Revised August 2020

:::

III III III

Legolas felt restless. This was by no means a feeling unknown to him, yet of late it seemed to plague him with increasing frequency. In this there was probably nothing mysterious, and furthermore he knew that he had more or less brought the present situation on himself. That notwithstanding, plainly and simply - he was impatient. Everything was taking too long.

He raised his eyes and looked towards the ivy-clad and half-collapsed doorway. The rainstorm had slackened a while ago, and the sky was now a turbulent, patchy grey. Dusk was slowly casting its veil over the rain-swept landscape outside.

They might be able to cover another ten miles before nightfall, if they were to leave at once, but truly he did not think it worth the effort. First, the woman would probably cause him some difficulties, if he forced her to go back outside now, and then she would most likely indeed fall ill.

Ah, they were so frail, humans. In that respect, there had been some truth in her rambling from before. Of course, there had been no need for her to tell him that, he was probably far more aware of it than she would ever be. He was not unused to travelling with mortals, and therefore knew quite well how to be considerate of them and their needs, but - travelling with young, mortal females was obviously another matter altogether.

And yet, it almost astonished him that this only seemed to have dawned on her now. Not that he did not appreciate her being humble and timid for once, but he did not wish to listen to her stuttered apologies; expressing it in any way did not change the matter, after all.

There was another, and perhaps more accurate reason for him not wanting to hear any of that, and Legolas felt a mild and brief surge of annoyance as the unwelcome thought once again gently tugged at his conscience. As much as he disliked admitting it to himself, there was no denying the fact that somewhere within his heart he still sensed something close to guilt, concerning her current situation.

He briefly glanced at the huddled up form sitting next to him. She had moved away from him a couple of feet, no doubt in fear of further 'attacks' on his part. The expression on her face, when he had grabbed hold of her face and pulled her towards him, as well as her whole body language during those few moments, had spoken volumes.

Who- or whatever she might have been in her former life - one could only hope for her sake that it was nothing that required her to conceal her thoughts and feelings, since she was clearly completely incapable of that. Her reaction had actually made him feel a little sorry, but not enough to tell her how unfounded her obvious fears were. If, by now, she still worried about him going to savage her, she was either mad, or rather more foolish than he had thought, and for that he offered no sympathy. Aside from that, the intention behind his deed had been to silence her, and since it had succeeded, reassuring her would mean to defeat the initial purpose. If the situation they were in had not been so severe, he might even have found her behaviour entertaining, or at the very least slightly amusing, and he had to admit to himself that – on some other, earlier occasions – he had actually caught himself provoking those reactions a little bit.

Was his self-imposed solitude beginning to take its toll after all? Perhaps it would be wise to distance himself a little more from her. On the other hand - that girl could be quite a nuisance at times, and flustering her apparently worked much better than growls or threats. There was something else, though …

Legolas could not fail to note that whenever his attention was focused on her, with her often strange and even bizarre behaviour she unwittingly managed to divert his wandering thoughts from other, darker paths, which he knew from experience were better left untread. Using her in such a way, even if unintentional, was indeed not the most noble thing to do, but he had long since realised - and even then with only a very mild twinge of unease – that those things mattered much less to him than they used to.

And while being on the subject of strange behaviour…

The woman was still scowling slightly, he noticed. She had put her boots back on, which caused her to now look rather odd, with nothing but footwear, a thin, sleeveless undershirt, and that strange, half-ripped pair of hoses that she insisted to wear underneath her other clothes. Her hair tumbled down her back as an unruly dark mass, a couple of leaves and small twigs still sticking to it. She was staring mutely into the fire, biting onto her lower lip and apparently lost in thought.

Legolas wondered whether he should point out to her that the tip of her left boot was slowly getting singed. But in the same moment she had already noticed it herself, drew in a sharp breath, pulled back her leg and frantically began to shake her foot and brush it off.

Out of the tail of his eye Legolas saw that she looked in his direction, either to verify whether he had seen anything – the naivety of that girl never ceased to amaze – or otherwise to glare at him. She did that quite a lot, he had noticed, though on most of these occasions he did not know what exactly he was supposed to have done to anger her. It mattered little to him; only now and then he felt a twinge of curiosity as for what might be going on in her head.

Legolas leaned back against the stonewall, telling himself that there was no point in watching the hours pass by. He should make use of the time he was forced to spend here, and get as much rest as possible. With that purpose in mind he closed his eyes – but of course he felt no tiredness. Lost in thoughts he was not sure how much time had passed, when suddenly a thud disturbed the silence, and something brushed his knee. Upon opening his eyes, he found that the girl had – as it seemed to be her habit – fallen asleep in the exact position she had been sitting, and just now had apparently tipped over to the side. That did not cause her to wake up, however. She merely muttered something, blindly groped around for his leg, against which she had just fallen, and then rested her head upon his thigh.

It really was unbelievable, Legolas thought, while pulling his leg out from under her, causing her head to roll on the floor. She would never be able to survive on her own, probably would get eaten by a bear while sleeping, the very first night.

"Play the piano?"

Jerked from his thoughts, Legolas looked to his side and down, towards the curled-up ball that had been the source of the mumbled words. He half expected the girl to be awake, but no – she was apparently still fast asleep; her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted, and a few strands of tousled, dark brown hair hung across her face.

Play what?

"No… no, I don't know how to play … sorry…"

So, being asleep clearly did not keep her from talking.

He had, in fact, heard her do that before a couple of times, but had never been able to make out more than one or two coherent words, and none of them seemed to make much sense.

However, every now and again, Legolas had asked himself what her dreams might be about. He now watched the woman as she ineffectively tried to brush away a few hairs from in front of her nose, leaving a smudge on the freckled skin, before turning around and almost rolling into the fire. Wondering what it might require to penetrate that near-unconscious state, he leaned over and reached out for her shoulder to pull her back against the wall. Just when he let go of her again, she suddenly – and with surprising swiftness, considering she was asleep – clutched his hand in both of hers and pulled it against her collarbones, like a child might do with a doll.

Even while sleeping, she was capable of showing an audacity that was almost worth admiring, though if he were to awake her now, she would no doubt wither away with embarrassment. Her skin felt very cold against his. It was of course always a bit colder, but right now, this was presumably partly due to her lying merely half-clad in the cool draught.

As he pulled his hand out of Anne's grip the Elf almost started at her renewed mumbling, which, this time, was accompanied by a slight smile forming on her lips.

"It smells good…"

"Sometimes ignorance can be a blessing indeed," he muttered, while throwing a blanket over her.

:::

Anne awoke with the strange sensation of something warm and soft nudging against the top of her head. Also, her face felt very hot. With some effort, she fought her way to the surface of sleep's darkness and warmth, opened her eyes and saw … again, nothing but darkness. Moaning, she pulled off the blanket, which for some reason had been covering her face, and let her eyes fall shut once more. She felt so warm and drowsy, and – now that the blanket was off her head – rather comfortable.

Only a few more minutes…

Only a couple of seconds later, however, all drowsiness left her as something warm, velvety, and slightly wet brushed over her forehead, while at the same moment someone's hot breath was blown into her face.

Anne let out a small shriek and slapped her hand in the vague direction of the intruder, before struggling into an upright position. The 'molester' turned out to be Dûrfang, whose only reply was a loud, and somewhat indignant snort. Her hand still resting upon her hammering heart, Anne watched as the dark stallion backed out of the room to join Peg, who was grazing near the entrance.

'What a way to begin the morning,' she thought with a sigh, and then looked about her. Perhaps, 'morning' was sort of farfetched, still. The sun had not risen yet, and the sky was a dark grey-blue. Only above the horizon there was an erratically formed pale lining, making it look like the sky was bathed in foaming, silvery ocean. The hills, fields, and the forest in the west were almost completely clad into a coat of early morning fog. Only here and there the dark branches of a high tree, or the top of a hill could be seen.

Delior was of course already outside and, judging by the low noises she could hear from around the corner, building a fire. The one they had made in the room had of course long since gone out – probably even last night, since the air inside the tower ruin smelled clean and slightly of rain, with no hint of lingering smoke.

Once she had dressed into fresh clothes, Anne packed together her now relatively dry things and crammed everything back into her bags. While doing so, her fingers suddenly touched something hard, cold and pointy. Perplexed, she was just about to pull it out, when she remembered what it was - the strange necklace with the leaf-pendant that had been amongst her things, when Liecia had returned them to her, back in Carrockton. Having no mind to deal with this right now, Anne shoved it back to the very bottom of the bag, placing everything else on top of it.

When she began rolling up her blankets, however, she paused and frowned.

Strange, she thought. I must have been more exhausted than I realised, I cannot even remember getting my blanket before falling asleep.

It also seemed like she had slept quite a bit longer than usual. Had it not been late afternoon, when they had reached the tower yesterday? She could not remember it getting completely dark, while she had still been awake. Now that she thought about it, in exchange she remembered other things from last evening. Anne's frown deepened at the memory, and her hands paused in the act of wringing out a piece of linen that she had used as a washing cloth.

She had… Oh, no, she really had apologised to him. What had she been thinking? Not much, obviously, and the result of it was nothing to make a song about. Of course, yesterday, saying those things had seemed like a very good idea to her… like the right thing to do. Now, however, not so much.

I think I am terribly fickle, Anne thought ironically. Or perhaps I am just not a very good person, so whenever I do something… good, I regret it the next day. Of course, there was the possibility that only he had that effect on her. Perhaps he had it on everyone.

And, who knew, something good might come of it, after all. At least now, the matter was off the table, so to speak, and she did not need to feel guilty about it anymore. Now she could peacefully accept the fact that, while comparing herself to the Elf, she would always feel hopelessly inadequate. That was, if one could get used to something like this.

While brushing off dust from her leggings and getting to her feet, Anne decided to at least try – for the time being. After all, it would not be that long until they would part ways again.

As she stepped out through the doorway the scent of the nimlest growing there filled her nose, abruptly reminding her of how the Elf had taken hold of her chin and how she had breathed in the same scent, coming from him. Disgruntled, she shoved the unbidden memory right back into the very last corner of her mind, and stepped towards the now merrily crackling fire.

:::

For two days the weather remained rainy, grey, and dismal, while they crossed through wooded dales and over barren lowlands, covered with parched grass and brier wood. On the morning of the third day, however, the sky opened up, and the valley they were descending into was suddenly bathed in warm autumn sunlight, causing Delior's hair to gleam and the drops of still lingering morning dew on branches and leaves to sparkle.

Then Anne saw something else – half-transparent, greyish wisps of smoke, slowly rising skywards, and clearly visible against the dark, wooded slope lying beyond.

"There is smoke rising from down there," she said surprised.

"Yes," came the indifferent answer. "There lies the village of Oskred."

"Oskred?" Anne peered in the direction where the smoke seemed to be rising from, but part of the hill and several clumps of tall firs were obscuring her view.

"Another village of Men. It is much smaller than Bree, however."

Anne glanced at the Elf. She thought it was amazing that he was able to sound so underwhelmed, and put so much snideness in such an objective and neutral comment. Not that he had needed to say anything. Considering everything she knew about him by now, she could have told herself that they were going to give this village a wide berth. Therefore she did not spend any more thoughts on the matter, but relished the warmth of the sun on her face. About an hour later, however, she could see the first houses huddled against the hillside, though still partly obscured by a number of towering ash trees.

Two days ago, they had reached a road – or rather a dirt track wide enough for a horse and cart – and had been following it since then. And the road, Anne now realised, appeared to be leading directly to this village, Oskred.

What did this mean? Was her journey over already? Had Delior decided to not take her to Bree after all, but instead to leave her in this remote hamlet? Only yesterday she had asked him how far it was to Bree now, and he had told her it would be seven to ten days, leaving her with mixed feelings, as she had expected it to be still a little longer. If his plans concerning her had changed, could he not at least inform her?

She was not sure why she felt so angered and hurt at the thought; this – their companionship – had always been nothing but a temporary (and not to mention forced) arrangement, she had known that from the beginning. In the end, he would leave her somewhere, so did it really matter whether it was in Bree or any other civilised place? She should probably be glad that it was no cave. In fact, she should be happy either way, because – was it not a good thing to finally part ways with him and be on her own? Well, admittedly she would not be on her own, she only would have to rely on someone else's goodwill - but that was fine with her, really. Had she not noticed, lately, how dependent she already had become of him, as a result of her isolation? And had he not told her that he 'did not wish for her company'?

Anne gritted her teeth at the thought, terribly annoyed with herself that the memory of those words of him still stung slightly. So, why should she wish for his company? She really should not care. In fact, she did not care.

"Are we… going into that village?" All right, thinking it was one thing, acting on it was quite another. Though it was, after all, only justified for her to want to know where she would spend her future, was it not?

Don't you dare not give me a precise answer…

"No."

Oh thank you, thank you…

"The road bends due northwest and circles around it. We could have skirted the village more widely of course, but this is the shortest way."

"I see," said Anne in the most casual tone that she could muster, while mentally kicking herself for the sudden urge to warble.

She also could not help but to grin at the fact that the Elf seemingly felt the need to clarify that he would have skirted around it, if it had not been the shortest way. Ironically, now that she knew that they would not set foot into Oskred, she was beginning to feel slightly curious about it, and almost a little sorry for passing the chance to meet other people again. Anne was aware, though, that she minded a lot less than she probably should – which only proved her 'Elf-substitute-theory', and was definitely something she needed to deal with at some point.

Ah, well – I shall cross that bridge when I come to it, she thought, stubbornly ignoring the inconsistency of her thinking.

A couple of hours later they reached the bend of the road that Delior had spoken of. To their left – between them and the village – now lay a meadow, fringed by bushes and trees. They rested there for a while, if only after Anne pointed out that it had to be at least midday by now, and that a break was badly needed. The day had bevome very hot; the Elf had tied up his long, heavy hair, taken off jerkin and bracers, and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic. Anne, deciding it was too warm to worry about propriety, followed suit. They were just getting ready to start again, when loud shouting could be heard from behind them.

"My lord! Please, wait, I beg of you!"

Upon turning around, Anne saw a woman hastening towards them, dragging a small child of indefinable gender by the hand. Delior only cast a short glance in her direction, before turning back to Dûrfang, where he continued to refasten the straps holding the luggage. Anne, however, stared curiously at the approaching fellow mortal. The woman, who looked like she might be about her own age, had now reached them and came to a halt, panting and pressing the free hand to her side. The child, who seemed much less out of breath, stared at Delior with wide eyes and mouth slightly agape.

"Oh thank goodness, it is as I thought" the woman gasped, now also staring at the Elf in awe, while ignoring Anne completely. "You are one of the fair folk, my Lord, are you not?"

Delior finished fastening a water sack, before finally turning half around to look at the woman - his expression blank, his gaze not cold, but detached.

"What do you want?" he said calmly.

Anne almost flinched; he truly was an expert at being rude. She doubted that anyone was capable of asking a question tinged with that much blatant disinterest the way he was. The woman, however, seemed neither appalled nor discouraged by his reaction – or lack of it. She merely looked a little more nervous and bowed to him, not taking her eyes from his face, before speaking again while brushing a strand of coppery hair out of her eyes.

"My lord, please… come back with me to the town and help us! Our mayor's daughter... five days ago, she was badly wounded, and though the healer did for her what she could, the poor girl only seems to be getting sicker—"

"I am sorry," Delior interrupted her quietly, raising a hand. "I cannot help you."

"Ah… but," the woman stuttered, her eyes flickering over to Anne for the first time.

If she believes that I might be able to put in a good word for her with him, she sadly is very much mistaken, Anne thought sardonically. I can't even do that for myself.

Also, she kept calling him 'lord'...

Perhaps it was because Anne had become used to him by now, but did he really appear that 'lord-like' to others? This woman, at any rate, did not seem to know him, so perhaps she simply was under the impression that every Elf was a lord.

Oh, if only you knew… you are talking and bowing to the elvish version of a dyed-in-the-wool caveman.

"I'm begging you, my lord! It is said that all of the fair folk possess great power in healing! And Roesia - she is only seventeen, still half a child! I heard she was in so much pain…"

The woman now had tears in her eyes. Feeling rather distressed, Anne averted her gaze and instead turned cautiously towards the Elf, who's expression remained stony.

"Delior… perhaps—" she began nonetheless, but was stopped by the look he shot her, even before he had said a word.

"Be quiet." The tone was soft, but his eyes were not.

Anne closed her mouthed and glared at him. For a second he returned the gaze, his eyes narrowing. Then he looked back at the woman, who had followed the brief exchange anxiously, and – after a short pause – addresses her once more.

"I do not promise that I will be able to do anything for that girl."

"My… my lord?" The woman looked at him, puzzled but hopeful now.

So did Anne, for that matter. He wanted to help them?

"I will look at the wound," he confirmed the thing Anne had not dared to believe. "But I am no healer. I may not have the skill you seem to hope for." He motioned for the woman to go ahead. "Lead the way then."

He helps them! He really is going to help them!

Anne could still not believe it as she followed the two, leading Peg by the reins. What is it with him, she wondered. One moment she was sure to have figured him out – the next, he went and did the opposite of what she expected. So, why the sudden change of mind? Surely not because she had scowled at him? She did that often, and it never helped her.

While Anne was thus puzzling over things, the four of them made their way across the meadow, until they reached the tree line, from where they followed a narrow, well-trodden path that ran along the back of stone houses and woodsheds, before leading through a shady, cool back lane and onto a sunlit, cobbled square, on which several more ash trees and the surrounding tall buildings cast their stark midday shadows.

Anne found it odd that no one seemed to be about, despite the beautiful weather. However, she got a glimpse of a face peering out of a window or through the crack of a door here and there. With its darkened stone buildings, those ancient trees, and the quietness, which was only disturbed by the chirping of sparrows, this village seemed much older to her than Carrockton had.

While walking, the woman had told them that from the injured girl's family only the father was still alive, and that he had left the day before without a word and not returned, and that everyone assumed he had gone insane with grief.

She now showed them to a two-storeyed, timber-framed house and stopped in front of a short flight of steps that led to the broad entrance door.

"My lord, if you would kindly wait here for a moment – I shall go and fetch the healer, so he can tell you himself how he treated Roesia so far… he was in to see her only recently, to give the poor girl something to let her sleep." She uncertainly looked from him to Anne and back. "Perhaps your… er – the young… lady would not mind to go in first, to see whether Roesia is decent and in the position to receive your visit — since I am, strictly speaking, not allowed to set foot in the house, you see..."

Anne, who had raised an eyebrow and felt slightly mocked at the young lady-comment –though at least she was still recognisable as being female– now looked at the other woman in surprise.

"Why not?"

The woman made a vague gesture. "Well, by order of the healer… there is a danger of more – wound infection, or so I assume… the room is on the ground storey, at the end of the hallway."

Anne frowned, thinking that this rather sounded like the woman did not want to get in trouble, and glanced at Delior. The Elf, however, nodded at her, indicating the doorway.

"Go."

Anne suppressed a sigh and turned towards the stairs; the door was unlocked and opened easily and without a sound. Before entering the house, she threw a last glance over her shoulder; the woman now hurried away, dragging the child along, presumably to look for that imperious healer, and Delior looked after her with a somewhat pensive expression.

Once inside, Anne found herself in a murky entrance hall. At once, an overbearing scent of herbs, or perhaps some sort of medicine filled her nostrils, nearly causing her to gag. To her left, a steep flight of stairs led to the upper storey, where she could just make out a landing and one or two doors – everything lying in complete darkness. She crossed the hall and turned into a long corridor that she followed until she had reached the door at its far end, which stood ajar. A little light fell as a slender beam full of swirling and glittering dust motes onto the floor in front of the threshold.

Anne pushed the door open a little further and hesitantly stepped into the semi-darkness of the room, feeling decidedly uncomfortable, and wondering belatedly whether she should have knocked. The sharp smell of herbs became even more intense.

"Er… hello?"

There was no reply.

Anne looked about her. The windows had been draped with large squares of cloth; one of them had become unfastened in one corner, hanging loosely down, and from there came the beam of sunlight that she had seen from the hallway. It only seemed to cast the rest of the room in even deeper shadows, though. Next to the door stood a deep wooden tub, seemingly full of water. In that corner, the herbal smell appeared to be especially strong. Anne now approached the large bed in the centre of the room. Thin veils, hanging from the ceiling, probably to provide the occupant with some privacy, surrounded it. Anne could only see the vague outline of a human form.

"Er… excuse me…"

Again, there was no answer, but then she was supposed to be sleeping, so Anne took heart and, after fumbling with the veils for a moment, drew them aside.

The pale, gaunt-looking girl on the bed was obviously fast asleep. Her eyes, ringed with shadow, were closed. Her head was resting on a pillow, and her long, unbound hair was spilling over the white fabric of the sheets and of her high-necked nightgown. The cover was drawn up to her chest. She did not stir.

Anne, while wondering where the injury might be, decided that it probably would be more polite to wake the girl before fetching Delior, and made to touch her arm, but again, she felt a strange hesitation – as if something bad might happen if she woke her up. Chiding herself ridiculous, but still unable to shake off the strange feeling that something was wrong, Anne finally reached out for the still form.

Her fingers were an inch away from the girl's shoulder, when it suddenly hit her – the waxen paleness, the gaunt cheeks, the eyes, which were not only dark-rimmed, but sunken… the absolute stillness of the young woman's body, and that strong herbal fragrance — as if meant to mask another smell…

Anne yanked her hand back, while clapping the other one in front of her mouth.

She is dead?!

She staggered backwards a few steps, then turned around and fled from the room. Something here was very wrong indeed, so Anne did the first thing she could think of: even while hurried along the hallway, she shouted Delior's name. The same moment she reached the entrance hall, a woman outside began to scream. Anne began to run; she was already halfway through the hall when she heard a loud creak behind her.

She whirled around, stumbling and with her heart hammering — she was now standing at the foot of the stairs — had the noise come from somewhere up there?

Staring into the darkness above, she suddenly saw — a mirror? — Some pale oval, she had not noticed before...

It was moving towards her!

Her heart actually seemed to skip several beats, when she realised what it was —a face, seemingly bodiless and moving down the stairs and towards her, staring down at her.

Anne screamed.

However, the scream had not even completely left her lips, when something buzzed past her ear with a sharp, hissing sound. The pale face vanished and there were several loud thuds, as if something dark and heavy was falling down the stairs.

Anne's heart nearly stopped a second time, when someone gripped her by the arm and roughly turned her around – but it was Delior, who was still holding his bow with the other hand, and although his face looked livid, as far as she could see in the little light that fell in from the open door, she almost wanted to cry with relief.

"What is… what is going on? Who screamed?" she stammered, clutching at his forearm.

The Elf did not answer; he let go of her, and his left hand flew to his throat, and it looked like he was feeling for something – then he pulled something from his neck with an angry hiss. He stared at the thing, and so did Anne — it looked like a small dart; Legolas held it close to his face, and she heard him breathe in through the nose. He then threw it to the side with a disdainful sound.

"What– what was that? What happened?" Anne spluttered, her head spinning, not knowing which question to ask first.

But it did not seem as if Delior was going to explain anything to her. He simply grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards the door. "We need to leave," was all he offered in a clipped voice.

"But—"

"Now!"

Before it registered properly with her, they were outside again and Anne squinted into the sunlight. The square was deserted. The horses stood where they had left them, though they seemed very nervous, tossing their heads and pawing the ground.

Delior was striding towards the animals now, still holding on to her wrist, and Anne stumbled along behind him.

"That girl… she was dead," she panted, somehow feeling the need to inform him of this.

"Yes, I thought so."

His voice sounded somewhat strained, and Anne thought she saw him breathe heavily through the nose.

"What is—" she began, but stopped abruptly, when the Elf suddenly staggered, and then stopped, as if to steady to himself.

Anne was feeling very nervous all of a sudden. "Delior, that dart– what was—"

"Nothing…" His voice – pressed and weaker than she had ever heard it – belied his words.

Anne swallowed as a cold fear gripped hold of her insides.

"Was that– was it poison—"

"No." He began to walk again, though his breathing became even heavier. "A paralysing plant toxin..."

"What?! But—"

"Powerful on humans, but…" He trailed off, as if the effort of speaking, explaining, became too much even. "It will wear off quickly."

He did not look like it was wearing off, but Anne still felt somewhat calmed by his words. Besides, this was probably not the best time to start arguing – she could only trust him.

They had reached the horses, and Delior let go off her wrist and steadied himself on Dûrfang's shoulder, before turning to her.

"Quickly, get on. I shot that man, but he escaped. We need to leave."

"What man?" Anne demanded, while groping for the saddle.

"Their so-called healer. Now, get on!"

Anne obeyed —with some difficulty, because Peg was sidling about— and then watched anxiously as the Elf drew himself onto his horse's back with visible effort. She had never seen him like this, and it frightened her terribly – much more than she would have liked to admit.

Delior had barely straightened up, when he had already urged his stallion into a swift trot, and Peg following the other horse on his own account. They left the village at a canter, and then both horses raced across the meadow, back towards the road. Anne, her hands entangled in Peg's mane, ducked over the horse's neck as the wind whipped her hair into her eyes. It was obvious that Delior wanted to get as fast and far away from here as possible.

But then, suddenly, Dûrfang slowed down again; the tall horse fell into a trot and then slowed to a walk, before he stopped completely.

Anne walked Peg next to them; the Elf was bent forward, leaning onto his steed's neck, his face pale and stony.

"Delior?" Anne asked, her voice trembling.

"Not feeling terribly well, are we?" sounded a strange voice behind them.

Anne spun around in the saddle.

A sandy-haired man stood there, bent double, wheezing slightly, but all the same with a malicious, contorted grin plastered upon his otherwise ordinary-looking features. An arrow stuck in his chest and the front of his clothes was already blood-soaked. The shaft of the missile had been broken off, but it appeared that the man had not managed to pull out the rest of it – or perhaps he had simply known that it would be futile. He now slowly raised his right hand.

Anne stared at it. He was holding something that looked like a blowgun. There was a soft, grating sound behind Anne, and the stranger let his hand fall to his side, letting out a harsh laugh that at once turned into a cough, spraying his chest with more blood.

"Hah," he panted. "You still have the strength to draw your bow?"

Anne turned back to Delior with her heart in her throat; he had indeed bent his bow, the arrowhead aiming at the man. Incredibly enough, his face was as impassive as ever, but Anne could see that his cocked arm pulling back the arrow on the string, was trembling.

Still, if he had that much strength left then it couldn't be all that bad, could it?

The strange man now made a rattling noise in his throat and coughed up more blood. "I… I have a message for you, Elf…" He brushed the back of his hand over his mouth and looked up at Delior, his eyes glistening coldly. "That fire… is no longer yours."

There was a sharp twang and a whirring sound. Anne stared in horror as the man, struck by a second arrow to his throat, crumpled down with a terrible gurgling sound, rolled to the side and lay still.

Only a split second later, there was the dull thud of a body hitting the ground behind her.

"NO!"

Anne was on the ground before she even knew it, ran around both horses and fell to her knees next to the fallen Elf. He was lying on his back, motionless, his eyes only half-closed, but they seemed glazed over, looking right through her as she bent over his head. Admittedly, that was not an unusual occurrence, but considering the circumstances…

No, no, no, please, no...

Anne felt like her breath was trapped somewhere in her throat, and her heart that had beaten so violently before, now seemed on the verge of giving up its work entirely.

Her hands hovered helplessly above his still torso for a moment, before tentatively brushing her fingertips over his shoulders, his chest, his ribs – searching for an injury he might have hidden until now - but there did not seem to be any.

Oh no, perhaps something is on his back...?

She tried to lift his upper body, but he was heavier than he looked.

"Delior?"

Nothing.

She tried to shake him, but his body remained limp.

Is he even still...?

"Delior!" Her voice turned a couple of octaves higher.

"Legolas!" One should leave nothing untried. If he had fallen into some sort of unconsciousness, perhaps his real name would filter through — And there! Had his eyelids not fluttered a little bit, just now?

"Legolas?" she repeated, hushed and scared.

Her face was wet, she suddenly noted, and in the same moment the Elf's eyes closed briefly, opened again - and then found hers. It was like a dam burst inside of her.

A single sob escaped her lips – half relief, half the echo of something else, buried at someplace deep inside of her, though she had neither the strength nor the will to get to the bottom of that now. She let her head sink down until her forehead was against his chest; she did not want him to see her tears, some of them from before and not yet dried, others new and hot and now slowly running down her temples, damping the thin material of his tunic and probably even his skin underneath. That of course made the whole act of trying to hide them rather pointless.

To her horror, Anne felt further sobs building up in her throat like cough. Desperately trying to suppress them, she took several slow, deep, shuddering gasps, breathing in the familiar smell of peppermint, horse, and leather, and – very faintly – river water, mixed with the scent of his skin. She concentrated on the reassuring warmth and firmness of his body, even if she only felt it on her face. Legolas still wasn't moving, save the very slow rising and falling of his chest. Anne began to wonder whether he had lost consciousness after all, when he finally lifted his right hand. She expected him to push her head off him — but instead, he grabbed the back of her neck, and then she felt his fingers slide into her hair.

Wait… what?

III III III

:::

AN: First of all, the length of this chapter is partly due to the fact that I may not be able to update next week. I will be away until next Tuesday, and in the meantime probably won't have internet access.

About this chapter: something random, actually, but – the first scene was actually meant to be the ending of the last one. After all the angsty stuff from 'the other side', it was meant to be something like a counterpart to Anne's musings, as you can perhaps tell from the wording.

Apart from that… it's strange, but considering how long this thing is, and how much happened, I can think of precious little to say about it … maybe that's a good thing – or not.

Anyway, if there should be any questions (like things that I thought I made clear in the chapter, but did not, which happens to me quite frequently) you're of course more than welcome to ask! ;) Oh and, yes - I now that the ending is -kind- of mean, but the truth is that every other point I considered as an ending would have been even meaner :)

And last but not least: Thanks to the reviewers! I absolutely love reading what you think of the story, be it thoughts, praise, questions or constructive criticism, I love them all :)