"Move no closer, Ramlin," the healer warned; "Your brother has given me leave to protect the Elf at all costs." Strider held his broadsword out menacingly, the tip staunchly pointed towards the advancing mercenary.

He knows who I am now, Legolas considered, and this makes my staying seem like a much less agreeable idea. What was I thinking? There is no valor in dying by this monster's hands.

"Legolas." Ramlin's grin grew larger until the Elf was sure the man's head would split in two, though he did not aspire to stay to find out. "I can't imagine why Ament didn't tell me that you were King Thranduil's son." Sickly sweet and cruel, the brute's words nearly caused Legolas to flee just then, but he still held hope that Strider would diffuse the situation and their plan salvaged. He knew what the mercenary wanted from him: his death and suffering.

Valar, what do we do now, Strider?

The man did not stop his slow approach towards the Elf and healer, forcing Strider to step in front of Legolas. "I will kill you, Ramlin, if you move any closer," Strider quietly warned. Such vehemence did the human put into this statement that Ramlin ceased, focusing on the healer.

"Traitors, that's what you are. You and Meika. What did you plan to do, kill Ament and me, take the goblet for yourselves?" The mercenary snickered; his throaty laugh was interrupted only by the appearance of Doran, his bow drawn, the arrow pointed at Strider's outstretched arm as he crashed through the underbrush and into the minute clearing.

"Egad, Ramlin, what is happening?" The tall archer did not take his eyes or his aim off Strider or Legolas for long, though he noted with dismay the slain man lying on the ground.

His arrow will fly if either of us moves.

Doran had only caught the end of their conversation, it seemed, for he queried, his brow furrowed in uncertainty, "Strider and Meika are traitors?"

"They want to free Prince Legolas and take the goblet. They were going to kill us." Before the healer could counter this claim, Ramlin leapt forward, making as though to seize Legolas. The Elf stepped backwards instinctively, while Strider swung his blade through the air, its burnished metal reflecting the moonlight in the few seconds of its path – it fell to the forest floor with a clatter when a singing arrow pierced the healer's forearm, causing Strider to lose his grip. Ramlin halted his advance, smiling back at Doran, who was fitting his bow with another arrow. Grabbing his wounded limb, his sword arm, the healer looked only at the Elf, wordlessly beseeching him to flee this increasingly perilous sham.

The arrow wound did not impede the healer for long, though, for he roughly pulled the shaft free, reaching for his fallen sword while turning to Legolas. "Run," the human shouted.

The Prince jumped, his reverie broken, but the Elf hesitated. I cannot leave Strider to face these two men alone. The sudden thought occurred to him, Nay, Ramlin, at least, would follow. Legolas darted away, hoping that the mercenary would chase him, for he did not wish to leave the young human to fight his battles, but the Prince was also afraid of what would happen should Ramlin catch him.

Whirling back to Ramlin and Doran, blade in his other hand, Strider waited for another attack, but both men concentrated only on the Elf. Doran let loose his second arrow, the projectile flying true and piercing the fleeing Prince's thigh. Ramlin waited long enough for the Elf to stagger before he lunged forward. Vainly attempting to maintain hold of the hilt of his sword in spite of the lacerating pain in his arm, the healer faced the aggressively nearing Doran, who held his own blade in hand, the bow dropped carelessly on the grass behind him in favor of a weapon that did not need time for preparation between attacks.

Legolas plummeted to the forest floor onto his knees, the arrowhead jarring his thighbone as the shaft hit the earth. I cannot stop. The untainted trees called out to him, their anguish at the immortal's pain the background to the similar, though more deadly circumstances playing out around him. Paying no heed to the agony in his thigh, the Elf stood, feeling the presence of Ramlin behind him and knowing that should he fall another time, his life would be forfeit.

Ramlin had watched the Elf collapse and had almost caught hold of the leash that still looped around the immortal's tied wrists, but the Prince had been too swift in moving.

He will not move so quickly with Doran's arrow in his leg, Ramlin thought smugly, ignoring the altercation that was taking place behind him and giving pursuit to his fleeing prey.

The Elf was slowed from this new wound, and perhaps his other injuries, but he had the advantage of knowing how to run through the twisted, web-like trees.

No bother, the mercenary thought, huffing as he followed the Elf at the fastest pace at which he could run, his leg will give.

The pair ran further out into the dark depths of Eryn Galen, Legolas' fair head guiding the mercenary to his quarry in the dim light of the moon.

Valar, please let Legolas find safety. Even as he parried Doran's blade, the Ranger's only coherent thoughts, other than his instinctual decisions during the swordplay, were of the Elf's welfare. Please do not let Ramlin find him. The throbbing, hemorrhaging wound on his forearm made his hand slick with blood and his sword arm wobbly. He would not last long in this fight, he knew. I just need to last long enough for Legolas to flee so that Doran cannot follow, too.

Ranger and mercenary paced circles in the small glade, their swords almost too long to avoid hitting the trunks of the gnarled trees around them, and only when the archer took the offensive did the two blades clash. Aragorn did not desire to kill the man before him but he would if forced. It was only his persistent belief that somehow he could convince these men not to use the goblet, or perhaps that they would see reason, with or without Ament's approval, that kept him from slaying the blond archer.

Doran, much like the other mercenaries, was not averse to fighting in an underhanded fashion; the Ranger soon found this out, as the archer pulled from his waist a small dagger. With a flick of his wrist, the blade flew through the air even as Doran kept the healer's attention elsewhere by swinging his sword and distracting the Ranger in avoiding it. Even still, had not Aragorn seen the movement while blocking the archer's sword, the thrown blade would have found his chest instead of the tree behind him. He vaulted sideways, out of its path, just as Doran yanked another blade from his waist.

Aragorn thought forlornly when the second blade struck his body, How many weapons does this man carry?

They have been gone too long... The leader's restless movements belied his otherwise calm exterior. I should have known not to trust that idiot. Strider and Meika likely had to take Ramlin down just to keep him from touching the Elf. It hadn't taken much for Ramlin to convince Ament that he should help watch over the Elf. In fact, Ament had almost suggested the very thing himself, for he had reasoned if his younger sibling had any more licentious motives for the Prince that Strider would dispatch him. However, he had eventually feared that his brother would be too much for Strider to handle, and he could not be sure that Meika would help the healer, and so had sent Doran, Ramlin's friend, to follow in case there were difficulties. They have all been warned: anyone who becomes a liability is dead.

Jalian sat by the small fire, glancing expectantly at the section of the forest through which Meika, Doran, Strider, Ramlin, and the Elf had left. The fool is more worried for his idiot friend, Meika, than for our plan. Although Ament did not intend to share the fruits of their labor with the other mercenaries, he still expected their total fidelity.

Unanticipatedly, Jalian ran to the opening through which the others had left, his departure taking aback the leader, who had neither heard nor seen anything to justify such an abrupt action. The hideous imbecile had better...

Ament's deleterious musings were halted when Doran walked panting into their campsite with Strider thrown haphazardly over his shoulder, bound and bleeding. Where is the Elf? Seconds later, Jalian straggled behind, his face painted with grief. The leader jumped to his feet, stalking across the clearing to his two minions as fast as his wounded leg would take him.

Ament prodded, whispering murderously, "Doran?" Nothing else had to be said.

Forthwith, the archer relinquished his burden to the soil, thoughtless of the further damage the healer may bear by it. Sighing as he shook his head, the archer replied, sounding bewildered by his own explanation, "I am not sure what happened, Ament. I came upon Strider with his sword held upon Ramlin. Meika lay dead. Ramlin said that Meika and Strider intended to let the Elf go free. When Strider told the Elf to run, Ramlin took off after him while I detained Strider."

I care not for this supposed uprising so long as I have the Elf.

Seething, his eyes ablaze with absolute agitation, Ament queried softly, though his tone was not mild as he leant towards the archer, "And where is the Elf?"

Not desiring his friend to become the victim of his brother's wrath, Doran reasoned, "The Elf tried to run. My arrow found the Prince's thigh so he will not flee far. Ramlin chases him through the forest, Ament. I'm certain he'll catch him."

In the gloomy, somber forest, where the moonlight barely lit their surroundings, Ament appeared as a rubescent lunatic, his flaming hair spiraling out further as the leader tore at it while he moaned in frustration. He shrieked, "You shot him?" Ament strode forward, his ire causing the wilted Jalian and confused Doran to step back with each advancing step. Their leader gained on them, though, and Ament seized the front of the much taller mercenary's tunic, hauling Doran's face closer to his. "You shot him."

"Was only in the leg, boss, like he said," Jalian tried to intervene, but his objections died away when Ament turned his infuriated, insane gaze upon him.

"You shot him," Ament repeated, facing the archer again, spittle flying from his mouth into Doran's face.

Doran cared much more for his life than for his currently drenched countenance, and pled, "Not fatal, Ament. I couldn't let him get away. This is his forest. If Ramlin loses Legolas then we'll be delayed. I didn't want to delay us."

He released his hold on Doran. The archer stood erect, finally wiping the moisture from his face and glancing sidelong at Jalian, who seemed unmindful to anything but his sorrow over Meika's death. At first, Ament saw the rationale behind this explanation. However, now that his mind worked with reason, rather than the intense emotion that had prompted his outburst, Ament came to a very disturbing realization.

"Legolas? You called the Elf Legolas." Searching the bewildered archer's face, Ament felt his bile rising.

"That's what Ramlin called him," Doran stated, shrugging his shoulders. "Thought that was his name."

Ament became completely still, his unexpected change terrifying the two mercenaries more than his fury. Ramlin knows. If we do not find him before he destroys the Elf then all has been laid to waste. I need the Elf.

"Doran." Ament's vociferation startled even himself. "Strider, he lives?"

"Yes, he is injured but he lives." Doran fretted with the string of his bow, which had been broken in the mêlée. The archer seemed reluctant to answer any more questions.

As he picked his own weapons from the forest floor beside his bedroll, Ament ignored the shooting pain in his wounded leg and asked, "How badly is he injured?"

Doran hesitated, looking down at the prone body of the healer, confused and unsure as to what may set their leader into another fit of rage, and wanting to avoid this if at all possible. "Not too bad. He took an arrow to the arm and one of my small daggers to his side. When he fell, I knocked him unconscious. He'll be hurting, but he won't die."

The leader paused in his preparations, pointing at Doran as he promised, "If Strider dies, so will you. If the Elf dies from your arrow, you will meet the same fate. Do you understand?"

"But, he held his sword on Ramlin, who said Strider's a traitor: Strider told the Elf to run. What does it matter if he dies?"

Ament approached the archer, who withered under his leader's demented glower. "Because, ass, Ramlin will tear our pretty captive apart and Strider is the only one who can put him back together, traitor or not." The leader whirled to face Jalian. "See to his injuries the best you can but leave him tied. Doran and I will find the Elf and my wayward brother."

Not waiting for Jalian to respond, but knowing the mercenary would not dare to counter his pronouncement, Ament sprinted into the woods, Doran close behind.

"Elrohir." Elladan had been trying to gain the attention of his brother for several minutes, but without victory. "Elrohir, answer me. What is it that you see?"

I see nothing, Elrohir longed to explain, his mouth moving as though to speak, but his mind so overcome with the sensations of terror and pain that he could not break through his malaise. I see nothing. I feel it. Estel lies still while Legolas runs through the shadows. Where are you, muindor?

With no conception of what was occurring, Tirn waited patiently to the side, calming the horses, which had become frightened by the Eldar's fear, for the horses had sensed their masters' terror. They had just made the Mirkwood border by following the hoof prints they had found earlier when Elrohir had fallen from his saddle, crumpling lifelessly into a heap on the grassy plain.

"Elrohir, please," his twin begged.

If we do not reach them soon, both will die. I feel it. They will both die. No images ran through the Noldo's mind, no visions offered him any clues as to what was happening, or how to stop it. All he could do was feel, and listen to himself, for the words with which he described the sensations did not seem to come from him. As without warning as the trance came, it departed, leaving Elrohir to feel bereft of hope. I do not even know where they are, but it is all the more important that we find them immediately.

"Elrohir?"

"They will both die, Elladan, I can feel it," he proffered without preamble. "We are near to them, I think, but I do not know where they are. I cannot see them," Elrohir whispered, his eyes glazed over again, though this time with tears and fatigue, and his body slack with exhaustion and desolation. Elladan swept his twin into his arms, and turning his weary, frightened stare upon their sentry companion, only shook his head in silence, unable to explain to Tirn what his twin had told him.

"Is he well?" Tirn did not know exactly what the Noldo had suffered; however, after the dark Elf had spoken, he knew to whom he referred, at least.

Elladan allayed the sentry's fears. "He will be fine, Tirn. He is fatigued, as are we, but the..." the Elf strained to find the appropriate word, "the revelations tire him."

"What will we do?"

"We move on."

The sentry nodded, eager to progress onwards himself, though he knelt, laying his hand on Elrohir's head, which lay upon his twin's arm. "Are you sure he is well?"

Smiling gravely and touched by the sentry's concern for his twin's welfare, Elladan replied, "I feel him, Tirn, as he feels Estel and Legolas, as he feels me, though it is stronger between us than I would say he feels for our missing brethren." The Noldo nodded, adding, "Elrohir is well."

Bewildered by the perceptive sons of Lord Elrond, the sentry stood, picking up and cradling one such son in his arms as the other mounted his horse. As he handed Elrohir to his brother, both sentry and Noldo heard the slumbering Elrohir mutter, "Run, Legolas, hurry."

Their journey was expedited by the petrifying prophecy and sleepy counsel Elrohir had given, and the two sentient Elves of their search party felt hope fade from them, as well, while they traveled into the dark Mirkwood forest.

The fair immortal was drained, all his energy was depleted in his effort to avoid the lumbering mercenary who had managed to keep up with his flight. I hope Strider has found safety, Legolas worried. The again reopened wounds he had endured from the hunting trap were now complicated with the arrow shaft protruding from his other leg, such that each step the Elda took was infused with blinding pain. Hurtling through the trees, Legolas trusted only his millennia of experience in running through the mangled and convoluted woods of his home and his faith in the untainted of the trees around him to guide him to safety.

Ramlin, he knew, was not far behind. Had he not been grievously injured, malnourished, beaten, and bound, Legolas could have vanished from the mercenary's sight at once, never to be seen again. If these were different circumstances, and I had so much as a dagger, I would take the foul beast out even tied. Blood trailed behind him, glinting in the pale moonlight, but not enough for the mercenary to track, at least not with the haste with which he currently pursued the Elda. It is the reflection of my hair in the moonlight that he sees. He tracks my light hair and skin and hears the flat footsteps my injuries force me to make. I can do nothing for it, lest I take to the trees.

He yearned to leap into the boughs of the forest; the trees that had been tainted with the evil of the Dark One were too many in number this far south. Legolas knew the once loving forest could turn on him, delivering him into the hands of his adversary, an easy exploit with his hands still bound and his leg barely working. The Elf broke his mad dash through the trees, sucking air into his burning lungs as he stopped to examine the arrow in the side of his leg. His once light leggings were stained crimson with his own blood; it pooled in his boot and seeped from the leather onto the ground. I have to bind this or I will bleed to death. I will be of no use to Strider then. As soon as he lost Ramlin, Legolas intended to return to the camp for his human benefactor.

He leant against a trunk, and ripping a length of cloth from his already torn tunic, the Elf tried to wind the strip around his thigh but his clammy, shaking hands felt the arrow's shaft. Ai Valar. I need to pull this out, first. Stifling a groan at the thought of the upcoming pain, Legolas grasped the shaft, bit his lip at the already intense waves of agony that washed over him, and realized that they would only increase. This must come out if you want to retain any blood at all, he advised himself sarcastically. On three. One, the Elf tightened his grip, two, he forced his leg to relax in hopes of reducing the pain and damage, three.

Even through the flesh, Legolas could hear the scrape of the arrowhead along his thighbone; moreover, he could feel it. Its sharpened head thankfully still attached, the arrow pulled free with a sickening, wet, sucking sound. Incandescent blood poured forth from the wound ere the Elf could manage to tie the strip of his tunic around it. Too much blood. His agony drove all other awareness from him so that when the mercenary spoke, Legolas did not take notice of him at first.

"Did you not hear me, pretty one?"

Legolas opened his eyes, ignorant that they had been shut, to see Ramlin walking casually towards him. The brute's chest heaved with the exertion of keeping up with the Elda. Valar, no please. Not again. He could not move nor flee, the loss of blood had caught up to him, and the Elf's vision swam; besides these detriments, Legolas knew that even should he try, he would not move as quickly as Ramlin, not in his current state.

"It looks like you are hurt, Princeling. May I kiss it to make you feel better?"

"I would rather die."

"That can be arranged, sweet Elfling," Ramlin chastised, the distance between the archer and mercenary lessening with the slow advancement Ramlin made to the tree against which Legolas leant. "You must learn to be nice to your new master."

Master? I would rather bleed to death. The Elf's hands clenched in frustration at his own weakness, clutching the arrow he still held. The arrow. Ramlin does not see it, else he would bear a weapon himself, Legolas pondered, keeping his hand still so that the mercenary's attention would not be drawn to the weapon.

"Not your master for too long, though, pretty one. I do not think you will last. You will beg for death before I am through with you, though death is too good for you, Thranduilion." Ramlin spat the last word as though it left a sour taste in his mouth. "There will be nothing left of you when I am finished."

Saying nothing, the immortal waited for the mercenary to near. He dared not move but closed his eyes briefly to fight his nausea. Come on, bastard human. The mercenary obliged, drawing closer.

"Don't you want to beg for mercy?" Ramlin snickered maliciously, his eyes shining with lust, his desire for destruction and the infliction of his will on another turning the Elf's stomach. Legolas could not have escaped had he tried, even upon hearing the mercenary's first comment. He could barely hold himself standing as it was, for too much of his blood pooled on the ground where he stood.

Finally, Legolas discerned through half-lidded eyes that the human had stepped near enough for Legolas to stab the foul being with the arrow. Charging forward, the Elf launched himself at the mercenary, arrow before him, set to puncture the disgusting human's heart. However, the mercenary moved quickly, and the Wood-Elf suddenly found his hands jerked violently to the side. The Elda fell to his knees, his arms now high above his head. Ramlin held the rope leash in his hand, tugging it playfully, painfully, as he smiled down at the Wood-Elf.

"I'm not that stupid, my Princeling." Ramlin wrenched the rope again, causing Legolas to lose his hold of the only weapon he had when the ropes bit into his skin, abrading his flesh, the pain causing his fingers to release the arrow. His only chance at evading the mercenary was now lost as Legolas fell onto his stomach. The Elf felt the human's hand in his flaxen hair, stroking its silky locks before he hauled it viciously, hefting Legolas up onto his knees, and then, in another mighty tug that the immortal was sure had pulled most of his mane free from the scalp at the base of his head, Ramlin heaved the Elf back to his feet. Legolas could not maintain his balance but the mercenary aided him in keeping upright by pushing his weight against the Elf, and the Elf against the tree behind him.

Pressing his massive body into Legolas' smaller form, Ramlin promised, "You are mine."