Legolas felt the pull of sleep drawing on his eyes. His breathing had slowed as the cold pulled at the last of his energy. Splinters of bright white light occasionally shot through cracks in the rocks above him. His legs had long ago fallen asleep, but he dared not move. Rocks surrounding this tiny hell space were set precariously around the elf during the rockslide. He did not know how long he had been there beyond the two long darks that had covered his enclosure.

Sleep, he knew, could be the end of him. Were he to but fall or move just wrong, he could bring his house of rocks crushing in on himself. In the first day, Legolas had begun to shake from his muscles tiring. He now shook from the cold and wet and the frustration that seared through him with every gust of wind against the rock face.

He mentally cursed himself for losing control of his reason over the events that had led up to this moment. How foolish it was of him to go traipsing through the woods at such a pace that was unsafe. Aragorn's words rang through his mind many times, and the whole situation angered him and created such fervor of dissatisfaction that his normal calm nature had grown foreign to him.

Another cold draft returned his thoughts to the present. All that mattered was the present. By Valor, he knew not what his future was, and the past only seemed to make him feel weaker. Legolas again felt devitalized as his eyelids drooped closed. He shot them open again. He could not sleep, not now. Again his eyelids fell and again he opened them. He needed to focus on breathing, on staying alive.

Too soon, however, the Elf's consciousness slipped away from him and he found himself in an uneasy sleep.

Aragorn brushed the hair out of Frodo's pale face. His damp curls stuck defiantly. A troubled look crossed the hobbit's face and Aragorn placed a hand on the hafling's forehead. His fever had not relented. Aragorn wet a fresh cloth and gently mopped Frodo's pale cheeks and face. A contented look finally fell on Frodo's face and Aragorn relaxed a bit. After feeling ample time had passed and Frodo would stay contented, Aragorn stood and looked over the Fellowship.

Their number seemed to have dwindled somewhat – Legolas had left them two days ago, that night Frodo fell grimly ill, and Gimli was currently out on watch. Only Boromir, Gandalf, Peregrin, Meriadoc, and Sam slept around the fire. Frodo slept isolated slightly, curled up in his bedroll. Aragorn gazed at the hobbits and sighed. How innocent they were.

Approaching footsteps finally broke his gaze and he stood at full height, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He relaxed when he saw the dwarf's stout form appear in the circle of firelight. He sighed inwardly and approached the dwarf.

"I will take up my watch now," Aragorn said. The dwarf nodded to him and Aragorn headed into the forest.

Legolas' eyes shot open when he realized he was asleep. Again it was dark and his body ached slightly less than before. His legs were still asleep, bent awkwardly beneath him. The cold of the night had set in and violent shivers now wracked his body.

Dried blood plastered his hair to his face, and his fine clothes were tarnished and torn, but at least he had stopped bleeding and his dizziness had subsided. He was parched; three nights with naught more than raindrops to whet his thirst created a whole new issue. His breathing was pained and ragged, and heart had slowed to conserve energy. Life was drifting from him or at least he felt this to be true.

Silence had surrounded him these last few days. The rocks served well as a mute for the world, and in response Legolas had tuned into the outside world, searching for sounds of his companions. Had they not searched him? What had Boromir told them when he returned alone? Or had they simply come to accept his absence and moved on without him? Grief filled his heart and his face alone told of his anguish.

A twig snapped. Legolas was torn from his sorrows. Fear rushed him and he held his breath. Silence. Moments passed. Legolas quietly gasped for air again once he was sure the creature had passed.

A heavy footstep, nearer than the twig, fell. Adrenaline charged through him, filling him with a foreign energy. He fell silent again, and again moments passed. He could hold his breath no longer and he huffed in a gulp of air as quietly as he could. Silence once more.

"It cannot be –" a voice started, "Legolas?"

He knew this voice. Husky but tender, strong and compassionate. Hope replaced his fear and he breathed in deeply.

Aragorn! At least that is what he would have cried out, had his lips and mouth not been so dry. A weak moan is all he could manage. He was quite surprised to hear his own voice again; after all, it had been at least three nights by his count since he had last spoken.

"Legolas!" Aragorn cried out as he hurried upon the pile of rocks. Quickly he pulled stone after stone away, debris and dust disrupted by his quickened pace.

Slowly the night sky shown through the rocks, shining solemnly down upon Legolas' cramped figure. After ample room was provided for Legolas to escape from his prison, Aragorn rushed in to pull him out. Fresh blood rushed to his legs and feet and Legolas howled in pain as the numbness subsided to pins and needles. He crumpled in Aragorn's arms and passed out.