A/N: Howdy-doody fellow fan-fictioners! And how are you all this fine day?

As you can tell, am feeling rather happy today... no particular reason. In fact, technically I should be feeling downright miserable as I have to go back to school in three days and have not been able to sleep for the past two nights. Och vell, there is clearly something wrong with me.

Glad you all seemed to like that last chapter, although a few of you were a tad combative, which is slightly weorrying. As for all those people getting annoyed with the long wait for Estel and Legolas to meet up... tough. I'm choosing purposefully to build it up and give it a good backstory - you only get one chance at a "first meeting" fic and I'm not going to bugger it up, so they'll meet when I'm good and ready to have them meet. Alreet?

Aye, maybe the lack of sleep IS getting to me, just a tad. lol.

Enjoy the chapter and remember that more reviews faster updating. I'm mercenary like that, y'know! And apology for the slight delay in downloading this chapter - have been busy starting my final year at college, and the A levels are going to be soooooo hard! Help!

Fienngil felt his face crumple as he saw Legolas there, lying on the floor.

His legs felt fixed to the ground beneath him, as though great tree roots held him prisoner, standing in that spot. The whole world seemed to shrink inwards at that moment, til all eternity comprised of was him and his still brother.

A rush of fear surged him forwards, and he fell heavily to his knees next to the prince. "No, Legolas," he whispered, light hands clutching at his brother's tunic, and bringing the golden head, sticky with thick blood, to his chest. He cradled Legolas as though the younger elf was a babe once more, and patted his cold cheek, hoping against hope there was still breath in the body. He was vaguely aware of Abrome, moving around him and the rest of the clearing, but he cared not: all that mattered now was gaining some sign of life from Legolas.

There was so much blood...

Fienngil's mind flashed forwards and backwards at high speed, remembering times he'd thought his brother had been mortally injured or the times when he'd believed he would die... images that anticipated a life without the kind-hearted and warm young prince poisoned his mind. Their father would be ruined - Legolas was his mother's child, much more so than any of the other Royal Children, except Esladiya... his death would likely kill them all. The kingdom would fall without their leader, their lands would finally be overrun with orcs and it's citizens speak only in the Black Tongue... and elves throughout Middle-earth would find themselves journeying to the West far sooner than they might have done, had there been more to remain for upon those mortal shores.

A dark veil fell upon his consciousness then, shielding him and his brother from the rest of the world - Fienngil cursed all the times he'd fought with Legolas, all the times they'd argued (something which happened frequently), all the times he'd upset him. A huge surge of regret welled up within his heart as he remembered all the times in their long lives that he hadn't celebrated with his youngest brother when he was happy, hadn't stood by his side when he'd been angry... hadn't comforted him when he was sad. He could have spent so much more time with his beautiful brother: it scared him that now he might not even have the chance.

The elder prince's racing mind was brought to a sudden, sharp halt when he felt Legolas stir, and heard his weak groan. "Legolas?" he leaned down, fearful that it had been a dream, a figment of his imagination.

Green eyes, the colour of the warmest summer forest, flickered open in answer.

Laughing with pure relief, Fienngil rubbed his brother's thin shoulder, and clasped his cheek fondly. He was thankful and a little surprised that the eyes looked fairly clear and lucid... it was obvious Legolas was in pain, but he had not yet lost enough blood to indulge it. He was a Mirkwood elf, for Valar's sake!

Legolas looked dreamily up at his brother, as though confused, and then down at himself, taking in his splayed legs and bloodied tunic. "What in Middle-earth did I do?" he asked weakly, almost to himself.

Fienngil chuckled, lightly though, as he could feel himself beginning to tread the line of becoming hysterical, and he still had to get the ragged band of elves to Rivendell. "You kept up your usual tradition of visiting Rivendell and have become injured, that's what you did." The brown-haired elf couldn't help the small amount of anger that seeped into his words: what if he had been killed with his foolhardy attempt to protect them all?

Legolas looked up, sheepishly, "Oh."

Fienngil nodded, looking stern and reminding Legolas enormously of their father, a rather frightening prospect. "Aye, 'oh'."

"Sorry about that."

"You will be."

Legolas grinned slightly, knowing then that his brother was not serious, and then slowly blinked. His eyes dimmed slightly, then miraculously cleared - Fienngil was no healer, but he could tell Legolas was drifting in and out of awareness, and fighting to stay conscious. As he pondered this, and his quick mind ran through all the ways he could possibly lead his warriors to Imladris safely, Legolas fought weakly in his arms and let out a minute cry of frustration.

"What of our kinsmen, Gil? Tell me they have not been slaughtered... tell me!" He latched a desperate hand onto Fienngil's neck, forcing the elder elf to bend forward and look into his eyes. The young prince was becoming flustered and breathed rapidly, his eyes glistened and a slight wheeze was audible from deep within his chest - this was not good.

"Peace, Legolas! Calm yourself or you shall do ill!"

He watched as Legolas fought to control his erratic breathing, and realised that he actually did not know how their fellow travellers and friends faired - a guilty pang in his heart accompanied this thought, and he looked around over his shoulder, as if to see them there.

He saw the blood-painted Abrome walking back towards them, and by his side was Tauredal. He was holding his bloodied fair head, looking pale and shaken, but otherwise no worse for the wear... he even offered a small, silly wave at his two princes before wincing and bringing both hands back to the crown of his head. What was worrying Fienngil now, however, was the significant absence of Maegathir.

He glanced at Abrome, and attempted to discern some inclination as to the eldest elf's fate - but Abrome looked near-stricken, his black eyes large and round. Fienngil felt a ice-cold stone drop into his stomach. He nodded at the guard, then busied himself with distracting Legolas, "Come now, brother: let me see where you are struck, for all this blood must have gotten here somehow..."

Legolas smiled as he panted, "I don't know: I attract quite a lot of it anyway, I know not from where... ahhhh!"

He gasped in pain as Fienngil's searching hands brushed over his tender stomach. A significant look passed between the three uninjured elves, and Fienngil gently pulled back the shimmering grey tunic that had come loose of it's fastenings, and pushed down slightly the waistband of the green leggings, to reveal Legolas' flat belly.

It was mangled beyond belief.

Fienngil heard Tauredal cry out an exclamation and the usually unflappable Abrome reel back from the sight. Fienngil himself felt sick to his very bones.

The skin was torn raggedly from the muscle, a great slash decorating the space between the two jutting hip bones - one of which could visibly be seen. The prince's internal organs were also now on display, under all the ripped flesh. The lower two ribs had obviously crumpled beneath the pressure of the heavy orc, and so now jutted at various odd angles beneath the pale skin. The remaining skin was slick with bright red blood, and the dark life-force oozed relentlessly from deep within the wound.

"Ai, Legolas," Fienngil mourned and swallowed his sickness down, letting his proud head fall so it rested upon the top of his brother's.

"It is not... too bad, Gil..." Legolas grunted, pain having flared up even with this small examination, the slightest movement jostling his grinding ribs and causing blood to renew its flow. Fienngil heard the cahnge in his voice and leaned forward slightly to see the younger prince was ashen, sweating and trembling - he was losing too much blood, too quickly... at this rate he would not last a mile, let alone make it to Imladris. Something had to be done. Fienngil could not lose him.

The elder prince slowly lowered Legolas to the ground while sliding himself out from under him. He lay the injured prince down, covered him with his own outer-tunic, and instructed Tauredal - who insisted he was fine - to watch him for a moment. All orders being obeyed, Fienngil wandered as if in a daze towards the other side of the clearing. He dragged his hand down his face, and ran his fingers through his thick hair without noticing, frantically thinking of what on Middle-earth they could do next.

Suddenly, a kind hand was on his shoulder, and he wheeled round to face a very concerned Abrome, "My lord?"

"I am fine, faithful friend... I just need to sort things out." Fienngil paused, then asked, "What has happened to Maegathir?" He dreaded the worst.

"He is alive, Prince Fienngil, and I think he shall make it," Abrome nodded with a small smile. "It is just a matter of sheer awkwardness and pain with Maegathir. I am no healer, but I inspected him when I found him: he is still deeply unconscious and, by the looks of it, as a few very nasty breaks in his left leg, right up to the thigh. I am unsure as to whether the limb can ever heal in it's rightful position again. And I think all his fingers are broken."

Fienngil groaned, "If only we had brought your cousin, Embiron, with us - he would sought us out, and make sure Legolas never forgot it... from now on I decree that any party of Mirkwood elves with more than three persons must always be accompanied with a healer."

Abrome managed to grin a little at that, despite his worry for his prince and the stealth warrior, "As you wish, my lord."

"I shall splint the leg up, as well as his poor hands... and I hope that will stay the course until we reach Imladris and the legendary hands of Lord Elrond. It is far too dangerous to leave any of our number here, for the orcs are hot on our heels, and Legolas is losing blood by the pintful." The prince looked down, considering his next course of action. He glanced up at Abrome, and notice the guard appeared to be swaying slightly on his feet, "Abrome, did you sustain any injuries? I order you to show me." He knew from experience that this was the only way he could get the curly-haired elf to admit to anything that might be construed as weakness.

Abrome nodded tightly, "I recieved a slash from a sword across my chest, but it is not poisoned - I'm fine."

"Nevertheless, I think we need rest here for a short time at least and patch each other up as best we may. Three-quarts of an hour til we depart." And with that, he strode back to Legolas, leaving Abrome leaning against a tree trunk.

Little Estel giggled quietly to himself as he followed Elladan and Elrohir's party throught the leafy undergrowth of the forest that surrounded Rivendell.

It was late at night, long past his bed time, but he'd been so restless after Glorfindel had left that he'd sat outside to watch the sun set on his balcony, when he'd recognised his two brothers, dark hair shining even in the evening light, preparing to leave.

Estel was no fool - he knew his dear brothers were being punished for their actions towards him, but he could take no pleasure nor satisfaction in this. Instead, a burning curousity had leapt into flame in his chest, and he had shimmied down the blooming clematis plant that was tangling itself in the wooden straits of the balcony as easily as any elf, and had slipped down the wooden footpath after the party of six elves.

It had been an impluse decision, but one the boy didn't regret in the least. The night was cold, bracingly so, but he did not feel it's chill: he had been wrapped up snuggly for bed by Lord Glorfindel, and his slippered feet had good grip on the cool ground below. He had the mind that he'd follow them to wherever it was his brothers and the elven guards were going - just to see where - and then he would turn back around and return to the Homely House in time for breakfast. No one need ever know he was gone. And in the morning, Glorfindel could show him the portrait of the closest elven prince that was hung up at home, answer his questions on the subject and tell him when he could meet a real-life prince.

It was perfect.

He grinned impishly, and the trees watched sadly on as the white-clad little figure was claimed by the night.

A/N: That all right for you? I was very tired while writing the second half of this as I have just returned from an enormous spending splurge in Newcastle, buying as many jumpers and coats as possible. It's cold here in England already!

Please review and I shall see you soon!