Elrohir parried a blow aimed for his hip, and turned around to decapitate the orc that had attacked him. Going low for the next enemy, the elf quickly ducked as an axe swung from behind. Spinning and cutting at the same time, he drew a dagger to add to the damage of his sword for the orcs kept getting bolder, and was drawing closer and closer to the fighting elf.

Struggling now for space, Elrohir looked around for his brother. He could not see the top of Elladan's raven head anywhere, and he strained his powerful vision to see. No, where is he? He thought desperately. If he lost his brother when Elladan needed him...

Hearing a voiced cry of agony, Elrohir quickly cut down his enemies, and then hurriedly looked around for the source. Finally, seeing his older brother locked in combat with the Mouth of Sauron, anger filled the younger one of Elrond's sons.

Freca was attacking Elladan, and from the position he could see them in, Elrohir could guess the man from Mordor was winning. Right now, the blade of his sword was embedded into the right side of Elladan's chest.

"ELLADAN!" Elrohir screamed, worry for his brother overtaking his own need for survival. Moving through the throng of orcs and hill men, the Noldo elf could only concentrate on the despair and need of his brother.

So, when a blow from behind knocked him to the ground, Elrohir was surprised beyond words. Turning over as fast as he could to avoid injury, he was shocked to see the gleeful eyes of a human in full armor. This was the first one he had seen that was dressed in such a way.

Dúnhere sneered over Elrohir, ready to kill the elf where he lay. This one, with the eyes, reminded him too much of that troublesome ranger. Raising his blade, the leader of the hill men prepared to drive the blade into the elf's chest. Nevertheless, Elrohir surprised him by rolling over and then jumping to his feet.

It was apparent to Elrohir that this man had not dealt with elves before. Or, the hill man would realize that elves were more agile than any man, save Aragorn or any of the dúnedain. Well, he thought with amusement, I'll just have to educate him in the way of the elves.

Each smiling at the other, Elrohir and Dúnhere circled, looking for any type of weakness in the other. As far as either one could determine, no weaknesses could be found.

Dúnhere smiled, thinking that he had this fight in the bag. If this one fought anything like the prince, then this shouldn't take too long. Examining Elrohir's stances one more time, he spoke at last.

"You know, you won't be the first elf I kill." Elrohir visibly started, but then his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I don't believe you." The son of Elrond commented angrily. He was disturbed to think that this roughian had killed anyone of his race.

Dúnhere smiled, knowing he had the lord's attention. "A blonde elf of Mirkwood, the prince, I think." His grin grew as Elrohir's face fell into a look of confusion and then turned to rage.

The son of Elrond's anger grew as he came face-to-face with the man who had nearly killed Legolas and Estel. Then, a cool, calculated look came to his eyes.

Stopping, he stared the man down. Dúnhere stopped as well, waiting in confusion for the Noldo elf to speak.

"That elf that you think you killed; he is alive and well. So is the ranger you attempted to murder." Dúnhere's eyes narrowed and he clutched his sword just a little tighter.

"How do you know about the ranger?" Elrohir did not respond, but he finally charged the man. Their swords meeting in a loud clang, the elf kept their blades locked as he looked deep into the mortal's eyes.

"You made a big mistake when you hurt that ranger. A big, irreversible mistake." Dúnhere's look remained one of confusion and then changed to shock as Elrohir displayed his swordsmanship.

The elf was swift, and there was barely any time for the human to bring his own weapon up to parry. Stepping back furiously, the leader of the hill men struggled valiantly against the superb skills of the Noldo elf.

His back finally meeting one of the stone archways, Dúnhere was surprised when Elrohir followed up with a sword through the left side of his chest. His hand clenching and then releasing, the mortal did not even notice as his sword fell to the ground, echoing his demise.

Elrohir looked on to the man, and met his gaze, just holding it. Not twisting the blade or anything, the twin just watched as the life began to leave Dúnhere's body.

"That ranger is my brother, human. For what you helped do to him, this should be what you least deserve." Then, Elrohir closed his eyes, and twisted the blade as fast and as hard as he could.

"May your spirit find rest in the halls of Mandos." He whispered softly in Elvish, his feelings mixed between regret and then satisfaction. He wasn't happy that he had ended a life, but was relieved that he had eliminated a threat against his youngest brother's life.

Removing his sword from the dead man's chest, Elrohir watched as Dúnhere's body dropped to the ground. Watching it for just a few minutes, he was unaware as to the fighting going on around him.

Nevertheless, the reason for his plight was brought forth again as he heard the unmistakable sound of his twin's pain.

Spinning around, Elrohir's quick eyes scanned the ongoing battle for his older brother. Hearing Elladan's painful breaths, Elrohir took off for the direction of his twin, hoping against everything that he would get there in time.


Elrond raced from the house, the evidence of his guards failure made known to him immediately. Orcs and hill men swarmed through the streets and gates, and the bodies of many elven warriors lined the outskirts of the battle.

Twirling his sword, Elrond entered the fray; the ancient blade swishing through the air like it had not in years. Taking down many of those in his way, the half-elf could see Elrohir wading through the orcs and hill men, obviously trying to reach something. Looking over just a little, Elrond's horrified eyes coming to light upon Freca and Elladan.

Seeing that Elrohir would most likely not make it in time, Elrond raced from his position, his legs carrying him closer and closer to his ailing son.

Elladan, for his part, only stared Freca down as the man glared gleefully at him. The mortal could see the elf's pain, and he was savoring the feeling. He hadn't felt this way in thirty years, truly enjoying the nature of the kill.

Looking into the twin's pain-filled, gray eyes, the Mouth of Sauron slowly began to twist the blade inside Elladan's shoulder. The elf closed his eyes, and fought with Freca, his blood-drenched hands making an effort to stop the sadistic man from injuring him further.

Freca laughed at the endeavor, and only placed a second hand on the elf's chest, manipulating the blade to go even deeper into the muscle tissue. Elladan arched his back, and looked up to the sky, the pain beginning to overtake him.

"Elrohir..." he whispered, his twin the only thing on his mind right now. "'Ro."

Elrond heard his son's pain, and raised his blade behind Freca. Amazingly, the mortal heard the elf's silent footsteps, and yanked his sword from Elladan's chest. Turning, he met Elrond's blade, nearly laughing at loud at seeing the elf lord's surprise.

"I have trained for thirty years, Lord Elrond. You honestly believed I could not sense an elf?" shoving his blade, he felt Elladan dropping to the ground behind him. Seeing Elrohir charging towards them, Freca forced their blades down, and then using his left fist, connected with Elrond's jaw.

The elven lord stumble, surprised, but fell into Elrohir. The two elves crashed to the stone-laid ground, neither one noticing how Freca took off. Moving around, trying to disentangle themselves from each other, father and son looked over as they heard Elladan's pain-filled gasps.

"'Dan!" Elrohir managed to get away from his father, and then ran to his brother's side. Putting his sword down, Elrohir gently pulled Elladan up into his arms, and just held his injured brother. "'Dan! What all did he do to you?" he whispered painfully, aching to witness Elladan's overwhelming pain.

The older twin looked up to his brother, the concern and fear written plainly in the other's face. Elladan's own worry fell in before anything else, and he grabbed Elrohir's upper arm.

"Where is Estel? Where is he?" he asked. "Is he still with the healers?" his anxiety showed to his brother and father, and the two elves moved closer to their injured family member.

"Yes, Estel is resting in the healers' ward. Why, ion /son?" Elrond's voice didn't comfort his distraught son, and Elladan reached out his other hand for his father.

"Ada! Freca's going after Estel! He wants to kill him! Please, Ada, forget about me for the time being and go after him! Freca wants to kill him!" Elrohir and Elrond met gazes, their thoughts silently being shared.

I'll go after Estel and you stay here with Elladan. The message was clear, but Elrohir groaned. "Ada, Elladan needs you or he'll bleed to death. I can take Roth and go after Estel."

Elrond shook his head even before Elrohir finished. "We don't have the time for this, Elrohir! I'm going after your brother and you are staying here!" with that, Elrond leapt up, and still grasping his sword, raced for the healers' ward.


Aragorn shifted painfully, and gave a groan as his injuries began to act up. Closing his eyes against the onslaught, the ranger settled back into the pillows behind him. Looking around at the frantic healers as they gazed out the window, Aragorn could plainly see what was going on.

Wanting to move, and yet knowing the pain it would cost, Aragorn still attempted to rise from the bed. Holding his breath as he moved, the ranger could still not hold back the hurting as he managed to get to his feet.

Swaying for a time, he shook his head as he attempted to clear it. Taking a few steps forward, he nearly fell over as the pain from his overly-abused legs screamed at him. Grabbing for the bed post at the end of the healers' bed, he dropped his sword with a loud clang.

The healers around him spun around with cries, not used to such loud noises in their part of the house. Glaring at Elrond's youngest son, they were disturbed at seeing him up from his bed.

The girl healer who had helped his father rushed over to him, extending an arm to help steady him.

"Estel, what are you doing up? You know your injuries are severe and you should not be putting pressure on them!" she hissed. Aragorn only smiled at her, and moved towards another bed, still bracing himself without much of her aid.

"I can't just stay here! I don't know what it is, but I know that I'm endangering everyone in here if I stay." The healer only shook her head at him, and then looked down to his bare feet.

"Well, at least let me get you your boots. You just can't go prancing around these cold floors in your condition; being mortal and all." Aragorn only rolled his eyes, but let himself be put next to the wall as she moved to where Elrond had put the ranger's soiled and dirty boots.

Bending over to retrieve the discarded footwear, the young healer was surprised as she heard the frantic calls of the elven soldiers outside the healers' ward balcony. Standing, she moved towards the window, wanting to peer out of the archway.

Unfortunately, for her, that was the dumbest mistake she'd ever made. Leaping up from the trees, a sword was driven through her stomach as its owner landed fully on the tiles of the veranda.

Landing heavily on her back, the elven lady was unaware as her fellow healers began to scream and run about the room in a panic. She also did not realize that the man who had stabbed her was after her lord's son.

Aragorn spun around quickly as he heard the healers' cries, and he was in time to see the nice female healer collapsing to the ground. Towering over her, though, was the frightening form of the Mouth of Sauron.

Forgetting about his injuries for the time being, Aragorn dropped into a defensive stance, ready to fight Freca with all the strength he possessed. Watching the evil man violently pull his blade from the abdomen of the elven woman, anger again rose in Aragorn's throat.

Taking a few steps closer to his quarry, the chieftain of the dúnedain readied himself for any attacks that would come from this man. Aragorn knew that Freca was stronger than him, but he also realized that he had more of a reason for wanting to kill this man.

Freca, for his part, only looked on the unconscious woman with disdain, not caring too much that he may have just ended an immortal life. Well, no, he didn't care at all.

Walking forward with a slight swagger, he looked back at the motionless body as he spoke. "Now, doesn't that remind you of anything, dear Estel?" he asked with laughter, fueling Aragorn's anger. "I remember something quiet like that, oh, about thirty years ago? Don't you?" the dúnadan's arms were shaking with his rage, but he tried to temper down his emotions.

"Your petty words will not get to me, filth. No matter what you throw at me, I will always be one step ahead." Freca laughed at the irony, but stopped for a moment. He cocked his head to the side, and just stared at the furious ranger for a time.

"You know, Estel, you never fail to amuse me. Even after all these years, you still find a way to make me laugh." Aragorn didn't respond, but only began to take small steps forward. Freca saw, but didn't comment on his attempts. Instead, he just kept looking at the ranger.

"I know that Legolas is alive, Aragorn. And, since the elf prince isn't here, I'm assuming that you left him with the rangers who rescued you two. But, he can't stay there forever, can he? Is that second-in-command of yours bringing him, or is Legolas alright?" his sneering questions stimulated Aragorn's fury even more, and he almost made a slip-up.

Moving more quickly than what his body was ready for, Aragorn almost slipped on the cool floor, nearly crashing into Freca. His 'attack' failing, the man tried for a follow-up blow, but the Mouth of Sauron easily batted him away.

Using his powerful arms, Freca shoved Aragorn to the ground, and stood over him. Placing his sword on the ranger's jugular vein on the side of his neck, the man from Mordor allowed his humor to fade until the smile leaked off his face. Just looking down at the man at his feet, he felt such victory, such relief. Soon, the heir of Isildur would be dead, and he would have an elven ring of power in his possession.

Aragorn looked up to the Mouth of Sauron, the pain of his injuries overwhelming. Seeing the other man through pain-glazed eyes, the ranger struggled to get away from Freca.

"No..." he whispered faintly, trying to scoot from underneath Freca's sword. "You cannot do this." Freca laughed.

"Cannot do what, kill you? There's no rule written somewhere that says, 'No man shall kill Aragorn.'" His eyes hardened. "You aren't above everyone else, Aragorn." He then moved backwards with the ranger, keeping his sword leveled with the other's neck. "You'll die one day, one way or the other. For some of us, it's better sooner than later."

Aragorn just stared at the demented man, his disbelief showing through his pain. "You really are insane." Freca just laughed, and kept moving forward.

Finally, Aragorn's back met the wall, his escape halted abruptly. Looking around wildly for any type of escape route, his eyes met with those of the woman healer.

She was still alive! Seeing her eyes flicking towards Aragorn's sword and then Freca, he gave her the okay with his own eyes. She painfully began to climb from the ground, her left arm tightly clasping her bleeding abdomen. Being as quiet as she could, she crept towards the discarded sword.

Moving his eyes back to Freca and looking as if he'd given up, Aragorn couldn't help but shiver as he saw the raw hatred in the blue depths. What had he ever done to this man to cause such disdain?

Not questioning now, he searched through his mind for any subject in which to change the conversation.

Nothing really coming to mind, he yelled the first thing that came to his mind. "Where's my father and brothers? What did you do to them?" Freca paused in his advance, and took a moment to gloat over his 'accomplishments'. Putting his hand to his chin, he smiled as his sword drooped a little.

Out of the corner of his eye, Aragorn saw the female healer pick up the sword, and begin to move towards Freca. Lifting the sword high above her head, the healer stabbed down with the blade towards the evil lord's back. She was surprised, though, when Freca spun around, his blade parrying hers.

Her eyes wide in amazement, she could only stand there as he pushed down her borrowed sword. Grinning evilly, he moved his blade, and went to stab her again in the abdomen.

From behind, Aragorn sprang to his feet, adrenaline feeding him all the energy he needed. Barreling into Freca, the two men went sprawling on the floor past the girl healer, both swords flying high through the air.

Landing, Aragorn's consciousness swam as his injuries ached like nothing he had experienced before. Next to him, a furious Freca moved to his elbows and immediately pounced on the ranger. Putting his hands around Aragorn's throat, the man from Mordor began to squeeze as hard as he could.

Gagging, Aragorn fought with the man, trying with all he had to dislodge the man from cutting off his air. Grabbing Freca's wrists, Aragorn tried to push, pull, to try anything to get the other man off!

Feeling his lungs begin to burn, Aragorn's struggles started to lessen, much to his alarm. He could amazingly see the blackness creeping into his vision, and he was disappointed that he had lost. Losing consciousness, the mortal's arms dropped from his lose of focus.

"NO!" with a cry, something crashed over the back of Freca's head, throwing him roughly off Aragorn, and sending him tumbling to the floor. Holding the back of his head in pain and anger, the Mouth of Sauron attempted to rise.

Coughing hard for several seconds, it was enough to keep the ranger from losing consciousness. Moving over onto his side, he watched as Freca regained his senses and dove for the female healer's unsteady legs. The two went down in a pile of tangled arms and legs, and Aragorn could hear the elf's pained cries as the evil man attacked her.

Getting up and nearly falling over, Aragorn recouped his balance, and then staggered over to keep Freca from killing the poor female. Grabbing the other man underneath the arms, Aragorn back-pedaled with all the strength left in his legs, trying hard to get the man off the wounded female.

Freca jumped back against the ranger, and again the two males fell to the floor. However, this time, Aragorn was pinned under Freca's bulk of a body. Shifting wildly, trying as hard as he could to get free, Aragorn gave a small groan of frustration and pain as Freca continued to keep him on the ground.

Growing angry with all the distractions that were keeping him from killing the ranger, Freca pulled from his belt the same knife he had used on Aragorn before.

"Remember this?" he asked, his grin growing once more. Aragorn's eyes widened, and his mind vividly recalled just what that knife did.

"Freca, no..." the man from Mordor ignored him, and positioned the blade over the left side of Aragorn's chest, the tip just barely entering the skin.

Arching already against the pain, for Freca was sitting on his older wound, the ranger still tried to struggle away from the other man.

Freca didn't mind any of this, and just continued to drive the knife deeper and deeper into Aragorn's chest cavity, until at last, the whole weapon was embedded into the ranger's body.

Crying out in pain as Freca gave one last push, Aragorn's eyes glazed over as the overwhelming pain threatened to overcome him.

"No..." Suddenly, the doors to the ward flew open, revealing one enraged elven lord.

Elrond stood before them, his quick eyes taking in the sight of Freca's dagger within his youngest son's body. Tightening his grasp on his sword, he advanced quickly, until his sword was leveled underneath Freca's chin.

"You had better get off him or I will take off your head right here." He threatened in a grave voice. Freca barely glanced to the elven lord's weapon, and then his eyes drifted up to meet Elrond's. Not saying anything, all he did was slowly move the knife in Aragorn's chest, causing the man to cry out in agony.

Elrond's eyes widened as he realized that Freca was using his son against him. Stepping back unnoticeably, he just looked the man in the eyes for a second. Seeing total evil within their depths, he shivered deep inside.

Freca smiled as he saw the coldness run through the elven lord, and he barely looked down to Aragorn as he began to rise. Yanking the dagger out as he went, the ranger gave an agonized cry as the blade left his body, tearing through even more muscle than before. Wheezing with the pain, Aragorn half-way rolled to his side.

Freca laughed, and calmly wiped away the blood, but stood close enough to the ranger as a threat to his father so Elrond would still know that he was in striking distance of the ranger if he tried anything.

Elrond only glared at the man, not ready to place his youngest son in any more danger than Estel already was. Backing away even more, the elven lord couldn't stand looking at Freca any longer, so, instead, he looked to his son.

"Estel..." Freca moved just a little, and stomped his foot down hard over the ranger's throat. Smiling, he could only watch as Elrond fought with himself not to attack the man. Aragorn could only gasp as his airway was again constricted and Freca continued his torture of the older man.

Finally, seeing that Aragorn was about to pass out from air loss, Freca got bored and gave one last push with his foot before stopping and then kicking the dúnadan over onto his back.

Aragorn kept on coughing and wheezing, his lungs desperately trying to regulate his breathing and keep from passing out. Elrond watched his son's struggles, and could take it no longer.

Raising his sword, the ancient elven lord challenged the Mouth of Sauron.

Freca laughed, and only twirled the slight dagger between his fingers. He walked around Aragorn in a tight circle, and then with a startling viciousness, lunged for the lord of Rivendell.

Elrond almost didn't move, his Elven reflexes nearly too slow. Bringing up his sword in a supposed attack, the half-elf was surprised when Freca all of a sudden performed a high kick, knocking the weapon from Elrond's grasp rather easily.

Looking after his fallen blade in disbelief, Elrond quickly brought up his wrists in a cross as Freca stabbed downwards with the small blade. The dagger catching the thick material of his robes, Elrond thrust his wrists out, throwing the Mouth of Sauron further away.

Freca regrouped, and studied the elven lord for many seconds, then smiling, plunged the dagger down, towards Elrond's hip. Twisting away, the son of Eärendil backed further than before.

"You will claim neither my son's life, nor my own. You will perish before you exit the gates of this haven, fiend." Elrond swore as he dodged once more. For the first time, Freca did not respond to the elf's taunts. Moving forward, he struck towards Elrond one more time.


Rothinzil fought his way down the wall as he heard Elrohir and Elrond's debate. Finally realizing that the lord of Rivendell was going to confront Freca, the Mirkwood warrior gave up on getting through the orc/hill men hoard and instead proceeded to jump over the enemy.

Landing on the stoned-ground, he immediately raced for the entrance to the Last Homely House, breezing past the opposition. Going into the house, Rothinzil ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Assuming that Elrond would face Freca in the healers' ward, the Noldo elf headed in that direction and ran around the corners at top speed.

Reaching the doorway, he stopped just outside as he heard a stifled exclamation of pain. Plastering himself against the wall, Roth leaned in to listen.

"You are done for, Lord Elrond. Now, give me the ring of power!" Rothinzil froze as he recognized the voice he had last heard in his nightmares. Shuddering with long-suppressed fright and anger, the Mirkwood warrior closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

"This ends now." Freca's chilling voice rang through the corridor, causing an icy fist to squeeze his heart.

'He did it. He killed...' Taking a deep breath, Roth tightened his grasp on his sword, took a deep breath, and as calmly as he could, walked into the room.

"I never heard anything truer in my life." Freca looked up abruptly, startled as seeing this new elf entering. Soon, though, his bewilderment turned to amusement as he recognized the dark haired elf in front of him.

"Roth? Boy, it's been a while. How's your head?" his laugh echoed around the two elves and the injured human, causing all three to shudder. Rothinzil's hands spasmodically tightened and then released around the handle, but he stood his ground.

"Freca, for what you've done, you deserve to die a thousand deaths, each more horrible than the first. The crimes you have committed are nothing short of unspeakable, and you will not be welcomed anywhere again." Roth's barely controlled voice amused the Mouth of Sauron more and he stepped away from the lord on the ground.

Elrond moaned as he grasped his hip, the dagger still embedded within his skin.

Rothinzil didn't glance to either the lord or his son, but he did inquire as to their conditions. "Estel, Lord Elrond? How badly are you injured?" Aragorn didn't respond, too weak to do anything but breathe. Elrond didn't answer either, but he did groan a little less.

Moving into a stance, Rothinzil put his full attention onto the evil man from Mordor. "You will pay for murdering my best friend, filth." Freca slowly knelt and picked up his own sword, and merely sneered.

"What ever you say, whelp. I beat you easily before, it will be just as easy now." Roth didn't answer with words, but started the duel with a lunge for Freca's heart. The Mouth of Sauron parried, and the fight went on.

The two fought with the same strengths, their abilities evenly matched. Neither one could gain an advantage; no matter how hard they tried.

The fight went on for a while, each one trying to kill the other. Roth finally made a mistake, and Freca took the development for granted. Slamming his elbow into Rothinzil's face, the elf spun around to land on his back.

Looking up to Freca, the elf was a little dazed. Watching Freca walking around him, gloating the whole way, Rothinzil could do nothing to get up as the Mouth of Sauron's weapon pinned him to the floor.

Smiling in supposed victory, the mortal looked down on his opponent.

"Oh, my, isn't this familiar? I seem to remember a scene very close to this happening around thirty years ago. Do you?" laughing, the man failed to see the anger boiling in the elf's hazel eyes.

"But, it was colder then, and the water looked just marvelous in the moonlight. Do you agree?" Freca's jokes only served to fuel Rothinzil's anger, and the elf slowly brought up his sword.

Freca's smile dropped as he stopped and stared down at Roth. "I hope your friend welcomes you to the Halls of Mandos!" lunging forward with a cry, Freca was unprepared as Rothinzil's sword ended up embedded within his chest.

Stepping back with a small choke, Freca was shocked as blood bubbled up through his throat and out his mouth. Dropping his sword and staggering back, the Mouth of Sauron grabbed his injury and swayed.

The sword still within the other's chest, Rothinzil slowly rose and made Freca to kneel. Steel was locked in his hazel gaze, and no shame was evident as the elf gave one last jerk to the sword.

"I hope you apologize to my friend if you see him. Remember that this is for him." With those last words ever heard by Freca, the Mouth of Sauron died.


"Open the gates!" the call came from the top of the wall, and the elves struggled to open the massive doors. In the week since the orc and hill men attack, the elves had been busy rebuilding, caring for the injured, and burying the dead. Now, the elves of Imladris were welcoming the Mirkwood prince back.

Elrond, Elladan, and Elrohir moved to greet the small ranger caravan, hoping to see Legolas awake and on a horse. But, as the men on horseback entered, the three immortals could see Halbarad riding at the front alone.

"Mae govannen /well met, Halbarad of the Dúnedain. May the grace of the Valar always be with you and your own." Elrond spoke softly as Aragorn's second-in-command dismounted. Walking forward as his men also climbed down, Halbarad bowed to the elven lord.

"Hannon le /thank you, Lord Elrond, for welcoming us so soon after the attack." Looking around at the rebuilding, he shuddered, but then turned to lead the three elves to the only wagon in the caravan.

"Prince Legolas has yet to awaken. Our healers have done everything they could for him, but I'm afraid only the magic of the elves may save him now." Elrond and his twin sons shared a look, but then they peered into the covered wagon.

Giving a slight gasp as their eyes landed on the motionless form of Legolas, Elrond looked sorrowfully to Halbarad.

"Follow me, Halbarad. I will lead you to the healers' ward. Help my sons to carry the prince inside."


Aragorn stared up at the ceiling, completely bored out of his mind. He knew that Legolas and the rangers would be arriving soon, but he was not allowed out of bed.

He was restricted to the healers' ward, to this particular bed. That really bothered him. But, also, his brothers almost refused to see him! He had no idea what he'd done this time, but Elladan and Elrohir were "too busy" to come and see their injured little brother.

Sighing, he lay back against his pillows, and waited anxiously for the elves and rangers to come to the ward.

Oh, Valar, how he hoped that Legolas had awakened...

Hearing footsteps from the hallway, he sat all the way up, and watched the door.

Watching it swing open, he was surprised to see Halbarad, Anders, and his brothers carrying in a stretcher. Sighing in despair, he realized that Legolas was on the contraption.

His father came over, gently pushing him down as Aragorn attempted to get up to see how bad his friend was off now.

"Wait here, Estel, and let me examine him. Do not get up." Elrond then walked over to where the four had set down Legolas and then drew a curtain around the motionless elf. The four then came out, walking over to wait by Aragorn, Anders and Halbarad only giving slight nods in greeting to their chieftain in their worry.

It took several moments, almost half-an-hour, before Elrond exited and came near them. Wiping his hands, he sat on the bed next to his son, and placed a comforting hand on Aragorn's shoulder.

Talking softly, he said, "Ion nín /my son, Legolas has taken extensive damage to his body, and he is not completely healed." Looking intensely to Aragorn, he sighed. "But, you already knew that. Estel," he lowered his eyes. "Legolas has taken extreme force to the head, and it's put him into a deep coma." Raising his head, his sorrowful gray eyes met those of his son.

"One he may never awaken from."