There is a shifting, somewhere deep beneath my feet, and I know that I am the only one that has felt it. I know it with every part of me that is different and dwarven, something I have come to terms with, but it is still odd to feel that thrill and tug… to feel it and know no one else has.

Legolas draws himself back upright, and in Oren's defence he has allowed this moment of weakness and has not taken advantage of it. He circles, spins one blade lazily, eyes the elfling as though he is something fascinating and burning-bright, because that is what he is. I do not think that Oren has ever met an adversary that can match him so closely… I do not think that Legolas has either. I think that the two of them – in their own twisted way – might be enjoying this.

The rain patters harmlessly now, soft against skin so used to the deluge we have endured all night, and Shutter looks at me. I think there might be concern there, but I am unsure; I hold my hand up as I stagger back to my feet and I mean for it to say that I am well, although I know not how convincing I might be. As Legolas drags his hair from his eyes with bloodied hands and grins, madness into the rain, I glance at the thief of the second circle and I think there is something in my face that he recognises.

How can I do anything here? What use am I, and what should I do? This is utter insanity. Shutter simply cants his head lightly and I read much in that moment: he urges forbearance, patience, understanding, and a day ago it would have me furious – how can he advise me anything at all when it comes to dealing with this particular elf? – but now I start to think that he might understand better than I realise.

Legolas stretches his neck, shifts lightly upon the balls of his feet, tilts his face to the rain and all of the while his eyes follow Oren. They are pale, focussed and frightening, and when the two of them attack one another again it is the way a flock knows when to dive and sweep and curb. They simply move.

Legolas wings high and Oren ducks, spins to bring his blades toward the elfling's unprotected back but Legolas moves with him, curls around and away. Oren does some movement – I cannot truly follow it – but his whole body bucks and changes direction upon a hair, sweeps his leg to knock my friend from his feet but Legolas dodges it simply. He brings his blades down only for them to be met; twisted, turned away… all of this in the time it takes for me to get my feet back beneath me.

Legolas is hurt, I feel his madness biting upon the edge of my mind like the stinging of an insect or a burn from a fire. He is a tumult of emotion that shows not even slightly in his face or bearing, but this is not necessarily a bad thing; Legolas might be more than a little bit mad these days, but he has been this way most of the days he has lived. It is simply closer to the surface now. I am starting to think that this madness aids him; that he feeds from the fire it gives him. That his bravery comes from this fathomless well granted to him by the storms and the call of the wood, the song of Iluvatar. I do not think it is really madness at all, but perhaps it is simply how he is meant to be.

Oren begins to tire; begins to falter; begins to make mistakes. Legolas is simply growing in his power – because he has fought for so long and through such terrible things, I think weariness and desperation are the places where he finds his strength.

The elfling gains ground. If anything, I would say he is fighting better now than when he was fresh: wilder and less refined, but this is better, I think. The rain drips from his hair, and the receding storm is still just as loud in his ears, just as furious and wild. The scent of the rain and blood, of pain and fear… they goad him into those reserves of strength that he holds deep inside his fëa and by Mahal… the way he can fight when he is at the edge of his strength! Legolas fights no better than when he has little left to give.

He hammers at Oren, ducks and spins and slashes, advances constantly. He drives him back, overwhelms him, and it is done… I know that it is done. Oren is staggering now, bleeding and limping, and I watch as his leg folds beneath him. He crumples but still he tries, still holds his blades against the elven tirade, but he has lost. He is crumpled upon the mud and shattered stone, Legolas stands above him victorious, and I think I take the first breath in an age.

I was expecting Legolas to simply kill him. To end his days, dispatch him as I have seen him dispatch so many, but he does not. He pauses, falters, looks upon the assassin beaten and gasping in the water and mud of the mountain, and he stops. The cold recedes from his eyes just for a moment, and he blinks.

He does not wish to kill him.

The silence lasts for too long, too long for it to be mistaken for anything other than what it is. Legolas is sparing him, granting mercy where none would have been granted if their positions were reversed, and he is an utter idiot! I see the moment that Oren realises it as well, see a glint in his eye that is nothing but confusion and uncertainty, but then my attention is torn away.

I feel the tremor again. I sink back upon my haunches, plant my hands into the unsettled ground and send my mind deep. I read the new landscape, delve with the care I had no time for the last time I did this, and I feel the mountain spread into my mind like a storm cloud. It is words upon a page to me, and I feel panic slam into my chest.

We do not have the time I thought we might.

"Legolas!" I call. "Legolas it is not stable!"

I grab Shutter and I yank him into the lee of a huge stone that juts from the rubble, rooted deep and strong. He sprawls and looks at me oddly, but he trusts me in this over anything else. I have no time, because the mountain grants little warning once the lace-fine threads that hold it together are severed, and I shout out to Legolas again. I tell him to anchor himself, but my words are drowned out by another bone deep crack, and I feel my stomach rise into my throat as the land lurches.

The land to my right breaks, moves and sloughs downward. Severed, broken free, it shifts and twists beneath us and I feel myself grabbed and pulled backward. Once again I leave Legolas to the mercy of the mountain and I bite back curses as I jam myself against the shelter of the stone. My feet brace into the ground, I push myself as far back as I can, and I am pelted by loose rock as it rushes past. I feel the sting of it against bare skin, feel the bruising impact as the larger rocks hit against my flesh, and I hear Shutter yelp once as he is pummelled by the same thing.

I cannot stay here though, I cannot leave the elfling alone again, and the second I feel the mountain calm and exhaust the best of its fury I scramble past Shutter. He shouts in alarm as I barge past, skid and skitter on the sliding ground and haul myself up onto the huge stone we have just sheltered beneath. The landslide was not as dramatic this time, not as furious or damaging, but it has still cut a further section away from the hillside. Some lies still, some still moves, but almost all of the loose stone and soil has shifted. What is left is the skeleton of the mountainside; rough and jagged, but far more stable.

Once I know that it is safe – in actual fact I simply guess, and make little effort at it – I jump free from the stone and wince as my hurt leg takes the impact and my ribs jar. I stagger only briefly and then I am running, Shutter stumbling and complaining at my side, but I leave him behind in short order. Elves and men might be more fleet of foot than a dwarf, but I defy any man to best a dwarf over unstable rock and stone.

"Legolas!" I call out, because I have seen something… or rather it is what I cannot see that is the concern. Where Oren and Legolas were stood there is now a huge crevice, a mighty crack in the stone, and I cannot see them any longer.

~{O}~

I run and stagger and slip, make my way far too recklessly across a ground still unstable and settling, pitted and dangerous, but I make it safely to fall to my stomach at the edge of the new fissure. There is Oren, braced upon the smallest lip of stone about five feet beneath where I am, and there is Legolas suspended in the air – Oren's hand wrapped tightly around his wrist, holding him from falling.

My first thought is surprise – outright astonishment – that Oren has saved Legolas' life.

My second thought is that I do not think there is a single mountain upon all of Arda that one of us has not nearly – or actually – fallen from. The third thought is the most important, and this is how exactly I am meant to get them back up! It is not an endless drop, not even the highest thing Legolas has fallen from, but the stone is splintered and jagged the whole way down to a razor toothed bottom. Legolas is surprisingly resilient for a creature made of feathers and leaves, but nothing could survive such a fall. I feel Shutter land at my side, falling onto his belly just as I have, and he takes a sharp intake of breath that I try to ignore.

Oren looks up, sees my face above him, and he says the first words I have heard him utter.

"He is not heavy," he says, and his voice is soft and thickly accented, if a little strained, "but I cannot hold him for long."

"Gimli!" Legolas calls urgently. I can barely see him dangling down there – it is pitch black even up here – but I can see enough. His eyes are wide and frightened, a far cry from the vicious and wild thing he was just a short time ago. "I have said it before – if I die in a mountain I will haunt you for all of your days!"

"Swing him to the stone face," I instruct carefully, calmly, because for some reason I feel the need to counteract Legolas' panic despite that I feel as though my heart is about to explode out through my ribs.

"What sort of idea is that?! Do not swing me, think of something better!"

"I have seen you climb sheer rock faces before Legolas," I snap at him, my calm evaporating almost instantly. "Now is not the time to develop a sense of self-preservation!"

Oren slips, makes a soft sound of exertion, because he is balanced upon the barest lip of rock and he carries an awkward burden. Elves are surprisingly light in weight, like birds, but Oren has no space to balance himself against the offset of a dangling elf. I am astounded that the assassin has saved him at all, but he will not risk his own life. I know that he will not. Legolas feels himself slip, his breath catches, and suddenly he finds it in himself to be Legolas again. Idiotic, brave, insane.

"Swing me," he instructs firmly, and Oren nods. He will be able to get very little momentum going – not without losing his own footing – but there is not a single one amongst us who did not already know this. Not a single one of us who did not realise right from the beginning that Legolas was going to have to fall a short way… that Oren could only swing him to a certain arc, let go, and hope for the best.

I almost look away – I am not sure I can watch – but Legolas glances up at me again.

Sometimes we connect when we do this, and his summer blue gaze fastens onto mine for just a moment. He is battered and bloody, hanging above a narrow fissure that guarantees the most dreadful way an elf could possibly die, and he smiles, of all things. After everything we have done tonight, everything we have experienced and how we have hurt one another, it is nothing at all. We have been through too much for it to be anything but the passing of a season, a new thing to learn. He grins broadly, and I cannot help but grin back. Shutter glares at me as though we are both insane.

"At least it is not I who will be letting you fall," I say softly, knowing that he can hear me.

"You never have," he calls up. He grins all the wider, all fear falling away into whatever place these ridiculous elves store their more sensible emotions. He looks to Oren and nods, and the assassin heaves – actually heaves in an attempt to swing him as close to the side of the fissure as he can. He swings once, twice, but then he starts to slip and must let go.

Legolas drops, but he is falling at an angle enough to hit the stone face about twenty feet down. He slams into the rock, probably shreds every unprotected piece of skin on his body, loses his purchase and falls a few feet further before he catches hold. I take a moment to let my head fall forward onto the ground, bumping my forehead a bit harder than I meant to, and I regain my breath. Try to calm my heart before I suffer some sort of fit. Shutter pats me on the back consolingly and I raise my head again.

"You have landed better," I call my opinion to him, because now I must keep his attention away from where he is. Almost thirty feet into a narrow stone chasm, enclosed and trapped, I need him to think of nothing but climbing upward. Legolas pauses, regains his own breath, steadies himself and then begins to climb.

"You are welcome to try it yourself," he calls back up, his voice twisted and distant. Tight with tension.

"Should you be distracting him?" Shutter hisses, but then he is similarly distracted by Oren who is now clambering over the lip of the fissure. He helps him over the edge.

"Are you going to behave?" I demand, twisting upon my stomach to look back at the assassin. His response is to simply plant himself upon the ground heavily, exhausted and hurt, and he pulls the mask down from his face. It is the first time I have seen it, and I am surprised by how young he is. Khandish men are often beardless, but he looks to be no more than Shutter's age; fine featured and handsome, with almond eyes and skin the colour of honey. He gives me a look from the side of his eye that says everything I need to know. He is no threat to us right now. I return my attention to the chasm, and where Legolas inches himself slowly toward us.

"Should I make camp?" I call down.

"Gimli I do not appreciate the commentary," he yells back at me, tight and annoyed. "I go as fast as I can."

"I am only saying that there is a battle going on in the city, I was hoping to join it at some point."

"Then go!" he bites. His hand slips, he falls a foot and I am certain I am going to faint dead away. My heart is hammering, my hands shake from fear, but I channel it into something else. Something useful.

"Yes," I growl, "because I wish for your spirit to haunt me, bellyaching for eternity because you fell off yet another mountain. Your father would hunt me through all the days I have left."

"My father likes you," Legolas murmurs, twenty feet down but I catch it. He is focussed on what he does, on this shouted conversation, and in no way on the fact that he is climbing up from what could be a stone grave. It is important, so very important that he pays no attention to where he is. He pauses, takes a breather. He is exhausted. I quash my panic into nothing.

"I am sorry for what I did," he calls out softly, for my ears only. "Sorry that I hurt you."

He rests against the stone, and he is so very close and yet an eternity away. He takes one hand away from where he grips the face of stone and shakes it gingerly. Legolas has broken that hand twice in the last year.

"No," I call down. "You are not. You should not be. I gave you little choice. It is nothing my friend, I swear it is nothing, and it will be forgotten entirely if you would just climb."

He looks up, catches my eye and there is a softening in his face... barely anything to someone who does not know him. He smiles and starts again, puts more effort into it. He is trying to make me feel better, the idiot.

"I was thinking," he huffs, returning to what he does.

"You have not the mental capacity – think less and climb more."

He is silent, and I think perhaps I am starting to become a bit mean. I do this sometimes, we both do.

"What do you think of?"

"Before the winter," he tells me, as though there has been no gap at all in our conversation. A conversation, I might add, that we are having whilst I hang over the edge of a chasm on my belly and he hauls his elven carcass upward. "I think I might like to go to the valley – Rowan's valley. I would like to see what they have made of it, if you are in agreement."

I smile. We always seem to decide the next place for our travels when we are in the most ridiculous, dark or dangerous situations. I like the idea though, and I tell him so, and once he is close enough I reach down, grab onto his jerkin and Shutter does the same.

We heave as he scrambles, and in short order he is dragged – his clothing rucked up by his silly ears – over the edge. He lies flat and heaving upon sodden and safe ground, I reach across and pat his chest, feel his heart beating bird-fast against his ribs, and he likewise reaches across and grips scarred and archer-hard fingers into my sodden jerkin. We catch our breath, calm our hearts, but we speak in these moments. We both say our thanks to one another, both show gratitude that we live, both demonstrate the affection we have for the other. All in the smallest of gestures.

Legolas rises, scrapes his knuckles against the awful slice across his cheek and grimaces – it must smart terribly – but he discards the pain. Sits, pulls himself to his feet in a surprisingly nimble movement, and he looks to Oren. He steps toward him, gripping Shutter's shoulder in thanks as he passes, but he stops at a respectful distance. Oren looks up, takes a deep breath, rises as well. He clambers to his feet as though he climbs a mountain, but he is proud. I would rise too if I had the energy for it.

The elf and the assassin stare at one another for a very long time, the rain tapping and pattering at us with none of the fury it had before. It goes on for so long that Shutter glances at me, and I can do nothing but roll my eyes. This is one of those moments of honour, of meaningful discourse between two enemies who respect one another. If I did not hurt so much, or was cleaner, or in any way better situated than I am now, I might appreciate it more.

I glance at Shutter, and he blinks at me.

"We could simply leave," he whispers, jerks his head toward the city, but then Legolas finally speaks.

"What now?" Legolas asks the assassin before him. "Will you make me regret it?"

Oren tugs his mask back over his face, and although I know he is hurting – ai he was barely upright a moment ago – he stands proudly before his opponent. He stands not ten feet from me, but he might as well be a thousand miles away for the distance I feel between us.

With the mask back upon his face it is so easy to forget there is a man beneath it. His eyes are cold and emotionless, without his face there are no expressions to read. I might as well be watching a rock face for all I am given to work with. What sort of man is he truly? He has shown himself to be deadly, a murdering assassin, but although I would not trust him even to tell me the weather outside, there is something that Legolas sees, and that I do not. The elfling is accustomed to warriors with warring hearts, with what bloodshed can do to a fëa and what can soothe the ragged tatters left behind. It is one of his strengths, one that I do not grant him enough credit for, because people trust Legolas. It takes a while, but there is something in him that makes people want to be better. He has endless flaws in his personality, but there is no question as to his honour; there is a purity to him that men respond to.

"Why did you spare me?" the Khandish man asks instead. His voice is muffled, still so soft and quiet, but he seems genuinely curious as to the answer. Legolas thinks for a moment.

"You are gifted," he admits. "I am hesitant to waste such a thing. You could turn your talents to far better endeavours, and perhaps I am tired of shedding the blood of warriors. None of us chose this life."

"And if I did?"

"None of us did," Legolas repeats.

Oren is silent for a very long time, but the two of them continue to watch one another. Legolas because elves can maintain eye contact through anything and not blink, and Oren because… I have no idea. I cannot fathom this man.

"I am serious, Gimli," Shutter whispers urgently. "We could slip away and they would not even notice."

I hiss him into silence this time, bat my hand into his stomach and he huffs and winces. I am starting to hate him less, but I am not particularly happy about it. He is still very annoying.

Oren shifts finally, seems to make a decision, and his gaze moves upward toward where the city lies concealed by darkness. He takes a deep breath.

"I have no loyalty to that man," he says. "He is my employer and nothing more, but I think perhaps this is a fight I do not wish to continue. There is little in this world for a warrior without a war to fight, but on occasion it is good to be reminded that honour still exists. I will help you, but on one condition."

He returns his gaze to Legolas, but this time there is a glimmer there in those dark, deadened eyes. Something like life, something bright and freshly kindled.

"Fight me again," he presses, and I cannot see but I think he might be smiling. "When this is over. I have not enjoyed myself so much in years."

Legolas grins, and I would think it inappropriate if I did not know this elf so well. He nods and it is granted, and Oren accepts. I roll my eyes again, I cannot help myself.

"Could we move matters along?" I ask, and the two of them turn to me in surprise as though they had forgotten I was even here. I make a rolling movement with my hand, raise an eyebrow, and it does not escape me that I am acting fairly casually with someone who would have slit my throat without thinking twice not a few hours ago. This is what my life has come to.

"The second circle has been sealed," Oren tells us, his voice settling into a matter of fact tone. "You will not gain entrance through the city, but that is not his true target in any case. He seeks his sister – it has always been about her. He sends my men to distract those who defend the circle, but the second circle will fall into line if she is killed. He seeks her upward, in the higher circles."

"I could not find her," Shutter argues. "How does he mean to?"

"He has been watching her a long time. Not with his own eyes, but he has had influence in this city for a while now. We did not speak much – I find him distasteful – but I heard him speak of it. She is on the upper circles, and this is all I know."

"Who is your contact?" Shutter asks. "Who is it that has been whispering in your master's ear, spilling our secrets?"

Oren looks at him, steady and silent, and I am fairly sure that I would have squirmed under such a regard but Shutter does not move. He stands solid and unwavering, and again I feel a flicker of respect for this young thief.

"I do not know his name," Oren admits finally. His accent is so thick that I struggle to understand him, if I am honest, but I hear his next words so clearly… so very clearly. "He is one of the new constabulary; those that they have recently started to call the Whitecloaks. A close partisan for the new Captain. He knew my master back when they were both boys in the city. He is stout and round faced, his closest friend is a lean young man with dark hair, he jokes often, and his hair is red."

We are all frozen for just a second, but Shutter breaks out into some filthy language. Absolutely horrendous. I cannot fault him though, because there is something inside of me that shrivels and dies, and it hurts. Legolas shifts his gaze to me, and I see some flicker of agonised accusation, because this is exactly why he does not befriend the edain.

Ren.

Ren is the one that has betrayed us.

TBC

Hey everyone, and a happy Friday to all because it's been quite a week; I don't think I've experienced emotional highs and lows the way I have these last few days.

My dad has had a life changing, very major operation on his spine, but due to issues with his heart it was extremely high risk. He went in yesterday, was operated on for over five hours, sent straight to high dependency where he was meant to stay for three weeks.

He was released today.

Northern nurses don't use 'medical miracle' very often, but I think the truth is more 'he will accelerate his own healing with the pure power of his hatred of hospitals, and overall ornery nature'. My old man is made of steel and thorns, and I hope that I have inherited just a fraction of this.

Anyway, I can relax a bit now, and I'd LOVE to hear what you think of the reveal. Ren is the one who has been whispering their secrets to Briar's brother. Ren! I love Ren! I actually started regretting my choice quite early on, because I was meant to write him so no one guessed it could be him, but all it did was make me very fond of him. I was sort of committed by then though, so I stuck to my guns. I haven't written the reactions from the other, slightly more absent members of Team Gimmers, but I'm so looking forward to it!

Well, I'll be off. I'm finishing chapter 19 tonight with any luck, but I'll be around on my laptop. Early reviewers will most likely get a reply tonight.

Have a great weekend :)

MyselfOnly