I wasn't planning on updating until tomorrow, but because Deanna and Gwyn insisted, I am giving you Chapter 9 a day early. Thanks to my reviewers, who have made posting this story even more fun than writing (birthing?) it.

Disclaimer: Do we need to go through this? Okay. There are a few original characters who are the products of my insanely overactive imagination. Everyone and everything else belongs to Master Tolkien and we all bow down to his greatness.

-9-

I Once Was Blind

The forest wept, falling back and back from each approaching step. Sturdy limbs curled like shavings, leaves retreated into their withering vines as she progressed. The world was brown.

Tears and tears fell, so many her slender slippers were soggy. And yet all remained dead. A tear for each dead flower and weeping tree would not restore the green to this dark wood. This wood where the air is thick and the river poison. Where the forest's canopy wore a gruesome gossamer veil of spider silk. She shut her eyes against it, clenched them till they hurt, till flashes of light and color danced. But still the rotten image hovered before her, tattooed on the insides of her eyelids.

Heavens flew by, the sun and moon dancing around the sky in an odd play of darkness and light. The world was changing and she was powerless.

She saw a child, dark of hair and fair of eye, a crown on his head and ring on his hand. Tongues of fire licked his skin, toothy shadows reached for him. She meant to protest, to intervene, but could not.

This battle was not hers. She would not see it.

The babe danced away, skittering out of reach as is the way of the young, and vanished into uncertainty.

The sun hung red in the southern sky, a radiating eye staring unblinking at her, emitting malice rather than light or heat. White fingers shielded green eyes from the sight, but could not shield her visage from the ogling orb. It fixed on her. She felt the icy fire of its determination bend towards her.

I sss-see you!

The voice was razors tearing at her, flames consuming her. She thrashed like a mad thing, scampered for cover under brown leaves but its gaze never wavered. It sing-songed and mocked, taunting her with its purpose and will. The wind spoke in her ears, guttural and foreign. Her bones understood and chattered an answer. Rasp gave way to breathy chuckle and she shuddered as fingers closed around her neck.

Back she was drawn, tight. A cool, hard form pressed uncomfortably intimate along the length of her. Claw tipped fingers tickled her throat tracing shallow valleys in shimmering flesh. As below so above, and the blood traced through the pathways of her veins and seeped from the channels in her flesh. Her fearless heart thudded beneath a calloused palm. The breath condensing on her neck did not frighten her, nor the tongue lapping at the welling blood. The voice of the monster soothed her, its voice familiar as her own as it whispered to her.

Incoherent mutterings. Sealed eyes still saw the world dying, painted in red and black. Thranduil rose before her, gilded and furious, skin shimmering brightly beneath the blistering red. She smiled at him for he had come, her warrior, lover and king. Black tipped fingers clutched over her eyes, obscuring her vision. She thrashed and groped, seeking the sparkle that crept between gnarled digits. Her fingers closed over cold flesh and she parted her lips on a gasp. A chuckle so deep she could only feel it as it reverberated through the hollow chest behind her. A sharp sting blossomed, and she heard a quiet explosion, felt the warm wet slip through her clenched eyelids soaking her lashes. The scream came from so deep that she might have birthed it, and it only grew louder, rawer, as the act was repeated on the other eye.

She wrenched at the hands over her eyes, fighting the pressure. Needing it. She wept tears and blood, and the gooey fluid that had for thousands of years had served as her eyes. Her eyes were wide open now, or perhaps they were closed, but she could not tell. It no longer mattered. And as she caught the drippings in her hands, she fancied that the green of her eyes stained the crunchy brown earth beneath her feet, and she could almost see her own desperate, blind form hovering above.

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Legolas rose from his crouch, stifling a hiss at the flare of pain in his knee. He straightened the injured leg, swelling joint burning at the movement. Truth was, he embraced the pain. It proved a focus for his thoughts, a beacon in the darkness, proof of life to his otherwise exhausted soul. Iciness spilled through him, flowing from his gut to his bloodied fingertips and setting his whole body to shake.

He was afraid.

Oh, he was not afraid of battle. Despite his relatively tender years he was no stranger to conflict. The shadow cast wide over Greenwood was older than he, and its servants had crept about under its cover for centuries. He'd felt the hot spatter of enemy blood across his face, smelled the stench of flesh as it burned on a pyre, heard the screams of wounded as he pressed his advantage. It was not the promise of conflict that had his body trembling, stomach fluttering and heart racing. It was this enemy. This shadow that lurked in every corner of their home, herding them, driving them, cornering them. Every attack held some calculated purpose that they'd yet to divine. Each infinitesimal victory they'd eked out carried the echo of some defeat. Each trial survived claimed a casualty.

Who would be next?

The question hung ominously in his mind, steeped in its potential. No matter how hard he tried to pack the thought away, to drown it in song or bury it with action, still it remained. The king and general were firing fast questions at Dunnacogn, but he could not hear them. The only sounds in his world were the thudding of his heart and the questions resonating through his mind. He wanted to stop his ears, or dash out his brain to silence the thoughts, but neither seemed a viable solution. Instead he leaned his weight onto his injured leg. Dancing flecks of alternating light and dark filled his vision as fire poured from his knee to his ankle, and he nearly bit through his lip in an effort to stifle the scream. The bliss that followed the easing pressure was only surpassed by the silence in his mind. Not even the coppery tinge of blood on his lips and tongue, or the sting of the fresh cut to his lip could dull the euphoric peace in his mind as he made his way over to the three frantic elves.

Legolas found his vantage point from just beyond the small circle quite telling. He could not help but wonder whether his father shared in his doubt and fear, and studied him for any discernible crack in composure. As always the king was all authoritative grace as he donned his cloak and weapons and strutted toward the door to face the impending threat.

Thalgaladh pulled the warrior to his feet and the three elves were half way out the door when Legolas stepped forward tapped the king's arm. Thranduil glanced at Legolas and tried to suppress the surprise at his son's sudden appearance. In his haste to the wall he'd completely forgotten Legolas's presence. A warm wave of shame crashed over him but dismissed the feeling immediately, having no time for such indulgence. A thin eyebrow curved up in unspoken question. Then the words that he dreaded slipped from the prince's lips: "I am coming with you."

Thranduil's head was shaking a denial before the sentence was completed. "No, Legolas."

"But…"

"Silence." Both elves flinched at the tone, though Thranduil was certain that he'd covered his better. He hoped.

The bruised fingers on the king's arm fell away, and he immediately regretted the loss. Legolas bit back the retort that sat on the tip of his tongue and raised his chin defiantly at his father. Thranduil recognized the look (after all, he'd borne it countless times) and the sentiment behind it and sighed. He did not have time for his son's wounded pride.

Make time. The voice, when it came, was his wife's.

Thranduil bowed in deference to his wife's subliminal wishes. She was, after all, correct. The king nodded at Thalgaladh and Dunnacogn, a silent order for them to proceed without him, before turning to the indignant prince. He hadn't wanted to hurt Legolas, and he feared that was just what he'd done. He reached out and gathered swollen fingers in his own, felt the slight tension induced tremor and knew that his son was fighting not to withdraw the hand. "Legolas, I know you think me blind to your strength, but 'tis not so." Disbelief crept into the icy blue eyes, but the cold expression remained stoically unchanged. Thranduil fought the smirk that threatened to steal his composure. How strange it is to see your own expressions and manners play over another's features! How strange when those features are your own, and yet distinctly not. "There are many things that have remained unspoken between us, and that fact saddens me. But now is not the time for conversation or regret. We can afford no mistakes this night. Our enemy is strong, cunning and has the advantage of surprise. I will need your help if we are to survive…" Pink lips parted to comment, but Thranduil silenced him. "But not on the wall. I have enough warriors." Legolas snapped his mouth shut, ground his back teeth together and turned away. A fluttering muscle in his jaw was the only betrayal of his stillness.

Thranduil exhaled through his nose in an effort to stamp down his irritation. Had he been this difficult? All questions, denials and wounded pride? Was he as unwilling to accept the wisdom of his elders as his two obstinate boys?

A deep, merry chuckle resonated through his mind, the only answer he'd ever receive to his unspoken questions. Father, I understand so much better. How you must have longed to throttle me! He released the hand in favor of the tense chin and turned Legolas to look into his eyes. "I have no time to coddle you now."

"I am not a child to be coddled." The words were quiet, hissed through clenched teeth to temper their defiance.

"Then stop behaving as one!" The slim form stiffened, straightened and stilled once more. Legolas was rigid with anger, and Thranduil fared only slightly better. "You are a prince, and tonight you shall learn what that means. Well do I understand your frustration. It is time you learned that it is of no consequence. I need you not as a warrior but a leader. I have captains who will lead our warriors in battle, but none who will lead them from the depths of their despair. There are many injured, among them are you mother and friend. This night may bring more yet. I want you to gather them all together in the throne room. That is the most secure location in the mountain. We must treat and protect them. This is your responsibility."


The stony jaw in his hand softened with acquiescence. "I am no healer."

"I know this. I do not expect you to heal their wounds. It is their spirit you must tend." Legolas's brow folded up with his confusion and the king said, "Just lead them. They will look to you for counsel, consolation and protection. Are you afraid?" Legolas hesitated. The swift change of topic unbalanced and confused him. Eyebrows knitted together and he studied the king in an effort to ascertain the correct answer. The mask of Thranduil's face revealed nothing. Frustrated and half convinced that he'd fallen into some sort of trap, Legolas nodded an affirmative. "You are not alone in this fear." The king waited a beat for this to sink in, waited for the muscles beneath his fingers to unfurl a bit more. "Just be yourself, my son. Our people love you and will be comforted by your presence."

He wanted to argue further, wanted to rail at his father. Why did he not trust him to fight? He'd stared into clouded, vacuous eyes that saw no more and felt unnaturally cold flesh against his own. He knew from the depths of his soul that had Belegalad been here tonight he would not have been tasked with tending the sick. He would be standing beside his father and king, sword in hand. Nay! He would be leading the campaign against the invading force. He gave voice to none of these thoughts, however, for they were childish and petty, and he was adult enough to identify them as such. Instead, the prince acquiesced. "I understand."

Thranduil held the eyes that were his own, watching the fear war with determination before turning away. He could see his son's dissatisfaction with this turn of events. Could, in fact, feel it in his gut. The fact that the prince had ceased the pursuit of his own desires in favor of honoring his father's made the king's heart swell. Had he been in Legolas's place, he no doubt would have pressed the issue. Yet the disturbingly young prince had risen above his years to claim his station. How maddeningly proud Thranduil was of him! He sent a brief prayer up to Ilú vatar that one day he might get the chance to tell him. Dismissing the flight of fancy, Thranduil once again focused on the practicalities of the situation. "Where are your weapons?"

Legolas flushed and cast his eyes downward. "We were caught outside unawares. I did not have them with me." He had been dreading this moment for hours. He closed his eyes awaiting the rebuke. What sort of warrior ventured out unarmed? This would only prove to his father that he'd made the right decision in not allowing him to fight. After a moment of quiet self flagellation he peeked upward only to see his father righting his weapon trunk and rummaging through it. His face twisted, forming the question that his mouth dared not.

Thranduil marked the quickly passing time and hastened his search. The entirety of his room, and undoubtedly his home, was upended. The wooden trunk that usually sat locked in the far corner of his room was upside down and cracked near the bed. He flipped and sifted through it, finally pulling free a small polished black box.

"I would have liked to give this to you under circumstances less…dire," he said. Legolas's eyes were fixed on the ebony box in his hands, and the king smiled when his son's blue eyes finally directed their query to him. He said nothing, just offered the box to Legolas.

The prince took the offering wordlessly and slid his hands over the smooth, cool wood. He traced the engraving of his family crest on the top, and held an anticipatory breath. The latch snapped open with a startlingly loud click, and he lifted the lid to reveal twin ivory handled knives. "Ada," he breathed.

"My father gave them to me when I was about your age. Each one is an effective weapon alone, but together and in the right hands they are lethal." Thranduil lifted the two blades from the box and examined them. For over a thousand years they lay idle, and yet they were as keen and sparkling as the day he'd put them away. They still felt natural in his hands, weighted and balanced perfectly. Oropher had commissioned the blades for him, a token of affection from an otherwise stern and taciturn elf. Thranduil had loved them with a ferocity only overshadowed by his love for his father…and now his sons. He spun them once, heard them whistle and whir, and allowed a small nostalgic smile to spread over his lips. These blades would split bone with the same ease as air. Satisfied with their condition he held them out.

Legolas took the cool ivory handles in his hands and felt them warm to his touch. The blades were so light it was as if he held nothing at all, and yet, he could feel the danger pulse through them. He felt unworthy of so grand a gift, recognizing the knives as the ones that his father had used during the Last Alliance. With equal parts excitement and trepidation, Legolas asked, "Are you certain?"

The smile the king wore blunted his exasperated huff. "Were you not listening? They are yours, and have been since you were born. I have merely been holding them for you."

Glowing like a child with a shiny new toy, Legolas examined the blades once more before placing them back into the box. When he looked up again, his father produced a quiver and bow for him. Legolas shook his head and whispered, "I don't understand."

"You cannot very well keep the knives in a box, can you? This quiver was designed to holster your new knives. And if you do not understand why I am giving you a bow, my son, then you have not been paying attention."

Legolas's brow furrowed and Thranduil smirked at him. Legolas took the bow and quiver from his father with little less than reverence, unwilling to speak again and shatter the moment. The two stood in quiet camaraderie before Thranduil said, "I must go. I fear I have lingered too long already." He stepped forward and embraced the prince, clapping him firmly on the back. "Take care my son. These weapons will serve you well in the shadow of this night." Before Legolas could formulate a response, his father was gone.

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It was dark, unimaginably so, and had it not been for the all encompassing pain that rattled his body, he might have fancied he'd died.

No such luck.

He ached. Oh, he ached everywhere as he lay face down on the ground. At least, he assumed it was the ground. It was so dark, and his brain so muddled that he might very well be sprawled upon the ceiling. The strange image induced a mental smirk. At least that would be a change.

How had he gotten here? He fought through the warm haze that had settled over his mind and found the struggle too difficult. He couldn't produce a whole and complete thought without his mind drifting to probe at some new ache it discovered. He pushed himself up, felt a white hot flare of agony spill from his chest through his entire body, and slumped back onto the cold ground.

Apparently his body was going to fight him as well.

He lay there and breathed for a while, not thinking and definitely not moving. Just breathing, which was much more of a chore than was healthy. From the sharpness of the pain in his chest, Verenaur determined that something must be broken. He wanted to lay where he was and never move again, but something rational buried at the back of his brain protested, whispering that should he remain prone upon the ground he very well may never move again.

Refusing to die so disgraceful a death, Verenaur got his arms beneath him again and pushed. The pain was no duller despite the absence of shock. Flat white teeth clamped down on tongue and lower lip, drawing copious amounts of blood into his mouth to add to the already foul taste that lingered. So gritted against it, Verenaur continued the slow press upwards. A whimpering squeak slipped through torn lips, and he sucked his lip deeper into his mouth, bit down harder. His painful effort produced a vibrating moan rather than a shriek, and had he the capability, he might have been proud of the improvement. As it was, it was all he could do to remain conscious as he fought his way onto hands and knees. The room spun despite his inability to see it doing so, and Verenaur retched and vomited on the floor beneath him. His body stiffened and his ribs screeched their protest to his flagrant abuse, yet he remained upright through it all. After all, to fall back to the ground now would mean landing in his own vomit. His pride might have suffered this night, but it had not been obliterated. He would have to be dead in order to allow such a humiliation. When his muscles finally unwound from the tense purging, he sagged gratefully and sat upon the heels of his feet, clinging with both hands to his wounded chest. The pressure on the injury was both a blessing and a curse, and he maintained the hold through the white flashes and light headedness.

Rather than dulling his already blunt senses, the pain brought him to full consciousness. Another simultaneous blessing and curse for with greater clarity of thought came sharper awareness of pain. It also brought memory. The passageway to the King's chambers, the strange echoing groan, the floor disintegrating from beneath the prince's feet, the look of unchecked fear in blue eyes as his friend plummeted into the deep void beneath him. The ghost of flesh against the pads of his fingers as he groped after Legolas's vanishing form.

Then nothing.

It was a strange feeling, a free fall. One he'd never experienced before and felt no need to try again. The air hits you with such force that you'd swear it was a fist and not air at all. Eyes water in an effort to remain open, and shut against the cool blast of air in spite of themselves. Innards knot up as if somehow you left them behind when you decided to take your downward journey. Everything inside and outside gets pushed, pulled and rearranged, and your mind is still processing the lack of friction as your body trembles in anticipatory fear. Adrenaline floods your system, sharpening your awareness and setting your limbs to flail. Time stretches and shifts, stealing all perceptions because while it feels like you have been plummeting all your life, the ground rises up and smacks you mere heartbeats after the initial drop. Then there is only darkness.

And pain, let's not forget the pain.

Now was not the time to be concerned with pain. The image of his dear friend vanishing into the gaping maw had branded itself behind his eyelids, and the lack of any actual visual stimulus only enhanced it. The slight lurch of ground unbalancing the prince; the solid stone of the floor pulverized into dust and pebble only to reveal a giant, jagged void. A flash of gold and flying hair as the prince was sucked down and away, devoured by the darkness below. Fear bubbled up as hot tears and gathered at the corners of his eyes. "Legolas?" Verenaur gritted out, once his breathing calmed enough to form words. The first three attempts to call for the prince had resulted in undignified moans and squeaks of pain. "Legolas? Are you here?"

Nothing.

Another flutter of fear, this one centered in his sour stomach, and for one very frightening moment, Verenaur thought he might just retch again. If that happened he doubted he would remain conscious let alone upright. The idea of battling his way vertical again made him shiver. "Legolas?" he paused, holding his breath in anticipation of a response. "Answer me!" He was yelling now, though caution dictated that he remain silent. Who knew what lurked in the pitch?

His mind churned in concert with his stomach. What was he to do? His first priority was to locate Legolas. But how was he to find him in such darkness when he was so debilitated that the simple inactivity of kneeling made him swoon? Verenaur peered into the darkness, eyes round as the full moon, hoping and dreading to spot some glint of pale flesh or golden hair. Of course there was nothing to be seen. It was pitch black!

He had to get up. He knew it empirically, though his body was unwilling to consent to that particular demand of his mind. He'd settle for crawling, but he didn't believe that his body would be able to take the kind of pain that such an endeavor would surely inflict. One hand released its death grip on his side to touch a flushed cheek. It was hot and wet, possibly with blood and definitely with sweat. He had no time to concern himself with either presently.

He adjusted his grip on his screaming ribs to one of greater support and placed the other on the ground, palm flat, fingertips bent. It was that cool stone he concentrated on, the sandy grit dusted over scratchy surface. He tightened his thighs, aching to unbend his shaking legs. His ankles trembled, sending a tiny shockwave through his body that rattled his broken ribs. He moaned and bit down on his lip again, opening another stinging wound. Fingers pressed and palm arched until he was half standing, eyes sealed, balanced precariously on calloused fingertips. It was time to release his hold on the earth, but he was uncertain and afraid. What if he should let go only to topple over? Would he ever muster the energy to begin so arduous a task again?

His legs quavered dangerously, nearly spilling him onto the gritty ground again. He could wait no longer. The ache in his ribs had grown into a throbbing burn that the pain in his lip could no longer counterbalance. He considered chewing off his lip as means of buying himself another moment of waiting time, but his legs wobbled. There was no more time to buy.

With a tremendous effort, Verenaur pushed with both arm and legs, weaved once and finally stood upright in the dark cave. He maintained his grip on his ribs, bringing his other arm around to join in the support effort. The throb-burn eased and with it, his hold on his lower lip. The flesh was bloodied, and as he ran a tongue over the welling puncture he felt some hanging shreds. Nothing serious though it stung like mad.

Proof of life, dear brother. Do not fret so over such trifles.

"Be silent, Luinaur. I cannot bear your rambles," he sneered. The voice in his mind chortled snidely at him before falling silent, and Verenaur felt his lip curl. How he longed to throttle his brother at times like these!

The silence prompted him to open his eyes, and reality slapped him with all the force of a jilted lover. No one spoke to him a moment ago, which meant he spoke to no one. He had not seen his brother in hours. Or was it days? How long had he lay on the floor in the darkness anyway? The question unsettled him, for in truth, he had no way to gauge such a thing. Without sun, sky or span of consciousness there was in fact, no way to judge exactly how much time had passed since he fell into this pit. Which meant there was no way to be certain that anyone would ever come searching for him.

What now?

He had to move, to find a way out of this maddeningly dark pit into which he'd been cast. First, however, he had to search for Legolas. The task should be simple, for logic dictated that if he'd fallen here, Legolas should not be too far off. But without light, or full use of his faculties, how would he accomplish even the most basic search of this area he now occupied?

Never one to be put off by the impossible, Verenaur took a small step forward. His body shook and his ribs rattled and he had to wait for the dizzying nausea to pass. Once it did, he found the pain bearable. Heartened by this fact, he took another step forward only to collide with a wall. Hands that had held his ribs now clutched at the rock face in an effort to keep him upright. He cursed once, glanced about quickly out of habit and cursed again at his own stupidity. Determined to remain optimistic, he decided that bumping into the wall was the best of all possible scenarios (except for the ache in his nose) as it provided him both an idea of the layout of the dark space as well as a buttress to support his aching, injured body.

Since he had no idea how to begin such a haphazard and shoddy search, rescue and escape, he decided to hold fast to the wall to establish some sort of a perimeter around his search area. Hand over hand, step after excruciating step he traveled along the jagged rock face. He peered ceaselessly into the emptiness to no avail. He may as well be blind, for all the good his eyes did him. If he'd thought that it was dark when Legolas attacked him earlier that was only because he'd never truly experienced total blackness before. The darkness that closed around him now had weight, and unless the knock on his head scrambled his brains, intent. The tiny hairs on his arms stood at attention as if they too were staring into the nothingness.

Something was wrong. He'd traveled perhaps five paces along the rock face when the feeling of alarm pooled in his belly. He'd been trying to dismiss the low tingle in his spine and the prickle along his skin as the aftershocks of his spectacular fall coupled with the stress of the past hours (days?). But the new vivid sensation was undeniable. It was the same feeling that sent deer scampering and rabbits bounding. The feeling that a predator lurked close. He froze, doing his best to meld with the rock face, held his breath and simply listened.

The silence thrummed and pulsed, ebbing and flowing somehow despite its perfect stillness. Is it possible for quiet to crescendo into a roar? Perhaps it was merely the blood surging through his body echoing through the catacombs of his ears.

Your dependence on your eyes is your greatest flaw. A true hunter utilizes all his senses. Soft silk, then darkness. Deprivation of one sense heightens the others. Just be still and listen.

Prince Belegalad's voice filled his mind, whispering warrior and hunter teachings as reverently as any prayer. Belegalad was one of the greatest hunters in Greenwood and Verenaur had been honored that the prince would deign to teach him. He'd expected the prince to be like his father: kind yet stern, and incredibly short of patience. It was one of the few times in his life that he happily admitted his error, and over the course of his training, the two had formed a friendship. His thoughts drifted to the present, to the absent prince and his unknown fate, and he felt his blind eyes well.

Distraction will cost you, the missing prince scolded, and Verenaur heeded the imagined voice. Burying all thoughts of missing princes and lost friends, Verenaur focused his attention on the sounds around him. Silence, it turned out, could indeed be voluminous, and the elf had to strain to hear the tiny sounds that it threatened to absorb. Once he caught them echoing in the void, he couldn't understand how he'd ever missed them.

Tiny scratches, like velvet sliding over skin, twittered through the darkness and Verenaur drew himself tighter to the wall. Taps quieter and faster than a bird hopping along a branch. Whatever it was he heard possessed extraordinary stealth. The more disturbing fact was that said stealthy creature was close. Too close.

He spent a moment debating: should he move? Moving might reveal his presence to an unwitting and potentially dangerous predator. Then again, remaining in the same general locale with said predator didn't seem a wise choice either.

Damned either way. Instinct dictated that it was best to move. Why get caught sitting when you could be running instead? Conscience momentarily warred with his instinct, screaming that he had not yet found Legolas. To leave him here, alone, in the presence of a predator was unacceptable. Of course, to get devoured by said predator himself would do the prince no good, if, indeed, he was even here. Something deep within him--training or instinct--demanded that he leave, attempt to save himself. Belegalad had taught him to always trust his instincts for seldom, if ever, do they mislead. Nauseated but determined, he leaned hard to the side in an attempt to flee. The motion induced a tremendous tightening in his chest accented by a brief sharp pain. Stilling again, he reweighed the two available options while considering the crown prince's teachings.

A skittering just to his right interrupted his pondering and spurred him into action. With one hand wrapped firmly around his chest and the other tracing along the wall, Verenaur moved with as much speed and stealth as his injured body allowed. Which was not nearly as much as he would have preferred. His body felt leaden and awkward, and his movements were choppy and graceless. He almost felt human in his ineptitude and the thought upped his ire a notch. Was anything more humiliating for an elf than being likened to a human in manners of grace and stealth?

Look on the bright side, brother. You could be as loud as a dwarf. He shook his head violently to dispel the irritating voice. Whether it was a conjuration of his own mind, or a trick of the shadow he did not know. But the voice was unmistakably there and determined to shatter his frail composure. He glided along the wall, following the darkened path ever deeper into the mountain.