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?

17. Strangers

Hi, everyone! I'm back and a month hasn't passed yet, aren't you excited! Lol. Okay, first things first:

I haven't read through this to make sure I haven't made an stupid errors spell-check doesn't catch, so please forgive all mistakes. Having been actually reading it while I was typing it, I don't think there are very many of them, but I never think I've spelled many words wrong either, so. . . . Just know they're there and please try to ignore them.

Second (because I'm paranoid, not because there's been a problem) in light of that note posted about no tolerance in mis-rating stories: should you contest any rating I place on a story, please tell me. I really don't want the first time I hear about it to be when they terminate my account. I'm really not attatched to any of my ratings, so I really don't mind changing them if you think they should be different. So let me know.

Thirdly, should any of my characters start sliding towards the realm of Mary-Sue, let me know so I can kill them. g Kidding, but I do want to know so I can fix it. None of my characters are supposed to be Mary-Sue's. I hate them too much to want to write one.

Fourthly, in celebration of my hundredth review does a little dance I have decided to remove "But Ada" from the story selection you are all so kindly voting on. issues pointed looks to silent readers Those of you who were looking forward to reading it, don't groan. I have decided to make it a gift. As soon as I get time to write it (perhaps sooner rather than later if the next chapter doesn't cooperate) I will be posting it for your reading enjoyment. Well, for those of you who wanted to read it.My way of saying thanks for your wonderful reviews as there is really no other way I can.

Also, should you find it interesting, I am thinking of writing a story titled "Aragorn's No Good Rotten Day," something of a companion piece to Sio's "Legolas' No Good Rotten Day" which should prove interesting. I'm planning on posting it in the event DOP gets 150 reviews. What do you think? g

What else? Oh, yes. Does anyone know if, when you delete a chapter, it deletes the reviews? I'm thinking of combining several of the earlier chapters to make them longer, but I don't want to do it before I know what it will do. Fifteen chapters is far too long to get to the good stuff, and we are finally getting to the good stuff. Lots of action coming up. I just know it's going to give me fits. I'll be bald by the end of this story. Lol.

Ooh, I had an interesting thought before I started writing this chapter. About half-way through the other one (it's when I usually start thinking about the next chapter, funnily enough) I turned my mind to getting Aragorn and Legolas to Caivern. And I thought, "Oh no! Aragorn isn't wearing anything but a cloak and his undershorts!" So I stood him before me and took a different cloak and tied it about his waist with a length of rope and wrapped it up between his legs, tucking it into the waist, forming a sort of really big diasper that hung down about to his knees. giggles Then I looked at him and debated improvising a shirt, trying to figure out how I could do it in the story with what they had on hand, and pictured him walking up to the bar and greeting the barkeeper. laughs harder I could just see him opening the door to this filthy and bedraggled ranger, no shirt, a cloak rapped around his shoulders, and another around his waist and pulled up between his legs, said legs showing down to the greenish ankle-high elven boots-- lol-- and I couldn't decide if he would faint or laugh. And I thought, "oh no no no no, he can't go in there like that,"was just beginning to panic, when I remembered he had his clothes, that he had in fact redonned them before beginning their ride across Minhiriach. smiles self-depricatingly See what the mind can do when allowed to roam free?

Lol. Just thought I'd share. I hoped maybe you'd get as much of a laugh out of it as I did. Oh, boy. I need a break.

Well, I can't think of anything else that desperately needs saying, so on with the story. Review responses to last chapter are at the bottom. laughs Bottom. Oh, bad bad. I'm going to go before I do or say something I regret.

Enjoy. Please review.Picture Aragorn, son of Arathorn, solemn ranger of the north, heir to the throne of Gondor, approaching a stranger half-naked. glol.

Chapter 17

He reached a ledge and paused, hesitating just long enough to shift his weight to his other leg, before half-stepping half-jumping into the darkness below. A second passed, maybe two, then he slammed into unyielding stone, expected and unexpected, and half stumbled at the jolt. He reached out in the darkness to catch himself and gripped his brother's arm, steadying his balance as he ran. Another drop appeared, barely in time to shift his weight again, and then they were angling left, moving quickly around a jutted stone like a finger pointing to the eastern sky, then there was another drop.

Elladan caught the briefest flicker of shadow against dark night before the ledge was upon him-- too close. He was moving too quickly to shift to the right foot-- tried anyway, his feet scraping stone, but he could not do it.

Belatedly, he tried to push off with the opposite foot, felt it catch half-on, and slipped, tumbling badly off-balance into the darkness. The ground rushed up to him quicker than expected and his already tender ankle buckled at the force of the impact, sprawling him forward with his momentum. He would have cursed had he the breath.

He slammed into something yielding and felt slender arms grab his biceps as he stumbled forward another two steps. He could hear the other's steps scratch against rock as the person hurriedly backpedaled to keep from overbalancing. He tried to help by regaining his feet, but he could not seem to get them to move fast enough.

Suddenly, he heard a thud, then slammed solidly into his rescuer. He heard Sierra gasp as her wind was knocked out of her, along with the grunt she tried to hold back. He back away from her, not quite steady, and felt his twin's hand press comfortingly into his back, steadying him.

"You all right?" Elrohir questioned worriedly, more concern about him than their young companion.

They had been running since the alarm sounded, a shrill whistle with a rattle like dry bones, running across the uneven slope on the eastern side of camp. Not as steep as the southern slope, which would drop one in the river with nothing but a scream and a shower of rocks, it was nevertheless just as treacherous in the pitch black of night without even the stars for company. Neither elf dared brighten their glow for fear of drawing their hunters, and even elven eyes could see only so much without light. The torches that marked the presence of their enemies seared his eyes.

"Fine," he answered, struggling to catch his breath without further aggravating his stitches. Bright dots flashed before his eyes, but he blinked and stepped further away, his gaze locked on the slight silhouette of Sierra that he could just make out against the stone.

The girl stepped forward, away from the rock, and said, "Come!" She, at least, was apparently of no mind to press him about his breath. Elrohir was not so complacent. He could feel his brother's eyes boring into his as their guide started forward again and ignored them in favor of focusing on the rapidly shifting landscape. Parts of it merely slanted, encouraging its traveler to run; others undulated, like a sea caught and frozen for all eternity-- the dark did not always reveal such inconsistencies, causing many a stumble among the twins.

The parts that troubled Elladan the most, however, were the drop-offs, suddenly and inexplicable, separated by random intervals, try appeared out of nowhere, varying in depth from a bare six inches-- just enough for the bottom to be left in shadow-- to approximately three feet. It was as if some insane architect had decided to put in stairs but could not decide how big to make them and instead decided to use all sizes.

Thrown randomly into that were jutting structures of all shapes and sizes that did nothing (to Elladan's racing mind) except throw even deeper shadows to further confuse the depth of the ground. How they could throw shadows when there was no light to block (all the torches were yet too far) was a mystery to him, yet he could swear the darkness increased around them on whatever side they chose to pass. Sierra did not seem to mind.

Indeed, if she gave the dark any mind at all it was not apparent. She did not trip on the uneven ground, nor did the drop-offs ever catch her by surprise. She seemed to know exactly where they were going, exactly how to get there, and exactly what obstacles were placed where that would hinder them getting there. A good thing to be sure, but one that was unnerving Elrohir. After all, there was no way she could know the territory so well if this was her first visit. The only way her knowledge could be so perfect was if she had tried this path many times or had a perfect memory beyond the ability of men.

For his part, he did not find the question of how as troubling or intriguing as why. Why would a young lady have such familiarity with these dark lands? He could think of only two answers: either she was an escaped slave, or she had once been a Slyntari-- he knew Shirk would never abide idle wanderers around his camp; to him, her knowledge suggested the latter. But why would she leave? Because they are foul, he answered, but there were plenty of beings who served Sauron through free will (Shirk was a brilliant example himself). So why were her original reasons for serving him suddenly not good enough, and why would she risk her life to help them when by her own admission she did not know them?

He panted hard as he struggled to keep up with the demanding pace Sierra had set while still keeping adequate attention on where he was putting his feet. The uncertainties made his steps heavier than normal. He wanted to stop, want to rest, but the torches drew steadily nearer, crowding in from the southwest. It did not help that the land was now slanting downwards from two directions: north and west, trying to funnel them down, conveniently placing them nearer their enemies.

"They boast their presence in the south and the west," Sierra suddenly observed, her tone thoughtful. "But they are absent to the north and east."

"Behind us and below us," Elrohir agreed from somewhere near at hand, his voice startling Elladan with its proximity though he had known his brother was close. "They chase us."

"Forcing us northeast," she replied grimly.

Elladan's head came up, catching something in her voice that even his weakness and fatigue could not distract him from. "You think it a trap."

"A trap?" Elrohir echoed. "Then they do not chase us, but drive us-- towards what?"

"It's curious there is no pursuit from the north," she said instead, ignoring both of their comments.

Elrohir responded by ignoring hers. "Do they hope to trap us in the mountains? They must know snow would not hinder us."

"I doubt they will let us get that far," he replied distractedly. He directed his next question to Sierra: "Should there by Men in the north?"

"Shirk always posts Men in the mountains. Patrols, mostly; but there are enough of them stationed there that they could pose a serious threat." She paused, and though he still could not see her well, he knew she looked around. "They expect us to continue east."

"How do you know?" Elrohir demanded.

"Because it is easier to loose them there than in the mountains."

"So we go north." That seemed the logical choice, but it they saw it, then Shirk probably saw it too.

Elladan cocked his head. "Unless they expect us to go north instead upon realizing our route is expected."

"Which makes it more prudent to go east," Sierra finished. "For those reasons along, I would head south or west, but south and we do naught but trap ourselves. West, we simply walk back in Shirk's open arms."

"He is at camp?"

"He is always at camp. Watching. Waiting."

There was that familiarity again, that experience. Resentment, he heard, and anger. He wondered if Elrohir heard it. The enemy of my enemy. . . If he was right, and Shirk had once been her ally, he wondered what had made her his enemy.

He was so caught up in his musings, he almost missed it when they starting slowing down. He would have run right past them if Elrohir had not caught his arm. He frowned at himself for the lapse, and looked before him to find another dark abyss. This one stretched for nearly a dozen feet before ending at another ledge that rose nearly equal to the one they stood on.

Sierra walked forward and sat with her feet dangling over the ledge. She twisted back to look at them. "Careful. It's a fair drop."

Without another word, she turned partly away from them, leaned forward, and disappeared over the ledge, her hands catching the lip to slow her fall. Then she dropped, landing solidly on her feet some distance below. It did not sound far, and Elladan guessed it could not be longer than a ten foot drop.

Elrohir stepped up to the ledge, then looked back. "About eight feet, I think. You shouldn't have any trouble."

It did not take much to figure out that Elrohir wanted him to go first. His eyes narrowed. But for the fact that they had little time, he would have argued with his twin. Instead, he moved forward and took his own seat on the ledge. A quick glance down to judge the distance for himself, then he was duplicating their rescuer's move, swinging out and down.

Whatever confidence he had that Sierra would not betray them did not extend to not leaving them; if it came down to a choice between her life and theirs, he fully expected her to cut her losses and run. He could not even blame her, though he intended to do everything in his power to insure she was not faced with that choice.

As his weight shifted to his arms, he braced himself for the uncomfortable pull across his chest and breathed a quick prayer that his stitches would not bust. Elrohir would not react well to that, and he was not eager to learn if Sierra had a healer's impatience for ruined work to go with her knowledge of herbs. Dealing with one of them would be bad enough without having to deal with both. He wanted to deal with neither.

Yet these thoughts had barely surfaced in his mind when his weight landed on his arms, checking his fall and pulling across his chest. That pain had barely registered-- hew as just about to let go and drop the remaining distance-- when something popped in his shoulder. Immediately, pain flared up his arm, tingling and sharp-- like his arm had fallen asleep magnified ten times. His hand slipped from the rock face, no longer under his control, and he quickly let go with his other hand, but not quickly enough to drop straight down. He felt himself tilt off-balance and desperately waved his arms to regain it.

A cool hand caught the wrist of his injured arm, sending pain popping up his arm yet steadying his balance. Once he had it, he quickly stepped away, hissing through his teeth. He wanted-- more than anything-- to brace his shoulder with his good hand, but that would simply draw attention to it and the last thing he wanted to do was give his brother another cause for alarm. He tried to stretch it unobtrusively.

"You alright?"

The low murmur, so near his ear, startled him, whipping his head around to face the unexpected voice. He could just make out the lines of Sierra's face and he knew she was studying him-- or trying to. "Yes," he answered after a deep breath, proud his voice sounded normal. "Just slipped."

Elrohir jumped down next to him and looked between the two of them. The girl stepped forward. "The path should be easier here. Come," she ordered, not paying Elladan a second glance as she started away from them. In that moment, the elder twin was prepared to forgive her anything. He had thought for sure she was going to press him further about his health; her silence was a blessing.

Smiling wryly at Elrohir, he hurried to catch up with the girl. The younger rolled his eyes and followed. It occurred to Elladan that, just perhaps, Sierra stayed silent because she did not want to worry Elrohir either.

They followed the miniature canyon north nearly to the mountains. Elrohir followed warily. It had not escaped his notice that Sierra had never told them why she had headed them north after their brief discussion. That she had no intentions of doing so was equally clear. More than once he had opened his mouth to ask for her explanation and just as many times closed it without speaking.

It was not that he trusted her-- not to not betray them to the Slyntari nor to lead them to safety; it was simply that he could not think of a solid reason why they should not being going this way or why the should be going the other way. The last thing he wanted to hear were his own thoughts and doubts thrown back at his as arguments, so he held his tongue and fell back on his promise to his brother not to ask questions, never mind that he had had no problems asking earlier.

Regardless of her ability to lead them, though, she had been right about one thing: this path was easier. The bottom had been worn smooth at some point in history, all the rough edges smoothed away more or less evenly along the entire length. The undulation that had plagued the land leading to the camp did not exist here, and though the walls jogged left and right at varying intervals, they were far enough apart to cause the trio no grief. Certainly Elladan seemed to be running easier now that the very earth beneath their feet was no longer conspiring against them. That eased his heart a little.

"We'll go up here," Sierra announced suddenly, swerving towards the right hand wall without slowly appreciably. She reached up as she passed, catching an almost invisible handhold, and used her momentum to swing her to a higher hold. She caught the toes of her boots on other crevices and pushed herself up and over the ledge, accomplishing it so fast she almost appeared to fly up the wall.

Both elves slowed to a halt as she peeked back over the ledge. "Elrohir: boost Elladan up. It's better if we don't test the stitches by having you climb," she explained, cutting off any protest before it could be made. "Down and up involve entirely different levels of stress."

Elrohir was almost surprised Elladan did not try to argue anyway, but was not about to complain about his compliance when he would have demanded the same thing anyway-- had been about to before the girl spoke.

His brother approached the wall, tested his handholds and found his footholds, then looked back at him. He laced his fingers together and got into position, crouched low both so Elladan could reach his hands and so he had some room to boost him up. His twin's boot settled in his hand and, after a silent count only the brothers understood, he rose, pushing the other up as he pushed off with his other foot. Elladan caught the holds he had planned, and seconds later the elder twin was over the lip as well. Elrohir followed quickly, deciding once he was up that Sierra's way had been easier.

They started running again as soon as he had gained his feet, winding in and out of jutting rock formations that twisted towards the sky, doing their best not to give the Slyntari a clear line of their location. The spots of light had grown more numerous in the south and now extended past their position, closer to how far east they would have been had they not changed direction. That suggested their enemy did not know yet where they were.

Sierra did not seem much at ease. Though they had resumed their eastbound path, the girl kept glancing uneasily to the south before peering into the darkness of the north. What she was looking for, he could not say, but it was obvious she did not find it. That lack seemed to unsettle her more, and she took to peering intently east beyond the line they traveled and back towards the camp. Elladan finally called her on it.

"What are you looking for?"

She was scanning the mountains. "The rest of Shirk's people."

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged looks. "You mean there are more? Even after all those who joined the southern party?"

The girl frowned at him. "No one joined the southern party."

"There are more torches," Elladan pointed out evenly.

"Part of that party disappeared," she contradicted. "If more had arrived you would be able to see them moving in the cast torch light. The torches are to confuse. The real hunters seek us in shadow."

They exchanged another glance. "You knew this?"

She sighed. Elrohir was inclined to take that as a yes. "We must keep moving. Maybe we can beat them." She did not say beat them where.

The younger twin was beginning to get decidedly annoyed with this girl's secrets. Every line out of her mouth concealed two things for every one thing it revealed. It did not seem to matter that they were all in this together. She still needed her secrets, and he was tired of it. He just knew one of her secrets was going to get them all in trouble. If that trouble cost him his twin, he would kill her. That he swore by Elbereth.

It was not long before Elrohir noticed the rocks were clearing, and even less when he realized the land was now sloping up. It was shortly after he noticed both of those that he registered they were heading for a sheer cliff wall at least two dozen feet high. His first thought was that the child had lead them to a dead end. His second, even less welcome thought, was that she meant them to climb it.

He looked toward her, intending to demand what in Arda she had been thinking-- and stepped past the last rock formation into the twenty foot clearing before the cliff. It was as if he had been watching a play and, suddenly, all the sound was taken away. The scene was still the same, but something had changed. His instincts screamed danger.

Instantly alert, he scanned his surroundings, peering intently into the darkness, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He was aware of Elladan going the same at his back, and was grimly satisfied to see Sierra had caught the insidious danger as well. By some unspoken agreement, they continued into the clearing, circling and watchful, towards the cliff. Nothing moved to challenge them. The world was silent. Their slight footsteps sounded loud in the stillness.

Elrohir could feel his breathing slow and deepen, his mind clear. They stood in the middle of the clearing when it happened.

Shadows, dozens of shadows, detached from the rocky structures, swarming away from the strange statues like bees from a disturbed hive. More came in from the north, from the mountains, leaving the south as the only way to run-- straight into the southern party they had always been aware of-- with the cliff at their back, still ten feet away.

"Back!" the girl shouted, retreating quickly from the enemy's advance and closing the remaining distance between them and the cliff before it could be cut off, the elves right with her. She pulled twin knives as the first Slyntari reached them, catching the blade high, pushed back and yelled, "Go!"

Elrohir had already pulled his sword and had only a moment of confusion before he saw Elladan making his way up the cliff's side. Disgust swirled through him. Minutes earlier she had stopped the elder twin from climbing, and now she led them here, to a place where he would be forced to climb something more than twice as tall? He could not believe it. Had she planned this all along? A way to deal with them more easily? Was she to lead them here, where she could betray them without revealing her true loyalties?

He hacked angrily at one of the cloaked menaces, catching the other off-guard with the power of the swing, and sliced him from neck to hip, nearly removing his right shoulder entirely. The man's sword clattered to a stop six feet further south.

From somewhere nearby, a horn sounded, haunting in its call, and further to his left another answered. The torches were closer now, but Elrohir ignored them, concentrating instead on the press of bodies assaulting him. He met their strikes, his fury giving him strength, but there were too many. Slowly but surely, he was being forced towards the cliff. Once his back was to the stone, it would be over.

Three more followed the first to their grave in rapid succession, having ventured too close to his blade as it sang through the air. A clatter behind him, the scrape of footsteps over stone, the clash of blade on blade, then another faceless warrior pressed him and his own blade joined in the melody. He could never remember, later, how long they had fought thus; though it could not have been long, it stretched for an eternity. Then someone was yelling for him to go.

Elladan had passed beyond the reach of their enemies' swords. Too may challenged them with reinforcements on the way. The only way to escape was up. As soon as he got an opening, he stuffed his sword into his scabbard and threw himself up as high as he could, snagging a handhold and pulling himself up. When he was high enough to no longer be troubled by the swords, he glanced down.

With the elves out of reach, most of the cloaked figures had pulled back, watching them intently from the ground while orders were shouted in that strange tongue the twins had heard earlier. Some had shifted focus to the girl, who somehow managed to block the blows coming at her. Six lay dead near her, but she was no longer able to attack, too pressed simply defending to land any killing blows. He had to admire her skill if nothing else.

He was just about to shout at her to come when she jumped, the sword that had been meant to skewer her passing cleanly beneath her feet with barely an inch to spare. It struck stone, and she touched down briefly on its side then jumped again, passing one of her knives to the other hand and catching at the stone with the newly freed one, twisting in midair to face the wall. For a moment, he thought she had made it (incredible as that was), then her hand slipped and she started to fall, automatically reaching out with her other hand and nearly losing her knives.

She slipped down into reach of the Slyntari's swords before finally gaining a firm grasp on the rock face, jerking to a halt as her feet scrabbled over the side for purchase. He saw a silver blade arc toward her leg and saw her jerk, then kick backwards, much like a mule he had seen while traveling with the rangers near Bree. Then she had switched hands, then one holding her knives now caught in stone and was reaching up with the other, pulling herself quickly out of reach.

High enough to be considered safe, she looked up to find both elves watching her, unmoving. Her eyes found his. "Get to the top!" she yelled. "Now!"

Before he could be irritated at being ordered around by a child, movement caught his eye. Shadows formed near the boulders, some perched atop them, carrying something and coming no closer. His heart jolted as his mind registered what they were despite the darkness: archers.

They were sitting ducks perched on the side of the cliff. Their hands and feet required for climbing, there was no way to defend themselves; and they were too far from their opponents to do any damage if that were not so. Safe form swords but not from arrows, they had only two choices: to drop back down among the swords, or brave the onslaught of arrows and continue up hoping to reach the top before they were struck down.

Except there was no choice. Elrohir started climbing.

Fatigue clawed at him, making his arms heavy, but he grit his teeth and kept climbing-- even when the distinctive twang of a bow being released met his ears. More joined it. An arrow soared past his face, nicking his cheek, and splintered against hard stone. He flinched as a shard from the arrow tip struck his temple, barely missing his eye. Most of the others struck over his head. He ignored all of it and continued pulling himself up.

He cursed under his breath as he discovered Sierra had been right about another thing: he tired more quickly. No run and brief battle should have tired him so, yet it felt as if he had gained a hundred pounds. His arms ached and his legs ached, but he would no more admit defeat than throw his sword in with Sauron. He imagined Sierra boasting to her masters how easy it had been to destroy them and pulled himself higher, forcing himself to focus on the goal and not the weariness of his limbs.

Around him, the wind began to blow, breaking its silence.

Elladan's arms trembled. His whole body trembled. Pain, the pain that had been suppressed by that disgusting drink was beginning to wear off. His chest burned where the thread pierced him, aggravated no matter how careful he was. His head was beginning to ache again, working up from the base of his skull to pound in his temples in time with his heartbeat, still disturbingly fast (yet slower than it had been). His ankle throbbed mercilessly, unforgiving after his careless behavior.

And on top of the pain, he could feel his strength failing, the drink that had given him new energy past its usefulness, his own too little to sustain the rigors he forced upon it.

He pushed and pulled himself laboriously to a new handhold, shifting his weight so he could grab another without making his injuries screech in protest. His feet nearly slipped. Two arrows struck-- one-two --bare inches from his face, blow off-course by the same wind that was conspiring to knock him from his perch. He did not react; he did not have the energy to flinch.

The elf breathed hard, struggling to draw enough breath into tortured lungs to keep his vision clear and his mind functioning. He looked up to find Sierra had gained the top and Elrohir was but a few feet shy. He, himself, still had nearly eight feet to go.

He already knew he could not make it.

Elladan watched his brother pull himself over the lip of the cliff and disappear from sight as he tried to find the strength to reach up yet again and pull himself up another foot closer to his goal. He could not give up. He knew for the sake of his brother and father that he could not give up; but he also knew he could not go on. If he tried, he would fall.

His dark eyes met Sierra's, her eyes urgent and worried where his were regretful and sad. She knew his strength was failing, that he could not much longer cling to cold rock. He had never been over fond of trees, like Legolas, but he wished for them now. He stared into the girl's eyes and made a last plea, uncertain if she would get it, doubtful she would manage to fulfill it: Save my brother. Take him and go. Promise me.

Then the world fell apart. Even as he reached up for one last try, an arrow finally struck home, biting hard into his upper thigh. He jerked from the pain, a startled cry escaping his lips. Automatically, his hand came down, trying to stop the pain. His foot slipped, the other following. His weight landed on his left arm and blinding agony radiated from his shoulder. His fingers slipped and he fell, the world graying out around him and one word following him into darkness.

"NO!"

They slowed to a halt upon a grassy knoll two miles from Caivern, Ardevui pacing a few steps before stopping and irritably tossing her head. A slender hand stroked her neck absently as both riders stared east toward the still distant village. Aragorn could not really see it, but Legolas took this chance to study from afar.

It was fair sized (near as he could tell) for a human town, certainly bigger than the village they had been unintentional guests of near the Mountains of Mirkwood. Dozens of wooden buildings were clustered together-- the darkness blurred their lines sufficiently enough that he could not get a sure count-- in a square. A field to the north, enclosed by a low fence, was tilled for farming, mostly bare in these cold months. Nearly an acre of land to the east was fenced off though nothing occupied it. There seemed to be two main avenues-- pointed east and west-- with several smaller lanes connecting them.

A frown lightly pinched his brow as he continued to survey Caivern. With all the space, the elf would have expected the humans to spread out, not cluster together. "I forgot to ask, my friend; but have you ever been to Caivern before?"

"Rangers rarely need to travel so far south," Aragorn answered, leaning away to try to peer at Legolas. "Why?"

"Do you know if they suffer attack?" he asked.

"I have not heard of it," the ranger replied after a pause, something in his voice telling the elf he was unsettled. "I cannot see so far in this shadow. Does it look like they have suffered thus?" Regardless his proclaimed limitation, he still stared into the darkness, futilely trying to see more than a dark shadow on the horizon and a couple pinpoints of light.

Legolas followed his gaze, trying to see for himself if there was nay sign of destruction. If there was, though, the darkness hid it well from his eyes also. "No, I see no such signs. But would they not want to spread out if there were no threat?"

"Perhaps they are simply uncomfortable being so far from the strength of Rohan," Aragorn suggested quietly, that same hesitation preceding his words. "Or perhaps they used to be more spread out and were attacked, prompting them to rebuild so as to gain more safety."

"Perhaps," the elf prince agreed. "Regardless, it does not look like they get many visitors." No lights burned outside the many doorsteps waiting to welcome late wayfarers; the few they could see lit only the two main roads.

"I doubt anyone is up this late. Perhaps we should make camp and proceed in the morning." If he were honest with himself, he did not relish he thought of what these villagers would do if they startled them in the middle of the night. Humans could be quite volatile when their sleep was disturbed; add that to their tendency to act first, question later and put it in the hands of a group who feared attack, and Legolas could easily see what came next. "Courtesy would have us wait."

Aragorn leaned forward, peering into the darkness for Valar alone knew what, then shifted back. "No," he said. "Someone should still be up in the inn, and it is courtesy to admit travelers for the night no matter the time. They will not turn us away."

"I was more worried about the form of their greeting," he countered wryly, not exactly comforted but willing to trust his friend's judgment. Besides, Legolas added silently, I can't really let him go alone. And if he were honest with himself, he would really like to sleep in a true bed, too. "A pitchfork in the face is a tired welcome."

The young man chuckled softly. "Are you sure it's not the ear-pulling you're more worried about?"

Legolas turned and glared at the man. The other leaned back, an irrepressible grin on his face ,and raised an eyebrow. "Watch it, human," he warned dangerously before turning back around. He urged Ardevui forward and watched the small town grow closer. Several moments passed in silence before he muttered, "Maybe the ear-pulling."

Aragorn burst out laughing.

"NO!"

Elrohir felt as if he was falling, as if his heart was being squeezed between a giant fist, as if he was rushing down a tunnel, as if he had plunged into ice, as if the world had gone silent, the stars gone dark. He felt as if his life was ending.

He stared over the cliff edge, watching-- paralyzed-- as his brother fell further and further away from him, stretching from eight feet to eternity, his desperately stretched out hand too far away to help. He watched Elladan's eyes go wide in surprise, in pain, his mouth slipping open in a wordless, soundless cry. Elrohir heard it in his mind. Agony.

Darkness rushed in on him. His vision funneled, locked on his brother so the elder twin's face was the only thing he could see. Lines-- hard planes-- pain-- fatigue-- resignation. . . . No! Elladan could not give up! Not now! They had come so far. . . .

Desperation shot through him, pumping adrenaline into his tired form. He had to reach his brother. He had to reach Elladan. All he needed to do was catch him and bring him up the mountain. That was all. Then they could leave and all would be well. Without thought, he jumped forward--

Steel cords wrapped around his chest and jerked him back, snapping his jaw shut at the abrupt shift, jarring him. He cried out as his twin disappeared from view, replaced by cold hard stone-- reached for him, dug at what held him from going to his brother's aid-- but the stone kept growing, widening the gap between them, and his strength failed. His legs gave out beneath him and he fell to the ground.

A startled grunt sounded near his ear as stone rushed up to meet him. He barely registered the pain that bit into his hands and knees, flared through his hip and knocked at his head. His brother was gone. . . .

Kalya hissed as she hit the ground, pulled down by Elrohir's weight. Elves were not supposed to just fall like that. The girl scowled as she untangled herself from the slumped elf, irritated beyond all measure at the elf's behavior when they need to leave now.

She crouched before him, ducking her head to see the elf's eyes with his name on the tip of her tongue, a call that died unsaid as she gaze into his eyes. Once bright blue and sparkling, lit by their own inner glow, they were now dark and listless, empty of all but the deepest despair. Her breath seemed to leave her, all oxygen sucked away by the pain-filled loss of the other half of her soul--

Kayla shook her head, breaking the spell that had pulled her into Elrohir's thoughts with the sharpness of snapping a twig. Damn elves, anyway. She let her eyes harden, her face, heart and mind following suit. She would not fall apart, would not let him draw her into so meaningless a stupor as to blind her from her surroundings. She would not give up years of training with enemies so near.

She would not make this personal.

The girl took a deep breath, let it out, and turned her attention back to the dark-haired elf who had not moved. "Elrohir," she called. Blue eyes stared, unblinking, heedless of her address. "Elrohir!" she snapped more sharply, letting an edge of urgent command permeate her tone. "Attend!"

The figure before her stirred but did not rise; blinked but did not look at her. For all intents and purposes, he could have been a statue, carven from stone by a particularly gifted artisan and dumped in the middle of nowhere. He was certainly not the strong and gifted warrior who had come to rescue Aragorn from the Slyntari nearly a year past, nor the surrounding conscientious elf she knew he had to be. Had he not sat before her, she would have sworn he did not exist.

She could hear movement beyond the ledge, the murmur of voices, and knew if they were to escape, it had to be now. Resolved, she hauled back her hand and struck Elrohir had across the face.

The slap roused him like a bucket of ice water. He gasped as if just rising to the surface after a long dive.

Kalya frowned, partly from annoyance and partly from confusion. Her voice was hard as the stone they sat on and brooked no argument. "We are leaving. Now. You will not talk. You will not argue. And you will not hinder me. Now come."

Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed his arm and pulled. He rose without protest and walked placidly behind her, not speaking so much as a word about going back for his brother nor glancing so much as an inch to the side to hind his mirror image. It unnerved her as much as it relieved her. She had expected an argument, a fight-- some protest of some kind-- despite her orders to the contrary.

Looking back, she could tell he was not seeing her, nor his surroundings. He had dropped into his own little world and nothing from this one could touch him. Shock, she would have said, a reaction to the traumatic events he had just experienced, but there had to be more to it. And would he come out of it on his own or would she need to help? Uneasily, she wondered what he would do when he opened his eyes and realized she had taken him from his twin.

Later, she insisted firmly. Right now, we need to get away from our pursuers. There would be time to deal with the dead-weight elf who trailed her when they were our of harms way. Or as near as could be found in enemy territory.

The procession of lights could be seen from miles away, threading its way around formless stone statues as the Slyntari ascended the eastern slope. Torl watched them closely, his face carefully neutral. He did not possess the keen sight of elves, but he thought he could make out flighty shadows moving stealthily among the outer edge of the group.

Hours had passed since they first set out, hours in which Torl and Shirk had remained in unmoving-- the former with every ounce of patience and serenity he could muster; the latter with a strange expectation, his gaze fixed unwavering on a spot in the darkness as if seeing what mere mortals could not. The man had tried not to react when he felt a shift in his lord, subtle and almost unrecognizable save for the fact that he had sensed it before-- a thickening in the air, a touch of displeasure, like the quiet before the storm descends to ravage the world: that time, their agents had failed.

And when the men had appeared in his sight under the carefully expressionless gaze of their lord, Torl had known better than to start. It had taken the better part of his control not to fidget or glance at the grave elf lord standing silently at his side. Whispers of dark thoughts had wended deviously through his mind. Now that the forerunners stood little more than a hundred yards away, he knew they had failed this time, too.

Torl remained stoic as their men entered the camp, faces grim. Silently, he counted them, attempting to judge how costly this failure had been. Then his eyes fell on a still figure borne among four warriors and he could not help the frown that contorted his face. Who had they brought back-- and it hit him: one of the prisoners. Perhaps not a complete failure, then.

Most of the warriors dispersed, taking off in different directions to return to dropped duties or await new orders at their posts. A fair few resumed guard around the perimeter, filling in gaps like a dam being systematically plugged. Three plus the four bearing the litter, however, headed straight for their superiors.

The ranking soldier, a man approximately four years Torl's elder with gray beginning to streak his jet black hair and blocky features that more resembled a troll than a man, stopped before them and rapped his chest smartly with his fist, bowing sharply. The others followed suit, though the four bearing the elf only bowed.

"Report," Shirk ordered, his voice soft, calm.

The men straightened. "Sir. We caught up with them at Dead Drop. Having arrived a little ahead of them, we laid in wait until they were in the midst of the clearing. Two held us off while the third began his climb, then followed. This one--" he gestured back towards the prone elf "--we caught with an arrow and knocked him from the cliff. The other two continued up and made the top. By the time some of my men made it to the top they were gone and trail lose to us. We may be able to pick it back up come morning." He did not sound hopeful.

Hard, unfathomable eyes studied the group for a long moment. "Very well," Shirk intoned, even softer than before. A strange light gleamed in his eyes. "Secure the Elf in one of the Western holding cells and send-- Tamis, to see that he lives."

"Yes, my lord." A bow and clap of fists later, they were gone. Torl stood very still, gazing unseeing at the space his men had occupied. His men-- had failed. He had failed. Again. Perhaps if he had listened to his instincts sooner, they would not have escaped. If he had listened, the guard would have been doubled around the elves and Kelt would never have been able to pull off this treachery. This disturbingly successful treachery. He knew with the certainty of a warrior that all three would have escaped had one of the elves not been injured.

Yet it did not matter. He was still going to die. Among the Slyntari, failure could only mean death. He let out a slow breath and turned to face his lord.

"You see what she has done," Shirk commented, almost idly, his gaze back on the darkness.

Torl swallowed. He saw all right. She had made fools of them all. "Yes, sir."

"I'm afraid I underestimated her, Torl. I did not believe she would return, did not believe her so foolish, and she has turned it back on us. A slap in the in the face." The elf studied the dark shadows of the trees. "She may yet prove more of a nuisance than I bargained for," he murmured, nearly too soft for his lieutenant to catch.

"Sir?" Torl prompted.

"But no matter. The dye is cast." Shirk's sharp eyes turned on the human at his side. "Begin the breaking at dawn. Focus on his mental defenses."

"My lord?"

Malicious anticipation lit ice cold eyes. "We have a reception to prepare."

Torl glanced away into the night. Surely Shirk was not suggesting what he thought? If he knew Kelt at all (and he fancied he did) then there was no way she would be returning to this camp. "You expect they will return?"

"No. I know they will return," Shirk replied. A cold smile twisted his lips. "The sons of Elrond are too much like their father. The remaining twin will not abandon his brother. He will return and drag Kelt with him. And when he does, we will have a welcome ready they will not soon forget."

Both elf and man looked around silently as they passed the first row of buildings. They were simple and neatly built, well-kept despite signs of wear and age. New wood, not yet discolored by expose to the elements showed where repairs had been made. The path was hard packed from the passage of many, and horses snorted quietly from nearby. Around him stood the evidence of a simple lifestyle, everything what could be expected of a human town, and yet he was struck with a feeling of wrongness.

Legolas guided Ardevui down the wide thoroughfare at an easy pace, his sharp eyes darting around the still lands for a hint of where they wanted to be. A subtle tension hovered over him, lost to all but those who knew him well. It was more than just anxiety about their welcome.

Far from reassuring, knowing that Legolas shared his unease increased Aragorn's disquiet. That the elf sensed it, too, meant he could not be imagining it. But what was it? Everything looked normal. Except it was too quiet. Except the Rohirrim preferred open spaces. Except the horses were locked away when they would usually be held in a corral (it was not so cold that they needed to be sheltered). Except there were no gates barring entrance when every door they passed was bolted shut, speaking of a wariness of intrusion that was belied by the unassuming openness of the town.

Perhaps it was the incongruity of locking their doors while leaving the city open which struck him. Or perhaps it was the fact that everyone appeared to be asleep, all light out, no one leaving the bars to return home. It was late, true, but not so late that the distraction of drinks should be over. Had he misjudged in coming here, in bringing Legolas?

Or was his imagination running away with him, painting shadows where none existed? He and Legolas had had far too many close calls to not be wary, but could they be hoisting their suspicions of the undeserving?

Aragorn glanced around, noting that they had traveled nearly two-thirds the distance of their road, and Legolas was beginning to slow Ardevui uncertainly. That the elf prince had been in human towns before in no way implied he understood how to navigate them or understood all he saw. He was beginning to think he had missed the place they were looking for.

Noticing his friend's distress (and cursing himself for not doing so earlier), the ranger pulled his thoughts away from questions he could not answer at present and focused on finding the local inn. He quickly noticed at least part of the reason for his companion's confusion: none of the signs had words. Only pictures graced the hanging slats and, while the one with an anvil and hammer were fairly easy to identify, some (like the one with two vertical red stripes with a third white stripe cutting them diagonally) were harder to discern.

His gaze landed on a green sign with a yellow circle in the middle, the bottom sliver cut off, and a reared horse placed before it, black as the night sky. It brought to mind a grassy field at sunset, a horse between the watcher and the horizon calling its challenge to the approaching night.

With his left hand, Aragorn tapped the elf's shoulder, getting his attention. He leaned forward and pointed. "Over there. The Black Stallion." A light could just be seen at the bottom edge of the door.

"Black Stallion?" Legolas questioned, but he was guiding Ardevui towards the building, looking both more and less tense. Aragorn thought he could guess why.

"There is an old Rohirrim legend dating back before Eorl the Young led his host to the aid of Cirion of Gondor and were granted the lands of Calenardhon for their troubles. It is said that a black stallion rode into Éothéod in the midst of a great battle where the foes were fell and numerous, and there came upon the lord of the Éothéod. Léod, father of Eorl, was knocked from his steed and forced back, his defeat certain, when the stallion charged them and drove them back. He allowed Léod to mount him and through the long day, the enemy was routed and forced to retreat. But at sunset, while the Éothéod supped, the beast charged the horizon and disappeared into the night, never to be seen again."

The ranger dismounted, sliding off first so Legolas could follow more easily. "I have heard that the Rohirrim count the appearance of a riderless stallion before battle a sign that victory will be theirs." He paused as his friend joined him and ordered Ardevui to wait here, then added cheekily, "But I do not know if that is so. It was told me by Elladan and Elrohir and I have yet to meet anyone I would dare ask for confirmation."

Legolas chuckled. "Well, at least you have learned your lesson. I, for one, cannot verify it in the least. The ways of Men, especially these Horse-lords, are strange to me." He gestured at the door. "Shall we?"

The proud elf would never admit it, but he no more wanted to enter this human inn than he wanted to dine with a host of orcs. Since he had no choice, however, he would content himself with making Strider go first. That seemed to work best anyway. Little though the ranger was liked in most parts, most respected or feared the man enough to leave him be.

Aragorn smiled as he walked past the elf, his eyes dancing with knowing mirth, and ascended the three wooden steps leading to the door without comment, Legolas close behind him. His smiled faded. Truth be told, he was not looking forward to this meeting much more than his companion. That nameless dread he felt had not diminished, at least as certain as his belief that the twins were in peril but less defined. It hovered around him like smoke in a closed room, the fire that caused it hidden from his sight. Should they not leave and find somewhere else to gain supplies?

But there was nowhere else, not if they were to aid the twins. He raised his hand, but stopped just short of the doorknob, his hand hovering in midair in the process of opening the door as was expected and proper for inns. Instead, he changed direction and rapped his fist against the thick wooden door that looked like it had lived through a war. Of course, if the patrons were anything like the ones he had encountered elsewhere, his observation was probably not far off.

He listened closely and heard footsteps pause mid-stride, silence wrapping around them, before beginning again with a hesitancy that spoke of confusion and wariness. They stopped at the door, but neither was the door opened nor were they hailed. Aragorn waited, feeling Legolas' eyes upon him. It had been a hunch, but one he did not think would prove ill.

Slowly, the door opened a crack, enough for a small child to fit through sideways, and a young man appeared before the crack. His dark brown hair fell to his chin and his dark brown eyes watched them warily, a strange mix of curiosity and hostility hidden in their depths. The brown eyes flickered over them quickly, taking in their full appearances ( lingering a moment on both pairs of feet) before returning to Aragorn's steady gaze.

"Can I help you, sirs?" the lad inquired politely of them, though he was sure the youth would have preferred to simply slam the door in their faces.

"Is this the town inn?" Aragorn countered evenly.

The boy nodded, a single bob of his head. "One of two. The other is on the lower road."

He acknowledged the information with a dip of his own head. "And you stock supplies?"

Brown eyes darted again to their feet. "We do."

"Then we would ask your aid," he responded, the barest hint of a smile peeking through. "I'm afraid we ran into a spot of trouble crossing the river during a storm. My horse started, dumping me in the river before taking off and bear half our supplies with him. we have ridden hard to reach you town. Will you supply us?"

The boy hesitated, glancing to something inside the inn they could not see before looking to the darkened sky. The Dúnadan thought he knew what the lad was thinking.

"It need not be now," he assured, speaking before the boy could pose the problem of hour. "We have waited this long and can easily last through the night outside of town. We just wish to know if we can make our purchases here or it we shall have to chance riding elsewhere."

The youth stared at him, and he could feel Legolas' eyes as well, boring into the back of his head in irritation at offering the lad what he had tried to insist on only moments before and been denied. Then the lad sighed, seeming to give up some inner struggle, and took several steps back, opening the door wider so they could enter. "You need not wait outside," he told them. "We have rooms available that you may use."

"You are most kind," Aragorn replied, stepping inside. Legolas once more followed closely.

With the door no longer blocking his view, the ranger could see the bar that stretched most of the length of the left-hand wall. Many bottles rested behind it against the wall. A fire burned in the hearth against the far wall, providing most of the illumination for the room. A single torch burned in a bracket fixed to the right hand wall to one side of a passageway that disappeared up a set of stairs. Most of the space, however, was taken up by eight and ten thick-hewn tables that almost seemed to have grown out of the floor with five chairs circling each. About half looked freshly scrubbed, and a rag lay abandoned on one of the tables to mark the boy's progress. It was not hard to determine what they had called the boy from.

"Would you care for food? Drink?" the dark-haired lad asked, moving to the bar.

Aragorn glanced at Legolas, briefly meeting the other's gaze. "We had such fare as we had in store ere we came," he answered. "But a drink would not be unwelcome."

The boy nodded, pulling out two mugs. "What'll ye have?"

"The House Brew," he answered as he approached the bar. He perched on a stool, Legolas settling on one nearby, and his silver eyes scanned the room. "This is a fine establishment," he commented. "I have rarely found so clean an inn in all my travels."

"Father built it," the boy answered, a quiet pride in his voice as he poured the drinks. "He did not wish to breed horses, having no real knowledge of the task, but found a use in helping others. He wants it to be a safe place. Cleanliness is simply something of a habit."

"So is filth," Legolas spoke of for the first time, his voice lilting and musical. "And some of us excel at it." He glared pointedly at the ranger as he spoke the last. The boy's eyes widened in surprise at the words. He froze in mid-motion of handing them their drinks.

Aragorn glared right back. "It's hardly my fault traveling is dirty work."

"Some of us manage not to pick up all the dirt on Arda," the elf replied airily.

"And some of us aren't prissy Elves," the ranger countered. "What say you, boy?"

"Uh--" He looked nearly panic-stricken at being asked to offer his opinion, his expression quite comical.

Aragorn grinned at him, his smile lighting in his face the joy of youth. "Don't worry. It won't matter what you say-- we've been having this argument for eight years and have yet to find a victor."

"Oh. Okay, then." He set the drinks before them and left to return to scrubbing the tables, far from at ease if his expression was anything to go by. A distracted frown pulled at his lips as he puzzled on what the stranger had said.

The friends let the silence settle, warm and easy, as they drank their brew. It had a smoky taste, somewhat strong by pleasant just the same, and the ranger entertained himself briefly with trying to identify the spices that had been added to the common ale and had decided one was taprika when he noticed Legolas was more playing with his brew than drinking it. He covertly watched the elf sniff at the liquid then take a cautious sip, looking like he expected it would burn him, before pulling back with a grimace that said he had been right.

Aragorn snorted into his drink.

The elf's head snapped up, firing a glare at the human that would have sent orcs running for the mountains. Used to elven glares and, more importantly, used to Legolas' glares, the ranger just grinned impishly. "To much for the great Elf?" he taunted, his voice barely a whisper.

Legolas' eyes narrowed. "You wish, human." The challenge accepted, he took a long draught of the spicy brew , but could not suppress a shudder as he swallowed. Aragorn descended into a fit of poorly restrained laughter.

The boy looked up from his work. "Is everything to you liking?" he asked.

"Fine!" Aragorn answered brightly. "It's delicious."

The boy nodded and look back to his work.

The man watched him a moment, his mood sobering as he followed the young man's steady scrubbing. Freed from other concerns, his mind could return to his brothers. What were they doing while he sat here, warm and comfortable with drink in hand, teasing a dear friend? Were they comfortable? Had they enough to eat and drink? In the hands of the Slyntari, horrible as they were, he could not believe it.

His troubled gaze sought out the fire that flickered unconcernedly to his left, the flame's one desire to consume all fuel. Destructive as a fire could be, it was also useful . . . beautiful. Each jump of the flame was unique, and usually Aragorn could find relief from his tortured thoughts in the variable pattern of fire but tonight they would not soothe. All he could see was the destruction, the torment, how each tongue of fire devoured the source that gave it life. . . .

"Aragorn?"

He blinked and looked to the boy. "Tell me," he bid, ignoring his friend's questioning gaze. "How fares Caivern?"

Abyl looked up, startled, but he could find save genuine interest in the man's gaze, a paternal kind of concern that seemed out of place on a stranger's face, one who had no claim to the well-being of a small, out-of-the-way town-- yet fit in a way he could not describe. Perhaps it was that concern which prompted him to answer the question more truthfully than otherwise intended instead of simply jumping to his home's defense.

"Caivern fares well," he said fairly. "Our crop yield was good this past year, and the horse trade is strong. Tennen is finishing with the next group. I have heard they will be going to Edoras to supplement the éored of the Mark. They have need of good horses.

"That is a high compliment to your people," Aragorn observed, approvingly.

"It is." The boy did not pause in his work.

"And yet you are troubled." It was a subtle feeling, one well hidden by the youth, and one only caught because he was seeking so hard a distraction from his own troubles. At another time, he might have missed the signs entirely.

The ranger saw Legolas glance at him in surprise. It was said that elves could look into the hearts of men, but he had sensed no weight upon the youth's mind-- except, perhaps, discomfort in the presence of strangers. Neither, though, had he been paying much attention, his thoughts cast out after the whisper of dread he had felt since entering this town. He had not had much practice discerning the troubles of men as the man who was destined to be their king. Aragorn answered his look with but a half-glance.

He met brown eyes steadily when they fixed on his silver. The boy's wariness had returned, along with a stubborn pride Aragorn's family was all too familiar with from when he was younger (indeed, even now) that resisted the sharing of burdens too long kept private. "Aye, I am troubled," the lad answered brazenly. "I fail to see what concern it is to you when I neither know your names nor you, mine."

The ranger smiled slightly and tipped his head in concession of the point. "In that case, I am Strider, a Ranger of the North, and my companion is Legolas of the Woodland realm." They had not troubled to cover the elf's appearance, so there was no reason to conceal his identity. He glanced at the elf as he spoke before turning his attention back to the boy. "He is troubled, too, but I shall get nothing out of him for awhile yet."

The youth glanced cautiously at the faire being. "Why?" he asked, almost against his will.

"I'm afraid we know little of your town," Aragorn replied. "Too little to judge if something is wrong or if we have simply become paranoid in our old age. It is worrisome."

Abyl glanced between the two, noting that the man-- Strider-- now looked pensive, both strangers staring into empty space. It was not wise to talk to strangers these days, especially with the Evil growing, but perhaps an exception could be made? This ranger, for all that his appearance was far from fair, did not strike him as foul. The lord of old was no so widely shared as once, but he thought, too, that he had heard the Rangers were an honorable people, in some way akin to the Great Kings of Gondor. Maybe. It had been a long time since he last heard the old tales.

The lad glanced nervously towards the plain wall they seemed to be staring at, searching it with his eyes to see if it would reveal the timbre of their thoughts, then decided he did not much care for the silence and cleared his throat. Both beings looked at him. "My name is Abyl," he offered, taken aback at their attention. "It's a pleasure to meet you both."

Legolas smiled. "The pleasure is ours." A somewhat wicked light sparked in blue eyes. "In fact, I am in your debt; if not for you, I would have had to listen to this one--" he jerked his head at Strider "--gripe about the cold all night like an overgrown babe."

The man in question glared. "Big words from a prissy Elf who can't drink his ale," he huffed. "And I do not gripe."

"You do," the elf countered. "And unlike you, I'm clean."

"Clean? And why shouldn't you be? You took a bath in the river!" The ranger snorted.

"As did you, as I recall," Legolas countered. "But it doesn't seem to have done you much good."

"That's because I fell in-- I didn't have time for a leisurely bath."

"Leisurely!" the elf burst out. "By the Valar, human, your memory is worse than I thought!"

Abyl did not hear the reply as he burst out laughing, interrupting the banter between the friends. They stopped glaring at each other so they could watch the boy's mirth, bemused expressions hiding their very real amusement at his reaction. The boy dropped into one of the wooden chairs.

Aragorn glanced sidelong at his friend. "Well, what do you know?" he questioned wryly. "He laughs."

"Indeed," Legolas agreed, doing his best not laugh. "Who would have thought we were so entertaining?"

"And among such young company."

The boy looked up, mildly alarmed, his humor gone as he realized what he had done. "Forgive me--" he began breathily, still winded from his laughter, but the ranger waved him off.

"No need," he assured with a smile. "We had hoped to make you laugh."

"Why?" Abyl wanted to know. Usually only friends wanted one to laugh, and these two were certainly not friends. He had just met them! Unless they were going to tell his father about his poor conduct?

Legolas waved his mug-- still more than half-full. "Because you are young. Children deserve to laugh."

Indignation hardened his face. "I am no child," Abyl snapped stiffly, his eyes burning.

"A kindred spirit, Strider," Legolas murmured to his friend, hiding his smile with his mug.

The ranger rolled his eyes, then pinned the lad with a fond smile. "Do not mind Legolas," he advised wisely. "He's an Elf. Elves can never admit you've grown up."

He jumped out of his seat just ahead of Legolas' hand. A quick glance (complete with impish smile) at the blonde Mirkwood archer convinced him to keep walking, and he settled himself back down at the table Abyl occupied, the boy looking fairly bemused himself.

"Are you two always like this?" Abyl wanted to know. He had never seen two adults act so much like-- children.

"Mostly," Aragorn agreed lightly. "Our friends are worse."

"Much worse," Legolas added, prompting Abyl to raise his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Now tell us: why are you troubled?" His bright silver eyes were serious once more as he looked into the deep brown of the boy before him.

The lad felt his light mood ebb away and the worries of his adopted people return-- he preferred to pretend there was no problem. He sighed. "As you are traveling these parts I suppose you have a right to know-- though I can't say if they attack outsiders." Looking at the table, he missed the sudden tensing of his visitors. "It started a little under a year ago, to the best of my recollection."

Except he did not want to recollect. He looked up, and Strider nodded for him to continue. "This town has always been somewhat isolate, laying as it does so far from the strength of both Rohan and Gondor. But, more than just isolated, we are fairly poor, so the lack of protection was hardly disturbing because few pirates wished to trouble with a people so far from other civilization for so little. That, perhaps, gave us a false sense of security. There was no purpose to building a gate to keep people out when nearly no one came in anyway.

"Then people started coming, strange people with hard eyes and foreign accents, like-- I don't know. But they simply passed through, sometimes giving a few of the neighbors a hard time. They went south, into the mountains, and we were glad, because they were not staying here. Only recently, there have been attacks. People have come, men, from the mountains. They come up quick with weapons, then take men, women, and children back with them. Any who get in the way are killed." He sighed, fiddling with the edge of his rag. "The raids have been few, thankfully, but to a group who thought themselves safe, they are terrifying."

"Are there many of them?" Legolas asked.

"Perhaps a dozen," Abyl answered. "They ride in, cause chaos, get what they want, and leave."

"A dozen? Can not the town rally against them?"

The boy shook his head, a familiar bitterness squeezing his heart. "These are simple people, Master Elf, not warriors. Most of them have never carried a sword a day in their life. But after the first raid, a group of men did try. They took what weapons they could and went over the mountains. What happened then, I cannot say, but naught but two ever returned, bearing with them tales and only half their wits. None have dared try since."

"When was this?"

"What tales?" Aragorn pressed, overriding his fair friend. His silver eyes were troubled. Worry for more than just his brothers held him as he heard a whisper months old echo through his head: Your people need a leader, son of Arathorn. Was this what she had meant? But no, even a king could not protect all his people. Yet you leave them to fight the darkness alone.

"You would not wish to hear of them. They are foolishness."

Except he had seen others dismiss truth because they judged it impossible. "I would hear it anyway so I might judge for myself," he answered. "Sometimes a grain of truth may be found, even in fancy."

"If you wish," Abyl sighed, looking as if he was doing this against his better judgment. Yet he continued when the ranger signaled he continue. He studied the tabletop as he searched his mind for the memory. "They were more or less hysterical when they got back and haven't been right since. It took forever to make sense of their inane ramblings, but they both swore it was some strange creature that attacked them.

"They followed the South Men over the mountain and were captured, straight off, expected like. They said a tall man with strange eyes that looked right through you and saw everything ordered them taken to a cave. It was dark and deep, with a bad feel about it, they claimed, and they wandered for hours before coming upon a small, hooded creature. They said it had glowing green eyes, brightest green they had ever seen, and it hissed at them, an unnatural creature. Then it attacked, and they could hear the screams of its victims.

"They ran, ran and ran, turning corners with no mind to where they were going, trying to get away and ran into something solid. Darkness enclosed them. They thought it was the end then, had hoped it was, but death did not claim them. When they woke, they were on the northern slope of the mountains near the foothills. Terrified at finding themselves alive, they ran straight here. Only on the way, they came upon a pool and the remains of a small child that looked like it had been torn apart. That was the end of whatever sanity they had left."

"A child?" Aragorn demanded sharply.

The boy nodded, looking sick. "Some did go to check that out. It had been a little boy who had gone missing, along with his mother just before the first attack. They-- they had gone south with the hunters and decided to explore a little. Neither ever came back."

"No one looked for them?" Legolas pressed, unable to believe a child could get lost and not be missed.

"They looked," Abyl insisted sharply, but his anger fled in the face of sorrow. "The hunting party called for them when they were ready to return, and searched the ground for their tracks. When no trace was found, they reasoned that they had returned earlier in the day. The raid saw the father dead, then, and there was no one left in the tumult to insist upon a search before the party left for the mountains."

Abyl trailed off and nobody spoke. To Legolas, this was yet another example of how fragile human life was. That a child could die so quickly, so long before his time was an atrocity to the elven mind. And it reminded him uncomfortably of his friend's own mortality.

Aragorn was the one who eventually broke the silence, his eyes locked on the door. "That does not sound like an account of a crazy man."

The lad shook his head. "That is simply what the Men made their babble. They could barely string two words together, much less a sequence of events-- and that is the tamest version they came up with," he finished defensively.

Aragorn took no note, staring at the door, oblivious to the world around him as he rode his own thoughts. A creature with glowing green eyes. . . . It seemed so familiar and yet, like when he had first seen that Slyntari arrow, he could not place it. Why would such a thing be familiar?

He had an impression of dark and crumbling caves, fear-- then he shook it away and looked at the boy. The young face was pinched in a pensive frown. "There is yet more that troubles you," Aragorn observed, choosing to ignore his own worries for a time.

Abyl jumped. "No!" he denied quickly, but his eyes betrayed him. "I just worry there will be another raid soon. I wonder who will be taken next."

"You wonder when these strangers will tire of simply stealing your neighbors and instead destroy your home." There was no doubt in Legolas' voice.

Brown eyes flashed, showing truth-- then a wall slammed down between them, cutting off whatever camaraderie they had, and Abyl's eyes became hard. "You know nothing of me," he declaimed coldly. "I care nothing of strangers!" He stood, stiff. "I will get your supplies."

Legolas watched the youth leave sadly, seeing in his young eyes a pain older than his age; trials endured beyond his years. It hurt his heart to see children suffer when there was no need. That men could be so cruel to their own, their own young. . . .

Aragorn did not move where he sat, staring at the wall before him with distant eyes, his thoughts far away. There was no sign of pain or distress on his face, but Legolas knew he was thinking of his brothers: worrying. The fair-haired elf stood and made his way over to the somber human, dropping lightly into a chair near him. The ranger did not react, but the elf knew his presence was noted, even if his friend did not realize it.

"I do not see why he should be angry," Legolas offered as a way to break the silence.

His friend stirred, seeming to physically pull himself from brooding thoughts. "You found what he wanted to remain hidden. You got too close. You threatened him."

"I did not." Legolas frowned.

Aragorn smiled sadly, his gaze still somewhat distant. "Not physically, no. But emotionally. You spoke his deepest fear, what he had managed to bury, and made him see it."

He thought that might make sense. A little. "But that is still no reason for him to get angry."

The ranger pushed his chair back onto two legs, balancing, and looked at his friend for the first time since he sat down. "Defensive," he explained. "He needs to push you away because you got too close. He feels vulnerable."

"I thought humans sought comfort from others when they were distressed."

"Some do," Aragorn agreed. "Some do not. I don't think he knows he can."

"Doesn't know?" Legolas looked at his friend, perplexed. "How could he not know he could seek someone for comfort?"

"Maybe there is no one he trusts with his thoughts." It was all too easy, as one grew, to think that one had to have all the answers, that doubts were unacceptable, and help should not be sought. It was too easy to pull into oneself and accept all the responsibility for everything because one thought it was expected. That same folly had more than once been his.

The elf prince cocked his head thoughtfully, then shook it. "I shall never understand Edain," he declared flatly.

"And the Eldar are so much less confusing," the ranger replied sarcastically, a touch of laughter in his voice. How many times had he declared the same of the elvish race?

"Of course," Legolas deadpanned.

"Legolas, mellon nin," Aragorn began earnestly, leaning forward and looking him straight in the eye. "Any race that will respond to a question with the answer and its opposite can only be confusing."

Legolas snorted.

Abyl emerged from a back room bearing a bundle of dark brown and carrying a pair of boots. Shifting his bundle to one arm, he used the other to grab something from behind the bar then stalked toward them with a hard expression just short of hostile. Aragorn dropped back to the floor and waited patiently, his expression bland.

The boy stopped before them and dropped the bundle on the table before Aragorn. "Here. The rest will be ready by morning." Keys were slapped on the table before Legolas. "Your rooms are upstairs. Look at the number on the key." Without another word, curt or otherwise, the lad disappeared back into the back room.

Aragorn blinked, nonplused, then calmly began removing Legolas' shoes from his feet. He pulled the boots off the table and slipped them, one at a time, on his feet, nodding in approval when they fit perfectly. Then he stood.

Legolas looked bemused, but quickly slipped his own shoes back on. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to take advantage of my bed." He had a feeling Abyl would not return until they had locked themselves safely away fro the night so he would not need to speak to them. With no further reason to remain near the bar, there was no need to keep the lad from his chores. He picked up the clothes and one of the keys. "Coming?"

"Might as well," the elf prince answered. "That way I can make sure the stairs don't defeat you." The elf simply smiled at the glare Aragorn shot him.

The stairway was not lit, but light from both levels seeped into it so it was not dark. The stairs were well-made, the planks of thick and hardy wood. A banister at about weight height ran up each side of the wall, as thick and solid-looking as everything else, much to Legolas' amusement. He was beginning to think this lace was built to cater to trolls, except none of the objects were big enough to actually be of use to a troll that was truly smart enough to use any of them as they were meant. For Men built like trolls, then? He snorted with laughter.

Aragorn frowned at him questioningly when he reached the upper landing and could turn to face the elf without taking a misstep and either falling down the stairs or tripping up them (likely to be followed by sliding down them, and he really did not want that. Stone steps were painful enough, and they did not leave splinters). "Something amuses you?" he inquired archly, peering over the bundle of cloth in his arms.

"Just thinking about trolls," his friend replied carelessly, moving past him.

Trolls? was his initial, alarmed thought. He quickly decided, however, that he did not want to know. Flipping the key in his hand, Aragorn held it up to the light from a nearby torch and found the number inscribed on the metal, then he turned and started walking. A glance at a nearby door gave him a reference point.

Sharp silver eyes caught sight of Legolas disappearing through a doorway near the end of the hall and he hurried after him. The elf was just emerging when he arrived. "Cozy," the fair being commented wryly.

Aragorn glanced past him. A bed was pressed against one wall, taking up nearly half of a second, with a small dresser and bedside table being the only other furniture. All in all, there was about four feet of walking space, most of it in a straight line-- assuming one did not walk on the furniture, that was. "At least it's not a cave."

A withering glare answered him.

He smiled blithely and glanced around, quickly discovering his room was just across the hall. It had similar furniture, but someone had arranged them differently, somehow coming up with several feet more space than had existed in the elf's room.

"I think you predecessor disagreed, mellon nin," Legolas said amusedly from behind him.

"So it would seem," he agreed wryly. He dropped his burden on the bed and began sorting through them, finding tunic, under-tunic, and breeches, all in various shades of brown. He held up the top shirt. "Do you think Abyl's trying to tell me something?"

"He thinks you look filthy, too," Legolas assured. With a quick smile, the elf back out of the room and closed the door.

Taking that as a sign that he was supposed to do something about his filthy appearance (and not put out in the least), he obediently began shedding his soiled riding clothes and pulled on the clean replacements. Ideally, he needed a bath, but just changing into clothes that had no been worn for nearly a month straight was bliss.

Old clothes on the floor, he collapsed onto the bed and closed his eyes.

Abyl heard the strangers clamber up the stairs, their steps quiet thumps like a distant drum, but he did not move. He stood where he was and continued to pack food, listening with half an ear for the movement upstairs to stop.

It was times like this when he wished his father had not gotten tired of living in Minas Tirith, wished his mother had not been so keen to make her husband happy, wished he had realized what leaving would bring and put up a fuss. With older eyes, he could see that his parents had wanted him to be happy, unburdened by the darkness of war, and he wished they had wanted it less. Had they never left, they would all be safe inside the white walls of his true home, and he would not be scrubbing tables in a bar in a simple town and waiting for two strangers to leave so he could go back to doing what he did best: pretending.

Pretending he was happy living in the middle of nowhere. Pretending he did not miss his mother more every day. Pretending he did not hate his father for making the decision that brought them here so she could die. Pretending he was strong. Pretending he did not hate his neighbors for being cowards and leaving his mother to stand alone. Pretending he did not hate his mother for fighting them in the first place and giving them reason to kill her. Pretending he did not hate himself for not being there when she needed him most.

Pretending he was not afraid. Pretending that most of all. And if he tried hard enough, he could pretend he was not pretending at all. He could stand back and look at all the silly, scared people around him and say they were jumping at shadows. He could be normal and pretend nothing bad had ever happened. That was how he liked it.

Then these two strangers came and without the flicker of an eye tore down every illusion he had created, leaving him here, trying to ignore their presence and pretend everything was okay again.

The boy sighed and let his hands fall limp upon the table. He stared at them, noting how strong they looked from all the hard word of keeping the inn clean for his father, and wondering when they had become so weak that he should hide from the truth.

Irritably, he shook his head and walked back out into the bar, the room empty save for the merrily crackling flames of the fire. He could no longer hear movement above him and he set to work cleaning the dishes from the day, for a while doing nothing but watching the suds as they were pushed rhythmically by his rag. Up, down, up, around . . . then dunk. He put the glass down and picked up another.

Eventually, his mind turned from such mundane paths and started edging down another, picking its way slowly and carefully like it expected him to jump on it and rip it to shreds, moving carefully towards something that had been bothering him since the strangers had arrived and he had been pretending was not there. Something from a different night when he had been alone cleaning. . . .

He frowned as he worked. Jermy had been there. Excited, as usual; but excited about what? The answer danced away from him, as if determined not to be caught.

Jermy. . . . Jermy would enjoy the strangers, Abyl was sure. That boy had never lived outside this town, and anything that was different was fascinating, even if it was just walking down the street. He used to sit and listen for hours, raptly attentive, as Abyl told him about his home. Child-like, really, and he would bet everything he owned Jermy would really like to meet an elf and a ranger, especially since he was keen to meet those two strangers Siirl had--

His face paled.

Two strangers. . . . Two. But Jermy had said two Men. Surely it couldn't be--

He never completed the thought as the door burst open.

They had reached the trees.

The river was behind them, they had reached the trees, and still Elrohir followed. Kalya could not quite manage to feel relieved. She had expected him to protest long ago.

After Elladan fell and Elrohir collapsed, she had taken it as a blessing that he did not fight her. It was that much less time and effort spent trying to get away and going nowhere. He was a silent shadow as she led him in a run, miles passing into mile as the distance between them and their enemy lengthened. When they had reached the river, she felt sure they had lost them.

And now she had a feeling that was not enough.

Kalya listened to the slightly too heavy tread behind her, following by dent of something she did not understand, and resisted the urge to look behind her. She wanted to know if he was still hiding in his mind, taking solace in the past to escape the present, unaware of his surroundings. She wanted to know if he was finally seeing things that are or if he still clung to things that were. She wanted to know if his eyes were still empty, but she dared not look back. Some strange child-like fear, similar to the one that claimed if you did not see it, it was not really, told her if she did not look back, he would not demand what she could not do.

But if there was trouble? If they had not lost the Slyntari so completely as she thought? In a fight, he would be a liability to himself and to her if he had not gotten over it. She had to know.

A quick glance over her shoulder showed the elf to be six feet back, staring dully off to the side as he followed her steps as if by rote. Not ideal, but not as bad as she had feared. She was just about to turn around when his eyes locked on hers-- horribly intense-- and her fears were realized.

"Where are we?" he demanded harshly. The deceptively calm words snapped like a whip, clipped by a highly controlled rage that only showed through his eyes.

Like a chained animal, the thought skittered through her mind. She turned, surprised and cursing herself for that surprise. Damn but she hated elves. Forcing a calmness she did not feel, she nonchalantly replied, "Your worst nightmare."

"I meant an actual place, girl," he bit out, his irritation a nearly physical force as the trees rustled around them.

But that was okay: she was irritated, too. She stared stubbornly ahead regardless that he wanted her to face him and sassed, "We are west of Gondor, east of the Lefnui, south of the White Mountains and north of the Bay." Now she did look at him, and her eyes were as cold as his were hot. "Other than that, it does not matter for we shall not be here long."

Elrohir's face darkened, settling into a mask of determination as menacing as a storm. "Aye. We shall be going back for my brother."

Or not, she thought, but her tongue would not work to say it. She looked away, turning her attention back to the path before her. "Your brother is lost," she finally replied wearily. "You should Shirk kills him quickly."

"I will not!"

"Then you do him a disservice." Distance was good. She did not care what happened to the twins. She did not know them. She had tried to help them. Elrohir was free. One was better than nothing and if she ever saw Aragorn again, she could face him knowing she had done everything she could to help his brothers. End of story.

"I? I do him a disservice?" Elrohir demanded incredulously. His hand suddenly clamped around her arm and whirled her to face him. She would have fallen had his grip not prevented it. His eyes burned as twin flames and his hand tightened on her arm, but she could not move away as his words lashed at her furiously. "It is your fault he is captured! It is your fault he is alone! If you had taken greater care with your task, they would not have found us missing! If you had not held me back, I could have helped him! I should have helped him! He is my brother, my blood!"

Kalya wrenched her arm from his hand and stumbled back a few steps. She raised her chin and answered as coolly as she could manage, her words ringing with finality. "And he is lost to you. Deal with it."

Without waiting to see his reaction, the girl turned on her heel and stalked away, away from the elf and away from the camp, her hands shaking. Shirk had never gotten to her so badly. Never. She took a deep breath, held it, let it out. With every step she put between herself and Elrohir, she could feel herself calming, and when she was calm, she locked away all the doubts and concerns. She would not go back. Period.

Elrohir stood still a moment, watching Sierra retreat as his stunned mind tried to grasp what had just happened. When it did, he set his jaw and sprung after her, determined to make her see. He yelled, "I will not leave him!"

She did not turn as she answered with unquestioning certainty, still walking further from his brother. "Had you gone back down that mountain, you could not have helped him. Had you gone back down that mountain, you could have done naught but share his fate."

"He is my brother," he answered, his tone implying far more about the connection than the simple words he spoke. It was a claim and explanation in one, all the reason he needed to do anything.

"You would die," she countered.

"My life matters little."

"Not to him," she rejoined. "He wants you to live!"

Irritation swept through him. His voice was tense when he spoke. "Do not presume to speak for my brother!" he commanded, reaching out and forcing her to face him again. This time, she seemed to expect it and turned at his touch, moving out of his reach. "I will not abandon him!"

"You already have," she answered, cold as ice.

"No." He could not accept that. He would not accept that. They would go back and free him. "When are going back for Elladan?"

"Never," she declared. Her cold voice, emotionless face and condemning eyes showed no concern for the pain her declaration caused. His heart felt like it had been rent in two.

Unacceptable," he grit through clenched teeth.

She remained unmoved. "There is no other option."

"There is!" he insisted fervently. "While I still draw breath, there is!" He stared back the way they had come, looking for a way. He would find one. . . .

Kalya clenched her jaw, her eyes flashing as irritation flared through her control. "I could fix that for you," she offered caustically.

It took only a moment for Elrohir to register what she was saying, and when he did, he sprang. Quicker than she would have thought possible, he leapt at her, slamming into her and pushing her, hard, into a nearby tree. Lights flashed before her eyes as her head struck the bark. She gasped as her air was forced from her lungs. The hand she had placed over a dagger strapped to her thigh was caught in a grip like a vice, and Elrohir leaned his weight against the arm he held across her chest.

"You will die first," he promised darkly.

She forced an unsteady breath and reminded him, "Elladan told you to do as I say." Pinned as she was, she knew she had little chance of stopping him if he decided to go through with his claim. Then again, she had always known Death would find her. Perhaps she should let Elrohir kill her. That, too, could serve her purpose.

"Thanks to you," Elrohir growled, interrupting her musings, "Elladan is no longer here."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. She had not thought he would go back like that on his promise to his brother. No matter. She raised her chin defiantly. "He knew the risks when he set out," she told him boldly. "He agreed to them before we left, as did you. Is Elven word suddenly akin to that of Orcs?"

Her eyes widened as Elrohir suddenly leaned against her throat.

"Speak not another word or I will slit your throat!" he hissed furiously. Rage, pure and unbridled, lit his eyes. His hand wrenched the dagger from its holder and pressed it to her throat just under her chin, his other still constricting her airway. She wanted to pull his arms away, but she kept her hands to her sides. She was no more going to beg Elrohir than she had ever begged Shirk.

"You foul, miserable creature!" he condemned, his voice soft and lethal. "There is no honor or worth in you! You soil the land upon which you walk, the air which you breath! Spiteful, evil wench: you deserve to die." Inexplicably, he eased up on her throat, allowing her to draw breath. "But for my brother, I will spare your life. He saw some worth in you which I cannot. Will you come with me?"

At risk of a crushed neck or slit throat, she answered, "You may as well slit my throat, Elf. Not for all the gold and jewels under the sun would I venture back into that camp!"

Elrohir's jaw clenched. "Coward!" he burst out. "You are not worth my time." He stepped back and angrily flung her dagger into the ground by her feet. "Go rot in hell," he bid.

"You will beat me there," she replied when perhaps she should have remained silent. She stepped cautiously away from the tree.

"I will not abandon my brother to torment and death!" he proclaimed, whirling on her suddenly so she took a half step back. His eyes were wide and wild.

"The only thing you will accomplish is to suffer beside him," she told him, the reason she even bothered when she had known this was coming lost to her mind. "Suffer and die!"

That, curiously, resolved him. Elrohir drew himself up to his full height and nodded to her solemnly. "If that is all I can do, then so be it." His word had been given, she could feel it. He would rescue his brother.

Or he would die trying.

Shaken, resentful, and confused, she nodded coldly. "Go, then and die so I may trouble myself no more about you."

His eyes were as clear now as she had ever seen them, merciless blue burning with a cold fire, the very essence of elven fury. They seemed to pierce through to her soul. "Trouble yourself no more," he agreed darkly. "It would be a shame if you actually cared about someone other than yourself."

He spun, the cloak flapping majestically about him, powerful and terrifying, as he stalked away.

Kalya did not breath as she watched him turn and run back towards the camp where his twin was held and the Slyntari were waiting. Only when he passed out of sight and beyond her hearing did she move. She glared at the trees, at the dark sky that lay beyond, at the ground, at the elf whose words echoed through her head. She glared and summoned every shred of anger she could muster, focusing it to drown out the voices in her head; then she picked up her dagger and ran.

She tore through the trees as quick as her legs would carry her, sprinted for all she was worth until her breathing grew ragged and her chest ached, until her legs burned and she felt she would have to stop or fall. Then she stopped, planted her feet, and hurled her dagger into a tree thirty feet away. It quivered where it hit, mocking her.

She glared at it, cursed it, but it did not change. She stalked forward and yanked it from the tree, feeling a vindictive sort of pleasure when the wood cracked. She kept going. She did not feel better, but she would not look back.

Review Responses: (I miss my stars and squiggles! sniff)

Rangergirl: Kayla's back? looks confused I thought she's been here. She reviewed last chapter, too. Unless you meant Kalya? raises eyebrows lol. Em, I rather like that one, too. Thanks for voting! And reviewing! g

Grumpy: That was a cliffie? Oh. Eh, Kayla's not in this story. Kalya is though. g lol. So hard not to get those two little letters mixed up. Curses, huh? I think it sounds rather fun, too. Thanks for voting-- or re-voting!

Silver badger 31: Really? The first one? thinks for a minute You don't happen to know what that was, do you? I can't remember. blushes You've made my day, you have no idea. Thanks for reviewing!

Kayla: That makes my day. grins happily Here it is!

Nerfenherder: lol. Just use her other name. g Sorry, other people kept misspelling her name and I just found it humorous. I hope their reappearance isn't disappointing!

Veritas and Aequitas: blushes happily This chapter is as soon as I could make it. Hope you enjoy! Now, did you honestly think I was going to make this easy? g