Okay ... I seem to recall a promise of shorter chapters and more frequent posts. Erm ... yeah. Didn't happen. There are probably a few points in this chapter where it could have been cut down. Guess I just can't help myself.

Several of you have cried out for Legolas' sake. I hope this chapter caters to your requests. ; )

Finally, this is for Vanimallion, who is awesome in every way, where I am not.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Fallen Grace

He hated snow. More specifically, snow storms: few weather conditions dimmed the senses more than thick flakes flung by a malevolent gale. Sound seemed to shatter within the turbulent blasts, devoid of origin and definition. Once, many years ago, he recalled hearing what he had believed to be the cries of a lost child. What he had eventually found had been a pack of scavenging wargs scrapping over the carcasses of a horse and rider. The situation was handled, but it was clear the unfortunate souls had fallen foul of the weather, and he had been very close to joining them. That was snow now, to him: deceptive, dangerous. The only thing that could rival it was fog, so thick it could swallow sound altogether and disorientate even the most accomplished of trackers. His kin were renowned for having the greatest eyesight, but even the Firstborn struggled to see through such obstructions.

Holding sentry duty on the open lands above Imladris, in this weather, was not a favourite pastime for him.

At least the other two shared his discomfort. Though the storm obscured them from his sight, he knew their presence, burning as warm points in his awareness at either side. Times were darkening: should one be taken by surprise, there must be others to take up the cry in his stead.

Ice wind bit into his unguarded face with the ravenous appetite of a starved dog. It was so piercingly cold, it actually made his skin burn and flesh ache. The land itself lay far beneath the dense shroud of white upon which he walked, deep enough that he could see it holding the earth in its death-grip until the spring came through. The wind itself could only be described as vicious, guiding the ice chips straight at his eyes and exposed skin. From what little he could see of his own body, his tunic was almost completely white, a thick winter crust melding with the material. He could not remember a winter this fierce in the past hundred years or so, feeling a definite pull towards the fire that awaited him come the end of his patrol.

Nothing would bother attacking them in this, surely: even orcs would find it not worthy of the effort in this tempest. From what he had heard, enough of the filthy vermin were occupied with fighting their kin in the northern forests. It would be different up there, in the shelter of the trees, where the enemy could shield themselves from the worst of the storm… He was glad he did not belong to the House of Oropher, and suddenly, patrolling these quieter lands – even in weather so foul – was not such a bad thing-

"Sir!"

The sudden shout ripped him from his reverent frame of mind, snapping his attention back to the endless white and the press of night … and the still figure with the honey hair, half buried in the snow not twenty feet in front of him, one of his officers carefully lifting him free of the cloying white cloth…

-(())-

After immeasurable hours spent in his cell, Gimli had a fairly solid knowledge of its dimensions. That did not stop his feet walking the tight confines, counting each step before a wall stopped him going further - twelve, toe to heel – kicking pathways through the thin straw and dirt covering the pacing-polished floor. He had learned many things of the space that housed him: he knew the prison was under the Meduseld, carved deep into the living stone. He was being housed in one of a run of cells, each divided from the other by steadfast walls of solid oak, great beams stacked and immovable. At the back, a single wooden bench provided a narrow resting space devoid of blankets, an empty tin mug lying forgotten at its foot. There were no windows, no source of natural light whatsoever – which was not troubling to a dwarf – but there were no more than a handful of sconces, out in the guard post. It gave him nothing save the scantest light to see by, but he found his vision readily accepted it, having spent most of his life in such dim environments. How the elf would take it, however, he could not say, though he suspected the answer was not well.

In Moria, Legolas had been almost dangerously twitchy: the slightest sound seemed to spook him, and he spent those days of black silence living on the edge of his nerve with his hands ever ready to draw his blades. Back then, Gimli had scoffed at such a reaction. It was elvish foolishness in his eyes, an excuse to exhibit a poor behaviour trait and blame it on the dwarves.

It was long since Gimli had reflected on those days – he preferred to forget them – but their current situation forced him to think of them. For something was happening, right then, that he would have laughed off had someone said to him, in the depths of Moria, he would be experiencing:

He worried for Legolas.

Gimli ceased his pacing and crouched by the wall, searching for the gap in the half-light. At waist height there was the tiniest hole that allowed him to see into the neighbouring cell, no more than two inches across and maybe half an inch tall. It was nothing but a peep hole, but it was just enough for him to monitor the elf. In their cruelty, their captors had elected not to house them together. Gimli had wasted much breath and pride on begging them to allow him to tend his friend, but they had enjoyed his pleas rather than acted on them, and so they were kept apart.

In the first sweep of the wall, his tiredness got the better of him and he could not find it, and it took another two attempts to see the snatch of faint light coming through from the other side. His knees cracked painfully as he bent down, a complaint of his body at falling from the horse, he guessed, levelling his eye to the slit in the wood…

Legolas had not moved since being flung into his cell. They had tossed him mercilessly to the floor on his wounded side, and despite Gimli's vocal cursing of their miserable existences, Legolas had stayed silent, not even allowing a whisper of hurt to pass his lips. But when they had gone, when they were done with their jeering and mocking, it had taken Legolas a long time to muster the strength – and doubtless the courage – to push himself onto his other side. It made Gimli unspeakably angry that he could do nothing save watch, watch and let the hate roil in his heart and his blood burn.

As Gimli looked in on him now, hours later, he could see that the archer had not adjusted his position since he managed to turn over. Legolas' back presented to him in a gentle arc, his knees drawn in and cloak pulled tight over himself. The dwarf could see nothing of his face save the glancing planes of his cheek and temple, shimmering with perspiration in the dark firelight as he shivered with a cold Gimli could not feel.

"Laddie." He kept his call soft, not wanting to rouse the attention of the guard. The man was one of the henchmen responsible for their capture, and Gimli had little desire to interact with him without necessity. "Laddie!" A whistle, quick and low, but Legolas stayed silent. From his angle, Gimli could not tell if his calls raised any reaction from the elf. He tried to ignore the dark stain to the stone at Legolas' back, tried to ignore how wetly it glinted…

A low growl of reluctance rumbled deep in the back of his throat as Gimli resolved to take action, pushing his aching body to his feet. Though more than a touch thirsty, he was fine himself: but Legolas could not go on without the help that was the entire reason they had come to this damned place. He was sinking further into the sickness that strove so doggedly to take him, and that was more than Gimli deemed his body could take, and certainly beyond what he could stand to witness.

"Guardsman." Gimli gripped the bars at the front of his cell, peering fixedly at the man sat in the guard station. Dark burning light threw the aspects of the character slouched on the chair into deep shadows and unflattering clarity. He looked a complete sloven, gaunt face bristled and dark clothes long stained. An air of malice sat in the corners of his eyes as he lifted his disinterested stare with deliberate slowness to meet Gimli's. There was an unwashed stink about him that Gimli knew he simply did not care to rectify. In evident boredom in his appointed task, he sliced cuts out of an unidentifiable piece of cold meat, spitting unwanted gristle into a chewed heap on the floor, perilously close to their confiscated possessions. Legolas' knives were discarded under the mound of Gimli's own weapons, their white plains only just visible from under the dwarven helm.

The guard's eyes drifted back to the meat as the mouth deigned to respond.

Gimli would not be shunned so easily. Marked irritation pushed its way into his tone, the dwarf possessing neither the will nor inclination to temper it: "Guardsman!"

He waited…

Nothing happened. It was as though he did not exist, blanked completely by the cretin's ignorance.

The slow embers of Gimli's temper finally caught. A few heavy strides and the mug was snatched up in his hand: Gimli swept it along the iron bars CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG, creating a din that reverberated through the prison loud enough for every louse in Mordor to hear. The guard twitched at the racket, just about holding his resolution to ignore the demands for his attention-

CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG

"GIVE OVER!" The lout finally sat upright, forgetting his meat and fixing Gimli with a glare that could flay leather. "Do that again and I'll send your empty skin to your mother!"

Gimli gave him a scathing glare that clearly said he was more than welcome to try, but kept any remarks on the tip of his tongue for later use. Gloved hands wrapped about the bars again, stilling their vibration so he could speak, now he had the attention he had been seeking. Best to make his request, and quickly: "My friend needs medicine. I care nothing for me, but for pity's sake help him."

The guard leaned his head back, looking down his nose at his prisoner, considering. The dark eyes narrowed, drifting lazily to where Legolas lay in the next cell. His view of the elf was better than Gimli's, and the dwarf prayed to Mahal that he would see what was right and extend a hand of mercy. Gimli held his breath, the leather of his gloves creaking as hope clenched the bars that little bit tighter…

"I'm a healer," he eventually drawled. "I'll give him medicine."

Distrust narrowed the dwarf's eyes just a fraction, but his heart skipped with anticipation as the guard sat forward –

Disbelief numbed Gimli's mind as he watched him clear the back of his nose with a vile wet snort and spit the foul result on the mound of mangled meat on the floor.

"There's his medicine," he said, a smirk twisting his mouth, "I'll open his door, and he can lick it up."

Blank shock made Gimli stare at it, the sickening insult gleaming on the floor -

"MAY MAHAL PISS ON YOUR ANCESTOR'S BONES, YOU WET-LIVERED DOG! I'LL CURE YOUR HIDE IN YOUR OWN BLOOD-!" Dust showered from the bar settings under Gimli's fury, his fists pounding the metal and wanting nothing more than to rip that smirk from the debased scum's face-

"Gimli…"

The call was quiet, on the edge of being drowned by the noise he was making, but Gimli heard it all the same, and he was at the hole in a second. He crouched at the wall and peered through, ignoring the protesting cracks of his knees. Legolas was in the same position as before, but his breathing had notably changed, snagging on what Gimli had to assume to be the hurt his waking mind discovered.

"Laddie! You're awake!"

Legolas did move then, if only to unerringly fix the hole in the wall with an unimpressed look over his shoulder. The blue stare was only fleeting, the archer's depleted strength not permitting him to hold the position. He lowered his head again, and his voice quaked as he shivered: "Me and half the dead of Arda."

Guilt pulled at Gimli's conscience, warring with the still-present glow of rage. "I'm sorry, lad, but you didn't see what he did… I couldn't let such an insult pass-"

"I know what he did." Weariness dragged down on Legolas' words with the accompaniment of a shaking sigh, his voice little more than a murmur. "I just – I don't care. I don't care…"

A weighted huff puffed through Gimli's lips, his hair snagging on little shards of wood as he slid down the wall onto his seat. Dust and straw thickened the stale air in a cloud as heavy as his heart when he reached the floor. I don't care. The words stung: it was not just the cur in the guard station Legolas had no care for, and while Gimli found it hard to accept that the archer had given up, he found that he could not blame him. So much had happened in such a short span of time: every turn dragged them further down, and with Legolas bearing the real brunt of every failure.

With renewed disinterest, Gimli surveyed his enclosure, his eyes lingering on a particularly fat spider on its thick web just above the bench. The thing was the only contented creature in this damned place, pulling its feet through its mandibles as it cleaned itself.

A snort of amusement blasted through Gimli's nose, disintegrating the dusty silence. Barks of laughter bloomed in its wake, booming and strong. Ribs that had not forgotten the strike of the stave protested, but he ignored them.

"What could possibly be funny?" the archer enquired wearily.

"I was thinking of my father," Gimli informed him, grinning like a fool into the dark, "and what he said to me before we left Rivendell."

Silence from beyond the wall waited for him to elaborate.

""You watch that elf, boy: he'll have you in prison quicker than you can spit." I don't think the irony of you being in here with me would be lost on him."

"I did not think you knew." Legolas' voice juddered and skipped with cold, the elven music of his tone rasped away to something rough and damaged. Hearing it came as a surprise to Gimli, but he supposed he should not have been shocked by it. There was nothing to be done for it, and his only option was to act like he had not detected it:

"What, that you arrested my father? He's been only too happy to remind me and everyone he meets since!" Oh, yes: Gloin delighted in regaling all who would listen of the time he was arrested by the Prince of Mirkwood, and he really swung into his stride when he accounted their escape from under the noses of the elves.

Another chuckle at times long since passed. The mirth faded from him, his smile eventually slipping into the gravity of their situation. Old Gloin … only too happy that his son was partaking in a mission of such importance, following in his own footsteps. Gimli wondered if he would ever see him again. Unbidden, an image of Thranduil reared into his mind, and it was the first time in his life that the dwarf had ever thought of the elvenking without any feeling of animosity. No matter how much he disliked the king of Mirkwood, he could not help the clench of pity in his gut. Aragorn had accounted to him only the night before of Legolas' lost brother, following the elf's distraught screams of the unfamiliar name. It had been a sad tale to hear, and Gimli knew a well of pity for Thranduil, knowing he was so very far away as his last son battled sickness and hurt on the floor of a stone cell…

Another sigh, heart-felt and sad, the brightness of moments earlier forgotten. "Eh, Legolas lad … I'm sorry it's come to this."

Beyond the wall, the archer listened to his companion's fallen tone and broached no reply, keeping his silence and not wanting to indulge in such a dispirited conversation. Apologies were useless and empty things to them, housed in separate cells in the closing darkness. No part of their situation could be helped by such hollow gestures of regret. Legolas allowed the silence to pull away from him, marked only by the flap of guttering sconce flames and obnoxious open-mouthed chewing from outside. An attempt at a deeper breath shredded into a snatched gasp, the hurt in his chest reminding him quite astutely of his position. How foolish he was for trying to breathe…

There were new points of him that hurt – being thrust from a horse's back could do that – but he had thought he could cope with new pain. Nothing could surmount the sheer agony of his side. But the closing of the earth around him as he had been taken down into the dungeons went beyond what his elven consciousness could stomach, and he had tried to block out the weight of stone surrounding him, sealing his eyes against the panic he knew would take him if he looked upon where he was being confined. They had hoped for a reaction from him when they threw him to the floor, jeering and storming against his outermost defences to see an elf succumb to the black of his situation.

The impact made his chest feel as though it had caved in. He knew the sharp daggers of fractured bone and heat of blood. His entire chest was filled with hot and brittle agony, spearing his heart, his lungs - a warg's jaws would have been more merciful – but he bit down hard until his teeth felt they might shatter because he refused to let them hear his pain. When consciousness pulled to be free of him, he did not try to keep it.

Now, the archer knew too well where they were being confined. He did not need his eyes to confirm it to him: his senses had opened against his will long ago … he smelt the dead scent of damp rock, overlaid by mouldering straw and dust … the charring burn of sconces and the heavy onion-like stink of the guard's sweat. He knew the darkness from under shuttered eyelids, and he knew that in their prison of rock, sunlight and the sharp clean of winter air would never reach. His flayed spirit yearned for the touch of pure light, for the stroke of the fresh wind, and it brought a rawness to his heart knowing he was unlikely to ever feel it again.

Legolas could not stand to look upon what had become of him.

Any tattered concept of time was completely lost on him: he had no idea how long they had been there, or how long he had lain in his own blood on his bed of stone. The ache that ran bone-deep told him it had been a long time, his flesh seeming to take on the dead cold of the stone beneath him in acceptance of his fate. Another fit of shivers gripped his body, sweat stinging his closed eyes. By Elbereth, he felt ill … Legolas swallowed against the swell of nausea caressing the back of his throat with a taunting hand. Forced slowed breaths, and the sensation subsided a little.

"…Tell me of your home, Gimli."

"What? Of Erebor?" He heard the surprised raise of the dwarf's brow in his reply, seeing his expression in his mind's eye and finding the most fleeting of smiles touch his own lips. "You already know, surely?"

His father had been a frequent visitor before the days of the dragon, and Gimli would be well aware of the fact. He might have been himself … but he could not remember…

"Have you never been?" Gimli asked, echoing his thought more astutely than he realised.

"I do not enjoy places of stone," Legolas replied pointedly. His body tensed with chill, like his response had reminded it of how it was pressed so completely against the rock, and he found himself unable to bear it any longer. The oak wall was not too far behind him … if he could just reach it…

With exaggerated care, Legolas extended his awareness of his own body, forcing himself to see beyond the aching cold and constant companionship of his hurts. Reality was that while most of him was sore, not all of him was broken. If he could manipulate the wreck he called his body into working for him, he could at least sit himself against the oak.

Can I?

It sickened him that he had to ask such a question of himself, but an action as simple as sitting upright required the use of muscles and limbs that he had never had to consider before in his life, and the most necessary parts he needed to use to achieve his goal were the parts most severely damaged. The bones of his wrist and shoulder were not yet mended, further complicating the situation by being on both right and left. And as for his side … granting it even the slightest brush of thought made the daemon that seemed to reside in the laceration bite down on him with a dragon's might.

His left arm could be nothing more than a balance, the improvised splint Aragorn had made from his archer's bracers giving it at least some strength, but he might be able to coerce his shoulder into functioning…

Legolas collected his strength and steeled his resolve, and pushed his right leg out from under him, feeling with the side of his boot for the unevenness in the floor. Even such a small action felt like it pulled his side wide open, and he hissed through already clenched teeth at the climbing agony. Pain or no, he could not stay as he was: Legolas forced himself to continue, sensing out the lay of the floor. It was uneven, as he had hoped, his boot snagging on shallow ruts in the stone. Legolas splayed his hands over the dirt, knowing too well that he would not be able to achieve his goal without using them.

This was going to hurt. The archer prepared himself as best as he was able, knowing it was likely to not be enough… A steadying breath, deep as he dared – another, because the first did not hold through the ripple of fear that trembled through his bowing strength - and the first push.

Legolas thought his head might split, he was biting down that hard, keeping the scream that writhed at the back of his throat barely contained. Pocks of light danced dizzyingly behind his tightly clenched eyelids like falling stars. He pushed on, feeling the waning strength of his determination inch him over the grit and dust, and despite the fact that he believed his body was tearing in two, he was at least gaining ground.

The archer forced his broken shoulder into cooperating, manipulating his right arm out into the same task as his leg. The bone shrieked its disapproval, but he tried his level best to ignore it, feeling his hand scuff along the floor in an effort to find a grip…

Something was wrong. Something was lacking… Legolas blanked the feeling, concentrating on keeping the rising need to cry out under thin control as his shoulder and wrist refused to allow him clemency. So long ago now, at the river's edge, he had managed to get himself up … it had hurt, but he had done it… But he had had the use of his wrist then, he had been able to compensate for his broken shoulder…

Sweat prickled his forehead and down his back-

Keep going… Keep going… It's not far…

His boot lost its footing, kicking away from him. A sharp noise of pain at the back of his throat, but he reined it in before it could become anything more betraying. Legolas used the hurt before it could paralyse him and gave one final shove-

His back shunted into solid wood, and he could have wept with the thankfulness that welled in his chest. Tremors coiled his body into itself, and there was no part of him that had the capacity to stop it. Legolas panted freely, feeling sweat run over his skin in rivulets like he had been caught in a thunderstorm. He became dimly aware of being called, echoes of his name reverberating through his head with someone else's voice … an earthen voice … tone deep as the roots of mountains…

"…golas!"

"…Yes, Gimli…" His voice dragged from his chest, thin and stressed, even to his closed awareness.

A sigh of relief through the wood: "I've been calling you! Didn't you hear me?"

No…

"What are you trying to do?"

Just breathe, he counselled himself. Breathe through it… You'll be fine… Breathe…

"Laddie?"

"Trying to sit up," he ground out, feeling the keen edge of irritation slicing through his thin tolerance with a sharpened knife of frustration. It's not his fault- "Give me a minute…"

So close … he was so close now, all he needed to do was get himself up. He had done the most difficult part, and he had the support of the wall now, it could not be as hard as what he had already achieved…

Again, he gathered himself, reassessing his position and dragging his limbs into accordance with his will. Legolas doggedly ignored the frayed quality of his physical strength, determined that resolve alone would be enough, refusing to acknowledge the weak shake of his arms as he positioned them under himself, or the difficulty he found in bringing his legs in tighter to his body…

What strength he had left channelled into his muscles, building his draining resources into his right arm, his back, his legs…

Again he braced his hands against the stone. One more effort … one more…

Legolas pushed, this time upwards. His shoulder protested with renewed agony as his focus became bent on making it work. His hands levered him up, and he felt his jerkin snagging on the ancient wood as his back pushed up it, an inch, another inch…

Again, that feeling that something was wrong. It niggled at his awareness, a spark of unease harassing his concentration. Legolas refused to allow it to draw his focus, bending everything he had left into this one simple, impossible task…

Another inch, and another … his body was lifting - he was managing - using his palms and grappling the stone with his fingers-

His hands slipped.

The raw eruption from his throat could not be held back when his chest slammed into the floor. He heard more, knowing the hoarseness of their continued stream and having no ability to keep them in. They were his rage and his pain, they were boundless and consuming, and he was trapped in their torrent.

Somewhere, someone cried his name…

Somewhere else, someone laughed…

His ripping throat eventually closed itself off, shredded raw by the uncontrollable compulsion to vent his hurt. Legolas lay where he had fallen, beaten and trembling, pulling shallow breaths through clenched teeth and straining to convince himself that the tearing agony would abate and his head would stop spinning, it would be over soon, it had to be over soon…

The pain eventually edged away to its old aggression. He was no better off than before, nothing gained save for a very concise knowledge of how pathetically weak he was.

Hot rage turned his hands into grasping claws that snatched tight into his hair intent on tearing it out, letting fly a roar of frustration through his teeth.

His hands...

As though acting of their own accord, his eyes opened, bleary and straining. Legolas brought his hands before his face and stared at them. Through the watery mist, he could just about see them as they trembled before his judgement. He blinked hard, dispelling the salt water from his eyes and bullying them into focusing. Almost every finger was scratched and bleeding, cut from sliding over stone so forcefully and coated in grit and dirt…

So why did he not feel them sting?

Where there ought to be the burn of scraped skin, there was nothing. Legolas thought briefly that because he felt greater pain, perhaps his mind blocked the signals of minor damage from his hands … but that was not it. He rolled the dirt between finger and thumb, deliberately pressurising the cuts. There was nothing: no tiny bite of trapped grit, no tight sting of aggravated cuts … not even the familiar touch of his own flesh. Legolas drew a shaking breath and turned his thumbnail against his forefinger, digging it harder and harder until it should hurt … but all he felt was the eventual pressure of the bone pushing against the nail above.

They were the same … both of them … from the pads of his fingers and seeping down his palms…

Fear rose in his throat, thick as bile, the shaking in his hands no longer through exhaustion alone. Seeking to further betray his fraying strength, Legolas' eyes pulled themselves away from his trembling hands, reaching his awareness to the truth of his confinement:

A face of stone stared at him, blank and uncaring, dead and black. Above, the weight of the foothill, crushing and featureless. The cold lifelessness of the air lay over him, suffocating and stinking. It had forgotten the kiss of the sun, the whispers of the wind, the music of the earth. This was a hole where only the most midnight of creatures could find contentment.

And he could not get out.

So much time spent resisting his trapped reality was undone. Despair clawed at his throat and branded his eyes. He would die here, under the earth, away from the light and the stars and the wind.

What had he done? What terrible wrong had he committed, that this was what he deserved?

As an accent to the punishment being meted out to him, the shadows divided themselves before his eyes into discordant blocks of unnatural colours – reds, purples, greens-

Please, not again, not here, not now-

The blocks deepened, resolute in ignoring his plea, and he could feel it, the tightening of his frame in anticipation of an attack…

Legolas clutched his deadened hands into his chest, his grip on his own flesh strong enough that his nails likely bit deep into his skin, though he could not tell. He curled in on himself as tightly as he could, sealing his eyes before they could betray him further and fighting to keep the mounting despair from swallowing him, and there was nothing, nothing, he could do to help himself-

"Laddie? Laddie?"

Again, the voice of the mountains buffeted his awareness, a harassing irritant trapped in his head like a fly in a window. From the sound of worry in Gimli's voice, he had been calling for some time.

Leave me alone…

"Legolas? Are you alright?"

Leave me alone!

Breath hissed though clenched teeth, a dragon's rising rage. He wanted to disappear, to go back to the scree slope and be swallowed by the river, because drowning would have been so much better than this weakness and never-ending pain. Fury peeled his lips back, accelerated by his inadequacy and the fly swat swat swatting. Legolas' fingers clawed into his jerkin, crushing the suede. His sensationless fingers-

"Elf! Speak to me! Are you alright?"

"What do you think?" Legolas bit with acid fury, the snarl warping his face carrying in his strained voice.

Sudden stillness from the other side of the oak, taken by surprise. "I just want to help you, laddie-"

"You want to help me? Then spare me the dim-witted noise coming from your mouth, I have no need of it!"

The words were quick, vicious: the snap of a wolf's teeth. The desired affect was achieved as the swatting fly finally let him be, leaving him alone to brace himself against the crush of the earth and betrayal of his own body.

On the other side of the wall, a wounded dwarf held his silence as he had been so astutely bid, listening to hissing breaths of pain and frustration pulled through gritted teeth and trapped in his incapacity to offer any assistance. The archer's pride resisted the failing of his body, Gimli understood that, and he also understood that Legolas found the inability of his will to force his body into compliance frightening. If the vent for that fear was him, then he would accept it, if that was all he could offer by ways of help. Gimli sat in subdued silence, leaning his head against the wood and watching the dark mass of the spider retreat into the funnel she had woven in the corner.

-(())-

Another blanket fell into place over his shoulders. That made three now, and he was grateful for each and every one of them. Daerahil's fingers coiled into the soft wool of his latest shroud, pulling it tighter about himself as he grappled with the fact that he still lived. His journey to Imladris was one he could safely say he would never forget. The attack he had expected, really, but he had not anticipated warg-riders, and it had only been through his mare's speed that he had made it to the pass… His poor mare…

His head jerked out of the recent past when Elrond came back. The healer had several cloths in his possession that smelt potent and painful, and the Eryn Galen lord found himself pulling back into the chair he had been moved to with little hesitation. Elrond, for his part, was completely unfazed by Daerahil's reluctance to be aided and proceeded to move the stuff of the blankets to examine the other's bare shoulder. "Ssss – Elrond! That hurts!"

"You have an orcish projectile in your shoulder," the other elf returned mildly, his brows knitted together as he brought his face closer to the wound. "Such things rarely instil a feeling of pleasure." One of the foul-smelling cloths dabbed at the area surrounding the wound. Fire set through his flesh and Daerahil clenched his teeth as tight as his eyes, turning his head away. But as quickly as the flare of pain had struck, it was gone, numbed by whatever it was Elrond used. "Fortunately for you," Elrond continued, "it has gone through."

"Fortunately-?"

Daerahil was ignored, and he felt – and heard, to his revulsion – the protruding arrow being pulled free in one careful action. It hurt, but it was a distant pain, as though felt by another. Liquid heat down his skin before the firm press of a quick cloth, and Daerahil finally found the heart to open his eyes and breathe again. He was not ashamed to acknowledge that he was shaking, and not just thanks to the bone-deep cold.

Honey-warm light spilled from the muted glow of the lamps over the bed and furniture of the chamber. The fire snapped and spat with the heat of its own private conversation, throwing dancing comfort over Daerahil's back. He had been on the bed linens at some point – so the dark mark of blood betrayed – but they had moved him to this chair for Elrond's ministrations. Two parts of a crude arrow shaft lay on the floor by the chair, marring the white cloth they rested on with his blood. Despite the warmth of the room, he still felt the savage bite of ice in his skin… He still heard the baying of demonic wolves leaking from the darker recesses of the room. Daerahil moved his eyes on from the thing, determined to never look upon it again.

A figure came into his line of vision, taking a seat on the table before him and looking unabashedly at his damaged body. Ancient grace carved each movement into a flow of perfect poise, the embodiment of one of the greatest warriors to ever walk Arda. A crystal glass of something dark in a generous measure swirled in the careful embrace of a long hand, enticing the fumes of the contents to wash over Daerahil's senses. He did not know what it was, but he knew that the smell of it was enough to entice his stomach to writhe uncomfortably.

"Daerahil…" Glorfindel shook his head, more to himself than the one he addressed. "Whatever possessed you?" Fond despair. Exasperation… And that most hated emotion: pity. "Look at you!"

Shame washed over him, so strong Daerahil could not stand to meet the open concern he knew flamed in his friend's eyes, knowing he was undeserving of such fondness. Instead, his eyes sought out the only other in the room who knew his purpose, the one who shared his dark truth. The one he needed to help him fix the wrong he had committed. That other, at that moment in time, had disengaged himself from their company to stand with his back to them, his hands occupied with the instruments of his skill at a tall side table. Tinkering, avoiding. For Elrond was well aware of exactly what had possessed Daerahil to make such a perilous journey, even if Glorfindel was ignorant.

"We received your missive," Daerahil said quietly to Elrond's back.

"Yes. I surmised as much."

Daerahil and Glorfindel waited for more detail to be imparted on them, but it swiftly became apparent that Elrond was reluctant to share whatever information he held. Undeterred, Daerahil pushed on: "Your note was … vague."

Silence.

"Elrond. Please. I need more from you than two lines on a bird's leg."

The Lord of Imladris bowed his head with a sigh, and finally turned from his instruments to face his companions squarely. His eyes were heavy set and unblinking, full of dark knowledge he clearly felt was better left unsaid.

"The Fellowship was intercepted by the Nine four nights ago. The Ringbearer escaped, but it was Legolas who ensured his freedom, and it is Legolas who is feeling the wrath of their failure."

Daerahil's face drained of the little colour the cold had not stolen from it already. The Nine… They had lost many to the Ulaerover the unforgiving years since the new rise of Dol Guldor. Only the elves of Eryn Galen had dared challenge their presence in the forest, but every patrol that had fought to bring the ancient fortress of evil back to silence had been defeated. Too many souls had perished in the fight against an enemy that was simply too strong an evil to be vanquished. And Legolas had taken them on, alone? He felt sickened.

What had he sent him into? What had he done?

Daerahil was so consumed by the enormity of what he had just learned that he did not see Glorfindel's eyes narrow as he stared intently at Elrond. He did not wonder at the sudden shade of mistrust that passed over the other lord's face in response to the seer's brief story. The Lord of Imladris was not so ignorant of Glorfindel's reaction, but succeeded in deftly blanking his friend's stare as few were able. Glass clinked on glass as he poured himself a drink, the brief music of tumbling wine flirting with the snap of the fire to punctuate the dead silence in the room.

"Is … is he … badly hurt?"

Elrond's answer was a weighted look from under his heavy brow, nothing more, and Daerahil let his attention fall to the floor. In the name of Eru, what have I done? A hand raked through his hair, his mind boiling with images of Thranduil's last son lying alone and dying at the mercy of nine nightmares…

Glorfindel rose, his height just a touch above Elrond's, the glass of brandy forgotten on the table. That narrowed stare stayed in place, searching his friend's face. Still Elrond refused to look back, the Noldor's face a careful blank mask. "There is something new to this," the golden lord declared softly, almost to himself. "Something you did not deign to mention the other day."

What little part of Daerahil that was not distracted by what he had learnt hooked onto the cold edge to Glorfindel's tone, making him look up between the two lords and finding challenge in the stance of one and defence in the other. With the way they behaved towards each other, they were more like rivals than friends, rivals whose interaction was rapidly edging towards confrontation.

"You knew."

A declaration rather than a question, stark in its accusation in the silence of the room. But knew what? Confusion riddled Daerahil's already scattered thoughts. "Glorfindel … of course he knew … he has Sight … he saw what they did-"

"That is not of what I speak." It was almost a snap, his response, harsher than his usual manner.

When Elrond finally allowed his eyes to meet Glorfindel's, heavy with the old knowledge they bore, Glorfindel's features smoothed with realisation. He shook his head at his friend, appalled. "I don't believe it." Glorfindel let fly a humourless laugh, a sound that clawed the air, quick and vicious. "You always knew this would come to pass, and yet you said nothing."

The bottom of Daerahil's stomach dropped away. Without conscious decision, he came to his feet, joining Glorfindel's side. His body shook with the effort, but he paid it no mind. "You always knew this would happen? From the beginning?" He felt sick, right to his very core. Glorfindel could not be right … they had not knowingly sent Legolas down such a path. "No… It can't be true." His breath skipped in his tightened chest, his head afire with fear. Still Elrond held his silence. "Elrond? It isn't true … tell me we did not knowingly send him to this fate." Desperation for reassurance was met with another look, nothing more. He needed to hear it, he needed to hear that they had not committed such an awful wrong- "Elrond! Did I send my king's son to his death?"

Elrond remained unmoved, standing firm under the joint weights of Daerahil's frantic desperation and Glorfindel's open disgust. "Legolas' involvement would always come to this," he told them levelly. "This was always fated to be his part, and because of him, we remain free."

"And of course you declined to tell Daerahil of this when you and he plotted behind Thranduil's back," Glorfindel stated flatly, piecing together the height of Daerahil's involvement and caring little for the physical flinch his direct words caused the other Sindar. He shook his head again. "You have outdone yourself, Elrond, you really have."

"Daerahil knew there was a risk!" Elrond snapped. The mask of calm finally cracked, hardening his eyes into something cold and justified.

"There is a difference between risk and certainty!" Glorfindel bit back. "You have taken the life of your ally and friend's son and gifted him to the darkness!"

"If the Ring falls into Sauron's hands, the world as we know it dies. If Aragorn fails and does not take his rightful place, it will be to the ruin of all. Without Legolas' actions, the Ring would be lost and Aragorn's fate would be condemned."

"And you believe that is adequate justification for your actions?"

"Their bond became closer than we ever hoped. There was never any other better suited: Legolas was always meant to walk with Aragorn down his path. His purpose was to ensure Aragorn did not stray from his course, by sword or will-"

Open anger snitched Glorfindel's lip in a furious snarl at Elrond's clinical answers. His finger jabbed pointedly at the courtyard outside. "You stood there on that morning and told them no oath was laid on them to go further than their will. You looked him in the eye and wished him well as you sent him on a quest you knew he wouldn't return from!"

"I wish the world was as clear cut as you seem to think it is!" Elrond bit back.

"Then why not Elladan, hmm? Or Elrohir?"

Elrond's eyes darkened at the mention of his sons, a reaction Glorfindel read all too clearly.

"Think how little effort there would have been in getting them involved in your schemes! They love Aragorn. They regard him as their brother, why would they not want to see him reinstated to his birth right?" Glorfindel leaned back, tilting his head in mock understanding. "Oh, but of course: because their father would not see them walk to their deaths. Far better someone else's child-"

"This is getting us nowhere," Daerahil interrupted loudly, cutting Glorfindel's tirade and forcing their focus on him. It hurt, hearing Glorfindel lay the truth at their feet with no quarter. The punishment was not enough, in Daerahil's eyes: he deserved it, and if it would save Legolas, he would hear it to the end of Arda… But no river of words, no matter how forceful, could bring him home. "This is not helping… helping Legolas…" The room swayed, his vision clipping black at the edges. Someone's hand grasped the top of his arm to steady him. Daerahil doubted very much that it was Glorfindel. "We have to get him home," he continued, forcing the words out through lips that felt like rind.

"I need a horse," Daerahil stated. "I can ride out to where Elrond last saw-"

Glorfindel laughed, a cold, mirthless sound. "A horse?" His face collapsed into something cold and dark, closed to any sense of kinship they had ever felt for each other. "No."

"I have to save him, Glorfindel!" The hand tightened. He was leaning into it, he realised, and fought to make himself stand properly-

"You honestly think you can even find him?" The balrog slayer's eyes were merciless in their ridicule, flinging disgusted glares between the two other elven lords. The fondness he felt himself for Legolas Thranduilion clearly saw their joint actions as the darkest betrayal. Glorfindel had always regarded Legolas highly. He had taught him much over the years, seeing the raw talent in him and assisting in honing it into real skill following Baerahir's death. Like Daerahil, Glorfindel had been a friend to Thranduil for many, many years, and in the times beyond the War, he had done what he could to help the two remaining members of the House of Oropher to endure their grief… But Glorfindel's idea of friendship was clearly very, very different to Daerahil's. Any kindness Daerahil had ever known from him, any shade of friendship, were things lost. It was all too clear in the flashed sneer he threw Daerahil's way that he despised him. "Who knows where they are! No, Daerahil. There is no redemption you can find in late action. Your chance for saving Legolas passed you by long ago."

"It is less a question of redemption, more a question of efficiency."

Daerahil and Glorfindel both turned to stare at Elrond, Glorfindel's features wiped clear at the suggestion. "Efficiency-?"

"Aragorn cannot afford to be distracted by Legolas' condition," Elrond supplied blandly. "What was our greatest asset in seeing Aragorn straight down his path now threatens to become our potential undoing."

Silence, punctured by the merry gambolling of the fire, snapping and spitting in jest at Daerahil and Glorfindel's collective shock. Elrond was a tactician. That was, after all, why Gil-galad had selected him. But listening to Elrond talk about Legolas – even Aragorn, his foster son - like minor pieces on a gaming cloth, it was … it was sickening. Legolas' apparent sacrifice had turned him from a hero to an inconvenience in the Noldor's eyes, a broken piece that needed removing.

"I can't listen to this anymore." Glorfindel removed himself from their company. He moved for the door with the same stiffness as someone who had taken a blow to the stomach. A long hand extended for the handle, grasped it, turned … and he paused, his head dipped. Lines traced his brow as he stared down, beyond the door. "I have a trade caravan travelling to Lothlórien in three days with weaponry supplies." His words were quiet, directed at the door. "I will arrange for it to leave tomorrow instead."

Relief and gratitude swelled in Daerahil's chest to such an extent that he felt giddy. "Glorfindel … thank-"

"Do not dare thank me," the elven lord cut in, delivering a sharp glare at Daerahil that bid him make no mistake of his feelings. "I'm not doing this for you."

The closing of the door sounded with damning finality, and all Daerahil could do was stare at it and lament how completely his world was unravelling. First Thranduil, and now Glorfindel despised him … but not as completely as he despised himself. He had been so stupid. So, so stupid, and he had used another to pay for that stupidity-

The chink of glass behind him, and Daerahil remembered he was not alone.

"He always was too sentimental."

Daerahil turned on the almost flippant observation, his stomach weighted with disbelief. "I don't agree," he found himself saying.

Elrond gave him a knowing look and took a healthy mouthful of wine, before setting the glass down and beginning the task of clearing away his equipment. Long hands moved with practiced precision, deftly cleaning instruments of his field with alcohol and packing them. "Of course you don't agree," the Lord of Imladris concurred. "That is because you are almost as bad as he is. But you had the wisdom to see what was right and carry it through."

"I saw what you told me to see!" Anger shot through Daerahil's head in a heated burst. "I never thought-"

"Eventually you will stop lying to yourself and realise that events cannot be undone," Elrond cut in. He abandoned his efforts at the table and turned on the Sindar. "There is no part of me that ever wanted this to happen to Legolas. But what you need to understand – what I thought you understood before all this started – is that to gain victory over so mighty a foe, there must be sacrifice." Elrond's eyes were hard, leaving Daerahil no room to escape from their conviction. "Fate has little regard for last heirs and worldly titles. It is done, Daerahil. The sooner you and Glorfindel accept that, the better."

Daerahil wanted to offer some retort, but found himself outdone by Elrond's dogged conviction. Weariness pulled at his limbs and mind alike, to such an extent that he had not noticed Elrond changing the soiled sheets of his bed until a vast white wing of linen gave a graceful flourish.

"Rest, Daerahil," the Noldor ordered, his own weariness depicting itself with a sigh. "This day has been long enough, and you need to gather your strength before tomorrow morning."

Some part of Daerahil dully observed that Glorfindel was right: the healer had said not a word of protest to the plans made for his wounded ward to travel less than a day after receiving treatment. Daerahil's intensions to fetch Legolas away from his situation – away from Aragorn – suited Elrond's plans to the ground…

It was far beyond him to care anymore, as his feet guided his to the bed.

-(())-

"It's magnificent."

Legolas' eyelids fluttered open. All he saw through his lashes was black, and he felt a light frown pull at his brow as he tried to bring his head into line. Somehow, he had fallen asleep, his face hidden in the crook of his arm. He struggled to piece together the events that had led him to this place, but eventually details filtered through … his thwarted efforts at righting himself … the splitting agony at his failure…

What he had said to Gimli…

Legolas swallowed dryly as his wound hooked into his awareness again. Something had been said, a prompt for conversation … then the words came through the fog of his addled mind, and he mustered his tongue into working. "What is?" Even to him, his voice sounded flayed, burnt out.

"Erebor," Gimli expressed, acting as though their conversation had never turned from its original course, so long ago now. "A place of such marvel, Elf!" he continued, his voice a tumbling river of ancient enthusiasm full of the freshness of spring rain. "Hewn from the living stone by my forefathers into the home of dwarven society, and a seat of power for the mightiest of kings! And you all thought Moria was remarkable? Ha!"

It was a reach of friendship in the dark, an offering of the only source of warmth available to him, there still despite the viciousness of his outburst. Gimli's tone rolled with the might of mountains, dark and mellow as an ancient oak. Where he had heard nothing more than an irritant in the heights of his despair, Legolas now heard the deep rumble of a heart offering him something to lean against in the darkness. He was at once overwhelmingly grateful and deeply sorry, and wondered what he had done to win such an unexpected companion.

"I thought Moria was horrifying," the archer remarked, his own tone bowing with the exhaustion he had inflicted on himself and near slurring his words into each other.

"That's because Moria is full of goblins," Gimli dismissed, and Legolas could see him shrug off his comment in his minds' eye with the wave of a gloved hand. Sure enough, the rumple of cloth through the wall suggested he did exactly as Legolas anticipated, and the archer found a fond smile pull at the corners of his lips.

"…and a balrog."

"Yes, alright, and a balrog," the dwarf acknowledged testily. "Anyway, we're talking about Erebor, not Moria. You should see it, laddie: more gemstones glitter in the walls than your stars in the night. Ceilings so high you could fly a dra- a flock of giant eagles, with great pillars reaching far beyond sight…"

On the other side of the oak wall, Gimli kept his voice rolling, settling into the story of his home, from its construction to its history. He expanded on its loss to Smaug, and the efforts of Thorin's company to recover it, filling the extensive gaps in Legolas' knowledge of their quest. He even found himself so into it that his hands took up their own part in the telling. For all the enjoyment he caught himself getting from telling Legolas the tale, he could easily imagine that they were in better times, sharing a drink in an inn, or the warmth of a campfire.

What had started as a distraction for the ailing archer had become a soothing balm for him too, and even the constant sneer of the guard could not infringe on Gimli's enjoyment of what he did.

-(())-

The needle rose and dived, a silver fish leaving perfect rivets of stich in its wake. Éowyn was an accomplished seamstress, fast and nimble. In her eyes, it was good practice for the storm she saw in the near distance: dexterity for fletching arrows … a sharp eye for sighting enemies in the shadows…

The needle paused momentarily, catching in her teeth and freeing her hands to rotate the dress across her lap. The pale green material whispered thankfully to her, ever appreciative that she should take the time to close its wounds: a flourish of stitch and the hole was sealed. Éowyn inspected her handiwork in the lamplight. It had only been a small hole, but to the untrained eye, it was near invisible. There was another one somewhere that she had to find…

One of the girls sat opposite her threw her a barely shielded dirty look as she talked with her friend. Olssa and Rhicca were there to keep her company, daughters of two rising councillors who enjoyed the elevated social status befriending the niece of the king offered them. It was an arrangement King Théoden had come to with their fathers last year. Éowyn recalled the moment when he had pulled her aside, happily declaring to her that he had found her two companions to share her time. He had been so thrilled with his choice that he had not noticed the false gratitude pinning her smile as her heart sank.

It became rapidly apparent in her first meetings with the two girls that they could not possibly be further apart … conversation stalled, interests differed too greatly: Éowyn loved horses and physical work. She loved being with the warriors and practicing arms. Olssa and Rhicca enjoyed fine things that they did not work for or create themselves. They were strikingly beautiful and furnished themselves with trinkets and ornaments, and were the high queens of gossip of both home and abroad. They regarded themselves as sitting comfortably at the pinnacle of society, following the newest fashions of Gondor with more vigour than a hound with a scent. The two girls had more ladies' maids than were necessary for an entire court and delighted in snapping orders for the most menial things at the poor creatures. Éowyn had one maid, whose presence she grudgingly accepted, though she was rarely given any work to do.

They did not try to talk to her any more – which Éowyn really did not mind – coming to her chambers every day and sitting across the table from her, their tapestries sat forgotten on the table as they used her rooms as a gossip house.

Éowyn cared little for their forced company, turning the dress again in her quest for the larger hole. This was a favourite of hers, and she found it actually pleased her knowing that Olssa and Rhicca detested the fact that she repaired her own clothing. So far as they were concerned, a lady did not repair her own garments, as that was the maid's job, and she should not wear a dress to such a point anyway. Éowyn had never seen them in the same clothes twice. Where their fathers got the money from to keep such brats, she could not say…

Their constant noise assaulted her ears tonight, making comment on persons in their society with all the discretion of a pair of wittering magpies. Éowyn let the words wash against the shores of her tolerance, finding narrow contentment in her work and keeping nothing more than a shade of focus on what they said…

"…can't imagine what they hoped to achieve, riding up here like that on a stolen horse. Stupid, if you ask me."

"Well, I'm glad they got them, that's all I can say…"

The needle sank into the fabric, sure as an arrow…

"Horse thieves are one thing, but an elf and a dwarf? On a horse from an éored? How do you suppose they stole it?"

What? The needle slowed in its dance, the focus of its wielder uncommonly split…

"Who knows?" Rhicca replied with a shrug of a slender shoulder. "Witchcraft, most likely. They say elves have magic, he probably cursed them, I'd say. Shame they'll be put to death…"

"Why?"

"Because I hate to see a handsome man go to waste!"

"Who? The dwarf, or the elf?"

They both giggled, a high and irritating sound Éowyn was proud to know she had never made in her life.

"But wasn't it strange, what that dwarf said?"

"Which part? All of it was strange."

"You know, that he had a message for Lady Éowyn … that thing about a man on the road. What on earth could that possibly mean?"

The needle ceased altogether, the blood draining from Éowyn's head so quickly her vision danced. The girls carried on regardless, failing to notice the affect their conversation was having on her.

"Who can say? I'll bet they're assassins: you saw what the elf did to that fellow's ear? He was so fast! Cut half of it clea-"

"When did this happen?"

They both turned to her, brows raised and doe eyes wide like they were surprised she was there. Rhicca dared to show her a mocking look of disbelief. "You have not heard, my Lady?" she asked with false nicety.

Éowyn was not in the mood to indulge girlish games. "Clearly not," she snapped waspishly, wiping the condescending looks from both their faces with a flash of open anger. This was unfamiliar to them, they had never seen her eyes so hard, or her face so livid and still, and they were unsure, their arrogance thrown by the sudden clear authority their vehicle for social elevation showed. Their shock stopped their tongues wagging, both of them gaping like landed fish-

"Tell me!"

"Just before sunset," Olssa finally divulged. "A dwarf and an elf on a stolen horse, wanting an audience with you … something about a man they met on the road and your horse."

The dress, so lovingly held but moments before, found itself flung over the table, narrowly missing upsetting the lamp. Éowyn was on her feet, her head spinning and nearly throwing her balance. "And no-one chose to tell me this?"

Olssa and Rhicca shared uncertain looks, thrown by her reaction. "They are thieves, Lady Éowyn. My Lord Gríma had them arrested. He decided it was best not to trouble you with their request-"

"No-one decides anything on my behalf," Éowyn informed them tightly as she kicked her slippers into a corner and thrust her feet into tatty but serviceable shoes. She rushed for the door, abandoning them to their scandalised shock. "No-one. And Gríma is not your lord," she stated without a backward glance as she flung the heavy oak door back into its frame.

The dark cold of the corridors welcomed her company, the flames of the sconces bucking and leaping as she sprinted past. Panic pushed her heart into her throat, yammering painfully as she negotiated the turns and steps. She ignored the curious looks of courtiers she flew by, blanking the nasty skin-crawling jeers from Gríma's dogs in the shadows.

The Meduseld had become a trap, a cold and dangerous prison, and though it was only a paltry relief, Éowyn could not deny the fleeting sensation of freedom when she burst out into the night. It was a hard cold tonight, the mounting wind bullying the dried grasses into bowing to its might. It tore at her dress and hair, fighting to make her cow to its strength, but she paid it no mind as she took the shorter route to the stables, bypassing the pathways to take the steep slope down the side of the mound.

The way was treacherous and dangerously steep – certainly unsuitable for the light shoes adorning her feet. Rocks peppered the slope, often concealed behind tussocks of grass with the deceptive intent of bandits. Fleeting clouds teased her with snatches of moonlight, and she had to rely on memory as much as her sight to safely navigate her way down…

The stables lay at the base of the mound, a vast and low building that reflected the Meduseld in design. It could house up to two hundred horses at any one time, accommodating the rotations of the éoreds: one éored permitted leave at any one time, with housing for training animals and the horses of the court. The stables never truly slept, and she knew that it was there were she would find out the truth behind Olssa and Rhicca's story.

The clawing grasses and lethal rocks finally ceased their attempts at tripping her when she reached the foot of the rise. The land smoothed to carefully managed solid earth, cleared of untidy reaches of grass and the sharp stones that might lame a horse. The yard was clear, swept clean for the next day and waiting in patient silence, bathing half in moonlight and half in the cast shadow of the stables. She ignored the eerie quiet, crossing the yard and entering the open mouth of the building.

It was warmer in the stables than in her own rooms, and far more homely, in her view. Broad and well-swept walkways led the way between the stalls, wide enough to have two horses walking abreast. Staggered lamps bathed both the stone of the walkway and the deep dark wood of the stalls with light, giving even the whitest of horses a rich honeyed hue. Rows of stalls contained the mounts of the current rotated éored, the animals at rest in the familiarity of their home. Several large heads peered over their divides to regard her with curiosity. She knew them all, and it saddened her to see stalls she knew should be occupied standing empty and swept clear.

But she was looking for one particular horse, one that had no business being with this éored, and as she skimmed along the stalls, the lamplight did not show her the animal she sought-

"Can I help, Ladyship?"

She jumped, spinning on the voice and finding the source in one of the stalls. Amás, one of the stable lads, hurried around the horse he was tending, ducking under the animal's head and hopping the rope to come before his lady.

"Amás," she breathed. "You startled me…"

"Apologies, Ladyship," said the boy, his cheeks glowing with embarrassment. "Didn't mean to startle you. Just surprised to see you in here so late, Ladyship. Sorry-"

"It's alright," she assured him, knowing the young boy well enough to know he would continue his apologies until well after the sun had risen. "I think you can probably help me. Was a horse brought in earlier? One that was said to have been stolen?"

Amás' brows jumped up as he nodded earnestly. "Yes, Ladyship! He's down here-"

Amás turned on his heel and led her down the stalls to the very end, where a large dapple grey had his head in a bucket of oats. "His name's-"

"Arod." Éowyn reached over the rope, running her hand down the war horse's strong neck. He lifted his snout from his oats for a moment to give her the most fleeting of acknowledging looks with a snort, hot air heavy with the scent of feed washing over her, before continuing his meal. "Is he well?"

"Fighting fit, Ladyship," Amás confirmed. "Still greedy as ever: hardly stopped stuffing his face since he got here. There was some blood on him, but it wasn't his. Was a bit shaken when he came down, he was – 'pparently they had a job getting the thieves off him – but he's sound now."

There was some blood on him… Éowyn barely supressed a shudder. Arod was of Éomer's éored … whatever had led the prisoners to come by this horse, it was not theft. The horse's mere presence alone served to discredit the more elaborate strain of the tale. Her brother had sent them to Edoras for a reason, bidding them beg an audience with her to relay a message from him. The gain for them? Safe passage and whatever aid they required, no doubt.

And now they were imprisoned, the playthings of Gríma's foul dogs for a crime they had not committed. She needed to free them, as much for news of her brother as their salvation…

Éowyn regarded herself as an independent woman. There were few aspects of her life that she needed help in, and fewer where she would willingly cede that she needed the outright assistance of men to achieve her goals. But she knew the wretches Gríma employed to do his bidding, and she knew she could not win this fight without aid…

"Amás, can I ask something of you?"

"Oh, certainly, Ladyship! Anything you need, Ladyship, just you say and I'll do it-"

"Thank you," she cut in, needing haste over manners. "Please find Hama and Gaming. I need them to meet me here, and quickly."

-(())-

BOOM!

Gimli started, the surprised jolt of his body jarring his neck as he shot upright. Eyes fogged with sleep scoured the darkness in bewilderment, his mind slow and lost. A look at the bars and the guard station beyond, and memories of their arrival in Edoras leaked through his head with as much welcome as a flooding sewer. How in the name of Arda had he managed to sleep-?

Another deep bang, heavy wood flung violently against stone, and the dungeons resonated with its loud protests. The living rock sang anew with the echoes of fast footfalls and shouting: a woman's voice, warring mightily with a score of men, fighting her corner like a wildcat-

"Something's going on, laddie." Gimli forced his stiffened body to its feet, hobbling over to the bars. Outside, their hated gaoler was also up, peering down the corridor as a weasel might try to see round the bends of a rabbit hole. He made no effort to move, clearly under orders to stay at his station, but the wont to go to the source of the disturbance expressed itself in the edgy twitch of his feet and the sharp flitting of his eyes. Gimli forced his face as tight to the bars as he could, desperately trying to see what was happening and straining his ears to listen-

"What's going on?"

The guard flung a nasty glare his way. "Shut your face before I shut it for you," he snarled. More shouts, and he was distracted, a confused look creasing his grubby brow as the noise became louder, more distinguishable-

Another door and the instigators of the racket were in the dungeons, just beyond sight-

"…lord's orders!"

"No lord in these lands has authority over the House to charge any man with a crime." The woman's voice, brimstone-hot and ice-brittle. Like a wisp from a dream, she came into the light, a lynx with milling carrion crows harassing her steps, straw hair catching burning orange with the cast sconce light.

"These thieves were caught and imprisoned under Lord Gríma's command. They are ours!"

Three men tried to block her – men again whom had partaken in their capture - at once angered by her blatant disregard of their words and wary of the two broad men flanking her. The Rohirric officers flung promised violence to her harassers with their silent glares, their mouths thin and unamused lines under their neat beards. They had the look of king's men, stoic and defensive. The one who challenged her was bravest, daring to venture within their striking range.

"I will not have the laws of my own lands incorrectly reiterated to me by a hired lug," she supplied succinctly. "And your Lord Gríma is no more than a beggar posing in stolen finery."

The speaker slipped into her path, forcing her stop- "So you imagine the duty falls to a harlot-?"

Whatever the rest of the insult was meant to be, he did not get to voice it. The larger of the two men snapped his fist out in a lightning strike so powerful Gríma's man was floored, bawling noisily and clutching at his mouth. Blood flowed freely around his fingers. Gimli's dispassionate guess was he had bitten his own tongue in two.

Despite the effectiveness of his action in her honour, the lady gave her guard an admonishing glare, shaking her head pointedly at him. Clearly, violence was not how she wished to express herself here, and though it was evident that the two guards rolled their protests through their shut mouths, they both gave her clipped nods of ascent.

The lady and her guards stepped over the writhing body as they might a heap of muck in the road. Vile language and promised threats blistered the stale air from the fool's companions, but they hung back, unwilling to share his fate.

Gimli watched with disbelief as the slip of a maid levelled with the tall aggression of the guard. Flaxen hair rippled in a cascade over her shoulders, catching the wild of her anger in flyaway strands. She was young, a quiet and carefree loveliness about her countenance that did not need decoration … but there was a clear fire in her nature that would be unwise to cross. Gimli had no doubt that he looked on Éomer's sister, seeing the same fierce eyes and determined set of the jaw, and he understood in that moment exactly why he had been told to go to her.

The guard was over a head taller than Éowyn and stood with blatant disregard of her station, looking her up and down with the same deliberate derision he had used on Legolas. That smirk that seemed ever present snitched his lips at her, disrespectful and belittling. And though Gimli did not know this maiden, he felt himself bristle at the insulting glob of spit that landed just before the toes of her shoes.

Éowyn did not so much as flinch. She did not even look down. Nothing in the set of her face said she was intimidated by such hateful contempt, her stony resilience denying him the gratification of a reaction. The officers at her flank twitched with fury, restrained only by their promise to her.

"Open the cells, Tarakk."

The guard gave the two men at her side a lazy look before leaning closer than was respectful to deliver his answer. "By whose order? Yours?" He came closer still, flashing decaying teeth in her face and giving her another degrading look. "You come in here threatening me with your toothless dogs, and you expect me to bow to your demands?" He snorted loudly, snitching a pock-scarred lip with open disdain. "The Shield Whore of Rohan, clinging to dying power like a brat at its wet nurse's skirts."

"This is my home. These are my lands, and these are my people." If she was angered by his words, she kept her temper admirably in check. "And while there is breath in my body, I'll defend every last grain of earth."

"And that includes releasing criminals, does it? These are horse thieves, and dwarf and elf scum at that. Don't want the likes of them vermin running around the city, do we?" He grinned in her face, enjoying toying with her. "Never know what they'll do with pretty young maidens, do you?" he sneered suggestively.

She said nothing, keeping her silence in the face of his vulgarity. It was clear she knew this one, and refrained from rising to his bait.

This was evidently little more than a game to him: push at the boundaries and see how long until someone snapped. He seemed a man who enjoyed gambling with chance. It gave him a dangerous lack of respect…

"Do as she says." Lethal intent hung in the Rohirric warrior's tone, clearly beginning to feel that diplomacy was failing and needed something stronger.

"Or we'll do it for you," his companion added. "You don't want us to do that."

Tarakk snitched his lip at them both, a rat's cornered snarl at the two terriers poised to rip it apart … they easily outmatched him physically, and his comrades were clearly less than interested in coming to his defence, hanging back near the door with dark and vengeful looks on their faces. Despite his words and appalling lack of respect, Tarakk evidently acknowledged that Éowyn still held some power. The keys emerged from his belt, and Gimli was not in the least surprised when they were dropped to the dusty floor.

It was not the lady who bent for them, but one of her men, stooping for the set and snatching them up. Tarakk was just about wise enough to slump out of reach before he straightened, heading back for his chair with a wolf's bared teeth.

Large fingers worked through the keys, finding the right one with a knowing eye. The seizing lock squealed in agonised protest, and it felt like forever before the door opened-

Freedom.

Gimli all but fell through the heavy door, stumbling past his liberator to the cell along. Gloved hands closed about the bars, their grip so tight the metal should have bent. "Legolas!"

His friend was pressed against the oak wall, unmoving and silent, held in the tight embrace of shadow and cold. The grey of his face shimmered with fever sweat, completely still, stale straw and dust sticking to his skin and catching in his hair. Dark staining glinted in the guttering sconce light over his side, soaking the cloth of his jerkin anew. He did not even shiver anymore.

"Oh, laddie…"

Gimli leaned his forehead into the bars, feeling their cold press against his sorrow. The sound of Legolas' cell being opened was a distant thing to him, his eyes and mind too consumed by the fall of his friend's condition. Éowyn mirrored his earlier action, pushing through the door and rushing to the archer's side. An elegant hand pressed against his glistening brow, smoothed damp hair away from closed eyes with a tender touch.

When had he fallen asleep? When had he left him alone in the dark? He should never have left him alone…

"We must take him to Birshen," she breathed, her eyes ghosting over the ugliness of Legolas' wound. "Gamling – Hama-"

She need say no more: the two now named men joined her in a heartbeat, catching Legolas up into their joint hold with pointed care. Their action roused Gimli from his stall. The dwarf disengaged himself from the bars as they passed through, his companion carried limply between them. "Mind his shoulder," he managed to say, his tongue feeling thick and wooden. "It's broken." Whomever it was that had Legolas' upper body gave him a flat look, but adjusted his hold all the same. Gamling and Hama lead the way, lengthy strides finally taking Legolas towards the help he so desperately needed.

Gimli found himself standing next to Éowyn in the near darkness. She offered him a sad smile, a smile that said she was sorry that it had come to this, before she hurried in their wake. The dwarven warrior paused only to collect their belongings, somehow both ignoring Tarakk's daring smirk and managing to not slay the man where he sat. He could feel the filth watching him, the skin of his neck crawling under that hated stare. "Not going to say goodbye? And there I was, thinking we were friends."

This was not the time for vengeance. Gimli left the challenge hanging, and followed the others out into the light. His feet scraped the stonework, suddenly heavy and weary-

"He does look sick," Tarakk called after him with mock sincerity. "I do hope the healer can do something for him. Doesn't look promising, though!"

The door received the brunt of Gimli's fury as he slammed it into place, the weighty wood cutting off the laughter on the other side.