Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Quick Note: 'Adar' means 'father', 'Ada' means, basically, 'Dad', 'Edain' means 'Man' or 'human', and 'elleth' means 'she-elf'. Just letting you know since they're the only things not translated in this chapter.

Author's Note: The last lines in this chapter were stolen innocently from the movie, and the Quenya translations were stolen from one of my idols, Ilye. She gets full credit for those two sentences, and if (gasp, shock, die) she ever reads this, then I would like to state now that I worship the ground her ElrohirxLegolas feet walk on. (kisses!)

Responses to my lovely reviewers: morphed, so…like the hunts, do you? lol, me too! Sunday-Morning, why yes, yes, I do, however did you guess? (snickers) I can't help it. I'm a complete perv, lol. Sunn-Kissed, yeah, I hate it when people make wolves all evil for no reason. And yes, it is slash. :) Twilight Unicorn, thanks! Sesshyangel, hey, I emailed you but I'm not sure you got it, so let me know! and thanks for the badass review! VirginGoddess, (looks around shiftily) Oh, yes, please do send Haldir…and strawberries…(drools) legosgurl, thanks! I'm really glad you liked it! Fallen, why do you always make me blush like mad?? (blushing like mad) Gods, I do adore you and your reddening reviews!! im no muggle, (taps foot, still waiting for an update) Yeah, I liked that part, too, lol! CrackingUp, THANK YOU!!!!

Now, I do believe you're here to read…THIS!!!! (I've had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Just ignore me, please.)

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Thranduil Oropherion, King of Eryn Galen, now known as Mirkwood and Taur-e-Ndaedelos, nearly gave his subjects a heart attack when he suddenly collapsed in the Hall of Fire. His wife, Isillinquë, and his youngest son, Ornutur, were at his side instantly, while his daughter, a pretty elleth that looked younger than Ornutur but was in fact quite a bit older, ran for the healer. Clutching at his head, the king knew none of that as pain engulfed him from head to toe, pain tainted with a foul shadow that chilled his blood, and he knew whose agony he was feeling. No, his mind screamed, no! Not Legolas, not his precious Greenleaf.

And suddenly, he saw it all. He saw the long days spent laughing and joking with the Evenstar as they hiked across the mountains, he saw the faked fall from a tree, he saw…He saw the Witch-king and his heart nearly stopped as Legolas stood and faced it with such selfless courage that it made Thranduil wish to weep. He saw the fight, the impossible, heroic fight, and he would have died of pride when his son, his young, beautiful son ripped that foul heart straight from the creature's chest if he hadn't been so terrified. He couldn't remember having been afraid since his father's death, but he was petrified with pure fear then.

Then the world spun and the pain was back, the soul-eating torment, and he couldn't understand how his son was still sane as he felt the full effect of that black poison. Understanding nearly crushed him, his mind screaming out the obvious, and he knew he wouldn't survive the corruption of his son's bright, unblemished spirit. But there…what was that? Far underneath the swirling darkness, a spot of light shone through like a beacon, and he felt like crowing with joy when he saw that his son had somehow retreated into himself, constructing barriers of pure light around his fëa, letting the twisted perversion eat at his body and mind, but not his soul, never his soul.

And then Thranduil was back in the Hall of Fire, Elvin shouts ringing all around him as light footsteps shuffled back and forth hurriedly, and someone was poking at his eyelids in a most annoying fashion. He'd really need to speak to them about proper respect at some less pressing time, and…Wait, why were his eyes closed in the first place? Opening them slowly, he met the startled gaze of his head healer and tried to speak, but his throat was raw, as if he'd been screaming. Everything rushed back and he struggled to rise, growling at the healer when she tried to hold him down. Throwing the elleth's hands off, his son's replaced them.

"Ada, no! You need to rest, you just collapsed, and—"

"Release me! I must go to him, I have to leave now, make yourself useful and get the guards ready to ride, I—"

"Go to who, meleth-nín?" His wife asked, and something in her eyes said that she already knew, because he could feel her grief already rising like a scalding wave. ((my love))

He kept the story short and to the point, and every Elf in the Hall was so silent at the end that his daughter, Elenhísë, made a small noise that actually echoed, before her blue eyes rolled back and she fainted, her brother catching her before she could hit the ground. Isillinquë was backing away slowly on her hands and knees until she'd reached the corner, and she was huddled there in a small ball, her ladies-in-waiting trying to coax her out to no avail. Thranduil stood and went to her, scooping her up easily and sweeping from the room, barked orders to get the horses out to the front gate and supplies for a long, hard ride ready all that he said before disappearing.

He took her to their chambers, murmuring softly to her the whole way, until he kicked open the doors and strode across the parlor into their bedroom, laying her on the soft furs gently. Her eyes were vacant and unseeing, and he knew that she was lost in memories of their beloved son. His heart was already so wrenched that it felt dry and crumbling, and he couldn't bear to see her in such pain, or to know that his darling Greenleaf was suffering a fate much worse than death. Brushing a lock of silver hair back off of her face, he kissed her petal-pink lips softly before rising and throwing one last glance back over his shoulder at her.

"I will find him, nin bellas, and I will bring him back to you." It wasn't until he was out the doors and closing them firmly behind him that he whispered brokenly, "One way or the other." ((my strength))

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Ornutur couldn't believe it. His brother had always had a knack for getting into trouble, but this topped the list by far. Fighting the Witch-king? Was he insane? Ornutur knew as well as all of their people that he and Legolas were different enough to almost be complete opposites, even though they did look a little bit like each other. But Legolas was brave and fast and strong, respected and praised and brilliant. Ornutur was just…there, with his books and scrolls and 'outrageous' ideas. Legolas was the quiet one, the commanding one, the understanding one, the one full of joy at everything that he saw around him.

And he was the only one that would really listen to Ornutur's dreams of peace with the dwarves, of his desire to spend more time around the Edain, of his far-fetched hopes at wooing the Evenstar as Legolas had wooed her brothers. He had grown up around the twins and loved them almost as much as he did Legolas, because they were rarely apart for any true length of time, and had been bound long before his birth. The union of the princes of two of their greatest Realms had been long celebrated, and he'd heard endless tales about the festivities and antics of those that had attended, which had been pretty much everyone, even those of the Golden Wood.

Galadriel and Celeborn had both been thrilled when they'd heard of their grandsons' imminent binding, and had come to the Greenwood for the ceremony with a large part of their people. Most of Imladris had come as well, and Ornutur had found himself wishing many times that he could have seen such a grand gathering, that he could have seen the full-force of the joy in his brother's eyes that appeared every time he so much as glanced at or thought of the Peredhil twins. So it was not surprising that his thoughts went to them as he hurriedly threw a pack together, clothes and supplies being tossed in carelessly.

Did they know? Did they know that their bonded was out in the mountains, hurt and dying? That last word knifed through him, leaving actual physical pain behind, and something within him seemed to sink. With a jolt, he realized what was happening, and ran over to the large, polished mirror in the corner. Sweet Valar, was all he could think as he watched a strip of his hair becoming lighter and lighter until it was almost gray, as he watched the spark in his eyes growing dimmer even as he stared, and the tiniest hint of exhaustion creeped into his bones. His aching for his brother grew ever keener, and he clutched at his chest as a sudden, sharp pain blossomed.

He was fading.

Stumbling back from the mirror, a sob rising in his throat, he realized what his subconscious already knew. Legolas was dying, truly dying, and he would die with him. This wasn't just another 'spot of trouble'. This wasn't a dream or a nightmare or a vision. His brother was gone, lost somewhere on the face of those Valar-forsaken mountains, and he was being eaten and consumed by shadow as Ornutur worried over a few gray hairs and a little pain. Mentally slapping himself, he threw the last of his things together, grabbed his weapons, and headed out the door. He'd only made it two feet before a silver blur was crashing into him and nearly knocking him over.

"Elenhísë!" He cried when he recognized his sister, but she clamped a hand over his mouth and shoved him back into his room, shutting the door firmly behind her. Her eyes were wild and crazed and somewhat dead, and he saw her own spark dying, the sky-blue shade of her irises dulling to an icy almost-white that resembled a blind human's. Seeing her in such a way only intensified his own grief, but he knew he had to push it into the background for now or he'd be useless, and he was tired of being useless.

"I'm going with you." She stated, and he shook his head.

"You heard what Ada said." He reminded her. "Aren't you still supposed to be with the healer anyway?"

"I don't need a healer!" She exclaimed, and pushed past him, heading for his weapons rack.

"What in Nessa's name are you doing?"

"I'm going with you." She repeated, glaring at him for all she was worth. It was a strong glare, too, the glare of the princess, not the sister.

"Ada said—"

"I know what Ada said!" She snapped, and he closed his lips tightly, his own glare forming. "And I don't care. I'll be damned if I let you go out looking for them without me! He's my brother, too, if you'd care to recall, and Arwen is my best friend!"

And then, just like that, she crumpled to the floor, sparkling tears racing down her cheeks, which seemed to be a bit more hollow than usual. He went to her side and dropped down next to her, gathering her up to him and swaying gently, cooing soft words until her tears had stopped. She most resembled their mother, her hair the same shade of pure Teleri silver and her nose and lips the identical replicas. Ornutur had the golden hair of his father, while Legolas possessed a rare mix of both. She was precious to them all, and to see her in such pain made his heart clench and his own tears rise. Shoving them down, he let out a shaky breath.

"Alright."

Her head snapped up. "What?"

"I said alright. You can come. But hide your hair and keep your head down, at least until we're out of Mirkwood and he won't want to waste the guards to send you back."

"Ooooh! Diola lle!" She cried, throwing her arms around his neck. ((Thank you))

"Ada's going to kill me for this." He muttered, but got her a bow and blade all the same.

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Arwen had no idea where she was when she finally woke up, and only Legolas's slight moan had remembrance rushing back and filling in the gaps. Her eyes cleared lazily, as she still felt utterly worn out, and she came to full awareness much slower than usual. She was pressed against Legolas's back, her arm tightly around his waist in a protective grip, as if even her sleeping mind (for it had been true sleep then) had worried for him as much as her waking one. Her back was to the small cave entrance so that if anything came in, it would see her first. It was instinctual and somehow right, because he was Elvin royalty, and she…

Some named her princess as they named her brothers princes, but she didn't think of herself so highly. Yes, her father could have been High King, but he wasn't a blood heir of Gil-Galad, and even though they did have royal blood through her great-grandmother, Idril, who was the daughter of King Turgon…it was hard to explain. She just didn't feel very royal, and she bore no crown, nor had she taken the oaths of duty and responsibility that true royals did. Legolas had taken those oaths, years and years ago, as had his siblings. And his sister, she was truly a Princess Royal, the last on these shores, just as Legolas was the last of his kind.

Because Ornutur…He was a sweet, loving Elf, an Elf that made the greatest of friends, but…But he was not strong like they were. He didn't cause that shimmer, that feeling in the air, whenever he was around like they did, and it set him apart from the others of his family. That was why many still gave Legolas the title of 'the last great Elvin Prince', because in all honesty, he was. Few outside the Woodland Realm even knew the younger prince's name, because there were no tales of him to be spread around, no awed whispers, and his beauty, while great, was shadowed by his siblings and his parents', who shone like captured stars.

She had always known the Mirkwood Royals, since Legolas had been courting the twins for almost four decades before her birth, and his sister was her brothers' age, minus about fifteen years, so they had become fast friends. Ornutur was born a little over seven centuries later, and they had all known, though they'd never spoken of it, that the fall from her horse that the queen had taken some months before had weakened the young prince. Not in the mind, no, but in strength, Elvin strength and inner strength, and the queen had blamed herself for years to come. But Legolas had grown quite attached to the little elfling, and he'd taught him to fight, to read, to dance, to sing.

Under his older brother's (and the twins') careful care, he grew more powerful than anyone had hoped for, and most contributed it to his having had three of the best warriors in Arda as his teachers. And it was that, but it was also his own will, his will to show them that he could do the things other Elves could do, that drove him on so strongly. But he had never reached even his sister's level, and after three centuries, he'd given up regular weapons practice and taken to holing himself up in the Great Library, coming out only when Legolas and the twins or Arwen and his sister came searching for him, dragging him outside for some much-needed fresh air.

Legolas moaned again and knocked her thoughts back into the present, and she could feel him shivering violently. Rising slowly, as every muscle in her body seemed to be screaming at her to stop moving and lay back down, she slid quite ungracefully out from underneath their cloaks, leaves in her hair and stuck in her tunic. It seemed to take forever to reach the pile of firewood that she had previously gathered, and even longer to get back to Legolas's side with it and her pack. Moving a few feet away, she didn't have the energy to create a circle of stones, and she barely had enough to get the fire going with the flint in her pack.

What was wrong with her? She had to have slept for at least a day, judging by the position of the stars that she had glimpsed outside of the small opening, but she felt as if she'd been up a straight week with no rest at all. It made no sense, and it was starting to really worry her. Pulling out a small portion of Lembas, she chewed on it thoughtfully; even that small bit of movement shooting jagged bursts of pain down her spine and into her fingers and toes, but her head was the worst. It felt like an orc had cracked her upside the skull with a club, since she'd had that happen once and it was the only thing that she could remember hurting enough to describe this…

This demonic headache. She'd never had a headache before, not without having gotten hit quite hard, since Elves simply weren't afflicted by such things. But, apparently, they were. Or maybe it was just the small bit of mortal blood in her veins. Maybe that made her prey to such when she'd exhausted herself so completely. Maybe. A cold tingle of fear swarmed through her, and she closed her eyes, even so small a movement agonizing. Any warmth the fire might have given left her, as she searched inside herself and found that she was right. It was not her Edain blood, nor was it just a simple headache that would leave her shortly.

She was fading.

Oddly, a strange sense of peace filled her, soothing some of the pain and wiping away some of the fear. Her eyes wandered back to Legolas, running over his familiar features, features that had smiled with her, laughed with her, cried with her. Perhaps it was better to die now, with him, then to live a lonely life with him gone. He and the twins and her father were her world, as were Elenhísë and Glorfindel and Erestor, but the former four were the center of it, the foundation that everything she knew was built around. Her mother had once been first and foremost on that list, but she walked the shores of Valinor now, and Arwen knew that she was safe, untouchable, unreachable.

Yes, she thought dreamily, I shall die here with him, and we shall pass into Mandos' Halls together, neither of us alone in death. Something sharp nipped her hand, and she looked down at Sereg, who seemed to be glaring at her, as if he knew what she was thinking. The look in those mismatched eyes was clear: 'Do not fail him.' And giving up so soon would most certainly do that. A new flare of hope alit within her, giving her a measure of her strength back, and she stumbled over to where the bowls of water were, the thick brush on the floor making the walk treacherous, and she was painstakingly careful not to spill a drop, sitting back down by her sick prince with it.

Mixing just enough of the healing herbs she had with her into the water, she tried to tear off a section of her cloak only to find, to her shock, that she had not even the strength for that. Her boot knife did the trick, though, and she dipped the heavy fabric into the water, letting it soak while she carefully unwrapped Legolas's wounds. She was as gentle as possible and he didn't wake, not even when she cleaned them, although he did thrash and mumble incoherently, the only things she could truly make out being her brothers' names. Tears springing to her eyes again, she rewrapped the festering wounds with the last of the gauze that she had brought.

How had it come to this? How had they stepped outside the Valar's grace enough to warrant such punishment? Legolas was highly favored by them, every Elf knew that after one look in those divine green eyes, and she herself was said to be blessed by them. But here they were, supposedly two of the Valar's most favored, and they were stranded in a cave with the smallest bits of food and water, a dying fire, and death and shadow cloaking their every breath. Her body was shutting down, she could feel it, she'd pushed herself too far even knowing her new weakness, and she fell half onto the pallet of leaves, her head cracking against the debris-strewn floor.

The last thing she saw was spreading flames.

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Snow howled around them in a torrent, but the twins kept moving, knowing that to stop without finding shelter could kill even them. No mortal Men or horses would have been able to survive the whipping, raging blizzard that they were stalking through, having long ago been forced to stop riding and lead their mounts. The storm had come fast and hard the night before, and they hadn't stopped in over thirty-six hours, Legolas's growing suffering pulling them forward even though they were far past running on their reserve energy. Only mad determination kept them from keeling over, from abandoning such a foolish trek and waiting out the storm.

Only mad determination and depthless love.

Elrohir's teeth were clacking together fiercely, his face and hands long past numb, and for a being not used to feeling the cold, it was horrendous. He wanted so badly to just curl up on the snow and drift off to sleep, to let the swirling, diamond-sharp flakes cover him in a blanket of white. But every time he started to drift off, emerald eyes and mithril-streaked hair flashed in front of his eyes, and he kept moving, kept walking, kept himself from even the brief walking-repose that their kind was so efficient at. Because some part of him didn't know if he would ever wake back up, and he was of no help to his bonded or his sister if he was frozen under a dozen feet of snow.

He wasn't much help, anyway. He had failed them.

If only he or Elladan or both had gone with them across the Misty Mountains…It all could have been different. The three of them could have fought together as they usually did, they could have conquered their foe and been in Mirkwood's outer borders by now. Or, it at least could have been him who'd been wounded by the Witch-king's blade, him who was having his mind eaten by shadow. He wished it was. He wished it more than he'd ever wished for just about anything, and he felt even more helpless than he had when his mother sailed. At least he'd known that she would find peace in the Golden Land. There was no peace for a wraith.

Very nearly sick at the thought, he wondered if he would throw up for the first time in his life. It felt like it. Gritting his teeth in an effort to stop their clattering and to gain a grip on himself, he barely caught Elladan when he stumbled and fell. Weaker than he'd thought, his twin's weight drug Elrohir to the ground with him, and neither moved for a long moment, the cold eating into their very bones and making it nearly impossible to think, to feel. They should not have been so affected by the freezing temperature, even though it was a blizzard strong enough to kill a healthy Elf caught unawares. But they were not healthy.

They were fading.

But both were determined to see their love one last time and to kiss their sister's brow, both were determined to make it to them and die beside them, because they knew that if they were fading so rapidly, then Arwen would be starting the process herself. It didn't seem fair, not fair at all, and for the first time ever, they lost just a bit of their faith in the Valar. Even Celebrían sailing hadn't accomplished that, it had just made a dark, cold place inside them bloom, but this, this made them doubt everything. And it hurt, the doubt hurt physically, and it made everything worse. But they couldn't stop it, couldn't control it, because they were blinded by love's loss.

It came as quite the horror when they realized that they couldn't stand, not even with each other's help, and he felt like sobbing, screaming, anything to let out the overwhelming frustration and guilt and anguish that was converging on him from all sides and from inside, and there was no escaping it or fighting it. Digging his fingers into the snow, he pulled himself forward the smallest bit and nearly collapsed onto his face, but he refused to stop. Handful by handful, they drug themselves along the shifting white mass underneath them, until a dark shape appeared above Elladan and he was being lifted, his hood falling back and revealing a shock of silvered hair.

Elrohir gaped, his cracked and frozen lips parting as much as they were able, for he hadn't seen Elladan without that hood in over a day, and the last he had seen, that hair had still been the blackest of blacks. Now it was almost completely gray, only small strands of raven remaining, and it was a dark, thick-looking gray that shimmered like silver. Then he was being lifted too, a toss of the horse's head throwing him over another's back, and he landed next to Elladan, Moriára starting out through the whirling wall of whiteness before them once more. Their own horses were to either side, having been the ones to pick them up, and they gasped out a thanks.

It was lost on the wind, but their horses knew that they were grateful, and he curled up next to his brother as closely as he could get without falling off. He was cold, so cold, and his eyes were actually drooping shut, which was a very bad sign in itself. Elladan reached out to him with violently trembling fingers, the icy tips brushing over his cheek before they pulled a lock of his own hair out from underneath the hood, and it was almost lost in the snow, only a few shades too dark of a gray to match that dingy white. Elladan looked so sad as he gazed on those pale strands, strands a color that no Elf in Arda or Valinor had, and a tear froze on his cheek.

'Amin hiraetha.' Elrohir called through their twin-bond, feeling the need to apologize though he knew not what for. For not going with their sister and their love? For his hair being such a distressing sight? Did it matter? Not really. Elladan's eyes widened slightly, as if he knew his thoughts, which he probably did, and he shook his head. ((I'm sorry))

'Oio naa elealla alasse', lirimaer.' He replied softly, and Elrohir tried to smile, but the muscles in his face didn't seem to be working, unless the ceaseless shivering counted. ((Ever is thy sight a joy, lovely one.))

For a long time afterwards, all they knew were pounding hooves and the stinging, biting snow. They had never felt more fragile, more mortal, than they did then, and they decided that they didn't like it at all. Elros was mad for choosing a life of Men. Absolutely mad. And so were the authors of the fantasy books back in Imladris and Mirkwood, because there was nothing romantic or noble about freezing to death. Trust an immortal, immune Elf to write such a thing. He bet that none of them had been fading in the middle of the worst snowstorm they'd seen in centuries. If only they weren't ill, if only, if only, if only…

The 'ifs' never stopped, running circle upon circle in his head as he fought to stay conscious, as he fought to stay alive. Who'd ever heard of an Elf dying from the cold? It was absurd, like an Elf falling from a tree to its death, but no one would think that when they found their bodies during the spring melts. And that was a much too negative train of thought to be having, even though things had never looked gloomier. Meeting his twin's eyes again, he was jolted out of his daze when he saw that he couldn't, because they were closed. Frantic panic sinking claws into him, he grabbed his twin by the shoulders and shook him hard.

'Elladan!' Nothing. Just darkness and silent noise. 'Don't do this to me, saes! Saes, Elladan, saes wake up! Sweet Ilúvatar, don't do this, saes don't do this…' ((please))

He was weeping again, though he'd thought all of his tears long wasted by then, and they were tiny ice crystals that burned his cheeks like flames, but it was nothing compared to the burning of his fëa. Not both, he couldn't lose one, let alone both…Gods, what had they done to deserve such fates, such suffering, such sorrow? They had followed the laws of Eru diligently, they had prayed and worshiped daily, and they were said to be favored by the Mighty Ones. But he no longer believed that as he stared at eyelids that should never be shut, as he watched the last pieces of his spirit crumbling into nothing but darkness.

And yet…yet he thought he could still feel that distant throb, that pulse of something great and majestic, and he did not notice as they slid off the horse and hit the snow; he did not notice their mounts stop and hang their heads, growing much too weary themselves. All he saw was his twin's cherished face, the face that had grown gaunt and haunting and somehow even more beautiful due to their grief; all he saw was that dark hair that was as gray as their eyes had been, hair that was fanning out over the snow as the wind ripped past them. And overlaying that was sea-green eyes and Teleri silver, Sindarin gold. His heart clenching as his vision began blackening, it was he that ran fingertips over the other's cheek, his words built on that little smudge of hope and belief still within him.

"Valarllo, ya vanessë antaë ninna, á lavë lelyaës. Á lavë náë engaiës." And then Elrohir Peredhil, an uncrowned prince of his people, second-born son of Elrond Eärendilion, brother of the Evenstar and bonded to the Crown Prince of Taur-e-Ndaedelos, knew no more. ((By the Valar, what grace has given to me, let it be passed to him. Let him be spared.))

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Please review!! And I'm sure you all recognize the last lines, lol. Check out the Author Note to see who's credited for the Quenya, and REVIEW, because hardly anyone seems to like this…(sobs)

((Taur-e-Ndaedelos -- The Forest of the Great Fear))