Elrond and his force of warriors journeyed at speed through the Vale, crossing the Anduin a few hours later above its juncture with Sîr Ninglor, that Men called the Gladden River. The twins had ridden on ahead with some of the finest trackers from among the Silvan Elves, to see if they could discover any more tidings; they had sent a small party back to report, as they continued on toward the way station in hopes their best guess had been a good one. A pause was made to ease the horses and warriors alike, as Elrond and Tinuvil went to consult with the returnees. Elrond could see in their faces the discouraging lack of success, and he sighed as he drew rein and waited. His gaze went outward across the rivermeet, over the marshes, toward the distant edge of Southern Mirkwood, visible to Elven eyes in the morning mist, as if somehow he could make the trees tell him what was afoot. Not so Tinuvil, who could only see before his eyes the small nephew with whom he had played and worked. As he threw down from his mount and ran toward the trackers, Tinuvil shouted out to them:

"What tidings? Have you found the prince?"

The others glanced sidelong at one another with hangdog looks, misliking the necessity to admit defeat so far. They were Silvan folk, descendants of those Nandorin Elves who had never made the Great Journey over the Misty Mountains to the West, but had remained in their forest home. Great had been their hope that there would be some happier news by the time their Eldar betters returned with anxiety in their eyes. All too well aware they were, that their more lordly kinsfolk thought of them as something less for having stayed behind, holding on to their strange Nandorin ways and their Silvan speech, so different from the musical tones of Sindarin and the high ritual tongue of Quenya. Tinuvil drew himself up to his full height, ready to launch a tirade; to forestall the scene, the Lord of Imladris turned to the leader of the little group, a dark-haired huntsman with eyes the colour of the forest behind him.

"Tell me of the tracking," Elrond invited. "Have you discovered aught of the son of Thranduil?"

It seemed to Elrond that the Elf's face twisted, however briefly, into a mask of sorrow. "Ai, alas! We have found little, Lord, to indicate the child yet lives," he breathed. "There is much Orc-evidence, for they leave a foul and simple trail as they pass, destroying things that have done them no ill for the pure pleasure of it, and leaving heavy signs of the passage of their foul feet upon the land. But of the little prince, there are only these items."

"What are they, Saeros?" Tinuvil demanded.

Saeros gestured; younger Elf stepped forward, bearing in his arms a cloak-wrapped parcel. The cloak was small, made of a fine, deep green Elven cloth, decorated about the collar and the edge of the hood with fine embroidery tracings in silver threads. The clasp was delicate-looking and richly made, of Dwarven gold but Elven design, bearing the sigil of Thranduil's house picked out in fine enamels amid tracery in the living metal. Within that cloak the Elf displayed an empty quiver and a small hunting bow, broken at the grip, its string snapped.

"They are the weapons of Legolas, and this his cloak," Saeros murmured.

Tinuvil said something under his breath, hovering between a curse and a prayer. For his part, Elrond committed the items to memory, reaching out with steady hand to touch the bow in honour of him who had carried it last. He winced as he felt the sundered wood beneath his fingers, and a shudder ran through his tensile form; he stared at the weapon in surprise, quickly mastered.

"The little prince is dear to us, Lord," Saeros said quietly, the very calm of his tone speaking to his great grief, and the grief he thought he saw in the eyes of Elrond. "He is a bright-souled and courageous child. He has learned our Silvan speech, though he is the King's son and pure in his Sindarin lineage, and speaks it with us, learning our ways, for he does not scorn his father's subjects. Many Orcs will die for this outrage."

"Even more," the younger Elf dared to add, though he glanced anxiously at Elrond as he spoke, "if they are so unwise as to harm or kill him."

"We will not speak of harm or killing," Elrond rebuked them kindly, and folded the edge of the cloak once more over the weapons of Legolas. "We will instead concentrate, and turn all our powers and arts toward finding the little prince, and bringing him safely home."

The two Silvan Elves looked upon him with even more respect, comforted by his control and the calm of his manner. But Elrond's heart was neither calm nor in control, at least for a moment or two. For despite all his resolve to do no such thing until the child was safe, he had begun in some measure to form a picture in his mind. When he had touched the bow, there had been the briefest of instants when it seemed he was in the mind of the child, sensing what was happening to him.

An impression of sunlight, and laughter, and music: then darkness, and pain, and a coiling of something even darker along sinew and bone, something that made Elrond's right shoulder ache as if bitten by some foul creature. Then it was all blackness until, unbidden and unwanted by Elrond, he could see the small, earnest face before him: golden hair worn tied up in a child's topknot, a pair of jewel-like eyes watching him, still and deep, sapphire and morning fog set in crystal. A determined, pointed little chin and high cheekbones, Eldar heritage a clean, clear and particularly fine stamp on this bright coin, and Ai, Elbereth! So young, so terribly young...

I am Legolas, son of Thranduil the son of Oropher, of the Kings of Mirkwood the Great... Prince of the Sindar from the Great Forest...

Elrond closed his eyes, tried to make the face go away, but it persisted, like the after-image of the sun when one has looked on it then turned away. Child, don't look into me so, Elrond thought, and shook his head sadly. We will be there as swiftly as we can; the rest is up to all your courage and the will of the Valar...

He turned and closed a hand on Tinuvil's shoulder.

"Let us gather our people and continue following the trail. They cannot have gone on much past sunrise, for fear of the light - reason dictates we shall have found them before long, wherever they have gone to ground."

"You are right, Lord Elrond, I crave your pardon," Tinuvil said, blowing out an unhappy breath and staring off to the southeast. "My mind is a-whirl with worry, all I can see is that youngling trussed up like a deer, and my blood boils within me -"

"Yes, we are all worried," Elrond said quickly, and turned away, but there it was again, those eyes... still and patient and hopeful beneath the fine brows, waiting, clinging to utter faith in his elders. Elrond stripped off one gauntlet and brought a hand up to massage the bridge of his nose.

"We must proceed with caution from this point," he said, including all the Elves nearby in his glance. "If the Orcs see they are caught and outnumbered, they may kill the child, or worse. There may be more to this than we realize; do you see how the line of this trail leads down the vale to Dol Guldur, the former home of the Adversary?"

He could see by the sudden abashed looks in their eyes that they had not considered the import of such a thing. Elrond caught his breath, stared off in the very direction he had mentioned, and it was as if he could see the treeless hill and its fell tower looming over the western edge of the Great Forest, glowering toward Lothlorien.

"Let us ride," he said suddenly, and whirled to regain his mount. "Time is not something we possess in abundance, for the enemy will grow stronger, the closer they get to Dol Guldur."