Hi again. Hope you liked my intro. King Oropher - I have just learned - was a total hottie just like his son (well at least according to some fanart that I came across...)

But for this fic he (Oropher) is quite old - around 9000 years old (I know it's weird but Thranduil is actually around 6000 years old during the events of The Hobbit). I nearly dropped dead when I read that, but it came from a reliable source. But I'm not really worrying about age in this fic. Let's just say that Thranduil is 19 in human years. Lia and Eva will be 18 now, probably.


A BLOODY BEGINNING


The wind was playing a spiteful game with prince Thranduil's hair. He had left the palace only minutes before - his hair in immaculate condition, each strand in its place. And now his hair was a chaotic, dishevelled mess. Each time he tucked a few stray strands of his long platinum blonde hair behind his ear, the wind would throw it over his face.

He huffed and the hair on his face flew up. He had given up.

Of course, his hair was not particularly important at this precise moment, but Thranduil enjoyed being able to pay more attention to his appearance when there weren't any pressing matters at hand. He took quite a lot of pride in keeping himself well groomed, but the wind did not care for it.

It was a remarkably cloudy day for spring, and his father had warned him before he went out that 'something sinister' would be afoot. Honestly, he thought his father was far too concerned with omens and 'signs' than a good king should be. Not that he knew anything about being a good king... yet.

Aside from the Greenwood taking on a particular shade of grey, Thranduil sensed no ills in the spirit of the forest; nothing strange at all, in fact.

He drew his bowstring before stringing an arrow, to test its tensile strength. It's flexibility was appreciable, but not as good as his father's bow. Thranduil had forged this bow himself - and was quite proud of it too.

The body was made of yew and heartwood - the rarest wood in Eryn Galen, and the grip was exquisitely carved. The arrows matching the bow had golden feathers attached at the end. Each arrow head gleamed, even in the pale light.

Thranduil adored the bow and arrow as a weapon. It was an elegant piece of art - one that took time and great care to create, and yet a dangerous device - a bringer of death. His skill with the bow was superlative - unchallenged. From the ranks of the King's Guard, to elves from as far as Rivendell and Lothlorien - none matched his precision and speed.

As usual, he was proud.


Thranduil crouched behind a thick bushel when he spotted a massive spider some distance away. The spiders had indeed become daring, to be venturing so close to the palace. The elves still had no idea where they were coming from, however. Perhaps this was the sinister something his father warned him of. No matter - they were easy to deal with from a distance.

Thranduil strung his bow with an arrow and pulled the bowstring till his cheek. His eye aligned with the spider's head and his bow moved into place.

He breathed out audibly and relaxed his muscles, but just before he made his shot, he heard the snap of a bowstring. The sharp sound caused the birds in the trees to scatter fearfully.

The spider gave a low groan, and toppled on it's side - dead. Thranduil was impressed - the shot was so accurate that the arrow had pierced the spider's eye. However his arrow was still strung on his bow, and it took a moment for him to realize that it was not his arrow which had met it's mark.

There was someone close by. He knew it was not one of the King's Guard almost immediately. None of the Guard elves travel through the Greenwood on their own, so he would have heard something.

Thranduil's guard was up. He pulled his bowstring further back to get a longer range. His elf eyes scanned the undergrowth for movement. Past the spider's corpse he observed something - a brown cloak. Suddenly another bowstring snapped and he was acutely aware that the arrow was now aimed at his eye.

But Thranduil's marksmanship was impeccable. His arrow intercepted the other, and in a trice an arrow was restrung and fired. His successive shots were met with more interceptions.

His opponent was skilled, dare he say as skilled as he. One arrow came as close as a hair's breadth from his cheek, but he dodged just in time - the arrow embedding itself in the tree behind him. his opponent emerged from behind a tree, farther than Thranduil expected him to be. His brown cloak blended well with the foliage of the Greenwood. A hood obscured his face. Thranduil waited before he strung another arrow. Something was wrong. Why was he simply revealing himself like that?

Then the man waved behind him, beckoning some unseen person to follow. Now, Thranduil saw another man in a similar cloak. They picked their way through the thickets and brambles, coming closer and closer towards him. Did they think they had killed him? The corner of Thranduil's mouth curved up ever so slightly as he strung another arrow and aimed through the bushel.

If this was the sinister something his father spoke of, then perhaps it was time to finish it.

Thranduil exhaled and fired calmly this time - completely in control. What happened next surprised both him and the two men.

His arrow went through the second man's leg, causing him to drop down on his knees and groan. Before Thranduil even thought of stringing his next arrow, he found one protruding from his bow hand. The bowman had shot him.

He dropped his bow and his face twisted in pain - but he made no sound. The bowman was covering his comrade from view.

What a strange tactic, acting as a shield...

He waited for Thranduil to make a move.

And he did, soon enough.

He broke a piece off the arrow and pulled it from his hand. He cringed and tensed with pain. He wrapped the wound in a bandage from his belt and drew his twin blades. He stood up from his crouch and regarded his opponents. The cloaked man drew his bow with impossible speed and had it aimed at Thranduil's head.

Thranduil changed his stance to make himself as small a target as possible. He bent low. For a moment all of them were silent, gauging each other's strengths and weaknesses - deciding the best move. Suddenly, the wounded man stood up - as if the arrow in his leg was merely a scratch. Thranduil was surprised by this, and it nearly caught him off guard.

The bowman fired, but Thranduil expertly cut the arrow with his twin blades, and charged towards the two men. At such a close proximity, it would be impossible to use the bow properly. He lunged at the man, who had quickly retracted his bow and was reaching for a knife. Thranduil was faster. His knife made a slicing sound against cloth and skin, and the man twisted around and fell to the ground.

The other man promptly drew his knives - also twin blades. When Thranduil observed the blades closely, he noticed they were of the same make as his. Though the arrow was still in the man's leg, he revealed no emotion of pain.

Thranduil lunged once more, his elven grace startling the man for a moment. However the man was quick and equally graceful. He pushed off the ground and flipped over Thranduil, whose blade followed the man's trajectory in the air - barely missing its mark. When he landed, Thranduil found an opening and struck, but the man's reflexes outdid him and he dodged. The man suddenly began lashing and striking Thranduil's blades with strong static and broken movements. Completely uncontrolled. The sudden change in his style of offence threw Thranduil off guard, leaving him open to several attacks.

Suddenly the man faltered.

He found his opening.

Thranduil finally retaliated after receiving several deep wounds. His movements were the exact opposite - fluid and graceful. Now, he was back in control. He managed to land a few blows, but the man quickly adapted.

Blade clashed against blade, each stroke missing its mark by a hair's breadth.

Suddenly Thranduil felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. An arrow.

He twisted out of the blade wielder's way and stood face to face against both men. The man he had cut across the chest had used his cloak to stop the bleeding, but his hood was still covering his face.

Thranduil was beginning to realize that the odds were stacked against him. He could not win in this condition. The present situation called for something a little beneath him, but at the moment there was no other option. He raised his hands above his head.

He was about to drop his blades when the bowman's bow suddenly shattered into useless wooden splinters. Thranduil saw from the corner of his eye movement in the trees. The King's Guard.

Not wanting to appear utterly useless, Thranduil crossed his arms back and swung his blades at the distracted men. His blades lodged themselves deep in the men's shoulders, and provided enough force to knock them backwards. They fell to the ground with a thud. Members of the King's Guard surrounded the two fallen intruders, their bows aimed and ready.

"Prince Thranduil, you're wounded!" One of the elves rushed to his side. Most of them approached him - a few kept their bows drawn and aimed at the incapacitated men. A female elf of the Guard began re-bandaging Thranduil's hand.

"I'm f-" But the effect of adrenalin wore off, and Thranduil collapsed.

"My chest" Thranduil groaned. He had lost blood from cuts in his chest, and was probably bleeding internally. The arrow in his shoulder was no help either.

"You're bleeding from everywhere, my prince. We must get you back to the palace as quickly as possible. Ehrendil" The she-elf addressed another elf of the Guard. "I am taking the prince back on my horse. You dispose of those barbarians quickly"

"No, Nlaea" Thranduil's voice was breathy and strained. The strain on his body was far more than he had anticipated.

"My prince? I don't understand..." Ehrendil helped Thranduil onto Nlaea's horse as she spoke.

"Ehrendil, take them to my father. Alive"

"Yes, prince Thranduil" He bowed.

As Thranduil rode behind Nlaea back to the palace, he saw the two intruders being manhandled and thrown onto the horses like sacks of potatoes. His blades had been removed from their shoulders, but the arrow was still in the blade wielder's leg. Hopefully, they would not bleed out before they reached the palace.

Hopefully, he would not bleed out before they reached the palace.


This is my first attempt at writing an action scene in Tolkien's world. How'd I do?

I have a tendency to put in a bit too much detail - usually I imagine the fight like a movie in my head before describing it in words.

PLEASE REVIEW! (But be kind!). Gah I'm nervous...