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Brace yourselves...

Chapter 20: Vulnerable

November, 2941:

The Elvenking would never trudge down a hallway…but Thranduil felt like it. The Battle of Five Armies had been a disaster. Sure, the goblins had been defeated, and the forces of darkness pushed back, but the cost in elven blood had been too high. He should never have left the protection of his forest realm.

All Thranduil really wanted was to slink into his room, open a bottle of wine, put his feet up, and then stay there for maybe a year or so. Of course, he could not do any of those things, even if he was the king—especially because he was the king. For that reason, he made himself stand on the steps, in silent vigil as his entire army filed past on their way to the armory. He made himself take the time to sit in unending discomfort upon his throne as he heard casualty reports from all his captains. Then he made himself stay there even longer to listen to his elder advisors as they recommended provisions for the families suffering losses from the battle. Thranduil agreed to all of their requests without hesitation; half of his advisors did not know what to make of it. He rarely granted their requests so easily.

Finally, he allowed himself to retire to his chambers; the Elvenking was sure his son had gone to Thaliniel straight away, and the halls of the royal suites were deserted, quiet. He had dismissed Galion, not feeling the slightest desire for coddling from his butler; he neither wanted company, nor deserved it.

He had halfway expected Narylfiel to greet him, but she was nowhere in sight. Then Thranduil recalled their parting before the battle and could honestly not blame her. She had come to him, worried and upset, and he had let her leave without reassuring her or even saying farewell. Of course he had seen her at the gates as the army had been leaving, but she had been more interested in saying goodbye to Brethil, his great elk.

Thranduil stopped short at the thought of the elk and turned, his eyes drifting toward Narylfiel's chambers toward the hallway's entrance. Narylfiel had loved Brethil, had doted on him; she was always sneaking him apples from the cellar. She had practically raised him from a fawn. The elf's heart twisted painfully at the thought of having to tell her about Brethil falling in battle, pierced by many arrows. Thranduil found his feet moving toward her door, dreading what he had to tell her, dreading that horrible moment of realization when her eyes were sure to fill with tears.

He raised his hand and half-heartedly knocked on the door. The door swung open, and one very surprised chambermaid quickly bowed her head.

"Your highness," she said, clearly flustered by his unexpected appearance.

"Tell Lady Narylfiel that I desire to see her," he said evenly.

"Lady Narylfiel went down to the stables, your majesty," she told him politely, tacking a curtsy on at the end.

"Your majesty?" she called after him, for the king had left without a word, had hurried away as soon as she mentioned the stables.

Thranduil threw the doors open to the royal stables, ignoring the surprised looks from the stable hands. "Leave us." He issued the command quietly. His eyes were fixed on the sad little silhouette at the end of the stables, slumped over the end stall, her shoulders shaking.

He approached her soundlessly and then hesitantly laid a hand on her shoulder. "Narylfiel."

She straightened immediately and flung her arms around him.

He flinched at the contact. Thranduil did not often find himself on the receiving end of teary embraces, but this was his little naurenniel. His arms eased around her, and he held her.

"I am sorry," he murmured. "There will be other Great Elks…"

"I do not want another Great Elk," she sobbed into his shoulder. "I just want Brethil."

"Come," he told her. "The horses will be wanting their dinner, and I've chased all the stable hands away." He guided her out from the stables to his study, stopping along the way to ask one of his guards to locate Galion, so he might bring up some tea.

Once he settled Narylfiel into her usual chair across from his, he handed her another handkerchief and waited for the tea to arrive.

"I am glad you are well," she told him in between sniffles. "And I know that it's silly of me to be so upset, especially when there are many families who lost loved ones, but…"

"No," he soothed her. "Brethil was special. I understand." He thought for a minute about how much he wanted to tell her. 'The battle did not go…as planned."

"What do you mean?" She looked up from her handkerchief.

"We did not fight the dwarves of Erebor," he said slowly. "We were surprised by an onslaught of goblins and orcs. We ended up fighting alongside the men of Laketown and the dwarves to defeat the goblins and wargs."

She straightened in her chair, her teary eyes wide. "And Brethil was…" her voice trailed away.

"…shot down by orcs as I rode over the causeway into Dale," he admitted quietly.

"It could just had easily been you," she realized aloud. "Thranduil, you could have been killed! Are you injured? Hurt?"

"Nothing worth your concern," he said.

Frowning, she shook her head. "You are always worthy of my concern," she told him firmly. "Have you even rested? Eaten anything?"

Thranduil looked away. "There were more important things to attend to," he answered. And attending to those more important things offered him a reprieve; for a few minutes or however long, he did not have to think of the battle, or of how many of his warriors' bodies lined the streets of Dale or lay ruined amid the slain and fallen.

"Thranduil?" Narylfiel touched his hand and then withdrew, gestured toward the door. "I can fetch Galion for you, if you wish."

He silently shook his head 'no,' and then rubbed his temples, as if the weight of the circlet he wore pained him. For a moment he said nothing, merely pinched the bridge of his nose and then exhaled slowly.

He stopped her. "I would rather be alone."

"I understand," she said, concern edging her voice. Her king looked after so many, felt the weight of so many, and shouldered that weight alone. He leaned his head back in his chair and closed his eyes, effectively dismissing her.

Stung, she slipped out the door and headed down the hall to her room.

"Oh, Lady Narylfiel!" Celwen, her sometimes attendant, greeted her at her door. "The king was looking for you."

"Thank you, Celwen," Narylfiel said. "He found me." She briefly considered falling face first onto her bed and not moving for the rest of the night.

"I am certainly glad that the king spared you from having to go to that horrible battle, my lady." Celwen said, blithely building the fire for her lady. "The stories I have heard so far have all been dreadful."

Narylfiel's eyes drifted to her door. Thranduil came to find her to comfort her about Brethil. "Dreadful?" she heard herself ask.

"Many of our kin could not be recovered from the battle site," Celwen said shuddering. "Their bodies had been trampled, rent and ruin. Orcs do not fight with honor." She picked up the flint box from the mantle.

"No…they do not," Narylfiel agreed slowly. She thought of Thranduil alone in his study, brooding. "Do not light the fire, Celwen. I may not return for some time."

After she had loaded up a tray from the kitchens, Narylfiel peeked in through the door to her king's office. He was still where she left him, only now he sat hunched over, his head in his hands.

"Galion, I said that—" Thranduil snapped.

Narylfiel cut him off. "I brought you some food." She pulled the door shut behind her and plopped down the tray on the ottoman across from the king.

He sat up, smoothed the hair away from his face, and eyed her regally. "I thought I told you I would rather be alone?" he asked archly.

She spread a heavy layer of butter onto a warm bun and arranged it on a plate with a side of meat and handed it to him.

He took it from her, looked at it, looked at her. "Narylfiel," he said.

"Thranduil." She sat down beside him.

"I meant what I said," he told her softly.

"I know you did, only—" she met his gaze and held it. "I thought I might feel better if I was with a friend?"

He looked suspiciously at the plate in his lap and then her entreating warm brown eyes. His mouth twitched.

"Well," he said slowly, picking up the piece of bread and taking a small bite. It surprisingly did not taste like sawdust in his mouth as all his other meals had since the battle. "If it would cheer you up, I suppose you might stay with me."

"Your majesty is too kind," she said. Narylfiel stayed with him until he had eaten his plateful of food, and after that when he stared wordlessly into the fire for a long time, she did not press him to talk, nor did he discuss any details from the battle. She was with him, and it was enough.

November, 3018:

Narylfiel had protested limping down the hallway to visit the king's healer, but after both Melui's and Elfir's insistence, she had succumbed. Melui accompanied her, also at Elfir's insistence. Oh, she knew he had her best interests at heart, but all Narylfiel really wanted was to sink into her bed and sleep off the dull throb at the base of her head. Then she remembered the sad state of her bedchamber and groaned. It was hardly hospitable in its current state, and she said as much to Melui.

"Perhaps the king will allow you to return to the town house with the rest of the guards," Melui suggested.

"Perhaps," Narylfiel echoed, not bothering to correct her friend. She highly doubted that Thranduil would go for that idea.

They arrived in the darkened healing rooms just as a fairly young man rushed in, his youthful face drawn and worried.

Narylfiel reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. "I am sorry they woke you up over such a small matter."

The young man turned, his face a study of astonishment, as his hands frantically lit a few candles and then grabbed at bandages and various ointments. "Woke me up? Whatever gave you that idea?"

Narylfiel and Melui exchanged a glance. "Your, um, nightcap?" she said, pointing a small finger to her head.

His eyes rolled up as if he expected to see the silly looking hat on his head, just as one hand snatched the offending garment away and stuffed it in his pocket. "Oh, dear!" he exclaimed. "Sorry about that. Now, which of you is the injured party?"

Narylfiel stepped forward. "I am." Just what sort of practicing healer was this young man? Did he seriously not notice all the scrapes, blood, and her general disarray?

Now he looked her over. "Oh, of course! Silly of me," he said, shaking his head. He tapped his finger to his forehead. "I'm still not quite woken up." He gestured to a small cot. "Would you like to have a seat?"

Narylfiel exchanged another glance with Melui and sat down.

"Your friend need not stay," he told her with a smile, and then addressed Melui. "If you have things you need to attend to, the lady is completely safe within my care."

"I'm staying," Melui said in a tone that brooked no arguments.

"Very well then," he said cheerfully. "I heard you were in quite a fight." He continued on as he checked the scrapes on her hands, examined the knot on the back of her head, carefully cleaned the cuts on her feet.

"I was attacked," Narylfiel corrected him.

"Even so," the young healer deftly cut some bandages into strips. "It's scary, is what it is. If an Elven princess like you isn't safe in the king's house, who is?" He shook his head and tsked. "There is no security these days, no more safe places."

He stood up from his little stool by her cot and walked over to his worktable where he picked up a glass-stoppered bottle. The young healer twisted off the stopper and poured some of the dark ointment onto a clean rag.

When he turned to return to his patient, the young man found his way blocked by a long elven sword wielded by a wild-eyed blonde elf. King Thranduil stood between him and Narylfiel, and he looked positively murderous.

"Set that rag down at once." The Elvenking ordered him.

"King Thranduil!" Narylfiel exclaimed. "He is only trying to help."

"Is he?" Thranduil asked, and the fierce glint in his eyes had the young man backing away, setting down the rag, and even going so far as to put the bottle away completely.

"My king's men asked me to help her," he squeaked. "I would not hurt her. I hardly even touched her—just ask your guard! She's been here the entire time. I mean no harm. Honestly!"

"King Thranduil," Narylfiel tried again. "Please, lower your sword. He has been nothing but kind."

The Elvenking's eyes softened as they met hers, but he did not move. Instead, he pointed the sword a little higher at the man's throat. "Where have you been tonight?" Thranduil said and stepped closer.

The healer had turned an unhealthy shade of white and looked as if he might faint when Prince Bard ran into the room, his chest heaving. His eyes went to the Elvenking with his sword drawn and then to the pale, trembling man.

"Wilem, something has happened," said Bard, drawing a chair from the corner of the room for the young man to sit down. Thranduil lowered his sword but did not sheath it.

When the young man sat down, Bard delivered his news. "Wilem, King Thranduil and I found your father…he was murdered in his shop."

Wilem's eyes widened at the news and then he flung himself over in his chair with a sob, his shoulders shaking, his hands covering his face.

Bard crouched down beside him, laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Wilem, is there anything you can tell us about your father's death? King Thranduil believes he was selling poison to an Eastern buyer."

Wilem glanced fearfully at Thranduil and the gleaming sword still resting threateningly in the elf's hand.

"I can't," he said and squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. "He…he was my father."

Bard waited a beat and made eye contact with the Elvenking.

Thranduil gave him the briefest of nods and then sheathed his sword. "Your father's throat was slit, his shop, looted. The killer was looking for something."

"Any information you give us could help us find his killer, Wilem," Bard said softly. "Help us bring him to justice."

Wilem nodded and dabbed at his eyes with a bit of bandage. "I knew he was into something—something bad."

"When did you start to suspect this?" Bard asked disarmingly, but the skin around his warm brown eyes crinkled around the edges.

"Last summer. I wasn't in the shop much, but I one day I stopped by to pick up some herbs for the king's storeroom, and I saw it."

"What did you see?" Thranduil's voice was deceptively casual.

"A book—one I'd never seen before. It was heavy, leather bound one, the pages—" he faltered.

"I have been in your father's shop. He has shelves of dusty old books in there. Why this book? Why did it worry you?" Bard asked.

Wilem dabbed at his red-tinged eyes again. "My father would not tell me who brought it in, only that he thought it would make him a fortune…It had potions in it, you see? Medicines, forgotten healing lore, mythical sorts of things, and…dark crafts."

Over the top of Wilem's head, Bard and Thranduil looked at each other worriedly. "The person who brought him the book, he wanted your father to make a certain recipe?"

Wilem nodded and looked away, twisting the damp bunch of cloth in his hands.

Thranduil leaned forward, his long golden hair framing his face. "Why? If the client owned the book, why would he need your father to make any of the recipes?"

"I think maybe the owner of the book had tried and failed. Maybe he did not know how to harvest the right ingredients." Wilem glanced over at Narylfiel and Melui and then hung his head.

"What was he trying to make, Wilem?" Narylfiel asked softly, recalling the dark, spidery wound to her side, the poison, and Thranduil's healing. She thought she already knew the answer, but she had to hear him say it.

Wilem wrung the cloth once more in his hands, and then broke with a sob, his words spilling out in a rush. "The buyer wanted a poison, one strong enough to drain the life of the Eldar—to make them mortal."

From across the room, Narylfiel locked eyes with Thranduil. Poison. Mortal. Then she swallowed hard.

Author's note: Please Review, Follow, Favorite! Let me know your thoughts on this new little plot twist! ;)

Thranduil: #SharpeningSword #HumanShishKabob

Narylfiel: #CrappyNight