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?

20. Found

Ah ha! Only a month! This calls for a celebration.... After I get some sleep. It's currently quarter after three, in the morning, and I should have long been in bed. But who cares? Lol. This one's nice and long and, I hope, interesting. And I don't know about you, but I'm tired of swordfighting. And horses. And the two of them together. I'll never do it again. Never.

Hehe. I've written so many action sequences over the last couple of chapters, I don't know what I'll do with the final big action sequence-- I'll have run out of ideas!

Oh, and a huge thank you for Niniel. She was gracious enough to do a lot of work looking up various stories for me, and I feel so guilty that the actual outcome is quite small. But I couldn't have finished this chapter without you. Hugs!

Another side note: I have an essay due in my Ancient Mythology class. I consider it a story. We're supposed to write a myth about an ancient hero of our own creation and it's due the Monday before Thanksgiving-- where I'm going with this, is that I won't be able to work on the next chapter until I've finished that. I can't afford to have another late essay. Valar willing, I'll finish it this weekend and have loads of free time to devote to the conflict between Kalya and Elrohir (lol) and be able to get the next chapter out as close to a month after this one as humanly possible.

Anything else.... Oh! A great big Thank-You-So-Much to everyone who is sticking with me through this crazy posting schedule. You guys are the best. Your kindness and encouragement (threats) and patience (especially patience) make this tedious rewrite so much fun. I love you all.

Ok, sappy moment over. On to the action.

Chapter 20

He had never seen his home so busy. Not even when the South Men had come that first time, when everyone had still been willing to fight, and it confused him that these strangers who had done nothing wrong would be treated worse than those responsible for the deaths of so many. It frustrated him.

Jermy ducked into the shadows between two buildings as a group of riders rushed past. The wind of their passage pulled at his clothes and he could not help but peek after them. They almost looked majestic atop their fine steeds, more than just simple common folk. There was something beautiful about a horse and his rider, about the love between man and beast, that called to the soul of every son of Rohan.

One day, he swore, he would be one of them, and he would ride a handsome steed and wield a gleaming blade the enemy would fear. And he would fight the right enemy. The true enemy.

He glanced back the way they had come, his eyes sweeping the street hurriedly to check that no one was watching, then slipped from his hiding place and darted up the street three buildings before slipping into a similar crack on the other side. Moving quickly but carefully, he slipped between the buildings to the next street.

Sneaking from crevice to crevice avoiding grown-ups in the dim light of dawn brought back memories of years past. He remembered trying to wake with the sun every morning so he could beat his father to breakfast and get the sugar-topping in his cereal, then doing his best to disappear before chores began so his father would get a chance to play without mom yelling at him. He had always thought it was exciting, hiding so close to the adults without them knowing he was near. That was where the best stories were told, when they thought they were alone.

His imagination had been fed on robbers and thieves, waylaying travelers and stealing their jewels, the worst of which also took lives; orcs and goblins that terrorized travelers in the mountains; elves that enchanted the unwary, took you to their mythical lands and stole you from your family; great wars where men with strange names won love and awe from the people who spoke of them; but his favorite story had always been that of the king, the king of legend who was to one day come back to free his lands from shadow. Abyl told him there would be a war, then, and he used to dream he was one of the knights that would fight by the king's side. That would be a wonderful story. . . .

He slowed to listen as he reached the corner. Any words he heard were jumbled and indistinct, and curiosity pulled him forward to see what was going on. Brianin's house stood before him, the old Caldon place beside it. Curtains were pulled over both pairs of windows but, unlike other nights, he had no desire to see what was within. Instead, he edged closer and peered around the corner, looking first one way and then the other.

To the west, he saw two more hurrying between doorways, knocking quickly until someone answered the door, their words urgent, then moving away to repeat the process as the doors were closed behind them. He frowned. Warning the women to stay indoors? Or telling them to leave? It almost did not matter.

To the east, though, not three streets away, he saw a pair of riders hurry past, not even bothering to glance to either side in search of the ranger or his friend. Did that mean they were found? He glanced back at the men. Were they telling everyone the threat was over? But why would they not be coming out to celebrate?

He watched them a moment longer, turning those thoughts over in his mind. Abruptly, though, he turned and headed in the opposite direction, following the riders he had seen. They would be going to help with the strangers, he was nearly certain, and that was where he needed to be. If they had been captured, maybe he could help. It had looked like they were headed for Donnie's Square. Was that where they had been going to take the strangers? He had thought . . . but no, that did not matter. Maybe they had changed their minds. Maybe he had understood wrong.

He could not help the slight frown that pinched his face as he moved to follow, trying to walk down the street like he was supposed to be there yet go unnoticed and still trying to work out the situation in his head. It was hard, and he almost wished Abyl was with him. His friend had always been good at that kind of thing and if anyone could figure it out, it was him. But why was it so hard?

He was distracted from those thoughts upon reaching the largest intersection. The boy glanced behind him, but for all their energy, the messengers were not paying attention to him at all, so he risked peeking around the side of to check that no one was waiting for him before moving onto the street.

If felt like he was on one of those adventures Abyl used to tell him about. A hero, like Beren on his quest for one of the beautiful Silmarils, or like Eorl who led his people to win a war. It did not matter that he was alone while both his idols had had companions. He already knew he was different than all of them because he was no fierce warrior. He was just a simple boy of no great name or deed, lacking even a sword. But to him, that did not matter. Stealth--

A high scream split the air, making him jump. His head swiveled up and over, locking on the direction of the cry, his pale green eyes wide in his thin face. Instinctively, he stilled to listen, catching the other sounds he had overlooked: grunts, exclamations of pain and surprise, crashes, a slow rumbling of hooves no moving in concert, screams. . . .

He was running before he realized he was moving, no longer worried if he was seen, cutting between buildings like a racer so he could see with his eyes what he heard with his ears. He had to know-- had to see what was going on; neither the ranger nor the elf could make those screams. Had he been wrong? Would they-- no, no; he would not believe ill of them until he had seen it with his own eyes! But his mind whispered 'there's no one else. There's no one else here.' He ignored it to keep running. Regardless of what he found, he could help. He knew he could. He had to.

His hand hit part of the gate as he slid too close between buildings, scratching the back of his hand so red welled in some of the lines. He ignored it, and only braced his hand on the wall as he stumbled to the end, half-crouching behind a feed barrel to see what was going on.

It was nothing like he had expected. It was not even what he feared. It was worse than fear, worse that what he could have imagined because it was real. The South Men were here.

They charged back and forth over the square, more than a dozen strong, running down men, women, children who caught their eyes. It was a slaughter. Horses reared, riders panicked, and everyone ran. Across the way, a group of men watched, smiles on their faces as more of his people died. Still more forced their way into the houses. Sometimes he caught laughter before a mother and her child would run, screaming out of the house-- straight into the killing field, where they were toyed with. He felt sick.

His eyes could not help but find the dead, drawn to the motionless bodies by a force he could not explain. He saw the blood, the lifeless eyes, the severed limbs. His breath cam in raspy jerks. How could they do this?

A door slammed, wrenching his gaze from the dead. A woman raced from the building, shrieking, her nightdress torn, puling a small boy behind her. She was right out in the middle of the street before she noticed what was happening, then she started running his way instead. Blood marked her arm, spider-webbed her face, and the little boy clutched a bear, scared to silence as he was dragged along. She never saw the rider come up behind her. He did not see it until it was too late.

The man was but feet behind her, having appeared like an avenging ghost. Jermy's eyes widened, but his throat was closed. Helplessly, his eyes caught the blood stained sword as it rose, then followed it as it fell, finding the woman's face as she gasped in pain and surprise. Blood welled in her hanging mouth and overflowed her chin. Her panicked steps stopped, and her eyes glittered, focused on nothing. The man rode past without a second glance, and Jermy winced when the woman fell forwards, striking the ground like a limp doll.

From where he stood, he could see the large red stain on her back, and could not help but see her face before his eyes, slackening in surprised pain, freezing as life abandoned her. He had never thought-- never thought to think-- that death was like that. Death was for the old, leaving in their sleep. It was for warriors, fighting bravely while protecting the innocent and getting rid of evil, the fruit of their valor. It was not supposed to be women, his people, those helpless without a sword.

He choked on a sob, and felt tears escape his eyes. He wiped at them shakily, trying to look anywhere but at her still form. His eyes darted back the way she had come and caught movement. He focused on it in unreasoning hope. Maybe-- But he saw the little head of red hair and nearly started in surprise. The boy! The little boy! How had he forgotten?

Jermy looked around feverishly, trying to make sure none of the South Men were nearby. None were. For the moment, attention seemed to be elsewhere. He looked back to the boy. Without stopping to think, he darted out from his hiding place and knelt next to the child.

"Momma?" he heard as he wrapped his arms around the little one's waist. The child stiffened and more tears choked his small voice. "Momma?"

"Momma can't hear you," he breathed and picked the boy up.

He shrieked like someone was torturing him and Jermy automatically let go, moving away as he tried to soothe the child. "Sh, sh! Sh, little one. I won't hurt you, sh! Sh!"

Watery hazel eyes looked at him warily, the little boy ready to scream again at a moment's notice. How do you reason with a four-year-old? He tried smiling. "Would you like to play a game?"

"Want Momma."

"You remember Hide-Me, Seek-Me?" he continued, ignoring the boy's declaration. "You want to hide while I'm It?"

"Want Momma."

"What's your name?"

"Tivin."

"Well, Tivin, Momma's counting. She needs you to run and hide so she can find you." Jermy glanced up in time to see one of the South Men looking straight at him. His insides felt like ice. He saw the man gesture; he looked back at the child. "How 'bout that? You want Momma to find you?"

Tivin nodded.

"Then we need to hide quickly. . . ." He was relieved when the boy took his hand. It evaporated when he saw the man riding towards him. He swallowed. Maybe if they could just reach the houses. . . . "Come on, Tivin." The boy kept glancing at his mother. "Momma can't find you until you hide."

Jermy glanced back. He could see a smirk on the South Man's face. With a hopeless shudder, he realized they would never make the barrel. He could hear the clap of the horse's hooves coming ever closer. But maybe-- Tivin had been overlooked once; maybe he could be overlooked again.

"Run, Tivin! Get to the barrel quick! I'm right behind you!" He watched the boy dart off. Just before Tivin made it to the barrel, when Jermy felt the little one was safe, he turned. He saw the blade raised high; it gleamed as rays of the sun caught its length.

It's clean, he thought. It was the last one.

()()()()()

They were closer than he had thought. Charging forward at full-speed, they reached the intersection before he could run two steps. Legolas ignored them, focusing instead on reaching Ardevui. She had run like he had instructed but not so far that she lost sight of her master. If only she had not run so far!

The ground speed past beneath him, fairly flying beneath his heels. His eyes stayed focused on Ardevui as tension coiled within him. Seconds seemed to stretch forever as he waited for them to notice him, to attack him, and nervous anticipation built within him. Could he make it? Would they miss him? Why had they not attacked him yet? Were they playing with him? He felt like he was shaking. He felt like he would burst. But he was nearly there, nearly to Ardevui. . . .

"There!" someone cried. He almost felt relieved at the shout, feeling the world fall back into place. Ardevui was mere feet before him; for a moment, he allowed himself to think he would make it. Then his keen ears caught the sharp twang of multiple bowstrings.

Instinctively, he ducked, folding in on himself as he ran. One passed by his head and he veered right even as a new volley was released. Ardevui neighed in distress, an arrow buried in her flank. "Go, Ardevui! Go!" he yelled. "Noro lim!" He caught a bloody gash across her back before he lost sight of her.

The lithe elf darted up the steps before him. Out of sight! I need to get out of sight. He headed straight for the door, reaching out before he got there to grasp the doorknob. His hand curled around it and twisted, then he hit the door with his shoulder so he would not have to slow, but the door did not budge.

He slammed into the sturdy wood heard enough to shake the walls. He staggered back, grimacing in pain, half-convinced he broke his shoulder. He did not pause to be sure, though, only taking one step back before running again. He jumped the porch railing and landed lightly back on firm ground. Two arrows bore into the wooden rail almost even with his head. He glanced back and saw part of the group split off to try and corner him on the next street over. The rest continued forward to cut off a retreat.

He sprinted down the narrow lane as quickly as he could and burst out the other side without pause. He already knew he would not find respite here and had no intentions of seeking it. He headed directly for the next pass between buildings, barely sparing a glance to either side. A pair of arrows streaked past him, neither a threat. A third embedded in the dirt three feet behind him, then he was in the narrow alley between houses.

Shouts followed him, drifting after him as the South Men struggled to keep up with him. The rapid clicks of hooves hovered under them, background to angry curses. he ignored them in favor of figuring out where he was going to go.

Outnumbered at least twelve to one, under-armed, and reacting to his enemy, he was even worse off than he was before. Too late, he realized he would have been better off fighting the six on horseback. How much better off was impossible to tell, but he was determined to live long enough to give it some serious thought. First, though, he needed to go from prey to predator.

The elf emerged into the next street to find himself alone. Moving quickly, he crossed to the nearest house with a porch. He hopped up on the rail near one of the supports, grabbed the edge of the roof, and pulled himself up, using the pole for the extra traction he needed. He could hear them close upon him as he gained the top and threw himself down flat upon the roof just as the men turned the corner.

Legolas lifted his head cautiously to try and catch what they were doing. At the intersection, he could just make out one who appeared to be the leader gesturing several men to the next street. A livid scar ran from mid-forehead across his left eye to the corner of his mouth. He hung back as the rest of his men began searching the street. He put his head back down and carefully eased further from the roof's edge. He stared at the wood grain as he listened to them moving around below him.

He heard horses trotting, horses walking, the nearly echoing silence from when they stopped, the crunch of sand under bootheel as they got down to check more easily between buildings, and, punctuating all that, raised voices as they reported their failure.

"He's not here!"

"He's not at the east end!"

"My road is clear."

"Stev! How's it going?"

"You ever tried to track an Elf? Them devils don't leave hardly a trace on snow!"

"Watch your tongue! Or do you forget whom we serve?"

"I'm just saying I can't find his trail. Once he got here, he could've gone anywhere."

Legolas took from the silence that followed that now was a good time to move on. Humans were habitually ground-bound, rarely looking above their heads; but Aragorn had shown that not all men were so handicapped, and ones who had had association with the firstborn tended towards such realizations quicker (or he had just been unlucky enough to meet the exceptions to the rule) than most. The last thing he wanted to do was wait around long enough for these men to get the bright idea to check the roof.

He turned his attention to the wood beneath him, seeing it instead of just staring at it. It was paneled and uneven. There were cracks at irregular intervals all across it and he wondered that they did not fix it. What did they do in the rainy season?

Moving carefully, all thoughts of human eccentricies pushed resolutely from his mind, the elf slid his hands forward just above the surface and settled his fingers into the crevices. He glanced back, caught his toes in similar holds, and cautiously eased himself further away from the ledge and to the west. He would decide where he was going after he broke their screen.

Not that that was easy. Or quick. He thought he had seen centipedes who moved quicker than he was now, but there was little he could do. Easing along the roof at foot at a time was as much as he could manage unless he wanted to stand up and announce his presence to his enemy, rendering his disappearing act and subsequent wait useless. And he still had to figure out how he was going to bridge the gap between this building and the next. It was not large but he still could not accomplish it as he was.

Will make a great handhold, though, he thought, almost savagely. He felt utterly ridiculous. The only thing that could be worse than crawling on his belly hiding from his enemies would be crawling on his belly through the mud hiding from his enemies. But that slight distinction did little to soothe his pride.

Being treated like a criminal was nothing new and he could handle it easily. Even being scorned by the secondborn, who were not as strong nor as wise as his kind, was something he expected and could overlook. It was this fleeing, this hiding to avoid the enemy, that rankled him. Wood-elves did not hide.

Unless they had to. He sighed. Elladan and Elrohir are going to owe me for this.

He curled his hands over the edge and pulled himself to the gap. For a moment he stared down the two foot wide drop to the ground below, contemplating it silently. small wooden boxes, crates, and a barrel were piled about; he wondered what was inside them. He stretched across the gap without finding out, grasping the other building as best he could with his hands. Listening, he could tell none of the men were near enough to see him.

He risked pushing himself up a little higher and shifted forward until he could brace his elbows on the roof. Then he walked forward, looking like some strange, tail-less weasel. That mental picture did nothing to soothe his smarting pride either, and his elbows were sore by the time he made it to the other side. He did not look forward to repeating the process. The rooftops stretched long before him.

Only his dedication to his friends kept him going; the voices of the men, ever present, kept him from simply standing up. It was a near thing, though, when they turned to forcing their way into houses instead of just searching the street.

The first terrified scream had halted him in his tracks. Risking exposure, he had peered over the side to see women and children of all ages forced from their homes and thrown roughly into the street. Only the fact that they seemed too intent with capturing him to actually harm the people had kept him to his resolve to run, never mind the knowledge that he was no good to Aragorn or the twins dead.

He was also inexpressibly annoyed that they had not moved on after finding the street empty. More than one person had suggested just that, but the leader always shot it down with a persistence that would have convinced Legolas he knew he was there if not for the fact that he was still hidden.

Upon reaching the last roof, he was presented with a new problem. The elf slowed and approached the edge more carefully having heard movement. He was forced to wriggle forward on his stomach like a snake and winced as little bits of wood pricked him. He eased an eyes over the side and found a man waiting below.

He was dressed in the same dark, well-made clothing as the rest of the South Men. His dark hair was long and curly, and sharp eyes darted back and forth to take in both sides of the street. He had a square face with the kind of sharply chiseled features that suggested they had been chipped from stone, giving him a rather stern look; and he paced haphazardly across the street, starting and stopping, lingering and taking half-steps amid hurried full strides. It suggested to the prince that he knew he should not pace but was too restless to abide his own advice. That, more than his looks, told him that the man was still relatively young.

But that still left him with the question of what to do. The human was not nearly bored enough to let him sneak past, and he was too alert to be taken completely by surprise, even by an elf. He could probably throw his dagger and kill the man before he could cry out, but his body hitting the floor would alert the others and Legolas would be weaponless. Besides, it would confirm he was still in the area and he was still painfully aware of the villagers. These men were the type to prey on the innocent to force his surrender, but as they did not appear to have thought of it, he was in no hurry to do something that might inadvertently press it into their minds. Killing the men in battle was one thing; causing the slaughter of innocents was quite another.

He peered hard at the men, then pulled back and rolled away from the edge, peering up at the slowly brightening sky as he considered the situation. His ears registered anguished cries while his mind focused on getting him off the roof and away from it undetected. The wind that ghosted over his skin was chill. for long minutes, he did not move.

Suddenly, he did. Rolling quickly, he twisted on his stomach and headed determinedly back the way he had come. The space between buildings came quicker this time, and he peered down it, looking for something in particular, something he thought he remembered seeing on a house further back and thought might be common to all the houses. He found it easily.

Most human buildings he had seen had two exits: one in the front, the other in the back. The purpose of the second door varied from place to place, but it was consistently for private use, for the family or workers in a store to take trash out without going past the customers. Here, where the backs of buildings were so close together, almost like friends guarding each other's backs, there was not enough space for even the smallest child to squeeze through. So they put the doors where there was room-- along the side.

He cautiously shifted around to descend feet-first, the task made more difficult by the fact that he could not sit up. Keeping his head down while sliding far enough to brace his feet against either side with little to hold onto to stop him from simply dropping a dozen feet was more than just a little awkward, but he managed it in silence and had never been so glad to set his feet on solid ground.

The door opened easily (he had half feared it would be locked) and silently, and he slipped inside, pulling the door closed behind him. He found himself in a dark room lit only by the hint of orange glow from the next room over. He pushed aside the cloth that hung in the doorway and found himself in he kitchen. Most of the light came from the stove along the back wall, a pot held over the fire and its contents still sizzling; they had been about to have breakfast. His eyes scanned the small room for something useful.

A tables, two chairs; various pots, pans and bowls; a wash basin stood kitty-corner to the stove. Little else. His eyes eventually landed on a chopping knife, placed carefully aside to await further use. He picked it up without looking at it and moved through the next doorway. A bed lay against one wall, nearly made except fro the top left corner. Nothing else of interest occupied the room. The last and largest room hosted the front door and held various chairs and couches, rugs and other comforts and decorations. Curtains hung over the windows.

Legolas frowned as he walked towards the door. He could see the splintered wood where the lock had been forced, the lock itself still intact. He fingered it idly, picturing a man kissing a woman good-bye and telling him to keep the door locked until he returned. what he had hoped to find here, he could not quite remember. Voices drifted in from outside, muffled.

"Come on, boss. He's not here! We're wasting time."

"He's here."

"We've checked this street from one side to the other along with the ones to either side and come up empty."

"Then check it again."

"He's probably moved on."

"Check it again!"

He heard several pairs of steps hurry away. He wondered, if he had kept running, if they would still have focused their search here. What had tipped them off he was here in the first place? Had not the tracker been unable to find his trail?

"They won't find anything. If he was still in the streets, he's long gone or gone somewhere else."

"Somewhere else?" the other scoffed. "Where? The roof?"

Silence followed. The elf could just image the startled look the man exchanged with his companion. Then, "Get someone up on the roof!"

Many thumps and curses followed that order, and Legolas wished he could see them trying to scramble up the side of the building. They would probably put a group of bumbling dwarves to shame. A smirk twisted his lips. Maybe not finding him would convince them he had left. In any case, his trip had apparently not been wasted.

He took a last look around then drifted back the way he had come. The stove caught his eye upon entering the kitchen and he smelled the food that was still cooking away. His stomach rumbled lightly and he gave in to the impulse to take the food off the fire, lifting it away and settling it carefully upon the holder set in the middle of the table. He identified bacon, ham, and sausage amid the grease and nearly laughed. Meat, all of it. Aragorn, apparently, was not the only one who was still growing. His grin widened.

Footsteps thumped loudly overhead and he cast a wary eye up to the ceiling, which trembled with each heavy thud. Dust shifted down from the rafters, forming a kind of cloud. He turned his head away when the gray specks tried to find his eyes.

The reason for stomping across the roof all the way to the edge before turning back eluded him as there was no possible place to hide with that street being watched and the only notable construction a small pipe that directed the smoke from the stove up into the air, and that was only large enough to hide a squirrel though the tail was likely to give it away. Still, maybe there was a purpose. Aragorn would sometimes reach the same conclusion he did off seemingly unconnected evidence. . . .

He drifted back and watched the little dips that marked the man's progress march east. When they slowed near the gap and did not continued on to the other roof, he drifted to the divide. The last thing he needed was the man to realize down was the only place he could have gone, and the side door the most convenient way to disappear. . . .

The man's feet thud-thudded against the side of the building. Legolas' eyes narrowed. Was he getting ready to climb down? The racket he was making suggested the answer was yes and he was finding it more difficult it even more difficult than Legolas had. He raised a hand to push the curtains aside, then--

"Pritch! What in the hell-fires are you doing?"

He froze.

"Looking, boss!"

"Looking? Looking?! Looking for what? The rest of your brain! Is it up there or not?"

"No, but--"

"No? Then get down here, we have work to do!"

The other muttered darkly, his words lost to the elf's ears as he clicked his heels sharply against the wood. Then he started trying to get down again, his feet scratching against the sides. Suddenly, then dropped. There was a loud crash as wood split, then a thud. The walls of the house shook. Legolas listened closely as several other people rushed over, picked him up and started leading him away. One of them put his hand in the middle of the door. It gave slightly and bumped against its frame, but nobody seemed to care.

Legolas released the breath he had been holding as relative quiet returned, evidencing their retreat. Maybe they would move on and he could leave with no trouble. It would be much easier to find Aragorn and Ardevui if he did not need to run constantly to avoid capture. He started to turn back, but stopped.

His relief evaporated as scraping metal drifted to his ears. The front door creaked as it was forced open. His hand clutched the borrowed knife and he stepped closer to the wall, listening, waiting.

"Dago!"

The man stopped, still in the doorway, and half pulled the door shut as he leaned back out. "Yeah, boss?"

"Grab some of the food, too! I'm hungry!"

"Sure thing." Dago continued inside, his gait easy and careless; he swung the door most of the way closed behind him. Had he been worried someone suspected he was hiding in this house, this man would have dispelled any lingering apprehension. He did not even glance around as he reached the table and plucked a sausage link from the pan; he was humming slightly as he dropped it in his mouth and turned towards the couple's bedroom.

Legolas had been ready to drop the man the instant he entered the kitchen, but a kind of disgusted fascination had stilled his hand when the man ignored everything in favor of food. He stayed prepared to spring in case food made him more observant, but Dago did not so much as twitch his direction.

Disbelief had him stare after the man, almost willing the other to turn around, as if occurred to the Mirkwood prince that he could yet pass unseen despite the proximity of the enemy, and would likely have no need to worry about future searches because the ever observant Dago would say no one was here. It was an incredible proposition; he felt nearly breathless thinking about it. But something else had caught his eye and drove the thought to the back of his mind, a nagging reminder to hold him motionless.

Thrown over the man's shoulder to hang with his quiver along his back was a bow. He could see its gentle curve even in the gloom and followed it to where it hung about mid-thigh. His experienced gaze studied it, seeking out imperfections. It lacked the same elegance as his own bow, being a work of men and not elves, but it appeared to be well-made. It was impossible to be sure until he had held it, of course.

In his mind, he waged a battle even as he silently followed Dago after the man disappeared into the bedroom. He could still go unnoticed, do nothing, and hopefully be overlooked so he would be free to search out Aragorn. Or he could kill Dago (ridding the free peoples of Middle-earth of one more menace) and take his bow, then hope he could disappear before the South Men figured out where he was. That assumed, also, that he managed to slip away without being caught.

A part of him whispered that he should just stay still, let them draw whatever conclusion they wanted about his presence, then leave when they had moved on; he would be free to help Aragorn. That freedom could prove invaluable. Yet a bigger part yearned to feel the curve of his favorite weapon, the power in the taut string. His fingers itched with the desire to run along the smoothed wood. With a bow in his hands, even if it was not his own, he would no longer be so helpless, so limited.

And what if the villagers kill Aragorn while I am hiding in the dark? The thought, that fear, made it easier to decide what his heart wanted.

He shut out the voice that whispered he should have stayed put and crept forward. He could hear Dago digging noisily through the dresser drawer, slamming them shut when he did not find what he was looking for.

"Don't these damn yokes have anything?" A particularly loud boom followed.

Legolas peeked around the door frame. Dago was starring at a solid wooden dresser like he wanted to smash it to pieces and kicked it for good measure. A string of curses met his ears as the man pulled open the top drawer and began moodily shoving things aside.

Far from impressed, he slipped into the room doing his best to ignore the words pouring from the other's mouth. It was remarkable how similar men and orcs could be. His lip twitched as he lifted the knife above his head. Anyone who could be compared to an orc deserved to meet their fate--

He twisted his wrist and brought the handle down against the back of the man's skull. A dull thunk reached his ears and the invectives abruptly cut off as Dago collapsed. In a battle, he would not have hesitated to kill this piece of scum, but he would not stab him in the back like a coward. He would not become his enemy.

His jaw clenched, he stripped the man's weapons, put them on, and strode from the room. Whatever else, for better or worse, he now had to leave, and he could not wait before he made his move. And no matter what he told himself, he could not silence the little voice that told him he had just sacrificed his friends for a bow and some arrows. It made him wish for an orc to kill.

Legolas strode past the kitchen table without a glance, all hunger (and humor) forgotten. A sweep of his hand pushed the curtain aside, and his step never faltered even as he was surrounded by darkness. Only at the door, his hand resting on the handle, did he pause.

Silence greeted him from the other side. No one stood in the alley, that was good enough for him. He pushed open the door and stepped outside, then carefully shut the door behind him, taking great care not to let it thump too loudly. Too late, he realized that was the least of his worries.

". . . fool. Should learn to hold onto his weapon-- hey!"

The man had walked around the corner without seeing him, and Legolas started at hearing his voice. For a breath, each stared at the other, then the man's startled exclamation reached his ears. In the blink of an eyes, he had raised the bow and notched an arrow. It flew with the man's in-drawn breath and lodged in his chest before he could utter another word.

The elf turned and kicked an ivory-hilted knife. He watched it spin off into the wall with detached curiosity. Someone died for that, he thought as he ran. The corner came upon him quickly but he had already decided the best thing to do was just run, and he did not pause as he emerged onto the simple street once more. Four men stood staring at him, shocked. He shot the one blocking his exit without breaking stride.

The paralysis holding the other three broke. Two went for their own bows as the third yelled, announcing to his companions that the elf had escaped. He could hear the commotion the cry caused. Then he was in the intersection. An arrow flew past his head, shot by the curly-haired youth he had viewed from his roof-top vantage. He did not slow, nor did he fire another arrow. Behind him, he could hear the tale-tell sounds of hooves. he was back where he started, in another place.

But now he was armed.

Even as he ran full-out, he knew he had a decision to make and make fast. Quick as he was, even elves could not outrun horses. He had made no plan of where he would go or what he would do once he broke free, but he made an effort now. Where should he go? He could still hear voices-- yelling, agitated, even if he could not make out what they said. An idea popped into his head.

He swerved suddenly, cutting between the first buildings he came to and darting out the other side. He sprinted out before a horse, and the beast reared, neighing in distress at the creature that startled it.

Broken curses reached his ears but he ignored them. He darted up the street past two, three, four houses like his feet had wings. An arrow flew past his head, close enough to stir his hair, and the elf knew it was time to turn again. Again he plunged down the next path he came to. He never expected to emerge into a teeming mass of human bodies.

He was half caught up in the rush-- carried, jostled-- and propelled half a dozen feet back the way he came before he found his feet. He pushed back the way he had come and they gave way easily before him, parting to let him pass like a hot knife through melting batter. He noticed most of them were women.

The end of the street was mere feet away, and it struck him he saw no new row of buildings for many yards. The way seemed to open up and the people streamed from it like water burst from a dam. He could hear the screams more clearly now, the terrified cries struck at him mercilessly like tiny ice picks. His heart misgave him about what he would find, but he could not stop.

His feet carried him to the edge and his wide eyes beheld chaos. Amid it, was a painfully familiar form, and he was in trouble.

()()()()()

He slipped through the streets largely ignored by the searching Rohirrim. He was known to them; he was not their quarry, so they left him alone. alone to search the lightening streets for his own quarry. If their frustrated words were anything to go by, they were having no more success than he was.

He was not quite sure how he felt about that. By no means did he wish death upon the strangers who had stumbled into his life, but neither did he wish failure upon his neighbors. It was an uncomfortable sort of situation to find himself hoping the strangers would be successful over the ones who had become his people-- the ones who had taken them in when his family left Gondor. So when his thoughts shied away from the topic, he let them.

Of more concern to him was Jermy, and the frustration he heard found an echo in his own heart. Their search was unsuccessful, his search was unsuccessful; but it was a hollow comradeship. Both feared, but they did not hear for their prey. He feared for his friend.

Abyl listened to the commotion around him as he quickly stepped out of the way of a group of riders. They did not ask him if he had seen anyone, did not tell him to go inside, nor demand to know why he was not helping. Indeed, they did not glance at him at all, their focus solely beyond him. For a moment, he feared they had found the ranger and his friend, and his breath caught. But the street was empty.

His eyes traced their passage, following them around a curve and out of sight as a scream rang through the air. And with a physical click that stunned him, his mind locked onto what had been bothering him. The elusive piece of the puzzle slipped into place. the shouts and crashes that had been pounding in his ears for the last several minutes suddenly made sense.

Caivern's people were under attack. The women and children were in danger.

He was running before he even knew what he was doing, following his ears to where his mind had placed the commotion. He had known where it was coming from long before he knew what it was, and his feet carried him there without hesitation.

Windows, doors, building after building flashed past without a glance, each rising up around him in an effort to block his path. Questions flew through his mind, one after another just like the buildings: What will I do? What can I do? What if it's too late? Too late for what? What if it's over by the time I get there? What if they're gone? What if they're not?

Who are they? His questions floundered as he realized he did not know. Automatically, his mind turned to finding the answer. The elf and ranger came immediately to mind and were just as quickly dismissed. The sounds he heard were two widespread and numerous to be the work of just two beings, even if one of them was an elf. His mind flashed instead to the South Men-- and found purchase.

Dread seized him even as he pushed himself harder, faster. He needed to help his people. He burst from the close-built homes into the wide open space of Donnie's Square. And froze.

Imagining the horror and destruction of those moral-less men was nothing to seeing it. His eyes ranged helplessly over the chaotic mix of bodies. His stomach churned, twisting inside him, and he struggled to find a bit of solid ground within the tumult. A familiar face. . . .

His breath caught as he finally found who he had spent the night searching for and had not expected to find here. It occurred to him, with a sinking, hollow feeling that he should have known this was where he would find Jermy. Had he not always known that his friend did not understand the danger?

He did nothing (could do nothing, his feet frozen to the ground) as the Rohirrim youth convinced a little boy to come with him, ushering him away from the destruction of his people. He saw Jermy glance hurriedly over his shoulder and followed the look curiously. His gaze landed on a dark-brown horse with a dark-clad rider on top. Recognition flared through him and his heart-jolted, caught by the blade that swung into the air.

Brown eyes darted back to his friend, hoping against hope that he would be out of the way, but he was not. He watched the South Man gain on his friend and ached for a sword, a bow-- a weapon of any kind, and felt anguish grow inside of him as he realized his helplessness. He could do nothing to save his friend.

"NO!"

The cry ripped form his throat, a tortured cry alien to himself. Tears pricked his eyes and his throat closed in upon itself, strangling him. He barely noticed the little boy gaining the safety of the houses, nor the South Man's attention as his desperate cry turned the being's head. All he saw was Jermy. All he could see was his friend falling to the ground, his head severed from his body, surprise forever etched onto his innocent face.

All he knew was that his friend was gone, and he had failed him when he had needed him most. He did not notice as Jermy's fate charged towards him to claim his life.

()()()()()

The open space of the square surprised him almost as much as the chaos did. He had not seen it from afar and this was not how he would have wished to find it. Everywhere, people moved-- women with skirts flying, children on short legs, men both on horse and foot struggling against each other to protect or take. Fear was heavy and colors blurred: red, black, beige, white, brown, gray, green. . . .

Almost automatically, his eyes found the lone area of stillness amid the fervor: three men upon horseback. The tumult of their making gave them a wide berth and him a clear view. All wore dark colors with cloaks of light-leeching black, but it was the middle one that drew his eye, that sent a jolt of ice through his veins. Red stripes decorated the edges of his cloak.

Recognition left him cold. He had long suspected they would find the Slyntari at the end of their journey, but that did not prepare him for the reality of finding them in Caivern.

Without taking his eyes from the trio, he pulled the mare to a halt. She danced uneasily beneath him but he barely noticed. Should he run? Could he? His presence had not been noted yet. It would be so easy just to turn around and pretend he had never come. So easy, yet he found he could not move. The screams still echoed in his ears.

Indecision gripped him, held him immobile. He could leave, yes; but could he live with himself if he did? My whole life has been dedicated to the service of others that I might be worthy of my heritage. Who would such a retreat serve? His mind tried to answer his brothers, but his heart knew the answer to be himself. Miserable, his eyes traced the small, satisfied smirks on the Slyntari's faces. He followed their gaze idly to find what amused them. . . .

Aragorn hissed. His fist clutched convulsively around the grip of his sword, his body tense, but it was useless gesture. The boy was too far away for him to aid, and for once he would have preferred a bow to a blade. All he could do was watch as, across the square, Jermy met his doom. His helplessness soured in his mouth.

"NO!"

The anguished cry whipped his head to the left. Abyl stood at least thirty feet away, his brown eyes focused on his friend. The ranger felt his heart break, the youth's pain finding an echo in his fear; it was all to easy to place Legolas at that rider's mercy with his golden head the one that was lost.

His eyes tracked back toward Jermy to assure himself it was not, in fact, Legolas that had fallen, and instead caught the Slyntari rider, who by now had seen what he had seen: Abyl. A quick glance showed the boy was not aware of his plight. He looked back to the rider. Easy prey could be read in his dark gaze as he started forward.

In that moment, Aragorn made his decision. His presence had cost the life of an innocent, of far too many innocents; he could not abandon them to face this threat alone. He kicked his steed forward without taking his eyes from the killer. One child had paid the price for his ineptitude; he was determined another would not follow. Abyl did not deserve to suffer this fate. His concentration narrowed as he charged.

The thunder of hooves took over his hearing. His eyes darted between the two, measuring the distance, urging him faster as it appeared he would be too late. He saw the pleased smirk on the Slyntari's face, saw him raise his sword above his head; saw the beginnings of fear in Abyl's eyes as he finally-- too late-- registered his danger.

Then he was there. His own sword whistled through the air as he conferred the chosen fate upon Jermy's killer. Abyl fell back, knocked over by his passage, and the dark stallion reared back at his sudden arrival. His front hooves battled the air; Aragorn felt a blow against his side that kicked the air from his lungs. Something popped, but he ignored it. The mare was limping when he pulled her up and around to return to Abyl.

the young man was looking up at him as he approached, the pain in his eyes sharper than ever. "Are you all right?" he asked, feeling the inanity of the question but unable to come up with a different one that conveyed what he wished.

Abyl nodded. "I am unhurt."

It occurred to him that that was what he had really wanted to know. He nodded distractedly, his attention turning outward as his training kicked in and reminded him of the others that shared the square. His eyes swept the area, taking in the dozen or so men that had been alerted to his presence by his actions. They moved towards him deliberately, the women and children they had been charging now passing unheeded, ignored. Glancing past them, he could see the three leaders. Their smiles as the watched made him uneasy.

He glanced at the dark-haired boy out of the corner of his eyes. "Abyl. I want you to return to the Inn."

"I won't make it," the youth replied. "They'll get me before I get halfway." He was backing up slowly, his eyes darting trying to see every man at once.

"Is there somewhere closer you can go?"

"I dunno. Maybe."

"Leave behind me and get there as quickly as you can," Aragorn instructed.

"But Jermy--"

"Is dead. Now, go!"

Dark brown eyes glanced anxiously at Jermy. For a moment, Aragorn thought Abyl would stay despite his insistence, but all at once, he turned and left. The ranger half-watched him leave, wanting to be sure he was safe, but he dared not take his eyes off the Slyntari that long. It was more important that he keep the men from following the boy. He would make sure they could not follow.

()()()()()

Drevist watched the confrontation with interest. It appeared he and his men no longer had to search for their target. It had found them. Just like his lord had said.

Dark eyes flickered between his men and the ranger. Even had Shirk not warned him, he would have known this one was trouble. It was in his bearing, his look-- the way he eyed his opponents with an uncompromising stare that challenged as well as evaluated. There was a fire in his eyes that told the lieutenant he was going to be stubborn and uncooperative.

Fortunately, Drevist knew how to make obstinate individuals more agreeable. And the ranger had just shown him his leverage. "Trik," he said, getting his left-hand man's attention. "Go get the boy."

Trik disappeared from his side without a word, heading out to the streets to find his new assignment. Drevist paid him no mind, but a sly smile grew on his face as, before him, the first blows fell.

Fight all you want, Ranger, but you've already lost this game.

()()()()()

Blow after blow fell, coming from every direction. He had thought he could manage. By the third strike, he knew he was in over his head.

The stroke fell hard against his upraised sword, the impact shuddering to his elbow. He felt himself sway and gripped the saddle's horn tighter. The horse kept prancing forward and backward, side-to-side, snorting in agitation. None of which helped his shaky balance. He met the next strike firmly, then nearly missed the next fighting to keep his balance.

Swordfighting was something he had grown up with. Stories and sticks when he was little, a wooden practice sword when he was eight-- the first lessons in technique. Games, counting off forms, endless lessons on balance and admonishments to move his feet. He had spent endless days sparring with his brothers, learning the art of the sword. Horseback riding, too, he had learned at their hands, amid laughs and simple games. Yet never had they combined the skills, and never had he asked. He had always thought if you knew both it would be a simple matter to combine them. Now, he rued his lack of forethought.

He swung the sword back the other way, heard it clash with a counterpart, then whipped it up to block one intended for his head. It struck and he twisted it up and over, swirling it around and down. A quick slash removed a hand. He tried to bring the blade back to the left-- but he had forgotten it was not just himself he had to watch out for.

The sword slashed across the horse's back, jerking as Aragorn realized what he had done. He pulled the blade up, but the damage was wrought. She reared, leaping suddenly onto her hind legs. He grasped the saddle convulsively as he started to fall, felt the breeze as the blow he had been trying to block swished past. He felt himself slipping despite his grip and considered that he might want to get off before he was thrown off.

The mare crashed back to the ground and nearly threw him over her head. He clenched his knees tighter into her sides and tried to push himself backwards. His eyes felt ready to pop out of his head.

He watched the ground rush towards him. He could imagine the pain when he hit. Then the mare reversed, rushing towards him quicker than the ground. He crashed against her neck, his hand slipping from the saddle, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Then he was floating, the supple flesh no longer beneath him, as the horse twisted one way and he the other. Vaguely, he noticed the Slyntari backing away as he fell.

He tried to roll, to twist so he would not break his neck, but his mind would not tell him which way would accomplish that, and he had only just started when he ran out of time. He landed hard on his shoulder, an explosion detonating between his arm and neck. Before he could react, his momentum carried him to his back, and he choked as the air was forced from his lungs. He tried to breathe, tried to replace the air that had been stolen, but his lungs had forgotten how to work.

It was never this bad when I fell as a child, he complained silently. Admittedly, he had never had many opportunities to fall on his back from something as high as a horse. But it was really my shoulder I fell on, he reasoned. Maybe if I held my breath. . . .

The thought trailed off as something appeared above him. He had no idea what it was, but between one second and the next, he knew he had to move. His eyes wide, he rolled. Fire sprang through his left side, engulfing him like dry wood as something in his shoulder shifted in protest.

Broken, his mind noted as he grit his teeth. Something had struck his back, drawing a line from one side to the other before slamming into the ground. But he finally knew what they were: hooves. And that was all the incentive he needed to move through the pain. With Hodoer, he might have risked trying to calm him, but he was not about to gamble the solidity of his head on a strange horse.

The ranger came up on his hands and knees, tensed and ready to roll again if his first had not taken him far enough. He looked around quickly and jumped to his feet, the injured mare no longer his primary concern.

The Slyntari had closed in again as their own movements took horse and rider further apart. They towered over him atop their steeds, each with sword drawn and waiting. His eyes darted over them, then dropped to quickly search the scuffed ground. He found it quicker than he had expected, but that was little comfort as it was also several feet farther away. Dare he? Could he reach if before they were on him?

His eyes came back up, and one of the men stepped forward as if in answer, his sword held warningly before him. "It's over, Ranger," the man told him. "You've had your fun, but now it's time to come along quietly."

His jaw worked, but Aragorn bit off the words he had started to say. "When you have put forth so little effort?" he queried instead.

"The time for games has passed." The other's words were sharp with anger. "Our lord wants to speak with you. You have made him wait long enough."

Aragorn's eyes narrowed at that. "I do not answer to your lord," he replied firmly. "You may jump at his every whim, but I shall not."

"So be it. You will wish you had come with us quietly."

A retort danced on the tip of his tongue, but the Slyntari raised his sword. Behind him the others moved closer, and the ranger decided going for his sword was his only option. Keeping his eyes locked on the leader, he took a step back, then another, letting his leg collapse beneath him and dump him to the ground.

Only years of practicing on the soft grasses of Rivendell as a child allowed him to roll through the fall and come up crouched on his feet a body's length away. Still crouched, he wrapped his fingers around the sword's hilt and tried to ignore the horse behind him as it reared, disturbed by the human's proximity. His back throbbed where the mare had struck him.

Ignoring the pain from his fall, the ranger charged forward, startling the horse that had come toward him, and thrust his sword into the rider's belly. The man gasped, his hands moving to the wound. The horse sidestepped and he slid to the ground as Aragorn pulled back his sword.

Hoof beats warned of attack from behind, and he whirled, swinging his sword in a high arc that redirected the strike. Thwarted with blade, the man kicked him in the side as he passed. Aragorn grunted. The next attack came from the right, and he swung his sword up to meet it. He grit his teeth as the motion stressed his collarbone. He earned another kick to the ribs for his trouble, this one comprised of a lot more stirrup than boot. He hissed.

Vexed and sore, he spun with the man's retreat and slapped the flat of his sword against the steed's rump. The horse started, darted forward and momentarily spooked two horses that had been coming up behind him. Not quite back to where he started, he ducked the next blow and scythed his blade across his opponent's leg. The hilt of the other's sword caught his temple on the downswing, and he stumbled, clipping the stallion's left hind leg in the process. He was willing to bet the glancing contact hurt him more than the horse.

The ranger regained his balance in time to see the world's final spin and almost groaned as it chased a new opponent into view bare feet away. He dodged, dealing a glancing blow to something, and almost wheeled backwards in surprise as he came face-to-face with another human. Where--

Prank-honed reflexes got his sword up between him and his enemy. Instead of bisecting him from shoulder to hip, the cut only slashed his forearm. He shrugged it off, gained a half-step of distance, and struck back. The metal rang sharply, almost drowning out the approaching hoof beats. He ducked at the mast minute and felt the steel graze the top of his head. Something tickled his scalp.

He stumbled back, off-balance, as the fighter took advantage of his momentary lapse to strike at his defenses. The next followed quickly, before he could set his feet, and he half-ran, half-fell back to avoid the rapid strikes. His efforts took him nearly to the middle of the square.

Too late, he realized he was exactly where they wanted him, where they were best-served, and knew it was the last place he wanted to be. If only knowing that brought him anywhere near changing it.

The warrior backed off, allowing Aragorn to regain his equilibrium. He glanced around as the circle reformed, supplemented to boast two dozen mounted riders. Another four beings slipped between them to join the one fighter on the ground. He looked past them all, thinking that the villagers could take advantage of their distraction, but either the villagers were not willing to oppose the Slyntari now that they were here or their numbers were greater than he had supposed. Cries of fear and sparse clashes of fighting still reached his ears.

The first fighter addressed him as his gaze meandered back to the dark warrior. "Last chance, Ranger," he growled.

Aragorn responded by raising his sword. Then he charged.

()()()()()

Abyl paused just out of sight of the square. The street was empty. As far as he could tell, everything was happening where he had just left. He would be safe anywhere that was not there, just like the ranger wanted. So why was the square the only place he wanted to be?

Jermy flashed before his eyes, frozen in that moment before the blade fell. His wide, fearful eyes cut into the dark-haired youth like a hundred knives. Why had he not done something? He could have yelled. He could have at least tried to reach his friend. He should have done something! Why had he just stood there?

Tortured brown eyes stared through the house that blocked his view trying to pierce the wood and steel to view the square, to see his friend. More than anything, he wanted to go back and pull the Rohirrim's still body into his arms and watch over him. He knew too much of death to hope his friend might come back, but he still wanted to spend a last moment with him, tell him good-bye, maybe tell him a last story. . . .

His eyes stung with the effort of holding back tears and his throat felt like sharp talons were tearing it apart. He had not even had a chance to say good-bye. Why did he never get to say good-bye?

He stumbled forward on uncooperative legs, torn, fighting within himself to go or stay. His head said leave, find shelter, stay out of the way, listen to the ranger because he spoke sense. But his heart-- his heart screamed that he could not abandon his friend, could not leave his body to be trampled by men who would not care if he was gone, if they never saw his quick smile nor had to roll their eyes at his hopeless naiveté, or laugh at his enthusiasm.

He always made sure I laughed, Abyl thought sadly. Did I do the same? Was I as good a friend to him as he was to me? He knew in his heart the answer was "no." And now I can't make it right.

He lost his battle with his tears as two slid down his cheeks. "Why didn't I do something, Jermy? I could have done something." But no voice answered his miserable appeal.

Suddenly, he wheeled, some instinct telling him he was no longer alone. He tottered off-balance as he backed warily away from the rider that had appeared only a couple of streets down who seemed to be headed straight for him. He was uncomfortably aware of what he had just said, what he had revealed (if only in his mind), of Strider's admonishment to go quickly, and, once again, of the fact that he was unarmed.

He glanced anxiously at the nearby houses, but every one he could see was locked. Would they open the door in time if he banged hard enough and called for help? He doubted it. Anyone still in the houses would be spooked. No one would come. That left running.

Running to where, he would figure out later.

He looked left, but the only place to go there was the square. The last thing he wanted to do was give the South Man an opportunity to get help. The townspeople, he knew, would be none. That left right. Maybe, just maybe, he could lose him by cutting between houses.

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, for at that moment, the man charged. Without thinking, Abyl ran. Darting between the two closest buildings, he took a right, then a let, followed by another left and a right. He checked every house he passed hoping for an open door and desperately tried to come up with a plan. Just running would never cut it.

He listened and heard the familiar hoof beats still to the left and somewhat behind him. They sounded like they would pass him if they simply continued as they were. Maybe if he slowed down and stayed out of sight when they passed, he would be able to double-back and slip away. It was the best plane he had.

Abyl stopped running and waited. Listening hard, he tried to judge when the best time to move would be. A frown pinched his brow as they seemed to slow-- was the rider having second thoughts? Had he caught onto his plan-- but they did not stop, just paused like someone had stopped to glance down a small path, then moved on with their interest past. When he judged they were safely past his street, he moved.

He glanced both ways, feeling-- inexplicably-- like someone was watching him. No one was there; he plunged into the crevice straight ahead of him to buy time to figure out where he was going to go. At the end, the turned right.

A dozen rationales rushed through his mind. The clearest was "At least it'll put more distance between me and him," but he could not be sure that was why he chose it. His nerves jangled, and every shadow felt like it had eyes. The silence seemed to whisper, but he could almost convince himself that was the commotion back in the square. His imagination was playing tricks on him because he was too far away to hear them clearly. Regardless, the last thing he wanted to do was stand still to find out.

In the open space of the road, he sprinted. The buildings seemed to shrink in on him with every step he took and, suddenly, he wanted to be back with Strider. Anywhere but here, alone, with nothing but his own thoughts and empty, staring houses for company, a killer on his trail. Strider would protect him. . . .

He slowed as he reached one of the roads leading to the square, the same one the man had chased him down, his eyes seeking the faraway place where he had left his friend and only help, both. Could he go back?

An arm suddenly wrapped around his throat, startling a gasp from him even as he lashed out to free himself as he had been taught. The blow landed squarely and the grip loosened. he pulled away, turning, to knock him out, and found his wrist caught in an iron grip. Before he could react, he was spun and held tight against the man's chest with no room to break free.

A sharp whistle stilled his struggles. Quickly approaching hoof beats registered in his straining ears, and with a twinge of embarrassment, he realized what had happened, what he had fallen for. He set his jaw grimly, determined not to let his captor see he was scared or chagrined.

He could not help the panic, though, when he realized the man was not just going to kill him.

"Easy, boy," the South Man growled, voice dark with grim amusement. "You're going to help us with your friend."

()()()()()

Anyone else would have given him surprise. After all, who in their right mind attacks with nearly thirty to one odds while injured and at a significant disadvantage? Him, obviously; but they could not know that. Could they?

He shoved the thought aside. The blade was harder. It had another will behind it, a counter to his own, and every movement made him want to turn his blade on himself, the peculiar ache in his shoulder a new kind of torture. But he kept his left hand on the hilt and forced himself to move: parry, strike; parry, jab-- clash, scratch, turn, jump back. The blade missed his chest by bare inches. His eyes stayed locked on the other, trying to predict where the next blow would fall. But the other seemed to be pulling back. . . . There was something in his stance--

Aragorn whirled. Blade held high, the swords crashed. Again, he had to give ground. The next strike came from the right, then the left, then the right. Each one backed him further. He was being driven in a circle, passed from fighter to fighter until he gave up or was simply too tired to move, and he could see no way out. He swung his blade into the next strike with all the strength he could muster.

The impact traveled clear to his shoulder. It felt like someone had tried to pull his arm off. Or simply took a stab at shattering every bone in his arm. He stepped back to keep from overbalancing and felt his heel catch-- his momentum sent him flying backwards. He flung his hands out and twisted, stepped wide with his other foot, felt the ground bite his knee, the sand scatter over his hands, up his shirt, and-- miraculously-- ended up back on his feet feeling like he had just run into a wall. His left arm, from the shoulder down, was stiff and painful. And now he did not even have his sword.

The ranger raised defiant silver eyes to the man approaching him. Dark-haired with a thin, somewhat pointed face and ratty dark brown hair, the maniacal smile he wore gave him the appearance of a child's worst nightmare of a clown. "You should have chosen the easy way, Ranger," he said, sticking his sword in his belt. "Now that choice is lost to you."

Aragorn expected a punch, then. He did not expect it to come from behind. Light flared before his eyes, followed by a spike of pain. He was stumbling forward almost before he realized what had happened, the pain almost seeming to pull his head forward. He hissed. The knowledge that he would not be able to simply surrender now if he had wanted to flashed through his mind just before the other's fist connected with his jaw. He spun as he fell, and failed to stifle a surprised cry as pain flared through his arm and up his neck.

A cry-- not his own-- touched his ears, dimly registered in his mind. But who made it, and why, was beyond him as pain struggled to engulf him. He was only faintly aware of dark shapes passing as he rolled onto his back. A sharp kick to the side was his reward.

Legolas released another arrow almost before the first had found its mark. The slender shaft buried itself in dark-clad flesh. He could see Aragorn on the ground, a man standing over him, and several others nearby, but he could not reach them through the press of bodies. His only comfort was that most of the men had abandoned the circle, coming after him instead.

Arrow after arrow flew as nearly two dozen riders bore down on the lone elf. The Mirkwood archer held his ground, firing steadily, counting arrows. Man after man fell to his deadly aim until they ventured too close. The last to fall was barely six feet away, and Legolas swung up on the horse's back as it passed. He pulled the beast around and dislodged the original owner, then switched his borrowed sword with his bow.

Aragorn gasped, feeling bones shift in his side. His vision swam, colors blurring, the sounds that had been so clear fading and coming back, like he was moving quickly along a tunnel. Pain, fear, anger, frustration-- with himself and these cursed men-- chased themselves around his head. He could not focus. . . .

"A clear mind is your best advantage in battle, Estel," Elladan whispered told him, staring straight into his eyes. "It does not help you to dwell on pain or anger, nor failure or victory. Battles are measured in moments, not deeds. Once it is done, it is gone. Battle is a feat of the present, not the past. Remember that. Now, clear you mind. . . ."

His brother's clear voice cut through the fog that had been enveloping him as nothing else had. His eyes narrowed as he pushed his way past the pain. It was harder to push aside his fatigue, but he had never been one to shy away from a task because it was difficult. When he saw the booted foot descending toward him again-- a flash out of the corner of his eye-- he did not hesitate.

Ignoring the pain, he rolled onto his side. The kicked landed and he curled forward, wrapping his body around the man's legs. The Slyntari stumbled, caught off-balance, and stepped forward, whether to punish him or keep his dignity, the ranger did not know or care. The moment the other leg was in ranger, he seized it too, holding them together. A startled oath reached his ears, a boot toe clipped his lower back, then he rolled, pulling his burden with him.

The man struggled, clawing at thin air to stay on his feet. Aragorn pulled harder and gravity won. The other fell suddenly, taking his nearest companion down with him. Startled curses marked their descent, but he paid it no mind as mild chaos erupted, the remaining group rushing forward to help their comrades. For a few moments, attention was not focused solely on him.

He twisted and pushed himself up on his hands and knees, freeing himself from the other's legs. Two of the other three stood over their fallen comrades, trying to pull them up, only to find their help unappreciated. The closest tripped over a pair of legs and fell across his companions. He landed mostly on the leader's failed brace, and the man shoved him hard, eliciting laughs fro his companions.

Quickly, Aragorn punched the leader, taking advantage of their lapse, and pulled the man's sword. He had gained his feet and a little distance by the time anyone was ready to confront him. Beyond them, he could see the rest of their companions riding and wheeling, like vultures fighting over carrion, and within those dangerous circles, he saw a flash of gold. It darted in and out, weaving almost effortless among the darkness.

Relief surged through him, washing away the deep fear he had not even been aware was weighing on his mind, sapping his strength. Legolas was fine. New energy surged through him.

Then he was fighting. Keeping the sword in close, he moved it as little as possible to block the blows that fell upon him, clanging ardently. Each clash threatened to wring a wince from the ranger, but he forced himself on. He needed to end this before the others joined the battle; he was in no shape to split his defenses, and he had learned early that the Slyntari were not to be trifled with.

He ducked a powerful swing and stepped forward, sliding the blade across the man's belly as he passed through his defenses. The man crashed to his knees and slumped, his life's blood seeping out onto the dry ground. There was little room for relief, however, since all but the leader had now recovered and faced him with swords raised.

Aragorn took a tentative step backwards, testing their reactions, and took another when they did not move. His eyes darted between them, flickering over each steady glare for the telltale sign that would warn him who would attack first. All currently stood before him, but he knew that could not last. Briefly, he wondered if he was capable of fighting them once the split up. My collarbone will hinder me. But how much? Enough to make defense against them impossible? He grit his teeth against thoughts of defeat. He would win because he had to.

Then the left-most man moved. His build was broader, his hair a shade or two darker than Aragorn's own. His eyes were more blue than gray. The ranger swung his sword up to block the blow, then met the strike from the right, delivered by the right-most man who had light brown hair, almost chestnut. His eyes were a match for the other's, a definite blue gray. He wondered if the resemblance was a trick of his mind or if they were truly related. Frivolous, perhaps, but at least his mind was not focusing on how tired he felt.

He backed up under the blow, a high strike from the man in the middle that he caught near the hilt above his head. He looked momentarily into light green eyes the color of new spring grass and found a loathing he had not expected. Personal, he would have said, but he had never met this man in his life. Then he let his legs drop out from beneath him, and the man fell away, whirled out of sight as he dropped into another roll. He heard swords clash just past him, and knew he had guessed right.

He continued the roll and let it carry him back to his feet, rising immediately instead of remaining in a crouch. The world swirled queasily before him, and he staggered to the side. His eyes felt like they were trying to roll opposite directions in his head. A concussion, the healer in him noted disapprovingly. Legolas is not going to be pleased.

And the broken bones are just gonna tickle his fancy, huh? another voice countered scornfully. It was only after his vision cleared, that he realized the leader was no longer on the floor, no longer in his sight.

Reacting purely on instinct, peripherally aware of what it could mean if he was wrong, he spun, slicing his sword through empty air behind him-- except it was not empty. The blade cleaved deeply into the man's unprotected stomach, dumping his blood down the front of his trousers. For a second, the man's arm remained raised over his head, ready to crash over its victim's head, then it fell as the will that held it up fled the mortal body.

Drevist was no longer smiling. This elf and ranger were proving to be more trouble than he had anticipated. Stubborn, he had expected; skilled, even exceptionally skilled, came as a bit of a surprise. This had the potential to be quite costly for him.

He cared little for who lived or died, the men themselves little more than pawns required to do his lord's bidding, but one did not just throw away his master's subjects without sufficient cause. It would be impardonable to lose more men than absolutely necessary. All were needed for his master's plans; his resources were not so limitless as they used to be, and until such time as his power had been restored, none were to be thrown away casually.

He frowned as he watched the ranger dance away from his captain and turn to face the remaining trio. All four blades flashed, but the ranger seemed to be holding his own. His gaze traversed further and landed on the elf. The lithe creature was being disturbingly successful at diminishing his numbers. Of the original two dozen that had stood against him, less than a dozen remained. If this battle continued much longer, he would need to call in the rest of his squad. That was not something he wanted to do as they were currently . . . otherwise engaged.

Another man fell with a deft strike to the throat, taking the elf's opponents to seven. He was just debating calling his men back from their other duties when two things happened: the men arrived at the square, their charges secured; and Trik returned with his burden. His smile returned.

Aragorn ducked a blow and met the next. Quickly stepping backwards, he got his elbow beneath the third's arm, redirecting the strike, and slammed the pommel of his sword into the man's face. The other staggered backwards and the ranger danced around to put all three on one side. He could barely feel the fingers of his left hand through the painful numbness.

I need to end this, he thought, but that knowledge did him no more good now than it did earlier. He continued to swing his sword to block every strike, the blade moved almost solely by his right hand. His arm was beginning to ache with fatigue. He was not sure how much longer he could force himself to move.

The swords flashed furiously. Left, right, high, right, left, right, low, sweep, duck. He rolled to the side and scored a glancing blow to the lighter-haired man's sword arm. He pulled back, allowing his look-alike to take over.

Out of the corner of his eye, Aragorn saw Green Eyes had regained his feet. He had maybe ten seconds to take this man out of the fight before he was right back where he started. Pulling strength from some reserve he barely knew existed, he went on the offensive, for the first time since the battle started directing the path of the engagement.

Surprise flickered through those blue-grey eyes. He struck quickly, determined not to give the other a chance to think, needing to keep him off-balance. High, low, side-to-side, he came from as many angles as possible, aiming for that one stance when the Slyntari never remembered to keep his elbow up and far enough into the engagement that it presented a sizable opening.

The seconds ticked down. Five, strike to the right, four, another to the left, three, back right now jab center. The man danced backwards, swirling Aragorn's sword as his mental timer reached two. And there it was.

He struck, but the man was not there. The other had duplicated the ranger's earlier escape and was rolling through his fall. At any other time, Aragorn would have had him, would have followed him and been there to deliver a killing blow the moment he came up, but now he did not have the time.

He whirled, his blade his only barrier as Green Eyes slammed into him just as a commanding voice rang through out the clearing.

"Ir-khat!" it yelled.

Resentment sparked in the man's pale eyes as the Slyntari abruptly engaged, delivering an extra push for good measure. Aragorn stumbled backwards before finding his feet. He was surprised to find his opponents granting him a wide berth, well out of range of any attack he might throw; and ever more surprised to discover the skirmish by Legolas had halted, as well. His gaze traveled back towards the silent trio.

He failed to be quite surprised when he saw the middle-most of the group (the third of which was missing) riding forward. The man wore his authority well; he sat tall in the saddle, his gaze sharp and intelligent, commanding, just like his voice. "I will accept your surrender now, Ranger," he said easily.

"What makes you think I would be inclined to give it?" he countered.

A grin-- the same he had observed upon his arrival-- curved his lips. "I've heard Rangers were reasonable people," he commented, continuing without waiting for a response. "A choice then. We'll see if your reputation is deserved, Ranger."

He waved his hand theatrically, directing Aragorn's gaze to the left. More black-cloaked men prodded a group of some twenty-five young men and boys into the square, each bound hand and foot and secured to his neighbors to make escape difficult. Many of the boys were shivered, their slender shoulders covered in nothing but their coarse shirts. Several had split lips or bruised cheeks.

"Your choice stands thus: your life, or theirs."

"And why should he make such a choice," Legolas demanded from behind him, "when you shall simply kill them anyway?" Aragorn was grateful for his interference; a vice had settled about his chest, and he was not sure he could speak.

The Slyntari's eyes narrowed in irritation. "Hold your tongue, Elf, if you value your life. Your continued existence depends upon my generosity, which your friend will decide." Dark gray eyes burned into his own. "What's it to be, Ranger? You can end this pointless battle now before more lives are lost or you can prolong it and insure each of them die."

"As will your men," Aragorn answered, his voice far calmer than he felt.

"But not before their innocent blood paints the land you walk on."

"You presume I would risk much for strangers." He wished he could turn to look at Legolas, wished he knew if his friend had some plan. But the elf was silent; if he knew a way out of this, he was holding his tongue.

"You suggest such presumption is wrong," the Slyntari replied easily. "Yet have long risked their lives for beings they have never met. Regardless, I had suspected you might feel that way."

The man now gestured to his other side, drawing Strider's attention to the right, to a lone horse with two riders. The elder rode behind and was easily recognizable as the missing third party from the leader's trio. He gripped the younger tightly before him, twisting one arm across his neck to keep him immobile. Aragorn's heart dropped as he recognized the young man.

Dark gray eyes regarded the boy a moment before returning to the Dúnadan. "I, myself, don't know what you see in him. A little of yourself, perhaps? What would you risk for him, I wonder?"

Aragorn did not answer.

"Hm, perhaps that is the wrong question. What I mean to say is: what would you give up for him? For all of them? Surely such a simple request is not worth all their deaths."

"Be wary in accepting your enemy's requests, my friend. Even the smallest cracks can break a dam. Once you have given into one thing, you are closer than ever to giving them everything they wish. And it will sneak upon you, because it seems such a little request."

Glorfindel's lesson rang in his ears. His soul cried Never relent! finding refuge with his pride, which railed against the thought of surrender like a desperate man facing death. Yet how could he, when he knew his refusal would mean the death of innocents? Long had he struggled against the evil that would take the lives of children, and now he knew not which path to take.

He could feel their fear.

He could feel their eyes. The Slyntari, burning, eager to claim him; the children, fearful, pleading, turning to him as their lone hope to make everything alright; Abyl, begging him to find a solution he, himself, could not see that would end; and Legolas, whose silence said more than the weight of his gaze ever could. He knew his friend would follow as he chose, but here, now, that knowledge lent him no comfort.

He knew what it would mean to fight, knew what it would mean to surrender, knew he could not give up, knew he could not condemn these people to die. Everything he knew flew through his head, bouncing and rebounding, fighting and tumbling, over and over and over until he thought he would go made and over it all he heard a smooth voice saying, "Come, Ranger," and knew what his answer had to be.

Without a word, he dropped the sword. It hissed as the sand enveloped its sharp blade. He could not bring himself to meet anyone's eyes as the Slyntari moved forward to bind his hands. He could barely stand his own.

()()()()()

The dark-haired elf trembled where he was tied. His rapid breath was uneven and labored. The sounds he made, once coherent if somewhat chopped phrases, were now unintelligible syllables. His eyes were covered in a persistent glaze, shifting restless and unfocused over things only he could see. A light sheen of sweat covered every inch of exposed flesh. He no longer responded to the lashes that drew red lines over his chest and arms.

Were it not for the drugs, Torl knew, unconsciousness would have claimed him long ago. As it was, the elf's mind had retreated, unable to deal with the stress, and plunged him into a waking nightmare. They Slyntari captain could only guess at what horrors danced before the other's eyes.

Reality would mix with memory, memory with fantasy, and the shades he created would be his demons until both body and drugs gave way, only to return when darkness no longer claimed all awareness. It would be a toss-up as to which would give way first: his body or his mind. And a race to see if I can pry the information I need from his brain before either even occurs.

He watched narrowly as Nirt slashed the whip across his tortured frame three times in rapid succession. Blood welled from one line and dripped down his chest. Naught but a choke and wordless moan escaped his lips, and Torl could tell he no longer registered their questions. He knew Nirt could tell it, too, a fourth strike snapping hard around his waist. They would get no more from the creature tonight.

"Nirt," he called calmly, his order in her name. She checked the next aggravated strike immediately and motioned to her helpers to do the same. His gaze remained locked on the elf's feverish blue eyes, studying, watching. . . .

His eyes flickered to the torch holstered on the opposite wall, then back to the elf. Something he had noted earlier clicked into place and he narrowed his eyes as he stood. "Bring the torch," he ordered.

Wordlessly, he was obeyed. The Slyntari trooped silently up the stairs, the torch lighting their path as they ascended. Four knocks echoed back to the cell, answered by the harsh clicks of locks springing open. The door opened and a purer light danced with that of fire in the small room at the bottom of the stairs. Then the door boomed shut and all light was extinguished.

In the pitch black of starless night, Elladan moaned.

()()()()()

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Review Responses:

AM: Only a one month cliffie wait. See? Progress. :-D

Deana: Thank you.

Veritas and Aequitas: Don't you mean you'd like to kick the South Men? Ooh, Elladan is... Well, there's a little bit of him this chapter. A little more of him next chapter. And then... But that would be telling. :)

Cosmic Castaway: Darn it! Caught! And here I was hoping I could fool you. Erm, could I borrow your knives? I think I have a use for them... I'll even sharpen 'em for you! No better deal than that. ;-) Is my life saved?

DeepBlueSomething: I'll ne-ver te-elll.... Lol. So, now that you know the truth, are you disappointed? I'm glad you liked Elrohir; I had to rewrite that part because I felt he was too appathetic for an elf. They're so much more trouble than they're worth, elves-- it's a good thing they're so nice to look at. An interesting question... You'll just have to wait and see. :-D Em, poor Elrond. But he's outlived his usefulness. Maybe I should stop promising things; it always gets me in trouble when I do. But I shall endeavor to stay out of trouble. Your welcome, and thank you for reviewing. It's like waiting for Christmas, posting, because I always can't wait to get your reviews and see what you think.

Shadowfaxgal: I can't talk for blushing. Not that blushing has anything to do with talking, but oh well. I'm thrilled beyond words that you're enjoying my little (actually, it's not little any more is it?) creation so much! I never dreamt anyone would like it enough to reread it. You've made my week! Your welcome and thanks! Muah!

Nerfenherder: lol. I doubt my fellow Floridians are so willing, but it looks like we'll have to wait another year, regardless. I don't think you can expect your feet on the ground for quite some time. Cliffies are addictive once you get started! Besides, how else can I make sure you'll come back? Honestly, though, I don't think I could not end on a cliffie if I wanted to-- though next chapter is going to be about as close as you're going to get. The deep breath before the plunge, I think. Unless it changes on me. Hm, what do you think? Slyntari scary enough to turn his blood to ice?