A/N: -limps into view- Hi! –waves weakly- I really am sorry about the late update. It's just... You know that saying about bad things happening in threes? Whoever said it was wrong. At least about my family. I think bad things happen in fours at our house (i.e. Having the Christmas tree fall over breaking half our ornaments, finding out we have mice in the house, Dad's truck slipping on the snow, rolling over and sliding into the creek, having our satellite internet go out for three days due to constant snow…). Well, I certainly hope our problems only come in fours—not fives or sixes or... –gulp- The way things are going, I'm bound to have made some dumb mistake, and wind up being flamed for this chapter… -sobs- So even if you hate it, be nice to me for pity's sake? –looks pitiful- I'm not saying I want you to lie to me, just…break it to me gently ;-)

I do hope you all enjoy the chapter. –limps off-

See chapter one for disclaimer. Reviewer responses are sent – please let me know if you didn't get yours!

Chapter 14: Show No Mercy

With strength borne of desperation, Elrohir pulled on the rope around his neck, throwing every ounce of strength he had left into the effort.

The rope went completely slack this time, and Elrohir slumped to the floor, gulping in air as fast as his lungs could manage. Through the sudden onslaught of coughs that shook him, he barely registered the dull thump of Kadrin landing on the catwalk beside him.

For his part, Kadrin lay stunned for an embarrassingly long time. Then, finally, his brain began to function. The first, rather muddled question that came to mind was, why hadn't he fallen through the rotten boards? For a second, there, falling through the air, he'd been sure he was going to die, or, at the very least, sustain serious injury. In his mind's eye he could see himself smashing through the walkway, and from there to the hard ground below. Altogether, no small distance.

Wincing, he slowly began to pull himself up. Feeling around with his fingers, he realized he'd fallen almost directly beside one the supporting pillars. All around him the floor seemed quite stable. He shrugged—flinching again as his bruising chest protested—far be it from him to argue with fate.

Gingerly rising to his feet, he became conscious of the coughing elf a few feet away. How could he have forgotten the elf, even for a moment? What was happening to him lately! Of all the stupid, careless, amateurish things to do… It must be something to do with that elven "magic" he was always hearing about, he told himself.

Not even pausing long enough to curse the fate that seemed determined to frustrate him at every turn, he lunged at his opponent, kicking him viciously in the chest. With a crack, and the sound of splintering wood, Elrohir crashed through the railing and over the edge.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Aragorn was now rubbing his bound wrists frantically across the nail behind him. For a brief moment, he was sure he'd heard his brothers' voices, coming from somewhere to his left. Then a loud crash came, and Acharndil and his men had jumped up, running forward to find the source of the noise.

To both his and Legolas' relief, Dagron been effectively distracted. But to their annoyance, as he'd left with his men, Acharndil had ordered his cousin to stay with the prisoners, though he had at least thought to forbid him to harm them further.

Aragorn's heart began to beat more quickly as the rope began to fray, strand by strand. At least Dagron shouldn't prove to be too much of an obstacle. Swords began to clash, their ringing blows echoing loudly. If he could only get the last of the cursed rope to sever!

Discreetly, so as not to arouse Dagron's suspicion, he moved his wrists back and forth, and back and forth… His other senses dulled somewhat as all his concentration was poured into the single purpose of continuing the same monotonous movement.

Finally, he felt the last strand give way. Leaning forward slightly, he looked sidelong at Legolas, who looked just as carefully behind the pole Aragorn was tied to, at his friend's now unbound wrists. With a hardly perceptible wink and a smile, Legolas nodded. They both looked at Dagron. He was pacing, alternately glaring at them, and watching the place where Acharndil and the other men had disappeared between two stacks of crates. The moment his back was turned, Aragorn swiftly ducked through the remaining ropes that held him against the pole, then sprang on him. Unfortunately, Dagron also chose that moment to move. That, combined with the difficulty of moving limbs stiff from being tied up for days on end, and a body more than a little sore from various "friendly encounters" with Dagron, threw Aragorn's aim off. He hit Dagron at an awkward angle, merely causing him to stumble. Fortunately, as he stumbled, he dropped the hot dagger he'd still been clutching in his good hand.

Aragorn recovered first, quickly landing a solid punch to Dagron's stomach. It was amazing, really, just how good doing something like that could feel… But he didn't have long to dwell on his satisfaction.

Instead of doubling over, or even gasping, Dagron only gave a animal-like roar of rage and clumsily swept back at him with his fist. Aragorn dodged to the side, taking the opening to land a second punch. Dagron saw it coming this time and tried to back away, out of Aragorn's reach, but tripped. In one quick movement, Aragorn leapt forward and grabbed Dagron's spare dagger out of the sheath at his side.

Legolas, meanwhile, had been urgently fighting against his own bonds, trying to ignore the still-searing pain from his burns. There was virtually no slack to work with in the ropes, and he was quickly finding the struggle to be a losing one. After some minutes, he had succeeded only in pushing the ropes that held his torso and arms against the pole behind him upwards slightly. Since his wrists were still bound on the other side of the beam, this gave him little more freedom than the ability to twist his hands to one side or the other. Finally, with a sigh of frustration, he stilled, admitting that there was no way he was going to get loose without help.

As he turned his full attention back to the struggle between Aragorn and Dagron, he realized that their fight had brought them some distance across the floor, until they were now to his left, instead of straight in front of him. He watched as Aragorn confiscated the dagger and, for no more than a second, turned to face toward him. Legolas had only a split second to react, but already he had anticipated his friend's next move. As Aragorn tossed the dagger toward him, Legolas twisted his bound hands quickly to the left, catching the dagger as it flew toward him.

It was a rather awkward catch, and he hissed softly as the blade sliced a shallow cut across the palm of his left hand. After tense seconds of careful maneuvering, he finally managed to get the dagger positioned between his wrists. With excruciating slowness, the rope began to sever as he moved the blade up and down. Looking up, he was just in time to see Dagron take a mad dash across the room, snatching up his sword from where he had left it, propped up against a crate.

Aragorn saw it too and quickly scanned the room for another weapon. If there were any, they certainly weren't close enough for him to find them in time.

Obviously, a remote part his brain reminded him sarcastically. The men would have taken their weapons with them when they went after Elladan and Elrohir.

The reminder of his brothers brought back the need for haste. Dagron lunged, sword leveled at him, and he began to duck and dodge to keep from being impaled. If he failed now, his brothers' lives could depend on it—and he couldn't keep this up forever.

Time for something a little unorthodox.

Dagron's sword hissed past him, nearly skinning his shoulder as he sidestepped. Thankfully, Dagron's efforts with the broadsword were costing him as much energy as Aragorn was using avoiding him. He was panting now, his movements slower, less deliberate, and more frenzied.

As Dagron's sword arched over his head, Aragorn dove forward and grabbed a board that lay a few feet away. It wasn't quite as long as he would have liked it to be, but it was certainly longer than his opponent's sword. Maneuvering the awkward piece of wood as quickly as he could, he swung it towards Dagron.

Legolas found two reasons to smile, as his ropes gave way and Aragorn's board cracked down on Dagron's wrist, causing him to drop his sword. However, only a second later, he found equal reason to frown as a sizzling sound drew his attention away, and he caught the faint smell of smoke. He looked down and saw a thin line of fire creeping along the edges of some of the dry stubble that was scattered across the floor. The cause of the flames—Dagron's now-cooling dagger—lay nestled at his feet. Reacting quickly, he stamped the flames out before they had a chance to fully spring up.

He took a deep breath, and looked for an opening to join Aragorn in the fight, without getting in his friend's way at an inconvenient moment. However, Aragorn seemed to be handling Dagron quite well enough on his own at the moment. Now defenseless save for his wits—which were scarce—Dagron was resorting to glaring, as if he hoped it might be fatal. But his pitiful excuse for a fierce look didn't do half justice to the looks Aragorn was used to receiving from Elrond.

And so, unfazed, he continued to wield the board in a style that would have made his brothers proud. First it collided with the side of Dagron's head with a highly satisfying crack, then, seconds later, he brought it upwards. It hit the other man's chin, jerking his head back. Finally going limp, Dagron slumped to the floor.

Dropping his board, Aragorn abandoned it in favor if his now-defeated opponent's sword. Breathless, his aching body reminding him quite firmly that he wasn't in the best condition to be attempting a fight with anyone, Aragorn smiled faintly at Legolas. "Come on, mellon-nín, there's no telling how much trouble those brothers of mine have gotten themselves into." He motioned. "It's time for the captives to rescue the rescuers."

Legolas nodded, and was about to follow his friend, when that familiar burning smell assailed his senses again. He opened his mouth to halt Aragorn, but then decided against it. Let him go to his brothers. He'd take care of this and then join him. At any rate, the human had already darted off and was out of sight, leaving him little choice. He turned to discover the cause.

It wasn't hard.

Unnoticed in the chaos of their fight, either Dagron or Aragorn had stumbled against the metal cauldron in which the fire was burning, knocking out one of the half-burnt logs. Already, in the moment it took him to react, orange tongues of fire were beginning to spread rapidly across the floor. Legolas moved quickly to smother the flames, stamping them out with his feet, but even as he subdued one area, more flames spread to a new one.

As if the Valar had felt he wasn't in enough trouble already, they decided to add new complications. They were thoughtful enough, though, to send him a warning—if only a few seconds beforehand. Suddenly, intensely, bits and pieces of advice were coming back to him, for no apparent reason. Was it something Thranduil had said? Lord Elrond? Or perhaps Glorfindel?

One simple, but very important rule you must never forget Legolas…

Another flame shot up, disrupting his focus. Elbereth, it was getting hot in here.

Legolas, are you listening to me? Focus. You must remember: never—never—turn your back on an enemy until you are certain they are dead. Make very certain, young one, or a "defeated" foe could be your death. A fight isn't over until one of you is dead, or completely incapacitated. And one thing you must always assume: your opponent will show you no mercy.

If he hadn't been so busy at the moment, he might have rolled his eyes. Eru, what was this all about? It wasn't as if he'd left some deadly foe just lying back there unconscious…

Eru.

He turned, but not quickly enough. Dagron was charging, a dagger in one hand. Just before the inevitable impact, a small detached part of his mind berated him fiercely for having left the hot dagger lying on the floor. Unless Dagron had an unlimited supply of weapons stored about his person, he must have found the dagger he had dropped earlier, when Aragorn had slammed into him.

Fortunately, Legolas' sudden movement saved him from fatal injury, but pain lanced up his arm as the blade grazed his burnt shoulder, slicing the already raw skin. He stifled a cry of pain, stumbling backwards as Dagron's full momentum barreled into him. They both lost their grasp on their weapons, as they fell with the impact, Dagron slamming down squarely on Legolas' chest, effectively knocking the wind from his lungs. Legolas gasped as the considerable weight of his opponent pinned him to the floor.

Dagron was chuckling now as he straddled the incapacitated elf beneath him, reaching to retrieve his lost weapon, which had clattered to the ground not far from where they lay.

Legolas, however, recovered more swiftly than Dagron had expected. Waiting for the opportune moment, he jerked his knee up between Dagron's legs as hard as he could. Dagron grunted, but did not curl up in misery as many men would have—and as Legolas might have hoped he would. He was distracted, but not so much so that he would give up his advantageous position. He was, undisputedly, the heavy-weight-champion out of the two of them, and he was using every pound to his advantage. Legolas was left panting and struggling for each breath as more weight was shifted to rest on his stomach.

"Not so cocky now, are ya, elf?" Dagron sneered, holding down Legolas' clenched fists against the floor.

With his brain quickly losing valuable oxygen, Legolas didn't bother thinking of, much less trying to say, anything witty. Time to try one of Aragorn's favorite moves. Steeling himself against the pain that was to come, he brought his head upward, choosing numbly not to think about what he was doing. Their heads collided with a crack that brought mutual yelps of pain from each. Dagron slid to one side, moaning as he clutched his bleeding nose.

Hastily, Legolas forced his vision to stop wavering. I may never understand some of your choices, mellon-nín… he thought wryly, resisting the urge to rub his forehead, instead snatching Dagron's dagger. Almost simultaneously, he rolled over on top of Dagron, holding the blade to his throat.

By now, Dagron was slowly regaining a semblance of dignity; however, the sneer that began to form on his face was quickly changed to a poorly-disguised flinch. Blood was trickling steadily from his nose, and Legolas noted—with a well-earned level of spiteful glee—that from the look of it, it was probably broken.

"What? Nothing cocky to say?" Legolas asked, the aforementioned spiteful glee apparent.

Dagron's only response was to narrow his eyes.

Off in the distance, Legolas could hear the continued clatter of swords. Was it just his imagination, or were the clashes becoming more frantic? Somehow everything seemed muted… Then, with a sudden jolt of panic, he realized that the crackling sound of flames was what was muffling the noises of battle. Flames that were surrounding them, and spreading fast.

He had to end this. Now.

Looking down at the face of the man beneath him, he pressed the blade harder against his neck. Dagron stared back, either too proud, or too stupid to show any fear. Legolas hesitated. Part of him screamed at the delay, while another part of him paused indecisively. He'd killed before, orcs, and wargs—and evil men too. In battle.

Kill him before it's too late! You'll be trapped!

"What elf, too cowardly to kill?" Dagron taunted.

Legolas shut the voice out of his thoughts. He couldn't do it, not in cold blood, staring his defeated foe in the eye… But, always a warrior first, his mind was already moving on to the next thing. Scowling at himself in exasperation, he flipped the blade so it was handle down. For now, he would ensure Dagron couldn't cause any more trouble. Later, they could see that Dagron got full justice.

You already regret not finishing him off last time, and you'll regret it again.

He ignored the sensible voice that was now shouting frantically in his mind, lifting the handle and preparing to smash it into Dagron's temple. A sudden loud scream from the direction of the main battle drew his attention, and for just an instant, he automatically turned to glance in the direction it had come from. It was only a second's delay, but his enemy took full advantage of the small pause, kicking up with his knees.

"Wrong choice…" was all he heard before he found himself lying flat on his back once more. But, instead of tackling him, Dagron was scrambling backwards as fast as he could. He had only seconds to wonder, before he found out why.

There was a crack above him. In motion slow enough for him to watch, but too fast for him to react, he watched as one of the timbers that supported the roof listed towards him, fire licking up its sides. Pain exploded across his chest.

Somewhere nearby, he could hear Dagron's gleeful laughter.

Again, I'm really sorry for the delay! I WAS going to do this yesterday… But since I didn't upload it before our internet quit, I couldn't even post it at the library :-P

As always, a HUGE thank you to all my wonderful reviewers! You guys are so good to me! –hugs-

Next chapter should hopefully be posted next Friday. After all that's happened this last week, I think I might take a break from reviewer responses this next chapter, though… Of course, I may have a sudden burst of energy, and do them, but if Bad Thing #5 happens, I'll probably be hiding in my closet for the remainder of the week. If you never hear from me again… Assume the worst. Hehe, ok, I'm done being depressing now.

Hope you all have a wonderful week-before-Christmas!