Just want to say thanks to the anonymous person who left the fantastic review for chapter 10. I'm so glad that you got the emotion I was trying to portray, especially in that scene with the twins. It does help when I know someone is enjoying my little effort.

If anyone else wants to join in please feel free. Help feed the muse!

Thanks too to everyone reading. I better get on with it then. I hope this one works for you.

Chapter 11

" Coward…. wake…..up….you…filthy….coward." Legolas' head is whipped from side to side by each blow to his, already crimson, cheeks that accompanies the frenzied, staccato words spat out by the elf towering over him. "You….will…not…hide….from….what…..you….have….done" . Lhossons rage is increasing, the slaps gaining in strength as the young elf stays limp and unresisting before him.

When Legolas had first collapsed allowing his erstwhile mentors blade to miss its mark in his fair neck by the narrowest of margins, instead just clipping the tip of one finely pointed ear bringing forth a small spurt of crimson, the Mirkwood warrior had been incensed and had quickly spun the blade in well practiced fingers before turning its arc down towards the heart of the archer who was then lying insensate at his feet. His intention was simple, to kill. Nothing less would satisfy the ache in his heart, the sense of loss, the need for retribution which overwhelmed all else. But, at the last moment he had hesitated, turned the long knife aside and plunged it into the ground beside the crumpled form, fury ensuring it was buried deep, up to its ivory hilt, in the packed earth. This would not do. This was not the way. Scorn filled his deep green eyes as he stared down at the one he had once held as dear to his heart as a son and his lips tightened to a thin grimacing line.

" No!" One, deep, cold word squeezed out from between Lhossons tightly compressed lips. " You will not hide from this, my prince" the last two words were uttered with such contempt as to render them into an insult. " I will have you look into my eyes to comprehend and realise your fate".

He landed a frustrated kick into the archers ribs and withdrawing his knife from the ground, wiped it across the unconscious elfs tunic, smearing a brown line across the slender chest, before replacing it in its sheath at his belt. Noticing, as if for the first time, the bow that had fallen from a limp hand as the young elf fell, Lhosson bent to retrieve it from the grass, holding the well beloved artefact tightly he stared intently at its elegant design feeling the anger rise within him again, twisting his features into a grimace of disgust, this emblem of status defined the young prince, marked his place in the world, and the need to hurt, to negate that very existence became overwhelming. Grasping the bow in both hands he brought it down over his raised knee and welcomed the loud satisfying crack of sound given off as the shaft snapped almost in two. Casting it away as far as he could the warrior sighed, his need remained unquenched although the anger was slightly lessened by the act of destruction and he realised what he now needed to do.

With a grim expression he bent and took hold of Legolas' feet and dragged him a short way over the uneven ground towards a tall tree with thick lower limbs that reached down to the grass, brushing it in the breeze like fingers softly running through a thick carpet. Hoisting the limp form over his shoulder with one hand he then lithely leapt into the branches, disregarding the arrows that fell like rain from the upended archers quiver, and began to climb, higher and higher, the slight weight of the body he carried unhindering him as he made his way first to the top of that tree then across to the next, and the next. Using them, as only a wood elf can, to create an unseen path, heading towards a secluded location he remembered from past travels in the area.

Eventually reaching his goal the warrior gradually descended from the final tree and felt again the firm earth under his feet. He dropped Legolas from his shoulder to land in a sprawled heap of tangled limbs in the undergrowth and stood surveying the small, isolated, clearing they had just entered in the centre of which was the half rotted stump of an old tree, long ago struck by lightening and fallen with the splintering of tortured wood. Dragging the unfortunates body over to this once great structure he placed the archers back against the remains of the trunk and secured his wrists behind it using his own spare bow string. Legolas was now seated as if lifeless, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his head falling forward onto his chest, blonde hair cascading into his lap like a shimmering curtain of gold, no signs of perception or awareness of his plight visible.

Lhosson gazes down at the fallen archer secured before him. The exertion of the passage through the tree tops has cleared the red mist of rage from his mind and helped focus his thoughts. He feels calm now. Anger still lies, heavy in his chest, like a lead weight pushing against his already grief stricken heart but he knows he has it under control once more. He kneels down in front of the younger elf and reaches through the blonde curtain to grasp the slender neck hidden behind it. Gripping tightly just under the chin he pushes it forcefully back against the rough bark raising the pale face and at the same time watching the closed eyes for any sign of movement. When the ivory skinned face remains smooth and apparently unaware the elder elf raises his free hand and brings it across to connect sharply against one pale cheek with a sharp retort, making the princes head sharply swing over to the left, then, without pause he reverses the action with a backhanded slap to the other cheek.

" Coward. Coward!" Continuing this action he begins to chant, increasing the speed and harshness of the blows with each repetition, the words reinforcing the harsh slap of flesh against flesh. Over and over again until the initial sting in his palm becomes a fierce burn but still he does not stop. "Coward. Wake. Up. You. Filthy. Coward". He takes a second to breathe then resumes the onslaught. "You. Will. Not. Hide. From. What. You. Have. Done."

Saphire eyes suddenly spring open wide as awareness rushes into Legolas' tired and battered body. His mouth opens in an attempt to cry out against the unwanted assault but his constricted throat will allow no sound to escape, indeed he finds that he is only just able to inhale against the painful pressure being applied around his neck. For a few short seconds he is disorientated, confused by the double incursion upon his senses, then realisation hits him and he tries to move his already burning face away from the hand that he senses moving towards it but cannot. Pain flares sharply again and he struggles against the vice like grip holding him remorselessly still. He gazes over into the cold, unfeeling, emerald eyes of his attacker, the hatred within which makes him shudder under its intensity. Lhossons hand makes one final, jolting connection then drops and the two beings stare intently at each other, questioning cerullean orbs into icy green flint, as if each trying to read their respective souls, for what feels like an eternity before Legolas tries to speak and the spell is broken.

"Lhos…" the sound is croaked out as barely a whisper. He tries again " Lhosson?" Stronger this time but his voice still holds a rasping edge both through pain and the pressure that has been exerted upon his throat.

" So, The Prince awakes at last." The contemptuous use of his honorific is not lost on Legolas as the elder elfs voice cuts across his own vocal attempts. " I was beginning to think you did not wish to see me, Hir Nin, My Lord" with this, Lhosson releases his hold on the archers neck, rises smoothly to his feet and executes a mocking bow.

"What do you want of me?"

Wearily the slight figure tied to the tree raises his head carefully once more, his eyes fluttering closed briefly as the world suddenly tilts and whirls around, dizzyness threatens to overwhelm him but he will not allow it, forcing his saphire orbs to re open and gaze sadly upwards into his captors face, not wanting to show this momentary weakness.

" What do you want of me?"

A sense of resignation is apparent in the repeated question.

Sore of heart, body and mind Legolas feels a strong urge to surrender his will under the strength of animosity emanating from the very essence of the elf standing over him. He remains unsure over what exactly it is that he has done to deserve such vilification but his soul is such that he can not conceive that another would feel this way without just cause, therefore he must accept that, although aware that he could never knowingly take an innocent life there could be a possibility that through negligence or loss of concentration on his part such a one may have fallen.

He surmises that because his traitorous mind does not immediately bring any memory of such a deed to the fore this does not preclude it from being true. He is a perfectionist at heart, driving himself harder than any under his command and has oft berated himself in the past for errors he has perceived to be great yet have been ignored, or even unnoticed by others, a trait he has frequently been upbraided for by his father and friends yet one he is unable to break.

"What do I want of you?" Unalloyed fury lends itself to the staccato delivery of the warriors words as he stares unflinchingly down upon the worn young elf.

"I want you to suffer, I want you to know pain I want you to …" he breaks off suddenly, spittle forming at the corners of the once pleasant mouth now twisted with loathing, " I thought I wanted you to die," he squats down face to face with the archer, his voice becomes icy cold and measured as he continues " but now I realise that would be too easy". He slowly unsheathes the long knife worn at his belt and sweeps it elegantly around in an arc to rest with its tip lightly pricking the hollow of the smooth throat in front of him. "No, I want you to wish for death with every fibre of your being before finally giving in and begging to be allowed to embrace its final release."

The venom contained within these words sends a chill shiver down the princes spine and as he tries to assimilate his thoughts he feels a sharp burst of fire as the knife is drawn across his neck to leave a narrow stripe from which small globules of blood gently ooze and settle, like a string of scarlet beads resting upon the pale flesh.