"I still say that this is the smelliest tree we've ever camped under," muttered Gimli, returning his head to a smelly root.

Enguina's laugh carried to his ears, and he cracked a smile through his grumbling. "Gimli! You really should try and get some sleep; we agreed we were only stopping for a short while. Honestly, shh!"

Gimli snorted. "Well, that'd be wonderful except every time I breathe in there's a horrible stench!"

Enguina laughed again. It was their first stop in hours, and it was the first time Gimli had complained since this morning when they had been attacked by that huge Warg. They needed the rest badly, for they were both exhausted and wounded. Her eyes were closed, but for some reason she could not sleep either. She smiled to herself about Gimli. "Dwarf, it is an old tree…and when they are rotting, old trees begin to smell."

"Well, then why'd you have to pick this tree to sleep under?"

Enguina sighed and then snickered. "Are the herbs you drank going to your mind, Gimli? You are to blame for this sleeping spot!"

Gimli rolled over to look at her back. "What? I did nothing of the sort…" But even as he said it, he realized she was right; he had, in fact, chosen this exact tree. He remembered wanting it because it was large and if it chose to rain again at least they would be covered.

She laughed out loud. "Oh Gimli, you are so forgetful!" He watched as she began to roll toward him, but then her laughter faded and she hissed in pain, quickly rolling back over. Gimli turned on his roll and sat up beside her. He reached out and touched her elbow. She had her right arm wrapped around her waist after rolling onto her injured side and shoulder.

"Enguina, you all right?"

"Yes," she muttered, and then winced. "I just…rolled onto the wrong part of my body." She muttered names at herself under her breath, thinking how stupid she had been to do so. She laughed, trying to release some of the pain. "I am fine, Gimli; get some sleep."

"Let me see that wound," the dwarf responded, taking hold of her elbow.

"Gimli, please…I am all right." She gave a gentle smile to him as he went to move her arm. "Elves heal quickly, and you certainly do not have to be my nurse."

Gimli scoffed at that and glared at her, looking down at the side of her tunic that was turning dark with fluid, and even in the night he could see it. "You know, you're as bad as the elf!"

"I am an elf, Gimli!" she laughed at him.

"No, the elf, Enguina. You will find, if you haven't already, that Legolas is pathetic when it comes to injuries." He lifted her arm higher and frowned at her. "You're bleeding again, lass. You should change that bandage, and put more ointment on it."

She gave a sigh and frowned as Gimli moved to draw the ointment from a saddlebag. "I was afraid that had happened," she groaned as she rose to a sitting position, grimacing in pain. But as Gimli turned back to her, she smiled mischievously. "What were you speaking of Legolas and him being pathetic about injuries?"

Gimli grinned wickedly as he placed the ointment down for her and gave a chortle. "You might find this a little 'shocking,'" he said jokingly, "but your husband-to-be doesn't like being injured and doesn't like being taken care of." He shrugged. "Perhaps it's an elvish thing."

Enguina smiled shyly. "Perhaps it has something to do with who is doing the caring. Sometimes people do not like to be touched by strangers."

"I'm hardly a stranger to the elf!" Gimli stated indignantly. "No, I think it's more like he's a whiny child—"

"Gimli!" Enguina laughed.

"Really, have you ever seen him injured? No? He's like a little child!" A smirk came across Gimli's face. "Honestly, I remember, this time where Legolas and I were traveling home from our visit to the Glittering Caves where he had agreed to travel with me. And we, much like the situation we are in now, were attacked by wargs." Enguina could not help but smile; she knew that the dwarf was exceptionally fond of telling stories of Legolas, and she was rather fond of hearing them.

"Please, Gimli, do tell!"

"Mind you, these were regular size Wargs," he added, "probably still wandering in the wild from the incident we had in Rohan during the War! They were nothing like that giant beast we just fought! But anyway, as I was saying, we had this battle, and naturally, there were some injuries going around, much like the wound on your shoulder.

"Well, Legolas would hear none of that! He wanted nothing to do with my helping him bandage that messed up shoulder of his. Went for two days before he'd even let me so much as look at it! He can be so stupid and bull-headed!" Gimli snorted. "Well, by then it wasn't in the best condition, not that it was anything we couldn't straighten out, you know. But it was certainly more painful than it would've been. He was just a big baby…of course, he'll be in total denial of that if you ask 'im. But I warn you in advance, Enguina, heed my tale. Legolas is a bit ridiculous when it comes to wounds."

Enguina chuckled. "Do not fret, Gimli. I will watch out for him…though I think we are all like that when it comes to wounds."

"I can only hope he isn't badly wounded when we find him. Honestly, the elf will be a complete nightmare!" The dwarf sniffed and then gave her a gentle push. "Unless of course, you're right about who's doing the caring part, and he'll simply let you fix up whatever he needs." She laughed softly, and blushed. "Well, anyway, aren't you going to replace that bandage and put more ointment on it? Hurry it up; you're supposed to be resting!"

Enguina blushed a little more deeply and did not move. He looked at her, raising his eyebrow. She gave a soft sigh. "Gimli, could you…turn around, or something?"

"What?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

Enguina shook her head. "I…am not comfortable removing my…garments…in front of—"

Gimli's ears suddenly turned pink and he gave her a sheepish look, as though he suddenly remembered that she was a woman. "Sorry," he said awkwardly, and then quickly turned his back to her. She smiled at his back.

"It is all right, Gimli."

"I forgot," he said softly, looking at his hands. "Sometimes, I forget important things like that. I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"I am…uncomfortable around men," she admitted softly. "It is not your fault."

"Well, you shouldn't be comfortable undressing around men!" Gimli said indignantly. "That'd start givin' people the wrong impression of a lady!"

Enguina chuckled softly as she carefully undid her tunic and began to remove the blood-soaked bandage over her side. The wound was seeping, as was the one on her shoulder, and it was frustrating to her that she could hardly keep it clean.

"I think you understand what I really mean," she said, and he shook his head.

"Why didn't you say anything this morning? I could have left you alone to take—"

"I made sure it was all right—"

"Clearly not enough!" he growled. "That wound shouldn't still be bleeding. How does it look?"

"Fine," she lied convincingly. She carefully cleaned the wound again, barely restraining gasps of pain. It made her think of Legolas just a few months ago when she needed him to help her with her bandages. He had been so careful to make sure that he had not hurt her. How she longed for him! "Gimli," she added softly, "where would I be without you? I would have been dead already, and probably long before the warg."

"Bah," the dwarf replied, low in his throat, "you underestimate yourself! Legolas would be rolling his eyes at you right about now, and telling you how wonderful you are and how well you've done already. Look at what we've accomplished!"

Tears flooded her eyes so suddenly that she could not answer him around the lump in her throat. She remained silent, half-choking on her tears as she re-wrapped the wound. As she tried to wipe her face, she heard Gimli clear his throat.

"I miss him, too, lass, but I'm sure he'll be all right," he mumbled, and she realized she had embarrassed him with her tears. "I'm sorry I upset you."

"I…I am not upset," she whispered, clumsily buttoning her tunic. "I just wish he were here, Gimli. I was always alone, and now that we are together, I cannot imagine my life without him." The words tumbled from her mouth; she was afraid, so afraid to lose him. "You can turn back around now," she sniffed, and he did, looking a bit sheepish. "Forgive me for the tears," she added. "I promise to do better."

"There's no need. With any luck we'll be upon them tomorrow."

"Thank you, Gimli, for your encouragement."

He looked at her as she laid herself back down on her mat. They only were going to rest another hour and then set off again. He felt for her; though he loved Legolas, he could not know the pain of being absent from a betrothed for such a reason. Unable to imagine what Enguina was feeling, and trying hard not to think about Legolas being injured and alone against these evil men, he forced himself to lay back down…and try his best to endure the stench.

Legolas groaned. Simply by the first rays of sun coming in the window, he knew time had passed. He had not been sleeping; he felt as though his head had been split in two, and he could taste dried blood on his cracked lips. This brought back the memory of Dragsúl teaching him a lesson in uncomfortable. Dragsúl, with Omarom nearby, had beaten him with any object in the room that had not been nailed into the floor or the wall. His whole body felt like pulp, and his chest was racked with the coughs of illness. It had been some time, but Legolas could recognize the feel of it; he knew that if he had to pull himself to his feet now, he would never be able to do it. He did not have the strength.

He coughed again, pain gripping him from his wounds, and then held his breath, desperate to quell it and the discomfort. How many hours had it been since he was conscious? Somewhere, off to his left, he heard the staircase creak. He winced inwardly. Could you not have forgotten about me for an hour more? Perhaps I could be dead by then…instead you can torture me as long as you wish. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed with all his might.

Father! Father, forgive me for my despair, but I can barely see you. I do not want to die; forgive me for thinking it, even for a moment. I have so much to live for now that I have found her. Enguina…Enguina, Eru please! If I am to die, please…let me see her face one last time. Let me tell her that I will be safe with you, so that she will not fear, so that she will be taken care of. Just to hear her breathe, Father…that would be enough…

His heart broke with grief at the very thought of never seeing her again. Enguina! Enguina! He cried out, his whole being reaching for her, searching for her. Eru, help me! Help me to live, to keep my faith, my strength! May you give my friends the strength and the courage to find me…save me, please. I do not want my life to end now, not when I am so close to being with her forever. You alone know how much my flesh can take; you know this heart beats by your will alone. Help me, please!

He heard voices behind him, but they were still outside the room. "Dragsúl, did you kill him? The elf needs to survive long enough for us to make our behest of the King; if he is dead, we will get nothing from Thranduil." Legolas could clearly tell this was Bragolaur; he heard the door creak.

"I didn't kill him; I just gave him the beating he deserved."

A foot at his shoulder knocked him over onto his back, which only served to make him cough for a moment or two. The sheer pain of it nearly made him wish he could stop breathing; he had never felt so awful in his entire life…and that was a very long time. He gritted his teeth once the coughing was done, but did not waste time opening his eyes.

"You could have killed him," murmured Omarom. "It is difficult to tell who he is with all that blood on his face."

"Vilyath will clean him up before we travel, do not fret, Omarom," Bragolaur said. "It is obvious he is not dead; he can clearly feel pain." He leaned down close to the Prince's face. "How are we feeling, Legolas?"

The elf cracked a bruised eye and met Bragolaur's with such gravity that there was no mistaking he would have spit directly in his face if his mouth had been wet enough. Instead, Legolas lifted his head slightly from the floor and said, "Did you miss me while I was out?" His voice was a bit raspy, but he forced the words out. "Have you been wishing I was dead yet?"

Bragolaur smirked at him. "Oh, you think you are special enough, worth enough, that we would not butcher you and send you in pieces to your father? You think you are so brave that you can withstand anything?"

"You will not send me in pieces to my father," Legolas agreed. "It would bring war down upon your heads, a war you could not possibly win. Bravery has nothing to do with anything. Will and conviction are everything." With those words, Legolas reached upward with a hand, snatched the front of Bragolaur's tunic and dragged him within two inches of his own face. "Ilúvatar as my witness, I will see you hang for what you have done."

Legolas dragged Bragolaur's forehead into his own as hard as he could and then flung him away, shoving him across the room where he stumbled backwards into the far wall. Dragsúl lunged forward but Legolas raised a leg and planted his foot directly into the man's groin, driving him to his knees. The elf rolled to his knees and saw Omarom standing there, surprise written all over his face. He moved forward, but Bragolaur approached first, his eyes bloodshot with rage. Launching himself at Legolas, the elf shoved himself to his feet, his body propelled by adrenaline alone as he met Bragolaur's hands with his own in midair, caught in a wrestling match. Bragolaur was the stronger, fueled by rage and with Legolas's body refusing him out of weakness, there was only so long he could hold this position. His heart, however, was full of strength, and so after moments of wrestling back and forth, he shoved forward, pressing Bragolaur hard against the window. With a smash behind him, it broke, glass shattering down into the street where the elf would have fallen had he not snatched the sides of the frame, cutting himself on the shards jutting out. Raising a leg, Legolas moved forward to knock him the rest of the way out, but Dragsúl had found his second wind. He whirled to meet the charging man, a wild grin made dramatic by the dried blood on the side of his head and his untidy hair.

"You want more?" Legolas asked, his voice soft and deadly. He side-stepped the burly man, even though he had lost some of his agility with his many wounds. Over his shoulder, as he spun, he noticed Vilyath had appeared in the doorway beside Omarom, who stood stock-still, unable or unwilling to get involved. Blood began seeping from wounds that had scabbed over; he was leaving a trail, but he kept moving.

Dragsúl spun as well and swung at him as Bragolaur made his way back in through the window; again and again the man threw punches, and Legolas continued to dodge, both of them breathing heavily. He ducked beneath another swing as he saw Omarom begin to move towards him, and he shrugged his shoulders—it was now or never. Ducking low, he lunged forward, attacking Dragsúl's lower body causing the man to shout. He hit him low and hard, doubling him over; Legolas shoved forward, snatched him up by the legs and threw him with a swift move up and over his shoulder. Yelling as something tore near his ribs, he released him as hard as he could.

Dragsúl yelled, flinging out his arms, unable to prevent his descent towards Bragolaur. At the last moment, the elf threw himself out of the way and Dragsúl fell out the smashed second-story window. A scream and a sickening crack was heard, and Legolas ducked low as Omarom came at him from behind, yelling. He grabbed the other elf's arm and flung him forward over his body; Omarom came down on his back in front of Legolas and he lay still. Stumbling forward toward Vilyath and the door, Legolas could barely catch his breath. Pain seared through him; wounds he had forgotten that he had acquired were openly bleeding, his legs shaking unsteadily. Staggering forward, he could see another goon had reached the top of the stairs.

Bragolaur sprang at him, and he barely brought his hands up in time to meet him. This time, Bragolaur was ready, and he had a serious advantage; he knew right where to hit the elf to bring maximum damage. Bringing his fists to the elf's ribs, he drove his knuckles into an arrow wound and Legolas yelped, bringing his elbow up into Bragolaur's throat, driving him back. He stumbled forward, intending to land another hit to the elf's scarred face, but darkness was swimming in front of his vision and his stomach was roiling. As he lost his balance and leaned a bit too far forward, Bragolaur smashed his elbow into Legolas's shoulders, and then flat-palmed him to the center of his chest, knocking the breath completely out of him. He fell back, cracking his head off the floor, where Bragolaur proceeded to straddle his body and just keep bringing his fists down upon him. Legolas could hear shouting echoing in his head, the screams of a woman and others. Finally, the weight left his body, but the one on his chest remained; he could not draw breath. It felt as though his chest were so heavy he could not force his lungs to lift it.

"My Lord! My Lord, stop!" Vilyath cried, from about a foot away, and then there was a thunderous clap that broke the screaming in the room, and a cry of pain. Legolas felt himself rolled onto to his side where he began to choke and cough and sputter out blood until his body was exhausted. He barely breathed for the pain, and he lay still just where they had moved him.

"You could have killed him," Omarom said. "He will die if you keep wounding him. Look at his condition!"

"Raucodil!" Bragolaur roared. "You son of a whore!" He spat blood from his mouth upon the floor, raising his hand to his split lip in anger. "By Morgoth, I swear, if I did not need you I would beat you until you were a smear on this wooden floor!" He kicked the elf in the ribs, and something shattered; Legolas cried out, but could not move to clutch the damaged area as he wanted to. Omarom shoved Bragolaur back before he could do any more damage just as another of his lieutenants, Marloch, entered the room.

"What is going on?" he cried out, staring about. "What has happened?"

"The Prince attacked," Omarom replied, Bragolaur beginning to come to his senses, his eyes losing a bit of their flame. "Dragsúl—"

"Is dead," he interrupted. "I was outside near the horses when he fell. The drop snapped his neck; he was dead immediately."

"Piutorco," Bragolaur cursed. "This elf has cost me more men than I can count! It is time to make our way toward Eryn Lasgalen. Omarom, Vilyath, see to it that he finds his way down to a horse and that he is tied. There will be no more mistakes; Dragsúl was a fool! No captive should be left unattended or untied; he deserved his fate for his stupidity. I will lose no more men; do I make myself clear?"

Omarom nodded, and Vilyath met his eyes though her face wore a frown. "Yes, my Lord," she whispered, and as he stepped past her, he snatched her chin in his hand and dragged her close, his fingertips bruising her.

"Do not ever get in my way again, Yesta."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Your eyes are only for me," he stated, his voice cold. "Every last inch of you is mine; remember that, I will do with you as I please. Obey me."

"Of course, my Lord." He released her and then brushed past her to head out the door.

"I want to be gone from here before dawn, so get moving…all of you." As soon as he was out the door, Omarom and Marloch exchanged looks and then turned to where Legolas still remained, his every breath a wheeze.

It was still very early morning, and the way ahead of them was nigh impassable. Brego stumbled over a tree trunk, finally tired. He and Asfaloth had given everything they could by this point, but the hard riding they had been doing was finally taking its toll. Aragorn led the way before him, reins in hand with Arwen leading Asfaloth behind. The last few miles had been very difficult; thick mud covered the ground and they had to walk to follow the trail, dragging the sliding horses. The horses were exhausted, and their people…Brego could hear the panting behind him. They needed to call a halt or they would be dropping where they stood.

Brego could see where Aragorn was leading them: there was a muddy hill directly in front of them which lead to a cave. He had told Arwen hours ago that there must have been a place where Vilyath had led them undercover and out of the weather. As they began to climb the hill towards the cave, Brego bumped Aragorn with his nose, slowing in his own exhaustion as he stumbled along over a few tree roots. The man's hand found his nose and he snorted, low and long. Aragorn fell back till he was alongside Brego's shoulder and laid his hand on the breastcollar.

"A few more yards, Brego," he said, breathless himself from the climbing of the hill. "Are you all right?"

"{Well I am not, friend. Exhausted all in this party, you have.}"

"You have traveled farther than this and in greater haste," he told him, yet Brego, hauling himself to the top of the hill let out a long sigh.

"{Not for me do I worry. For my Queen."

The concern in Brego's voice made him turn as Arwen came to the top behind him. His eyes missed nothing, from the mud covering her leggings, to the hand that rested on Asfaloth's neck not only for encouragement but for support; her eyes, though sweeping the area just as his had been, were tired, her body on its last bit of strength. Never once had she urged him to slow down, to stop; never once had she complained about being tired or sore. But it was clear she had not been ready to travel so far so quickly…not in her condition.

"{Mad you are,}" Brego nickered, "{if you do not see what I see.}"

"No, I see," he agreed, patting his friend's neck. "Thank you. I know we have needed to rest, but I…" He shook his head, "No, there is no excuse. Forgive me, Brego." He glanced back to Arwen and saw her leaning her shoulder against Asfaloth's, her head resting on his cheek as she whispered something to him, her hand stroking his face. Her eyes closed, she did not see her husband studying her. "Let us hold here, Brego. Perhaps you can find some good grass up here on the left bank." Brego dipped his head. He turned back to her. "We can rest here, Arwen, and let the horses graze."

As he turned back to Brego, Arwen's knees nearly buckled with relief as she clutched Asfaloth's saddle and breastcollar. Her head was pounding, her neck aching, her arm and wrist felt so weak she could hardly lift them, but she was not about to complain. Every time she thought about it, her mind went directly to Legolas…and Enguina…and then Bragolaur, and then the image made her sick to her stomach as it did now. She rested her head on the saddle, weary beyond words, as she unbuckled the straps and undid the cinch. It was a testament to just how exhausted she was when she did not hear Aragorn step up beside her.

He rested his hand over hers and tightened his fingers. "Are you all right?"

She did not know what she wanted to tell him as she lifted her head. She did not want to lie, but she did not think that the truth would make any difference. Perhaps this journey had been too much to undertake for her so soon after her illness…but no, she needed to find Enguina. Part of the truth could only help her. "I cannot lift the saddle," she said softly, and he nodded.

"Let me," he replied. "I will make him comfortable, and you can take our bedrolls over to the cave. Perhaps we can scrounge something for dinner." She tried to give him a smile and then nod, moving out of his way to collect what he had asked her to get. But he caught her arm and gently tugged her into him, sliding his hand up to her face and holding her there for a moment. "It is all right, you know," he told her gently. "I am tired as well."

"I know," she replied, leaning her head heavily into his hand. Asfaloth turned his head at that moment and bumped Aragorn's head towards hers with his own. The man chuckled and kissed her gently. She opened her eyes, a bit surprised, and he smiled genuinely at her.

"Asfaloth made me do it," he said with a soft chuckle, and she smiled at him before she released him and moved toward the cave. He let her go and removed the rest of Asfaloth's tack. "Good boy; take some rest and find some food."

"{Take care of her,}" Asfaloth snorted and walked slowly away towards Brego.

"I know what you said, Asfaloth," Arwen sighed, "and I do not even speak horse."

Aragorn looked up and saw Brego peeling back his lip with laughter, and then he noticed Arwen leaning against the cave entryway, resting her head again; in her hand was a pack of food and under her arm were their bedrolls. Shaking his head, the man made his way toward her.

"Here, let me take that."

She turned her head in reply, but did not open her eyes or release what she was carrying. "I thought perhaps you should look at the cave first to see what you can tell."

"Very wise," he said, and he quickly lit some wood nearby to have a torch to see. It did not take him more than a few minutes and he had returned to her, noticing she had set down their small set of supplies. This time, she looked at him. "They were definitely here," he said, but there was something in his eyes and Arwen noticed immediately.

"What? What is it?"

"Legolas is…gravely wounded, I fear." She could see the urgency in his gaze. "I am…worried."

"We should go," she replied, standing up straight.

"We cannot," he returned. "The horses need rest, and so do we. You are in no condition to travel, Arwen. Be honest with yourself."

"I am honest," she snapped suddenly, turning on him. "We need to find them! Legolas will be dead before we get to him!"

"Calm down," he told her firmly and her eyes blazed as she turned away from him. "Arwen, we have to be reasonable; there is no way we could travel right now. We need at least a few hours where we are lying down." He watched her for a moment, the tension in her shoulders making her muscles taut. He knew she was not really angry with him; she was angry with her weakness. He was weary, too. How to make her see that was the challenge.

Unfurling his mat, he lowered himself to the cave floor, yanking off his boots and tossing them aside as he went. He leaned his back against the wall and noticed her still standing there, her hands on her head. "Arwen," he said, "come here, please."

"No," she said firmly.

He watched her; she was angry. "Do not behave this way."

"What way? You are sitting there when we should be gone already. They are in danger! Did you give one thought to your own condition when you rode to me this past winter? Did you?" Her voice was stern, but amazingly enough it was still soft…and strict enough to make him feel as though Elrond was in the room with them.

"No, you are right; I did not," he admitted. "But you have to see the difference in the situation, Arwen. Brego and Asfaloth need to eat and rest, just as we do. We have been through this before." His eyes still on her, he watched as she swayed slightly on her feet. "Arwen, please." He did not want to have to go and get her; she was angry enough. "What if I swear to you we will leave in four hours?"

"Four hours?" she echoed, grief choking her. What could get worse in four hours: Legolas dead, Enguina assaulted, Gimli butchered…god, the fear overwhelmed her. Suddenly, she felt his presence in her head, his soothing calm, and then she felt his arms.

"Let go of your anxiety," he whispered in her ear. "Let go, and let Ilúvatar take care of him until we get there." He could feel her knees shaking; she needed rest and food. "You are weak; come and lie down before you fall over."

She gripped his tunic and looked up into his face. "I am afraid, Estel. And I gave too much today," she said weakly. "I am at war with myself. Exhausted," she continued breathlessly, "frightened…I cannot choose if I should lay down or if I should just run, run to them until I know they are safe…make them safe."

"Then let me to choose for you. Four hours of rest; we need it." She lowered her forehead to his shoulder, closing her eyes as he laid his hand on the back of her neck. "Your head?"

"My head," she agreed softly.

"Only?" he asked, and she slowly shook her head back and forth. He swung her up into his arms and he watched her eyes open.

"I could walk, you know."

He gave her a little smile as he lay her down on the mat. "I could let you," he murmured, lying down beside her. "Are you hungry?"

"Can a girl not get some sleep?"

He chuckled, and bowed his head in embarrassment. "Forgive me. Sleep." She lifted a hand and ran it through his hair, and he looked at her.

"I am so sorry I was angry with you," she said as he propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. "I am so worried about them; I know you are as well. But you…control your fear so much better than I do."

"Years of practice in channeling it," he replied softly. "And I remember to pray."

She nodded. "I will do that if my eyes stay open long enough." They were already closing, and her voice was drifting away at the end.

"Arwen," he said, and she smiled, "I love you." She was gone, and he leaned forward to kiss her forehead and smooth her hair away from her face. Even after five days of riding, covered with mud and grime, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; she was a fierce fighter, as stubborn as himself, and she was hurting far worse than she let on. But he would not press her, instead he would care for her as he could.

He needed rest too, rather desperately, but before he did he rose and did one more complete walkthrough of the cave. He knew Legolas had been wounded; he knew the exact spot where he had lain on the floor. He knew where Vilyath had stood at the entrance, knew where the men had beaten Legolas, and he could see bloody crawl marks along the floor where…

Legolas had escaped? He lunged forward to follow the tracks that he and the horses had obscured outside. It shamed him immediately, to think that he had never even thought the elf would try to escape into the night. He found, upon his wanderings outside, a sharp, bloodied rock and some cut rope, dozens of horse footprints, and then a tumble down the hill. Clearly, this had been Legolas's first attempt at escape; it did not appear as though it had been successful. There were dozens of footprints where the elf had fallen. But even the thought of their entire journey being in vain because Legolas had escaped came as a delight. Even if Legolas had broken away, they would find him. Perhaps his captors knew that they were being pursued by his very deadly friends; he did not know. All he knew was that they were less than a day behind, and that when they were found, they would regret the day they laid hands on Legolas.

Aragorn never thought about failing the elf, only about saving him and stopping those who took him. There was no doubt in his mind now; he trusted Ilúvatar to bring them together again. It was not Legolas's time, and he certainly was not ready to say goodbye to the elf. They would find him, and bring him home. Aragorn took his place beside Arwen again, and he was reminded just how hard he would fight to always be able to see that face when he woke. He curled himself around her protectively and laid his head down. Sleep would come quickly and then end quickly…and he hoped that the dawn would bring them to their final day of hunting.

The day had been long, but at the first sign of darkness, Bragolaur called his thirty or so men to set up camp. After dismounting and arguing for several minutes, Marloch and Omarom agreed to tie Legolas to a tree on the edge of camp. They bound him tightly, and then went to help the rest of the men spread out and tie up the horses. Legolas had not moved since they had loaded him onto the back of the sorrel he had been riding—actually, he only knew the color of the horse's mane, as he had never been able to lift his head to see the rest of it. He was in excruciating pain. In fact, he was not even sure that he had ever felt much worse than he did right now. It was unbelievable to him that he was not already dead. It was also shocking that he could still feel hunger when he was so exhausted all he did was slump against the rope they had tied him with. He could only hope, for as long as was possible, they would leave him alone.

He had no idea how much time had passed when he heard the brush around him move, but he knew there was less light than when they had first tied him. Gathering strength, and glad that he could thank Ilúvatar that whoever was coming was not the very dead Dragsúl, he attempted to lift his head to see Vilyath standing a few feet before him.

In hindsight, he probably should have been kinder, but in his worsening condition, he did not even notice what she was carrying or how she was standing there. All he saw was another person come to badger him.

"Come to gloat?" he rasped, and she eyed him for a moment before she raised an eyebrow.

"I came with dinner…and water, actually. You are making me not wish to give it to you." It was a poorly voiced threat, and he could have cared less. He would be lucky to keep down whatever they gave him anyway.

"Where are your goons, come to beat me for every bite I take?" He coughed and then began choking, where she crouched down before him and loosened the rope that bound his chest to the tree trunk.

"Could they have made this any tighter?" she growled. "If they are not careful, there will be nothing left of you to trade to Thranduil."

He looked at her as he gathered his breath and saw bruising along her left cheek and surprisingly, finger-shaped bruises along her throat. Following down her arm with his eyes, he noticed she also had them along her arms, and as his eyes returned to her face, he watched her wince as she took a seat beside him. He waited; he could hardly speak as it was, and he needed water before he could carry on even a bit of conversation. Asking himself the difficult question—did he even care—did not even take a moment to answer. Yes, he cared. The more difficult question was why. That, he could have never answered for certain.

She gave him something to drink and then began feeding him the thick soup that someone had made for the group. It was the best soup Legolas had ever had in his mouth, thick and meaty…and he doubted it would ever taste this good again.

"Who dictated this duty to you?" he asked, burning his mouth on the broth. "How did you become trapped with it?"

"I asked for it," she admitted, and surprise struck him. The man who was hardly ever speechless was, in fact, speechless.

"Do not begin feeling guilty now…it is not the time for a conscience," he muttered, and he heard her chuckle at him.

"No, that will not happen," she murmured back.

"Then what for?" he asked. "Why have you come?"

"No one else would take the time to feed you," she said. "At this point you will starve and die without nourishment. You are ill."

He snorted. "You noticed. How kind." She fed him another bit of bread and then reached for the spoon for the stew again.

"You know, for someone who is being fed," she said, "you are awfully nasty." He could hear the irritation in her tone.

"I know," he replied. For some reason, he felt guilty; he, who had every reason to want to kill every person who had captured him; he, who was so full of sickness and pain…he felt guilty? What a mess he was in. "Forgive me for being cruel to you," he told her softly. "I am sorry." She fed him another bite, and stared at him. There was no mistaking his tone.

"I…am sorry this has been done to you," she said, her voice low so Legolas would be the only one to hear her. "I...was wrong, and I lied when I told you I did not regret what happened. I thought you were being held for ransom; now, I worry they will take your life, even if they do not mean to. I have seen them kill in anger before."

"'They?'" Legolas asked, looking directly into her face. "Or he?" Vilyath had to turn her eyes away, unable to hold his a moment more. He found his eyes settling on her bruises again, and he could make a deduction on how she had attained them. It sickened him; disgusted him, how a man could abuse another person…even if she was willing. He waited a moment, a long pause, and then:

"What happened to your face?" She did not answer, but held up the spoon to his mouth. He took it, swallowed, and then said, "Is it a secret?" He had not mean for it to sound as though he was mocking her, but it had anyway.

"You were there," she stated, getting him some water. "Even lying on the floor half-alive, you saw. That happens sometimes…in anger."

"And your neck? Those as well?"

He saw her eyes darken and her face go crimson, but she let him drink anyway. "What the Lord does is his business, not yours. Do not worry for things that do not concern you." Her voice was stern, but he did not think she was angry.

"Is it not your concern, I suppose?" She looked at him and he met her eyes. His voice softened. "How many more of those do you have? Are you injured?"

"You should not care."

She did not answer his question, but the words spoken out of her shock at his concern were telling enough. He could see she was sore; it was in the way she moved, the way she lifted her arm. This was not the Vilyath of three days before; this was not the fierce fighter, the woman who gave his every comment a nasty comeback…this was a woman who was being broken…slowly. And no matter what she had done to him, she did not deserve it. Legolas had heard stories of men who abused women, used them for physical love, for sex, and bled them dry…Bragolaur struck him as the type. He remembered his comments to her in the Warg, remembered the elf's comment about the feeling of power, how he got his scars…and he was disgusted by the thought of all of it. Bragolaur had been using Vilyath, abusing her, and she let him, waiting around each time until he had use for her again.

"Why do you let him do that to you?" he said gently. "You do not deserve it."

She turned her head away, unable to even bring herself to look at him. "He…can be a bit rough sometimes," came her hoarse whisper. "He does not mean to; he sometimes…forgets what he is…"

"No one could ever look at your face and think he was simply carried away," Legolas interrupted. "Vilyath, it is clear he likes to hurt; you should not let him do that to you. You should never even give him a chance. He will find something else he wants more…and then he will forget you. He is the lowest of the low…scum on the bottom of your feet. He is not worthy. Again, you should not let him."

She was silent for a moment and they were getting down to the bottom of the bowl. "This was a choice made long ago…there is no letting or not-letting; it simply is."

The soup was finished, and she could not very well sit and listen to him; the conversation was uncomfortable enough and now they were somewhere she did not wish to go, could not go. She stood immediately, turning her back on him. "The soup will help, I think," she said and Legolas lifted his head to follow her.

"Thank you." She walked away, and even in her walk he could tell she was uncomfortable. He was disgusted by what the world, what Bragolaur himself, had done to her. "Vilyath," he called and she glanced back over her shoulder, "we accept the love we think we deserve…but you are worth more than a thousand of him. Please…do not allow him to touch you any longer."

She stared at him a moment, and then she turned away, unable to reply as she moved off and left him in the darkness, alone again. He had done what he could. Legolas tilted his head to stare up into the sky, resting the back of his head against the bark as he tried to find the stars.

Enguina…Enguina…I miss you so…Ilúvatar, please…come for me…