Disclaimer: I own NOTHING of middle-earth. All places and characters are JRR Tolkein's, and New Line Cinema. NO monies are made from this. It is strictly a work of enjoyment.

The use of Trelan and Raneian from the Mellon Chronicles, as well as said references to events in said Chronicles, was given by Cassia when I sent her the synopsis. As far as I know, Fingolfin and Iswilen are constructs of my own imagination. Any resemblence to anyone living or dead is strictly in the mind of the reader, though the name of Fingolfin comes from the Sillmarillion. This Fingolfin was named for that great hero.

THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN REVISED AS OF 5/18/03

SWORD AND BOW

By Meharet

Chapter One

A looming danger

The present...

The sun had just touched the tip of the Misty Mountain range above Imladris as Strider knelt down within the underbrush, mere miles from the gates of his home. His gaze was focused on a small movement in the woods in front of him. His listening skill, sharpened and honed by his past months with the Rangers, detected a small brush of dry leaves, the snap of a tiny birch twig, and the intake of breath.

He is just ahead of me.

An easy smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he stalked the unsuspecting target. It moved a few paces forward. Strider moved with it, masking his own footfalls within his prey's. One step too far and the target would hear him, though not because of any clumsiness in the Ranger's movements. Nay - because the intended prey was an elf.

And Strider knew from experience how keen an elf's hearing could be.

The target moved to the left and Strider matched his movements to theirs. He pulled his short knife from his belt and knelt as far into the brush as possible without disturbing the dried twigs and foliage of the dwindling winter. Fireflies twinkled around him, like tiny jewels caught in cascading starbursts, signaling the approach of spring.

The elf moved again and Strider caught the fading glint of sunlight off polished steel. The elf had drawn his sword. So he knows he's being tracked. Good. It should make the attack sweeter. Strider flattened himself, held his breath. He counted the seconds in his head, listening only for the elf's movements. To his surprise the being moved away from him, and not closer.

Deciding the game was done, Strider listened only long enough to pinpoint the elf's exact location before springing up. He ran two steps and launched up, tackling the being in the midsection. He was rewarded with a satisfying "uhmph" as the two of them hit the ground.

Since he'd knocked the wind from his opponent, Strider easily rolled the elf onto his back and sat on his chest, his short knife held under the being's chin.

Dark hair splayed about the elf's face. A pair of angry and stunned grey eyes peered up at him. Their countenance softened when he recognized his attacker to be of kin and not enemy. He attempted to speak, but found it difficult with the Ranger atop him. He managed a breathless, "Estel!" then he blinked and whispered. "Get...off..."

Strider gave a wide smile, his left eyebrow arched as he continued holding the knife in its precarious situation. "Mae govannen, Elrohir, my brother. Now about that last boast you made, the one how no mortal could sneak upon you in these woods - care to reconsider such an idle pretension?"

Elrohir gave the Dunédan a half smile, but his colour had turned a bright cherry red. Unexpectedly, he went limp beneath the mortal, his eyes closed.

When Elrohir did not move for several breaths, worry fastened its icy hands upon the Ranger's shoulders and he pulled the knife away. With lightening speed, the gray eyes opened, and Elrohir grabbed Strider's left arm and pulled it forward. Strider became unbalanced, falling over onto his left shoulder, yet kept the knife pointed a safe distance away from himself and his brother Elf.

Elrohir must have noticed this action, for the Elf wrenched the knife and rolled to his right, hoisting Strider onto his left side, then his back as he stood, all his bodily intentions evident in his plan to pin the Dunédan beneath him. Yet before the Noldor could reverse their positions and sit on Strider's chest, the Ranger rolled into the Elf's shins, grabbed his ankles and pulled.

Elrohir was flat on his back again, repeating his winded utterance from before. Laughter, sweet and clear, filled the small glade as the brothers shared in each other's company.

"Are you two quite finished?" came a voice from somewhere to Strider's left.

Elladan, Elrohir's twin and older by mere minutes, stood just on the clearing's edge. His bow was shouldered upon his back and his sword sheathed at his left hip. Dressed in deep green with a brown cloak, the older elf blended in with the surrounding foliage. He wore a slightly bored expression on his handsome face, though the right corner of his mouth threatened a smile. His dark hair was pulled completely away from his face and fell back over his shoulder in a thick braid.

"You are a thunderstorm in the woods, Elrohir," Strider said as he stood. "Sindarin stealth you do not possess." He looked to Elladan as the older Elf approached. "Suilad, Elladan," Strider greeted as he reached down and pulled Elrohir to his feet. "Why do you patrol the lands so close to home?"

"Orcs," Elrohir said as he dusted off his own brown cloak.

"Orcs?" Aragorn felt his heart skip. Then the rumors were true - Orcs were indeed along the Misty Mountains and frighteningly close to his beloved home.

Elladan came toward them. He took Strider into a deep embrace, the movement sending dust to float in tiny moats about the two of them. Elladan's fair face revealed a grimace and he gave a fake cough. "By the Valar, Estel. You must come in and wash before you track in half of Middle-Earth with you. Father will be so happy to see you."

Elrohir nodded and hugged Estel as well. "How long were you gone this time?"

"Nine months," Estel took his Elven short-knife back from Elrohir and resheathed it. He sighed heavily. "My excursions with the Dúnedain have revealed what is apparently a large movement of orcs - specifically within the Misty Mountains." He looked at each of them and saw for the first time the ravages of worry on their perfectly smooth faces. "How often have orcs been seen so close to the Last Homely House that you post watchers?"

Elladan answered. "Often as in weekly. They've been attacking our hunting parties as close as we are now to the gates. Just a fortnight ago, a small party of Wood Elves, traveling along the East road here were attacked. A few of them died after we killed the Orcs, their wounds festering with some poison Ada could not identify, and none of his remedies would help. We're unsure about the Orc's destination. Father sent Glorfindel to the Rohan in warning six months ago , though he doubts the King will listen to the Elves."

Strider frowned. "Six months? And Glorfindel has not returned?"

"Nay, and there has been no word from Rohan."

Something else in the Elf's retelling caught along the Ranger's attention. "A poison so deadly to Elves? It was not Morgul?"

Elrohir shook his head. "Nay. Ada has been quite distressed, as it was only those Elves engaged in battle that fell to it. Only days before the Elf attack, a smaller party of Men near our borders were attacked. We did not find their bodies until well afterward - but they were..."

Strider worried over his brother's distress. He looked to Elladan when it appeared Elrohir would not continue. "Please...do not taunt me this way."

Elladan's pallor shifted from pale to the color of fresh born grass. "They were...corrupted."

Strider narrowed his eyes at such a ghastly description. "Elladan..." he stepped near his brother. "What does that mean?"

The elder twin shook his head, yet his expression remained dark and pained. His gray eyes flashed anger, if only briefly, and he attempted to hide such emotion with a smile. A smile that did not touch those eyes. "Let us talk of this later. Ada can describe the events easier and with a healer's grace." He looked away, up at the sky. "The hour grows late and we should return home."

Strider could do nothing but agree. "This is alarming news. What I have to tell will only add more mystery to these goings-on." He looked up at the darkening sky. "There are Easterlings at Dol Guldur," Aragorn looked at Elladan, then to Elrohir and registered their aghast expressions. "There is more - but you are right. I need to wash the months of travel from me and dine with my family. I would know more of this poison." He smiled at his brothers to ease the tension of his revelation. "Let us go home."

The three traveled together as the sun finished its descent, and dark eyes followed their movements through the veil to the home of Lord Elrond.

~*~

Dressed in little more than a soft pair of velvet breaches, water droplets still clinging to his chest and arms, Strider reached up over his head and stretched his aching muscles. His damp hair fell below his shoulder blades. These foul locks have grown nearly as long as the twin's. Or perhaps even longer than Legolas'. He thought of the elf's waist length tresses and wondered if his dear friend had finally cut the golden locks back or if he'd continued growing them since their last parting.

Nearly a year has passed since I set my eyes on my Mirkwood brother.

He bent forward, then over, touching the floor with his hands, Strider extended his neck, letting the ache in his muscles flatten out. His body was bruised from travel, and he was nine months tired and ready for a soft bed. His rooms in Imladris had been kept clean and neat. Dinner would be soon, and he looked forward to a hot meal, good conversation, and the company of his family.

Yet the news of this poison plagued him as much as the information he carried of the Easterlings.

With a deep sigh born of weariness, Strider brought his long form upward and lowered his arms. His muscles tingled from the stretch. He agreed with the Elven philosophy of cleanliness - of how it could lift the spirit's darkness. He threw on a tunic of soft, brushed velvet and the fabric picked at his rough hands. Idly he pulled his hair over his right shoulder and set a brush to it, wincing as the teeth caught on unruly tangles.

"And did my wayward son hope to completely avoid his Father upon his return?"

Strider spun round to see Lord Elrond standing in the doorway. The Elven lord's robes of brown and burgundy fell in perfect symmetry to the floor around him. His neatly braided hair cascaded over his shoulders and he glided quickly to Strider, almost as if he were walking on air.

The two embraced, Elrond holding on just a tad longer than usual. He pushed Strider away from him, but kept his hands on his shoulders. "You are growing up so fast. So very fast. You are truly a man now, Estel."

The Ranger gave a soft laugh. "It has taken twenty-three years and months away from you to bring this realization to fruition? Perhaps I should have left years ago." He squeezed his father's right hand on his shoulder then turned away to continue with the painful menstruations of his hair. Perhaps it was time to cut it back. "Was there no word from Mirkwood while I was away?"

The brush was taken gently from his hand, but Aragorn stopped his father with a touch of his hand on the Elven Lord's wrist. "I'd rather braid it myself."

Elrond nodded and returned the brush to his son. "No, Prince Legolas did not send any letters. I'm sure he has been as preoccupied and busy as you have been. I hope this oversight does not leave you feeling slighted."

He looked at Elrond as he successfully pulled the comb once through his dark tresses. "Slighted? Never by Legolas." Wincing, he pulled the comb harder, and after several failed attempts, handed the object of torture to his father. Elrond took the comb, and to Strider's surprise, began combing out the tangles himself. He had not done this since the Ranger was a boy.

Aragorn continued, enjoying the feel of the comb on his scalp. "After our last excursion, I would not be remiss to believe the Prince is avoiding me. And I would still not feel slighted. The wounds gathered from that adventure still pain me in damp weather. Mayhaps Legolas is afraid I will drag him into danger again." When the combing was finished, Strider took too up the groomed masses and began to braid. .

Elrond smiled, the expression so open and comforting on his face. A face that Strider had seen too often creased in concern. It seemed at times that his father held the weight of Middle-earth on his shoulders. And being the keeper of so many of the world's histories under this very roof, perhaps he did.

"As I recall...you had convinced the young prince that a dragon had come again to the Lonely Mountain?"

Strider turned to look at his father, whose eyebrows were now poised in their usual scowling position. The twins had inherited their father's well known eyebrows and on any occasion, Strider enjoyed boasting the similarity. "Well all the signs pointed to such -"

"Only it turned out to be a ring of mithril smugglers impersonating a fire-drake." Elrond turned his head. "And again you and Elrohir carried Thranduil's son to me."

Strider shook his head, a smile on his face as he bound the end of the braid. "But he recovered, as did I. You are a master healer."

"Not always," Elrond nodded, and Strider turned to look into his Father's face. The Elven Lord's expression had darkened and a sadness disturbed his grey eyes. Strider knew Elrond thought of the poison the twins spoke of. "But one day - and I fear sooner than later - the world will not right itself, and something tragic will befall you - or those that travel with you." His expression became even more serious. "But I hear you have news of your travels? Elladan says you have spotted Easterlings - in Dol Guldur?"

"Reports only. There is much of the story to tell," Strider reached a hand to his Father's arm. "And there is much you must unburden upon me."

Elrond held out his hand to his son and placed it gently on the human's shoulder. "Then let us go to dinner and discuss these things with the twins. I'm afraid adventure and danger is just around the corner for you once again." He paused and Strider looked up at him. "But let us keep Legolas out of this one. I'm still awaiting the day the poor boy walks into Imladris under his own power."

"His time with me is not as bad as all that."

"Yes," Elrond gave his son a sad smile. "It is."

~*~

The dinner was an intimate one, with only the family present as the hour was late. Candles flickered and swayed in the evening air as Elladan and Elrohir caught Strider up on the events since his departure north.

"...near the outer ford. We were caught completely off guard." Elladan shook his head and sighed heavily. "They died from Orc weapons, so quick their spirits fled with urgency. It was the others, those of the Wood Elves," the elder twin rubbed his temple with his fingers. "The wounds seemed simple at first - easy for Ada to treat, and ready for time to erase."

When the twin paused, Strider looked to Elrond. The Elven Lord gave a slow sigh and he stroked the rim of is wine glass with the index finger of his right hand. "It was like nothing I had ever seen. The poison was hidden, and did not fester like Morgul. It did not pucker the skin. There was no discoloration, save a redness that sometimes accompanies wounds. All of them became dizzied and feverish within hours." He took his hand away and placed it in his lap. "They all died in the same night. Nothing I did, no prayers to the Valar would bring them back."

Strider gave a small blessing in the grey tongue. It was always a dark day when one of the Fair Folk passed to the halls of Mandos. Immortal lives, destroyed in an instant. It was so sad to him, where a man's lifetime is but a small movement of time for an Elf. The very fact that his brothers were centuries older than he was baffling at times, especially when they acted like human children of four and five.

Which was often.

Strider nodded slowly. "The corruption - my brothers spoke of this. What does that mean? Was the deaths of the men different? Or was the poison of some other origin?"

"I do not know," Elrond said, and this admission frightened Strider. There was little in healing that his Father did not understand, and so he had taught the human child. Seeing his father distressed burdened his own heart and he found himself leaning closer from across the table as Elrond spoke. "They did not bring the bodies here for fear of infection from whatever had been done to them. Corruption is the only word we knew to describe them. It was as if whatever had infected them, had eaten away at their bones, from the inside."

The image was ghastly and Strider sat back, his eyes wide. "Eaten away at them..." Images of bone-less men flared bright in his mind and he shook his head. "Surely this is not the Orc's making. They do not think or invent, but do as told. How is it they could create such a thing?"

"We found nothing upon their discarded blades," Elladan said. His complexion had paled again, and he sat still, his hands hidden from view. "No trace of Morgul, as you know Ada can detect. We do not know how the element was administered. Only that it kills, and it kills quickly."

"The Orcs," Strider thought a subject change could help the mood of his family, who had seen something so horrible it the image had lingered too long in their minds. "Do you see any purpose to the attacks?" Strider asked. "Are they searching for something? After someone?"

"None that we can discern," Elrohir answered. "Six hunting parties could go out, and maybe one will be attacked on one day, and all of them the next. There seems to be no real reason. I do not believe they are hunting us - but something else. And we are simply in the way."

Strider frowned. He sipped his wine and smiled. A good Mirkwood blend, a present from the Prince. "Something else...?"

"We know not," Elladan shook his head. "Since the deaths, the gate has been kept closed, which saddens us. Imladris has always been open to all."

"Orcs on the move through the mountains is ill tidings," Aragorn said, and he pulled his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to load the bowl. "Even worse the news they carry a new threat. Do you believe they are traveling from Gundabad?"

Elrond shook his head. "I am not sure. What of the reports of Easterlings in Dol Guldur?"

Aragorn shook his head, the pipe between his teeth. "We had heard rumors, stories really, from some of the smaller townsfolk. We sent two parties to see, approaching from opposite sides. Only one scout returned alive, and that was all he could say before he died. Of that poison I can vouch. Morgul."

Silence was a tangible thing inside the room. Finally Elrond spoke. "We must know why the Easterlings are at Dol Guldir, and why they have ventured out of Rhud. As for the poison," he shook his head.

Strider nodded. "I fear all these events are somehow linked together. The movement of the orcs, the attacks, the Easterlings' appearance."

"May very well be," Elladan said. "We must confirm this report. I have heard rumor that the Nazgul inhabit Dol Guldur - 'twould be foul news indeed if we discovered the two of have become partners. Nazgul and Easterling."

"Too dangerous..." Elrond began.

Strider shook his head. "I have already laid plans to investigate. I leave in the morning."

"Count us in as well," Elladan said and he turned to Elrond, his right index finger raised. "Do not protest, Ada. We've been home far too long. We need to be with Estel, looking for what's happening. There is something coming, Father. You know this. We all do. Something is stirring in Mordor. It is moving."

Elladan's words sent a shiver up Aragorn's spine and he tapped his spent pipe weed out of the bowl and onto his empty plate.

"It'll be just us," Elrohir said. His eyes sparkled and Aragorn nearly laughed at the Elf's enthusiasm. He hadn't really planned on traveling with the twins. Truth be told, his thoughts had lingered about the idea of heading to Mirkwood to see if Legolas was free to accompany him.

But the road to Eryn Lasgalen led in the opposite direction, and such a trip would put him weeks behind. He needed to head straight out, and his brothers would be good companions. Their skill with sword and bow was nearly as perfected as Legolas'. Though Strider tended to think that his friend's skill was a bit sharper. Legolas' aim was true, and virtuality anything in the elf's hand was a weapon.

He felt eyes on him and looked to see his family's gazes upon him. Strider returned his Father's gaze. He waited for the protestations, for the thousands of reasons to stay and let others do this, and for the eyebrows.

Instead Elrond nodded. He put his hands together. "Then let us prepare the three of you. You'll need provisions - Dol Guldur is through the Misty Mountains." He rose and began his abandonment of the room. He paused and turned back to his sons. "Things are no longer as they seem in our beautiful place, my sons. Be careful - trust yourself, and come back to Imladris safe and in one piece. Do not let a single blade harm your skin, for my heart would break if I lost you." His gaze lingered upon Strider. "All of you."

With a final sigh, Elrond left the room.

"Ada is worried," Elrohir said. "The death of the Wood Elves - and the condition of those men. All has placed so much burden on him."

Elladan nodded. He leaned forward and laid his elbows on the table as he rubbed his chin. "His healing skills are legendary - and now he finds something that escapes his vast knowledge. 'Tis a frightening thing." He looked across the table to Strider. "You are packed?"

"Always." He began filling the bowl of his pipe again. Plans and maps and shortcuts rummaged around in his head.

"We could go to Mirkwood first," Elrohir ventured.

"I have considered this - but Mirkwood lies northeast, and we should venture southeast. I do not need Legolas now."

Elrohir's expression darkened. "Does that mean one of us must assume Legolas' role?" He shook his head. "I shan't want it to be me - I have seen what your adventuring does to those you protect, Telcontar. I am not sure my taste for punishment rivals that of your Mirkwood brother. I for one do not wish to take the Prince's place."

__________________________________________________

Six Months earlier.

The edges of winter. Bow and arrow were little in the way of protection in close quarters, and he was forced to pull his long-knife from its sheath at his hip, his bow set on the ground at his feet. The spider, its massive shape shadowing him as he knelt down on his right knee, leapt from the tree. Exhaustion threatened to sway his aim, but the strong need for survival pushed the weakness away, sending it into a corner to be dealt with at a more opportune time. He used his body as a brace as the spider landed easily upon the blade, the shaft skewering its center segment to the point of breaking. Vile black blood oozed down the blade as Legolas used his shoulders to hoist the dying spider away. It landed with a sickening thud against the very tree it had used to launch its attack.

'Twas the largest of the foul beasts I have seen in these long years.

The Archer and his party had been away for nearly a week, searching the northern forests of Rhovanion for a hunting party missing for a span as long. The missing Elves had been found quite close to where the party now fought, all dead. Legolas had found no clue as to their butcherers as the area of their demise had been picked clean. No Orc blade, no spider's web. There had been nothing. Horror-filled, they had gathered what they could of the decimated brethren, and started their return home, no heart anxious to be the bearer of sad news.

And as Prince, Legolas had born the tidings particularly hard of a personal nature. The Elf had had very little in the way of rest since setting out on such a quest, and the nagging despair that ate away at him, that errant part of him schooled from childhood, that somehow their deaths had been his fault, set sleep at a distance still. I should have gone with them, had been his constant thoughts. I should have been there to defend them.

But their despair and saddened faces did not have long to settle before they were set upon by spiders too numerous to count.

A call to his right brought the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen around, his blade held in both hands, at the ready. His friend Trelan had been pinned in by two spiders, each larger than the one the prince had felled. Legolas could not help a smile on his lips. Nay, Trelan has found its two elder siblings. Trelan, small in stature for an elf, seemed minimized as he launched several arrows into the spider's luminous eyes with little effect.

No, there is an effect. He has become an irritant and angered them. Retrieving his bow, Legolas resheathed his knife, pulled an arrow from his quickly diminishing supply, and launched it directly into the middle section of the spider closest to Trelan. It let out a howling shriek before dying as it turned on its back and twitched.

Trelan, noting where his prince's arrow had done its damage, nodded to his friend and launched his own attack at the second beast. The second spider died beside its kin. Well done, my friend.

The canopy of trees above him shrouded the area in shadow as any light that could filter down from the moving leaves was absorbed by so many spider bodies. Legolas' heart sank as he realized the sheer numbers of his foe. They are so many. It is as if we have stumbled upon a nest where I am certain there was none before. Why have they ventured so far north of Eryn Lasgalen?

Raniean fought a good distance away, his sword drawn, the glint of filtered sun on metal and the clang of steel evidence of his volley. The Prince made as if to lend aid, but again his weariness stayed him and he put hand to brow. Weight pressed down upon him, blame for the slain Elves, and now blame for leading his party into such a massive attack. Taking a deeper breath, unwilling to surrender totally to despair and allowing anger to invade his senses, Legolas straightened and checked each of his party. Three were unseen and he feared he had already lost them to the battle. These beasts fight from fear - they do not bite for food. But what drives them such? What is pressing them so far from their nests? The Prince knew nearly every tree of his woodland realm. He knew where the Spiders had nested for years. They should not have been here. We were not prepared.

Now and then, the Elf Prince sensed stray, alien thoughts. Fear. Terrible dread. Terror. These beasts were afraid of something, yet they did not know the name of their foe, only that they drove onward to survive. Even the trees around him echoed the fear in his mind.

Something brushed his leg. Legolas cursed so weary was he that his addled mind had allowed him to drop his guard, so much that a spider had crept behind. It wrapped two of its legs about his ankle. Dropping his bow, the prince pulled his knife from its sheath again, its blade slick from the blood of many of the beasts. His intent was to hack at the legs snaking around his ankle, but the spider tightened its grip quicker and pulled harder than Legolas expected. The Prince was yanked from his feet. He tried to twist his body around, not wanting to land face first in the grass, his back vulnerable.

But his movement only hindered his fall as the shoulder of his sword arm was jarred. The handle, slick with blood, was lost from his grip and he found himself being pulled along the ground and then upward toward the spider.

"Legolas!" came the cry of Trelan.

As the beast lifted him from the ground, his few remaining arrows tumbling from his quiver, Legolas pulled two small knives from the upper wrappings of his boots. Holding the blades down toward his elbows, he spun their deadly ends at the limbs about his ankle. Two strokes, a spray of blood, and he found himself falling, the spider's legs severed.

The ground came fast and with the impact the jarring of air from his lungs. With no time to steal a breath, Legolas spied the spider's remaining limbs as they sought to crush him. He turned to his right and rolled up to bend down on one knee as he gasped for air. Three more slashes and he spun round again to avoid a nasty slap to his back by the spider's remaining appendages.

The trees wailed in anger and surprise. They called out to the Elves, and Legolas heard them. Something was coming. Whatever it was caused the wild to shrink away.What could have them so frightened - so terrified?

"Legolas," a voice called out. The prince cast a glance to see Raniean tossing his own long bow to him. In his haste to catch the needed weapon, the Prince quickly resheathed his small knives, ignoring the abrupt pain along his right calf. Raniean's gift was easily plucked from the air, though the movement caused another burst of pain from his calf. Several spent arrows lay at his feet.

Aware of the spider bearing down at him, Legolas bent, scooped an arrow in his hand, turned and fired with forced precision. The beast quavered, then fell upon its back.

Something solid connected with his back and the prince stumbled forward, his weight causing more pain to flare in his calf as pushed his weight upon it. Have I twisted it in some way? Or perhaps the spider's grip was stronger then I believed. With a spin round, the elf looked down to see what had nearly caused him to fall.

An orc shield.

"Yrchs!" the cry sprang from his lips.

The prince's hopes dashed as he looked up to see Orcs pouring into the battle, a dark and ominous spreading of evil. Their number outranked that of the Elven party. This is what the trees had warned him about.

One of the monsters ran at him. Retrieving another arrow from the ground, Legolas shot the weapon into the eye of the advancing menace.

The creature fell dead at the elf's feet. Motion to his right brought the prince's attention round. He barely evaded an orc's rough blade. Spying his long-knife on the ground behind the spider, the prince ducked to the other side of the beast's appendages and leapt to his weapon. His hands hit the ground first and he slid a small amount before his palm connected with the weapon. It felt comfortable and right in his hands. He heard the orc give a cry. The prince pulled the blade to his hands, and with a cry of his own, equal in volume and pitch, Legolas brought the knife around so that the advancing orc impaled himself upon it.

Twice the blade had saved his life. Legolas shoved the beast away and pulled his weapon from its chest. More orcs had now infested the fight - and a strange thing was occurring. The spiders are fleeing! Legolas saw Trelan and Raniean in a challenged battle with four orcs. Several of the creatures had his people pinned in, the close quarters of the battle ground still not advantageous to bow and arrow.

More of his people were missing and Legolas hinged on giving a cry of retreat. He sheathed his blade and took in a deep breath as something hit him from behind. The Prince fell to his right, his lower legs catching on the limbs of a fallen spider. He landed painfully on his scabbard, his long-knife now readily pinned beneath him as an orc wearing a horned helm and spiked battle armor stood above him, his hands held high ready to cleave the elf in half.

Until a silver-threaded arrow struck the foul creature in the throat. Black blood spit furiously as the well aimed arrow pierced the orc's jugular. The creature screamed out, dropping its weapon as it fell backward. Legolas sat up, his calf again stabbing at him in pain. But his gaze was fixed upon the arrow, at the silver that glinted from the fletchings in the filtered sunlight.

That is not a Mirkwood arrow.

A cry of attack like none he had ever heard sounded and the prince turned to his left to see his company now joined by at least twenty more. Elves, dressed in brilliant greens, their blond hair a flash of light as they shot bow and wielded sword and long-knife. One of the invading elves ran in Legolas' direction, a six-foot long bow in his hand. His hair was pulled away from his face in a thick, herring braid that draped back over his shoulder.

I know his face. The approaching Elf leapt nimbly over the spider and flashed a grimace at the felled orc. He bent forward and retrieved his arrow. Legolas knew he stared openly at this kin as he sought his wearied mind for the name. The new comer's eyes narrowed and his delicate brow furrowed. "You have been injured."

Legolas blinked, and then looked down where he pointed. Indeed, the boot and breaches of the calf that had pained him were swallowed in blood. Ai! How is it I have been wounded? Mayhaps the spider's grip was stronger than I knew.

"Are you able to fight still?" the Elf asked in accented Sindarin.

Legolas nodded to the kin with the familiar face I know you! The familiar Elf replaced his arrow to his quiver and offered Legolas his free hand. His grip was cool, unflexed by combat or exertion. With his help the Prince stood, and though the calf ached, he could walk on it still. "Aye, I can fight."

The strange elf gave the prince a devilish grin with an expression that rivaled Strider in its mischievousness. The Elf pulled two white-handled long-knives from a double sheath at his back, beneath his quiver. With a flourish he spun each in his hands until they came up in a fight-ready stance, his right blade up, his left blade faced down. In that moment, recognition flooded Legolas.

The memories came in flashes. Mere bits and pieces of things attached to that face, to his movements. Younger days, new to the world, filled with delight and discovery. Laughter. Games. His first bow and quiver. His first lesson and his chagrin at being bested by his closest friend...

"Fingolfin?"

The elf nodded. "So you do remember me, Greenleaf."

No other save the son of his father's best friend had ever called him that with regularity.

"Is it you?" All thoughts of the battle vanished from the Prince's mind as he focused on a friend he believed long departed to the Grey Havens. "But how are you here? Is your Ada here as well? Where is Iswilen?"

Fingolfin shot Legolas a warning frown. "My old friend, I understand happy reunions and indeed we have much to discuss. But there are fifty or so orcs to our meager thirty Elven kin. Mayhaps we should rejoin the battle so that such a meeting may take place?"

Legolas felt himself blush as his face became warm. Yrch! What am I thinking? Have I forgotten we are all in a battle for our lives? He nodded, then turned to assess where he would be needed most.

"As for my sister, she fights there." He pointed with the knife in his right hand, to a spot in the same direction.

Elven memory, when not clouded by heartbreak, is sharp and long. Fingolfin and Iswilen, Elven twins. Their father, Fingol, had been best friends with Thranduil, Legolas' father. The two had been Legolas' constant companions in childhood, just as Strider had had Elladan and Elrohir.

Tragedy had separated them, yet here reunited centuries later.

Iswilen fought with two knives so like her brother's, her evades and parries flawless, and her synchronization to movement impeccable. Legolas couldn't help but recognize Fingolfin's fighting moves. "You taught her well."

"She taught herself. There was no choice." He tilted his head to the Prince. "Shall we? I see a member of our group in need by that handsome birch."

The two swung into action, Legolas' thrusts and feints matching those executed by Fingolfin. The twin would feint, then thrust forward and Legolas would deliver the killing blow from behind. Often the roles were reversed, and the pair was unmatched.

It is like we have never parted.

"Well done, Prince. I see you've had practice with the long-knife."

"Yes, indeed, but I am in curious fashion to your twin blades."

Fingolfin gave a rousing laugh. "Ah, 'tis not curiosity that sets their deadly aim to kill," he turned and using both knives simultaneously in a cleaving motion, removed an orc's head. "But my skill."

Legolas spun to his right, his long-knife removing a head as well with a single stroke. The creature's blood covered his legs from his thighs to the ground. As he moved back, fire burned in his calf again. Ai...there is new pain. What is this foul curse upon my leg? He took a brief second to bend and examine the wound though the orc blood hindered any real vision. It is as if the beast's blood is like contagion to my wound. Suffice that it was indeed in need of attention, Legolas had no time to worry as two more orcs bolted at he and the twin.

Legolas ducked down as the first one tripped over him and was impaled on one of Fingolfin's knives. The second, seeing this playful trick, stopped and hesitated. Legolas stood, yet favored his right leg as the wound began to throb. The orc watched him, then yelled.

Legolas yelled back at him, with as much force.

The orc turned and ran in the opposite direction, only to be felled by a stroke from Raniean.

"Ah, see?" the Prince turned to give Fingolfin a broad smile.

"Twas not your ferocity, Legolas, but mayhaps your appearance. You are covered in blood and ghastly." Fingolfin's expression changed swiftly as he looked down at the Prince's calf. He gave a curse. "Oh by the Valar - that is an open wound."

Aye...were not most wounds open?

The prince looked down at himself, and then looked at the nearly spotless and regal twin.The brightening of Fingolfin's eyes alerted Legolas that an orc was somewhere behind him. Swiveling his blade toward his elbow and taking it in both hands - in one swift movement - the prince thrust the long-knife backward beneath his right arm, where it connected solidly with the orc. It gave a piteous cry of surprise and fell away.

Legolas' joy transformed to dizziness as the world swayed. Fingolfin's face wavered and he would have fallen if the twin had not reached out to catch his shoulders. "Greenleaf? We have to remove your boot."

What is wrong with me?This fatigue is so strong. I cannot steady my legs. I have sustained worse cuts. He thought quickly of several incidents with his Ranger friend and satisfied himself that his abrupt weakness could not be from the wound. Yet his calf had now completely caught fire. He looked down and would not have been surprised to see flames enveloping the mysterious wound. But something is amiss. He glanced down at his leg as he righted himself and pushed his friend's steadying hand away. "I shall be fine. I am only tired."

"Fine is not the color of new foliage, Greenleaf. Your pallor is sickly and your sluggish fighting is not given to you from fatigue," Fingolfin's voice was soft, yet the prince's keen ears heard him. "We have to remove that boot. The orc's blood cannot travel into the open flesh."

Fingolfin's words made little sense to the Prince. Often in battle he had held wounds bathed in the blood of his enemy. Legolas tried to pull away and step back, but the right leg rebelled and he abruptly found himself upon his left knee.

Fingolfin was beside him. But Legolas pushed at him. "Nay, fight. Rescue our kindred."

"We are all fine, Legolas," came Trelan's voice. "The enemy is dead, or having fled, troubles us no more." There was a pause, and then in a surprised voice, "Fingolfin?"

"Mae govannen, Trelan. That is a nasty wound upon your arm - similar to the one Greenleaf carries on his calf. Does it pain you? Och...you too have Orc's blood near an open cut." He turned and knelt beside Legolas. With strong hands he attempted to pull the Prince toward him, motioning for him to sit.

"It is over?" Legolas asked as he looked up at the faces now beginning to sway before him. He pushed Fingolfin's hand away. The movement aided in his dizziness and nausea turned his stomach and he found himself reaching out for the hand he'd pushed on. Yrch...this cannot bode well. What has happened? Have I been felled by some mysterious spell? Or was it perhaps a blade tainted with Morgul poison? The last seemed less likely as he had been poisoned as such before, and it had taken him several days before the poison attacked him. This reaction was too immediate and he sat back, his wounded leg stretched out before him.

"Legolas, I do not jest when I say we must keep the blood from the wound." Fingolfin's voice held a note of fear and command. The Prince stared at his old friend. He was afraid. Deathly afraid of something. The use of the Prince's Sindarin name gave Legolas alarm enough, for the old friend rarely granted it voice unless the situation was serious. "I hope the breeches and boot's thick leather has kept it clean."

"May I have admittance?" came a soft voice.

The growing ring of Elven warriors parted and Legolas watched as Iswilen appeared and knelt at his feet. Dressed in a similar fashion as her brother, the twin immediately began removing the wrappings of his boot to clear away the wound. The movements, though gentle in some fashion, renewed the stinging pain and he protested.

"You have a wound indeed." Iswilen nodded. "But I'm afraid it was not designed by spider or orc, but by your own hand."

Legolas looked at his calf. His eyes widened and words would not come. He flushed with embarrassment. There, embedded to the hilt inside of his calf, was one of his short knives. Earlier he had missed the sheath completely, and buried the knife in his own calf.I have stabbed myself! Oh…see what your wearied mind has done to your abilities?

To Legolas' chagrin, he heard the barely contained laughter of Trelan and Raniean.

"This is not a laughing matter," came Iswilen's comment. She took an end to her own cloak and wiped at the skin around the buried blade. It was red and puckered. "You have orc blood in the wound."

Fingolfin cursed again and punched at the ground.

Legolas shook his head, unsure of what she spoke or why her voice held a note of concern. Surely it was merely a wound cast in haste? Too much haste. This is not something I wish Strider to know of. I would receive no end of torment from him in my miss-aim. True, for he knew the Dunédan admired his skills with blade and bow. He looked at Fingolfin, and the twin's expression had moved from merriment to concern.

I do not like this look.

Fingolfin leaned to his sister. "Much has passed through?"

"I cannot tell," she continued to wipe it away. "I'll need to remove the blade and clean it quickly." And for the first time she looked up into her patient's face.

Her eyes narrowed briefly before they widened incredibly large. Her mouth opened, then shut. A broad grin spread over her fair face, banishing the concern that had twisted her mouth.. "Legolas?"

The prince, now propped back on his elbows, returned her smile as best he could. His calf throbbed now with the attention given to it. "Suilad, Iswilen."

She shook her head slowly. "I would give you a proper greeting, and pull you to my arms, my prince, at a later time. For it is good to see you in one piece and my memories only extend to your return from Melech's possession by Lord Elrond. It is good to see you fit - but I think my attentions are better directed at your wound."

Legolas' expression darkened at the memory of his captivity so long ago in his youth, but it was quickly cast aside as another wave of dizziness overtook him and he laid himself prone on the ground, his view restricted to the treetops, green and yellow and laced with the whispy white etchings of webbing.

Trelan moved to his side and knelt behind him. "Legolas?"

"I - I have been better. But…orc blood," he moved his head to look at Iswilen. "Surely I should have heard of such a malady, as which we have all fought Orcs before and never been felled by their blood. Is there something vile to it? Other than it's unpalatable stench?"

Her expression darkened, matching her brother's. "These Orcs are a special breed, Prince. We have tracked them for many days. Their blood carries poisons, deadly to man and Elf. Though it appears there is not a great amount here, I cannot tell how much is inside. My fear is that the tip of the blade touches the bone."

The Mirkwood prince feared her diagnosis was clear, for the pain did feel as if it radiated out from the center of his calf.

"If the blood touches the bone, and the blood has traveled that path, it will eat away at it. I have to remove the blade and cleanse the blood away."

Legolas stared at Iswilen. "Eat away at the bone? How cursed is such a poison?"

"We are unsure as of yet," Fingolfin said gently. "Iswilen can cure it, if she can get to it in time. We have lost many to this very poison, and it has taken many lives before such a cure was found." He looked at Legolas with a sad, heavy stare. "Many died from loss of limb."

The Prince's breath caught. Loss of limb? It did not surprise him that Elves had chosen death over a loss of a leg or arm. To be whole was to exude the gift of Ilûvatar. To be only a partial being - even Legolas would choose death and eternity in the House of Mandos first.

He became light-headed at the thought of some foul Orc poison eating away at his bone. "Please…remove it."

"This will hurt."

Legolas did not care. The image of his bone being eaten away was enough to stay any fear of pain he might have. I have endured so much in my short years, so long by Strider's standards. I would do anything to prevent such an end as to have this wound remove my leg.

Fingolfin moved from his place beside his sister to a spot above Legolas' head. He leaned forward, his hands on the Prince's shoulders to brace him. I believe he has done this before.

She read his expression and said, "Legolas, because it touches the bone, the pain will be greater."

Again he nodded to her, assured within himself that he could bare any manner of aches and pains.

With a nod to Fingolfin, the female twin grasped the knife's black and gold hilt firmly. Legolas could not stop his heart from racing. He had suffered many wounds before, arrows and swords alike. And each he had blundered through with little harm done. Yet the twins acted as if this was a great and terrible-

Iswilen yanked the blade out in one movement an act of mercy as not to prolong the agony.

Pain. White. Hot. Blinding. Agony. Fire. Burning. It's whole traveled from his calf to his thighs and up until it consumed his mind as well as his body. Tears burned his eyes and he clenched them closed against the pain. Never had he experienced such a sudden, intense, sharp sensation. Spots danced before his eyes as he opened them, and a hiss escaped his lips as he pulled air into his lungs.

Fingolfin and his sister bent together over his leg, but his vision of them was dimming. It was as if they stood at the farthest end of a dimly lit tunnel as visible waves of pain pulsed from behind him and took away his vision. The light was extinguished slowly, yet he could hear all that happened around him.

"…more than I thought."

"Is he ill?" This was Trelan.

"He has fainted."

"Did it reach the bone?"

"Some, but not enough - I think. Here, let me clean it and then we wrap it. I suggest home and proper care."

"Will he...be okay?" That was Raniean.

"I believe so. Fingolfin, I need my kit - it is in the pouch at my hip." There was a commotion and several voices cried out in alarm. "I see Trelan also swoons. His wound contains blood in it as well. Nindë, will you see to him? And anyone else that suffers a sudden dizziness - all of the blood must be removed."

Fingolfin gave a low sigh. "Here we are, come to ask Thranduil's aid in our plight and we shall arrive with his wounded son in tow. Iswilen, I do not wish to bring him a corpse."

I am no corpse...not yet. But these words were never spoken as the sound of their voices grew distant, as if his spirit were being carried off. Fainter and fainter the sounds diminished, until the silence lulled him away.

TBC