Legolas made an overt show of shifting about on his horse’s back in order to glance surreptitiously at his friend.  He knew that Strider was tired and as if to confirm his assessment, the ranger tried to stifle a yawn.  Tired or no, the Elf knew that Aragorn would not call a halt to their ride until the sun had set even though it had been an extremely harrowing night and an even longer day.  After the unexpected orc attack, they had hastily packed up what few belongings they could salvage from the ruins of their camp and had quickly mounted up.  Aragorn was determined to follow the band of orcs before their trail ran cold even though he suspected their ultimate goal was the abandoned fortress of Dol Guldur hidden deep within Mirkwood’s southern realm.  Even assuming their apparent destination was indeed the dark tower, it was still several days journey through the dense and less traveled portions of Mirkwood Forest to reach this site and the ranger was unwilling to lose precious time with unnecessary stops along the way.

          The two had ridden throughout the remainder of the night, but their progress was slow and cautious due to the darkness of the forest and the unreliability of the moon’s faint luminescence.  At dawn they halted along the banks of the Anduin to see to Strider’s wounded arm.  After painstakingly washing out the cut with the pure, clear river water, Legolas was finally satisfied that the injury was without infection.  Aragorn had been lucky.  Either the orc’s blade had not been previously treated with poison, or the foul toxin’s potency had diminished over time rendering it harmless.  Whatever the case, the wound would almost certainly heal cleanly and leave barely a scar to mark its passing.  The Elf then competently re-wrapped his friend’s forearm and declared him fit for travel.

          With Strider’s battle wound administrations resolved, the two friends shared a light breakfast of lembas and berries washed down with cold water from the river’s edge.  Aragorn had not wanted to take the time to build a fire for the heating of tea, and although Legolas would have preferred a warm, soothing bark tea, the cool water was sufficient to replenish his Elven body.  Being an Elf, he naturally required far less than his human companion when it came to the necessities of food or rest, but he did enjoy the camaraderie that a good meal and flavorful beverages provided.

          After finishing their meager repast, Strider gathered up what few packs he had removed from his horse’s back and began to reattach them to his saddle.  Once he was certain that they were securely tied, he placed a foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up onto Hodoer’s back.   Without any conscious thought or effort, Legolas went about gathering up anything left behind from their meal that might leave the area disturbed or offend the forest by its unnatural presence.  When he was finished, no trace of human or Elven passage could be seen amid the trees and grasses along the river’s banks.  With a nod to Aragorn that he was ready, the Elf mounted his own steed and the two resumed their pursuit of the orcs.

          They journeyed without rest or food for the remainder of the day, stopping only when Strider chose to take a closer look at the orcs’ trail to confirm the blatant signs that the foul creatures had trampled through the foliage.  It appeared that the orcs and goblins they were tracking were not taking any great care to conceal their progress.  Either they had no fear of being followed, or they were leading the two into an ambush.  Neither of these scenarios particularly appealed to Aragorn and the ranger’s innate senses were warning him to be on the alert, yet so far he had seen no evidence of a trap and the orcs continued to remain a healthy distance ahead of them.

          They had ridden in this manner for some time, neither Elf nor man speaking, when Aragorn suddenly realized that Legolas was no longer riding beside him.  Reining in his horse and turning about in his saddle, he glanced back over his shoulder at the Elf with a questioning frown.

          “Legolas?”  Strider rubbed his gritty eyes and anxiously scanned the forest.  “What is it?”

          The Elf’s stunning features broke into a tranquil smile.  “Relax, Strider.  I only thought it a good place to stop for the night.”

          “We have yet another hour of daylight left,” the ranger protested.

          Ignoring this comment, Legolas lightly dismounted and gathered the steed to his side with a gesture of his hand and soft Elven words.  “Aphado adel  enni, Astalder.” * He looked up at Aragorn with an expression that brooked no room for argument. “You are tired and need to rest.”

          “I am fine, and you do not need to watch over me,” Aragorn groused.

          The Elf laughed openly, yet his obvious concern for the young ranger was clearly evident in his caring expression. “Well someone has to.”

          Before the ranger could voice a retort, Legolas clasped Hodoer’s bridle and turned the animal off the trail.  Aragorn, still seated in the saddle, was forced to endure being led from the trail and into the woods by the Elf prince.

          “Legolas,” Strider’s voice betrayed his growing annoyance. “Let go of my horse.”

          The flaxen-haired warrior looked over his shoulder and up at his friend with a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.  “I think not,” he grinned.  “Behold,” he made a sweeping gesture with his free hand. “I have found the perfect spot for a camp.”

          In spite of his irritation, Aragorn surveyed the area with the trained eyes of a ranger, and grudgingly had to admit that the small clearing was indeed a highly suitable resting spot for the night.  He could hear the soft gurgling sounds of a stream not far away and the forest floor beneath his horse’s hooves was covered with soft, downy moss, a definite plus since they no longer had any sleeping rolls.  Reluctantly, he swung his right leg over his horse’s neck and slid to the ground.

          “All right,” he conceded.  “You win.  But I am not tired.”

          After so many years and countless adventures traveling together, the Elf and ranger fell into an easy and familiar routine of self-appointed tasks in readying their camp for the night.  Legolas saw to the needs of the horses first, while Aragorn began to gather up loose branches and twigs for their fire.  By the time the horses were brushed down and fed, Strider had the logs ablaze.  A small, dented kettle, recovered from the orc raid, was filled with water and hanging over the flames, suspended from a tripod of long, straight sticks.  The water within the utensil was slowly starting to simmer.

          Picking up his small, light hunting bow and quiver of arrows, Strider called to his friend as he headed out of the clearing.  “I’ll see what I can find to eat.”

          Legolas nodded and waved his acknowledgement.  Even though he was by far the better woodland hunter, he was confident of Aragorn’s skill as an archer.   Without doubt the ranger’s foray into the forest would yield sufficient game for the two of them and he was looking forward to a meal of more than dried meat strips and berries.  While Strider was out hunting, he would have time to examine his damaged quiver and see what harm had come to the arrows stored within.

          Deftly unfastening the straps on his torso, he brought the quiver around in front of his chest to examine the punctured leather.  A dismayed frown crept over his striking features as he examined the destruction the orc arrow had caused.   The meticulously tooled leather was pierced through and the ornate metal embossing that decorated the quiver was crushed and dented.  Dropping down to the forest floor, he settled himself upon the comfortable ground cover and with legs crossed, drew the quiver closer, running his expert hand along the side and back.   The elegant Elven workmanship of the arrow smith was ruined, and Legolas did not think that it could be repaired, but he would take it back to Nónd, his father’s chief armorer, when he returned to Lasgalen and seek the older Elf’s expert advice.  Perhaps this master craftsman could refurbish the quiver and restore it to its former splendor.  He sighed; saddened that such a thing of beauty could be marred by the foul hand of an orc.

          Carefully he withdrew the arrows from the quiver and one by one, inspected them for signs of damage.  Two shafts were broken and had shattered upon impact, obviously the result of a direct hit from the orc arrow.  Both slender bolts were beyond repair.  The points, however, were undamaged and Legolas cut them from the splintered shafts.  He could attach these to new shafts the next time he had the opportunity and ample time to craft more arrows.  He reached over his knee and picked up one of the leather gear bags he had earlier removed from his horse and brought out a small suede pouch.   He opened the bag and withdrew the soft cloth stored within.  He skillfully and efficiently wrapped the points within the cloth and returned them to the pouch.  Gathering up the useless shafts, he tossed them onto the campfire, where they slowly caught fire and began to burn amid the other sticks and logs.

          Of the remaining arrows in this bundle, all were intact and seemingly unmarred, save one that bore a large gouge along the shaft, near the point.  Legolas decided he could repair the harm done to the shaft by sanding down the wood and re-staining the shaft, but knew that the arrow would not equal the standard of the others in his bundle.  He would need to mark it to remind him later that it was inferior and not reliable for a truly accurate shot.

          For the killing of orcs, it would do just fine.  The harsh words flitted through his mind and his jaw tightened in response to the angry thought.  His normally handsome features twisted with disgust and revulsion at the memory of the vile creatures and he shook his golden head in a deliberate effort to rid his mind of their unwanted visions.  He hated orcs with a maddened rage that was just shy of insane.  Like most of his Elven brethren, he was repulsed by orcs at a deep, primal level.

          As he was packing away the remaining arrows and trying to think of more enjoyable things than orcs, Strider returned through the foliage carrying a brace of rabbits.  The ranger dropped the animals next to the campfire and set his bow and quiver down upon the ground near his saddlebags.  Pulling a long Elven blade from the sheath at his belt, he crouched down over the dead hares, lifted one up and began to proficiently field dress the carcass.  As he worked, he absently began humming an elvish lay.   Legolas smiled as the lilting song filled the small clearing and the unpleasant thoughts of orcs were quickly banished.

          “You could help, you know.”   Strider’s apparent sarcasm was confirmed when he tossed the second rabbit directly at the Elf.   Without even blinking, Legolas nimbly caught the animal with one practiced hand.  Strider shook his head and gave the Elf an incredulous smirk.  “One of these days, my friend, I’m going to catch you napping and a dead animal is going to land squarely in your lap.”

          “Not in your lifetime,” the Elf grinned, but he readily accepted the task and worked alongside the ranger to clean and prepare the night’s catch.

          In no time the rabbits were skewered and roasting over the fire.  Both friends leaned back, propped up against the sturdy trunks of two towering and leafy trees, enjoying the night and each other’s company as they waited for the game to cook.   Strider had also discovered and dug up some succulent tubers he had spied growing along the forest path he traveled when returning to the camp.   These he added to the bubbling kettle and soon they were enjoying a tasty meal of rabbit and boiled vegetables.  Their dinner was as satisfying as any feast they had ever attended in either Imladris or at King Thranduil’s great hall and both Elf and ranger were lulled into a lazy, sated stupor -- Aragorn because he really was exhausted, and Legolas because he was calm and content.

          “Get some rest, Estel,” Legolas murmured. “I’ll keep watch.”

          This time Aragorn did not voice any objections to the Elf’s suggestion and stretched out his weary body upon the mossy ground beside the dying campfire.  He rolled over onto his side, his back to the flames, with his head resting upon one of his saddlebags.  He was asleep within seconds.  Legolas shook his head and smiled to himself.  It never ceased to amaze him how quickly Estel could fall asleep anywhere, at any time, and under any circumstances, if he wished to do so.  Must be a human thing, he decided, getting up from his spot by the fire and walking over to retrieve his bow and quiver.

          He slung the quiver over his head and shoulders and fastened it snuggly across his chest.  Picking up his bow, he glanced about the camp in search of a comfortable spot to wait out the night.  His gaze lighted upon a sturdy branch not far from where Aragorn lay sleeping.  He walked over to the tree without making a whisper of a sound as he passed over the groundcover and leapt up into the branches above his head.  The tree sighed its greeting to the woodland being and Legolas sang softly to it in return.  He positioned himself along the solid tree limb, resting his back upon the gnarled trunk and settled down for a peaceful evening of solitude and communion with the stars.

*Follow behind me, Astalder.