14.

Óin was rather surprised that he still had two patients. He could not, in good conscience, only tend to Kili and ignore the elf, but he had fully expected the elf to have succumbed to his wound by this point. It was definitely poisoned, with something horrible considering how bad poor Kili had gotten, and the dunk under icy water hadn't helped either of them.

The elf was fitful, in obvious pain, and his breathing was labored but breathe he did. In some ways, he now seemed stronger than Kili, who was at least still awake but weak and fevered and trembling from constant agony so the old healer almost wished he would go unconscious as well, even knowing that would be a bad sign.

Thorin had gone, and had taken most of the party with him. He had told Óin, before he left, that when Kili was well enough he was to follow, but 'Leave the elf'.

Óin could understand the reasoning, cold though it sounded. They had done their duty in not abandoning the prince and tending to his wounds, but it would create rather a bad situation if they were found with the elf prince, whether he died or was merely dying. Better to let Laketown be the ones to return him. Or disappear his body, if they prefer.

The prince hadn't died yet, but survival was still far from likely, and he didn't look good. The human girls tended to him. They seemed to find him fascinating, and were very concerned that he was going to die considering he wasn't their kin and they'd never even met him before. They were politely concerned about Kili as well, but Kili did have Fili to mother him, and anyway, it was easier to be concerned over someone who slept than someone who groaned and cursed and kept shouting that he'd be fine and he didn't need to be mothered before giving into pained cries once more.

Bofur had been helping tend to both of them. Óin called him too kind hearted for his own good, and ignored what Bofur mumbled in response, something along the lines of pots and kettles, total nonsense anyhow. He had wondered off now, though. Perhaps to find something to help, perhaps to return to his nap, perhaps to chase after the other dwarves for all he knew. He wasn't there, and Kili was trembling and white and soaked through with sweat, and the elf was hardly better except elves didn't seem to sweat, and how was Óin meant to look after a creature he didn't completely understand? He knew pointing things shouldn't be in his chest, and that blood was meant to stay inside his veins, just as with any other being, but other than that, who knew how elves might be different?

He needed herbs and potions and a good clean environment that didn't smell of fish.

When Bofur did unexpectedly turn up with a large bundle of kingsfoil, he was most welcome and Óin took back every nasty thought he'd had about the man.

Though it might have been better if Bofur hadn't invited the orcs in after him.

15.

Thranduil was a father and a king. Most of the time, these two facts meshed well, for a good king was also a good father, and vice versa. A king, like a father, cared for his people and guided them and protected them. Sometimes, however, these two fact clashed against each other and left the man standing beneath both titles feeling as though he were caught between the horns of two rampaging rams.

The father wanted to storm through Laketown, have his warriors barge into every house, explore every boat, and uncover wherever his son might be hid. The king realized that such a move would be an act of war, and only advisable if he were the sort of tyrant intent upon subduing the human settlement under his own rule and ignoring the rights of every person who lived there.

Humans, a nasty voice inside his head whispered, what does it matter if you take over their town for a day? They kidnapped your son!

Had he known exactly where his son lay, and in what condition, and what sort of monster now set upon his defenseless body with deadly intent, then no law or rule of decency could have kept him from flying to his son's side, and he would deal with the political fallout afterwards.

He knew none of this. He did not even yet have proof his son was in Laketown. He knew only that his son was gravely injured, that he had floated down the river, and by all appearances the dwarves had taken him with them when they alighted.

His heart screamed that his son must still live. His logical side asked what use the dwarves would have with his son's corpse, so he must have been alive when they took him. Neither his logic nor his heart could overrule the fear that even now filled him with relentless panic.

He must find his son. To do that, he needed information. He send some of his people to approach the leader of Laketown and to arrange some sort of search. It'd probably be even quicker and more efficient than storming the town anyway, and involve a lot less frightened people. Frightened people could be dangerous in their own right. Better that they be confused. Better that they go on with their lives and leave his people to him.

16.

"Captain Tauriel! You awaken!"

Tauriel supposed the healer knew what he was talking about, and therefore she must indeed be awake, but she hardly felt it was so. She felt sluggish, half her senses seemed to fail her entirely. She could see and hear, but in a muted sort of way, and she was hardly aware of the world around her. Was she in a cave, in a tree, underwater? Impossible to tell. Orcs could be just behind her and she suspected she'd have no clue. She felt half blind. She also felt exhausted, an exhaustion that delved into her very bones and left her heavy and limp.

This was not the first time she'd ever been poisoned by spiders, but it was certainly among the worst. She felt pummeled and sore and half blind and half asleep. She was still aware enough to recognize that something was missing. No, not something. Someone.

"Where is Legolas?" she asked, in a voice that hardly sounded like her own, so week and rough did it sound. Legolas was always there when she was injured, as she was always there when it was his turn to stay in the healing ward. If one wasn't by the other's bedside, then they were lying in an adjacent bed.

The healer hesitated in answering. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. A dark feeling that had nothing to do with the poison still swimming in her veins filled Tauriel with ice. She forced herself to push past her exhaustion, past the pain, and focused her eyes upon the healer.

"Where is the prince?"

"We were hoping you might know something about that." That wasn't the healer talking. It was one of her own guards. He stood at the healers side, his face impassive but the eyes gave him away. He was worried, fearful even, almost sorrowed.

"Elechant," Tauriel said firmly, in her captain voice. "What do you know."

"Prince Legolas is missing," Elechant answered at once. "The king interviewed one of the orcs we fougth at the river, an archer. He said…he claimed he shot the prince and that he fell in the river. The king has sent out search parties. He himself travels down the river. We discovered your capture along the way. We supposed you too must have followed after the prince, but were surprised by the spiders. Some of us rescued you and some went on after the prince."

Tauriel lay back in shock. Legolas was shot? Surely not. He was too seasoned a warrior to be caught out by a lone orc. Even if that orc was an archer? One who fired from a distance? No, even then. Orcs lie. All know that. And yet…his father clearly found truth in his words, or why else would he himself go down the river. And Legolas was obviously still missing.

The ice in her veins seemed to melt into lava, and her heart thundered in her chest.

"Captain?"

She turned once more to look at her guard.

"Did you see the prince in the river? Is that why you went off alone?"

"I was pursuing the dwarves," Tauriel answered. "I never saw Legolas. I didn't even know he was missing."

After that, the healer insisted she drink something surprisingly not disgusting, though it did have a sharp medicinal taste to it, and in spite of her fear, and misgivings, and the beginning of something darker, something like guilt, the drink dragged her down and she fell back into the void. The last thing she heard before she slept again was Elechant, whispering 'Be well, captain, and worry not. The king will find his son.'

There was no accusation in his voice, nothing but kindness and respect, but somehow his words seemed to fill her with darkness.

They told her everything would be fine the last time to. When her parents were missing.

Truth and hope were not the same thing. She fell into sleep and her dreams were dark.

17.

By all rights, they should be dead.

Bofur was knocked out almost from the moment he'd handed over the kingsfoil, even as he'd walked in the door. Kili was unwell, to the point of being delirious and definitely useless in a fight. That left two dwarves, one who was a healer and not a fighter, and three children against a horde of murderous goblins.

Except, as it turned out, it was two dwarves, three children, and one barely coherent elf.

The elf had, up to that point, been doing a pretty good impression of a corpse, if corpses had the ability to moan in pain or tremble. At any rate, he'd shown no sign of consciousness or that he'd be waking in the near future, if ever again.

So it was a shock to everyone, likely even to Legolas himself, when the orc that had been seconds away from skewering Óin was skewered himself.

The orcs, who had come specifically for the dwarves, still responded to their deep-seated hatred of all things elvish and turned on the ailing prince. If that arrow wound hadn't been killing him, it looked like the orcs were about to undo whatever good Óin might have managed in helping him. Over Óin's dead body were they going to undo all his hard work.

The elf was surprisingly deadly, considering it didn't look as though his eyes were focusing properly and when he attempted to pick up a rather heavy bit of fishing equipment to use as a weapon, he was too weak to do anthing but fall over backwards with it. He still managed to angle it so the orc coming after him speared itself, and weak and unstead though he was, he seemed to know how to avoid direct hits by orc weapons.

He also made an excellent distraction. As the orcs turned upon the dying elf, they forgot to watch their back. And even children can be deadly when they have something heavy in their hands to hit orcs over the head with, or something sharp to stab into an unshielded back.

Orcs, like most dark creatures, tend not to fight with their companions but in spite of them, swarming wherever they liked and none of them having each other's backs. That was often their downfall, and the reason a relatively small group of free folk might defeat a much larger group of orcs.

Even so, two dwarves, three children, and a half dead elf probably weren't going to be enough here. Especially when the monstrously huge orc showed up. Its eyes were filled with an enjoyment of cruelty and malice, and hitting it over the head with blunt household appliances just wasn't going to take him out.

The elf stood anyway to face him, unfocused and swaying but defiant.

Just when Óin began to wonder if the elf had some supernatural power and that they might win anyway…or at least have a chance to run away and let the elf fight the orc…whatever strength the elf had drawn from seemed to leave him at once, and he collapsed at the orc's feet. And Óin noted his wound was bleeding again, after all his effort to get it to stop, too.

They were all going to die.

18.

Sometimes, there's a reason for old sayings. Like: let sleeping dragons lie. That might have been a good saying to listen to.

19.

Bolg stared down at the elf lying crumpled at his feet. Some might consider that a good result, like a gift of sorts, but to the orc it all just felt a bit…anticlimactic. Like the elf had robbed him of a great and glorious battle. Where was the fun in defeating an already defeated enemy? He might as well go around a battlefield once the fighting is over and stab the dead.

Still, unfulfilling or not, he'd be stupid to turn down such a gift as that. And perhaps the dwarves would still put up a fight. Bolg pulled out a knife. If he couldn't have his fight, at least he could make his killing of the elf more…intimate.