Yes, another early post. Well, this chapter was written and so why not go ahead and post it? As a matter of fact, posts will be on Sunday evenings from now on becuase it is a bit more convenient. Our e-mail system is still being ridiculous, but we will try to get review responses through. If we cannot, we are sincerely sorry.

In any case, please keep those reviews coming in! And the important thing: enjoy the story!

Ripples

CHAPTER ELEVEN

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Washed Away

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One more kick caught Legolas in the ribs and he rolled over onto his back, arching in pain and concentrating on his breathing. He still was unable to see and as he lay there, he prayed that they were going to relent of the kicking soon. The rope and punches he could handle, within reason. But well placed kicks were absolutely dangerous not to say anything of the pain they caused.

His entire body was throbbing and he had stopped trying to deflect the blow and simply surrendered to their merciless beating of fists and feet.

There was a hot and moist feeling on his tunic over his chest and he knew it was blood. But it wasn't from any recent wound; it was seeping from the deep and reopened laceration given to him by Calmir in the mines. Not fully healed, the stitches had popped and it was bleeding anew, having torn the skin again.

Lostiâ smiled as he watched Legolas struggle to catch his breath and the other Elves hung back, observing their work from a small distance. Noting the blood leaking through the tunic front, staining it an even darker green, Lostiâ smiled and bending down, began to unbutton his nephew's tunic.

Legolas wriggled backwards, loath to allow his uncle have anything to do with his wound, but Lostiâ tugged him back by his foot with a rumble of annoyance and snapped, "hold still. Or do you want another 'lesson' before we continue?"

Grudgingly, Legolas ceased his struggling, wishing his blindfold was removed so that he could glare properly. Unfortunately he had to be content to lie there as he felt Lostiâ folding back the flaps of his tunic and the cold touch of a knife to his skin as it was carelessly used to tear through his under tunic layer.

Groaning inwardly, Legolas knew that was another outfit that was ruined. The maids were going to be furious! He was beginning to think they were getting rather annoyed with having to repair his clothes or create an entire new wardrobe.

Legolas bit down on his lip as he felt the prodding of a finger in his wound and he jerked away from the pain only to be pinned to the ground by his shoulders with the help of Arandur and another Elf.

His uncle's hands were ungentle and careless as they searched the wound, reopening it the rest of the way, and Legolas could just imagine the gleeful smile on Lostiâ's face. He wouldn't be overly surprised if the older Elf was grinning from ear to ear. Deciding he had taken enough of the cruel manipulation of his injuries, Legolas snapped, "get your hands off me!"

Pulling back, the prince recoiled as far as he was able and tried unsuccessfully to get out of the grip of the two Elves holding him down. Unable to break free and being totally defenseless, Legolas winced slightly as Lostiâ shed the blindfold from his eyes so he was forced to look into a pair of dark furious orbs. "You never learn, do you?" he growled at Legolas as the prince returned the glare in kind. "Keep quiet!" he snapped, putting emphases on every word.

Sighing and rubbing a hand over his face he said in exasperation, "I tried to be patient with you. I really did. But you have pushed me too far and I don't have time for this."

Legolas had been hard put to not laugh out loud at the elder Elf's words. Patient? By whose definition?

His thoughts were broken up and dispersed like smoke in the air as Lostiâ glanced up at Arandur and his other Elves that were standing nearby, watching the entire exchange with smug interest.

"Arandur take your…companions and go and fetch my dear brother-in-law. Tell him if he wants to see his little son alive when he gets here he will not resist and will bring no weapons. You will provide the needed protection for the time being," he added as an after thought, before turning his attention to Legolas, whose face had lost its color completely. In fact, he would say the young prince looked as though he was going to be sick as a slight green tint touched his features as fear for his father set in.

Rána just shifted uneasily and then stared at the sadistic look burning in Lostiâ's dark eyes. The silver-haired Elf was looking just one half step away from being completely insane or perhaps even drunk. A cold feeling began to spread in the dark-haired warrior's stomach as he guessed Lostiâ was about to unleash his unbridled hate on his nephew. A few seconds after that understanding, knowing he didn't want to see the extent of this torment, Rána volunteered.

"I think I should go with them. Lostiâ," he responded to the uncertain look on his friend's face. "I can keep an eye on things. I am worthless to you here, but there I can help keep some order to things." He finished by giving Arandur and his Elves a tense and pointed glare, which was secretly returned.

"Keep that meddling human out of this," Lostiâ commanded tersely as a matter of good-bye, remembering Legolas' little Edan friend all too well. "He is a ranger and is capable of tracking us."

Rána nodded his consent and began to button his tunic back up from where he had been forced to open it to tend to his wound. Shuddering as he recalled the merciless gleam in Lostiâ's eyes he was beginning to understand that his friend was not himself. Gathering his weapons, the dark-haired warrior mounted his horse, pulling his freshly dried cloak over his face to better conceal him in the dark shades of the forest.

Arandur and his Elves cautiously followed suite, watching Rána from the corners of their eyes as they stepped up onto their mounts.

Lostiâ waited until all the Elves were gone and it was just he and Legolas, who had tried to make himself as invisible as possible lying on the ground, scooted against the wall. Turning on his heal and casting Legolas a malevolent smile as the sadistic twinkle in his eyes brightened, Lostiâ confirmed the prince's fears. "Now it is just you and me, my dear little nephew," he cooed mockingly, disappointed when he didn't see Legolas cringe. "I had some…ideas, to help us pass the time until your reunion with your father."

"Well don't mind me. I'll just sit here in the corner and watch," Legolas offered snidely.

Lostiâ's evil smile faded some at that. Legolas just didn't seem to understand the concept of being silent.

"Oh no, you misunderstand me, princeling. I said 'we' and so that means you too," he explained as though he was talking to a highly stupid child.

Legolas recoiled as his uncle stepped forward and scowled for a moment before he reached down and took a fist full of Legolas' golden-locks, using them as a handle to tug his captive to his feet. Legolas winced and intensified his angered glare at his uncle who seemed unimpressed.

Lostiâ was acting drunk and with a lump of fear rising in his throat, Legolas knew why. He was drunk. He was drunk with absolute hate and malice.

Suddenly the prince found himself forced against the wall, pinned by his neck before his uncle drew his knife back out of his sheath and pressed the point against the center of where Legolas' collarbones adjoined. If Legolas had conceived any thoughts of struggling they were quickly diminished as the tip bit into his flesh, causing him to pull back a little, as though he could be absorbed by the stonewalls. Looking around he saw the cave again and his mind flashed back to Farlost and Calmir's intense abuse.

Laughing, Lostiâ released the pressure on the blade but proceeded to drag it through the material of Legolas' tunic layers, straight down the middle, severing the fabric and revealing Legolas' chest and the broken wound. The prince tried his hardest to suppress memories of how that wound had been obtained and closed his eyes, feeling his tunic being cut away from his body and tossed in shreds to the floor.

Legolas couldn't help it as he shivered against the touch of the cold air against his bare skin and saw his uncle smile maliciously at the bruises that were forming from the clobbering he had taken earlier. Tossing his knife to the floor, Lostiâ snarled at his nephew, "you bruise easily for an Elf."

Legolas ignored the barb and met his uncle's eyes before he stated calmly, "you don't have to be this way."

Lostiâ shook his head and replied bitterly, "you think I am insane, don't you?" Legolas didn't answer, not wanting to garner more torment than he was sure he was already in for. "Answer me!" the silver-haired Elf demanded as he pressed his thumb maliciously into one of the deeper and more ugly bruises, causing Legolas to attempt to withdraw and stifle a whisper of a cry.

"If you really want to know," he answered cuttingly. "Then yes, I do. But you didn't used to be this way," he insisted as his uncle pressed him to his knees, applying an aggravatingly uncomfortable amount of pressure on the vulnerable points of his shoulders. He felt Lostiâ's boot place itself on his back, pinning him there and grinding into a chaffed welt created where he had been struck with the rope.

"I haven't changed, you just never knew me, nephew." Using his long knife, he stabbed in between Legolas' bonds that were about his wrists, holding them fast against the soil and burying the blade to the hilt in the earth. Legolas was too sore to try and pull the blade up and if he didn't escape entirely he would only get into much more trouble for trying.

Sighing in momentary defeat, he bowed his head between his bound arms and silently cursed his uncle in every language that he knew. And he knew a lot. He tugged a little at his bonds and found that they were more than adequate for their task.

Somehow when his uncle came and drummed his fingers methodically on his back, Legolas found the courage not to shiver under the taunting and ungentle touch. Instead, he bit his lower lip and sucked on the blood that came from it, tying to find an outlet for his apprehension.

"Now what should I do first, Legolas? I mean, it's your skin not mine," he teased evilly and paused, as though waiting for an answer. When silence claimed the moment, Lostiâ tsked and said as though making an incredibly hard decision. "I guess if it's up to me then I will give you a little dose of a special concoction I came up with all by myself. It's very potent."

Reaching down into a bag left behind on purpose by Rána, the silver-haired Elf produced a clear cylinder of a vial filled nearly to brimming with the poison. Legolas watched from his position in the dirt, clamping his jaw as he swore up and down to himself that he wouldn't voluntarily accept anything from this insane being.

Lostiâ shook the contents of the vial and then casually walked over to where his nephew was busying himself glaring, looking very much like a grumpy old owl. He knew that Legolas wasn't going to just take the poison and wait for it to take effect, but he waited a moment before he forcefully yanked Legolas' head back by his hair. Waiting until Legolas exhaled, he then pinched his nephew's nose shut, knowing that Legolas could not hold his breath for long. He would either open his mouth or suffocate.

Yellow spots danced and glided in and out of Legolas' vision and his chin trembled as he tried desperately to hold his breath long enough to pass out cold. However, his body's basic desire for oxygen over rode his stubborn pride and gapping like a fish out of water he drew a deep and rasping breath. At that moment, his head was tilted up again and the bottle's open mouth was thrust between his teeth while half the contents drained into his throat.

Coughing and spluttering, as he tasted the acidic liquid, Legolas worked to bring it up from his throat and tried frantically to spit it out. Lostiâ couldn't allow this to happen and so he kicked Legolas lightly under the jaw, snapping his mouth shut and startling him so much he involuntarily swallowed. However, some of the toxin was on the floor, clotting the sand, but Lostiâ didn't seem to fret over that overly much. Taking the rest of the poison, he began to dribble it on Legolas' slashed hand, allowing it to seep into his wounds and thus enter his blood stream faster.

Feeling light headed, Legolas just blinked slowly and stared tiredly at his hands as the venom did its work in his system, making his senses dull into one slur of confusion as pain wrenched through his abdomen and his hand throbbed with smarting pain. Smiling as he watched Legolas exhale and breath in deeply only to find that his ribs were burning, Lostiâ knew it would only be moments before the vile solution did it's dirty work.

It did make everything hurt about ten times as much and could very easily be lethal. Fortunately he didn't believe to have given Legolas a dose that would be deadly on its own.

But there was trick to this potion that only a few knew about, him included.

A dose of Athelas meant to help sooth the pain would only intensify it and possibly make the venom fatal. Being the catalyst it could enhance the destruction of the prince's system and kill him slowly, within an hour. And the comforting thing, Lostiâ mused, was that Legolas would be in unbearable pain the entire time.

Looking into the glazed eyes of his nephew and the white face with its flushed cheeks, he knew the venom had gone to work, and was doing its job quite nicely. He was actually rather pleased it was working so quickly. Admittedly, that was unexpected.

Now that the prince was subdued with the venom, he wouldn't even need his bonds because he could barely stand and crawling wasn't going to get him far. Pulling his knife up and slicing Legolas' bonds lose all in one stroke, he allowed Legolas to unconsciously spread out on the floor, hurting too much to curl into himself.

Legolas closed his eyes in disbelief at the pain blazing a trail through his stomach, making him want to retch. It would subside and then come back again, never getting less or worse. Everything was moving and swirling around in his field of vision and so it was better to keep his eyes shut and concentrated on breathing. He felt unnaturally cold and shivered without thinking about it.

'What is going on?' his mind asked between glitches of blackness and despair as pain would momentarily block out all logic. He gagged and coughed but he couldn't bring himself to throw up, which is what he knew he needed to do before this stuff had time to settle in. But he just couldn't do it.

The most realistic comparison he could come up with was that a rock was tied around his ankle and he was cast over a cliff and falling into the Hoarwell, drowning and going down, down, down into the darkness. Reaching a hand forward he curled his fingers in the sand and tried to drag himself away, towards the cool air of the cave entrance but was stopped as Lostiâ stepped in front him.

Moaning, Legolas suddenly became aware that he was unbelievably thirsty and all he wanted was a drink of water. It filled his thoughts and he licked his cracked lips but was unable to drag himself to a puddle that had created itself just a few feet away. It was extremely frustrating to smell water and hear water as the rain that had gathered on the leaves dripped into little pools under the branches, but not be able to taste any himself.

He felt something strike him hard, hitting his back but the pain was nothing compared to the havoc the poison was wreaking in his system. It just added to the brutal attack of his senses, merging into one prolonged agony that he couldn't dispel.

Rolling over carefully onto his back, he saw Lostiâ standing over him with a smiling face. He couldn't understand much but his uncle's words were crystal clear and burned themselves upon his heart.

"Your mother didn't want a child. You were an accident. You were never meant to be born and you cost my sister her life!" There was a pause and then he sneered. "She loved you because your arrogant father wanted her to!"

His response was automatic. "No…she did love me as her son…"

He couldn't believe otherwise. She had died for him! He had been forced to live with that all his life and he wouldn't believe it was for nothing. No matter what anyone did he couldn't believe that his mother had never loved him at least once. And as far as he knew, she had loved him all along.

"She wanted you to believe that. And do you want to know a secret; she never loved your father either! Thranduil? She pitied him to the point where she couldn't say no and masked it with 'love'!" he spat angrily, his dark eyes were lustrous with hate as his Elven Glow turned to a dark aurora that changed the cave cold.

Words did not begin to describe his hate for this princeling that had caused the death of his dear sister and shot his best friend. He should have never been born and Thranduil should have never married his sister. Some of it might have been his fault when he had introduced them, thinking it was a wonderful thing and the beginning of good times to come. But that didn't matter now; he was going to make up for it. He was going to fix things and kill this fair-haired creature that should have never been born.

He was going to make sure that Legolas died the same way his mother had. With a sword thrust through his chest, but Thranduil was going to see every minute of it and then he was going to die as well. Mirkwood was in need of …new leadership anyway.

"No," Legolas breathed through his agony. "No, she loved us…as her…family…" He said the word 'family' with such emphases that it took a second breath.

"Your denial is making me weary, Legolas." And that was all Legolas heard and then he passed out, his body forbidding the feeling of any more pain and demanding a reprieve.

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He had not seen any signs of a living Elf along the river and Aragorn was getting frustrated. He couldn't even venture too close because the body of water had taken these torrential rains, as an opportunity to flood is banks and sweep out all vegetation and life that was within its range. Grimacing, the ranger wondered if Voronwë had been swept away as well and was currently drowned in the water beneath the surface where he would never be found.

Aragorn had remembered the wound the Elf had sustained in his chest and from personal experience knew it had to be painful and must limit his movement extremely. Hot anger blazed up in his chest as he thought of how this had all started. And when he thought of Rána, that Valar accursed traitor, another flame ignited somewhere inside and he felt a hot glow run through him. He would love to choke the life slowly out of him and that was just for getting started.

Frowning as he paused on an overhang that jutted out over the frothing waters that were no longer a blackish color but seemed to be nearly clear, diluted by the rains. Shaking his head he realized that even if Voronwë didn't drown he was most likely dead at the hands of Arandur and his merry men, Aragorn looked out and scanned the opposite bank, half hoping to see a fair-haired Elf struggling to climb out of the water.

Well, he told himself as his eyes settled on a withered form half on the opposite bank; I think I have found him. But Aragorn's heart went cold as the fear that he was too late and he was only going to find a body wound it's way around his heart and squeezed tightly.

Looking over to his right as he tried to find a way over the water, Aragorn saw a tree that must have fallen across during the more windy parts of the storm. It looked a sight more hopeful than trying to swim across and so Aragorn approached it, cautiously putting a foot on it's base of deracinated roots, half expecting it to be too unstable for use.

To his luck it seemed to be holding up under his weight and getting down on his hands and knees, Aragorn began to crawl slowly across, inching his way towards the opposite bank and trying not to look at the swirling, deep waters beneath him. He knew if he fell in that they would swallow him whole and spit out what was left on the bank later.

Weaving his way carefully around the leaves and smashed branches, Aragorn stepped onto the opposite bank and breathed a deep breath of relief before he rushed over to where Voronwë lay, eyes closed and lips a pale blue. Slowing his steps by the drown Elf, Aragorn collapsed by him and gripped him under his arms, pulling him back and dragging him the rest of the way from the tugging current.

Rolling Voronwë over onto his back, Aragorn placed two fingers on his cold neck and felt on his throat for a pulse. Despair flooded the ranger, as he found none and realized that Voronwë's wound, though never attended to and very deep, was no longer bleeding. The dead didn't bleed.

Voronwë was dead.

Hot tears sprang into Aragorn's eyes as he realized that as Voronwë had died so had his last chance of finding Legolas. His friend was going to be dead before anyone could reach him and there was nothing he could do about it. Looking sadly at the motionless form of Legolas' cousin, Aragorn took Voronwë's cold hands and crossed them on his chest, his own hand lingering on them for a moment as he tried to take in that the Elf was dead.

There was a hot and wet feeling beneath his fingers and he started noticeably, withdrawing his hand and staring curiously at what marked it. A red liquid with a silvery tint: Elven blood. And, he added mentally, it was fresh. Knitting his brow and frowning in wonder and concern, Aragorn moved Voronwë's hands gently from where he had crossed them over the wound and was shocked to feel they were warming up.

Suddenly he nearly threw himself back as the chest rose and fell with deep, raspy breaths and the blue-silver eyes fluttered open, still looking a bit bleary. They scanned the trees tops for a moment and then looked around briefly before settling on Aragorn and growing wide. Voronwë began to shake and he tried to squirm away but was too weak and so condemned himself to lying on his back, staring over at the human in fear.

"Please," he breathed. "Don't…please…don't hurt me."

Aragorn winced as he realized that Voronwë was terrified of humans, at least now that he was helpless. The Elf was shaking all over, probably from pain and fear combined. The ranger imagined that being in the Halls of Mandos and waking up alive again had startled the Elf a bit too and so he raised his hands slowly, palms turned towards Voronwë in a sign of friendship and peace.

"It's all right, really. I wouldn't harm you," he tired to reason with the fair-haired Elf. As Voronwë cringed, Aragorn couldn't help but wonder what had happened to him to make him this frightened of a human and it made the ranger angry. "But I will help you if I can."

At that those words, Voronwë seemed to relax slightly and glanced up at the ranger tiredly. "She said I had to go back," the words tumbled from his mouth one on top of the other. "She begged Mandos, saying I had a job to finish."

Aragorn wrinkled his brow and then shook his head. "Who?"

"Legolas' mother." Voronwë answered slowly and closed his eyes, still breathing deep and guttural breaths. "I can still remember my own mother's face. It was so sad, as though she had hoped I would never be here even though she missed me." Voronwë opened up to the ranger, who along with Legolas had been the only kind face he had seen in a long time. He was thirsting for a friendship with someone and Aragorn didn't appear to be trying to harm him in any way.

"Your father has Legolas and is going to do something horrible to him, Voronwë," Aragorn explained slowly, wishing he could have spared the Elf this pain, knowing that Voronwë cared for both his father and Legolas immensely. "He wants retribution for the death of your mother and the death of his sister. The retribution he seeks is Legolas' life and maybe the lives of others."

Voronwë blanched and if his face had been pale before it was definitely more so now. He stared at Aragorn disbelievingly for a few seconds before he went completely emotionless, staring at his trees. In a soft voice he whispered, "why? It was an accident." He couldn't understand and looked at Aragorn with wide and misunderstanding eyes.

"I am not sure. But I don't know where to find my friend. I know Legolas will be being taken to where the slaughter happened, but I have no idea where that is," he admitted desolately, bowing his head in grief and frustration at the situation.

Voronwë went silent and then he spoke understandingly. "I believe I was sent back to help you." He reached out and touched Aragorn's arm lightly. "I can take you there, or guide you …but you will have to help support me, I fear I cannot stand on my own. …'Tis this wound-"

He was cut off as Aragorn scowled. "Let me see it. I may be able to help."

Voronwë caught Aragorn's hand with a bit more strength than could be expected of a half-alive Elf. "Mandos sent me back. …He won't let me die…before my task is finished and then …I want to go back. Let it be. …The pain is small compared to the …gravity of the situation." He slowly released Aragorn's hand when he was sure the human was going to comply with his request.

"Very well," the ranger consented, withdrawing and sitting back on his heels. Voronwë smiled appreciatively and relaxed against the sandy soil of the bank, closing his eyes, and only tensing once when pain broke over him. At least when you were dead in Mandos' Halls you couldn't hurt! Actually, it was rather boring.

Aragorn stared at the opposite bank, or more accurately scowled darkly at it. He hadn't the slightest idea of how to get both of them across. It had been hard enough balancing on the slippery log all by himself but with an injured Elf, who was related to Legolas and probably shared the prince's curse of bad luck he was pretty sure it was going to be impossible. If Legolas had a thing against caves, Aragorn was sure that he was definitely building up a thing against rivers.

They had to be the most inconvenient things ever created!

Sighing, he supposed the only thing that he could do was help Voronwë to belly his way across as well. But that chest wound was going to create some interesting problems, the more pessimistic part of his mind eagerly pointed out.

Aragorn was pulled out of his train of thought by a sound that resembled pounding hooves, man of them, Looking at Voronwë, he saw the wounded Elf was cringing and looking expectantly in the direction of the noise. It was coming form across the flooded river, Aragorn realized and a small smile crept across his face as he knew it was definitely uncorssable for a horse.

All the same, he was sure these were most likely beings they didn't want to meet. Gripping Voronwë's arm, he helped the wounded Elf stagger to his feet. "Here," he said, slipping his arm around Voronwë's waist and allowing the Elf to lean on his shoulder. "Lean on me and lets get out of sight."

Voronwë reluctantly allowed the ranger to support half of his weight and staggered to keep up with the man as he half dragged half stumbled, towards the leaves of the fallen tree, where they could take cover. Voronwë couldn't help it and his head lolled against the ranger's shoulder. He hated showing weakness but at this point he could hardly help it and he was beginning to understand that he could trust the human.

Once mixed with the twigs, branches and leaves, Aragorn clasped Voronwë close and put the cloak about them both, as an extra precaution to dissuade eyes from thinking there was anything more than leaves and debris among the fallen tree. He started and then smiled softly as he felt Voronwë rest against him, his body craving warmth and comfort as his wound shot agony through his system. Aragorn found he was reminded of when he had first met Legolas and his smile became even brighter at the memory.

His memories dissolved from his thoughts as he heard the hooves coming closer and he crouched lower, pushing Voronwë down with him. It was only a few more moments before the horses tore into view, their riders all Elves and Aragorn guessed that they were coming from wherever Legolas was being held prisoner. In vain, his eyes searched the horses for his friend.

Voronwë's Elven vision was better than Aragorn's and he murmured softly in anger as he recognized one of the faces. "Rána is with them. But he is wounded as well," the Elf added with a tense smile. 'What goes around comes around,' he told himself. Aragorn could tell Voronwë was furious because the air around them seemed to heat up and the glow about the Elf dulled slightly, becoming darker.

"Do you know the others?" Aragorn asked curiously, eyes never leaving the riders as they were riding swiftly and would be gone in a few seconds.

Voronwë's eyes caught and held Aragorn's and he blinked before answering. "No. They must of come here after my time." He didn't know who they were but if they were friends of Rána's he was sure he was their enemy. A spasm of pain left him breathless and he lay flat on the ground for a moment, all but writhing in agony. Shuddering powerlessly, he waited calmly for it to pass.

Aragorn watched as the last of the Elven riders disappeared and then he began to tug Voronwë to his feet. He knew they had to be one their way, they were wasting valuable time. The wounded Elf got to his feet as quickly as he could, still heavily supported by Aragorn. "They were heading back towards the palace," the ranger mused before sighing. "I sure wish I knew why."

Voronwë glanced at the ranger and then across the river. "I wouldn't know either." Crinkling his forehead in confusion, the Elf suddenly looked very skeptic. "How are we going to…get across?" He saw the log but he was bit disbelieving that they would use that strategy. Normally as an Elf that would be the preferred route but he didn't think a human would consider it and anyway, he didn't trust his balancing skills right now.

"Well this log was how I got across in the first place," Aragorn answered smoothly. He began to pull them towards it, but Voronwë stopped moving, a bit confused.

"I didn't think…a human would chose such a route," he explained as Aragorn gave him a questioning stare.

"I have been brought up in Rivendell and lived with Elves all my life," the ranger answered, smiling softly and giving a small chuckle. "My brothers taught me risky stunts such as this." Voronwë didn't look any less confused, rather simply accepting. Aragorn shrugged and grinned helplessly. "I can explain it later."

Voronwë smiled thinly before he laid his eyes on the log again, trying to silence the voice that said, 'this is insane'. Aragorn shifted his grip on the Elf so that Voronwë wasn't slipping free, since the Elf was leaning heavily on him.

Taking a few uncertain steps towards the log he suddenly stopped and looking at the Elf clinging to his side he sighed. "You are going to have to hold on tightly and trust me, alright? I promise, I will not let you fall." Shaking his head mentally he couldn't get over how remarkably Voronwë resembled Legolas. It was easy to tell they were related and if he hadn't known the exact relation he would guess that they were brothers.

Voronwë didn't look pleased or at ease with the idea but he swallowed and nodded curtly, suffering to be guided by the ranger.

Stepping lightly onto the overturned log, Aragorn pulled the fair-haired Elf after him gently. Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard, not wanting to look at the churning water below that would easily drown them if they tumbled off. Suddenly an anxious hiss forced him to reopen his eyes. "Don't close your eyes!" Voronwë implored nervously, looking apprehensively at the water.

Aragorn apologized with a weak grin and began to slowly walk across the log while supporting the injured Elf. It was a wide enough tree that two could walk abreast on it so they both just barely fit onto it. But the size wasn't the problem; it was the fact that the rain had made it slippery and treacherous. One wrong step and they both could be pulled under the current and drowned.

Amazingly, ten minutes later, both of the companions sweating, they where across and Voronwë collapsed on the soil, obviously showing he had been one step away from a nervous breakdown the entire time. He was shaking, whether from fear, weariness or pain, Aragorn didn't know. But he did know that the fact they had both walk across that fallen tree was a miracle.

"Now where to, Voronwë?" he asked, offering the Elf a hand up.

Voronwë refused the help as he struggled clumsily to his feet himself before answering. "I haven't been here long enough to find words to explain it but if you follow me I can show you," he offered helpfully with a hopefully smile.

Aragorn was busy contemplating how Elves always had to be stubborn and refuse help unless they absolutely were dying or common sense over rode their pride. He nodded without thinking; having heard what Voronwë had said but not given it any real thought. "How are you going to guide me when you can barely stand without gripping my arm?" he asked incredulously, blinking and staring at the Elf.

Voronwë became indignant. "If you support me, trust me, I can get us there."

Aragorn opened his mouth to argue but decided against it, closing it with an audible snap. This obviously wasn't going to work if they went on with the petty bickering. It was wasting time they didn't have and that Legolas didn't have either. He didn't want to find where Legolas was being held only to discover his abandoned corpse. Shuddering, he remembered the last time Legolas had 'died' and he was scared to see his friend in that condition again. "Very well," he conceded grudgingly. "Lean on me and lets get moving."

TBC...Yes, such a sad chapter. Then why are we smiling? Okay, maybe it is what they call a 'nervous grin'. Please reivew! We can't wait to hear your feedback! Thanks!