A/N: Ï'm very sorry, it's all my fault for taking thus long to continue this tale.
"This certainly is of her doing." Elladan said as he scanned their new surroundings, seeking an exit but finding none.
"And we fell nicely into her trap," Elrohir said in growing awareness. His brows were furrowed in a deep frown, annoyed with himself for their folly. "Ï cannot fathom this. Our own kin!" His voice rose in an angry note.
"Your grandmother no longer knows kin from any who stand in her way," Elrond shook his head. "Our surmise was not far, then. By some means she has managed to snare the One. The influence of the One knows no limits. More so in the hands of one mighty as the Lady of Lorien."
"Such relieving news," Elladan commented sarcastically. "What of Frodo and the rest of the Fellowship then? Do they still walk alive on this earth?"
"How are our own folk faring? Are they…"Elrohir mused, anxious too.
"We cannot worry about that now. Our foremost task is to save ourselves."
The candle went out.
"Blasted Elf!" With uncharacteristic speed (for a dwarf), based on pure instinct, Gimli threw himself without hesitation upon Legolas, using his weight to pin the latter on the ground. "LEGOLAS!" He bellowed, trying unsuccessfully to get through to his friend.
Legolas's knuckles were white with the tight grip that he had on his bow and arrow and he writhed violently, trying to free his hand so that he might shoot.
Gimli knew that he was on the losing end. He had not known that the deceptively slender frame of an Elf could possess such strength; he was having a hard time trying to keep Legolas's hand still; his hold was slipping. The weapons simply could not be wrestled from the Elf's hands.
It was as simple as that, if Legolas managed to shoot, Gimli knew that it would be the end of him. A seasoned and skilled warrior of the Eldar could not possibly miss from such a short range; besides, the prince still had his blades.
The moment of distraction resulting from his thoughts proved to be his undoing.
Legolas freed the hand that held his arrow and lobbed it straight at Gimli.
The arrow pierced the dwarf.
"And how do you propose we move all the debris off us without any aid or light?" Aragorn snapped sarcastically. "We are both not of sound condition."
"How ought Ï to know?" Boromir's tone was irate. "You are the leader now that Gandalf is gone."
A pregnant pause stretched between the two.
"Ï have still my pack on my back," Boromir finally spoke up. "Wait while Ï look for any item that might prove of use to us." Scrabbling noises echoed as Boromir used purely his sense of touch to rummage through his pack.
"How far do you think we've gone? Are we anywhere near Mirkwood?" Pippin questioned, wiping the sheen of sweat off his forehead. He flopped on the ground, he could not walk another step.
"Do you see anything that indicates we're near Mirkwood?" Merry returned, weary of Pippin's naïve and repeated stupid questions.
"Let's not quarrel," Frodo sighed wearily.
Gimli stumbled along the ground as if drunken, his hands clenching his beard and his hands covering his mouth.
His stomach retched and his mind was reeling.
"Dear Aule, no! Tell me this is but a bizarre dream!" The dwarf screamed to himself in his head.
He looked down at himself and saw the blood still issuing from the arrow wound. The arrow still embedded in his body, the feathered shaft protruding.
This was no dream.
This was real.
Besides, he never dreamed, so it could not possibly have been a dream.
His raiment was blood stained. The wound looked and felt frighteningly real. Only it was not the only wound that ailed him; the wound in his soul still festered as well.
Trembling mightily he sank onto his knees on the ground.
Not his friend, his comrade. The one with whom he had shared such wonderful times with on one of their roamings of the Golden Wood.
The one he had traded much insults and glares with on the road from Rivendell to Lorien. The one who shared stories and songs with.
Images of Legolas shifted in his mind. The laughing Legolas. The singing Legolas. The smug, arrogant, superior Legolas as they argued over the merits and demerits of each of their respective race. The unbelievably irritating, yet strangely good-natured face of Legolas as he joked and teased Gimli. The crazed, maddened expression on his face as he struggled under Gimli. The empty, vacant expression as he had aimed a shot at him.
When he had suddenly found the arrow in him, something in him had awoken and he had struck out without further thought with his fists. Then as Legolas sought the killing blow, Gimli's hands had closed around the first weapon he could find, his fallen axe, and swung it .
Strangled sobs and gasps shook the small, heavyset frame as he recalled his heinous crime, even if it was in self-defense.
Gathering his wits about him again he did the best he could tending his own wound and started moving.
This time though, it was without aim. Without a destination.