Chapter Fourteen

Feren woke with a groan, clutching his head as he opened his eyes. Standing above him were Galion, the steward, and Elros, the keeper of the keys. Elros offered him a hand, which he took to pull himself up to stand on the stairs leading to the cells.

"Where is the King?" Feren asked as he remembered the circumstances leading to his being knocked unconscious.

"His throne. He's waiting for a report from the guards about the dwarves' escape," Elros offered uncomfortably. Their King was already aware that somehow the dwarves had gotten the keys from him while he had been...inebriated. Thranduil was not known for being forgiving for such lapses, regardless of how often he got drunk.

Feren nodded and raced off toward the Hall. They knew that the dwarves had escaped, but he doubted they knew that the dwarves had taken the princess with them.

Elros had been right. The Elven King was pacing in front of his throne, a red robe thrown over his simpler riding clothes. Feren was very grateful that Thranduil had been awake when he was notified of the dwarves' escape. His mood could be much worse, if not. He was also quite glad that elves did not get hangovers as humans and dwarves did. His king would be in a much more foul mood if he had a hangover from the night's festivities. Feren took courage in this before he addressed his king.

"My Lord!" Feren called as soon as he was near enough to bow to the Elven King.

"Feren? What is it? Is something wrong with my daughter?" Thranduil asked, looking very much as though another thing going wrong was the last thing he needed at present.

"The dwarves took her," the servant said quickly, bracing himself for Thranduil's anger.

Feren could hear his heart beating in his ears as the Elven King approached him with slow, measured steps, stopping directly in front of the servant. His face was eerily calm as he asked in a voice as cold as the Northern Wastes, "Tell me, Feren, how did this happen?"

The muscles in the servant's neck tensed as he quickly thought up a response that would not implicate his lady in the dwarves' escape. Grasping at straws, Feren stuttered out fearfully, "I-i-i brought her t-to the c-c-c-cellars, m-m-my lord."

"Oh, you took her to the cellars," Thranduil said, his voice laden with false understanding. "Is that right, Feren?"

"Yes, my Lord," he squeaked, desperately clinging to his last shred of dignity in the calm before the Elven King's anger exploded.

"Tell me, Feren. What did I order you to do regarding my daughter?" Thranduil asked, turning his back on his servant.

"Care for her, help her, p-p-p-protect her.." Feren said in utter humiliation as he realized what the Elven King was doing.

"Ah," Thranduil continued in this dangerously light and calm tone that belied the fury that radiated throughout his entire being. "And tell me, Feren. Protecting her, that includes KEEPING HER OUT OF THE HANDS OF FILTHY DWRVES! DOESN'T IT?!"

"Y-y-y-y-yes, my Lord," Feren stuttered as his failure was laid bare.

The Elven King turned back to his servant, taking his shoulder in a bruising grasp. He enjoyed his servant's utter fear of him for a couple seconds before shoving him to the floor. Thranduil looked down at Feren on the floor as he said, regaining his former coldness, "You will serve under Galion to prepare my army to march. Do not fail me again."

Thranduil turned and strode away from his throne, leaving Feren to fight back tears at the knowledge that he had so utterly failed his lady.

As the King strode down the path toward the corridors that lead to his quarters, Maglor, the head of his Council, hurried up to match step with the angry King.

"Ernil nin, na golodh govada i gwaith tharsen?" (My King, is it wise to summon the army over such a matter?) Maglor asked, looking up to the king with a concerned expression.

Thranduil stopped walking instantly, turning to look down at his Council with an expression of fury. He was done hiding his anger from his underlings. It was time they knew who was King, time they knew what happened when they angered him.

"Tharsen?" (Such as this?) he hissed out, leaning toward Maglor to further intimidate the elf.

"E-ernil nin, na yes ugolodh dagnira er ai noegyth?" (M-my king, is it not unwise to jump into war with a band of dwarves?) Maglor asked, beginning to regret having to do his job to represent the council to advise the King.

"Hi bal uvanwa an noegyth. He na ore mir. Ar, ina he una balpant, HE NA SELL NIN! Ore caunin hi doro! Ar UNATHON AWARTHA HE AH NOEGYTH!" (Her power cannot be lost to the dwarves. She is too valuable to lose. And, even if she was not powerful, SHE IS MY DAUGHTER! A princess of this realm! And I WILL NOT leave her with them!)

Maglor scurried away from his king while bowing profusely. Sometimes, he wished he had an easier job. Advising Thranduil was no cake walk.

"Such is the nature of evil: out there in the vast ignorance of the world it festers and spreads, a shadow that grows in the dark, a sleepless malice as black as the oncoming wall of night. So it ever was. So will it always be. In time, all foul things come forth," Thranduil said as he paced in front of his throne.
"You were tracking a company of thirteen dwarves. WHY?" Legolas questioned the orc, taking out some of his anger that the dwarves had taken his sister in jabbing his blade into the orc's throat.

"Not thirteen. Not anymore. The young one, the blackhead archer, we stuck him with a morgul shaft. The poison's in his blood. He'll be chocking on it soon," the orc spat out smugly.

"Answer the question, Filth," Tauriel snarled, unable to control her own ire.

The orc hissed out in his native language, angering Tauriel to the point that she drew her long knife and whirled around, ready to strike.

"I would not antagonize her," Legolas warned the orc, sounding as though he wished the orc would so that he would die.

"You like killing things, Orc. You like death? Then let me give it to you!" Tauriel said, charging forward for a killing blow.

Thranduil stopped her with a quick yell before saying firmly, "Tauriel, ego! Mwao hi." (Tauriel, leave. Go now.) The king would not jeopardise the return of his daughter for the temper of a Captain of the Guard.

As Tauriel angrily walked away, Thranduil said, "I do not care about one dead dwarf. Answer the question. You have nothing to fear. Tell us what you know, and I will set you free."

"You had orders to kill them," Legolas began.

Before Legolas could continue, the orc snorted and hissed, "Not all. Only the small ones. Not the elf-bitch. You know nothing! Your world will burn."

"What are you talking about?!" Legolas pressed, knowing that the orc spoke of his sister.

The orc only growled, so Legolas nearly yelled out, "Speak!"

"Our time has come again. My master serves the One!" the orc growled. "Do you understand now. Elfling? Death is upon you! The flames of war are upon you!"

In one swift motion, Thranduil struck out, severing the orc's head even as his son held it.

Legolas looked at the orc head he held for a second before dropping it to the ground and asking, "Why did you do that? There was more he could tell us! He knew that the dwarves had her!"

"There was nothing more he could tell me," Thranduil said more grimly than Legolas had seen in any matter save his sister for a millenium. The elven king strode away from the orc body, elegantly sheathing his sword as he descended the steps.

"What did he mean by 'the flames of war'?" Legolas questioned, following his father.

"He means they intend to unleash a weapon so great it will destroy all before it," Thranduil said grimly before raising his voice to command, "I want the watch doubled at our borders! All roads, all rivers! Nothing moves, but I hear of it. No one enters this kingdom, and no one leaves it."

"And Mirilas? Yu don't mean to leave her to the dwarves?" Legolas asked.

"No. We must prepare if we are to retrieve her."