The Company stood at the rear of the caravan, half their attention on what was happening further up the line, and the other half on any noise that would confirm Legolas' claims that another, larger group would attack here, where Silor had sent them, like dead meat for the carrion birds. Not that Idhrenohtar had any doubts, but the others would, and he could not blame them for that.

Legolas had been sent with Lieutenant Galadan, master archer that he was, and Idhreno could only hope he would be safer there than he would be here, even without The Company by his side. The aspiring Sindarin lieutenant had given no credence to Legolas' warning, and there had been no further time for him to press his point. Too late, too late for Galadan or Commander Celegon to make contingency plans; Silor had seen to that with his petty arguments and unveiled racism. Perhaps, mused Idhrenohtar, he would live to see the wretch pay for his tragic lack of skill as a leader, his ignorance, his arrogance... surely there was no place for an elf such as Silor in Thranduil's militia?

The blue-eyed Silvan with the face of an angel, or Galdithion as Idhrenohtar now knew him to be called, stood with his bow at the ready, eyes darting here and there, and Idhreno rather thought him a strange character; such an angelic face seemed antagonistic with the ways of warfare - he should be a poet, or a musician, a teacher, perhaps; yet there he stood in full battle mode, his brow furrowed and his weapons drawn - he reminded Idhrenohtar of Legolas, he realised.

A cry echoed down the line, and all too soon, the sounds of battle were unleashed; the twang of short bows and the whoosh of the larger, field bows ripped through the air, the scrape of metal and the cries and shouts from the warriors as they plunged into the fray mingled with the shrieks and below of the orcs they fought.

Any moment now, thought Idhreno. There were only eight of them; if the second group were indeed forty strong, that meant five for each of them. He knew their best bet would be to hide themselves and attack the surprise group from above, take them unawares. Damn their bad luck that Legolas was not here to pick them off as only he could do.

Thus it was decided, and the eight Silvans hid themselves as only woodelves could, their blood rushing through their veins, their hearts pumping furiously as they listened to the battle a little further away, their hands tightening on their bows and their skin prickling almost painfully when an elven cry reached their ears.

It was Galdithion who first signalled the approach of the group, and as they readied their weapons, Idhrenohtar caught his eye only briefly, yet it was time enough to see what surely lay in his own. Fear, dread, determination - courage, and yet - he too, knew the truth of it; too many, there were too many...

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Legolas shot in rapid succession, the rhythmic release of his bow string whooshing loudly, even above the cacophony of battle below him, each arrow lodging itself with a satisfying thud in the neck of an enemy.

When at last there were no more arrows, he jumped to the ground and summersaulted forwards until he was in front of an orc that battled with Commander Celegon, stabbing it cleanly through the liver before spinning to the side and slicing another across the jugular. It screamed as it ran, hand desperately trying to contain the fountain of dark blood.

A cry off to his left had him running forwards, finding Silor struggling to parry the heavy blows of an orc that pressed its advantage, for Silor's shoulder was hanging out of its socket. Jumping, he sent the tips of both blades into the junction between neck and shoulder, killing the beast before it crumbled to the ground.

Silor fell with a pained cry but there was no time to help him and so Legolas spun, keeping the Sinda behind him. Flipping one wrist until his blade was concealed by his forearm, he used the other to stab one orc in the chest, before turning to face an open-mouthed Silor and thrusting his other arm behind him, a grim smirk and a sparkle of satisfaction in his eyes when he heard the scream of pain as blade pierced innards. Pulling back viciously on the blade, he turned once more, kicking out and catching another beast under the chin before twisting to the side, causing another orc to overcompensate and crash to the ground, where Silor stabbed it before it could rise.

Too many, there were too many, thought Legolas to himself as he fought, an unprotected Silor behind him.

Something pierced his flesh from behind. An arrow had lodged itself loosely in his shoulder blade, and with a grimace he reached behind and yanked it free with an angry hiss. No time though, for another two were running at him. Dropping to the floor he spun on his back, lashing out with his legs and bringing one beast crashing to the floor, before flipping himself upwards and thrusting his blades into the other orcs' lungs.

With but a moment's respite, Legolas quickly pulled Silor to his feet and dragged him into the trees. The Sinda did not speak, for the pain of his dislocated shoulder would be excruciating, indeed Legolas was pleased he kept silent and allowed himself to be led away from the fray, however unceremonious it had been.

Running back to the field he caught Galadan's eye, before sprinting to the royal tent and ripping the canvas door open. Empty, it was empty. With no signs of a skirmish, Legolas deduced that Lainion would have whisked the Prince away no sooner the first cry to arms had been given. It was standard protocol he knew and so, strangely relieved, he turned and made his way back to Galadan's position - how he wanted to run to the end of the line and help his brothers, but Galadan held the camp with the help of but two other warriors, one of them being himself. He could not, in all conscience, leave them.

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The sound of his own, harsh breathing was the only one to reach his sensitive ears, deafening though it was, and for a long while, it was all he could hear, that and the frantic thump of his overworked heart. His breath came in harsh, gulped breaths and he adjusted his position on the floor to ease its passage and replenish his starved lungs.

Pain shot through his shoulder and one side of his chest but he cared not. He needed to regain his breath and so he held himself on all fours until slowly, the thumping and the gasping were replaced by heavy breathing. A drop of blood fell to the earth below his face and he realised he could not see through one eye. A moment of panic took him and he reached up to touch his eye, fingers now bloody. A cut on his head had bled into his eye and so he blinked furiously, clearing the red haze enough to see; not blinded, thank the Valar.

He sat back on his haunches and tilted his face to the sun, closing his eyes for a moment as his head protested the movement and he grimaced through the stabbing pain at his temples.

Swallowing thickly, he opened them once more and for the first time since the battle had ended, he cast his eyes around their ruined camp, licking his parched lips and grimacing at the dryness in his mouth.

There were bodies strewn about the place, orcs and elves splayed this way and that. Were they all dead? he asked himself as his eyes desperately sought the slightest of movements that would tell him he was not alone.

The need to know drove him slowly to his unsteady feet, hands leaning heavily upon his thighs as he adjusted to the pull on sore muscles and the bone deep fatigue he felt. It was then, that a hand fell on his shoulder, warm and distinctly elven.

"Are you alright?" asked its owner with a final squeeze before walking away, not waiting for an answer. "Come, we must help our brothers," he said flatly, and Legolas stood up, walking cautiously for a moment so that he could take stock of his injuries. Well at least he could walk, he mused, and that was enough for now. Everything else could wait for he stood upon a killing field and his stomach felt like molten lead.

Moving from one elf to the next, they found three dead and four seriously wounded, amongst them, Silor, Commander Celegon and two other, Sindarin warriors.

"Lieutenant Galadan," called Legolas, surprising himself with his rasping voice. "What of the other battle further behind?" he asked in trepidation.

Galadan turned, his eyes studiously blank as he answered. "I do not know, Legolas. But whatever transpired, it is over now, it is all we can do to aid the wounded."

Legolas turned his ear to the wind and realised it was so, for the sounds of battle had ceased. All was done and all they could do was to pick up the pieces of this, disastrous ambush, one that should never have come to pass.

Soon, Galadan and Legolas had moved the four injured warriors into the remains of the royal tent. The dead would have to wait. It had been a painstaking effort, for both of them had sustained wounds, and if the exhaustion that comes with a battle such as this was not enough, the physical demands of carrying the wounded into the royal tent had them both panting and grimacing with the pain in their bodies.

"Silor," said Galadan. "Can you sit up and guard the tent in our absence?" he asked carefully, his eyes watching the warrior's every move.

"Yes, Sir," he said as he struggled to sit upright, adjusting his dislocated shoulder with a grimace and clutching a knife in the other. "I will do what I can," he said with some difficulty and Galadan nodded, and as Legolas turned to accompany him, his eyes met Silor's. There was grief in the Sinda's eyes, grief and regret and Legolas wondered what Silor would see in his own eyes. Could he see the anger? the frustration? the disappointment?

He had no more time to think on Silor, for Galadan was already striding away towards where The Company would have made their stand and with every step they took, Legolas' heart dropped further and further into his stomach. Should he find them dead, Ram en' Ondo and Idhrenohtar - no - he would not think on it. It was time to act, the heart had no place here, not now.

Soon enough, the glade emerged before them and for the first time in his life, Legolas did not know whether to laugh or cry...

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Dusk was falling and so was the temperature. Legolas had gathered all the cloaks and blankets that were salvageable and brought them to their makeshift headquarters, where eight injured warriors now lay.

Galadan, Legolas and Galdithion had set themselves tasks that, under any other circumstances, required many more hands - but there were no more. Ram en' Ondo lay insensate and Idhrenohtar burned with a fever. Lindohtar had suffered a scimitar wound to the thigh that had reached through to the bone. Commander Celegon had a concussion and various blade wounds, while Silor's arm was unusable. The other two warriors were still unconscious and it had been all they could do to stop the bleeding. There were no healers amongst them, for Dorainen had perished.

Galdithion stood guard while Legolas gathered what little firewood was to be had, and water - buckets of it. Indeed he had spent the last two hours hauling it into the tent and with this final pail, he lost his balance and crashed to his knees beside it. He was exhausted and he could no longer feel his hands - it was so cold.

"Legolas?" came the soft voice from one of the pallets. Lindohtar.

"Lindo?" asked Legolas as he struggled to his feet and made his way over. "How are you?"

"It is painful, I will not lie," he said with a grimace.

"A little more and you would have lost your leg," said Legolas quietly.

"Aye," said Lindo. "How are Idhreno and Ram en'?" asked the Bard Warrior.

"Not good. We must get to Imladris as fast as we may, but there are only three of us - and two day's ride separate us from the healing halls - nay I say two days but in the state we are in, it will take us four at least. We can only hope that our Prince and Lainion made it safely and will bring help to meet us on the path."

"We are closer than I thought," said Lindo thoughtfully.

"And thank the Valar for that," said Legolas with a soft smile. "Now, you rest, I work. Keep your knife close brother, for there are no guards to safeguard you."

"I will. And Legolas, see to your own injuries - we need you to get us back."

Legolas simply nodded, before hefting the water to one corner of the tent and then reporting to Galadan.

"Sir. There is water aplenty and enough firewood for tonight I would guess. I could try to hunt. If the enemy has been depleted, there is a reasonable chance at catching something."

"Have we no supplies at all?" asked Galadan, alarmed.

"None that could be saved, Sir. It is all ruined. I have retrieved as many canteens as I could find and have filled them. Of our eighteen horses, I have managed to herd ten. They are tethered to our left, close to the tent. Should the enemy make an appearance, we do not want them to flee, and should we need to flee, we will be able to do so quickly, with at least the water we will need..." said Legolas, but he was still thinking, his mind searching for anything he may have missed.

Galadan's eyes lingered on Legolas for long, almost uncomfortable moments, before he finally spoke.

"Your reasoning is sound, Legolas," he said softly, before continuing. "See what you can find in the way of wood for transporting the more seriously wounded."

"I have done that, Sir. There is not much, but with the thicker branches I found and the leather from our unused tack, I should be able to fashion something- I will see to it," he said as he moved to turn, but a hand on his bicep stopped him.

"Legolas," said Galadan, and for the first time there was a note of emotion in the lieutenant's words. "You have done well..."

Legolas smiled sparingly, before nodding and leaving the warmth of the tent for the frigid cold outside. Galadan's gaze lingered a while longer, before a voice behind him snapped him out of it.

"Did you see him, Galadan? Did you see what I saw?"

"I did," he answered, turning to face the one that had spoken. "I saw it - and I will never forget it, Commander," answered the Sindarin lieutenant.

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His face was so cold he could no longer feel it, his expression frozen, his blue eyes watering. Beside him, Lainion galloped as his eyes continuously scanned their surroundings for any signs of danger, for the slightest hint of help.

He was a strange elf, mused Handir, strange and so utterly loyal. His father had always seen that, it was why Lainion had been appointed as Handir's personal guard, why the king confided so much in this Avarin lieutenant that would gladly give his life to see his prince returned to safety.

Handir had been whisked away when the first cry to arms had been given. He remembered their camp suddenly erupting into chaos, and Lainion pulling on his arm as he slung a pack over his shoulder. In minutes they had been away and with one final glance over his shoulder, Handir had spotted The Silvan standing in the middle of the glade, his mighty field bow pulled back and then released, the glint of silver upon his bicep and the intricate braids at his temple and crown. Funny the things the mind chooses to see at a given time, and what Handir had seen was not a young Silvan lad of half his own age, whimpering and wallowing in self-pity; he saw a warrior, brave and proud, skilled and loyal, his brother, he reminded himself.

He forced himself then, to think on his own feelings. Did he care that he was running from the danger? Running from his own young brother and leaving him to face whatever destiny had in store for him? Would he care if the boy fell? If he died?

He frowned, for his questions had led him to a conclusion that he had not expected at all ...

"Handir," shouted Lainion over the noise of their galloping horses and the howling wind.

"The Bruinen - the Bruinen is ahead - we are almost there!" shouted Lainion.

Handir nodded his understanding, and as he turned his face to the wind once more, he wondered where Legolas would be now. Was he dead, or did he live? - was anyone still alive, or had they all been slaughtered, in spite of his brother's warning? Had elven lives been lost due to the absurd rivalry between Sindarin and Silvan elves?

Handir's purpose was bolstered - it could not be allowed to continue, and as soon as he had learned all he could from Erestor, he would travel back to the wood and put a stop to it, once and for all. But his battlefield would be in the council room, his enemies those close to Lord Bandorion.

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"They have crossed the Bruinen."

"They should be here by tomorrow then."

"Yes."

"What is it?" The golden-blond warrior turned his face and studied the fine silhouette of his raven-haired lord who simply stared out over the balcony to the lands beyond.

"There are only two..." came the answer, and Elrond's bright silver eyes were upon him, deep pools of wisdom and a surety that could not be denied.

Nodding curtly, the warrior swivelled on his heels and strode away, his long burgundy cloak fanning around him, revealing for just a moment, a blazing sun carved upon silver metal and the pommel of an ancient blade, forged in the valleys of Tumladen.