cocking an eye towards the dark clouds.

Halbarad frowned and glanced about for a third companion who seemed to be absent. "What has that to do with my question?"

"Did I say it was related?"

Halbarad stared. Faintly, at the corners of his mouth, a smile appeared and he shook his head. "In other words you do not intend to answer me. Very well, if it is so important you may keep your secrets."

"Thank you," Bartho grunted.

"Where is Erynbenn?"

"He set off nearly an hour ago, if I read his trail aright. Your lessons in stealth were well learned."

There was surprised silence until Halbarad began to gather his gear, "We'd best be off after him."

"Perhaps." Bartho rose, but seemed almost reluctant to leave.

"You're a riddle at times, my friend," Halbarad sighed. "I cannot understand why you would let the lad run off like that."

"He's not made of glass, Halbarad."

"No, but neither is he made of granite. Quite aside from what I would feel if Erynbenn came to harm, I do not know if I could relay the news to Aragorn. You should have kept him here." Halbarad took a close look at the ground, checking for the young Dúnadan's trail, and started off into the trees with Bartho at his heels.

After a long silence, Halbarad sighed and slowed to a halt, turning to face the man behind him. "Will you forgive me? I did not mean to disparage you."

"There's nothing to forgive," the other reassured him briefly, shrugging. "You all worry like hens over that boy."

"You don't?" Halbarad retorted, moving on again and quickening his pace.

"No. If something is to happen, it will happen. Worry brings neither aid, provision, nor peace. It only drains you."

"I feel drained dry already, though I would never say so before the others. Somehow it is even more unnerving seeing nothing of these Nwelmai than it was when we saw them every night. Always we wonder: where have they gone and why? Last night was the first sleep I've had in nearly a week."

Bartho nodded without speaking.

"It almost seems," Halbarad mused softly, "that they really are trying to trap us. They are fouler than any beast we have so far met; why might they not also be more intelligent? And if a trap has been set, how long before we trip it?" He sighed, a faint exhale in the cool air. "Our existence here is being tested. If we weather the storm then perhaps Aragorn may one day indeed be king over his ancestor's lands and we will serve him as true soldiers, not merely woodsmen. If we do not… I fear for this land. There is no one else who will take our place." The Dúnadan gazed around at the familiar trees; trees he had slept beneath and through which he had scouted. Shifting his shoulders, he cast a self-deprecating half smile at his feet, "Such thoughts run too far for any mortal. I know what you're about to say: there is work to be done, strength to do it, and no time for delay."

He was surprised to feel the quick pressure of a hand on his shoulder. But when he turned to look at his friend, Bartho was gazing straight ahead and a moment later he said briefly, "You keep on this trail; I think I see something off to the right of us."

Halbarad nodded, silencing his steps out of habit. The Dúnedain walked quietly enough, but there was something odd in his companion's tone that recommended caution. Further conversation would have to wait.

The last stretch of tunnel was as dark as the first had been, but the air was moving about them and the knowledge that Aragorn carried what they had come to retrieve leant them new strength to find their way out. There was a short struggle with an ancient door, crafted by the barrow diggers centuries ago and never meant to be opened had it not been for the coming of the wights, but a sharp turn of Legolas' dagger in the lock caused the opening to swing wide, letting in a cold gust of air. From far back in the barrow there came a last shriek, but the wight who made it was too far away to reach them.

A clang echoed as Aragorn heaved the door to behind them and then the companions slid the last short distance out, brushing aside the grass that covered the entrance. They were on the far side of the towering, black archway, lying upon the grass, and the sun was high in the sky.

"How long were we in there?" Aragorn murmured aloud.

"Long enough," Legolas declared, sitting up and leaning against his knees as he dealt with the unfamiliar sensation of exhaustion. He glanced up at the ranger and smiled wearily, finding the expression almost easy in the sunlight, "You held out against your ancestors."

"They were not my ancestors, they were evil spirits in the bodies of my ancestors," Aragorn reminded him dryly, understanding his point all the same.

"Either way, you did what I could not," Legolas replied seriously. "Thank you, my friend."

"It was Ilúvatar's intervention alone. Clearly he must still have a use for you."

"Perhaps," the elf agreed. "And it would doubtless be better served in different clothing."

For the first time since waking, Aragorn took note of the robes he was wearing. It was no longer the pristine white it had been, but it was also nothing like any outfit he would have worn of his own volition. The belt about his waist was gold and there were jewels studded along it. The hilt of the sword he still held was finely wrought silver: a blade of Westerness forged by the Numenoreans before the waning years.

"This I shall keep," he said suddenly, rising to stand upon the grass. "It is not evil of itself and my own sword is lost beyond recovery." He glanced significantly at the tunnel behind them. "But I agree on the matter of the clothing. I wonder what has become of our horses?"

"If they escaped they might well return," Legolas suggested, starting up the side of the barrow once again, this time unafraid of an attack. The wights could not walk in broad daylight.

Reaching the summit, the elf gazed keenly in all directions, searching for movement of any kind. Behind him Aragorn stooped to lift something from the ground. There, lying still where they had fallen, were Legolas' knives. It was a strange reminder of what had taken place — had it been only the night before, or many nights ago?

"Aragorn!" Legolas cried, his fair voice light with relief, "I see the horses! They are but a league or so off, towards the forest."

"Then we will go after them," the ranger nodded, though to him the Old Forest was but a dark smudge in the distance.

Because they had headed north on an angle, they still had a fair walk ahead of them, in spite of the relative narrowness of the downs. The horses waited patiently for their return, making no further move towards them, but not bolting either. Fortunately, both the Dúnadan and the elf knew well the art of stowing their gear and all was still lashed firmly about the saddles of the two animals.

After a short rest upon the edge of the downs, the two friends changed into the one spare set of garments each had brought, Aragorn pulling on his overcoat against the cool of approaching evening. He also unstrapped his bow and quiver from behind the saddle and handed them to Legolas.

"Will you not need them yourself?" Legolas queried, readjusting the sheaths he had fashioned for his knives.

"You know better how to use them than I."

The elf smiled and accepted the weapon, nodding his approval at the crafting of the arrows in particular. There was an astonishing resemblance to the ones he had fashioned for his own bow: even down to the distinctive Mirkwood arrowhead design. His fingers brushed the metal thoughtfully as he glanced at his friend.

"It keeps my brothers from claiming my shots for their own," Aragorn explained. "Their arrowheads are like all the others of Rivendell, but their aim… and when we hunt together…" he trailed off, frowning at the stirrup and still stroking his horse's mane, though mechanically.

"You miss them already, don't you?" Legolas murmured.

"I've missed them every moment since I last saw them," came the honest answer.

Legolas was silent, knowing he could have no reply to that. There was fear beneath the words; horrible fear that loss might once again strike the one who had already lost both his blood parents and many friends throughout the years. It was silence that Aragorn seemed to need, for after a while he looked up. Giving a tired half smile, as if to apologize for his weakness, he mounted and turned his horse towards the forest.

"We cannot pass back over the downs before sunset and I have no intention of staying another night upon them; it would be best if we were to sleep tonight in the wood and return north on the morrow. You still have all your provisions, do you not?"

"Yes, all," Legolas nodded, mounting fluidly and following his friend's lead once again.

The Old Forest was dark even during the day and now, at the approach of evening, the overcast sky and the closely laced branches combined to block out all light. Squirrels, not black like those of Mirkwood but not entirely wholesome either, scurried home through the leaves, sending droplets of old dew down upon them. A thick carpet of leaves, uncleared from centuries of autumns, muffled the steps of the horses. Still there was a security in the closeness and compared to the tunnels of the barrow wights the narrow trail seemed almost welcoming.

They did not travel far into the wood before Aragorn dismounted and tilted his head towards a small alcove in the earth at the base of a large tree. If any rain could truly penetrate the trees above, they would at least be sheltered a little.

"The sun has not yet gone down," Legolas noted, basing his conclusion on scent rather than sight.

"Yes, but we have a book to examine and it is not wise to travel far among these trees when weary. We shall be safe enough here, and a night's sleep is all we really need."

"Not you, my friend," Legolas retorted, indicating his friend's back. Aragorn had torn the white robe into strips when he had changed into his spare clothing, using them to bind the cut he had sustained in his battle with the wight. Though not in the least dangerous, it had been difficult to tend and the elf did not doubt it would need rebandaging before the morrow.

"Dare I even argue with you?" the ranger sighed, removing the saddle from his horse and patting the beast's neck.

"You daren't, especially when Halbarad charged me to watch over you. You have so far done more of that for me than I have for you and I at least intend to prevent your returning bleeding and infected."

"If I had been alone I would have perished," Aragorn said firmly, and sat obediently.

There was a long silence, for the trees seemed to have no birds roosting among them. Legolas worked quickly, knowing his business well after so many trips in the ranger's company. Then softly there came the sounds of singing. The elf glanced at his friend, wondering if the sound came from him and then realized it was most certainly too far off. Besides that Aragorn was looking about as well, his blue eyes concentrated as he tried to make out the words. Not that there was much to be understood from them…

"Hey come! Ring a dong, ding a ling a die!

White shine the coming stars in a darkened sky

Sing a dol a chorus, oh! Sing it high and low

When the moon drifts into cove; off to home I go

There my lady waits for me, singing down the dew

Here oh, merry-o, I say good-night to you!"

"What is that?" Legolas whispered, strangely unafraid by the odd voice.

Aragorn had also begun to relax and he even smiled as he nodded his head in the direction of the singing, "Tom Bombadil is his name, though what he is would be impossible to discover. He won't harm us; he would likely help us if we truly needed it, but I don't think we do anymore."

"Does he live here?"

"Yes, though I have never actually been to his home. I have met him in the woods but once or twice. I would hesitate to say he is powerful, but he is not a common man either. I hope you may meet him someday; you would get along well I think."

"Will he object to us sleeping here?"

"No," Aragorn shook his head reassuringly. "Now come, my friend, the book."

The human built a small fire out of old wood, drawing some amount of comfort from the soft orange of the flames. When he finished, he looked up and Legolas reached across and slid the ancient book carefully from his companion's saddle bag. But then he hesitated to hand it over.

"What is it?" Aragorn asked.

"I wonder if it would be best for us to wait. We do not know what evil may be in this book; there is an air about it that I do not like, and night will soon be upon us."

"Perhaps you are right," the ranger nodded, "but the days do not lengthen at our command. I feel some things must be risked if we are to return in time."

"Risked? Like the downs?" Legolas looked away as soon as he spoke, knowing the question would sound like an accusation, no matter his tone or intentions. Quickly, before his friend could respond, he nodded briskly, "You are right."

The binding on the old book cracked as the covers were eased gently apart, and the pages within were stained with age. Legolas needed only one look at the text to realize he would be of no use in its interpretation: it was written in an erratic form of the Numenorean script.

"Aragorn, what is this?" the elf asked softly, his sensitive fingers brushing the opening page. It seemed to have been written in a different style — with the words arranged as if for a poem of some kind — and it also seemed to have been written last of all, even though it came first in the book. The words were almost illegible, and yet they had been written over top of some of the stains rather than under all of them.

The human took his time, tilting the book towards the light of the flames. Elrond had made sure his adopted son learned the ways of his own ancestors as well as those of the elves. Finally, in a low voice he read, "'Foul invention downward thrown

Past inventor conquered, flown

Darkest plague of darkest night

Fast away now, put to flight

Bound about and twisted through

Shivered sword and soldier flew

Held by hand — controlled, undead

Wise men backwards turned and fled

Cloying senses, freezing cry

Even foes do warn to fly

Moon of Nwalme soon will see —

Would that you would only flee.'" The human came to a halt, drawing away from the book a little. There was a strangeness to the verses, and a terror.

Legolas' eyes seemed to reflect the firelight like mirrors as he stared at his friend. "Go on," he whispered. "What follows?"

Aragorn forced himself back to the pages, scanning through a great many which could not be read for more than a few sentences at a time. "It is a sort of journal, or personal history, but the like of which I've never seen. The author must have been nearly mad."

"Well?" the elf prodded.

"There are several entries near the end that are still wholly there. 'It is dark , but it is always dark. I have begun to wonder at the failure of the sun, and when have I ever done that? I feel strange. I can no longer accept. Has He blotted out the sun? He is great to be sure — my lord, the possessor of my life, the controller of my destiny. Why does he hate the sun? Does it rival his powers? Does his victory depend on holding it back? Or is it his creations that keep the orb from shedding light? Their screams penetrate the marrow.

"'My lord has been speaking to me again. He turns to me like a favored mongrel and confides in me, knowing I cannot betray him. He has long studied diligently the arts surrounding his own source of power. Never does he speak, even to me, of the great one who bestowed the ring upon him, and perhaps I ought not to write of it? I cannot think when he is not near me. Can men live without air? Am I a man any longer? He will crush his enemies. Nothing can stand against him, or the fell things of his crafting.' There are a few pages here that seem to have been more recently blackened, as if by soot or soil. Perhaps Qualin was responsible… Then it begins again:

"'I have asked my lord in a moment of temerity what might come should another wield his token and attempt to control the beasts? He gazed at me long, stripping me of flesh with his eyes, as though he had long deemed me incapable of speech and was surprised. I cowered until he chose to humor me like a child. None can control what is mine: it would consume them, he spoke serpent-like. My creations move at my will when I wear the gem, and thus they would move with another's will for a time should he wear it. But when they had sapped the last life from him, they would be freed and would devour him until nothing remained for the carrion birds. Fear not, none know the way and none can ever slay me. He smiled, and I was afraid, but I breath still.

"'He has gone and left me here with… them. They are imprisoned still, but he will release them soon. My head aches as with an iron weight pressing down upon my scull. Can men live without air? I have been sitting long in his chamber, gazing at the door and hearing the sounds behind it until I am sure I shall at last go mad. How speak I thus? I am already mad. They cannot be set loose. Never must they come out! And should someone else attempt to wield His power, who can fathom the horrors the beasts would wreak or guess whom they might set upon? Who when the Dúnedain are all fallen? I have written long in secrecy and long has a portion of my thought been kept from him. In the South I see the clouds breaking: the sun approaches! He does not then hold her. What of me? The enemy approaches and mayhaps my lord is in jeopardy. Mayhaps they will find this place. What if they should take the gem he left and claim the tower? Great Ilúvatar, may it not be so! I shall leave this book. It will warn them from ruin. I shall tell them of the book. Can I leave? Yes.

"'I am a man and I shall live without air.'"

Aragorn did not immediately close the book or turn to speak. Instead he sat long in silence, gazing at the last brave sentence as if it held something solely for him. He knew where the man had next been found: in the territory of the defenders by Glorfindel. And there he had perished, wild and raving, with only one thought to comfort him: he had left his book behind and never again would any man attempt so foolhardy a thing as he had described. Except that Raane and Qualin had. Full of eagerness for the reward they had likely been promised, and ready to run any risk without pause, they had set out to slay a child; though perhaps they had not realized that until later. Raane too was now wild with madness, and Qualin… Qualin had understood what had gone amiss. He had taken the answers and his companion and fled the evil tower, only to be slain mere leagues from his home.

Absently Aragorn's fingers moved to finger the next page, even though the writer had clearly written no more in his journal. No, wait… Perhaps he had written one thing more.

"What is it?" Legolas asked, his question no more than a breath.

"It… it is a map. He drew a map, Legolas." His voice was dazed, as though he could not believe what he had discovered. Determination alone had fueled his search for his brothers and he had driven himself hard, refusing to slow either movement or thought for fear the realization of his true helplessness might seize hold of him. And now, against all hope, he had been presented with a chance — a chance as fragile as a single strand of silk. He could only pray Ilúvatar it wouldn't snap.

Similar thoughts had passed with equal swiftness through Legolas' mind and now he gripped his friend's shoulder, "That, Estel, is well worth the journey it took to find it. It is nothing short of the power of the Valar that Qualin thought to bring the book out with him."

"Yes," Aragorn nodded, running his hand slowly over the cracked cover as if it were made of mithril. "I wish he too could have profited from his foresight."

The thought was a stray one, but very like Aragorn. "As do I, my friend," Legolas murmured. "If I had such power I would wish a curse upon whoever tricked them into making such a journey."

"So many dead," mused the Dúnadan, his eyes dark with sadness. "So many. And who now has taken hold of this power? They cannot have read the book: it is here."

"Whoever they are, they understand not the dangers. If this power does indeed consume the current wielder of this strange gem, there will be nothing to control them and nothing to bind them solely to the attacking of the Dúnedain." Legolas' words were low, following the rapid trail of his realizations. "You were right, Aragorn: time presses even more greatly than we had thought. I wonder now if there is even time to sleep; no more must we save only your brothers, but we must somehow contain or destroy the Nwelmai before they may roam at will."

"True," Aragorn agreed wearily, and laid the book aside. "But you were right as well."

"Oh?"

"It would be foolish to risk another night journey upon the downs." The human shook his head, his words slowing as soon as his head came to rest upon his cloak. "We will leave at first light."

Legolas smiled and eased down into a comfortable half sitting position, "As you command."

"Naturally," came the dry response, and then the gentle sounds of heavy breathing. More than the terrifying capture by the wights, the reading of the book seemed to have drained the ranger completely. He had not even mentioned taking turns to watch.

Deciding to take the watch upon himself, Legolas gazed about into the blackness for nearly an hour. An hour after that, the elf too had succumbed to weariness and his eyes were glassy with sleep.

He was unaware of sight except for the occasional flashes of blood, a shadow, or his own trembling hands before him. He was unaware of any sound but that of his or his brother's screams in his ears and the eerie screeches of the orcs. He was unaware of feeling — all but the overwhelming sense of unfathomable pain, a constant flowing, throbbing, beating, raging, seething pain that filled every part of his being.

Right then Elladan was certain all that stood between him and giving up on this life and world was that his brother still needed him and he would fight beyond any pain to spare the younger elf.

Days had become irrelevant and hours were a blur — all Elladan understood was that they would beat him until he could scream no longer and take no more. But the moment they began again on Elrohir he would do all in his feeble power to regain the attention on himself. Though he knew the orcs were beginning to tire of his persistence, it was all he had left and he clung to it with all his might.

Elrohir seemed lost in delirium himself and all he was able to do was whimper his brother's name, his father's name, or Estel's name over and over like a hurting child. And these small pleas never ceased to send the orcs into tumults of cruel laughter and taunts, and Elladan into fits of uncontrollable rage.

For the most part Elladan seemed able to draw the attention away, but sometimes they would bring their cruelty harder upon his brother simply to spite him and it was all Elladan's fogged mind could do to decipher which the orcs had decided was their leisure.

This was their fate until Elladan finally overstepped even the orcs' bounds.

They had beaten Elrohir until the younger elf couldn't even breathe. Every time he'd tried inhale they had delivered a blow to his stomach forcing every bit of air from him again. The elf's pale face was growing paler and tingeing blue at the lack of oxygen and Elladan remembered vividly how the orcs had told them before that their captain would not fault them for killing just one. Just one.

The elder twin realized in that moment that they intended to kill his brother. Their interest had waned, they grew board of drawing blood and choked screams, it was time to have their blood lust truly satisfied. Perhaps their captain would even allow them to devour their kill.

Elladan knew he had to do something. Elrohir was trying desperately to shield himself from the blows but two of the creatures wrenched him back in time to receive another blow in the midsection. Elladan himself was not bound on the iron loops as usual — he was being held firmly on his knees by two of the orcs.

Then, when Elrohir went limp under the blows, Elladan watched in horror as the orcs laid the younger elf flat on the ground and an orc raised its scimitar over his brother's throat, a gleam in his pale eyes.

"NO!" Elladan screamed with all the breathe left in him. Moving with a ferocity that shocked the orcs he shoved the filthy hands away, denying his weakened state.

Throwing himself forward with more momentum than actual conscious force he slammed himself bodily into the orc standing over his brother and knocked him back, taking hold of the scimitar in the orc's moment of startled inattention. Elladan pulled hard on the scimitar, jerked it from the orc's hands, and letting out an enraged cry he whirled the weapon around, decapitating the orc in an instant. This was all the advantage he was allowed, for the orcs were upon him immediately. Elladan went down beneath them, his adrenaline rush failing him and leaving him without strength for resistance. The scimitar was wrenched away and five orcs grouped around him, pining him down with one at his shoulders, one at his head, and two holding his left leg.

Rogkhar approached him with an hideous snarl. Elladan breathed heavily as he watched the two orcs holding his leg between them. He had an idea what they intended and felt a catch in his heart that he couldn't help, but he didn't care. Their attention had completely left Elrohir and that was all he wanted.

Rogkhar leveled his scimitar over the elf's face, knowing Elladan could not flinch away with another orc's hand tangled in his dark hair.

"I should kill you now, *elf*," Rogkhar spat the last as though he could contrive no worse slur. He tilted his head to the side grinning slightly at Elladan. "But I know that wouldn't be nearly as painful as it ought to be."

Elladan had been bracing himself, but when Rogkhar nodded to the orcs holding his leg and he heard the sickening snap of his own bones breaking he could not hold back the strangled scream that came to his lips.

Elrohir jerked behind him and a few of the orcs turned to the younger elf, grabbing him by his arms and hauling him up to his knees, even though he had not regained full consciousness.

The elder twin was lost in his pain for what seemed like an eternity. He tried desperately to twist away from his captors as they contemplated him.

"Are you still sure you want to be the one to die?" Rogkhar asked with mirth. Elladan only returned the look with his own steely gaze and the orc gave a short nod. "More pain then?" He gave a snarl and nodded to the orcs who moved to Elladan's right arm, taking it in their hands and tightening their grip. Elladan braced himself as much as he could but he knew that it would do no good… this was it then, they would take him apart piece by painful piece and finally they would kill him, if the horrendous injuries did not kill him first.

Elladan awaited the crunch of bones and fresh wave of agony… but strangely neither came.

The elf tried briefly to turn his head to see what why they had not carried out their plan, but his hair was still held tightly and an orc was blocking his view. Still, they all appeared to be looking away from him at someone else who had only just entered the lair.

Eression stared disgustedly around at the rabble that filled the underground chamber. The smell of blood and sweat was thick in the air and heat rolled off the ever present fires. He crossed to the far alcove to find the orcs still tormenting their elven prisoners.

One look told Eression that he had underestimated the orcs ability to deliver pain without killing their prey… or perhaps they were already dead.

If they had killed both Elrond's sons…

But no, a kick to the ribs from one of the orcs told him that the elf on the floor was at least alive. The other looked as near to death as the captain could imagine, but he too was gasping for air. The damage was so ruthless… and so pointless. Like everything the foul breed did. There was one dead orc as well, but Eression did not heed it.

"You do your work thoroughly." The dark haired man kept his revulsion from his voice. Rogkhar gave a grin which only served to disgust Eression further. "But it shall end here," the young captain continued with more authority, and he saw Rogkhar's face turn suddenly surly.

Eression's gaze dropped again to the elf on the floor and he recognized the odd angle of the left leg; it was broken. He surveyed the other wounds of both elves and gave a curt nod. "No more," he clarified shortly. "Not an orc touches these prisoners again. Bind their hands, though I see little need, and leave them where they lie." Eression had little doubt that one of the elves would yet meet the keeper of their Halls — he could only hope they would not *both* flee the waking world.

When Rogkhar did not accept the command immediately, Eression took a step forward and glared icily at the creature. "Do I make myself understood?"

There was a sizeable pause before the orc replied. "Yes, Captain."

Eression nodded and turned from the forms of the two elves. If the orcs dared to transgress his orders, he swore silently, they would not live long enough to regret it.

TBC…