Disclaimers: Unfortunately I don't have a Lee Pace. Not the original, and not any of his characters. Written for enjoyment only.
Genre: Angst/Romance.
Set: Closely after TBOTFA
Thranduil felt strangely reluctant leaving the devastated Tauriel. With her mourning over the body of her love, raptured into a state where the king knew well from his own experience she would not be able raise above the sword of wretchedness lodged into her heart and the desolation taking hold over her chest for the time being, a certain understanding had passed between them. Tauriel had put her life in his hand fully aware that he was acquainted with what she was going through, but he refused passing a sentence arguably suitable for her disobedience and treason. He could not kill her, not now, not ever, he was sure of that. Not because she wished death and granting it would've served her purpose, not because of Legolas and not because elves rarely willingly caused the passing of another. Tauriel has threatened his, the elvenking's life, and he was well in his rights to sentence her to death for it. He could let his commanders and advisors deal with the situation at a later time. He had to get back to his lieutenants and his people as soon as was possible, let them know he was alive and well, organise the care of the wounded and the regrouping of their forces for the march home. He was helpless to provide Tauriel with any relief for the moment in any case, nor was it his place, so he made a mental note of sending some members of his guard for her at a later time.
His steps were unsteady as he turned and he found himself grabbing for the wall of the ruins of the gloomily looming fortress up the top of the rocky mound of Ravenhill. He hadn't even realised how weary he had gotten after a full day of a fierce and largely fruitless, senseless and unexpected battle. He had brought the bulk of his archers and spearman for show and demonstration of power, not for an unplanned clash with orcs and goblins from Gundabad, reminding him of creatures akin to those that killed his wife and of the horrors of the War of the Last Alliance at the same time.
The crumbling stairways and tunnels that led him downwards didn't help his state of mind, memories of long forgotten ghosts haunting him at every turn all the while he had to manoeuvre through and step over numerous corpses of the enemy, along with those of a few dwarves and further down under the mist, he began to run into bodies of fallen elves more and more often. Legolas wasn't one of them, he knew that now, but the heartache of losing him in another way was starting take a toll on his spirit too. At least his son would not have to see this though, go through the torture of having to bury so many of their compatriots and that was good, but it also meant Thranduil will have to deal with all its weight alone.
The trek was becoming ever more troublesome. More bodies to climb over at the same time as his sprains and bruises and weariness was starting make him aware of their existence. He was not looking at the faces of those fallen anymore, not since he had found Legolas, but that doesn't mean he didn't recognise some of them. Many of these elves he had personally trained, or at least had overseen their acquiring of skills necessary for the elven army and the great majority had been part of his followers for the very least centuries, millennia at times. Relatively young or old, he didn't know which hurt more to lose. A wine trader who had insisted on changing professions just recently, one of the archery masters in charge of tutoring the newer recruits, a flag bearer, a horse handler fascinated by cartography-all the departed had their life stories and faces attached to them he could easily recall even as he tried very hard not to. It could take a long time to collect all these bodies and then the burden of having to tell the fallen's loved ones of their unfortunate fate will befall on him. How could he do that, look into the wives and children's eyes and justify the deaths, ultimately his fault for bringing them out here for collecting some gems that although rightly belonging to him, held no validation to cause the death of one elf, never mind hundreds.
Resolve steeling him in the decision, he took to purposefully avoid looking anywhere near his subjects who fell for him, but his feet could not avoid the blood and spilled guts and severed limbs. Even that glove, he knew who it belonged to and it startled him into making the mistake of looking again, finding the respective body mutilated, headless and otherwise unrecognizable. But he knew there was a little girl, barely a few years old, waiting for her father to come back.
It was that knowledge and not the sight that made him gag and suddenly his armour was all too tight for his sadness inflated chest. On impulse, he got rid of the chest plate to be collected by whoever at a later time and fell to his knees by the corpse, laden by all the burden and responsibility for his people. He'd never planned this massacre, they would've all stayed in the safety of the caves if he knew the full extent of the dangers awaiting for them at the bottom of Erebor. All that weight on his shoulders made him hunch over, breaths painful in his emotion filled chest. "What have I done!" He called out to nobody in particular and somehow expected the sky to close in on him as punishment.
Instead, a shaking hand grabbed hold of and clawed on his leg. "Help me, please. Help me." A voice pleaded. Thranduil turned to find an elf lying helpless, with his eyes gauged out, otherwise also incapacitated by mangled legs, in a state the king wondered how the bowman could still be alive. As far he could tell, the victim wasn't one he could recognise, but it didn't take much away from the horror of the realisation that there was nothing that could be done for the elf.
"My Lord! My Lord, are you injured?" Feren appeared coming up on the stairway, followed by half a dozen other members of the royal guard. With the way his king was hunched over, pale like a ghost, there was no other conclusion he could come to.
"Please, end this pain, kill me," the wounded bowman begged, moving his head a little round towards the sound, now that he was sure there was someone capable around. It was the second time in less than an hour somebody pleaded with Thranduil to take their life and this time, he saw no other option. His hand moved towards the other elf's and squeezed his arm, "have no care, warrior," he heartened, "they are waiting for you in Valar." His other hand went for his sword to unsheathe it.
"I will arrange it," Feren offered, "we need to get you to the healers, Your Majesty," he stooped on the other side of the dying elf.
"The…the king?" The common soldier turned his head back towards the first source of sounds incredulously.
Thranduil held up his sword holding hand to halt Feren. "I am your King. You fought well, warrior, I am proud of you," he encouraged the wounded, "and I thank you for your service. What is your name?"
"Aewendar, my Lord." The elf answered softly, calming down. "An honour to die by your hand," he uttered reverently.
Thranduil closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. There was no honour in that, just another life snuffed out because of his foolishness. And this time, it wasn't just the figurative blood on his hands. "Do you have a family Aewendar?"
"A wife, and daughter, Your Majesty."
"Aewendar, I promise you they will be well provided for as long as I live," Thranduil held and embedded his sword into the middle of the unfortunate elf's chest. The warrior expired with a simple inhale and exhale, probably already having had lost too much blood to feel anything. Thranduil leaned onto the hilt of his sword, weighed by guilt and shaken by memory. It wasn't the first time he had to do such a thing.
"My Lord, are you alright?" Feren prompted, worried. The king looked shaky and unwell, his usual composed superiority conveyed in every movement and deed of his to the slightest of changes in position all but completely shattered.
"I am unharmed," Thranduil tried to get himself together and onto his feet. Feren looked unsure of whether he should step forward and aid him, but the elvenking ultimately mastered enough of his self composure to convince his subordinates that he was capable enough to stand, dislodge his sword, sheathe it and stumble round and onto the path down the hill. "Report," he commanded, forehead creasing in uneasiness, but otherwise poised and focused.
Feren allowed himself a half of a relieved sigh before complying. He was still quite convinced the king was injured, but it didn't seem grave. "All wargs and goblins are either dead or fleeing. I gave the order for pursuit to eliminate as many as possible while they are still weak, with your permission, My Lord," he asked for it in retrospective. With the king gone on his own private mission, he had to make his own decisions in his position in battle as chief lieutenant of the forces after all.
"Very well," Thranduil grunted. He wasn't keen on more danger and more of his elves engaging in combat when it wasn't absolutely necessary, but what Feren done was common practice and well expected.
"Thorin and his nephews are dead," Feren continued, "the dwarves suffered the greatest of casualties. King Bard wishes to join forces in the aid of the wounded on the battlefield, not making differentiation between the injured, but collecting and treating them depending on severity of injury and not race."
Thranduil halted, momentarily looking just as questioning of the idea as his right hand in battle. But then he gave a minute nod, "aid him as much as possible, as long as he's not asking for the same treatment for dwarves." Then he winced. Tauriel would not be happy. His stomach churned just thinking of her having been left up on top of the horror hill, a formation littered with death and symbolic of the meaningless destruction that creature could commit against creature. It was such a conflicting situation, so logical to stay loyal only to your own and yet the elleth would ask her the opposite, through it all.
"My Lord?" Feren prompted, uncertain. The king was holding on to the crumbling wall and had not said a word in a while.
Thranduil blinked up, as if roused from slumber, a little confused. He had to remind himself of what was expected of him, "I am well," he assured. But his mind and body didn't think so. One step forward and the dizziness in his head that came with his aching heart descended to his stomach. He halted again, leaned forward, and threw up, barely avoiding his lieutenant's boots.
Tbc