While Legolas lay helpless before the Shadow and Elrond Peredhil clung to the horn of his saddle with white-knuckled hands, eyes seeing not only that which was before him in fact, but that which was before his soul's inner eye, too terrible to speak of, another Elven force rode toward the south along the western perimeter of Mirkwood. They were accompanied by two messengers from Imladris, those sent hours before by Tinuvil and Elrond, and the banners carried by the company proclaimed them to be the warriors of King Thranduil.

At their head, blue eyes wide and hard and frightening in their intensity, rode Thranduil himself, father of young Legolas. Tall he was, and handsome in his way, but it was a harder handsomeness than it had been of old. He had been accounted most fair in his own youth, before lust of gold and the toys of Dwarves had sent him along courses in his life that had embittered him and made his fairness turn to adamant. Fate was in every line of him, no surprise to those who knew him of old, and knew the tale of the decisions he had made. He had come home from the War of the Last Alliance a King before his time, bearing the slain body of his great and difficult sire Oropher, and bringing homeward only a third of the vast, valiant force Mirkwood had fielded in that hopeful, last-ditch campaign.

Confusion, pain and Shadow were Thranduil's companions, kin to that fear in his heart, and his mind was awash with contradictions. He had vowed upon his homeward ride from the previous War never again to look with friendship upon the face of Elrond of Imladris, accounting it the fault of others that Mirkwood's forces had been so sadly decimated. Some that gained his blame for the decimation were dead, victims of the Shadow and of Sauron, thus beyond the censure of Thranduil. But Elrond lived, and he was as good a target as any, and so the enmity between them had grown.

Yet what of that? Elrond's sons were great champions of the Elvish folk, coming many times to Mirkwood over the long years to fight off the Orcs and kill them in great numbers, and they had gained much favor in the eyes of Thranduil, though he was seldom as praiseful of them as he might be were they the sons of other Elf-Lords. Uneasy truce had come from necessity between Imladris and Mirkwood of late, with sweet-tongued heralds going back and forth across the High Pass, bearing carefully worded messages that spoke of unity and constancy. Never once did Thranduil send private word to Elrond, nor Elrond to Thranduil, and perhaps each preferred it that way.

Until now...

Until the messengers of Elrond had arrived from the hunt that had gone all awry, in which Legolas, Thranduil's youngest, the light of his later years, had been taken alive by Orcs. The messengers had brought word of the tragedy, and informed Thranduil that no effort would be spared to make certain Legolas was safe, restored whole unto his kin once more...

It was courting madness to think of his little Greenleaf in the hands of the Orcs - his golden-haired, sweet-faced son who did not so much walk through life as dance, who sang even in his sleep and had almost as many stars in his eyes as there were in the skies at night. My little bird... The son he barely could comprehend, unable to remember ever in his life having been as light of heart as was his bright jewel of a child...

Thranduil groaned aloud from the depths of his very heart, and beseeched the Valar that somehow Elrond Peredhil would commit miracles before the Mirkwood party arrived. Beseeched that, when next he set eyes on the Lord of Imladris, there would be seated beside him a slender lad with a face that could coax the heart out of a god and a heart that could brighten all the dark corners of the deep, dank earth... Whole, sound, unspoiled... safe...

So intent was Thranduil on his sad contemplation that he did not see the darkness spreading out before him on the road until the party was in the midst of it - did not realize there was peril before it swooped down in all its horror and hovered above the road barely the distance away that a Dwarf could spit with a favorable wind. The horses of Thranduil and his party reared and screamed in terror, plunging desperately to be free of experienced hands and feet and voices that commanded them to stand firm, for above them was malevolence and Shadow's own violent evil, in the form of a dragon-like fell mount and an equally vile rider, draped in black and hissing challenge. Quicker than thought could count, the bow of Thranduil was in his hand, arrow nocked and ready, but the King of the Nazgul and his flying creature of a mount were more prepared. The Black Rider leveled a finger at Thranduil and spoke in ringing, hissing contempt:

Down with your weapons, Mirkwood, or I will strike at your heart and throttle the little bird!

Thranduil threw back his head, eyes wide and shadowed with fear, driven out of his Elven equanimity by those words. The bow wavered and dropped; the string relaxed, and arrow did not launch.

"How dare you?" he shouted. "Threaten me, creature of Shadow, with the life of my child? Prove to me you are no liar, then I will believe and heed! How do I know you have my son?"

The sound it made might have been laughter, but through the shrieking it was difficult to tell. I do not have your son, fool of an Elf!

"Then perhaps you will explain why I should heed such a thing as you?" Thranduil retorted, and the bow began to rise again. Only to droop once more at the words of the Nazgul:

Orcish ropes bind the little caged bird, Mirkwood, and bear your golden boy to Dol Guldur. Heed us now and the child will live!

Thranduil's heart broke in his proud chest, but he was a Sindar lord, and it was not his way to treat with Shadow. Fear it, yes, and dread its rising; but the Dark had misjudged its target, if it thought to control the son of Oropher from behind the terror of an innocent child. Shadow, Thranduil thought, has apparently never been a father! Nothing could possibly have steeled his resolve more, but he knew he dared not show it to the hovering Nazgul. Arranging his face in lines of taut grief - not so difficult a matter, under the circumstances - Thranduil let his shoulders bow and his head droop upon his breast.

"What are your terms?" he whispered.

Hear me, the Nazgul hissed, leveling its sword at Thranduil's heart. Turn your horses and take your proud Elves back to the caverns from which you have crept. Seek not to open the little bird's cage, but bide in silence within Mirkwood. Never again prevent the comings and goings of Orc and Goblin-kin through your realm, and obey when Shadow calls. Lift no hand to assist the Elven-kin against Us. Obey, and your child will live. Cross Us, and you will not like what your child will become.

"When will you free my son?" Thranduil asked, schooling his voice to sound humbled, no easy task for one so proud as he.

Never.

"Never is a long time."

Elves live long. Consider it the Doom of your son.

"You ask much, O Nazgul!" Thranduil cried, his heart riven. The Nazgul considered him in silence for many long moments, and then spoke again.

Choose. Choose now... Little caged bird, or there will be an Orc and a Father of Orcs from the House of Thranduil.

Thranduil stared at the Nazgul, his blue eyes wide and horrified. He dared not even think of hope until this creature was gone, not knowing the depth to which it might read his most private thoughts. It was no choice at all he was offered, yet there it was: his bright-souled child forever locked behind the grim doors of Dol Guldur, subjected to what whims of Shadow Thranduil could only guess - or freed out into the world after torture and torment had made him into the unthinkable Abomination, his mind twisted in hatred against the very same Kin who would hate him in return and hunt him to his doom...

"Then hold him gently, Nazgul, for he is an utter innocent!" Thranduil cried at last, standing in his stirrups and shaking a fist at the hovering creature. "Do him no harm in return for my promise!"

No Elf is innocent, came the knell. I make no promise.

"Creature of Shadow, you ask too much!" Thranduil cried, a wrenching tone of anguish in his voice. "He is only a little child, you cannot demand I foster him to Shadow all the days of his long life!"

The Nazgul rose up shrieking and wailing, until all who heard covered their ears, and even the trees seemed to shrink back in terror. Go, it wailed at him. Go now, depart from us, obey... or you will wish your son had died!

The horses of Thranduil turned at their riders' commands, and fled back the way they had come. They retreated at the gallop, watching over their shoulders in fear; but the Nazgul had what it wanted, and did not pursue. At length, the Elves drew rein and paused. They milled about Thranduil, uncertain whether they should censure or comfort or question or what; to an Elf they were stunned to see him smile with grim determination.

"Galmir, to me!" Thranduil commanded, facing about to look into the eyes of his most trusted captain. The elder Elf gigged his mount closer to the King's and bowed, hand to heart and forehead in salute.

"Command me, Sire, and I shall obey," he said quietly, his heart riven at what he had witnessed, what he had heard, for Prince Legolas was dear to him.

"Take these warriors -" Thranduil indicated a significant portion of his force - "and my banner, and ride hard for home," the King commanded. "Give every impression that we have simply returned, then summon my Council and explain only that plans have changed. Say what you will, but speak not of this foul Nazgul and his evil mission."

"I will obey you, lord King," Galmir murmured. "But let me ask for the love I bear you, and my loyalty to your House - what will you be doing, while I am doing thus?"

"I," said Thranduil, "will take the rest of these stout hearts and ride to the eastern edge of the Great Forest. We will then head south and cut across the lower extremes of Mirkwood, to there seek out Elrond Peredhil and acquaint him with the situation."

He gazed off the way they had just come, blood in his eye.

"No foulness is going to make me cage my son for the sake of Shadow," he growled, with all the violence of his anger and grief. "This is not the end of the matter. Somehow I will gain my Legolas free of Dol Guldur - or kill him myself. Go now - I will return if I can, when I can."

He then gathered up his remnant, and they galloped away into the fastness of Mirkwood. Galmir sat in grief-stricken silence for some time, thinking as he did that he saw the end of the House of Oropher in Shadow and pain; then he rode off to do as he was bidden.

No, you cannot have it both ways, Peredhil, Elrond chided himself as they drew up near to the way station under the sheltering eaves of Southern Mirkwood's dense forest. You can either continue to receive sensations and horror from the lad, and be glad at least to know he is alive - or you can experience a certain relief at feeling nothing, so you can concentrate on the task at hand. But you cannot have it both ways!

He clung to the saddlebow, trying not to pursue his unhappy thoughts to their ultimate conclusion, as his sons made their report. There had been a long drawn-out time of incredible pain echoing from the captive child, so that Elrond was barely able to stay aboard his mount; as if poison, or something even worse, was coiling its way along the child's every sinew and nerve-ending. Then, of course, there had been the screaming - over and over, like a being taken to the end of their endurance to a place where nothing of sanity could seep in, nothing of courage - then silence, terrible and complete. Silence and a sense of nothingness...

Elrond feared that little Legolas was dead, now, and felt great, encompassing grief tinged with relief. If the child were dead, then Shadow could not make him into a creature of its own - could not hurt the youngster any longer. Elrond would mourn for what was lost, however - the dreams and visions he had shared with the prince had been powerful and mystical, and hinted at a throwback Eldar strength in the young son of Thranduil. Such a waste, such an incredible loss...

He tried to concentrate on the words of his sons, tried to smile at them so they did not worry. Elrond had seen the curious, worried glances from Elladan and Elrohir, and tried to reassure them with his gaze as he listened.

"The Orcs have indeed taken refuge in the hunters' way station," Elladan was saying. He glanced once at his father, an expression of curiosity under drawn-down brows, and added: "We did not actually see Legolas. But we heard him."

Elrohir gave an angry smile, and quoted a phrase in Silvan Elvish. "Does that mean 'stinking bag of Orc guts'?" he murmured, knowing it was so. Tinuvil gave a startled laugh that twisted into a note of pain.

"You heard the boy say that? Ai, that's my lad," he breathed, and stared hard at the map. "Heard you aught else?"

"Heard, and saw," Elladan said, and quite suddenly he was able to look everywhere but directly into the eyes of either Tinuvil or Elrond. "We have watched all comings and goings, and even forewent the pleasure of killing an Orc that strayed close to us, and very nearly pissed on Hellan, here. If he had seen us, we would surely have had to kill him - but soon or late, he might have been missed by his fellows."

"You did well to hold your peace, Hellan," Tinuvil said to the lithe, dark Silvan elf Elladan had indicated. "So now what? How many hours until moonrise?"

Elrond looked at his sons, hearing echoes of what they had not said. He allowed the discussion to go off into planning and practicalities, and when the decisions were made, the Lord of Imladris took Elladan by the shoulder.

"You said that you had heard and seen more," he said quietly. Elladan turned, and could not miss the look in his father's eyes. He knew, of course, that Elrond was ancient - but rarely had he ever actually seen his sire look old, weary past bearing. If he had had any thought of kind fabrication, Elrond's tired, grief-filled eyes drove it all away.

"Father - I know not how to tell you this," he said, and his gaze slid briefly to his right, where Tinuvil had paused. Elrond's left eyebrow curved upward.

"Then I shall assist you. A Black Rider came to call, did he not - a Nazgul. The Chief of their kind, unless I miss my guess." His sons and their companions gaped, taken even more aback that the others with Elrond showed no surprise at this announcement, but only waited for the inevitable confirmation. "You know for certain that the little prince was alive as much as half an hour ago, for that is when the child screamed. Is it not? And you have heard nothing since?"

"How -" Elrohir started to say, but words failed him them, and he simply stared.

"Is the Rider departed?" Elrond asked. Elladan nodded.

"He left almost immediately as he came," the younger Elf said. "As he rode off into the forest toward the northeast, his mount altered into a kind of flying creature, like a dragon or some such."

Elrond closed his eyes. Flying Nazgul, he thought. Just what we needed.

"All right," he murmured with the lightest of sighs. "Let us make ready."