Disclaimer: (dancing to the beat of The Bloodhound Gang) Hey everybody! They're not mine, and I wish I didn't have to say it anymore, because it really brings me down. I do own the elvish drinking song though.

AN:(Edited 5 April 2010) (Screams in happiness and does the review dance) YAY! I broke 100 reviews! Thank you all sooo much for letting me feel this great! ( starts to dance again)

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The lord of Imladris stood and stared in shock. Not more than fifteen minutes had passed since he had gone down to the kitchens to get a cup of tea to wash down Estel's cake. He had moved quicker than necessary through the halls, wary as ever for traps.

He had made the trip without incident, only to find his charge missing. The sheets were tangled, and on the floor was one of Legolas's knives, the point tipped with blood.

The sound of laughter echoed through the halls, closely followed by a roll of thunder. The storm had broken upon Imladris with a wild fury, driving all the elves inside, where they stayed in the Hall and told stories in front of a fire.

Elrond heard the laughter again, much closer this time, and recognized the voices of the twins and Estel, chattering about ancient pranks.

The trio entered the room, and the laughter instantly stopped.

"Ada, what's—"

"Where's—"

"Hey, when—"

Elrond cut off the voice assault with a raised hand. He did not it possible, but he asked anyway. "Have any of you seen Legolas? Has he been moved?"

The stricken looks on his son's faces told him, in no uncertain terms that the twins and Estel had not moved the elf. Without a word, Estel, Elladan and Elrond darted away to search the adjoining rooms. Elrohir remained, glancing all about the small room, trying to see something that no one else in their panic, had.

The curtains, which were drawn across the door that led to the balcony, were waving slightly in the breeze. Elrohir frowned, the curtains shouldn't have been waving unless the door was open, and the door shouldn't be open at all in light of the storm.

He stepped forward warily, hand straying toward his dagger. The dark-haired elf reached forward and drew the curtain aside slowly. He caught a glimpse of long blonde hair, and nearly broke through the doors in an effort to get outside.

For all his fumbling, he was beside his friend in less than three seconds. Legolas stood at the railing, hands gripping the wood tightly. He stared out to the forest blankly, unheeding of the winds that plucked at his body as if hoping to lift him and carry him off.

Elrohir gently took hold of the elf's arm and wasn't surprised to find it trembling violently. He was suddenly aware, as a lightning flash lit the sky, how frail his friend seemed. So thin as to be dangerous, and desperately pale. His inner light had faded, and his skin was chalky.

He tried to steer Legolas back into the room, but was stopped when the prince's hand locked onto the rail. "Don't."

A single word, to Elrohir, that held a great weight, a resignation.

"Legolas, come back inside, you shouldn't be out here."

The younger twin felt, in alarm, that his friend's shaking had continued, even gotten worse. The prince's teeth chattered and he was so weak as to rely upon Elrohir's firm grip to stay upright, and yet he wanted to stay.

"Look." A great sadness laced Legolas's voice, and Elrohir, who had never heard his friend speak so, was filled with apprehension. But all the same, he came back and stood easily at his friend's shoulder, allowing the exhausted elf to lean heavily on his shoulder.

"Look at what, mellon-nin?"

With an effort, Legolas raised his arm and swept it through the air. "All of that. How long has it been since we've watched a thunderstorm?" His voice died away, lost in a roaring rumble of thunder.

Elrohir smiled upon recollection. "Many centuries ago, Legolas. I am surprised that you remember it."

"I remember much more than that. You have never known it, but your support that night helped in more ways than one."

The Noldor glanced at the blonde elf in confusion. "What do you mean?"

After a particularly long pause, in which Elrohir was beginning to become quite alarmed, Legolas sighed and replied, "After the fire."

The twin frowned. There it was again, that pesky reference to the fire. He decided to put the questions all to rest, and waited for a flash and the roll of thunder to pass before he spoke again.

"Legolas, we have never heard of any tales concerning fire from you. The occasional forest fire, yes, but never any so haunting. Would you tell me please?"

The wind, which had died down a little, returned with a blast, nearly knocking the two off their feet. Elrohir's grip on Legolas tightened, and he thought, as he looked at his friend during the next lightning flare, that he could see almost straight through the elf-prince. The notion terrified him, and he again tried to pull Legolas back into the safety and warmth of the room.

He did not get very far. The emancipated elf clung to the rail like his life depended on it.

"No," he said softly, "I will stay here. I need this."

Sighing, knowing there was no arguing with the stubborn elf, Elrohir reached behind him and pulled up a chair, one large enough for the both of them. It took very little persuasion to get Legolas to sit, and the two watched the storm unfold.

Elrohir had forgotten about the mention of fire for the time being, and he had completely forgotten to tell his father and brothers that the patient was safe.

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Iladri'on waited, just near the cell door. He was sprawled at an awkward angle, arm twisted beneath him. For all the world, it looked as if he had tried to break the door down and knocked himself cold.

All he had to do was wait for the guards to bring him his daily meal, if you could call it that. A moldy piece of bread and warm water does not make a meal. It was only enough to live on, and Iladri'on knew that he was fed so little to keep him weak.

He had saved pieces of his bread each day he had been fed, and by the time he had worked out a plan, he had saved nearly a whole extra piece.

He had eaten it the night before, and now felt stronger, nowhere near enough to take on several wargs, but enough so that he might escape the cell and learn what was going on.

The tiny window of the cell brightened from its usual darkness, and he quickly shut his eyes, knowing that the guard would open the door immediately once he saw the sprawled elf.

True enough, the door swung open, and the orc's quick footsteps pattered over to the elf. One of its sandaled feet swung and nudged the elf in the ribs. When Iladri'on made no move or sound, it crouched down and poked at the half-Noldor's neck.

"Well, is you alive or not?"

Suddenly the elf twisted and darted to his feet, fist flying at the orc's face. The surprised creature moved to block, but was far too slow. Iladri'on's fist smashed into the creature's nose, effectively breaking it.

The orc crumpled to the ground, and Iladri'on allowed himself a grin. Then his face twisted and he bounced up and down, muttering curses in Sindarin and shaking his throbbing hand.

Nursing his injured knuckles, he gagged the orc and left the cell behind. The tunnels were dark and damp, but it felt so good to stretch his legs, Iladri'on didn't care. He went on, hiding and jumping at every shadow and noise, heading in the general direction from which he had heard the elven screams.

He had gone quite a ways before he thought of peering into the cells for his kindred. The first cell he looked in held nothing living, and neither did the next. The one after that did hold an elf, although the poor being was pale, and too dirt-covered to tell who it was. Iladri'on's attempts to wake the being were fruitless.

Shaking his head in regret, Iladri'on continued. The next cell he peered into held Thranduil.

"Your Majesty, are you alright?" The half-Noldor glanced all about, but there was nothing in sight to help him break the lock that held the elf-king captive. "King Thranduil, it's Iladri'on. Sir, are you alright?"

The elf-king looked up wearily, and the younger elf was shocked at the great look of sorrow that masked the king's face. Thranduil's natural elven glow was gone. Iladri'on gasped and reached up to take hold of the bars in the tiny window, as if to tear them free. It was instantly obvious: Thranduil was fading.

Hit by a sudden inspiration, and remembering the events that had led him to come to this wretched place, Iladri'on blurted out, "King Thranduil, your son is—"

He broke off in terror and alarm as the elf-king leaped to his feet, eyes deadened into a blank gaze. Iladri'on would rather have faced Thranduil in all his fury, rather than this shell, this empty creature.

The king crossed the few feet from the wall to the door in less than a second. He pressed his face up against the door and began shouting in the guttural orc language of all things!

Iladri'on winced as the harsh tongue battered at his ears, and tried futilely to stop the king's ranting. Only when he heard the running footsteps on the floor above him did he flee.

Thranduil slumped down onto the floor, thoughts whirling. It had happened again, the strange undeniable force that possessed him without warning, and left him weaker than water, muscles twinging in pain.

It came suddenly, and left when its business was done. It seemed to the king like an evil spirit, although he couldn't understand why it had targeted his kingdom. When the orcs came, they had brought with them a cloaked figure, who had merely to raise a hand, and the elf in question would feel his soul being taken, his discipline over his body vanished, and the free will to do anything disappeared.

It was a terrifying feeling, and worse, when in such a state, the elves had been under orders, orders which they could not disobey. They were held captive in their own minds, able to watch as their bodies performed actions they couldn't stop. Perfectly able to think and perfectly able to fight against the invisible force, but unable to win.

Half the elves had been taken immediately, and ordered to attack their kinsfolk, but not to kill, just to knock unconscious. Elves forced to attack their families, able to see the hurt and confusion in the maiden's and children's eyes as their best friends; their husbands and fathers, attacked them.

They had come into the inner palace last, and by that time, the king and several of his advisors had gotten wind of the happening, and were ready. They had held their own, had done quite well actually, until that blasted figure arrived and stole their ability to control themselves. They had been knocked unconscious and held in the cell for weeks.

Occasionally Thranduil could hear screams of pain from his people, and it twisted the king's heart to listen to the harsh cries and be unable to help. He had sunk even deeper into despair; without the help of the trees and sun, he had utterly lost the will to live. He knew his fate, and could only hope to see his son, smiling his mischievous smile, waiting at the entrance to the Halls of Mandos.

He could not help but wonder if the Halls were susceptible to practical jokes.

But then, the elf had appeared, knocking at the door and calling out for the king to answer. Thranduil knew the elf as one of Imladris's messengers, Iladri'on by name, and could only wonder at the urgent news of the elf's message; for Iladri'on was the fastest messenger of that realm, and was only sent with the most vital of messages.

He had tried to warn the elf to flee, but the pressing force came over him, and he had leaped to his feet, calling for the orcan guards in a language that was normally rough guesswork at best.

Iladri'on had fled, and Thranduil sincerely hoped that the young elf had made it out, and would swiftly make his way back to Imladris, and alert the elves there.

His energy completely gone, Thranduil shut his eyes and went to sleep. He was no fool, he knew that one day soon, he would drift into a sleep from which he would never awaken. Such was the way of fading for the elves.