XXIII

The Eagle Strikes

Legolas woke, groaning with pain, when strong arms lifted him into a saddle and tied his hands together. He was disoriented at first, but it smelled like hay and horses and Marigold whinnied anxiously when he dug his fingers into her mane. The stables, he thought. Why was he in the stables?

"He's awake", a rough voice whispered beside him. "Should I -"

"No, it'll be easier to keep him in the saddle." Scead's voice came from further away. "Just gag him, that'll be enough."

Legolas cracked one eye open and saw Tilwine rummage through his leather bag. It was Tilwine who had hit him, he thought. He couldn't remember exactly when or how that had happened, but that must be why he was in the stables and why his head hurt so much. Tilwine had hit him unconscious and they had carried him in here and now, he supposed, they were going to take him somewhere.

Legolas made a weak attempt to jerk his head away when a filthy piece of cloth was stuffed into his mouth, but Tilwine held his jaw so hard it hurt and forced him to keep still, and then he tied another rag over the first and around Legolas' head. Legolas could hardly make a sound through it. For a moment he panicked, feeling as though he couldn't breathe, but when he remembered to breathe through his nose it went easier.

"One attempt to escape", Tilwine said, "and I'll strike you unconscios again. Is that clear?"

Legolas looked at him wide-eyed. Gone was the kind and generous Tilwine that had laughed and jested and sparred with the elves and given Echail his cloak when they rode to Netherford. The Tilwine that stood before him now in the dark stables was hollow-eyed and grim. Scead, who stood by the doors with two other horses, was no better. Looking at him now, Legolas remembered the Old One's companion in the goblin cave - he had thought his hair had been brown like Echail's, but it could have been Scead's dark blond too.

"Is that clear?" Tilwine repeated, and Legolas nodded meekly, too frightened to refuse to answer.

"Good. And do not forget it."

He took Marigold's reins and led her to the door, and the rolling motion almost made Legolas go sick over the side of her neck; he was still dizzy from the blog to his head. He clung to her mane, shut his eyes tight and pretended it was all a bad dream.

It had to be.

"I still think this is too risky", Tilwine hissed when Scead pushed the doors open. The courtyard was half in shadow, and clouds covered the moon by now, but the great fire still burnt and lit up the open area before the front doors. "We should kill him and be off with it."

Legolas drew a panicked breath through the gag, turning to stare at him, and Tilwine curved his lips into a mockery of a smile - all but a smile, really, lacking even a hint of scorn. He couldn't be a murderer, Legolas thought. Not Tilwine, and not Scead either. Not truly. They would never do such a thing. They were...

They were horse-thieves, he remembered. Desperate and dangerous.

"And how long until they find him?" Scead asked, peering into the faint fire-light. "Rivendell isn't big, and he's got all those birds for his friends. They'd find him and it wouldn't be long until they found us too."

Someone would come and save him.

But as they left the stables, the Men mounting their horses and Scead taking Marigold's reins, they heard the singing and laughter coming from the Hall of Fire and Legolas realised that everyone should still be there, and most of them would be too drunk to notice that some were missing. There were no guards out. No one would see them leave.

His heart seemed to swell, threatening to break out of his rib cage. This time Radagast was at the Council and Tinuhen wouldn't be coming yet and Quick-wing was dead - soon they rode over the southern bridge and into the dark trees, and the house was behind them and no one had seen it. No one was coming. Legolas was helpless and utterly alone.

At least it seemed so for a long time. They rode slowly, for the horses were anxious and the Men hadn't brought any torches, and when they passed the fire at the bottom of the valley there was a shout behind them. Scead swore. A figure came limping out of the dark, sword in hand.

"Tilwine?" Echail said, his voice shrill with something between disbelief and shock. Without horse or cloak or his usual arrogance, he looked very small, and he leaned very heavily on his good leg. "What is happening?"

Tilwine swallowed and turned to Scead.

"Kill him", Scead muttered, his voice low.

"Answer me, Tilwine!"

"How - how did you know we had gone?" Tilwine asked, licking dry lips. "We thought no one had..."

"Radagast asked me to make sure Legolas went to the healing ward", Echail replied. "I could not find him anywhere. I saw the stable doors stood open and thought he had run away again, but..." His eyes sought Legolas', and behind the concern in them there was also reassurance, as though he was telling him it was going to be fine now. "I see that was not the case. Tell me, Tilwine..."

"Kill him", Scead hissed again. His voice was turning shrill as well. Tilwine looked from one to the other, and he was very pale.

"Echail, this - it isn't what it..."

"Not what it looks like? You think I'll believe that?" Echail's voice cracked suddenly, and now tears filled his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. "You don't think I understand? The child has been talking about a traitor all the time and everyone knew - everyone knew something was going on with the goblins and the wood-elves - and I never thought, I never thought it could be you because why would you -"

"I'd never..."

"I trusted you!" Echail cried. "I trusted you, and I thought - I thought - " He trailed off, and silence fell, and it begun to snow quietly like a sigh between them. Scead looked at Tilwine, and Tilwine at his hands. It occurred to Legolas he might be able to escape - Scead held Marigold's reins but surely he would not expect it if Legolas snatched them from him - but before he could make up his mind, Echail spoke again.

"Listen", he said, calmer now, "there are two ways we can end this. You can come with me back to the House and everything will be sorted out. Lord Elrond will hear you out and we will protect you from whoever you are working for and you will be forgiven."

Tilwine looked up at that, something hopeful in his eyes, and began to say something. Scead silenced him with a glance.

"Or", Echail went on, "you can ride away, and I will raise the alarm, and you will be caught anyway. You will not outrun the elves in the mountains, no matter your head start."

Scead snorted. "What do you know about that, elf? Lord Elrond is nothing against the one we work for. But we do not plan on being your prisoners for the rest of our lives."

"You would not..."

"Guests, then, whatever you wish to call it. But I hardly think Glorfindel would let us ride to Netherford again after we tried to steal the precious prince of Mirkwood. We would be your prisoners whether you admitted it or not." He spat, then tossed Marigold's reins to Tilwine and urged his horse closer to Echail. His hand sought the hilt of a sword that had been hidden under his cloak. Echail raised his own blade.

Scead laughed. "You plan on crossing swords with me, Echail? Such courage. You surprise me."

"If there is no other way, then yes, but it doesn't have to end -"

"It will end in one out of two ways", Scead said. "Either you stand still and let me kill you, or you run and force me to hunt you down. Frankly, I expected the latter. It seems to me more in your style."

"I wouldn't -"

"You wouldn't? But you already have. Everybody knows that. You are a coward at heart, Echail - but if you wish to prove me wrong by a honourable death, then by all means. It will make everything easier for me."

It was like Elrohir had said then, Legolas thought - that Echail had been supposed to protect lady Celebrían, but he had failed. And he had told Tilwine about it, because he'd trusted him, and Tilwine in turn had told Scead.

Scead did not ride close enough for Echail to reach his horse - maybe he was afraid that Echail would harm it to prevent his escape. Instead he slid from its back, tossed his cloak back and drew the sword. Echail took a step back but raised his own.

"I will not let you harm the child", he said, his voice quavering only a little. "I will fight you if I must, but there is another way. Please, Scead, it is no use."

Scead smiled. "I knew you would beg."

He raised the sword and swung it - a swift, sudden move that Echail, who still seemed to have hoped for another outcome, hardly had time to block. Their swords flashed in the firelight as they met. Scead did not pause but swung again, feinting a low blow then changing course, and Echail's eyes widened in shock when the sword rang into his own, sending him stumbling backwards. He had little time to recover. Scead seemed determined not to give him the opportunity to fight back, but let blow after blow rain onto Echail's sword, furiously forcing him to back and back again until it could be only a matter of seconds before he lost balance. This was nothing like Tilwine's clumsy swordplay or Glorfindel's gracefulness; ruthless and deadly, Scead reminded Legolas of the twins. He'd lied when he said he was no warrior - but then, he had lied all the time.

But though Echail rapidly lost ground, he did not beg the man to stop again. His face was set with determination. The ground was too uneven for him to defend himself like he had done in the practise range against Tilwine, but nevertheless Scead could not get past his sword, and it was Echail who drew the first few drops of blood by slashing the man across his wrist. It only made Scead angry, though. It was as though he knew exactly how to take advantage of Echail's bad leg - but then he had been watching Tilwine and the elves spar day after day after day, Legolas remembered. Maybe he had done so, pretending not to be able to participate, only so that if one day he was put up against any of the elves, he would be prepared.

But it was difficult to imagine - that ever since the Men arrived in Rivendell, that day when Legolas and the twins met them in the forest, when Scead was sick and Tilwine begged them to save his life, they had been planning against them. That when Scead found him in the Hall of Artefacts, and all those times he was kind and understanding - and that time he helped Legolas steal the bottle of wine, that was just to be his friend, to make sure Legolas didn't doubt him - and Legolas had fallen right into the trap. He had even suspected Echail instead. Scead must have laughed at him so much.

And now Scead was going to kill him, once he had killed Echail.

Without thinking, Legolas jerked Marigold's reins out of Tilwine's hands and kicked his heels in her sides, setting her galloping towards the house. He caught a brief glimpse of relief spreading across Echail's face - but Scead saw his distraction and acted fast; grabbing a fistful of Echail's hair and pulling hard, he sent the elf stumbling into the path of Marigold's escape. Marigold reared, panicking, and there was a thud - and another, and Echail slid to the ground, the sword spinning out of his motionless hand, blood pooling in the snow beneath his head. He didn't move again.

Scead grabbed Marigold's bridle and jerked her head down to keep her still. Then he slapped Legolas across the face so hard he reeled in the saddle. "Well done, little one", he said. "I'm sure Echail will be impressed with your efforts when you meet him wherever elves go when they die."

"What now?" Tilwine asked. "We can't take them both with us. If they're already looking for the elfling, shouldn't we just kill him and run for it?"

Legolas made a strangled sound through the gag that made Scead sneer at him, but then he shook his head. "If he's really a friend of all the beasts of Rivendell - " he sounded sceptical to the idea, but not enough to dismiss it - "then we should get him as far away from there as possible. Last thing we want is for some fox or other to find him and warn Radagast. It didn't sound to me like anyone but Echail was looking for him yet and our tracks will be covered before they get here, so we should still have some time."

Would a fox have recognised him? Legolas wondered. And would it have known to warm Radagast? He doubted the latter - but maybe there would be birds that could understand what was happening. If only he had a chance to tell them...

Scead sheathed his sword and mounted, then glanced back at Echail and frowned. "Tilwine, check on him. I want to be certain he's dead."

"He looks dead to me."

"Well, make sure he is."

Tilwine jumped down and walked slowly over. Echail lay in a heap where Marigold had struck him down, and the snow had turned pink by now in a large circle around his head - but Legolas could see the slight rise and fall of his chest. It seemed in the dark, Scead could not see it.

Tilwine knelt beside the elf and pressed a finger to the side of his throat.

"None of that, you fool!" Scead snapped. "Just slit his throat and be done with it."

"He's dead, Scead", Tilwine replied, his voice flat. Behind him, Echail's chest was still rising and falling ever so lightly. He had to know. And yet...

"I said slit his throat."

"And I said he's dead." Maybe it was the was his voice almost cracked that convinced Scead Tilwine spoke the truth, for he asked no more. But Echail was still breathing, and Tilwine had to know it. He hooked his arms under Echail's and dragged him away from the path, then returned to the horses, and he looked like a man who has lost everything he lived for but is too stubborn to die.

They set off again, faster now, and soon the path started to rise and they came to the cliff where it led out of the valley. The Men dismounted but let Legolas stay on Marigold's back, and it was a nightmare within a nightmare to sit there with his bound hands entangled in her mane and watch the ground disappear in the darkness below. As they got higher up he could see the row of fires leading up to where the House of Elrond was faintly lit in the middle of the vast night. Legolas' chest tightened. He was too far away for any help to come now. He had to to something - he had only tried to escape once and if he didn't hurry up he would be killed.

But he didn't know what to do and he couldn't think. He was alone, utterly alone, and now they rode through the pine forest, and there was the place where they had attacked last time. It made him short of breath to see it again. They halted when the path split in two, and the Men began to debate about which way to take. Legolas looked around. The trees stood still and silent around them, but he could sense their distress, as though they knew that something bad was happening. He didn't know if elves could talk to trees the way trees talked to elves - with thoughts and feelings, rather than words - but elves could speak through the mind, could they not?

Old and wise elves, that was.

Please help me, he thought, closing his eyes and trying to feel the words in his whole body the way he felt tree-voices. They're going to kill me. Please help.

"I know it is faster", Scead was saying, "but we should stay off the main road. If we run into..."

"Weren't we in a hurry just now?"

"Not to be discovered!"

A bullfinch sang. It sat on a branch not far from the path, its scarlet chest the only thing visible in the dark. As soon as Legolas saw it, it lifted, flew in a wide circle over his head and disappeared among the trees.

"This will bring us closer to that ravine - the one where we met the Old One last time. We could drop the elfling off the cliff there and they won't find him in the dark. Then we're rid of him, and we can hurry."

Marigold whinnied. She side-stepped, tossing her head - Legolas nearly fell off her back. Scead cursed and grabbed her bridle to keep her still.

"What are you doing? Stop bothering her!"

Legolas gave a muffled protest; he wasn't doing anything! Soothingly he ran his fingers through Marigold's mane until she calmed down - only for Legolas to jump the next moment. Something had touched his leg.

He looked down. It was a shrew mouse - no, there were three of them. They were hiding under his cloak but he could feel their little claws through his trousers. The Men hadn't seen them. They had come to some conclusion, and now they set off along the left path, the one that ran up towards the mountains. With Tilwine behind him and Scead in front, there was no one to see the shrews come out from under Legolas' cloak and gnaw on the ropes tying his hands together.

Legolas could have cried with relief. There was a chance, after all. If only - if only he did everything right maybe he could get away.

The path soon became steep and narrow, and cliffs rose on both sides of them. As they left the trees behind, a shadow flew overhead; Legolas didn't have time to see what it was, but there was a soft thud as snow fell from the cliff above. The shadow had landed on it.

"Is that a kestrel?" Tilwine asked.

"It's an owl, you fool."

"Not that one", Tilwine snarled, "that one."

Legolas looked around. It was the owl that sat on the cliff - he hoped it was a real one this time, but the Men didn't seem to know it - but there was the kestrel too, circling above their heads. His kestrel. It watched him with its head tilted to the side, but did not come down.

The ground opened to their left. There was a chasm, leading straight down into darkness. The path widened, becoming broad enough for two.

The ropes fell off his wrists. The mice scuttled down his leg and dropped the snow as they came to a stop.

"I must admit, elfling", Scead said and turned his horse half-way round to face him, "that I'm sorry about this. You're a spirited child, not without promise. Your parents should have known better than let you get mixed up the affairs of others." He came closer and drew his dagger, and Legolas thought he could feel the cold radiating from it. His heart seemed to have forgotten to beat. Panic rose from his chest to his head and emptied it of all thoughts.

Scead laughed. He didn't look sorry at all. "A little fawn", he said, "that has strayed from its mother. You should never have left that forest, elfling."

"Now, elf!" the kestrel cried, and Legolas looked up. The bird swept down with a furious scream and dug its claws deep into Scead's hand, and he dropped the dagger with a roar. The owl bore down on Tilwine, the kestrel kept screaming, and Marigold whinnied; Legolas took her reins and kicked his heels in her sides, and Scead's horse shied in front of them. They steered past her, Scead struggling to stay in the saddle, and broke into a gallop such as Legolas would never have expected of his sturdy ranger mare. Along the edge of the chasm they dashed madly, up the path - there was no way they could have turned to ride back the way they'd come, but at that moment getting away was all that Legolas could think of - and when the Men took up the chase, their horses refused. The fall was too deep and the path too treacherous. The kestrel and the owl and now a swirl of bats clouded around them. Legolas ripped the gag off and spat out the cloth in his mouth, then leaned over Marigold's neck as she threw herself up the path.

The ground levelled and Marigold lengthened her strides; she flew, not as fast as Amlûg on the grass plains, but she flew nevertheless. The snow whirled around them. The wind howled in their ears.

"Hurry!" the kestrel said. "No time!"

Legolas looked over his shoulder. There was Scead, coming over the edge; after him Tilwine. Their horses were bigger than Marigold and built for running swift.

"Go, go", Legolas urged and Marigold ran, but she already did her best. They came into another forest; this one was thicker, with more undergrowth, and the path dwindled to a deer track that vanished under the snow. Marigold hesitated and before Legolas had decided where to steer her she had slowed down. He urged her on but she was tired now and didn't quite reach the same speed as before. Legolas looked over his shoulder. Scead was closer now.

"This way!" Legolas decided, kicking her sides again. "Fast!"

"Down there! Tilwine! Come one!"

"Faster!" the kestrel yelled.

Marigold struggled through the undergrowth, stumbling over roots. The blood pounded so loud in Legolas ears he could barely hear anything else. Branches slapped him in the face and there were bushes in the way and now he wasn't sure which direction he'd been going and which he'd come from. Through the branches he saw a shape; then there was a horse and a rider, and they split into two horses and two riders, one with a drawn bow.

"Marigold, go!"

"Ride!" the kestrel said. "Ride, elf!"

If they could only get through these bushes, the Men would be stuck in the same place, and Legolas would have a chance to find a place to hide. Marigold wheezed for breath. They were almost through; there was an opening in the trees; they were there, they were -

- the ground vanished and -

One moment they struggled through the thick undergrowth; in the next, Marigold fought to find footing in the snow on a steep slope. Her hooves stirred up earth and dead leaves but there was nothing stable, nothing safe. The ground sloped to a fall; when she got close to the edge, Legolas saw the bottom far below, littered with stones.

Above them, the Men appeared as silhouettes against the sky. Marigold rolled her eyes, flailing in an attempt to get back over the edge. Legolas clung to her neck. The Men watched.

Maybe they would not make it worse. Maybe they had something good in them.

The moment Marigold found her balance, Scead raised his bow. He fired a single arrow.

Legolas felt his shoulder split open and pain flashed red and yellow across his vision. The force of the impact threw him backwards from the saddle. He did not know if he cried out or if he only inhaled cold air. He fell hard on the side, slid over the dead leaves and fumbled for something to hold on to - a root or a stone - anything - but his sweaty fingers could not get grip of any root, and when he finally found a stone it came loose from the cold earth. He tumbled over the edge more surprised than scared for suddenly falling. The air howled in his ears. There was a crushing sound when he landed. His leg bent under him.

Pain shattered the world.

The round stones of the dais on which the charred thrones stood were slick and covered in weeds. Some of them were loose under Merilin's feet and she hoped that if anyone was attentive enough to notice the missing ones, they would assume that they had rolled off into the weeds below - not been picked up by someone gathering ammunition for their slings. But there were many risks, she knew. Many places where everything could go wrong.

Below the dais, rose still smoke from the abandoned fires, and here and there the glow of embers lit up the stump of a tree or a forgotten bedroll in the snow. They had done everything to make it look like they had left in a haste. All tracks led to this place - the orcs would know where to find them, and if they wanted to kill them this was where they would go. If. There was a possibility they would simply pass it by, and then all would be lost.

But there was no time for such doubts.

Merilin glanced around. Outside the clearing there was nothing but darkness. The elves had covered their hair and faces with ashes, and they had scarves over their mouths so their breath would not steam. The fires were hid under blankets and leaves.

They could easily have left her, Merilin thought. They could have left her to face the orcs alone.

Beside her, Ninniach lifted her head.

Merilin had heard it too.

The trees held their breath.

"Hide", Merilin whispered, not louder than a owl's flight on an upwind.

Ninniach touched her hand. "I can stay a while longer."

"We cannot risk anything. Go now. Stay close."

Terrified cold replaced the heat where Ninniach's body had been pressed close to hers. Like a shadow she was gone, the white fur over her shoulder glinting once between the trees before vanishing completely. Merilin clenched and unclenched her hands. Now she was alone. There it was again: the distant howl of a warg, a triumphant laughter hastily silenced. Merilin wanted to run, but held her ground. She had to. Everything depended on her.

Then it was quiet for so long she wondered if she's only imagined it, and her heart fluttered in foolish hope - but there were the wargs again, closer now, and a horn blowing. They were coming. Amid the terror she was relieved.

It will be over soon. Whether I die or live the fear will be over.

The tension rose until it was nearly tangible. Someone shifted their stance, snapping a twig behind her. A fire flamed up and was hastily quenched to a faint glow. Soon, soon, someone whispered as if a fire could be soothed to obedience.

Merilin counted her breaths.

A horn blew again, an order was given so close by she could almost make out the words. Merilin felt for her sword. However intently she listened for sounds, however focused she was on the task ahead, she was unprepared when the orcs emerged from the darkness on the other side of the clearing - they came like a spring-flood, all yellow eyes and gnarling mouths and howling laughter, and for a moment she thought they would ran right at her and she would be trampled beneath their iron-shod feet. But they saw her standing between the charred thrones, alone and straight like a willow.

And they stopped, like she had hoped they would. Even the wargs were held in and kept in place. Beneath the dais they gathered, and she looked down on them all and the terror was such that her heart wanted to explode and her chest hurt from containing it, but she resisted the urge to take a step back. If she took one step she would not be able to stop herself from taking another. She must hold her ground.

Courage, Merilin, she told herself. Courage for Greenwood. Courage for father.

One of the orcs pushed his way to the front, pulling a war-axe from the sling in his belt, and she noted the empty scabbard beside it - silver and black, beautiful once, adorned with a row of gems that seemed to ate all light around them. Hatred filled her, bittersweet. Here was the bearer of the sword that had wounded her father. And when she met his yellow adder eyes she saw the crown on his head - a notched silver crown, burnt and twisted as if someone had tried to heat it in a fire to reshape it, but only been able to distort the weaving vines. The crown of Doriath might not be so easily reshaped, but mockery it was all the same.

Death she wished upon him. Oh Elbereth Gilthoniel, she thought, let me be the one who gives it to him.

The orc smiled, though there was question in his eyes. He must wonder why stood here alone, and if indeed she was alone. Did he notice how dark and impenetrable the forest was around the clearing, how easy it would be to hide in the shadows? Had he considered how narrow the entrance was; how easy it would be to block it with only little preparation?

There was not much time.

The orc with the silver crown took a step forward.

"Stop", Merilin said, and even over the shuffle of feet in the snow and the click-click of warg claws, her voice was loud and clear. "In the name of King Thranduil and Queen Gwiwileth of Greenwood, you will not take another step. You will turn on your heels and walk back the way you came."

There was laughter, if that eerie metallic sound could be called laughter, but the trees took courage. She felt the earth hum beneath her feet as she had not felt it since she entered the shadow-wood. There was warmth in it, it went through her legs and into her chest, and she raised her chin. Foolishly the orcs still laughed, but not the one in the silver crown.

"This is the realm of the Elves of Greenwood", she said. "In their name and in mine I, Merilin of Greenwood, forbid you from desecrating this place, and from coming near my people, and from tainting these lands. You will not take another step."

The orc with the silver crown looked at her and sneered. "And what if we do?"

Merilin drew her sword. The sound of it rang through the forest a hundred times as the elves among the trees did the same. There was a groan of ropes being pulled and wood protesting against it; the trees by the entrance were ready to be brought down to block it. She heard bows creak, leather gloves gripping tighter around the shaft of spears. The jaws of their trap would fall shut the moment she ordered it.

"If you do", she said, "we will kill you."

Thranduil waited in dark dreams.

The Black Gates stood before him in the smoke, unmoving and unyielding, and he dared not go near them. He was alone, alone on a plain of dead grasses, where swords and armour, dented helmets and broken spears, torn banners trampled into dirt lay scattered all around, but there were no bodies - no orcs, no elves, no Men - not a single being, dead or not, of flesh and blood but him. At times he thought he heard someone weeping, but he could never decide from which direction it came. And wherever he tried to walk, as soon as he lost them behind him in the smoke, the Gates would appear before him again. He knew that he could never escape them.

Thranduil waited, in dread at first, for them to open and reveal whatever hid behind them. He waited, prepared to run or fight or even just cower in fear, but nothing came, and nothing happened, and he stood among the remnants of a thousand-year-old battle, rings of crushed chain mail clinking beneath his feet, until it occurred to him that perhaps they would never open. Perhaps the nightmare would not end with his death. Perhaps what made it a nightmare was that it would not end at all.

He despaired at first, but then - a rage came over him such as he had never felt, blocking out the fear, and he ran up to the Gates and pounded his fists bloody against them. Come out! he screamed until his voice was hoarse: Come out and face me, you coward! I am waiting! You will not leave me here to rot away! Come out and face me!

You little fool! his father said behind him, his voice cold like metal wheels grinding against each other. When Thranduil turned he saw Oropher stand there again, his broken body dripping blood and water into the grass. You think you can fight Him?

So thought you once.

His father laughed, throwing his head back on its snapped neck. And look how that went! You were never as strong as me, Thranduil. You will be crushed like an ant under His boot.

You are not real, Thranduil replied and turned away from him, but in his heart there was a flicker of doubt. Perhaps he was dead, and it was truly his father that stood before him, not some abomination created by a dream. Father would never have said that, he thought. Father loved me - but what did he know what Oropher had felt in his heart?

Perhaps I will be crushed, he said, turning again, but that is yet better than...

His voice died down, consumed by the sudden silence. His father was no longer behind him. Thranduil caught the briefest glimpse of him through the smoke, dragging his battered body into a pool of sick water, arms of seaweed reaching up to welcome him, a torch flickering - and he screamed and tried to follow, but the grasses caught around his feet and he slipped and fell handlessly.

No! he screamed. Don't go - don't leave - don't leave me alone!

But his father was gone and the torch was gone and Thranduil brought his arms up over his head and realised that the one who was weeping in the silence was himself.

When he opened his eyes again, Legolas was only aware of the pain.

Something cold and sharp worked its way through his left leg, like shards of glass shifting inside his veins. His shoulder burnt white-hot with fire. Pain rolled through his body in waves and crackled and hissed in his head, sending flashes of light across his vision and making him so heavy he could not move. Some part of his mind still knew what had happened, but it was very difficult to put thoughts together.

He lay in a heap, one arm tucked awkwardly under his body and the other stretched out in the snow. He knew that he had fallen. The ground was heaving under him and the sky and the trees and the cliffs whirled in a thick mist around him, but when eventually it slowed down, the ground stopping its sickening motion, it allowed some fragments of thoughts to seep into his mind. He remembered the Men chasing him. He realised - his mind working very slowly - that it was the fur cloak that had saved him. It had fallen on top of him and hid him from their view in the dark. Maybe they thought that he was dead. But if they wanted to, surely they could come down to look for him.

And? he wondered, watching the stones scattered around him slip in and out of focus, as if some veil of dark cloth billowed between them and him.

And that meant he must hide somewhere. Move.

But he didn't want to move. He was very very tired and everything hurt already. He wanted to lay still and wait for someone to find him.

Only if anyone found him it would be Scead and Tilwine and they would kill him.

Legolas drew a deep breath. The cold night air filling his battered lungs cleared his head somewhat. He forced himself to roll over until he could push himself up on his arms, feeling as though the very air was pressing down and around his head as though to crush it. Everything rolled and heaved around him, but he told himself he could rest once he sat up, and after a while it slowed down. He looked around. He sat below a stony slope that he must have rolled down after he landed. Trees grew tall around him, scattered between stones and great boulders. A little further down he thought there was a stream, covered in ice, and behind it a path.

That was not good. If the path came from above, that meant it would be as easy as nothing to get down here. But there was no way Legolas could get away on his own - not with his head ready to split open and not with those glass shards in his leg. He had to hide, and he had to hide well.

On the other side of the path the trees grew thicker, but they were too far away. Legolas would never make it there, either. Closer to him, below the cliff, a boulder leaning against another created a hollow which would hide him from the path. That would have been better, but when Legolas thought of crawling all that way on his own, it made him so weary he wanted to cry. Even closer, just a few steps down the slope, grew a stand of bushes thick and tall, and there was an opening in them that would let him crawl in under them.

Legolas knew it was not good enough. Even if the men did not see him, they would know where to look. But he did not have the willpower to go any further. The way down would be hard enough in itself. He thought of how his body had fallen into the snow and rolled down the stony slope and he knew that it was bruised and battered and his leg was broken and maybe some ribs were, because his chest hurt so much - and the thought almost made him give up, but he pushed it away. He could get down to those bushes. He could. One step at a time. He crept and wormed and dragged himself down. The cloak was heavy but his bandaged hands weren't nimble enough to open the clasp.

One step at a time. Had there ever been anything else than pain? He focused on those bushes until it was only him and the dark opening left in the world. It was just like archery. Focus on the target. Focus on the target until your eyes can burn a hole right through it.

There was pain and pain and pain and then suddenly he was there - he didn't even notice - cold, stiff branches brushing against his face and when he looked up, he looked into darkness. It took all of his remaining strength to pull himself inside. The bushes on the other side were not as tall as he had hoped, but he could not see the path when he lay down.

It hurt too much to curl up very tight. It was bad, he knew; he'd be found. But he had no more strength. He pulled the cloak over his head and collapsed on a mat of dead leaves, and the world vanished into hazy darkness.

Thank you for reading! I will expect your declarations of war in the morning.