The elves fell into a hush as the canyon walls loomed ever higher over them. No one had ordered silence, but all fell quiet. The air thickened, closed in around them; no wind or summer breeze teased this lonesome corridor, and the sky above narrowed to a bright blue sliver. Every so often a few small rocks skittered down in a cloud of dust from the edge of the rocky incline.

Legolas and the elves snaked forward in their single file line, and the gorge tightened around them. Once earlier Legolas had craned his neck around trying to catch a glance of Miredhel to check on her, but the curving walls and slim passage hid her from sight. He knew she still rode with the group and that she was safe, but still the prince worried for her. She had not taken Farothin's disappearance very well, to say the least. If anything, merely to glimpse her eyes alone would prove enough to satisfy him, to see her eyes, clear and rich, as they had been earlier, the color of a thousand rippling leaves across a forest canopy.
In his heart, Legolas feared for her, that she might succumb to her grief once more, or that she would blame him for what evil might befall their young friend. She had called on the prince to help Farothin. Miredhel, who had never demanded anything of him, had finally made a heartfelt request, and Legolas had denied her. His responsibility to the safety of the group had forced his hand in the matter, but he still felt horrible about it. He thought back to the time in Mirkwood when he had begged her to allow him to give her a gift, and now he could not bestow on her the very thing she wanted.

The deeper he traveled into the pass of Emyn Muil, the worse he felt. The passage way constricted more and more, and Legolas felt as though he were being swallowed. How like his life, he mused. For his dreams also seemed to close around him. Somehow his plans for Ithilien had become just like this road, and every decision he made led him deeper into a binding path from which he could not break free.

Legolas nudged Arod to stop so that he might try again to spy Miredhel among the line, to win a glance from her. When the procession slowed to a halt, the prince became aware of a peculiar noise echoing faintly from the stone walls around them. The sound was not like a constant hum, but more inconsistent, a pulsing, rustling noise. Before he could turn to Eledhel to ask him if he heard it as well, the cause of the disturbance soared into view from above the confines of the passage.

A black-winged cloud thickened in the distant sky and hurtled toward the elves with alarming speed. A dismayed murmur ran among his people before the shrieking swarm drowned out their voices, and Legolas strained his eyes to make out the cloud for what it was. Birds. His keen eyes discerned a glossy crop of midnight-hued feathers, wings edged in violent red, and shrewd dark eyes staring soullessly toward him. Carrion birds, birds of war and death, corpulent from the blood of the slain, looked to feast again.

Legolas hoped the flock would turn before their paths crossed. He had seen the shade of their darkness before, like a deathly shadow on the battle grounds before attack: blotting out the sun over the Lonely Mountain in the Battle of the Five Armies, roosting upon the sharp stone walls at Helm's Deep, scouring the skies over Pelennor Fields, and then before Morannon, like shards of the Black Gate come viciously alive. Legolas hated them. He hated what they represented. Seeing them now only confirmed his suspicion that the orcs' battalions prowled nearby, and he fervently hoped that these foul creatures would not compromise his group's position.

The flock sunk into the ravine, flapping and screaming, a blur of quick feathers, and raced between the elves, nipping at their hair and clothes. The birds' cries became so deafening that Legolas almost clamped his hands over his ears between spells of fighting away talons and eager beaks, but amidst all the racket he heard something else—a shrill screech of metal and a deadly cry, "Yrrch!"

The carrion-fowl raged among the elves like a maddening storm but Legolas only heard the alarm in his warriors' cries—"yrrch!" His every musle tensed at the word. Their safe way had betrayed them.

His people's anxious cries grew louder, "Orcs! Go! Hurry!" In less than a heart-beat, their leader slid off his horse and slapped him on the rump.

Eledhel was aghast. "Just what exactly are you planning on doing, Legolas," he asked, watching his friend slide past him.

"I am going to kill some orcs," Legolas called over his shoulder. "Get our people out of here!"

"But Legolas, should you not..." Eledhel shouted to no avail. Legolas was gone.

The prince squeezed and pushed his way to the back of the line, his long sleek bow in hand; his eyes, a sheer blue fury. At some point he passed his sister, and she thought for a moment that she beheld her father's spectre until Legolas flashed her a grim smile and warned her to take care.

Legolas did not see Miredhel until he had reached the very end of the line, and the prince scolded himself for not making her ride up front with her brother. Miredhel's horse trammeled wildly beside her. She had fitted an arrow to her bow, but it hund loosely in her hand. Her lips trembled in a silent 'o,' and her eyes fixed themselves, not on the enemy, but on the trampled bodies of the two elves who had formed the rear guard of their line.

The prince's heart twisted to see them lying there with many black arrows cruelly piercing their sides and back, but where Miredhel could not act, Legolas could. He squeezed her hand, telling her to hang back and to help cover him. He reached for arrow after arrow, and his long bow sang in retribution against the foul cries of his enemies. One by one, he smote them deep inside the canyon walls, pushing them back until he stood protectively over the bodies of his slain kindred.

He glanced down and realized in horror that the fallen elves' blood pooled around his boots—blood that should never have been spilled—and rage smoldered within his heart, not at the orcs, but at himself. He had done this. He had led his people to their deaths, and his chest burned furiously in desire to right this wrong, to avenge the fallen on the deadly edge of cold blades. He drew his knives and charged toward the remaining orcs, dodging their spears and arrows until he was upon them.

Fighting, killing, battle—these he knew well, and he felt more in control here, as a warrior, than he ever had as a leader of his people. Here, he knew what was required of him, what to do, and when to act. Here, he was judge and executioner, life and death itself; this was where he belonged.

When he had driven his long knife across the throat of the last orc, and the blood of his enemies darkened his hands, he stood there panting amid the tangled work of his knives and wept. Given the chance, he could have killed thrice as many, but no amount of dead orcs would bring new breath to his fallen comrades' lips, or bring Farothin safely back to his friends. He wiped the blood from his knives and sheathed them, and then carried each of the bodies of his archers to rest upon one of their horses where Miredhel stood waiting.

"Legolas, let's go," she said quietly, unsure of what else to say, not knowing what to make of the wet, hot tracks streaking down his cheeks. She handed his bow to him and mounted her horse, waiting for him to join her.

He anxiously eyed the skies and the canyon walls and waited. The carrion birds still plagued the air, frenzied by the scent of blood. Their eyes bulging greedily, they sunk lower into the deeps, eager to feast on orc flesh. Legolas spotted a brilliant flash of silver among them. One of the birds carried something peculiar in its claws, and the dark-winged creature soared past the elves, shrilly cursing them in its native tongue, and flung its token into the open air.

Legolas stretched out his palm and seized it. When he uncurled his fingers, he beheld a silver and green enamel leaf pin with a single rune engraved upon it, 'F.' Farothin.

"They've found us," Legolas said under his breath and shuddered as he looked warily at the dead heap of orcs laying a few feet away. Those were just the beginning, the first few drops before the deluge.

"Legolas, what is it?" Miredhel asked.

He stuffed the pin into his pocket. "Miredhel, ride now and catch up with the rest of the party. Tell your brother not to stop until he reaches Rilmost."

Miredhel eyed him strangely. "Legolas, I'm not leaving you here—"

"I said for you to go!" he insisted. His eyes drifted to the top of the canyon.

A shadow crept over the edge, and they heard a scream and then another, and then many. The rim of the gorge darkened into a jagged silhouette of orcs and spears. Too many to count or separate, all were black and moving at once, legs, arms, bodies, heads, like a swarm of insects across parched soil blending into a single, hideous mass. Stamping their feet, they shouted and waved their wicked weapons until the roar proved almost deafening. Then a hush fell over them all as the orcs peered down at the pile of dead bodies and the elves before them.

"Get out of here while you may," Legolas whispered to Miredhel. "Quickly!"

"What do you think you can do against thousands, Legolas?" she hissed back at him. "Don't be a fool!"

Meanwhile, one of the orcs high above them shouted and raised his spear, and the rest of the enemy followed suit in a blackened wave that ripped across the outline of the wall. Then the siege began. The orcs streamed down the crevassed stone in dark rivulets like hot tar that spills over battlements to scorch the enemy. They moved quickly across the stone without ladders, without ropes, and every furious movement focuses toward one goal—elves.

Legolas took an involuntary step backward. He looked to Miredhel. "Ready to leave now?"

"Not without you," she replied.

"As my lady wishes, then," he said and firing some desperate shots at the leaders, he jumped onto the back of her horse.

Now the entire face of the north wall crawled with the enemy, pulsing, shouting, and scrambling down the rocks. In less than a minute, the horde would overtake them. They drew closer and closer.

The enemy's malice, their hate so profound, scorched in its intensity, making Legolas' flesh burn. He knew that Miredhel felt it too and that she must be afraid, despite her valiant effort not to show it.

"Valar be with us," he heard her murmur as the gloom of the orcish host threatened to consume them. Both elves leaned in close to the back of Miredhel's horse, Legolas shielding her body with his, as they raced pell mell through the narrow passage. The orcs were almost upon them.

The nearest orc leapt off the wall in a cloud of white dust and tackled Legolas to the ground. Miredhel screamed, and the orcs shouted in delight, with even more springing down from the walls. A fine white dust filled the air, rocks from above began to slide and tumble to the base of the canyon, and under the weight and movement of the orcs, the walls began to groan.

Miredhel lost Legolas' lithe form in the dusty haze and confusion. He shouted to her as he fell, "Fly, Miredhel! Go!"

He strained under the orc's weight as he twisted against the stony ground, desperately trying to work his knife free with his right hand and to stay the orc's blade with his left. He heard Miredhel scream his name—she had not kept riding after all. In that moment, Legolas let his guard down, and the orc plunged his knife into the elf's shoulder.

The prince's eyes watered, and he gasped for air as the orc fiendishly dug the serrated blade deeper into his flesh.

Legolas heard Miredhel shout again, "Legolas! The walls...the walls are coming down!" She still lived, and he found new strength within him.

He rolled left and rammed his knee into the orc's groin. The beast yelped, and Legolas freed one of his hands, which he thrust toward the orc's neck and began to squeeze. The orc gurgled and flailed; his eyes began to bulge. Legolas squeezed all the more tightly. The creature stirred vainly once more, his tongue wildly lashing between his teeth, and then finally the orc fell with a thud beside the prince. Legolas relaxed his grip from the beast's neck and then dared to peek at the dagger wound in his shoulder, with the blade still firmly lodged in his skin. Oh, the sight of it made him sick.

He heard Miredhel call his name again above the din of the orcs, and he looked up through the swirling dust to see the enemy retreating eastward down the canyon passage and back up over the canyon heights. The stones trembled under their vile touch, and an enormous face of rock cracked and split beneath them.

Legolas' eyes widened at the sight. The whole of the wall, orcs included, lurched above him. He pulled himself up from the ground and with much loathing and discomfort, wrenched the blade free from his body as he ran toward Miredhel and her horse. Blood poured freely from the wound, and he pressed his hand to stanch the bleeding. As soon as he flung himself onto the back of the horse, they were galloping at full speed, away from the orcs, away from the carrion birds, away from the falling rocks, tumbling boulders, and clouds of dust. As their horse neared a turn in the passage, both elves looked back to see the canyon ledge, where stood many an orc, high above them crumble away in a tremendous avalanche. The canyon walls slid hectically to the base of the narrow passage, swallowing its trespassers in a violent roar of flying debris and plumes of dust. The cave-in had sealed the pass forever more, and fortune trapped the remainder of the orc battalion haplessly on the other side.

Legolas smiled grimly. Perhaps the Valar had heard Miredhel's earnest plea. Perhaps they still looked toward the remaining elves of Middle Earth with a benevolent eye, but even in the orcs' demise, he could feel no joy when the bodies of two slain elves hung across the back of the horse next to him.

"Come," he said to Miredhel, "let us hurry to join the others." Fatigue worried his voice, and Miredhel knew his heart grieved for the fallen. She grieved for them also. In their first quiet moment together since they had entered the passage, she turned and looked at him, seeing a side of this elf, this warrior and prince, that she had never before witnessed.

Chalky dust and grime smudged his fair features, but she had seen him look simply dirty before. His eyes bothered her the most; they seemed inconsolable, defeated. She did not know what to say, and usually Miredhel always had something to say. This side of Legolas confounded her. He was supposed to be the strong one, the fighter, and now he seemed so lost. Without speaking, she wet her handkerchief with some water from her pouch and smoothed it across his face.

"Legolas? We can get to that village now in time," she said comfortingly. "We can save those people from the orcs. Our journey hasn't been...it hasn't been in vain."

"I know," he said tiredly. "I know." He weakly smiled and then swept his hair behind his back, revealing the gash in his shoulder.

"You've been injured!" she gasped, displeasure written in her voice. "Why did you not say so?"

Legolas rolled his eyes. "Because I knew you would fuss over it, and frankly, my petty wounds can wait until we catch up to the others."

"Legolas, no. The wound still bleeds. At least allow me to wrap it," she said and had already begun to pull a strip of fabric from her satchel to bind the wound. "It looks ghastly," she said.

"I hadn't noticed," he answered dryly as began to wrap the bandage across the torn flesh.

Miredhel frowned and pulled the bandage under his arm and then back over his shoulder. "What if the blade was poisoned?" she scolded, thankful for the fact that at least her tending to his wound distracted him from his earlier melancholy mood.

"Could you do anything about it if it was?" he asked sardonically, wincing as she tightened the wrap.

"I might," she replied, her voice aloof.

Legolas snorted.

"Well, I might!" she defended herself and tied the bandage off. "That's not too tight, is it?"

"Is it supposed to make my arm turn purple?" he asked.

She loosened the knot a little with a smile and gently smoothed the rest of the hair away from his face. "Your shoulder will have to be sewn up later, if it is to heal properly. Well, you should really have Colmaethor look at it when we catch up with the others. He is much better at field wounds than I am."

"Nonsense," swore Legolas boldly, but then his voice softened. "You have done more than you can know, Miredhel. I would have none other. Only you."

She blushed in his gaze and slowly turned away from him, but Legolas' hand found her shoulder and stopped her in mid-movement. Miredhel looked down at the mare's flanks, at her hands, at the ground, suddenly feeling more nervous around him than she had felt in a while. She knew that he only spoke of his injury, of her healing, but it felt like so much more when he looked at her that way; there was something in the tenderness of his words, and she knew that it was because of her own heart's desire. She wished for more.

Legolas' hand trailed from her shoulder down her arm and found her hand which he brought to his lips. Then satisfied that she offered no protest, he leaned slowly toward her and gently kissed her cheek. His eyes were so close to her own, and she could still see weariness, the residue of defeat, in them.

"I am sorry, Miredhel," he whispered. "I feel as though I've let you down, you of all people whom I should like to please most."

"My lord," she said, "do not despair. Let us cling to hope instead, for it is a kinder master." She entwined her fingers through his and sympathetically squeezed his hand.

"Hope?" asked Legolas, bitterly eyeing the bodies of his fallen archers.

Miredhel looked down at their hands and his long, fair fingers against her skin, before she carefully said, "You, of all elves, have taught me that such a thing has not yet deserted this world, Legolas. You have brought me hope so many times in these last days of our dark journey. You were my strength, when I had none."

He could feel her warm breath on his cheek as she spoke, and he took comfort in the feel of his hand in hers. She still trusted him; at least he had not lost that. Legolas drew an uneasy breath and nodded.

"To hope, then," he said and brought his lips to hers, and his spirit and faith rekindled in her embrace, his heart gladdened by her company.

"Besides, there is much we may hope for: that we may save that village from the orcs, warn Gondor and Minas Tirith, and find that Farothin waits for us on the other side of Emyn Muil, that he lives yet," Miredhel said encouragingly.

But Legolas fingered the leaf pin in his pocket and said nothing. Nor did he speak, until they caught up with the rest of their party outside the canyon passage.

Legolas and Miredhel met the Ithilien elves along the now widening trail at the roots of Emyn Muil as it curved down toward the wet edges of Nindalf. As they traveled farther south, leaving the mountains behind them, the land brightened and dipped into verdant valleys of long, wet grass.

Miredhel spotted their companions first, and she joyfully exclaimed, "There they are, Legolas! They are safe and wait for us to join them." She scanned their ranks, finding her brother, the twins, but not Farothin. "He is not with them," she added disappointedly.

The elves were silent when their leader arrived, for they had seen the other horse bearing the stark remains of their friends' bodies. Legolas dismounted and pulled the group in toward him. Quietly, he told of bravery and death, the orcs, and the subsequent cave-in of the canyon's narrow walls. They lacked the time for a proper elvish burial ceremony, so the elves draped a cloth across the dead. With eyes red from tears, Celeril hugged her brother's side.

"You were right, Legolas. I'm sorry for not believing you earlier at Rauros," she said, her chin quivering from trying not to cry, again. "And I was so afraid for you."

"Shh, everything will work out," he said and put his arm around her, not entirely sure who he meant to comfort more, his sister or himself. He could not stay with her long, however; he needed to meet with his captains. He glimpsed Sulindal's tall figure on the edge of the group, standing with Eledhel, Adrendil, and Belegil, and the prince made his way toward them with disapproval written across his face.

"Didn't I tell you to go directly to Rilmost?" Legolas frowned at Eledhel.

"And so we are," Eledhel answered smoothly, "but that passage through the mountains was harrowing, so we stopped to rest...and I must own that I had hoped to see you catch up to us."

The prince rolled his eyes and fought the urge to smile. "We barely escaped," Legolas admitted, "and I am sorry that your sister met with such danger."

Eledhel nodded thoughtfully before he answered, "I knew she was with you. You two have a knack for ending up in trouble together."

Belegil chimed in, "And that's why they're so perfect for each other!"

Sulindal elbowed his brother in the ribs and spoke up, "Truly, Legolas, we are glad to see you return safely, and now we may all ride into Rilmost together."

"Perhaps, it would be best if we did not all go into the village at once. I do not want to cause unnecessary panic," Legolas thought out loud.

"We mean them no harm," said Eledhel.

"Most men have never seen an elf before, though," the prince informed them. "To them, we are merely legends, stories to please small children." He looked around the group and then lowered his voice. "Have you seen any trace, any sign, of Farothin?"

Eledhel and the twins shook their heads.

Legolas reached into his pocket and covertly showed them the pin he'd found. "It's as I feared..."

"He is dead then," Eledhel finished. "I cannot imagined Farothin willingly bestowing this upon one of those foul carrion birds."

"Nor can I," Legolas agreed somberly.

Sulindal bowed his head with great, liquid grey eyes, and his brother braced his arm. "Have you told Miredhel of this, Legolas?" he asked in a peculiar voice.

"No," he whispered to the circle. "She does not know. I could not bring myself to tell her, not yet, not with her grief the way it is."

Adrendil arched an eyebrow at the other elves. "Was she very good friends with him?" he inquired carefully.

Eledhel answered, "Yes, but Farothin was well-loved by all, having that happy disposition of youth that makes him endearing."

"Then she deserves to know the truth," Adrendil concluded, and Eledhel began to glare at the other captain a trifle unkindly.

"As her guardian, I shall decide when and what she knows," Eledhel growled. "You know nothing, Captain Adrendil, of her or her past."

His eyes an icy reproof, Legolas stepped in between them. "What Eledhel means to say is that it would be in Miredhel's best interest if we waited until we reach a more giving environment to tell her the ill news."

"Her best interest, or yours?" Adrendil scoffed. "I warned you about that canyon, Prince Legolas. When will you start heeding my council?"

"Probably when you stop acting like an ass," Belegil muttered under his breath.

Adrendil gave Belegil and Eledhel both very unfavorable looks and then stormed away.

"You don't really like him, do you Legolas?" Belegil asked after Adrendil had left.

"He was right about the canyon passage," Legolas admitted. "Come though, we must leave for Rilmost. I will ride to the village, and... Sulindal, you come with me. Eledhel, you and Belegil shall take our group within distant sight of the village. We will signal you if they welcome us." They checked their tack and weapons, and then the elves descended down toward the marshes, the Nindalf, and Rilmost, their hard-sought destination.

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