Dance of Puppets

by Maranwe Elanor

[Sequel to OMaN] Control. Power. Domination. Ever has the Enemy sought these things. When Elladan and Elrohir become pawns in a deadly game, will Aragorn and Legolas find them in time? Would they be better off not finding them at all?

14. Before the Precipice

Are you mad at me yet?

I'm mad at me. I'm absolutely ashamed that this has taken me a month to post. The only consolation I have to offer is that this is a long one: 26 pages as opposed to the 10-15 I usually have. Do not expect it again. I wish I could say I have the next chapter done, but I do not. It is planned somewhat, though, not that it is likely to help. I swear my stories resist planning. I had planned something else for Aragorn and Legolas, but it would not write, no matter how hard I tried. And I did try, which is part of the reason this has taken so long.

I must warn you, also, that the next chapter is likely to be late, too, though I hope not quite so late. I have finals this week that must be studyed and then AP's after that. Anyway, I hope to have it postable by the end of this week, failing that, by the weekend after. It will depend largely on how cooperative the chapter is, and how much time I happen to have on hand to type it.

Meerkat is a South African mongoose. I know that. I looked it up just to be sure. But meerkat is more fun and sounds better than mongoose, so I have chosen to use that instead. Forgive my liberties with nature. Also, I must tell you that while I love horses and horse-back riding, I am not so thoroughly familiar with the large creatures and their maintenance as I should like. Consequently, part of what I have included herein is likely impossible, but please indulge me. I think that's everything of the warning nature: though, I must tell you I'm not wholly pleased with certain points in this chapter. You'll likely note them yourselves.

*g* Anyway, I hope you like this chapter better than the last one. I'm currently not in a talkative mood, anxious to get this posted as I am, so this is short. Responses are at the bottom. Enjoy.

Chapter 14

The air was crisp, sharp with winter's bite and the smell of snow off the mountain. The inhabitants of Dead Camp-- human, mostly --went about their duties with the kind of single-mindedness only fear can properly inspire. Cold eyes, a match for the weather, watched with dark disinterest. Then the being turned and headed into the maw of the tunnel at his back. The youths that stood to either side straightened painfully as he passed.

The tunnel that led down into the heart of the mountain-- crisscrossed with other, lesser paths --was mostly dark, lit only by torches planted at regular intervals along the wall. They were too far apart to provide complete illumination, the band of light from one torch ending a half dozen paces before the next, but the elf who paced them, moving as an avenging ghost through the gloom, did not mind. The darkness did not matter; the evil that permeated it long familiar, almost a comforting caress against heightened senses that served wonderfully to instill fear among his underlings and his enemies. No, he did not fear this dark. It was home. His.

Barely-there footsteps echoed in the darkness, caught and rebounded off malicious stone, thrown before the elf like a whisper of doom, announcing his presence with a subtlety that raced chills up one's spine, the source impossible to trace, impossible to measure. One could never know when he would come, but neither could they ignore that he would come.

Endless tunnel gave way to a modest cavern guarded by an almost elegant carved archway. The remarkable thing about this place, however, was not the stonework (though it was excellent, a tribute to the dwarves that had fashioned it long ago) --it was the fact that none of the light from the fully lit chamber bled into the shadowed hallway, a marvel Shirk had long put to use.

Inside, strange rock formations gave the place a textured feel; the many sharp protrusions lining the walls cast shadows oddly, looking almost like grasping fingers stretched out to snare unwary travelers. A fair-sized pool of deep, crystal clear water trickled gently just off-center away from the entrance. Its soothing tones belied the almost paranoia-inducing quality of the tunnels-- belied, but enhanced, it's musical whispers so out of place as to feel a lie . . . a lure.

Dead center lay the lone object that seemed truly not to belong, yet it rose from the very floor of the cavern, the stone uninterrupted in its flow. It was slightly broader than a man's shoulders at its widest, and just smaller at its smallest, washed white and flawless in its dimensions; it was an altar. It had stood there even before Shirk claimed these lands for his lord and he suspected the land itself could not remove the piece from its place. It stood just above waist height to a tall man and currently held a shallow silver bowl perfectly sized to cover every inch of the perfect stone. It was here that Shirk found the being of his intent.

It was a man, but he seemed at once to carry great age beyond the accomplishment of that mortal race, frail and somewhat stooped with white hair and a long beard, and yet possessed also of a strength that denied such age. If one looked carefully, it could almost be seen that a second person hovered behind his dark eyes. An unwholesome air hung about him like a second skin, gone at a moment's notice and unnoticed by the willfully blind. It was this man he had come to speak with.

The being did not move as Shirk halted, directly opposite him mere inches from the altar. Black eyes gazed intently into the fathomless pool, a slight smile curving thin lips. Shirk waited.

"Everything is going according to plan," he said, his voice low but easily carried to elven ears, slightly lilted by a strange accent. "The Elf and Ranger are right on schedule; the villagers eagerly await their arrival, faultlessly prepared."

Shirk's eyes narrowed. "How prepared?"

"Their greeting is sure to be one the Elf and Ranger shall never forget." The man's smile deepened with cruel amusement. Shirk was not impressed.

"They are not to be killed, Perego," he warned softly, menace curling through his tone.

Dark, empty eyes rose to meet ice blue, free of both threat and subservience. They were deep wastes, impossible to fathom, and Shirk knew better than to think that just because he perceived no danger that it did not exist. "If they are so skilled as you think and half as lucky as you proclaim, you should hold no worries. They will survive to come running straight into your hands, just as we have planned. Everything is proceeding according to plan," he repeated.

The reprimand struck his pride hard, but the only indication of Shirk's anger was the fire that suddenly ignited in his eyes. He was tired of playing this fool's game. "You had better be right, Sorcerer," he hissed. "Or it is your head that shall roll for Sauron's wrath."

Perego watched as Shirk disappeared back up the tunnels as silently as he had come. A dark smile spread across his face and a low cackle filled the new emptiness of the cavern. Soon, he thought, the Ranger will be in my hands, Master Elf. Yes, everything is going exactly as I have planned it.

*~*~*~*~*

Mumbling nonsensical elvish words, Aragorn slowly passed his hand down Ardevui's leg-- doing his best not to startle the creature in any way and ignore the way she had lowered her ears at his approach --until he could wrap his fingers around her ankle.

When the horse had started limping a bit late into the day, both elf and ranger had been concerned and decided to stop. Rather, Legolas had decided to stop without consulting his human companion, but the ranger would have insisted they stop anyway so he was not about to complain no matter how it stung that his elven friend should rebuff him so.

Halted, Legolas had found the appendage that was giving his mount trouble and easily identified the problem. With barely a word, he had indicated that Aragorn should see to it and set about moving their few packs from Ardevui's back. That left him here, with his back to a creature's teeth, a creature who had shown a marked dislike towards him, who suffered from pain he did not yet know the cause of and feeling like he had gotten out on the wrong side of an argument with a cave troll-- that he felt so horrible, he would never admit to Legolas after what he had done.

That between him and Legolas, he was the better healer, there was no doubt, but he could not imagine what was wrong that had prompted the elf to heave his mistrustful horse into the human's care. The beast seemed best pleased when she was gnashing her teeth at the source of her displeasure, likely imagining what the creature should taste like if she were to abandon her life as a herbivore. If the beast tried to attack him, he was not sure he would be able to get away (not that he was admitting to feeling sick or was complaining or anything), and doubts currently found harbor in his mind about whether or not Legolas would help him if she did. It was sometimes nearly impossible to read the fair being's mood, but despite the elf's studiously blank expression, the young man was sure Legolas was angry with him.

Aragorn frowned slightly as he stared at his objective (Ardevui's hoof) and refused the impulse to look for his friend as he leaned up and into the mare's shoulder while pulling up on the leg caught in his grip. He was not surprised when Ardevui refused to budge; in fact, he had told Legolas more than once that-- no matter how much pain she was in --Ardevui would never let him treat her. She held him unworthy of her master's attentions, he was sure. On one such occasion, that blasted elf had looked him straight in the eye and said, "Then you have much in common, my friend." Aragorn resisted the urge to curse, well aware that any ill he uttered about Legolas would simply serve to encourage the horse to attack him sooner and fiercer and make his task far more difficult. That left only one option.

The young man shifted his grip slightly and glanced behind him. Ardevui was staring at him like he had chanced to see Thranduil staring at a particularly repulsive pest he was about to squash. "Come on, my lady Ardevui," he murmured in elvish. "Let me see your foot. We'll make the pain go away." The large brown eye that glared at him was unmoved. Indeed, if anything, it looked more reproachful.

Time to appeal to her basest desires. "The sooner you cooperate, the sooner I can go away. Legolas will not go anywhere until I've treated you, and you can't get rid of me for good until we reach Caivern." He wavered on telling the beast that he looked forward to that as much as she did, but decided against him. There was no need to give her more ammunition that she had already. With his luck, she would find it an insult and hate him all the more. "Legolas is perfectly willing to wait here as long as it takes. He thinks I'm pushing myself too hard; that if we don't stop to rest and let me recover, I will collapse. And the longer it takes me to treat you, the longer it will take you to heal. If you wait long enough, you may never heal completely and it would take us even longer to reach Caivern." He thought he saw something like fear flash in her eyes.

He held her gaze a moment longer, hoping to convey more with his gaze than he had been able to convey with his words, then turned back to what he was doing-- praying she would cooperate so he would not need to resort to more drastic measures --and renewed his efforts to lift Ardevui's leg. She resisted a moment longer, then slowly shifted her weight and let the human pull her leg up. He wished he knew what had convinced her so he could keep it in mind for later use if the need arose. However, he suspected anything that meant she would be lame, kept him near her, or would serve to further harm him would work. Best not to tell Legolas that. It would either serve to amuse him at the human's own expense or anger him further, and the young man already smarted at the silence that hung between them, stung by the ease with which Legolas complied with his wishes, the very coldness of his regard. That it was what he intimated he wanted was no consolation to his pain.

Aragorn briefly closed his eyes, inwardly shaking his head to turn his mind away from such thoughts, and concentrated on the hoof before him. He squatted, bouncing momentarily on his heels as he moved closer, and half cradled the appendage in his lap to get a better look. His silver eyes tracked over the hoof, noting there was nothing wrong with the hard nail, but the tissue it protected was red and inflamed with touches of blood visible in the cracks. In the slowly fading light (a rich orange-ish glow from the sun that sat half behind the mountains) it took him a moment to find the cause of the problem; but when he did, his jaw dropped of its own volition.

Nestled securely between the hoof crust and the inner tissue, half buried in torn flesh, was a rock of roughly the size of an acorn as best he could make out, for he could not see all of it. It was a pale, nearly white color with hints of peach. He blinked at it a moment, too flabbergasted to breath. How had Ardevui picked up a stone? And here of all places?

He looked up, staring across the open plains as dark locks of his hair hung in his face. Grass stretched as far as his eyes could see. He could remember passing no mountains, no quarries, no cliffs or stones that could account for this small rock, yet here it was, cradled in tender flesh that it cared nothing for. He would have thought it impossible; indeed, he had never heard of something similar occurring before, in an unshod horse over open plains, yet there it was. He wanted to laugh, but it was far to incredible for that.

The young man twisted to look behind him at Ardevui, still feeling incredibly like the world had been turned upside down around him then resettled under his feet. Incredulous silver eyes locked on large brown. "Ardevui, dear elven steed. You travel in the right company-- you're just as cursed as we are!" A half smile twisted his lips.

The horse did not seem to think it funny. She snorted irritably and snapped her teeth at him, swishing her tail for greater effect. She shifted away a little, as best she could, to have better access to the man who vexed her.

"Kidding!" he cried quickly, ducking his head and shifting around with her. "Kidding. I meant you are nothing like me. Nothing at all." He glanced back at her. She was giving him a "get on with it or I'll bite your head off" look, and he did not want to tempt her to go through with it. He knew from experience that horse teeth were a whole lot sharper and more painful than they looked. He turned back to his task determinedly to bank his amusement.

It slipped away quickly as his thoughts turned to Legolas, his friend's disapproving gaze slicing through him, and disappeared entirely as he studied the injury. A frown replaced any humor he felt, his healer's instincts providing a distraction from personal thoughts, as he tried to determine the best way to dislodge the stone without inflicting more damage.

Treating the wound would not prove difficult as a simple poultice would suffice (mostly just to insure there was no infection), but he had not brought a pick to dislodge the stone, for elven horses rarely have need while traveling and rarely travel on stone packed roads. The Wilds certainly were not paved. Nevertheless, he now knew why Legolas had passed the chore off to him, no doubt assuming he had greater experience in the matter. But for chance when he had been fourteen, the elf would have been wrong.

The men had come by way of a natural quarry some distance south of Rivendell, having become quite lost while escaping an ill fate, and had ridden with great speed through the treacherous rocks. One of their horses had picked up a stone and his father had thought it a good idea to teach him to remove them-- or at least a better idea than helping to see to one of the wounded men. Then, though, he had had proper tools.

With a sigh Aragorn rocked slightly forward and slipped his dagger from his boot. It was the smallest blade he had, and he hoped it would be small enough. He fingered the weapon idly as he tried to work out the best method of extraction; he did not want to make the injury worse, after all. He could just imagine Ardevui's behavior towards him if he ever messed up her foot. And her attitude towards humans would certainly not improve if she got it in her head a foolish edan had been the cause of her going lame. Could Ardevui talk Legolas out of being his friend?

He stiffened, the flippant thought shooting a jolt of fear down his spine. It probably wouldn't take much convincing. The image of him sitting in the middle of nowhere, looking on helplessly as Legolas abandoned him to stand next to Ardevui flashed before him, complete with disgusted looks. "I can't believe I ever thought you worthy of my friendship, edan."

Aragorn shook his head sharply, relishing the stab of pain that lanced through his temples as it helped erase the torturous thought. His hand tightened on the hilt of the dagger and he forced himself to focus solely on the hoof. A deep breath lifted his shoulders and stilled his thoughts; the exhale banished the unnecessary ones and focused his mind. Tentatively, he moved the dagger over the rock, prodding it fractionally to gain perspective on how closely it was wedged. It did not take him long to discover it was firmly entrapped. The question, then, was how to get under it with a straight bladed knife. A pick was forked and hooked.

He cautiously wedged the blade between the rock and the hoof, thinking that would cause the least amount of damage. Ardevui did not agree.

She retreated sharply, pulling her foot from his grip and knocking him off-balance onto his hands and knees. He hissed as her hoof came down on his left hand and barely restrained the yelp of pain that battered in his throat for release. Gritting his teeth, he gathered his feet nearer him and leaned his shoulder into her leg until she had to lift it or risk breaking the appendage. He snatched his hand back the second he had room, rocking back on his heels before instinctively moving back a few paces.

He crouched defensively where he was and raised his hand before his face, looking at it as if he expected to see it crumble into a thousand pieces. It looked to be in one piece. A test, then. He flexed it, slowly curling it into a fist before just as slowly uncurling it, the motion helping to assure his mind that the hand still worked despite the pain that wanted to freeze it in place. And he had good news: it still did not fall apart, nor did he feel bone ends grinding together. He made another fist and pressed it close to his body. The pain notwithstanding, the hand was not broken so he could live with it.

Glancing to the right he found Ardevui watching him wearing the most curious expression he had ever seen on a horse. It mixed pain, confusion, betrayal, triumph, hesitance, contrition and a kind of vulnerability that he had never before associated with the animal all on a face that lacked human expressiveness.

He frowned slightly, mostly out of confusion, and stood slowly; his body would not let him do otherwise. "I did not mean to hurt you, Ardevui," he began soothingly. "And I will try not to again, but that stone is deep and we do not have the right supplies. It will likely hurt worse before the end but you must stand still for me to remove it. Movement on your part can only mean damage on mine, and I would spare you that." Silver eyes met and held brown. It felt strange to be repeating the same exercise of trust with Legolas' horse that he had had to use the first time he treated the elf. He was surprised when she lowered her head and did not move.

Cautiously, so as not to startle the proud animal, the ranger approached. He held out a hand like a small child approaching a large, strange dog and gave Ardevui every chance to move away as his fingers first grazed, then settled on her coat. She did not move so he stepped beside her and gently ran his hand back down her leg to her ankle. He was surprised when she put up no resistance as he once more lifted her hoof but only squatted, drawing her leg up so he could work on it with ease and resumed his task. Almost unconsciously, he began humming a soothing litany that he usually employed with tense or frightened animals or young children. It helped take their minds off the expected pain.

With great care, he began the delicate process of working the blade down between the rock and the frog, pulling the flesh back as much as possible so he would not cut it. As he worked, moving the blade down fraction by fraction, his mind drifted back to his fourteenth summer when those men had ridden in from the south and he had his first and hitherto only experience with horses who picked up stones.

~*~

It was spring. The weather was finally warm enough that he could come and go as he pleased inside the Last Homely House without every elf he passed inquiring if he was warm enough and warning either his father or his brothers if they doubted the veracity of his response-- not that they believed he lied, just . . . misjudged the case due to his youth and inexperience. It was this freedom, relative and incomplete though it was, that made spring and summer (particularly summer, because it granted him an added year to use towards his advantage in gaining leniency from his brothers) his favorite time of the year.

Two elf maidens walked by and he smiled broadly. They smiled back and waved happily, but did not stop, chattering on gaily as they enjoyed the warmth and sunshine. With a cheerful wave of his own, he jumped the final steps to the ground and started off towards the southern reaches of Rivendell, briefly following the road before heading off into the forest to parallel the packed path, moving carefully to hide his presence as he had recently been taught and previously simply attempted to emulate on his own.

He imagined he was following a group of bandits far from Rivendell along the East Road, like in stories he had heard his brothers tell. In his mind's eye, they were big men, wide and burly with thick arms and legs and a thick middle to go with them. Their dark hair was ill-kempt and matted, tangled among their beards which bushed out to obscure their faces. They were shorter than the elves by nearly a head and he could hear their heedless steps echoing from miles around, shadowed only by their loud, coarse voices that cried their foul deeds with shameless cheerfulness.

A pair of women, their clothing slightly torn with round faces and long, tangled locks, were pulled along with them, their soft, distressed whimpers enough to flame the men's desires higher. From his position in the brush, he could see lust burn in their beady black eyes and his disgust for them grew. His pressed lips tightened as he followed them ever closer, moving ever quieter so he could spring his trap and eliminate their foul cruelty from the fair world of the elves.

Stealthily, he crept on, his steps quieter than the keenest ears could detect, his senses thrown out to the world around him, mindful of every crack and rustle behind him, around him. No one would be able to find him if he did not wish it, not even Elladan and Elrohir. He was the best. The beasts that marauded as men were certainly no more aware of him than a deaf dwarf. It was easy to get in front of them and stay out of sight just off the road, watching them approach ever closer, blithely unaware of their impending doom.

With practiced ease, he drew his sword, the blade barely making a sound as he pulled it carefully from the scabbard that hung about his waist. He held the blade down low so no light would catch it and tip his enemies off to his presence (not that they were bright enough for that, but one could never be too careful-- Elrohir had taught him that) and prepared to spring.

His blood boiled with rage as the men began kissing the struggling women and excitement coursed through him as he anticipated the moment when he could erase them from this world, knowing victory would be his. He tensed, crouching further, imagining the glory that would be his when his family learned what he had done, then caught a strange sound; not strange because he did not know what it was or had not heard it before, but strange because he had not expected to hear it now, least of all in this place. And these sounds were not in his imagination.

Hoof beats. Rapidly falling hoof beats.

Estel straightened, looking away from his imaginary quarry (his game forgotten) as he struggled to find from whence the sound came. It sounded like it was coming from the south, but that was impossible, was it not? No one ever came from the south. Those roads had been abandoned as too dangerous when the valley walls destabilized from some disastrous event long past that he could recall to his mind from his many history lessons. The most interesting of those were the ones that dealt with Isildur and the One Ring, and his father's part in the battle against the oppression of Sauron; the others were most often forgotten, unless some battle was included which excited his imagination; the abandonment of the southern pass had held no interest for him, but now he sorely wished he could remember the details. He felt sure that knowledge would tell him who approached.

Curiosity at this deviance from normality won out over wariness, and the youth stepped from the growth onto the long abandoned path south, silver eyes searching intently for the source, straining his human sight for the answers he sought. Away in the distance, he thought he saw a cloud of smoke. It rose from the ground half-heartedly, billowing out lazily as if it could scarcely be roused to excitement over this passage of beings who had not graced the area in more than a century. The last who had come had been intent on the valley's destruction, that much he did remember.

Instinctively, the boy turned back towards Rivendell, not sure who rode with such haste to his home but confident his duty lay in warning his people, the people who had taken him in and let him claim them for his own. His booted feet pounded the path as he ran, his mind whirling with possibilities, with the thought that they could be dangerous and the dream of protecting his family and becoming a great and strong warrior like his brothers shining like a beacon in his mind.

Yet horses are faster than men, even the elven-trained ones, and it was not long before the distant cloud resolved itself into horses and riders; and from there became identifiable as men who loomed high above him on their laboring steeds.

Estel ducked into the growth as they drew close enough to see him, halting his dash for home momentarily. Wide silver eyes watched them pass, catching only a hint of reddish brown amid light beige and dark hair. Then they were up the road before him and he stepped back out to better see. There he caught the swords bound to their sides and immediately took off again, his heart fearful that he should return home to find his family dead if he was not there to help.

Never before had the road home seemed so long, but he made it to the courtyard in good time, panting and out of breath yet anxious. Quickly, he took in what was happening even as he ran closer. There were eight men, fewer than he might have expected from the flurry of their passage, and the last dismounted even as he watched. Two of them supported a third between them and his father approached them. The others hovered about nervously, tiredly, as elves came forward to lead the horses away.

A man, probably the leader, was talking rapidly to his father in the Common Tongue, but his words were too fast for the flustered teenager to catch, the words only indistinguishable sounds from so far away, though he did make out "attack" and "injured" from jumble. He made a mental note to study his mother's people's language more diligently in the near future. It annoyed him greatly that he could not understand what they were saying.

His father spoke slower, perhaps trying to offer some calm, and Estel was able to catch his words as he finally came up behind them. "You bring ill news, but worry not, Friend. Your men will be well cared for here. No harm will befall you while you are guests in my halls." Estel wanted to ask what danger they feared.

"Thank you, Lord Elrond. Your kindness and generosity are unparalleled. May no harm befall your house in all your days."

"Get him inside," the elf lord instructed, barely nodding in acknowledgment of the man's final words. A pair of elves, servant's of his father's house, stepped forward and began leading them into the house. Estel followed them, curiously studying these strange men.

They looked little like the rangers he had heard about and seen despite their dark hair. Their clothes were cut strangely, not at all like the clothes worn by the elves; and their skin was lighter than the rangers he had seen, like they did not spend much time in the sun. The light brown, nearly sand-colored material they wore was rougher than he was used to and stained in places, and it was partially covered by a vest that explained the red-brown color he had seen as they had ridden past him. Their breeches were a dark brown-- approaching black --that had a grayish hue to them, like they had been washed a few times too many and worn too long, the vigor's of travel beginning to undo them. Their boots were scuffed and heavy, their steps clanking on the close-pressed stone of the walk and were even louder on the marble stairs. Very strange.

He glanced aside distractedly as one of the horses swished their tails across his cheek and shoulder, drawing his attention toward the animals being led to the stables. The saddles looked strange to his eyes, for he had only seen their like a few times (he used the one his father had had made for him only on the very rare occasion that he left his father's lands); they were different than his own, heavier and bigger and not of elven make with strange metal decorations that flashed brightly in the golden rays of summer sun. But even though they caught his eyes, they were not what startled him.

"Ada, he's limping!" he exclaimed, pointing to one of the horses. The elvish rang through the air, halting all motion as everyone turned to see who had spoken. Silver eyes sought wise blue. "Ada, look!"

The elf lord had turned at his son's cry, startled to find the human child so near. He had expected the youth to be long gone until an empty stomach called him back at supper time. He looked into tumultuous silver eyes, then followed the boy's finger to the chestnut steed being led away by one of the few light-haired elves in Rivendell. He studied the horse a moment before finding slightly startled, inquisitive gray-green eyes. A slight nod met his silent question. "Indeed, he is, Estel. You have a good eye. Would you like to go with Vandor? He will show you how to treat him, a variation with your lessons from me, if you wish it."

Estel nodded quickly, momentarily distracted from the men by his love of horses, and followed the elves and weary steeds to the stables. Just before he entered, though, he paused and looked back. The last of the beings had disappeared into the peaceful halls, but he could still picture them with astounding clarity, the strangers that had entered with his family. He remembered seeing blood. For a moment, he felt an urge to turn back and learn more of these strange people. . . . Then a horse nickered and he turned to look into the stables.

Vandor looked up and offered him a smile. "Estel, come here. You will see something peculiar, indeed."

The elf had been looking at the horse's shoe, and the boy frowned, able to think of nothing that could be so peculiar about a horse's hoof. Still, he approached, reaching out to run his hand down the steed's flank. "What?"

"This horse has picked up a stone."

"A stone?" Estel repeated with a frown. How did a horse pick up a stone when it did not have any hands or fingers?

Vandor nodded, pulling the hoof back up so they could view the underside easily. "Yes, a stone. It's extremely rare among Elven horses, but Men run into the problem quite frequently when they use small stones to form their roads and do not tend them carefully. Negligence most often causes these problems. See?" The elf indicated the hoof with a sweep of his hand and Estel leaned closer to get a better look. He found the flesh that was guarded by the hoof was really red near the stone, but more than that was difficult to see. He looked back up into the wise eyes of Vandor.

"Mostly, it causes bruising, very painful for the horse, but occasionally it will do more depending on the stone. There is the risk that a horse so inflicted will go lame. If the stone cuts the frog, you also have to worry about inflammation. Best just to get it out quickly, though, no matter what the stone. The longer it remains, the further lodged it can become and the more difficult it becomes to dislodge it."

Estel nodded. "How do you get it out?" the youth asked, watching his tutor intently, almost overly-intent as he tried to absorb every single bit of information. It was a focus his teachers loved but rarely received.

"For that," Vandor replied, straightening and looking towards one of his helpers who handed him a flat, bent metal instrument, "you need a pick. Would you like to do it?"

The boy blinked, mildly alarmed, but nodded just the same. "What do I do?"

"Come take his hoof and hold it carefully," Vandor answered, shifting out of the way so Estel could take his place. "You've cleaned their feet before, so you already have a general idea. The difference lies in the target. Slowly work the pick in around the stone. Haste could hurt him, now, and this isn't a race. Good. Now lever it out-- easy. There you go! You're a natural, Estel!"

Estel smiled, pleasure curling through him, as Vandor picked up the rock, an irregular shaped thing that probably would have been at home on a mountainside. He could picture a dwarf hacking away at a mountain's face and that rock falling free, left alone because it was too small-- abandoned. "Now what?"

"Now," the elf said, "we take a bran poultice-- here." He showed the boy the mass. "And pack a healthy portion into the hoof. Go on."

Obediently, Estel did as he was instructed, momentarily startled when the mixture was not cold, but pleasantly warm so as not to shock the horse when it was applied. "What does it do?"

"The Bran? Mostly it's a precaution. But it will draw out any infection while cuts heal and ease the creature's pain. Now warp it."

A square of cloth was given to him and he placed it firmly against the bottom of the hoof before smoothing the sides around and gathering them at the ankle so it formed a kind of sack. Then he wrapped a bandage they handed him around it and tied it off, securing the makeshift sack in place. He glanced up at Vandor to judge his approval.

A warm smile graced the eldar's face. "Very good, my boy. We'll make you a stable-hand yet! And now you know what to do should your horse ever pick up a stone."

~*~

Except he never mentioned what you did if you did not have a pick, Aragorn groused in his mind, the thought lacking any heat or irritation as all his concentration was currently focused on his task.

More than once the blade had sliced lightly into flesh as he worked the dagger down to where he could get at the stone, every light cut provoking a wince that was just held from expression. Healers were not granted the luxury of wincing when they were tending their patients. But much though he lamented the damage, he had finally worked the blade down to the stone. Now he gently worked the dagger back and forth, moving the hard object ever so slowly towards the surface. It took far longer than he would have liked, but he dared not go faster. Daggers, after all, though quite small (some of them), were not made for such delicate tasks. So though his legs cramped from supporting his weight on his toes and his headache increased as tension worked its way up form his shoulders, he maintained the same, steady pace. He was rewarded when the stone finally came free and dropped to the uniform earth.

A tired grin briefly split his face as he picked up the stone from where it had fallen and gently lowered Ardevui's hoof back to the ground. He stood carefully, barely hiding winces as the change in position rent cramps through already abused muscles and turned to Ardevui. The world spun slightly and he blinked. Obediently, it settled back down-- a first in his experience, and was uncomfortably aware that his discomfiture probably had something to do with the fatigue Legolas had observed earlier. But that could be dealt with later.

He stroked his hand down the mare's neck, inwardly noting his action with some surprise and blamed it fully on fatigue. Her lack of response, he attributed to indulgence for his efforts. "Hannon le, Ardevui," he murmured. "You are very brave. You do Legolas great credit. He is lucky to have you." She nickered, self-satisfied, and moved away a few feet to begin eating at the grasses.

Aragorn turned, intending to prepare the poultice, and was surprised to find Legolas had returned from wherever he had disappeared to. He froze to the spot, studying his friend with a practiced eye, long acquaintance allowing understanding where no words pass. The elf stood distant, his face free of expression, his eyes dark. Had Aragorn not known better, he would have thought him unhappy being he had met at the edge of the wastelands who had despised him for being human.

They stood a moment, suspended in quiet contemplation full of tension, both watching the other, each waiting, perhaps, for the other to speak, yet the barrier that had fallen between them resisted it. The young man knew he should say something, that it was his fault this silence lay between them, but he could not find the words to fix the wounds. To him mind, there was nothing, his conduct unpardonable. If Legolas never wished to speak to him again, he should not be surprised: grieved and ashamed, but not surprised. Hurt and bruised pride had hidden away the salve and he knew not where to find it. Instead, he averted his eyes and nodded briefly with a distracted smile, then continued on his original course. His heart contracted painfully at closing his friend out, but there was nothing he could do. It was kinder not to impose on he who put up with him so well.

Legolas watched from where he stood as Aragorn turned away from him and crossed to the fire, his friend's smile dropping quicker than a stone as he seemed to collapse in upon himself, withdrawing into a solemn countenance wholly unfamiliar to him as he had never known the man who stood before. His blue eyes followed the human, noting worriedly that Aragorn was swaying again and his head was bothering him, evidenced by the hand that snuck up to his temple. The elf sighed, wishing he dared press his friend about his health again, but he did not. Once had been enough, and it had come to naught but this.

~*~

The air was crisp and chill, the sun that hung high overhead too mild to offer much heat against the wind that battered against them. It made his eyes water as they rode, but he ignored them and kept on the lookout for a suitable place to stop. They had ridden from the early hours of the morning and it was time for a break. Ardevui labored hard beneath him, and she needed a reward for her efforts.

Finally, not far in the distance (and not too far out of the way), he stopped a small pond that would serve well for their purposes, and directed the faithful steed towards it with a light touch on the reins. She obeyed easily, and it was not long before he was checking her pace, slowing it first to an easy canter, then to a trot before lulling her into a brisk walk that ended but a dozen paces from the ponds sloped edge.

Legolas leaned forward, and nimbly swung from the steed's back without disturbing his human friend who rode behind him, though his sudden absence made the human start and blink, looking to him somewhat irritably. "What are you doing?" The man demanded, his tone sharp and reproachful.

He glanced at Aragorn, his gaze level though he had to bite back a sharp retort the man's tone invoked. Levelly, he answered, "Making camp. Ardevui needs to replenish her strength. It is mid-day."

Actually, it was a little past midday, easing towards two hours past, but such distinctions matter little at this point, and the elf busied himself with removed the packs and Aragorn slid down, dropping to the grassy plain heavily. Unburdened, Ardevui continued forward and dipped her head to lap at the sweet waters. Legolas began digging in one of the packs for some waybread and Aragorn continued past him to the water's edge. The human crouched before the pool and did not move.

The elf prince watched him a moment before turning his eyes to the heavens. The blue orbs sought out the sun, judging her position in the sky. And though night came early in the winter, he knew it did not come so quickly as to warrant making camp so prematurely. Yet Aragorn's health worried him. He bit his lip, then stepped forward next to Ardevui and began stroking her neck, watching his friend from the corner of his eyes. "Perhaps we should camp here for a time," he mused.

Aragorn's head snapped up sharply. "What?" he demanded, voice harsh.

Bracing himself and speaking calmly, he explained him. "I believe we would do well for a rest."

"We?" the man repeated, his tone fairly unbelieving, before darkening with something closer to scorn. "Do not sport with my intelligence, Legolas. You are not tired."

"I am."

The ranger studied him a moment, his eyes narrowed as they perused his frame. Legolas did not move or squirm, but the other was not impressed; that much he could tell from his friend's expression, even if he did not pursue the matter. Eventually, he said, "The sooner we find my brothers, the sooner we may be gone to rest in the halls of Rivendell and find peace."

Legolas stepped closer to his friend, recognizing a certain longing in the young man, and attempted to prevail through logic. "We will. But we won't be of any aid to Elladan and Elrohir if we collapse before we reach them."

Unexpectedly, Aragorn's eyes hardened and his form went rigid. Anger tightened his mouth. "I am fine."

"You are tired," he countered, to used to his friend to contradict his assertion.

"I'm a Ranger."

The elf frowned. "What has that to do with anything?" he demanded, at a loss to fathom why the young man being a ranger would counter his claim of the human's fatigue.

"It is who I am." Now the anger he had seen simmered in his friend's speech, and he could not explain that either. So far as he knew, he had done nothing to tempt it.

"I do not contradict--" he began, blinking around his confusion, but Aragorn did not give him a chance to finish.

"My mandate and duty is to protect the peoples of this land, as my fathers have before me. I will not forfeit my honor because of an inconvenience."

"Inconvenience!" Legolas exclaimed, aghast. "You are driving yourself into the ground, human!"

"It is of no consequence." Aragorn stood, turning away from him and the water and beginning to pace away from the pond. "We--"

This time it was Legolas who could not let him finish. "No consequence?! How hard did you hit your head? On my word, human, you are the single most intractable being I have ever met!" Frustration made his voice louder than he would have wished. He forced himself to calm down and spoke with the firm finality he had learned as prince, the declaration brooking no argument. "You are not well. I will go no further until you have rested."

"Then stay!" Aragorn burst out, flinging his hand angrily at nothing in particular and whirling to face his friend, his voice hard and sharp. "I care not. I neither need nor want your help, you disagreeable, meddlesome creature! I will walk by my own power to Mordor and back if I must, and may Mount Doom swallow you whole if my brothers die before I reach them, your highness. It would be far kinder than what I could contrive!"

Legolas blinked, utterly and completely stunned, as the man stalked away from him, ignoring the packs and continuing on in the direction of Caivern. All he could do was stare after his friend as he moved towards the horizon.

~*~

Had he been able to form the words, he was not sure what he would have said, and it was likely better that he remain mute in any case. Anything he had said would only have made things worse, he was sure.

He and Aragorn did not fight often (a fact that surprised his father for reasons the prince could not quite fathom) no matter how much they disagreed. They would bicker, sometimes exchanging sharp words neither of them meant harshly, both well aware of that fact, then one of them would give in and the matter would be resolved; but no matter how irritated or annoyed they were with the other, there were never any hard feelings laying between them. There was no such ease now.

It did not matter that he had let the human get barely a mile before riding after him. It did not matter that he had helped the young man up behind him like nothing had happened and they had continued on as they had been. It did not matter because distance now lay between them, distance neither knew how to break.

The elf prince stopped before Ardevui and offered a tight smile. "How are you doing, my girl?" She nickered softly, soothingly to his ears, and his smile widened. He stroke her strong neck, delighting in the comfort of the familiar. "Good. What do you say we clean you up a bit?" he asked, producing a brush.

Originally, he had picked it up as an excuse to get near Aragorn, hoping the human would talk to him; but when the ranger had walked away it ruined his ploy to see about starting up a conversation so they could put the past behind them. However hurt or vexed he was with the young man's assertions, he knew full well Aragorn did not mean them. He could tell it in the way the other would never hold his gaze, the way his shoulders slumped, the way he worried his lips while watching him when he thought Legolas was not watching. Aragorn had spoken in a moment of temper, nothing more, and he knew it. He wished he could get the human to see that. He had forgiven his friend long ago. Humans were always quite irritable when they got little sleep, and stress was no little thing, even among elves. He could not have held the outburst against Aragorn had he wanted to. He might have just dropped it, then, and returned to the fire to see if that would work, but he knew even horses liked to feel clean, and Ardevui deserved such comfort as he could devise after what she had been through.

His smile gentled as she nudged his hand affectionately, drawing him firmly back to the present and away from his unhappy musings. "That's what I thought." Without another word, he began, pulling the brush firmly over her back and watching as the shine slowly returned to her thick coat. It felt good to be doing something to aid a friend. At least I can make one being feel better. His smile faded.

As Prince of Mirkwood, Legolas was used to a certain amount of control. His orders were followed without question. Nearly anything he said, went. His people looked up to him. Through his words and actions, he could inspire confidence and hope, peace, well-being. . . . If he told his people that all was well, they would believe him. If someone had been wronged, he could make it right-- could see that it was made right. That buffer of control, however, faded when he left his realm.

A blessing, he had felt, for with that control came the pressures and responsibilities of his station. In Mirkwood, he had to be a leader; had to behave as royalty; had to make the important decisions, the sacrifices. Already, he had experienced how the mantel of his position kept him from helping his friend the way he wanted to. Twice, his duty had had to come before his heart. With Aragorn, the pressures of his kingdom eased. He did not have to be more than what he was. They shared the demands, juggled the necessities nearly equally between them (Aragorn always insisted it be so whether Legolas desired it or not): both leader and follower, comforter and comforted, protector and protected, shifting among the roles as the situation dictated. The only expectation between them was to be there for the other, and that was mostly an expectation they held themselves to, not the other way around. They were a pair of trees, side by side, swaying together in the same breeze so that slack left by one was taken up by the other. Such ease could not be accomplished so flawlessly with others.

Elladan and Elrohir, twin terrors by the reckoning of all: elf, man, and orc alike, most often came in on the side of protector. They were Aragorn's self-proclaimed older brothers, always ready to rush in when the darkness crept too close and pull the friends from whatever doom hunted them, no matter what injuries they incurred on the undertaking. Bickering mother hens though they were, Legolas had always seen them as a reservoir of strength, an added support to lean on when it seemed like the whole forest was coming down upon them. And he was not sure, but he felt that despite the human's protests of being grown-up, Aragorn had always thought of them the same way. They were constants.

Now, they were missing, held from that role, their positions switched with the two friends and neither elf nor ranger was used to being on their end-- rushing into darkness to save their family before it could destroy them. Legolas wondered how Elladan and Elrohir had managed to deal with the uncertainty and fear and pain and still keep their sanity intact.

Simple, a sly voice answered his unspoken question. They were not sane to begin with.

And neither was Aragorn, a sterner voice interjected cruelly. So how much of him will be left if the twins die?

It sounded remarkably like his father, that voice, and Thranduil's face suddenly floated before him, his expression set in that familiar "I am your king, you will tell me what I wish to know" expression that Legolas would not disobey callously, while his father's eyes bore into him, pitying, saying "I warned you not to befriend a human, my son. I warned you of the pain."

Then even as a part of him answered his question with "none, there would be none of my friend left," his mind lighted upon that empty and expressionless gaze he had chanced to see months ago that had replaced happy exuberance, and another part-- a stronger part --cried "no!" He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head angrily. That would not be the human's fate, his friend's fate. He would not allow it. He could not.

A clatter and stuttered steps whipped his attention towards the fire. He had started forward before he even registered what had happened and forced himself to stop before he had traversed two paces. Aragorn crouched a few feet from the fire, apparently on his way over with various supplies in his hand when he had tripped over a strap off one of the bags, his foot catching in the length of cloth. The contents of the bad (Legolas was not quite sure what they were at the moment and did not care) had caused the clatter and not the objects the ranger held as the elf had originally thought. Amazingly, the bowl that was still grasped in the ranger's hand had not spilt, but Legolas was left little wonder as to the cost of that accomplishment when Aragorn failed to suppress a wince as he regained his feet.

The elf resisted the impulse to abandon his chosen task to aid his human friend. While it was possible the young man's fall had simply been evidence of human clumsiness, the elf was nearly positive it was due to whatever ailment troubled the young man-- be it illness or fatigue. If he went to the human, Aragorn would know he knew, would think he thought him weak, and would pull further away. It was a strange thing, indeed, that he had noticed: whenever Aragorn felt unsure about his worth or strength, aid would always make him feel worse. He did not want to risk that. So instead of doing what his heart commanded, he pretended to focus on his brushing. He watched through his lashes.

Aragorn came up on Ardevui's other side, her injured side, the side he had just finished brushing, and petted her neck. Legolas was almost surprised when the mare did not seem to mind the attention though she had bristled nearly every time he had dared come near her before. "One last thing, fair lady, and then I may leave you in peace," the human intoned softly.

With an ease Legolas knew Ardevui would grant to no other human, Aragorn pulled her leg back up and quickly cleaned the inside of the hoof with water before gently packing a mash he vaguely recognized the smell of into the foot and expertly wrapped it to hold the substance in place. The elf prince dearly wanted to ask what the young man had done, but he did not quite dare as his friend lowered the appendage back to the ground and walked away, his back stiff in a way Legolas knew better than to attribute to illness.

The elf prince sighed and resumed brushing. A slight frown marred his face, evidence of his frustration. "What do I do, Ardevui?" he asked quietly. "I think I may lose him before anyone has the chance to take him away." Or I never really got him back in the first place, and these months have all been a dream, he finished bitterly, silently. Should he push the human, no matter how much he pushed back, or keep his distance and hope the other came to his senses? He hated not knowing, able to do nothing but stand near and hope.

It had been through Aragorn that he had come to know and love Elladan and Elrohir as something akin to brothers. Before the human had come along, he had known of the twins, had even met them, but the vague, mistrustful animosity of their fathers had forestalled any easy attempts at camaraderie, and the rumors of personality had more or less done the rest. That he had been busy hiding in Mirkwood hating men while the twins roamed the Wilds helping men hunt orcs, both on opposite sides of the Misty Mountains, had pretty much assured the situation would not change in the near future. Then it had. And now Legolas was in danger of losing both the twins and Aragorn, again through the other but reversed.

He could not help but fear losing the human more, their near-death trials having done more to erase the boundaries that lay between them than centuries of companionship could have, and he felt guilty for that, considering what that would do to his mortal friend, and even more guilty when he thought what that would do to Lord Elrond, who had given so much to himself and his friends. In one foul swoop he could lose everyone he had come to regard as family away from home.

Legolas sighed again, this time more weary than frustrated. He had learned early that nothing was ever easy when it came to Aragorn; if he was to avoid what he feared, then he would simply have to find a way, and he would.

"Be well, my sweet. We will need to travel in the morning." Whatever he had told Aragorn, or made the human believe, he had every intention of making Caivern before tomorrow had passed. She nosed the hand that pet her, whining softly in sympathy for his pain. With a last reassuring smile and pat, he turned and made his way to the fire.

The jumping flames were bright as the sun disappeared beyond the western horizon, dipping behind the distant mountains to rest until the next day when she would once more share her beauty and warmth with the world. Legolas settled down before the fire, across from his friend, and watched the ever changing patterns. He wanted to look at Aragorn, wanted to talk to him, wanted to get the stubborn human to talk to him, but he could think of nothing to say that would reach his friend, that would not anger him further. So he sat, and he listened, and wondered how he could get the human to sleep.

He listened as the light breeze rustled the blades of grass, listened as the flames popped and crackled, as Aragorn set about making a meal he probably would not taste, his spoon clanking hollowly off the metal, almost rhythmic in its timing. The sounds echoing in his ears, he laid back and looked up as the first stars appeared in the sky. Perhaps their beauty could distract his thoughts.

Aragorn stirred the simple stew (little more than water, vegetables, and herbs) one last time and moved the pot out of the flames. Mechanically, he spooned the contents into two separate bowls. He reached back into one of the packs and removed some of the waybread, then stood with it and one of the bowls of stew and rounded the fire to Legolas' side. The elf sat up and accepted the food then watched as the young man returned to his spot to sit. He watched his friend reach for his own bowl of stew and think better of it. A quiet sigh escaped him as the human lay back without eating. Listlessly, he began picking at his own food. Eating, after all, was better than doing nothing.

Besides, he had learned long ago that the human was more cooperative if he could not defer concern onto another. If he could not worry over Legolas, himself, not eating or not sleeping, then the elf could press him with a clear conscious, his friend unable to divert any of his concerns off of himself. At least, that was what he hoped. Yet even to do that, he needed to talk to his friend, but silence hung between them even as the shimmery heat that rose of the fire and made for the sky. Dare he break that silence?

"Do you think they can see the stars?"

Legolas' head came up, his eyes immediately seeking out his friend. The human lay on his back, legs stretched out before him, one hand resting across his chest and the other lightly holding part of one of the bags his head rested on, clutching it almost like a brace. He looked the most comfortable he had been in months. Hopefully, he would fall asleep and Legolas would not even have to do anything. Briefly, the elf turned his own eyes up to the stars. They sparkled brightly at him, especially Earendil. "I hope so," he answered.

"When I was little, I had nightmares," the young man offered unexpectedly, voice soft. "Sometimes, I was afraid to sleep, so I just laid in bed and pretended I was until everyone was asleep. Especially Ada. He worried too much for me. I didn't want him to know I still had them; didn't want him to sit up all night and watch me with sadness." His was the voice of a lost little boy, his tired monologue a last ditch effort to stay awake so monsters in the dark could not come out and eat him while he was unaware. "Then, when they were asleep, I would sneak over to Elladan and Elrohir's room. They would let me sleep with them so the nightmares would be too scared to come, and when Ada discovered I had slept in their room instead of in my own, Elrohir said that we had been having a sleep-over like brothers always had-- nothing was wrong. They kept my secret, but I think Ada knew. I know Ada knew. After that, they would wait up for me; and sometimes, they would take me out to look at the stars.

"Father used to tell me the tales of Earendil, especially when I was scared. He said that's why he was there, in the sky, looking down on us: so we could look up at him and know we were being watched over. He said that whenever I was lost, I should look up at the heavens and know hope because my ancestors were watching out for me. I was amazed. Then, after a particularly bad nightmare, Elladan and Elrohir walked me outside and Elladan drew me onto his lap. He pointed up and said, 'Do you see the stars, Estel? They are guidance and hope for the weary. Remember, whenever you are lost or afraid, that just like the stars, Elrohir and I will always be here for you. Whenever you have need, look to the stars. Find Earendil and take comfort that we see him, too. Then no matter how fare we are, we will always be near.'" Aragorn swallowed hard. "Do you suppose they can see him?"

"They hold him in their hearts," Legolas answered, getting up and moving so he sat near the ranger. Silver eyes tracked to him as he sat down. "I'm sure their thoughts are with you."

Aragorn shook his head slowly, his fatigue having caught up with him at last. His eyelids were heavy. He could no longer pull away from his friend. "That won't be enough. I think I remember, now, where I last saw those fletchings. I am sorry, Legolas. I do not know what came over me."

Legolas blinked, his mind momentarily stuttering over the abrupt change in topic. "Do not trouble yourself over it, Strider; all is forgiven. You forget I know how unbearable you are when you are tired."

"And I am tired, aren't I?"

The elf prince looked at the man, not quite sure how to interpret that rejoinder, thrown by undertones he heard but knew not what to make of them. He answered slowly, "I have heard sleep helps."

"That it does."

If Legolas had expected the man to fall asleep, he did not, instead laying awake; his silver eyes fixed on the stars, nearly seeming to glow in the reflection of the light. Legolas resisted the urge to sigh once more.

"Would you eat, Strider?" he asked at length, wary of the answer.

"I would, but I am not hungry."

"Not hungry? Nay, you have not eaten in days," Legolas cried, surprised and somewhat dismayed. "You will wither away to nothing, and then what good will you do your brothers?" He caught off abruptly, drawing his breath as he waited, fearing he had gone too far and Aragorn would start yelling again then stalk off into the distance, but the human did not speak, did not so much as twitch. Legolas sighed, shifting so he lay beside the young man to gaze at the stars. "Will you at least promise me you will break fast tomorrow morning?" he asked, his heart unable to maintain its silence in wake of his friend's apology.

Aragorn did not answer immediately, but he did nod. "Aye, tomorrow. Do not think ill of me, Legolas."

Legolas blinked, thrown again by the sudden shift. Humans, apparently, were more than simply unbearable when they were tired; they were also confusing. "Why would I think ill of you, mellon nin?"

A frown briefly shadowed the human's face, confused. "You should."

"Why?"

"I cannot remember. I should."

"Think not on it," Legolas advised. "Think only that we will find your brothers and return them safely to Rivendell." A fond smile touched his face.

"Father will be displeased."

"Indeed?" He half raised himself up to look at Aragorn's face, and found him to be trying very hard to hold on to his thoughts.

"He will need to patch them up again. Maybe not just their bodies, either."

"What do you mean?" Legolas asked, disquieted without knowing why.

A shadow passed over Aragorn's face once more, grief and haunted memory present in the glance, but the human did not seem to hear his question, continuing on as if he had not asked. "Unless I am mistaken. Would that I am, but I fear I am not. I fear . . . I fear what we shall find if we arrive to late or fail in our trust. Broken. . . ."

His disquiet deepened, planting furrows in his brow as he tried to push away images of Aragorn-- his eyes blank and face slack --from his mind, broken repeating over and over. He shook his head sharply and had to swallow before he could speak, had to push away images of the twins finding a similar fate. He lightly touched the man's arm. "Then we will not fail," he declared, voice hard.

Aragorn turned his head and looked at the fair-haired elf for the first time. A smile, sad and wan, curved his lips. "I am glad you are with me, Legolas," he said softly, his voice just above a whisper. "I did not tell you before, but I want you to know. The road does not seem so dark when you tread it with me." His eye's slipped closed. "I am glad, but I fear I lead you to your death."

"You lead nowhere, human," he objected, finding this point important for some reason he could not comprehend. "I choose."

The young man's smile widened, then faded as sleep claimed him. Legolas watched a moment before moving to tend the camp. There were yet tasks that needed to be completed ere he could surrender to elven dreams, and he was in no hurry to try. More disturbing than what the human had said was what he had not said. They would need to talk in the morning. He hoped he would find the answers to his questions more to his liking.

He knew he would not.

*~*~*~*~*

Elrohir groaned as awareness filtered back into his brain, lifting him halfway free of the clingy darkness that had wrapped him in a cocoon of warmth far away from pain. That was the last time he let Elladan talk him into a drinking contest.

Elladan!

He shot upright-- intended to. Adrenaline pumped by alarm flashed through his system, but it only served to bring him to full awareness. And that brought awareness of the pain. His ankles felt like they had been held, twisted, for too long at an odd angle and frozen that way; they screamed as he tried to stand on them. His legs did not want to cooperate, were not listening to his mind's commands. His chest and sides felt like someone had wrapped them too tightly and smeared them with hardening plaster to turn them into stone. If only that meant they no longer hurt.

Fire burned around his shoulders, almost covering the stretched, disconnected ache that interfered with his arms' ability to receive and recognize commands from his brain. He could not move them. Yet every minute shift in position screamed bloody murder as some maniac dwarf played a saw over the joint, moving slowly, grinding away bits of bone little by little-- grinning madly, no doubt, too. And if that was what had happened to his arms, it could only mean someone had tried to chop off his head while he was sleeping and done a poor job of it. Explains why my body won't listen to me, though. I'm not connected.

Not that he was about to let something so minor as that keep him from his brother-- even if he could not quite remember why he needed to get to him; details could come later. El always did say my head wasn't on right. But more than that: it had gained weight. It must weigh a tone, now; and his neck venomously resisted every effort to lift it, shrieking with every slight motion. He thought some insane dwarf-- (elf) --had gotten inside his head and replaced all the vertebrate in his neck with glass. And that glass was now breaking, shattering into horribly sharp vindictive pieces that immediately shot out to shred, dice, and mince his brain.

Maybe that would make it lighter?

The elf would not have been surprised to find that someone had replaced his eyelids with stone. After all, they were far too heavy to be normal eyelids made of light, thin flaps of flesh, and just like everything else they resisted his efforts to make them move. Still, he was an elf, and an elf lord at that. And a stubborn one of the line of Earendil on top of that, and there was simply no way he was going to let stone eyelids, severed heads, and dwarf-shaved dislocated joints defeat him when his family was in danger.

Why was his family in danger?

Maybe Estel has led the meerkat to the house again? He had seen the way those things eat, and he did not doubt for a moment that he felt like one of their victims. But I'm too big. That had to be a problem. Did it not? Then again, maybe there had just been a lot of them. Still, meerkat or no, he was not about to let that stop him from seeing his brother. The older one. That one that looked like him that had better sense than to lead meerkat into the house. At least, Elrohir thought Elladan had better sense than to lead meerkat into the house.

The younger twin brushed that thought away. More important things involved waking up (opening his eyes) and finding the obstinate creature that was his brother.

Maybe the meerkat got him, too?

With impossible effort, Elrohir forced his head up and his eyes open. Another groan, a sound of exquisite agony, wrenched itself from dry and cracked lips as his neck gave way and his head imploded. Instinctively, he jerked back to escape the pain and heard a hollow, resounding crack accompanied by a flare of too bright light. But maybe that was just residue from when he first opened his eyes. Valar, why did he feel worse than the time he and Elladan had snuck into their father's wine cellar centuries ago and finished off King Thranduil's gift of Dorwinion wine-- all twelve bottles of it? (He still suspected they had received help at some point from a nameless, unidentified third party who had somehow gotten off unpunished.)

Pushing past the pain as only an elf (and an extremely stubborn one, at that) is able, Elrohir once again attempted to open his eyes and have a look at his surroundings, some instinct he was not quite aware of, nor wholly appreciative of, turned his head to the right, setting of concussive fireworks in his neck. But, upon exposing his delicate orbs to the world, he found no super-concentrated cohesive light fashioned as a sword waiting to stab his eyeballs into merciless submission while macerating his mind, so he figured he could live with the fireworks-- after all, he was not already dead.

That accomplished . . . decided . . . settled, Elrohir took a moment to reacquaint himself with his surroundings: gray walls. Gray ceiling. Gray floor. Metal cuffs. Dark. Dear Varda.

Elrohir leaned back unconsciously, growing horror widening his eyes and halting his breath. The Slyntari. Shirk. Mercy, where was his brother?

Panicked, somewhat dazed, hopeful, fearful blue eyes turned further to his right. The featureless wall, dreary as ever, was empty, marred only by the manacles that hung open a little above his direct line-of-sight.

His brother was gone.

*~*~*~*~*

Kalya crouched in the shadow of a rocky outcropping far above the nearly sprawling camp that Shirk had claimed in the Second Age and proved its name well-founded. From her position amid the White Mountains, the various tents and constructs looked like she could pick them up and hold them in the palm of her hand. It was an interesting image. More interesting, was that she could crush them.

There had been occasions in her short life when she had thoroughly cursed the keen sight granted her by her elven heritage. Now was not one of them. It allowed her to study the camp from this distant vantage where only one set of eyes had a hope of catching her. She studied the layout, picking out what was there, identifying what was new, what had stayed the same.

The slave quarters were closest to her and easiest to identify. A kind of darkness always seemed to hang about them, like dirt that seeped from the inside, that was never dislodged no matter how recently cleaned, nor how thoroughly. She dismissed them out of hand; Shirk would never place unbroken prisoners with the slaves, nor give them the relative freedom those duties would entail. At least with elves, the danger that they would escape would be too great. Before the end, when their strength was all but gone, he undoubtedly planned to make use of them in similar manner (she could just see him using them as his personal slaves, the sons of his most hated enemy given to his every whim), yet it was too soon for that. They would be elsewhere.

The Food Pit was still in the same place and used for the same purpose. She suspected, but had never been present to prove the notion, that the elven lord used it as an arena where slaves on a number of concoctions could be made to duel when he got bored. The officers' tents had been moved, half of them removed, but the markings remained the same. They were dispersed among fractionally larger tents that housed more people for the newbies. They were jokingly, some with more malice than others, referred to as Nursery Huts. The youngest and greenest most likely to be killed students were housed in them where it was easiest to replace them and most convenient when they died. They, too, were marked the same as she remembered. And now that they were identified, she could eliminate them from her search.

The supply tents, whose contents were indicated by subtle color variations-- something that had caused more than one novice to enter a clothing's hold instead of the food stores --stood mostly along the perimeter in corner positions that conventional thought found troublesome but Shirk found useful. It was a simple way to determine who would carry out their orders without comment no matter how pointlessly difficult it seemed; the ones who grumbled on food duty were usually the first to die. The weapons were usually near an officer's tent. Not that she had any need to worry over them.

More troublesome were the handful of large tents she could not put a purpose to. They were nearly a match for the slave tent, but she knew there were no slaves in them-- Shirk never kept more slaves than his contingent of Slyntari could control, and they were always housed in a single unit. Near as she could tell, there did not seem to be anything in them at all: no tools, supplies, people or acquisitions. What, then, were they for?

Training? Shirk had never favored such tactics before, but who could say? He was an elf, after all, no matter how twisted. Regardless, her target was not in there. That left the meds and all the underground holds for her to worry about.

She sighed, vexed, before irritably brushing her hair back from her face, a frown marring her fair features, then reached back to braid the long, dark locks. She would never understand why women insisted on having long hair. It was a bother and a pain to keep on the road and useful for nothing except being yanked around by, but until Shirk was dead she could not risk drawing undo attention by cutting it off.

She pulled the dark tresses over her shoulder to continue braiding more easily and focused her attention on the camp. Guards were set along the perimeter every three dozen paces or so, excluding the north and west which were buffered by mountain slopes. There the only guards were those set about the deep openings into the mountains; these were far more alert and anxious than their more numerous counterparts, but she suspected that was more because of the entrances they were posted by than any concern that an attack would come from the slopes. Reasonable, but she wondered who Shirk was concerned would attack from the south.

Kalya tied the braid off then looped the end under the rest of the braid and made another tie about the nape of her neck so the hair formed a loop. Maybe it would stay out of her face now.

Still, if the cave-dwellers were the only ones standing guard directly around the camp, there had to be spotters up near the caps that gave the peaks their name. The traitor elf was too cautious and experienced to rely on secrecy and seclusion to keep him safe, and she would bet anything the people of Rohan knew something had crept in here. The horselords had never faced attack from this quarter so far as she knew, but any commander worth his salt would still keep at least a casual eye on it, wary for any shadows that might pop out; and if they knew, it was right to say Shirk knew they knew. Still, she had not seen them. Just because she had not seen them, however, did not mean they were not there. Luckily for her, though, the attention of that guard would be focused outward, not inward, so she probably would not have to worry about them. Not yet.

What she did need to worry about were the patrols that made regular rounds of the mountain slopes, the ones she had actually enjoyed the few times she had been here (mostly because the cold and snow had bother her companions to no end-- another boon of her elven heritage that the cold did not bother her and the snow barely hindered her --and she could amuse herself by teasing them). She wondered if she had never been reprimanded because her fellows had never told Shirk, or if the elf had simply found it amusing.

The girl shook her head sharply. That was neither helpful nor relevant, and such distraction could prove fatal. Shirk wants me dead, and if I want to deny him his goals then I have to focus and use what he taught me against him. There will be time to laugh later, if I succeed. It was easy enough not to think about what would happen if she failed. That was a dark road she had come to accept would be her fate, anyway; time being the only thing in question.

Success, she knew, would be the real difficulty. Getting in would be only mildly challenging, if that-- she had always been able to come and go as she pleased without their notice, even when they were looking for her. Finding the twins, her purpose for returning to these people she had forsaken, would be more difficult. That would require her to move around the camp without attracting attention, and while she had managed it in the past, there was never any guarantee that she could accomplish that now. It would all depend on how quickly she could find the twins and how closely the Slyntari were looking for intruders.

Getting out, however, was a different matter entirely. Leaving unnoticed, if it was just herself, would be a manageable endeavor. Leaving unnoticed with prisoners Shirk wanted very much to keep bordered on impossible. She had never before heard of it happening, but she was more than willing to be the first to accomplish it if the fates were kind.

Movement from the med tent caught her eye, a blur of varied tans against unchanging stone that was out of place. She shifted, leaning forward a bit to get a better view of what was happening, her eyes lit on a familiar figure. One of the neika (Shirk's personal slaves) had just left, a somewhat disgruntled-looking Akin emerging in her-- or was it his? --wake before pushing back into the tent with a nervous excitement that could only mean Shirk was involved. He had a habit of stepping on toes that she had always despised.

Blue eyes sparkled intently as Kalya debated the likelihood of one of the elves being in the med tent. The Slyntari, generally, did not aid one another when they were injured. Whatever harm they endured was on their own head, and was thus theirs to treat. The med tent was a place where they could have access to the supplies they would need without troubling the rest of their kin. That there were exceptions was a given, though what those exceptions were remained a mystery to all but Shirk himself. It was a sad fact, however, that prisoners often received better medical care, especially if Shirk wanted them to remain alive-- a cruel irony as most of them were also the ones who would prefer to die.

The former Slyntari chewed her lower lip absently as she scanned the rest of the possibilities, mentally running through what she knew of each hollowed room. No two were exactly alike, some bigger, some smaller, and some better suited to holding disagreeable, stubborn, recalcitrant elves. There were three that were definite possibilities, as far as she could figure, any one of them being cells she would choose if it was her decision (and she had discovered years ago that she and Shirk sometimes shared a disturbingly similar thought pattern when it came to such things). Two of them were even on the near side of the camp, just inside the outer ring of supply tents.

She settled back, shifting once more into shadow, and watched, her quick eyes noting who went where and how often, recommitting this place she had once had the misfortune to dwell in to memory. Hours passed and the sun sank towards the horizon. Then, when she was satisfied, she slipped away and out of sight of even Shirk's keen gaze.

There were some preparations she yet needed to make. She would only have one shot at this, and she intended to make it good. More than that: she intended to succeed.

*~*~*~*~*

*~*~*

*~*~*~*~*

*~*~*

*~*~*~*~*

Review Responses:

Shadowfaxgal7: Hm, really close to death sounds good. I think I'm too attached to my characters to actually kill them-- not that Elladan and Elrohir are my characters, but . . . I can dream, right? *g* Ack, I hate that. We don't exactly get much snow or ice down here, but I know I hate it. Feeling the car sliding on the road when you have no control over it is scary. Closest I've come is momentarily hydroplaning on a puddle of water. Lol. I'm glad I'm allright, too. I just wish my car would hurry up and be allright. Grrr. . . . *smiles* Thank you so much. It does my ego so much good to hear. It calms me down when I'm having fits that I can't get my story to work right. Em, will you accept "long" instead of "soon"? *looks hopeful*

Tychen: lol. Dancing with Dumper trucks. Lol. And it was a dance, really. I even did a twirl. Lol. Oh my, I'm confused. I've refined my Strider again? I'm probably going to kick myself when I understand this, but I don't, so if you'd like to help, I'd be much obliged. The twins, well, I can't seem to stay away from them, so you won't be left in the dark very long (assuming it doesn't take me forever to post again). Hm *evil smile* I can have so much fun with Aragorn. I think it's Legolas' turn to get hurt, though. *frowns* Yes, his turn to get hurt. Any preferences, since I don't have it written yet? Lol. I feel so sorry for Elrond. Really I do. Hm, more Hope? More Estel? If that's an affirmative, you get your wish. *g* More Legolas, too. Not much better next chapter, but the chapter after that should be loverly: I think it shall be nearly all Aragorn and Legolas. Then again, my plans never go as they're supposed to, so we'll see. *g* *closes eyes and chants* I won't take so long this time, I won't take so long this time. . . .

Grumpy: Still in one piece, mostly. I looked like a cave troll decided to use the driver's side as a punching bag. Hehe. I don't know what it looks like now, since I haven't gotten it back yet. *grumbles unflatteringly about mechanics who take forever* *looks scandalized* You can't take the twins! I'll help them when I'm ready. . . . *g* Sorry your inquiry didn't get immediate results. I wanted to, honest.

Nerfenherder: I'm sorry about your difficulties with ff.net. It's evil but useful, so it's eccentricies must be put up with. Bother. I'm happy to say the only thing left unwell from my accident is my car. *looks bemused* It should be ready tommorow, though, so I shall cross my fingers and pray nothing goes wrong in the test drive. Is there sufficiently more Legolas and Aragorn? I think it's kind of choppy, really, like the emotions come out of nowhere. But it's kind of hard to make it flow better when I'm switching back and forth with lots of time between what happens one place and the next. What do you think? Lol. Yes, likely they did. And (tada!) Someone is on-hand to help them. *g* Ah, well I must do that, tie them all together. I feel lost if I don't, so I can't imagine how everyone else would feel. *g* Heh. She already made an appearance in this story-- even before this chapter. I just didn't tell you who it was. *blinks* I hope Shirk doesn't figure out Estel is Aragorn, or (more likely) that Strider is Aragorn. Unless he's dead right after. The only reason the dear ranger's still alive is because he doesn't know. Torl . . . is a mystery that must be revealed in time. *g* I'll try to make sure I've posted again before I go to Islands of Adventure May 8th. I think I can do it. No, no, little engine that could: I know I can, I know I can, I know I can. . . .