Mercury! You really believe me capable of killing my poor, beloved Rondy? sobs Ah well, I might have done that once or twice :P Don't worry, he'll live… this time!

Yeah, I like Thranduil too, even though he has a bi of a temper.

Chapter 11

Elrond's stomach almost emptied as his bounds suddenly disappeared and he fell helplessly to the ground. He was trembling violently, caked in blood and drained of power.

"Why?" he whispered, barely able to form the words with his split lips.

"I told you that I like fun," Sadjan growled, pressing the half-elf to the ground with his body, "I am not through with you yet… your power is very delicious…"

"Please…" Elrond groaned, trying to push himself up but unable to fend Sadjan off, "Why don't you kill me?"

"Because I like to see you suffer."

Elrond gasped as his eyesight suddenly returned to him and Sadjan's bared fangs came into view.

"I shall give you one chance to save your miserable life, elf," the creature growled, lapping playfully at the dried blood on Elrond's lips. "Since your kin is so connected with nature, I shall leave you here. You have until the moon reaches its highest point to save yourself. After that I shall come for you. I shall track and hunt you down."

Elrond moaned, darkness creeping into the periphery of his vision.

"Can't… breathe…" he gasped.

"Never mind," Sadjan lifted himself from the elf in a flutter of dark wings, "If you prefer to stay here till I come and kill you, then that's okay with me, too. Don't disappoint me."

Black mist swirled around the small clearing, enveloping Elrond in its cold and as the wind carried the foggy wisps away the half-elf was alone once more, blood pounding in his ears and slowly seeping from his many injuries, draining even more of his strength.

"Stop squirming!" Legolas chided the dwarf, giving the needle another pull.

"Ouch! I would if you would seem to know what you're doing!"

"I do!"

Gimli winced as Legolas cut the thread, tied a tight knot and continued to sew the wound shut.

"At least you aren't sewing me up with cross-stitches or something." Gimli continued to grumble, earning another death glare from the blond.

"I should leave you to bleed to death," Legolas huffed, tying the last knot with just a little more force than necessary, "That would have been just punishment for acting so foolishly!"

"I did not act foolishly!" Gimli yanked his arm away as soon as Legolas had cut of the thread again.

"Oh yes?" the blond elf glared down at the dwarf, hands on his hips, "What else would you call jumping into the way of an orc blade instead of jumping out of it? It could have been poisoned!"

"Well it wasn't." Gimli tried to look offended but failed miserably due to the fact that he was sitting on a still warm orc corpse.

"Stop pouting." Legolas fired over his shoulder as he turned to stow needle and thread away in his saddlebags.

"Pouting?" Gimli jumped up, wincing but his beard still bristling with indignation, "I will have you know, Master elf, that dwarves do not pout!"

"This one does."

"Not!"

Legolas smirked. "Since the cleverest backs away from a fruitless argument first, I shall leave it at that."

"Impertinent elf!"

"Stupid pouting dwarf!"

"I was not pouting!"

"Well you are now!"

Harrumphing Gimli turned and stalked off into the woods, muttering darkly to himself as he led his horse with his uninjured arm.

With a sigh Legolas rolled his eyes, shook his head and followed the stream of dwarfish obscenities.

Thranduil's eyes bulged from their sockets as his breath was suddenly knocked out of him. Panting heavily he crashed to the ground, staying there till the sharp pain in his back subsided.

A cold nose nudged his left cheek, closely followed by a warm tongue.

"Ugh." Thranduil groaned, his eyes burning as the smell of rotten meat and decay washed over him. "Just a moment," he mumbled, closing his eyes, "Just let me rest for a while."
With a growl his side was poked insistently and the tongue returned again.

"Very well." Thranduil moaned exasperatedly and pushed himself into a sitting position. "You know," he said, staring into the strangely intelligent yellow eyes next to him, "This is not a good moment."

The wolf growled once more, cocking his head as though he had understood every word.

The animal was large and strong, no more than two years old. Thranduil knew him and knew that he was no threat, had in fact often used the wolf to spirit-travel through his realm. Gulping Thranduil looked around, taking in his surroundings for the first time since he had fallen. His sword arm hurt and his sword had shattered after he had stabbed the black creature with it. The creature had screamed in rage and pain as Thranduil had stumbled backwards, out of the reach of the deadly talons. The air around the creature had rippled and curled, taken on a strange dark glow and exploded in a series of black blasts.

Four of his best warriors lay unmoving in the ground, their faces twisted into masks of sheer terror and the blood from their wounds still saturating the damp forest soil.

"How long was I gone?" mumbled Thranduil, burying his hand in the thick fur of the animal's neck. There was no sign of his troop except for the dead. Shakily he called his second-in-command but received no answer, not even the usual scurrying of frightened animal feet and screeching of birds.

Still panting he briefly called on the ancient power of the Eldar and briefly merged his mind with the wolf's, becoming part of the animal's thoughts and sharing his memories.

Still no clue as to where the rest of his troop was. Thranduil closed his eyes, slowly separated himself from the wolf and waited till the pain in his head had dimmed to an uncomfortable throbbing. He frowned. His senses were still mingled with the wolf's and his hearing and smelling was keener than ever and he had managed to pick up a faint scent on the wind. Blood. Weakness. Power unleashed.

Growling softly the blond elf rose from the ground, quizzically sniffling the air. Silently he leapt off into the forest, closely followed by the growling wolf.

It had been raining steadily almost all day, a heavy downpour of grey beads of water that soon managed to get through their cloaks and now dripped under their armour, soaking them to the skin.

Bellmaethorion had had no difficulty with leading them to the small clearing where he had found the tracks and sensed the evil presence but the rain had washed all recognizable tracks away and slowly but steadily turned the damp soil into a blanket of mud that covered every open in on the ground.

Glorfindel tried to huddle deeper into the shelter of his cloak with every passing minute but to no avail. Now, as they were finally making camp for the night, the blond was still soaked to the skin without any hope of getting dry in the near future.

The elves had collected fallen twigs and branches and built an at least almost dry shelter by tying thick beams to the trees about one and a half metres above the ground. Other branches had been laid onto them with one end and with the other on the ground and the space in between had been filled with fir branches so that the needles kept at least part of the rain at bay.

Glorfindel frowned as he raided his saddle bags in search of something edible. A small black book, well-used by the look of it, fell into his hands. He inched closer to the fire one of the archers had managed to get going and leafed through it. The book was leather-bound and appeared to be a journal of some sorts, filled with the crude letters of the common tongue and some small drawings.

The seneschal froze as a certain image caught his eye. Watercolours had quickly caught the image of a black creature walking on three-fingered claws. Even the face was black but if one dared to imagine what it must look like without the red eyes, the creature looked uncomfortably elven. Black wings spread from its shoulders, reaching down to its knees but what disturbed Glorfindel the most was the midnight black hair that framed the creature's face. The hair seemed almost raven.

"Bellmaethorion?" he asked, slowly making out the letters beneath the picture, "What do you think of this?"

"I sense no evil on the book." Thranduil's seneschal said after kneeling down beside Glorfindel and staring at the book for quite some time.

"Nor do I," Glorfindel agreed, "But look what it says here: Sadjan, as he became after the dark one's servant twisted him."

"If that is the creature we are following…" Bellmaethorion thought aloud.

"Yes?"

"He must be old, very old indeed. Sauron is dead and the book is very old so "the dark one" probably refers to Melkor and the servant in question was Sauron. Where did you get that book?"

"I don't know," Glorfindel shrugged as the other frowned, "I found it in my saddle bags."

"But you did not put it there."

"No. What?" Glorfindel asked, noticing the unreadable emotion that played briefly over Bellmaethorion's face.

"Nothing." Thranduil's seneschal shook his head. "I should like to know who hid the book in your bags. Is there any other useful information in there?"

"I don't know," Glorfindel pointed out, "I haven't read it yet."

"Perhaps you should, seneschal. Who ever put that book into your saddle bags clearly intended you to have it. You should read it while there is still light in the sky."
Glorfindel's suspicious gaze followed Bellmaethorion through the camp. He could not quite put his finger on it but he sense that the Mirkwood elf knew more than he admitted to.