Chapter 12
A short note:
Three weeks later:
"How much more of this can he take?" There was a soft voice on the side of Legolas' room. Elrond sighed and clasped his hand on Elladan's shoulder. "He needs his father, Ada. I know I would."
"Thranduil is not coming back until affairs in Mirkwood are settled. He has a substantial army of elves from Rivendell with him, so he shall not be defenceless if all is not as it seems. Legolas needs him, but Angrod is not dead - you saw the letter. Thranduil is much cleverer than his brother gave him credit for, however, and all is not lost. The kingdom needs to be reclaimed. Thranduil is not naïve enough to assume that Angrod will give it up without a fight."
"Everything just seems to be neatly tied up in a little package, though, Ada." Elladan's voice took on a harsh tone as he looked over at the bed where Legolas was sleeping…eyes almost all the way shut. "It is all made up, Mirkwood shall be safe, but Legolas is not." His eyes misted over and he brushed at them angrily. "The decision is made, for the good of the people, et cetera…what about Legolas?"
Elrond embraced his son, pressing the dark head to his own shoulder. Letting him go, he spoke to his son, gently breaking news he knew would be hard to bear.
"This has been the hardest of decisions for Thranduil, Elladan. He will forever bear the scars in his soul. Now all we can do is bring him comfort and see if there is anything we can do to ease his suffering. There is nought in my library; I know all my books so well I can recite them. This is a new poison, but Elladan…"
Motioning his child closer, Elrond leaned and whispered in his ear. "I think I may have something that could help Legolas fight the poison. But it could cure or kill. If we have no other alternative…at the end, it is best to have a fighting chance then none. The use of this will be up to Thranduil."
"How long can he last?" Elladan's voice was full of pain, and it wavered.
"I do not know, my son. I should say not more than another four to five weeks."
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In Mirkwood:
Thranduil rode on with 800 elves from Rivendell. They were approaching the border of his kingdom, Lasgalen, as the people who lived there knew it. One of the only safe places in Mirkwood, the palace was well protected and kept at high levels of maintenance at all times. Its stone walls were plain and without ornament, but once inside, the palace was truly a majestic sight to behold.
Clouds veiled the sun and it looked like the morning was ready to weep.
Thranduil's thoughts strayed to his child, his youngest little boy, Legolas. There had been an older prince, many years ago...Orophin had been a beautiful babe, one that had been spoilt and nurtured. An infection in the lungs due to poisoning was all that it had taken for that young elf to be killed, leaving a distraught Thranduil coping with the death of half of his family.
Ah, here are the palace gates. And watchtowers…hmm, that is original. Angrod seems to have taken leadership much to heart. Thranduil's thoughts grew slightly more frantic as he approached what was once his kingdom. Anger mounted inside the woodland king, anger at Angrod and anger at himself that he had let Legolas get into such strife.
There was no one outside the palace walls, and there was one sentry posted in each of the five watchtowers, each elf looking down their nose at the approaching company. A shout rang out, a nonsense jumble of sounds, obviously meant to alert the leaders. Then everything was still.
Without a word of warning, arrows pelted out of the keep. Mirkwood archers were firing at the king and his consort.
Thranduil was at a loss of what to do. Elrond had said that the 800 elves travelling with him were his own to command…but could he shoot at his own people? What had happened to turn them thus against their king? And where was Angrod who had undoubtedly caused this to occur?
With a battle cry of his own, Thranduil made up his mind. He called the command to fire to Rivendell's troupe, and nocked an arrow to his bow. Aiming and staring down the shaft, he shot an arrow into a guard. A guard that wore the uniform of the Mirkwood guard elf.
Thranduil closed his eyes once the arrow had found its mark, burying itself into the chest of the elf. One of HIS elves…as the scream rushed out of the dying elf's lungs, he looked into the elf's face. He did not know the elf, did not know his parents, or his siblings, or his spouse. But the look of terror was the same, the same as it always was on the battlefield.
Blood poured out of the mouth of the elf, and Thranduil opened his eyes cautiously, to see the elf fall forwards out of the watchtower onto the ground. Shouting for someone to cover him, the King ran forward and looked into the elf's face. Turning the head to the side, he examined the features of the elf. Gasping, he looked again.
This elf was not from Mirkwood.
