Elrohir halted their progress with a hand held high – all talk suspended as they passed through the most dangerous territory in all of Mirkwood. He bent to examine the tracks they had come across, following their path south towards Dol Guldur.

"Twenty orcs came by here, some wounded." Elrohir told the others, glancing to Elladan for confirmation, their tracking experience garnered from years with the rangers taking over. A nod told him they were in agreement as always.

"We cannot risk following them directly south and coming up against their rearguard. We should travel south parallel to their path." Daefindir suggested.

"Who could they have fought to leave such a large number with wounded?" Minastir asked, his voice uncertain and laced with fear. "The company were ordered not to confront them; they were to spy only." None of them cared to reply, though the answer seemed obvious to them all and said nothing good about the safety of their friends. Crossing the trail with feet that left no prints in the mud, they returned to the cover of the trees on the other side.

"Do we assume they are captured? It is not like the orcs to take prisoners…" Elrohir tried to voice his concerns.

"When the Necromancer dwelt in Dol Guldur he would often take elves prisoner… though this has not been the case throughout the watchful peace." Minastir's lips tightened into a grim line, before continuing darkly. "Something tells me we are not in times of peace any more. There seems to be some greater power than just orcs in Dol Guldur." He sighed. "If they are not with the fell beasts, then we must assume that all we can do is follow the loathsome creatures and avenge our comrades, for they will not be alive." Swallowing down the lump the thought brought to his throat, Elrohir nodded and followed Daefindir as they moved on.

-

-

They came across the orcs at dawn on the second day – moving more quickly as they were through the forest. From the trees they watched them search for an appropriate camp to hide out the day. Elladan grasped at Elrohir's wrist for support as they had their first confirmation that Legolas and his troupe had been captured.

The five were chained together by wrists and ankles, and all looked as though they had taken a severe beating to ensure their docility in capture. One blond elf was collapsed against another with a darker mane, looking more like he was being carried than carrying himself. The elleth was stood tall in the middle of the group, though she hugged a broken arm to herself with pain that she couldn't hide in her eyes. This pulled the wrist-chains of the elf behind her tight, and he offered his arms to her to allow her the room. Behind him a golden head rested on his shoulder, moving under his own steam, but obviously in need of stabilisation. As he looked up, the twins caught their breath, for Legolas – it was he – seemed to look directly at them. A thick trail of blood ran down from his hairline, smudged wildly across his face to clear it from his eyes, though from the way his pupils roved wildly, Elrohir suspected his sight was still less than crystal. He looked heavily concussed.

The phrase 'so near and yet so far' had never held so much meaning for Elladan and Elrohir as on this day, watching as their dazed lover was dragged into the camp and the others thrown on top of him – the unlucky bottom. Elanor cried out as the Elf carrying the now unconscious blond was unable to keep his balance due to the combined burden of the dead weight and the harsh tug on the chain, causing him to back into her. As they shifted into a seating arrangement that did not involve sitting on one another, it was revealed that the elf that had been offering Legolas balance was bleeding heavily from a wound in his stomach. Elanor quickly pressed her uninjured arm to the wound, calling on Legolas to help her suppress the bleeding. The blond elf looked at her, confused, and she patiently grasped hold of first one hand, then the other to lay them down over the wound, and held the pressure with her own.

Two guards were set, though they had grumbled at their task, and growled the prisoners into silence. All five had cringed back, none mistaking the threat and none strong enough to make a stand.

Elrohir turned at the sound of a soft sigh behind him; a gesture from Elladan called him away into the trees.

"We need to act soon, and quickly. Dingor needs treatment, and I couldn't make out what ails Baranir." Daefindir said bluntly, fidgeting uncharacteristically in his desperation to act.

"There was a large tree to the north of where they have set up camp. An archer placed there could draw their fire while the groundsmen make their move, while not being too far away to join us when the fighting begins and arrows run short." Minastir replied, already formulating a plan and taking command, the most experienced of their diminished group in this kind of combat.

"We cannot count on any help from the captives. We must be able to remove them from the fighting, else they will be used against us."

"A second must be prepared to lead them away." Minastir confirmed.

"You plan this as though you still have seven elves at your back. There are only four of us - to remove two of us only leaves two to fight twenty orcs." Elladan objected.

"There are as many of us as there are. We will do what we can for our friends."

"But…"

"I am the better archer of us two." Elrohir interrupted Elladan. He had noted that neither of the Mirkwood warriors carried bows, so they were relying upon one of them to provide their cover. Elladan did not object to his words, this was a rescue and there was no place for pride here.

"They would respond better to rescue from someone they all know and trust." Elladan suggested; his objections overruled for the time being.

"I will lead them away." Daefindir spoke up, obviously reluctant. "I know a little of the healing arts, it will be for the best."

"Then it is settled. We wait for Elrohir to begin, and attack while their attention is drawn."

-

Elrohir settled into the solid bough, arranging his quiver so that nothing caught on it and ensuring he could draw easily. Checking his sight into the camp, Elrohir picked out the two orcs standing guard, grumbling to each other as the day took hold and the heat began to rise. These would be his first targets, the aim to take them both as close to each other as possible so that one couldn't alert the other and wake the camp. He knew the attack would start on his move, and so he took a moment to prepare himself, setting up his draw and pulling the first arrow to his bow.

Letting out all of the air from his lungs, Elrohir brought his focus in to bear on the right-hand orc, the closer to the camp. A twitch of a muscle was the release, and the second arrow was in his fingers and on the string. It was only bad luck that caused Baranir to return to consciousness and begin coughing at that moment, drawing Elrohir's attention only long enough for the second orc to realise his companion was silent and call out a warning as the second arrow struck his chest.

Eighteen orcs leapt to their feet and before he knew it Elrohir was firing into a crowd, every shot hitting simply because there was no space for them to miss. He heard his brother's battle cry as he and Minastir dived into the fray, but spared them no attention as he worked his way through his quiver. When a dozen store of arrows were spent, there were still enough orcs to be causing trouble for Elladan and Minastir, some returning to the fight with arrows protruding from their armour and clothing. Elrohir was preparing to drop from the tree to rejoin them when Elladan's cry rang out through the clearing, a solid blow to the back of his head from an orc-sword hilt dropping him cleanly. Minastir was suddenly fighting five orcs on his own, and there was no sign of Daefindir. Elrohir leapt from the tree, running almost before he had landed, and was into the fray in moments.

But not quick enough.

Minastir fell, impaled upon an orc-spear, his eyes on Elrohir's as he dropped, shuttering closed as he impacted the ground. His own battle cry on his lips, Elrohir stormed through the orcs, his sword ripping left and right before he had even realised he had drawn it. He was just in time to see reinforcements arrive, but not for their side. Orcs swarmed into the clearing, swamping everything. A strong arm from behind him knocked him head-over heels to the ground, and a metal-booted foot pressed down upon his ribs from behind. Elrohir pushed sideways to find air, and found himself face to face with Daefindir, knocked down before he could even reach the others. Elanor had claimed his knife, and Turith his sword before they too had been halted in their tracks, an orc holding each of them down; the others either too injured or unconscious to mount any type of aid.

They were defeated.

Well and truly.

It was Elrohir's last thought before everything went black.