The light-haired Elf moved quickly through the forest, his eyes flitting about the forest's trees and shrubs, its shadows and dells to catch any sign, any clue. He paused occasionally, placing his hand upon a tree to confirm that he was still on the path that the Prince had taken. As a Silvan Elf, his gift of understanding the song of the forest was strong; however, the song was not explicit directions to the Prince's whereabouts, only a shift in each tree's natural melody that indicated that the Prince had been recognized by the tree, and thus the forest could only reassure Tirn, not guide him to the missing Legolas.

As a maple enlightened the searching warrior, he realized he was nearing the now abandoned campsite of the scouting party. Other warriors were fanned out through this area of Mirkwood, searching for clues, also. I hope the others are having more luck than I am, Tirn prayed.

Their instructions had been clear:

King Thranduil had been angry when first he had spoken to them, not worried. His tall, broad frame had seemed to tower above the contingent of Silvan soldiers, even when he had stepped down from the dais his throne set upon to address the warriors informally.

"Prince Legolas did not reach the scouting party he sought. This party has returned having neither heard nor seen signs of my son." Thranduil paused, looking past the soldiers, past the fine draperies and furnishings, and beyond the walls, as if the King could see Legolas from where he stood in his palace throne room. "My heart is heavy with worry."

To the small army of warriors who had volunteered gladly to search for the Prince, King Thranduil's many millennia hung from his shoulders just then, as if his heart, heavy as it may have been, was an albatross about the King's neck. When the scouting party had reported to their King and Legolas had not been among them, mere minutes had passed before the orders had been given to amass a search party, and now, less than an hour later, the party waited for the King to compose himself.

Remembering his task, the sovereign of Eryn Galen stood erect once again, his anger returning with impassioned resolve. Turning, Thranduil addressed the Elf appointed as leader, "Search first the area around the scouting campsite. I want a report via messenger each hour of what you have found. Make no mistakes." The director of the investigation nodded his assent. The King returned his attention to the soldiers, and told them in a voice harsh with emotion, "You will find him. Do not return without word of my son."

Tirn and the other Elves looking for the Prince would not have returned empty-handed willingly, even had their King not ordered it of them. Prince Legolas, though young in years in comparison to most of the Silvan warriors, had earned their respect with his battle skills and won their love with his mirth. All of Eryn Galen waited anxiously for news of the missing Prince. They had not been searching for more than a few hours but haste was important.

The trees still speak of Legolas, but they also speak of coming rain. If we do not find something soon, we may not be able to find anything at all. Pushing that thought aside, Tirn returned his consideration to his surroundings, afraid to miss even the slightest trace of his quarry. The Prince had left yesterday morning and would have arrived at the campsite, traveling on foot, before dark. The scouting party had left this day's morning on horse to return to the palace, having not received the instructions Legolas was to have brought them to stay as they were for another two weeks, and had reported to the King at mid-afternoon. He cannot be more than a day missing, then.

The first drops from the oncoming downpour hit, causing Tirn to gaze beseechingly to the sky. Please, Valar, let us find something first. His pace quickened, and for half an hour more he hastened through the forest, calling out in birdlike whistles to inform his companions that he was still fine and had thus far found nothing, and listening to their similar replies. A modest amount of rain made its way past the limbs, leaves, and protective shelter of the trees, washing the forest clean. Stopping to listen to a tall oak's lifesong, Tirn noted that the ground had yet to be soaked by the downpour, though it soon would.

Then why is there a puddle of mud by that underbrush?

The fair warrior darted to the puddle, and catching the silvery glint of the substance staining the forest floor in the light of the setting sun, let loose a shrill whistle.

He had woken to the feel of rain pelting his face. He tried to move his arms to find them still paralyzed. The swaying of the boat had become erratic. Besides the occasional curses of the men, the archer had noticed the sounds of the wind ripping through the nearby trees and knew that a fierce storm was approaching. The worst of it had not yet reached them.

"We need to go to shore, Jalian," Meika shouted above the gale.

"No. We are two days late already in having caught the Elf; we need to get to the meeting point before dark. The sun is almost set and we've leagues to go," the disfigured and disgruntled hunter yelled in return. The wind did not blow the boat about – the gusts blew the men about, whose fight to stay upright shook the tiny craft with their every move.

"Sit down, Jalian. You are only making it worse!"

Jalian continued his progress towards Meika, who sat at the front of the boat trying to steer them to the shore. A particularly strong wind hit Jalian hard, causing him to flail about to maintain his balance, and making the boat rock precariously.

"Damn it, Jalian, catch the..." was the last that Legolas heard. His world became icy blue.

I suppose what the Edain say is true. One had better watch what he wishes for: now I'll have the swim I wanted earlier, Legolas thought somewhat deliriously, as his inert body sank slowly to the undercurrents of the Anduin. He closed his eyes.

Very little conversation had taken place after Aragorn was accepted as a part of the brothers' entourage. They had collected their horses and the Ranger had followed the mercenaries wordlessly to the forest. He was not yet sure that they had accepted him fully and would have to remain aware of their every move, especially Ramlin, who turned in his saddle to glare in Aragorn's direction. Ament, on the other hand, rode slightly ahead, stopping occasionally to check a piece of lambskin that the Ranger assumed was a map or set of directions. He was unsure where exactly the brothers were leading him, knowing only that they were heading away from the Misty Mountains and towards the Anduin. Fulton was north of the Dwarven mines of Moria but east of the mountains – if they continued due east, they would be close to the borders of the Elven realm of Eryn Galen.

The three had been riding all morning and all day. We can't go much further without fording the river. Surely, we will meet up with the others before then. As if aware of Aragorn's thoughts, Ament reined his horse in, and turning to Ramlin and Aragorn, declared, "I can hear the river. We are close."

At that moment, an arrow sped past Ramlin's head, embedding itself in the tree behind the surprised mercenary. Aragorn dismounted reflexively, pulled his bow from his shoulder, and reached for an arrow from his quiver but paused at hearing Ramlin's guttural laughter.

"That was quick, Strider," Ament said appreciatively, "but there is no danger. Come out, Doran, and meet the new member of our group."

Ament and Ramlin dismounted while Strider replaced his unused weapons slowly, his survival instinct aroused and his distrust of the mercenaries heightened by the violent display of archery. An extraordinarily tall, thin man appeared from behind a rock outcropping, bow in hand, with a beaming countenance.

"Strider, this is Doran, our master archer, and long friend to us. Doran, meet Strider, a fellow Elf-hater who has asked to join us in ridding Middle Earth of the foul creatures." Ament's introduction caused Doran to examine Aragorn closely. The Ranger was taken aback by the hatred he could see in the archer's eyes, a loathing apparent upon Ament's mention of the Elves. Doran's brownish-blond short hair was pushed behind his ears, his short blond beard and searing green eyes giving him the appearance of the Rohirrim, the Rohan horse lords.

"Good, we can always use another hand. Ament is right. You are fast, and any enemy of the Elves is a friend of mine." Doran's examination continued, and the Ranger could feel the man's gaze as it assessed his stature and thereby his capabilities as a fighter. The archer was sizing him up, and Estel tried not to show his unease.

Instead, Aragorn felt compelled to reaffirm his supposed hatred for the Elves to win over this new addition to his sham. "The Elves have been spoilt by our acquiescence to their interference in human affairs. It is long past time they paid the price for the wrongs they have done to man."

He hoped his lie was convincing. Apparently, I am a better liar than my brothers have let on, the Ranger thought, as Doran clasped Estel's forearm suddenly in a welcoming greeting. Aragorn returned the gesture, observing Ament's pleasure and Ramlin's ire at Strider's easy admittance into the group by Doran.

Ament's pleased look returned to his usual scowl as he queried, "Doran, have the others arrived yet with the cargo?" The mercenary's emphasis as he spoke was not lost on his audience. Ramlin and Doran both grinned with what Aragorn thought looked like ravenous desire, eying each other and licking their lips as they shared a moment of anticipation.

"No, they've not returned," the archer said. "For most of the morning I've been waiting for them by the river to ensure that they would find us, but a storm has been brewing just north of here, and I suspect that has thrown them off course. They've likely stopped on the shore to wait it out."

The scowl deepened on Ament's pale face. "If they are not here soon I will open their bellies upon their arrival. I've no wish to wait when we are this close. They should have been here yesterday at the latest."

Ramlin turned his dull eyes to the darkening sky. "The storm will reach us, too, it seems, ere nightfall. Did you find us shelter for the night, Doran?"

"Indeed. A cave lies not far from the shore. We can spend what is left of the day and the night there, setting out in the morning," he suggested, looking deferentially to Ament for support.

Ament nodded and then ordered his brother, "Ramlin, you and Doran stay at the shore. Strider and I will make camp at this cave. Where is it?"

As Doran explained in simple directions how to get to the cave, Aragorn's attention wavered back to the wolfish glee that Ramlin and Doran had displayed when the leader had mentioned their cargo. I know they do not yet have the goblet. Surely, they are not so anxious for their friends to come with supplies.

"Strider, let us gather wood for our fire as we walk." Ament took off, expecting Aragorn to follow behind him. Ramlin and Doran were nearly gamboling towards the river, jesting and playfully batting at each other like overgrown children. The Ranger ambled after Ament reluctantly, wondering what mess he had stepped into this time.

How can I be so hot while shivering from the cold? Legolas again woke up not knowing where he was. The Prince was unsure what had happened after he had been tossed from the boat like a child's rag doll. He had realized his impending death was upon him when his body had hit the bottom of the river, only to be swept along its eddies and entangling in the plants sprouting from the bottom, their waxy leaves and branches brushing against his face as his chest had burned with the last of his oxygen and he had been under the water for too long, longer than even an Elf could hold his breath. It was then that he had given in to the urge to breathe, drawing into his lungs the cold river water. He could remember nothing after that.

Night had long settled in, as had the storm. Flashes of lightning illuminated his surroundings briefly. He could barely make out the two men trying to drag the boat onto the shore of the river, only to lose it in the rapids, where it overturned and floated away while the men watched.

The Elf assumed that one of the hunters had rescued him. I'm not sure whether to thank them or wish they had left me in the river. Time will tell, he joked to himself gloomily. Whatever the men had in store for him, he would not give in so easily to death if he could help it. His life was not his own. I am Prince of Eryn Galen. I will live if only to spite these men and see them dead.

His thoughts turned to his father. A search party would have been assembled as soon as his absence was noticed. Even if they had been careful in their plotting to lay the trap, the hunters had not been careful in their travel to the river, Legolas was sure, and they had not bothered to erase the evidence of his temporary captivity in the trap, so the Elves would have little difficulty in following. If the rain has not destroyed our path. What of the river? They will not know where we have stopped. Legolas' panic threatened to return.

"That's enough from you, Meika. I told ya, it were an accident. The Elf lives, so no harm is done. We need to worry about gettin' down the river on foot, not sit here to argue about who did what." The two men walked to Legolas, adjusting their possessions and readying for travel.

Meika was clearly not about to let Jalian gloss over his culpability in their current delay. He frowned. "Fine, but when the boss asks why we are late, you get to explain it to him."

Jalian was frowning, too, now. "Just come on."

Legolas traced the man's movements as he bent down to pick up the Wood-Elf, unable to avoid the scarred mercenary's hold of him. Whether this immobility was due to the poison or his near death experience, the cold or perhaps his fever, the archer did not know. His head lolled to the side when Jalian hefted the Elf over his shoulder. With each step, Legolas' bound legs hit the front of the man's torso, continually jarring his infected wounds. He shut his eyes and did not try to struggle.

Ament was growing tired of the postponement. He stirred the fire anxiously with a stick, glancing every few moments to the mouth of the cave where sheets of torrential rain barred his view of everything within three or four feet of the opening. He stopped his agitated movements. Strider sat across from the fire, legs crossed and eyes closed. The man was tormentingly quiet.

Ament felt compelled to trust the Adan, though he didn't understand why. It is something about his demeanor. I likely should have let Ramlin kill him. The mercenary pondered the stranger. But he was quick to arms earlier. He may serve us well if we encounter any problems on our journey. Ament couldn't imagine why the man would wish to join them other than for the reasons Strider had claimed. If nothing else, I do not know how much he overheard. If he has learned the location of the goblet, it would be better to keep him near. His utility only makes it that much more bearable.

After they had gathered firewood, Ament had tried to engage Strider in conversation, to no avail. Though the stranger had been polite, he had seemed reluctant to talk. I'll find out what I want to from this man, or I'll give him to Ramlin to beat out of him.

Ament sniggered in amusement. His younger brother was a brainless twit, in his opinion. If he weren't so good at being mean, I would have rid myself of him long ago. Brawn is easy to replace. He cast another look in Strider's direction, thinking of how the man could easily be trained into a fine replacement for Ramlin. The stranger had bested Ramlin easily, and his quickness to arms and obeisance thus far made him seem a suitable thug. I bet he doesn't like to inflict pain as much as Ramlin, though. That talent only my brother seems to foster. Picking up his stick again, the mercenary gave the fire another poke.

This was the brothers' big chance. Previous attempts to obtain wealth and better their circumstances had been unsuccessful. Ramlin is the problem. If he ruins this, I will tear him limb from limb. Only a month ago, Ramlin had ruined Ament's plans and had nearly caused the elder brother to make good on his constant threats to divest himself of his younger sibling. All my well-laid plans, wrecked by his thirst for blood and pain.

His brother's perverse desires had almost gotten them killed. Ament had planned for Ramlin to distract a farm family by asking them for help with directions to town while Ament made off with several of their horses from the fields. The simple plan had been successful; that is, until Ramlin's base needs had interfered. Ament had acquired the horses and traveled quickly to their agreed convening spot. Ramlin, however, had swiped the farm family's youngest daughter, injuring the girl's father and brother, who had fought to keep her safe, and nearly slaying the mother, in his effort to take the young girl. He had done her no harm only because he had not had the chance before Ament had stopped him. It had taken every threat Ament could conjure to convince Ramlin to leave her unspoilt, keening and shivering in the forest. Ament didn't care for the girl, but had not wanted to deal with the wrath of the entire village. Horse thieves were chased: murderers and rapists were hunted.

The rain continued outside their shelter. I wonder if Strider sleeps. Let us see how quick he is to arms now. Ament smiled. If anyone else had been around to see him, he would have been amazed at the simple transformation of the man's appearance from mercenary shrewdness to playful jollity. He took his stick in hand and tossed it lightly at the silent form in front of him. Ament watched, astonished at the recovery the man made, as he moved from a still body to alertness, hand on the hilt of his sword and eyes promptly assessing the situation. "I had wondered if you were asleep, friend." Ament could not help but laugh at Strider's confusion.

Strider relaxed back into the curving wall of the dank cave. His hand lies still on the hilt of his sword, Ament commented to himself. Aloud he said, "I was curious as to whether you were as quick to rise as you are to dismount." Again, the mercenary laughed mirthfully at Strider's confusion.

The stranger seemed satisfied with this answer when he had determined no danger was at hand, and smiled genuinely in return. "I have traveled often by myself and I am accustomed to awakening in the wilds at the least provocation." Before Ament could respond, a commotion drew their attention to the area outside the cave. Unable to see what was happening, the two scrambled from the ground and bolted outside when they heard the call for help from Doran.

Elrohir was growing weary of his twin's constant complaints. Elladan had been questioning Elrohir's logic since first they had left Imladris, as it had been Elrohir's idea to meet Aragorn on his way over the Misty Mountains. "Ada will kill us when he sees we have gone, Elrohir. You do know this."

It wasn't a question. Elrohir responded anyway. "Ada will only be upset that he, too, couldn't escape the smell that still lingers from Estel's last prank, Elladan. It was you who angered Ada last, anyway."

Elladan chuckled in remembrance of his last joke. Unfortunately, he had picked the wrong time and the wrong Elf on which to perform this joke. Who would have known that Glorfindel would become so upset that his favorite ceremonial robes had been dyed pink? Lord Elrond had been grieved that his sons had upset his commander so.

"We can thoroughly thrash Estel now, Elladan, without Ada around to stop us."

"But we will never find him, brother. We do not even know that he came this way."

"We do not need to know this. We will find him, I promise. And even if we don't, we escape father's rage. When all is settled down we can return, with or without Aragorn."

Elladan nearly shuddered at Elrohir's phrasing, the odd statement not sitting well with the elder Noldo. They both loved their adopted brother dearly; any ill to him would be an ill to them and would not go unrequited. "We are almost to the pass, Elrohir. Do we traverse or do we wait?"

"We keep on, brother. We will find Aragorn, of this I am sure."

I hope so, Elladan told himself, shifting uncomfortably on his horse, and in one piece, please.