Disclaimer: I own no dwarves, hobbits, rings of power or any other Tolkien's creations.

vocabulary:

fea - soul

aran nin - my king

elleth - female elf

Chapter: 1

Numb. Bereft. The frozen earth was scarred. Its bleak plains and chasms were cropped with blood. Even the wind grew hollow to mourn the passage of the living into death. He let the last cries of their fea brush past untouched. To feel was to let in despair. Despair was for the weak, for those who could not live on. Tauriel's anguish reminded him how important it was to maintain control.

"Come back to your people once you're ready," he told her. Tauriel kept crying. Intuitively, he sensed she would once the pain allowed her to let go of the physical body. A detachment from the emotional bonds could take forever. Intruder on that mourning, he let her be. Her grief awakened memories that were sealed away and banished into a numb abyss. Those locks could not be tempered with. They had to hold.

Chilled outside. Frigid in heart. He succumbed to the urge to see his fallen troops. They deserved that much, a prayer from their King. Every being had to hold on to a purpose in life. Else, it was worthless. What did he hold sacred? Most of it grew corrupt or turned to ashes, except for the loyalty to his land.

As the footsteps of his son grew quieter, farther away, so did warmth. Whatever was left of the bond with his wife was poisoned by his own hand. The hate in his son's eyes, as Legolas announced his leave, was palpable. And so, he had no one to love, nothing to cherish but the connection to his kin and responsibility. He tried to do right by them, while the world infringed upon his borders and demanded payment, never leaving them in peace, just like this cursed day. Too many elven lives have been sacrificed in the Battle for the Lonely Mountain. Their fair blood sunk into earth.

Another one lay sprawled on her back. The fallen ruins sealed her to the waist like a tomb. One of the finest warriors. Her armour bore the markings of the elite archer squad. The silver hair, matted by blood of friends and enemies, fanned out and mixed with the snow. The grey eyes, far too expressive and bright for a pale face, were wide open like she was reaching out to the low skies with a plea. A bow lay barely out of the fingertip reach of her outstretched arm. It wasn't right for a warrior to die in battle without a weapon in hand. On an impulse, he leaned in to fulfill her last wish. The death was too recent. Her skin still held a bit of warmth.

Thranduil barely suppressed a gasp when the elleth's fingers convulsively locked around his wrist. Her eyelashes moved a fraction.

Alive! The thought was frantic. The numbness grew into shock. 'Save her!' an inner voice called out. The hard fought for rational was on the verge of slipping away. They were trapped. Alone, he could not move the rocks that held the broken body. The painful hold on his wrist was keeping the elleth in this life. He could not leave to find aid. It was too far. He had ventured away from the troops to find Tauriel and Legolas. Tauriel! She had to be nearby. Swallowing pride, he shouted for help, unaware just how distraught that plea was. Thranduil leaned in closely, examining his charge for the tiniest signs of life. Still, she drew breaths, though broken and shallow. This one could not be lost. The toll had been too high.

"Aran-nin!" An unsteady hand was placed on his shoulder to get his attention. Tauriel's huge eyes were filled with concern and fright. When the cry came, she had thought he fell victim to the enemy. Apprehension dawned on her as she saw the injured archer.

"Tauriel, fly to camp and find the healers. Bring someone who can move these rocks!" he implored. The elleth swallowed hard and remained in place. Her gaze was no longer on him, but ran past. Biting down the irritation that his order was disobeyed, Thranduil turned in that direction.

With the panic-filled thoughts settling down, he grew aware of the crunching noise and the company he least wished to encounter. The mongrel friends of Thorin Oakenshield. Tauriel reached out to them with an urgent plea. He would have thought them up to no good had he seen them approach. The dwarves took in the situation on their own and set to work. At least they were competent in moving rocks.

"Aye, lads! We need a better leverage," Balin called out. Noisily, like all their kind would do, they quickly loosened the fallen tower pieces, though the labour was heavy and Tauriel leapt up to help with finding the necessary planks. The dwarves and the Silvan King furiously ignored each other. Someone stepped in between them to address him.

"Uh...don't worry, Your, umm Elven, uh Highness. We'll free her."

Getting no answer, Bilbo shuffled away. Thranduil spared a long glance at the hobbit who stumbled around out of place, nervously pulling his hands in and out of the pockets, and looking like he wanted to help without a clue how to do it properly. Eventually, he tried to push the arduous mass. It trembled and shook, still unyielding to the efforts. The bottom stones had landed beside the elleth, taking on most of the weight, else she would have been completely crushed.

Even if they meant well, the dwarves' presence was unkind on his nerves that were already taut as a bowstring. They'd probably demand a compensation of some kind later. Thranduil turned away from the irritable sight to support his charge. With the kind words and touches he soothed her into loosening the grip, and gathered her hand into his. The breath of Mandos was a strong presence behind her will to live. "Have no fear. You will not be left in this desolate place," he called out to her. The Sindarin flowed like a prayer, reaching out to her soul. "You will heal. You will return home to the woods, but you must find the strength to endure."

With a deafening shout of encouragement, the dwarves dug into the weakest point, forcing the stone to collapse. They dodged the falling boulders. One of the chunks heavily smashed into Thranduil who couldn't avoid the blow, having leaned protectively over the injured elleth. His shoulder exploded in pain as the stone left a heavy dint in the armour. The so called rescuers cheered and set to removing the last of the bulk. Bilbo shuffled over, flicking the remaining pebbles off the broken body.

"Ah! UGH!" the hobbit swallowed back the content of his stomach and flinched away. "It uh looks broken. You may…you may want to bandage it or put a cold compress on that."

The Silvan King felt a twinge of respect since he hadn't dared to look yet. There was nothing pleasant to see.

"Poor, young lass!"

Thranduil gritted his teeth. Delicately, he lifted the prone body and set off at the safest, brisk pace to find the healers without a word. If she had to, Tauriel could thank them.

"You're quite welcome!" Bilbo's voice reached him.

The King did not respond. The dwarves weren't Silvan allies. He owed them nothing. The wind picked up, throwing handfuls of snow into his back. The frost that clung to his hair scraped against his cheekbones and neck. Above them, great eagle cries filled the air. The majestic birds circled the battlefield to destroy the remaining enemies, orcs and trolls that skulked from stone to stone to reach the tunnels and flee back to the foul places they've spawned from where they could rebuild again. If Beorn wanted to amuse himself in those tunnels, it was his prerogative. The King was risking no one else to hunt down the filth of Gundabad. The elves have done their part.

Their perfectly organised tents were already stretched out in patches of green and brown on the stark-white landscape. Small parties scouted the battlefield for the injured and fallen, keeping together and alert to the presence of the still near foes. Thranduil moved to the center of activity where the wounded were stationed, dismissing the warrior who tried to free him of the elleth he carried. Jostling the wounded archer by passing her from one to another might as well have killed her. The elves respectfully gave way to their King, many averting their eyes from the distressing sight. A tent flap was promptly moved aside by the guards to grant him entry. He stopped at the entrance to receive the instructions from one of the healers, as much as to shake off an unwanted wave of dizziness. The air was thick with the scents of herbs and blood. The muffled cries and curses weaved into the healers' exchanges and their quiet questioning of their patients. There were fewer wounded than anticipated. The clash had been too fierce. The blows exchanged by foes aimed either for death or victory. He'd know how many they've lost soon enough. Thranduil swallowed, wishing he could wash away the sickly taste with water, and focused on a healer who urgently detached herself from a task.

"Please, this way," she acknowledged the King with a minor bow and urgently guided him to a less crowded area where he was allowed to lay down the elleth at last. "We'll tend to her at once. These injuries are critical. I will need the help of at least one more," she declared after the briefest examination. The patient's regained hold on his wrist did not escape her notice, but she hadn't risked detaining the King.

"I suppose someone must remain with her while you collect your tools. I will stay," Thranduil issued. The healer nodded her thanks and quickly set off to prepare the instruments. She returned with a younger healer in tow who wasn't too skilled yet at disguising his feelings at the sight of grave injuries. The quick exchanges between them were troubled. Knowing they'd never ask even though he was now in the way, Thranduil tried to detach himself from the patient. The archer issued a distressed gasp and her fingers sunk into his wrist once more.

Thranduil lay a hand on her cheek and tried to look into the hooded eyes, unsure whether she could see him. "You are safe here," he called out, wishing he knew her name. "Safe. Trust these healers to help you. Can you feel their presence near? Let them guide you. They are friends who will lead you back to the light." The King made no other attempt to pull away, waiting patiently until she could let go. Among the wise, rumours passed that his voice held an enchanting quality. He fervently hoped that channelling this skill was enough to guide the elleth away from death. Hearing this, the healer placed her hand on the battered and trembling limb to build the connection. Reluctantly, the grip on Thranduil relaxed enough for a healer to take his place. Holding a breath, he delicately stepped away.

As he did so, Helenith appeared by his side. The Master in charge of the field healers had an uncanny ability to move softer than a scout. With an unshaken serenity he awaited to be acknowledged. "How many," Thranduil asked, heading outside where he wouldn't get in the way. A biting breath of the crisp air cleared his head. In its place tiredness set in, urging him to get away from the prying eyes where he could sit down. The healer followed the King to his personal tent, explaining the situation as they walked. His voice always flowed over the senses like a healing balm. It was low and soothing, suspiciously more so than usual. "Our kin is our priority. I care little for the plight of dwarves and men. Let them tend to their own injured," the King ground out. Helenith did not put up an argument, which was a cause for alarm. He always wanted to heal every bug in the forest, even the spiders if he could. "Do you not have a duty to fulfill elsewhere other than following me around?" Thranduil inquired suspiciously, noting how the healer matched his every step as he paced the tent in agitation.

"Aran-nin, I would like to fulfill my duty," Helenith replied mildly enough, yet his patience could move the rocks since he'd regard them serenely until they gave in. "If I may say so, you look stricken."

The King's pacing stopped abruptly. The weakness should never have surfaced. His pride demanded no less than concealing all signs of distress.

"What is it you require of me?" Thranduil decided it was faster find out directly than to argue. The strenuous negotiations, then the fearsome battle and loss were bound to be unkind on anyone. Emotionally, he was drained. Thranduil touched his face to check whether the strain reflected in his features. There was no horribly twisted, corrupted flesh, no memories of the past war. The palm encountered a smooth skin, except for the minor cuts that stung.

"This potion contains the healing herbs that have rejuvenating qualities. They're quite soothing," the healer poured a rose liquid into a glass from a decanter, which he brought from the healing tent with them. The offer was clearly to drink it.

Thranduil suspiciously sniffed the concoction. It did not smell that bad. The taste was slightly bitter. It caused a curious sensation of floating, but he did feel the tension subside and grow distant. The healer, who took the cup from him and stepped away to set it down, was growing out of focus.

"Have you sustained any injuries? It might be prudent to address them as I'm already here."

Helenith's voice was almost hypnotising. Thranduil wanted to tell him no and to send the meddling healer away, but the words weren't forming. "My King?" Helenith's usually composed features were creased with concern as he swiftly closed the distance between them. Just what was in that treacherous concoction? There was a restraining pressure in his chest and then something snapped, making him draw a free, convulsive breath. Thranduil swayed. The reality drifted out of focus. As the King collapsed, Helenith caught him.