-Shadows on the Snow-

By: Bill the Pony

Rating: PG-13 (violence)

Spoilers: Rising Storm (my own fic), perhaps the trilogy.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters do not belong to me, but to Tolkien or whoever owns them at the moment. I only have my muses and Fasse, Gorban, Ralamir, Falmarin and all other obscure characters.

_____________

Shadows on the Snow

_____________

Fasse eyed the darkening sky, rubbing his hands over his arms. It was cold and it was snowing again. He didn’t like being cold, and he didn’t like snow. Snow made him cold, and cold made him a grousing, grumbling wizard. What made his whole unpleasant situation worse, was that he had to be uncomfortable in secret. His scheme was shady, but with the help of an item he had picked up on the way over to the manor, it just might work.

Falmarin’s head suddenly bobbed up, his ears pricked forward. He stood stock still, a building nicker growing deep in his throat. But the whiney got no further than a snort. Fasse watched the horse closely, not sure what the blasted creature was up to this time.

An answering bugle broke the silence of the growing darkness.

Fasse groveled his head in his hands. "No, no," he moaned, "No more horses."

But it seemed this was his fate, to be ever hounded by the equine race. A shadow on the white backdrop of the snow, the black horse was an enigma in the darkness. Legolas’s black find dropped in beside Falmarin, very much at ease as if he had known the grey horse for all his life. Fasse groaned, his shoulders slumping. "You must be that new demon that that fool of an elf picked. Figures that I would have to be the one that got stuck with you." If truly the horses understood him, they showed no sign of picking up on his sentiment.

Taking a deep breath and clutching his item to his side, Fasse stepped boldly out from the protection of the eves. Might as well get this all over with.

---

"It’s cold," Aragorn commented, not really to anyone. He had to admit it, but he was bored. He almost would prefer if someone would come and attempt to rough them up so at least he could have something to preoccupy him. Almost, would prefer. Legolas obviously did not share his sentiment.

When sharing this thought with the elf, the prince had cut him off before he could finish. "Aragorn! Do not even say it! I have a terrible feeling that you would get little of the ‘roughing’ and I would take the scourge." Unfortunately the elf was most likely right in this assumption. And so, Aragorn kept this thought unspoken.

"Yes, Aragorn, to you it is cold."

"But not to you? No of course not," Aragorn fiddled with the long chain which bound his hands together in front of him. "You’re an elf; you never feel cold."

"Not necessarily."

Seeing perhaps a conversation, or at least an argument, the man pressed the elf further. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Legolas said from his side of the wall, "that elves can feel cold, sometimes."

"When?"

"Well," Legolas thought for a moment. Really, he could not remember ever really being cold, but he had heard of elves in severe winters feeling the mortal sensation. "When it is really cold."

"It is really cold," the ranger muttered.

"To you, human."

"You still haven’t answered my question."

"I did."

"Not enough."

Legolas groaned, "Strider, how much more do I need to tell you? Elves get cold, sometimes, on rare occasions."

"But what do the situations have to be like?" Aragorn pressed further. Aggravating Legolas was so much more entertaining than counting the stones in the wall.

"I don’t know, Strider. I’ve never been in those situations, so how am I supposed to know?" The edge in the elf’s voice betrayed his growing frustration.

"So you’ve never actually been cold?"

Legolas blew a heavy breath. "No, I’ve never actually been cold."

"So do you think that if you were out in, say, a really long snowfall and got caught in it with nothing but a cloak for let’s say, a month, would that make you cold?"

"That would make me dead," Legolas answered wryly.

"Well then let’s say if you were stuck in a snow fall with an extra coat for a week without shelter…"

"Yes, that may make me cold. Is that enough information?" Legolas sighed in relief when there was no answer. The silence was welcome. That was until he heard steps descending the stairs.

---

After much shooing and scolding, Fasse managed to persuade the three horses to remain outside and not follow him into the manor. Goodness knows he’d draw enough attention waltzing in with a donkey and two horses.

He noticed a change in his attitude the moment he set foot inside the double doors. Unlike Dunland, the entryway was not guarded lock and key. This was a town, by definition, and this manor was a public place for the raising of complaints and concerns. At least, Fasse thought, it was partially a public place. There were after all prisons and the like here, not to mention the double dealings and deceit which surely festered inside these walls.

Pertaining to his attitude, he was immediately lightened in spirit partially because he was at last out of the driving snow and chilling air. It was the simple pleasure of warmth which succeeded always in putting him in a much more agreeable state of mind. Now, if only he didn’t have to rescue anyone.

"Good evening, sir. What may I do for you?" Fasse was greeted by a diminutive man – even more so than himself – behind an equally small desk crammed with papers and the like.

The wizard drew himself up, bringing to bear as much wizardry authority as he could muster. "I’m here to see the jailer for those two strangers brought in earlier."

"Hmm," the clerk disappeared beneath his desk for a moment. He popped back up with a large leather bound book in hand. The worn cover was covered with a layer of thick dust which billowed like a cloud around it when the clerk flipped the book open. "And what might be your name, Mr…."

Blast it all, he hadn’t thought of having to have an alias. Improvise, he told himself as he gaped for a name. Naturally, he chose the first that came to mind besides his own. "Eh? Oh, it’s…Mr. Elrond." Fasse kicked himself mentally. He could only pray that this land had not heard the name of the elven lord.

The clerk stared at him over his uselessly small spectacles. An eyebrow arched skyward. "Hmm, yes, Mr. Elrond. As I was saying – or rather about to – I do not see your name anywhere on the lists."

Fasse grimaced. Thankfully his hoary beard was there to hide it. "Why would I even be on the lists?"

The clerk coughed, his owlish eyes blinking once, very deliberately. "Everybody who wants to go further than here must be on the lists, Mr. Elrond. The jailer never filed anything about you coming." The clerk waggled a finger before ‘Mr. Elrond’ could contest. "But, I could go ask him if he was indeed expecting you."

Fasse squeaked. "Heh! No, that would be all too entirely out of the way for you, my good sir." The wizard licked his lips nervously, getting a mouthful of his own mustache. "Really, actually, I meant for it to be an, ah, surprise for the good chap." From beneath his cloak he drew a wrapped package. "I had the intention of delivering a present to him from, a friend."

Surprisingly, the clerk laughed. It was a very funny laugh in itself, sounding very much like rusted pennies rattling about in a mithril bucket – though why any dwarf would waste mithril on a bucket, who knew. He nodded to the package, "He will like that. Dallered is quite the, connoisseur, though he is a bit rough about the edges." Then the serious, scholarly clerk returned. "I suppose I can let you by this once. But next time," eyed him chidingly, "make sure you are on the lists." He stood, "Would you like me to take you down that way?"

Fasse shook his head, "No, no, you’ve done far too much already. But if you could just point me in the right direction…"

The clerk pushed his chair back, its legs grating against the wood floor. He moved to point down one of the hallways. "Follow this hallway, there will be three doors. Go through the middle one. After that, you’ll run into another clerk – much like myself. Give him this," the clerk thrust a sheet of paper with hasty scribbling on it. "Then he’ll let you through. You’ll see three more doorways; go through the one on the far right. Go down that corridor and you’ll see a staircase. Go up the staircase and keep going down the hall. Go five doors down and go into the sixth. There will be another clerk there, give him this," again, the clerk pushed into his hands another parchment. "You’ll need to go through the door – there’s only one in this room – and down the corridor until you hit the third door on the left. Open that, and there will be the stairway that will lead down to Dallered." The clerk smiled pleasantly, obviously missing the meaning of Mr. Elrond’s slightly blank expression. Very much like a wall that has bounced many thrown stones off it. Or more simply, a mind that has heard much, but comprehended little. "You can’t miss it."

Fasse’s gurgled a thanks. He turned to the long hallway. A hand fell on his shoulder, turning him around. "That hallway, Mr. Elrond."

"Heh, yes, yes of course."

The clerk bobbed his head to the wizard. "Have a good night, Mr. Elrond."

---

The swarthy jailer appeared before the bars of Legolas’s cell. "You have a visitor."

The ‘visitor’, was far from anyone Legolas would ever want to have visit him. Two men pushed in, looking no more enthusiastic about their job than Legolas was about it. Elves were on the level of demons in their uneducated minds. Legolas remained crouched with his back against the wall, his stare piercing both men. It was an unnerving, if not nerve-wracking, to have an elf – any elf - fix you with his most knowing and contemptuous gaze. It seemed to be something that came naturally to the Firstborn race.

Legolas had taken much study in mastering this technique.

Sweat beaded on the unfortunate two guards’ foreheads, as with cautious, quaking steps they proceeded forward, acheingly slow to their employer. "Fools! You shake like a leaf in a summer gale. Take him, and do not be so slow about it."

Goaded on by the displeasure of the horsetrader, now town official, the men attempted to take the elf by the shoulders. But there was no elf to grab.

Legolas darted from under their hands. Bound hands did not impede his agility. The door was wide open, inviting his escape. It was his chance, and he was not one to pass up chances.

But Nevens was not so foolish to proceed to take an elf with a mere two men. No sooner had Legolas set foot outside the cell, was he set upon by Nevens’ back up of five armed men.

Aragorn, in the next cell over, pressed his face to the bars, trying to catch a glimpse of the commotion by Legolas’s cell, no doubt caused by the elf. He could only dare to hope that the prince had managed to break loose. It would not be such an improbable accomplishment; he had seen Legolas break from far tighter situations. Of course, not always without a few minor injuries.

His hope was flamed at the pained shouts and curses uttered by deep man-ish voices.

"You imbeciles, take him now!" raged Nevens. The men had drawn back, a tight ring pushing the elf back against the wall. They had learned the hard way not to get too close the elf, lest they earn themselves more black eyes and kicked guts. "Are you so afraid of one unarmed elf that is bound with chains?" The truth was, they were. Nevens’ face flushed red. "Take him, I say!"

With Nevens’ sword prodding the hapless hired guards’ backs, they tightened the half circle about the elf. Their assorted weapons raised they pressed in all at once.

He tensed, coiling back like a cat ready to spring, as a mixed variety of implements of impending pain descended down upon him. Once again, the men found that the elf was just not there anymore.

Legolas sprang low at the level of the men’s knees. His body slammed full weight against the shins of the men, knocking their legs out from under them, providing a wide gap in their pinning wall. He rolled to his feet, hitting the ground running. As smoothly as a Breelander thief, he confiscated the ring of keys from the stunned jailer’s hands.

Aragorn caught the keys that Legolas shoved hastily through the bars. Deftly, he worked the different keys, blessedly it was only on his second try did his shackles snap open, falling to the floor with a satisfying clank. Sparing no time to rub life back into his pinched wrists, he set to work on door. Unfortunately the angle and narrowness of the bars prevented him from making much progress. Meanwhile Legolas was busy dodging the swipes of the guards who had clumsily gained their feet, after much tripping and cursing.

Finally, the door clicked.

The elf spun like a top, kicking and keeping at bay any who drew too near. The numbers of his opponents were growing as officials of the town passing above the stairs heard the commotion and called for help. He was much relieved when the door clicked behind him. "Nice of you to join me."

"Lets just get out of here before more come." Aragorn pressed as close to Legolas’s back as possible.

Their advance went all together too smoothly. Legolas worked one hand free, utilizing the length of heavy iron as a swinging weapon. It was an effective deterrent. With a skillful twist, he even managed to tangle the chain around the hilt of a man’s sword, tugging it from his grasp, providing Aragorn with a weapon.

But all in all, fighting on the offense was much more difficult than fighting to kill. When fighting wargs, orcs or other murderous beings you needn’t be cautious where your weapon fell on your enemy. And so it was that Aragorn missed the dagger pulled from Nevens boot and hurled at Legolas’s unprotected side.