Ok. It's a reeeeally long time since I last submitted a chapter to this story, I know, but please don't throw too many tomatoes my way. I don't like them, remember?

Kind of to make up for the lack of posting, this chapter is fairly long, which should make some people a little happier with me ducks behind the desk to avoid rotting tomatoes. Love me? Please? The writing is flowing pretty well now, and I have kind of had very little time for writing in the past few months, hence this long over-due post. Enjoy it, review it, and throw electronic tomatoes at the desk if you so wish...

P.S.

The next chapter is already underway, and promises to be rather exciting - well, potentially exciting, we shall see! You'll have to tell me when I post it...

My God, it's been so long I've practically forgotten how to post on here! It's taking me a while to figure it out...

Chapter Eight: The House in the Snow

His body collided viciously with the rock face, freezing stone and brittle twigs tearing at his tumbling form. But, as Legolas succumbed to the beating of his lifetime, all he could think of was protecting the baby – rather then reaching out to try and grab something, he allowed the earth to pull him down, while curling into a tight, protective ball around Arathorn, using his own flesh and bone as a shield. It hurt, by the Valar it was painful, but not once did Legolas consider unravelling himself.

The hard rock face that battered his back swiftly became covered in dense shrub, the brittle branches and twigs ripping at his clothes and skin. The gradient of the slope also started to lessen, and Legolas found himself rolling as opposed to falling – although, this was not much better for him; it seemed that every trunk and boulder was making it its business to be in the way of his descent and he found it near impossible to stifle the grunts and gasps of pain as Nature further punished his body.

Finally, he rolled onto what felt like very rough but level ground, his mind in a fog with the pain. He was dimly aware that there were voices shouting several feet above him, and the crying of a baby. Over the haze, some distant part of him informed him that he aught to listen to what they said, because it would be important to know and understand the actions of the others…

'I cannot see him, my Lord!'

'Perhaps he is dead!'

Gwareth rubbed his face with a gloved hand, trying very hard – and failing – to curb his anger. He would be so much better without this crowd of ingrates swarming around him, he knew he would. 'Of course he is not dead, you idiots! Can you not tell that he lives?'

When there was no reply from his men, Gwareth's irritation increased. 'You!' he snapped, pointing at the young man who was such a scholar in Elven history. 'Lead the force down that cliff and recover the baby! I hear it screaming. The Elf may not be dead, but I deem he would have trouble getting up and running off with the headache he must have now.'

But the young man merely stood there, glancing nervously at Gwareth and then at the cliff, wringing his hands, his eyes wide with fear. 'I – I cannot do that, my Lord…'

He spurred his horse over to the edge of the cliff, looking down at the young man with those cold eyes. 'Oh, really?' he asked in a dangerously soft voice. 'And why is that?'

The young man now looked terrified; his face had turned ashen in the pallid light of the snow. 'There are not any footholds in the rock, my Lord.'

He had never felt the urge to throw someone over a cliff so strongly in all his life. However, opposing the desire rather well, Gwareth set to riding over to an Orc that was shuffling about the cliff edge where the Elf had taken his fall; it was licking energetically at a spot of blood – doubtlessly from the Elf's shoulder that Gwareth's arrow had managed to graze – and was paying no attention to the man approaching him on the horse. Gwareth drew up beside the foul beast, and placed a well-aimed kick in its stomach. The Orc, taken completely by surprise, was sent flying over the precipice, emitting a sharp howl before a sickening smack finished the cry abruptly.

After all, Gwareth thought smugly to himself, that wasn't someone, it was something.

'Do any here wish to follow the Orc in the same manner?'

There were many shuffling feet, and a murmured 'No, my Lord' rumbled in the chill air, even from the Orcs.

'Good. Do any here know the nearest path down from this annoying cliff?'

One man stepped forth, saluting Gwareth sharply. 'Yes, my Lord: a league from this point, there is a path to the road below.'

'Very good: onward!' Gwareth spurred his horse, and the men about him were forced to mount their own beasts with clumsy haste.

Gwareth had already heard the steady plod of an ox pulling a heavy cart along the dirt track below, and he grinned evilly to himself. This game is about to become very interesting.

The first thing he was aware of was how much he ached. His back, head, ribs, everything, seemed to be fiercely burning, his muscles like a horde of angry workers, shouting their protest at his brain all at once. But then he became aware of the warmth, and the fact that he was lying on something soft puzzled him. There was a heavy scent of baking bread, and the clinking of pots.

This was confusing. How had he come to be here? He had no idea. But then the crying of a baby reached him, and everything flooded back in great waves, swamping him in unwholesome detail.

'Arathorn!' Legolas shot bolt upright in his panic. His head pounded horribly, though he paid it no attention. His eyes searched the room he was in frantically, until they rested upon an elderly, portly woman with a kind face, bobbing the baby up and down in her arms.

'Here he is, look,' she cooed. 'Daddy's woken up!'

Legolas heaved himself stiffly up from the made-up cot and hastily crossed to the old woman. She handed the baby over happily enough, a placid smile gracing her lips as she watched Legolas check Arathorn for any hurt that may have been sustained in the fall. After being in Legolas's hands for a few moments, the screams stopped as the Elf fussed over the tiny form.

'Praise the Valar, it's stopped!' growled the voice of an old man. Legolas turned to see him sitting in a corner of the tiny house, eyeing Legolas with great suspicion. There was a dagger resting on his knee.

'Don't be rude, you old goat!' spat the woman. 'The babe wanted his father, is all.'

'I'm not his father,' Legolas supplied quickly, though he doubted he was heard, for the woman was bustling about the small kitchen, slicing a hot loaf and talking loudly to him…

'You've had a nasty fall, dear, very nasty indeed, it's a wonder you're not dead; if we hadn't seen you on the road like we did and fetched you in, I don't want to think about what could have to you and the babe. Wolves prowling, Orcs scavenging and picking off any poor creature they find, Trolls afoot after dark; any of 'em would have finished you for sure, I'll tell you that. Now, I've patched you up good and proper, so you've no need to worry about scratches and bumps. Leave the scabs be and you won't have any scarring, I'll warrant, though there's a bit of a gash on your forehead that could leave a mark, but you'll be back to rights soon enough. However, that babe of yours is another matter entirely-'

'-He is? Why? What's wrong with him?'

She chuckled at his concern. 'Nothing now, dear, but you should know better than to come out into the cold with a new-born and not wrap him up properly: poor mite was shiverin' away when we found you. I've given you extra blankets and a couple of skins to wrap him up in.'

Legolas did not know what to say. Complete strangers had scraped him up, brought him to their house, and tended to both him and Arathorn with complete generosity and goodwill. Well, goodwill from the lady, at least … Legolas could feel the distrust and suspicion radiating from the man in the corner like heat from a fire.

'Now, have some of this bread, my dear, get your strength up a bit.'

The man in the corner finally rose, advancing on Legolas with the dagger in his fist. It was not raised, but still was a tangible enough threat. 'You oughtn't to give him anything, Winnera,' he stated, jabbing a finger at Legolas accusingly.

'Oh, Wren, don't be a daft old fool! Why ever not? He's not done anything!'

'No! So he mightn't, but that doesn't mean to say that he won't, does it? You don't know who he is, or what he's doing here, or why on earth he has a new-born babe with him! Where's its mother? Lying murdered in the snow, I'll warrant, with one of his arrows sticking out of her back!'

Legolas paled at this. This Wren man had no idea how close he was to the truth…

'Of course that's not true!' Winnera retorted defiantly.

'You don't even know his name!' Wren shouted. Then he turned on Legolas like an angered boar. 'Well?' he snapped. 'You got a name or what? Coming into our house without so much as a nod of thanks! At least give my wife a name!'

Ai, Eru! A name! Telling them his name was Legolas was not an option, but he had not even thought about what he would say when confronted about his identity … there was something about running for your life that made you forget such things as whom you could pretend to be.

'Well?' Wren pushed aggressively. 'Not got one or something? Nothing shiftier than an Elf with no name, I'll tell you that! Should shout to the next horsemen who pass to take you away-'

'Baerahir. My name is Baerahir.' Legolas flinched slightly at what he had done. It was like he had stolen something, something precious and wholesome and pure, and he had just marred it completely. His father would not speak of Baerahir, no-one did: the elder Mirkwood prince, by far the greater of the pair, revered by his father and subjects, and now lost to the Dead Marshes…

'Baerahir? Wasn't that the name of one of the Mirkwood princes…?'

'I'm named after him,' Legolas interjected hastily, cringing inwardly at his own words.

'I see,' said Wren, though he did not look like he believed a word. 'You a Mirkwood Elf?'

'Yes.' No sense in lying about that one.

'One of their soldier boys?'

Again, 'Yes.'

Wren threw up his arms as though he had just been proven right. 'There! He's a soldier boy! Knew it! Can't trust any the one of 'em!'

Winnera's face twisted from kindly to furious. 'Wren, I swear, if you don't give up you shall be sleeping with the oxen, at their rears!'

Wren seemed to take heed of her words for a moment at least; he huffed at her, his face working furiously in contorted sneers. He finally stalked off back to his chair, muttering about women and their insufferable trusting ways. Legolas could feel his eyes making a sound attempt at burning a hole through his neck as Wren said: 'He still hasn't said what he's doing with a small babe with no mother.'

Wren's pressing need for information on "Baerahir" was becoming dangerous, and if an satisfactory explanation was not supplied, Legolas had a fair notion of what the old man planned to do with that dagger; from the way he twisted it artfully between his fingers, the Elf had to assume he had a rather sure idea of how to use it. Legolas finally conceded to tell his story – or, at least, a small fabrication of it...

'I was travelling with a troupe of Rangers,' he explained, keeping his tone as level as he was able. 'We were only of a small number – seven in total – on our way to the Ranger settlement to the south. They had been guests of my King, and I was ordered by the Prince to escort them through Mirkwood and see them safely to the boarder.

'In the southern stretch, we were hounded by Orcs of the Dark Tower. We could not shake them, and our attempts to flee were hindered by the storm, and we were forced into combat. There were too many of them, and we were overwhelmed…' he faltered. Flashes of the night danced cruelly before him, images of evil and good vying for supremacy as black blades clashed with the frightened screams of the maids. The blood of innocents spilt, Cirnan and the other Rangers … Diyrenë and her orphaned son…

'I was able to save the baby and run, and even then we barely escaped on foot.'

Winnera's brow creased as she stared at him pityingly, her eyes glassy and completely believing. Orc attacks were common, everyone knew they were; practically everyone knew of someone who had fallen foul of them and never been seen again. And Legolas' slight adaptation of the truth in which he had managed to order himself to escort the Rangers out of the forest was not entirely untrue, either: he organised escorting as a specific duty when the Mirkwood kingdom had guests, though the task fell to usually five warriors, not on one Elf. People on the outside of the forest knew of this service, as it tended to be the only time that they ever saw an Elf these days. Once the Rangers had actually sent an amused letter to Legolas, telling him of a group of travellers who had witnessed the Elves stopping at the boarder and appearing to eject the Rangers from their land. They ran to the Rangers, asking them if they had been held captive and only just released, clearly having taken in their poor garb, to which the Rangers replied with great amusement no, they had merely been seen to the boarder, a service afforded to guests of the king.

'I don't believe it,' Wren stated flatly.

'It is the truth,' Legolas countered levelly. 'I vowed to this child's dying mother that I would take him back to his village, and that is what I shall do.'

Somewhere outside, a twig snapped. Neither Winnera nor her opinionated husband heard it, but Legolas did. He spun round, staring at the window as though in the expectation of seeing his hunter looking in, grinning in cold triumph. There was actually no-one there, but Wren rose to his feet rather suddenly, causing Legolas to fix him with a wary eye.

'You. With me. Now.' His face – as Legolas had come to expect from this man – held its usual negative, unpleasant snarl. But there was something else in it, something that Legolas found greatly worrying: anger.

'Wren? What-'

'-Quiet, woman! Boy, I said with me!'

Legolas handed Winnera the baby, carefully steeling his face against the concern he truly felt and settling for politely puzzled. Was this man going to try to get rid of him on a rather permanent basis? He hoped not: if the negative feeling in his gut was true, and Wren was taking him outside to dispose of him without his wife baring witness to it, he would have to act in his own defence. Arathorn's life depended on it, and Legolas knew that his own prowess with a blade would be far superior to Wren's. He had no wish to harm the man, but if he tried anything, he would have no choice: three thousand years of combat experience would go against an old man with a dagger in his hands. No matter which way he looked at it, Legolas was a highly efficient weapon, a deadly tool trained to kill, and anyone fool enough to challenge his abilities would fall foul of his skills.

They exited the building into the cold night air, its freezing fingers folding about them instantly. Wren shivered and drew his cloak about him, casting Legolas a scathing glare as the Elf barely flinched, despite having only his shirt on his back. When they were clear of the door and his wife's earshot, Wren turned on Legolas sharply, his expression a furious twist where his face should have been. 'Who are you running from?'

'I'm not-'

'No!' snapped Wren firmly, pointing his finger in the other's chest and shaking his head in a slow, deliberate manner. 'Don't you lie to me like you lied to my wife in there! Don't you dare! For someone that was jumped by Orcs, you're very nervy. You're expecting someone to come and get you. So I ask again: who are you running from?'

Legolas blinked, snow melting on his skin and trickling down his face. He cast his eyes about the small property, making a sharp analysis in a blink that his blood allowed him to do. A fox was the only creature to have disturbed the snow, nothing more. There were trees, but they were scarce and scrawny, not even capable of hiding a mouse in their nakedness, never mind a man. All that greeted his ears was the wind's vicious howl and the trees shuddering in its wake.

The dagger was not yet raised at him, though it remained in Wren's fist as though it was his only possession.

Legolas sighed, finally relenting. He had to leave these people, he had to go now, and this man was determinedly hindering him. 'You're right. I am running. And before you say anything,' Legolas said loudly, seeing Wren opening his mouth, 'I have committed no wrong: it is the child that they chase. Had you and your wife not picked us from the road, we would both be dead.'

'You are being hunted for the baby?'

'Yes.'

'You've brought danger to my house, to my wife,' Wren sneered. 'I want you gone from my house, right now, you and the pup. If I give you a horse, will you leave?'

A horse? Legolas could hardly believe it. 'But I can't take your-'

'-Believe me, you can: he's a bloody nuisance. I'll be glad to see the backs of the pair of you.' Wren turned back into the house, indicating to Legolas to stay, and he emerged seconds later with a lantern burning merrily in his hand. 'Follow me.'

They passed round the back of the house, Wren leading the way and Legolas avoiding looking at the lantern lest it should impair his night vision, for round here there were more trees and bushes, heavily shrouded in dense cloaks of darkness.

The storm, having slowed a little, decided that it was not quite done with the world, and the flakes became far larger, falling faster and thicker, the heavens now seeming to be bestowing sheets of white upon them all too generously. The wind picked up as well, ripping at their clothes with merciless glee, snaking its way through every parting in their cloth to bite with icy zeal at the flesh beneath. It was a truly wretched night to have to flee for one's life in…

The lantern the old man carried was of little use to them, as the wind was trying its hardest to rip it from his hands. However, as Wren refused to relinquish his grasp, the wind seemed to have decided that, if it could not have their lantern, it would throw the light so badly about their path that they might as well not have a lantern at all.

Contrary to the cruel wishes of the weather, they finally made it to the barn; Legolas could just see a dark shaped mass framed by white. It looked rickety and rather leaky, and the door rattled in the gale. The old man came to a halt outside the door, holding the lantern up to his face and looking pointedly at Legolas. 'In there,' he growled over the wind, throwing his head in the direction of the barn door. Legolas watched him with an unsure eye, hesitating with his hand resting on the warped wood. 'Are you not coming in out of the storm?' He tried to add some level of appeal to his tone – anything to make the old man go in and face the horror within with him.

But he shook his head, a cruel grin deepening the creases in his aging face. 'Nope; you want it, you can go and get it.'

He really does hate me, Legolas thought as he tugged back the weighty bolt, swinging the door open tentatively.

He was greeted by darkness of such a deep pitch that it put the stormy night to shame. It was warmer in here, yet the air was filled with the smell of dampness and oxen. It was not like any barn Legolas had ever entered; he remembered sleeping in the stalls with the horses when he was a young boy, right between the front legs of his father's protective charger. In here, he would never have dared.

And there was something else in here despite old hay and cattle … something that he could feel watching him, daring him to step closer; a hoof stamped with heavy threat, and he heard the swish of a whip-like tail…

Legolas gave a shout and leapt back, just as a great black beast launched itself at him, materialising out of the darkness like some kind of half-formed nightmare. He fell back against the doorframe, shock temporarily elevating the speed of his heart

Wren finally stepped into the doorway, grinning toothily at the look on Legolas' face. The lantern calmed in the shelter of the stable, and Legolas saw his attacker in the half-light. A horse of pitch black had its head lowered threateningly over the chain barring it in its stall. The magnificent head tossed from side to side, the ears back and lips drawn to show its teeth. It neighed harshly, stamping a hoof in an intimidating manner.

'Had a feeling he'd do that.'

'I bet you did,' Legolas replied tersely, not amused by this dangerous trick, or indeed by the old man's sniggering tone. Then: 'Does he have a name?'

'Name's Blackie.'

'… Blackie…'

'Yes, Blackie! Are you simple or something?'

Legolas was very close to making a comment about originality and points for the least imaginative name ever given, but stayed his tongue. What good would it do him to make this man hate him even more?

'Got him off a feller on the road,' the old man began. 'Said I was needin' a new horse, seeing as the old one were twenty-odd years; didn' fancy his chances over the winter, not with the work I'd be givin' him. So this feller says to me, he says he's only off to market to get rid o' this one for a new horse himself. So I says we should trade, and I'm landed with this bugger!'

As if the horse knew that less than savoury things were being said of him, he snorted and reared, slamming his hooves back to the earth with a terrific thud.

'But,' Legolas began, a frown creasing his otherwise smooth forehead. 'will you not need this horse for the winter work?'

'Certainly not! Can't use the sod, won't work for me for love nor money! Got the oxen for his work now, and I be tellin' you, if you don't take him, I'll be getting him with an arrow next. Take him.'

Legolas stood and watched the horse for a minute. They had to be fast; Gwareth would surely be close by now, and with this storm carrying on the way it was, the snow would cover their tracks fantastically. Blackie watched him right back, and Legolas was momentarily studded by the sheer intelligence in the horses eyes … he had never known an animal look right at him it that way; it was as though the horse was challenging his presence in his barn, waiting for Legolas to make a move.

Legolas clicked his tongue.

The horse flicked an ear in an unimpressed manner, snorting dryly and tossing his head. He began to rock, shifting his weight about the stall and deliberately banging into the sides, making the old wood groan under the force.

'Pack that in, you bugger!'

Blackie merely neighed shrilly, stomping and whinnying, as though in response to what Wren was saying. They clearly had a sour relationship, and Legolas would not have been surprised if the horse had turned around and called Wren a bugger right back.

He tried a new tactic. Advancing slowly, he sang in a low, soft tone of his own tongue, barely audible over the stress of the wooden walls and Blackie's insistent neighing. But Blackie did hear it: he quietened a little, before coming to a complete stop, watching Legolas again with both eyes, his flickering ears now still and forward, listening attentively. Legolas did not stop singing as he unhooked the chain fencing the horse in and went to stand by his strong neck, smoothing the stallion's face and muzzle with one hand as he gestured to Wren to give him the bridle. Wren complied, his mouth slightly agape as he passed the ancient bridle over. It was clearly an alien concept to him that an Elf would be able to quieten his vicious, fiery stallion by singing to him.

The bridle on, the Elf continued to sing his calming song as he lead Blackie out of his stall by the rein, quiet as a lamb. When it came to passing Wren, however, Blackie made a quick attempt at biting the old man's shoulder. Legolas checked him, however, giving a chastising tug on the bit and a sharp noise in his throat. The horse raised his head, as though incredulous that the Elf had stopped him, but then conceded to being lead into the freezing night air with his new owner.