A/N: My apologies! RL caught up to me, and I found I really did not have the time to update. Hopefully after I move next week, I can get caught up again!

Part Three

"They haven't come back?"

Thranduil whirled on Kirwen, nearly snarling in her face. "No, Kirwen. Obviously not."

Mener, arm in sling and bandaged across his side, leaned against the wall in the corner, feeling as if the world were falling down around him. Whether that be attributed to dizziness from his injuries and his decided lack of rest or because he was in the same room with an enraged she-Elf and a grief-stricken Elvenking or both, he didn't know. All he did know was that he dearly wanted to sleep for days and wake up to find that everything that had happened since Taricir's death had been merely a nightmare. He dropped his gaze to the floor, finding little hope in things being right ever again. Kirwen snapped off another acerbic comment and Thranduil responded in kind. Mener didn't bother cataloging what was said anymore; their sniping had reached cataclysmic degrees and since both were possessed of a sharp wit, it only made their comments more barbed. Elbereth, didn't grief usually bring people together? Mener shook his head. One trait that every person in Thranduil's family -- even those married in like Kirwen -- possessed was willfullness. Mener had not taken time to mourn; his time had been taken by Kirwen and her sudden selfishness and rashness. He tried not to become angry with her, but at the moment, nothing seemed more inviting than a club to the back her red-blond head.

"If you had come to me in the first place," Thranduil started in a low, threatening tone.

"I was trying to spare you," Kirwen interupted.

Mener rolled his eyes heavenward. Now they argued over her trying to spare him pain. Mener, much as he wished his cousin would just stop, knew that her motives behind not telling Thranduil that Eldabeth had disappeared were pure. He decided he was moving to Imladris. Lord Elrond would surely welcome him. Yes, that was it. He was leaving Mirkwood. Starting over in a place where Elvenkings didn't yell and people didn't die and those he loved never changed. At that thought, he turned his gaze to Kirwen and had the other occupants in the room bothered to look, they would have seen sorrow there.

She had changed. Taricir's death had torn something deep inside her. Her quiet, gentle demeanor was gone, replaced with a harsh spirit. The Kirwen he knew seemed gone, with no hope to bring her back.

Mener's sorrow was slowly draining away and hopelessness took its place. Had anyone bothered to notice, they would have seen his distress. As it was, they took no notice of his increasingly frantic breath and of his good hand clutching at the wall. Not until he fell forward, and it was the sound of his body hitting the tiled floor that finally drew their attention.

Kirwen stopped mid-comment, and both turned toward the sound. For a moment, Kirwen and Thranduil merely stared, slack-jawed before Thranduil rushed forward. "Call the healers."

Kirwen stood still, hand over her mouth.

"Kirwen, the healers," Thranduil snapped. "For the sake of the Valar, do not argue this."

The bite of the words brought tears to Kirwen's eyes, but she whirled and ran to the door. Thranduil could hear her shouting in the hallway. He turned his attention back to the fallen warrior. "Mener," he said softly, putting his hands on either side of the Elf's face. Thranduil winced. Mener's face was pale, his breath labored and shallow. Quietly, the Elvenking muttered apologies. "How did we miss this?" he muttered as he turned his gaze to the door. "I can hear them coming, Mener. They are not far now."

Eldabeth stumbled, trying to stop for a moment to right herself and Legolas nearly ran into her back. Rocks rolled under her feet and she lost her footing. She went down hard on her hands and knees, a startled gasp escaping and seeming to echo in the dark corridor. Sharp rocks pricked her hands and she nearly panicked. They could still hear the orcs behind, but had no way of telling if they were actually being pursued or not. Light started to creep up the corridor behind them. Legolas wrapped his hand around Eldabeth's arm and pulled her upright. He pushed her in front of him. "Go," he whispered urgently.

"I can't see where I'm going," she hissed back, throat closed and tears dangerously close to spilling onto her cheeks.

"Go anyway." Legolas risked a glance behind him. He could actually pick out the shadows of orcs in the fluttering torchlight. Muttering a quick supplication to every higher power he could think of, he stared forward again. "And go faster."

Eldabeth nodded, gamely trying to keep her tears at bay, and started forward. Legolas kept close behind her, pushing her to go faster. He, against his better judgement, kept glancing over his shoulder and found himself having to catch up to his niece every so often.

Eldabeth's foot caught a rock and she pitched forward. A startled half-shriek escaped and she scrambled for balance. Unfortunately, the fates weren't with her. She fell.

And stopped. Legolas wrapped his arm around her middle. "No more shrieking," he hissed, half-panicked at the thought that the orcs might have heard.

Eldabeth paid him no mind. Instead, in her half crouch, she peered into the darkness to her right.

"Legolas," she whispered.

Legolas pulled her upright and less than gently shoved her forward. She, displaying an agility more befitting an Elf than the stumbling around they'd been doing, turned and shoved him. "Uncle, look." She pointed to her right and slightly down.

He did, and breathed a sigh of semi-relief. "A side tunnel." Now that he could tell what he was looking at, he could see the opening. The maw was small, short enough they'd have to crouch to get through, but if they missed it, then the orcs surely would.

Of course, the orcs had torches.

Legolas smiled. The orcs had torches. He pushed Eldabeth, much more gently this time, into the crevice and followed. "See if it leads anywhere, but don't stray too far," he whispered.

Eldabeth narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing?"

"We need a torch."

She nodded first, but then the implication of the statement dawned on her. "Uncle, the only place I have seen a torch is in an orc's hand."

"Aye."

She grabbed his arm. "We don't need one that badly."

"We need to be able to see to get out of here."

"Our eyes are keen."

"Not keen enough in this darkness."

"Elves have light of their own."

Legolas sighed sadly. "Yours is dim, tithen men."

"As is yours," was her sharp reply.

He paused. "All the more reason for us to get out of here." He pulled free from her grasp. "Go, see if this leads anywhere. I will be behind you shortly." And hopefully not with a contingent of orcs on my heels, he thought.

With a sigh, Eldabeth hurried away.

Legolas turned back, waiting just inside the opening. By now the orcs were passing the opening. He blanched; they seemed neverending. He almost turned away. Eldabeth was right; they didn't need this. But he waited, waited until the flow of fell creatures trickled into nothing.

Or, almost nothing. Legolas stepped out of his hiding place, neatly sliding into place behind a straggler -- one with a torch; he did make sure of that -- and had the orc's throat slit before a sound could be made. Legolas grimaced at the black blood covering his hand and arm. Not that it making a sound would have necessarily been a bad thing. There was so much noise just in the pounding feet and the constant orc grumblings that one little dying scream might not have been noticed. Legolas pried the lit torch out of the orc's now-convulsing fingers and slipped back into the crevice, hurrying after Eldabeth, hoping against hope that she'd found a passage out. He was tired of the darkness.

A sharp whistle cut through the inky blackness and it seemed the shadows jumped as flames on torches held high shifted as their holders did. When the leader -- only so because he'd proven himself fiercer and meaner than his counterparts, usually through their death -- came back to the place the whistle originated, he grinned, showing a mouthful of blackened fangs. His subordinate, the one who'd found the slain orc, grinned back and motioned to the crevice in the side of the rock wall. The leader laughed outright. He knew where that passage led. How perfect. "Shall we hunt, boys?"

Echoes of their laughter and shouts permeated the darkness.

"Hello Bronwe."

The big mare tried to wheel around at the sound of the soft voice, but only succeeded in letting her right front leg buckle underneath her. She went down to her knee, whinnying in protest, and scrambled back to her feet, her injured hoof held above the ground. The mare craned her neck, spearing Mener with her gaze. Her dark eyes were full of pain, and -- did Mener imagine this? -- regret.

Mener carefully came forward. The mare was loose, not because the Elves wouldn't treat her or because the stablemaster refused to keep an eye on her, but because she refused the attention. Her master was gone, and Bronwe was lost. Mener sighed. Sounded like a lot of people he knew.

"You shouldn't strain an already strained leg, Bronwe," he said quietly. "And I know that if you'd just let them, that could be healed in a few days' time. It's not that serious."

Bronwe snorted and danced away.

"I know," Mener said again. "They -- the healers, the king and Kirwen -- told me to rest. Like I would be able to just forget everything and sleep. Like you would be able to just forget everything and be normal again. They told me I lost too much blood to be up and around." Here he stared at the ground. "Lost blood, did I?" he said bitterly. "I did not lose life, like some."

Bronwe shook herself and came to stand beside a tree. She craned her neck, scratching herself against the bark. Moonlight streamed through the branches, highlighting her dark coat. For a few moments, she seemed perfect, untouched by cruelty or death. Instead, Bronwe was a god's horse, sporting a coat with a sheen like oil. Dark intelligent eyes caught the light and Mener could see her staring at him.

"I can't make it right, Bronwe." The words were choked and Mener covered his face with his good hand as he sank to the ground. On his knees in the grass, Mener only closed his eyes and ground out, "I should have been the one to die. Me, Bronwe. It should have been me."

Bronwe watched him; she knew him, of course. Knew him as the friend of her master. She was familiar with him, almost as familiar with him as she had been Taricir. Grief permeated her home, her very being, and, despite what opinion Men might have about her intelligence, she knew why. The one person she'd known since she could barely stand was gone, and she'd watched him fall.

As had Mener.

The Elf shook violently, hand still pressed against his face. Warrior though she may be, Bronwe was also a creature sensitive to others, as were many of her fellows. She limped, dispelling the image of perfection with her hobble, toward Mener.

It wasn't until Mener felt his hair being pulled that he realized Bronwe had come over. Slowly, he looked up, coming nose to nose with the big mare. Bronwe pushed against his forehead with her soft muzzle and snorted into his hair. Mener nodded, acknowledging her care, and wrapped his hand around her nose, gently scratching underneath her eye.

It wasn't until much later that Mener was able to stand up. Downtrodden by grief and injury, he leaned upon Bronwe almost as much as she upon him as they made their way to the stables. Mener treated her leg, laying a poultice upon her much abused knee, and throughout the night, he kneaded the muscles in her leg and shoulder. When the sun's morning ray's filtered through the stable's open windows, Bronwe stood, flexing her knee and alternately snorting at Mener and grabbing his hair.

When he left for a few moments, Bronwe waited. With her master gone, none commanded her and she was as lost as the rest of the Taricir's family. It was only when Mener came back, countenance set in determined lines that she knew some purpose might be restored here and now. With a hand on her brow, Mener asked "Can you carry me?"

Bronwe neighed softly and pawed the ground with the once-useless hoof.

Mener nodded and patted her neck before leaping, rather less gracefully that usual for him, onto her back. "Legolas and Eldabeth have not yet returned," he told the mare, more to confirm to himself what he was actually doing. This was a fool's errand, he knew, for an injured Elf, but he had obligations. "I made promises, Bronwe, and while I may not have been able to set things right, I can still try to make certain Kirwen has some family left."

Legolas met Eldabeth in the small passageway as she came back toward him. "It opens into nothing but a cavern, just a big room at the end."

"Are you sure?"

Eldabeth grimaced. "Not without light, no I am not sure, but it is not that big a place. I did circle it before coming back."

Legolas nodded. "We'll scout it," he said, raising the torch a little. "Lead the way."

Eldabeth huffed before turned back around. Legolas followed her, more than a little relieved when the passageway opened up abrubtly into the cavern Eldabeth talked about. He turned, holding the torch high. "Dwarves would love this place," he commented.

"Aside from the orcs," was Eldabeth's acerbic response. "Still," she acknowledged, "they would." She eyed the formations of stone. "Look there," she pointed to her left. "It looks like stars."

Legolas turned. It did indeed look like stars set in the stone. "Small deposits of mithril," he said. He swiveled his gaze upward. "Oh, my...Eldabeth, look up."

The youth did, and her breath caught in her throat. "Incredible," she breathed. "I feel as if I am standing outside, watching the stars."

Legolas nodded. The roof of the cavern sparkled in the light from the torch. The mithril deposits did indeed shine like the stars outside, and the blackness of the cave only seemed to reinforce that idea.

The thought occurred to Legolas that he should actually tear his gaze away from the star-like spattering of mithril and scout the cavern, but before he could actually do it, a gutteral yell echoed in the passageway behind them. Legolas turned in time to see an orc charge through, wicked sword held in front of him.

Acting purely on instinct, the prince whirled out of the way of the oncoming blade and slashed with the knife still in his hand. Another foul creature spilled out of the passage behind the first and Legolas hit him with the torch and shoved him back into the narrow corridor. He met with resistance, and knew without a doubt that the passage was lined with orcs.

He back away, and handed the torch to Eldabeth. "Find a way out," he snapped.

She nodded and whirled, and Legolas thanked the Valar she was keeping her head. The last thing he needed was screaming adolescent amidst an orc attack. He set back to the task at hand; that of keeping the orcs out of the cavern. At least they were only coming through one at a time. He parried an attack and came in high, punching the creature in the throat. When it backed off, he freed his knife and slashed at it and turned to meet the next one. One at a time it may be, but still quickly.

"Eldabeth!" he called.

"Still looking!" She held the torch high, frantically searching and in her haste, hoping she wasn't missing anything. When her fire failed to light a dark spot above her head on the far wall, she nearly missed it. Casting a look into the darkness, behind her, she could barely make out Legolas still fighting. Sending a prayer that he might have strength a little longer, she ran toward the hole. When she reached it, she jumped, catching the lip of the ledge with her right hand. She swung her left hand up and held the torch up as she pulled herself up to look into it. "Can't see," she whispered. Eldabeth dropped to the ground, grabbed a rock and threw it into the hole, listening intently and could barely hear it land and roll above the sounds of fighting. "Well, that didn't tell me much," she hissed.

She jumped up again, and before she could pull herself up to look, a hand wrapped around her wrist and pulled her up. She looked up, fear plainly written on her face. "What does it tell you now?"

Eldabeth whimpered a little as the orc pulled her closer, but at the same time swung her left hand. The orc dropped her wrist as the flames licked at his face and Eldabeth fell backward, knocking her head against the rough-hewn floor. She lay for a moment, trying to catch her breath until the orc she'd burned fell next to her. She scrambled up. "Legolas! There's more!" she called as she ran back to his side.

The prince looked in her direction, saw more orcs spilling into the cavern from the hole she'd found and promptly swore.

TBC

I hope you enjoy!