Author's Note:

Trigger warning: suggestions of sexual assault

Chapter 39, Taken

Legolas was not supposed to turn that way.

Shadowland was full of enemies, big and small and all varieties between them, when the elven warriors weaved their way amongst the battles. Tauriel grabbed an arrow, and when she had sent it on its way, her usual flow of fighting was disturbed. Legolas saw a group of behemoths in the distance but turned away from them. She had never seen him do anything like that.

For centuries, she had watched his back. He always went wherever he wanted, and she followed. It had always been like that. It could not be any other way because Legolas was the king of the hill. With one glance, he saw every aspect of the battle and absorbed every slight ripple in the air. When he entered the fight, he instantly knew how to hammer everyone.

He did not need to think, he lived the fight.

Tauriel's lot had been different - to know his exact location and not only that but to instinctively know what he was going to do next. She had refined her skills until it had been second nature to her. Any shift in the air that could affect his movements never went unnoticed by her.

She had been the invisible tail.

Everything Tauriel had studied was so she could become better at her duty. She was familiar with all the fighting manoeuvres there ever were to learn, but in the end, she never needed those because Legolas always outfoxed everyone.

She trained not only in fighting skills. For years, she had stayed in a vacant shack in the middle of the woods with Feneriel. As his apprentice, she had sought herbs, listened to the wisdom of the forest, and learned everything about healing, so that were the worst to happen, she would be ready.

All her life, she had been perfecting her skills for this single task, so now, when everything was over, one might ask if she ever had paused to think about what she wanted from life.

Obedient, amenable and available. There had never been any other way for her to exist. Malleable and acquiescent. Always, she had been the helping hand, until sixty years ago, when something came up and exploded everything she knew. Suddenly, their homeland was full of dwarves, rampaging here and there, filling the land with maverick hustle and bustle.

Their uncanny quirkiness made the earth under Tauriel's feet quake.

Secretly, she had decided to speak to one of them - just to know how they could be so different and yet so full of life. She was amazed by the wisdom the dwarf possessed, and suddenly, her sky was full of twinkling stars she had never before noticed. New trees sprouted in the forest of her soul, and she knew she could not continue living as a shadow.

She had to find her own path.

The more she became acquainted with the new creature, the more the blockades of her soul began to crack. A new kind of blood started flowing in her veins.

And it was only then, when she broke the bars of her invisible cage, that a dash of love could find her heart.

The barriers crumbled, and love washed her whole being, and she knew she had to step up and start living - even if it meant discarding everything she had believed in.

For centuries, she had been the servant. Now redefining herself was hard.

What she would become, she did not know. But here in Shadowland, now in this war, she knew what to do - to keep the Prince safe.

Something evil was underway. Tauriel had seen it in the wizard's eyes when his eminent figure just flashed beside the mountain. Something ancient has been rising and now threatening her former homeland. Former? Did she ever leave? Not voluntarily. She fled.

She fled those ranges that were reminding her every moment of him.

She shrugged the thought of him away and focused on the issue of why Legolas had not done what he always did now - headed to the biggest ones? What was wrong with him? While Tauriel bounced over a couple of corpses after him, her mind was overflowing with everything she had tried to shove away.

Lady Galadriel's voice tingled in her mind, "You are a creature of love, my child, do not do what you wish. Go north and meet your past. Face whatever you left behind and find peace for your soul. Go north, and be a beacon of love for the woeful."

"But I cannot be anything when it comes to love. I am dead. I am a stone!"

She had gone somewhere that did not hold memories of him. Here and there. Anywhere. Nowhere.

Exactly, she truly would have desired to go there - nowhere. Into the emptiness after him. Into the void. But that was not possible, they say.

But if it was?

What if there was a power somewhere in the distant corner of Middle-earth that could end her eternal being and turn an elf into a mortal? She could be with him - in nothingness. Forever.

"Go north, for your presence there is crucial. Many things that are to happen are yet obscure for me, but I can see your path. You are the beacon for the misguided, for those who are lost, for those of confused mind. You are the beacon of love for them to follow into the light. Only with your help can they avoid misfortune."

"I do not understand, my Lady."

"Does a beacon know it is a beacon? No. It is set on fire when it is necessary. The beacon does not kindle itself. The fire is ignited by the one who has the power to lighten it, but it is lit only when there is a need for guidance. Then, the fire goes on if there is enough wood, enough air, enough space. Without its own will, it burns."

"But I am not a beacon! If someone is to set fire to me, I shall become a pyre, burning only old dead carcasses!"

Lady Galadriel's eyes held a warning. Over her shoulder hung the strong foreboding of destruction, a deceitful fire that was approaching from the north. Inside the mountain had been stored tiny sparks of evil. They had been so infinitesimally diminutive that no one bothered doing anything about them. Perhaps remnants of mightier powers or seeds of forthcoming demons, but at the time, there had always been more pressing matters to attend to.

"Suddenly, the essence of darkness has emerged," Lady Galadriel whispered. "It is the void that intends to suck all life into itself. The hole exists inside a witch's chest, and she says her only desire is to supply the world with her delightful goodness, with her warmest joviality. But no matter how beautiful the witch is, she cannot hide her forked tongue and false verses. This creature is nothing but a devil whose only aim was to make the world worship her alone."

With her lovely smile, the witch would seep into her prey and pull every string of its being into herself. With a roll of her ring, she would merge everything into herself and repeat it all until the whole world was under her dominion.

"But how could a crippled warrior be a beacon?" Tauriel asked. She was a splintered oak, a shard of wood, whose only wish was to fall into nothingness with the one she loved. Into oblivion, she would leap after him if that was ever a possibility. But it was impossible. Many witches she had found, many sorts of sorcerers she had hunted during her solitary years - but to no avail - no one possessed the ability to transform an elf to mortality.

The body could be disfigured by many tricks, but the soul was unrelenting. No one in this world maintained the means to kill what was meant to be permanent.

"The occurrences in the north are behind a veil," Lady Galadriel continued. "I do not see all of it. I see a ring spinning. I see a dungeon, and it is so desolated that whoever imprisons someone there shall become the prisoner themselves. I do see a witch, an obscure sorceress. What her intentions are, I do not see. But I do hear ancient wisdom. There is a prophecy hidden in the poem, "Red moon hides, black sun dies." Go north, and tell everyone that these strophes hold the key to this question. For thousands of years, I have pondered these words to no avail, but today I know why these lines emerged from stone aeons ago."

The essence of the witch was the ring. If the ring could be defeated, the sorceress would fall, but how could she be beaten if no might in the whole world would be even near the powers of this one?

Tauriel had seen Legolas fight for so long, she thought she had seen it all, but she was wrong. Today, his actions were even more varied and inventive than ever before. Did the years with Sulrochil have such a powerful impact on him, or was the cause of his brilliance something else? Love always had an effect on elves' behaviour, but this kind of change was unheard of.

Finally, they reached the outskirts of the battles, and now Tauriel saw why Legolas left the mightiest enemies to other elves. It was because they did not threaten the men. The ones Legolas wanted to attack were precisely those who menaced a group of young men.

Love guided him now.

As Legolas was running towards the youngsters needing assistance, he cut speed for the slightest of moments, though, and Tauriel knew it was something meaningful. Never in the middle of a battle had he been alarmed by anything.

"What was it?" Tauriel asked, trying to grasp his altogether perplexing behaviour.

Legolas did not answer but only continued dashing towards the underdog.

If this was something Tauriel had never seen in him, it must be something that was not there sixty years ago. "Did you feel Sulrochil?"

Swiftly, Legolas grabbed an arrow and shot it. "No."

"I see you are telling the truth - you did not feel her," she responded and swung her knife to kill an orc. "But this involves her. What is it?" Tauriel killed another orc to save a man and scoured all the corners of her memory for the key to this puzzle. Finally, as she slashed an enemy behind her, she found the answer. "You sensed her location. But if you did that, she is somewhere she is not supposed to be."

Legolas stabbed an orc who was raising his sword towards Tauriel. "She was there only for a brief moment, and we have decided not to hunt each other today should this happen."

Tauriel's mind was filled with contradictions. She knew she had to disagree with him, but that did not suit her well. The regulations said they must head for Sulrochil now, but to say that to Legolas backlashed against everything she knew. For a blink of an eye, Tauriel was quiet, only putting down the foes around them, but she had to test her new position and find a distinct voice for herself. "Perhaps you have promised that, but I have made an oath to act differently on this kind of occasion. We must go." Tauriel began scanning the vicinity to find the nearest elven Captain. A few hundred yards to their left, she saw Hithfaeron, and just as she started shouting to him, Legolas stopped her.

"We do not need Hithfaeron or anyone else if we go."

Tauriel looked at Legolas. Forever, she had complied and agreed. The words almost choked her when she knew she had no other choice but to disagree with him. "The rules say we do."

"The rules?" Legolas said and shot an arrow into the distance to save one man. "Since when do you and I need reinforcements?"

"Since you got betrothed," Tauriel said and shot a glance at Legolas. He clearly let her state her opinion and did not neglect it at once. She had changed, but she obviously was not the only one. Legolas was now treating her differently, and it confounded Tauriel. Yes, he had said he would regard her as a peer, but she had not truly believed it until she saw it.

It was unutterably strange.

Nevertheless, the uneasiness between them was gone, and if there still were awkward moments within them, they consisted of altogether different reasons than ever before, and Tauriel was relieved. She was discovering her own standpoint in life and could add more confidently, "What is Sulrochil feeling right now?" Tauriel was not the expert on how the bond between those two would work, but she feared for the worst. She had memorised the rules, and the most essential was "always assume the worst scenario and act to prevent it."

"Nothing."

"She is hiding her emotions, then. We must hurry," she yelled and turned to shout to Hithfaeron. "Take your group and follow Legolas!"

Without thinking, Hithfaeron signalled for his group and made them advance towards Legolas and Tauriel.

Legolas shot a murderous scowl at Hithfaeron and plunged into the crowd of the remaining orcs still in this corner of the fight and killed them. He lifted his right foot onto the chest of the nearest dead orc and swept the scenery with his gaze. His shoulders tensed, but he knew he had no choice but to follow the procedure.

At the same time, Tauriel felt both sorry for stepping on his regime and profound joy for finding the pluck to do so. With a bout of spunk, she flung a jest to Legolas, "I am sorry I did not bring the Short Introduction to Regulations in the Circumstances of Royal Betrothal, but if you do not wish to look like a fool in Hithfaeron's eyes, run towards Sulrochil. Now."

A long ways away through the woods, two orcs carry one tiny elf.

Already a while ago, the elf had stopped trying to free herself from their grip, not because she had quit her fight, but because she had to clear her mind and to feel herself properly. Surprisingly, it is not hard. With each swing, her soul is released from the iron grip that had imprisoned her.

All ghosts begin to dissipate. A puff of black curls emerges out of nothing and vanishes even quicker. A sinister feeling enters Sulrochil's heart - what are they going to do with her?

But she already knows.

All of a sudden, Sulrochil senses Legolas, but only for a fleeting moment. He had to be running, and they were able to sense each other in a flash, but in the case where their paths would cross today, they had deliberately determined not to heed it. So, he would continue his fight across the plains, and Sulrochil - she would fight wherever these two shall carry her.

The giants walk a long way, toting Sulrochil to the one who ordered them to abduct her, and she lets them do it. With force, she cannot fight them, so she can only wait for what is to befall her.

Only wait and suck in the forest spirit to settle the turmoil within her soul.

The purpose of her capture is apparent - her snatchers' talking has left nothing unclear. Shargu has told his best warriors to search for her so that he can fulfil his ultimate objective.

Sulrochil inhales the crisp breeze - and refuses to let their true aim invade her mind.

There is a shift in the air as they reach a clearing. Trees flinch when the orcs throw Sulrochil on the ground at Shargu's feet. In an instant, they are surrounded by dozens of orcs, and the roars of their laughter engulf her. "Who's this pip-squeak?" "A teeny-weeny elfin!" "Oo, me likey!" "Yeah, I bet she's gonna squeal!"

"Stand up!" Shargu growls at Sulrochil and makes a gesture with his hand to tell her to stand up.

Sulrochil cautiously does as the orc demands and defiantly stares directly at Shargu's eyes. "Why are you hiding here, Shargu?" she says and lifts her jaw, even though forming ugly orc words makes her heart ache.

"Well, well," Shargu says and takes a few steps forward, forcing Sulrochil to back up, "Ya speak our tongue."

"Of course, I do," Sulrochil hisses and paces forward, and is pleased to find out Shargu backs up too. "And I know your name too. But you did not answer my question."

"Oh, ya have some spirit, have ya, little miss princess?" Shargu cackles, forcing Sulrochil to back up again. "I like that, ya know?"

Shargu lifts his hand to touch Sulrochil's cheek, but she slaps the filthy paw away with all the strength she has. Four orcs take a fast stride closer to her and lift their swords, but Shargu raises his hand to stop them.

"You bet I have some spirit! It was me who killed Gworf and all his ten guards." Sulrochil forces the disgusting grunts again to flow out of her mouth. All her fury floods out of her eyes towards Shargu, and she prods her forefinger on his chest, "It was me who killed them all and put the ugly head on a spear, and you were fooled by it. You are as dense as your fart."

"You are lying!" Shargu's eyes harden and soon are emitting only death. "How could you have done it?"

"I killed them all, and I can prove it. You found Gworf lying in his tent, headless and his head on a spear outside. I put it there. Three of his guards had orc arrows in their bodies, and seven had deep sword wounds. I killed them all."

"You? You can hardly even lift the sword. How could you slaughter them all?"

"I killed all of them with my bow, which is right here," Sulrochil takes her bow in her hand and, without an arrow, aims it directly at Shargu and then casts it away so far no one can break it. "Then I slashed them with the sword only to fool you and make you attack Xohargh and make the war today much easier on us."

"Don't try to use your tricks against me. I am not fooled by them," an evil glint creeps into Shargu's eyes as he scrutinises Sulrochil up and down as though he were measuring a horse.

"I would not touch you with a ten-foot pole if you did not wear that damn coat," Shargu spits, "But that coat makes you the daughter-in-law of the King of the Lanky Land, and now I will make you mine!"

Shargu takes a small knife hanging on his belt with a chilling look, steps closer to Sulrochil and tries to clutch her quiver strap.

Disgust is flowing in Sulrochil's veins, the hatred rushes through her core, the obscenity makes her forget all reason, and she grabs Shargu's wrist. With a rapid movement, she throws him to the ground.

"Do not touch me!" she shouts in Elvish, but the outrage in her form does not leave her meaning vague.

Four orcs jump to seize Sulrochil's limbs and make sure she cannot move. Shargu rises up, takes a few furious steps closer to Sulrochil, who is immobile between the four capturers. Slowly, he puts the knife between her breasts under the leather strap of her quiver and with a swift gesture, he cuts it. He steps even closer and slits all the straps. Using both his hands slowly, he begins sliding the quiver off her shoulders. Slowly, he bares his left fang, and his eyes glint fiendish malevolence.

When Sulrochil hears the quiver quietly hit the ground, she feels completely naked. The degrading look in Shargu's eyes sweeps her body up and down, rudely filling Sulrochil's soul with defilement.

The indignity stabs her soul - the shame spills all over.

Prey. That is what she has been made with no way to escape - except one. There is still the dagger in her left boot; they did not notice it. The tiny piece of weaponry is of no use against a pack of orcs, but it can be used to take one life - hers.

The sight in the forest was awful, and I hoped the cloak would cover all bad things. I thought I could not live anymore, but when my son finally was found up on a tree and brought to me, all I felt was boundless love.

I knew I would trample through this life because of him.

I have had to learn to pour only one glass of water - instead of two. I have learned to see only one pillow on our bed - on my bed - instead of two, but the hardest lesson has been to attempt to say "me" instead of "us". Nothing in this world was mine alone but ours.

Now I have to learn.

Because of my son, I shall learn to survive the half-life that has fallen upon me.

Will this grief mark my son's life forever? A motherless child with a distant father. A stone in place of my heart.

You decay in your grave. I decay in my body.

Your favourite smell is wild rosemary. In shady bogs, it grows, and I cannot enter a bog anymore.

When you were gone, my promise stayed - to keep the child safe.

Again and again, I am forced to face your death. Every moment you die because, in my heart, you live and die all over again.

I die every moment. Every moment I meet your death, and it is worse every time. The first death was the end, but now I face doom every moment. I am under the pile of endings.

Your drawer - torture.
Your nightgown - torture.
Your hairbrush - torture.

You always wanted us to have flowers in our bedroom. For me, it was all the same. Flowers, no flowers, it did not matter as long as you were there. Now all flowers mock my presence.

Flowers - torture.
Light - torture.
Smile - torture.

You died, and the world shattered. Perhaps I was wrong, and it was not you. Perhaps, I am in a cell withering when harrowing drugs flow in my veins, making me insane.

Gladly, I would do it if it meant you were alive.

The occurrences had been inane. A death in a war is sad but understandable. Dying like this - it did not make sense. All that made sense was that this was war now. If one executed the King's wife, it was a war cry.

Forever he would hunt down whoever did this. He would not rest until he found the perpetrator and made him pay for this.

The ache for revenge surrounds him. The impatient wish to make them suffer. Unsatisfied thirst of bloodshed. The hunger for payback. Would the blessing come? The delicious torment that he would make them suffer.

Forever, bloodlust would flow in his veins. His heart is a palace of wrath, his soul the castle of revenge. All he had was taken from him. The devil had crept close and offered its bitter bite. If he ever found the one behind all this, he would rip its heart out of its chest and feed it to wolves.

That would be too lenient.

He would not kill the crook but make him suffer. Sting poison into his flesh so that his body would all the time beg for more. He would not live without the venom, but with the poison, his soul would be a prisoner. He would throw the felon into a cell and pierce him with more drugs every once in a while. Not enough to kill him, but enough for him to be forever hooked. In pain, he would wither without the drug. Just when he would not take it anymore, he would get another shot of the substance that would send him to the seventh heaven for a while - but when the effect would cease, he would suffer yet more.

He would yearn for peace, beg for mercy, but there would be none available. His mind would feed him lies, forcing him into never-ending misery. He would plead for rest, but his cell would be filled with a horrible noise. The howling whistle would echo ceaselessly in his ears. Day and night, he would be subjected to the awful distracting noise.

The forest is destroyed.

Thranduil strides towards the mountain, towards the bluff of the final battle, and watches the scenery get fouler with each moment. With ghoulish machines, they have demolished everything, and all nature is scarred. Severed tree roots stick out of the black mud. Partly chewed deer bones are scattered all over the land. What was growing there a moment ago is wasted.

This is the world of destruction, and he cannot be sure anymore if this is real or only an illusion made by the witch. Nevertheless, he proceeds to make things right again. For revenge, he surges, and there is no turning back anymore.

The flow of the water has changed - all water is flowing away. All living creatures are fleeing. Nothing that has life flowing in its veins can dwell there anymore.

The only one who can exist there is the one whom he has wanted to find for ages.

The murderer of his wife is there, and that is why he is treading against everything that flees. The slayer is there - between all the havoc he has inflicted on the earth.

For that creature, he has devised a prison. He has created a perfect gaol for the perpetrator inside a forgotten mountain. Into the cell shall the demon go and rot there. No, the body shall not disintegrate but the remnants of his soul will. He shall make sure the monster shall stay alive. Alive enough not to die. Dead enough not to live.

Suffer without rest. Agonising noise shall intrude its ears forever, preventing it from resting. Bright light shall be aimed at it from all directions so that it shall forget the meaning of peace.

The prison is ready. For over two thousand years, it has been there. Few people know its existence; even fewer know its location. It is confinement without exit.

The imprisoner is watching the captive every moment. No escape. No hope.

A most exquisite poison shall be the only drink the prisoner shall receive. Deliberately designed for his purposes, it shall muddle the victim's mind so that it shall remain in the land of the living but visit the morbid land at every instant.

The destiny shall be precisely the same he has faced every day since Day One. What he has been forced to endure, that shall be the bastard's destiny. He shall pay in abundance.

This is the day of reprisal.

Finally, he sees the vile creature. On the black land, it stands. Once, it had been a living creature, but now it is an empty shell.

Just like he himself.

A ghost he has been, a deserted casing, but this is the day of transformation. A surge of power floods into him. All of a sudden, a rush of almighty power fills the dry shores of his soul.

He is full of purpose.

The last prayer filled the room. For his wife and his unborn daughter, he had sent the ultimate blessings. He had the half-made doll in his hands. Farewell, my child.

Underneath Thee, I have arrived,
O Tempest of Death, my Mother, my Father.
Underneath Thee, I bow my soul.

The doll escaped from his hands and floated around him. All these years, it has been breezing around the room, loose threads hanging from each limb.

Underneath Thee, I now stand,
O Hailstorm of Last Breath, my Brother, my Sister.
Thou hast called me,
I have heard Thy call,
Thou hast cursed me with death,
'Tis vengeance that I seek,

Death cometh upon me,
This inescapable fate cometh upon me.
Thou hast given me a curse.

Suddenly, the doll is not a toy anymore, but a baby. Only a tiny unborn baby she is.

When she ceased to exist, did she have eyes yet? Did she already hear? Did she recognise her father's voice, and did she fear the ominous tumults of the battle?

My heart is a stone. In a mirror, I see only death.

I gave my treasure as a sacrifice. I gave my summer. I gave the light.

My enmity I lay upon the world,
Let revenge befall everywhere from my hands.

I see only death,
'Tis everywhere upon me,
'Tis bespread all o'er my being,
'Tis shaping me into the frost
Of my life,
'Tis taking me into the dusk
Of my life.

A ghost emerges from a cloud. The sky is full of shadowy apparitions that slide above mountains, from a steep bluff flies a crow. Right through his heart, it lunges. The army of predators goes through him. Forever, the tiny spirit shall flutter in the father's heart.

The jitter of the unborn baby is the witch's gift to the battered father.

How much does an unborn baby weigh? Is she heavier than a crown? Lighter than love?

Would she have fit in my palm? She fills my heart but never my lap.

How quickly does an unborn baby die? Faster than lightning? Slower than an unmoving stone? Can one die if she does not even live?

'Tis to Thee whom I owe my searing hatred.
O Tempest of Death, my Mother, my Father
I am an avenger,
On this trail of blood
O Hailstorm of Last Breath, my Brother, my Sister,
Hand me the Sword of Reprisal,
I am your Relentless Predator
Guide me,
For all eternity.

His path is adorned with skulls. From one of them, he drinks. Poison is in it. Nothing more left for him. The only melody is the last breath of his wife.

Can an unborn baby let out a breath if she is not even living yet?

The rapids of vengeance cover the drained land of his soul. Pain has been his friend, agony his home, destruction his only love. What they did to Glaneth, they are doing to him. Every hit is a slash into his flesh. Forever, he would blame himself for being three eternities late for Glaneth. A thousand heartbeats too late, he arrived at the scene - and it had not left him alone for a moment.

Now he finally meets his assailant. On the black dirt, Lokowid stands and sneers. If Thranduil had not known the creature had once been an elf, he would not have noticed any resemblance, but now that he knows - he sees distortion in what should be full of rightness. Lokowid's eyes are two black wells, lying about water for the thirsty. His skin is nothing but a dark web sucking all light into it, mocking the shimmer of starlight that should illuminate only rightful causes.

Ever since Day One, Thranduil has waited for this day. "You have betrayed your people."

Lokowid spreads his arms, making his black cloak flap in the air, and bellows, "I have found the truth."

"Ylvätär is using you."

"She gives me peace."

"You are a murderer."

Lokowid grins from ear to ear. "Glaneth died easily. Oh, so smoothly she perished!" The grin fades, and a frown creeps onto his face. Shaking his forefinger, he continues in an undertone, "but did you know she made a mistake? Oh, a foolish mistake she made. Shame on her!"

"You are a monster."

"She was easy." Lokowid bursts out laughing and crouches to grab a lump of sand. He stands up and stares straight at Thranduil's eyes. "Oh, she was easy. Just like Sulrochil."

Thranduil shifts his position unconsciously. "They shall not get her."

Lokowid squeezes his palm into a fist, and all the sand flows down between his fingers. "They already did. She is quite beautiful."

"You deserve to die," Thranduil said.

"So easily they took her. Oh, how beautifully she is moaning right now. Writhing as she is taken by my minions."

"You are only bluffing," Thranduil states. "I can see through your fraud, and I was wrong - you do not deserve to die but to suffer. Forever, you shall rot in my prison.

"They brought her knife to you, did they?"

"Aye, but that does not prove these lies."

"But she might enjoy their deeds."

"Spare her," Thranduil said. "I offer myself. Do anything you want to me, but leave her alone."

"You pathetic creature," Lokowid hisses between his teeth. "We do not want you. We want a virgin with a pure soul. A soul that has just begun to open to these things. As of this moment, they are undressing her."

"Stop this faking!" Thranduil snaps. His patience is diminishing rapidly.

"I have ordered them to be quick so that no one manages to arrive in time. I think she fights back. Yes, she fights hard, but they like it. Her screams stir them. Yes, she fights hard, and it takes four of them to keep her in place, but she will succumb to their will in time. Deep down in her heart, she likes it."

Ylvätär is standing a few steps away from the combat between the two pitiful creatures. Each of them believes to be above the other, but neither shall win today.

Victory belongs to Ylvätär - and for her alone. She lets the mountain stiffen her core a shade more, and a vision invades Thranduil's mind.

A sword nears Sulrochil's chest and rips the straps of her quiver. The empty quiver falls to the ground, but the sword wants more. Four monstrous orcs keep her firmly in place when the blade intrudes on her coat. With two quick pulls, the cloth falls off her shoulders.

The orc throws the sword away and rips her shirt, exposing her white cleavage. All of them gawk at the bare skin that has never before faced leering eyes. Sulrochil shuts her eyes because she cannot bear to see the lustful faces. All of her remaining clothes are now scattered on the ground, and the orc bends over her.

All reason escapes Thranduil's mind when these ugly images enter his head, and all the savagery he is forced to meet violently rapes his mind. He grabs his sword and lifts it high in the air. The prison shall stay empty because the bastard shall die now. He slashes his sword - and just before it should hit Lokowid, it flows away from him.

A golden ring glints between two nothings.

"Do you think you can kill me so easily?" Lokowid says, and takes the sword. He slides his grimy fingers along the blade. "Nice sword you have here. Almost as beautiful as the lady elf they are enjoying right now."

Thranduil watches the sword in the bastard's hand. "You are only resorting to this imagery because if you were telling the truth, you would have brought her here and implemented all this dirt before my eyes." He takes a step closer to the worm and takes a vial from his pocket. "You are trying to shake me with this charade. You might have my sword, but I do not need it to fulfil my purpose."

Ylvätär smiles to herself when she sees him lifting the vial of poison high in the air.

Tauriel and all the assisting elves run through the battlefield after Legolas. All of them have pledged to give their lives to save one. Their kingdom depends on this one elf - the daughter of their King.

Nothing can come between them and their aim.

Sulrochil. A familiar swoosh of her presence had flashed in Legolas' mind a while ago. Now they all are dashing across the battles, but he has not sensed her another time.

Then he feels it - her terror, and he knows she is not running of her own will but being carried by those lowlifes.

Legolas can only hope the predators are heading in one distinct direction. If they are aware of the Wardens' Bond between them, they might know to dodge it and change their path.

He has no arrows left - except one - but that does not matter. The orcs he has been encountering fight badly. There is not much focus in their actions. No orc leaders are anywhere to be seen, and these poor ones on the battlefield seem to be lost, but it only makes them easily provoked.

Sulrochil should not be anywhere close to the location in which he sensed her. She should be somewhere in the Northern forest, not the West. She has to have a reason for that, except she never has a reason - only feeling. And the feelings - they have been strange during the whole day. Extremely strange, as if there were no emotions at all. Does it mean she has kept all her feelings in a straight line? Kept her sanity and stayed focused?

Never.

Tauriel was right - the only possible course of action is to go and see what Sulrochil is up to this time.

The orcs have been behaving strangely. Some of them have fallen to the ground too quickly, and some are fighting more fiercely than ever. The sheer determination to find out what has happened to Sulrochil gives more strength to Legolas, and it does not matter who is in his way - all unfortunate creatures on the battlefield meet their end.

Soon they reach the forest's edge, and they can speed up their running. No orc follows them - the crowd of trees make them ill. Therefore no orcs are in sight anymore when Legolas finally senses Sulrochil again. Now that he identifies her exact location, he can fix his ears to that specific spot in the forest and begin listening to what is happening there.

Sulrochil is beleaguered by several orcs.

The only thing Legolas can think of is to reach her quickly, and just then, he is immersed in the scope of her terror. Pure rage is the most evident feeling he can discern, but there are quick flashes of disgust, hatred, contempt. It all is twirling in Legolas' mind making the whole forest sway around him. But if she can feel those emotions, everything should be alright, he tries to convince himself.

After a few moments, his world collapses as his soul is smeared with absolute humiliation. The indignity follows him, it bruises him, and it makes him the prey. There is no way to escape from it, no way to hide, no way to shrug it off.

By many monsters, he has been chased in his lifetime, but never had he been the prey.

Dark curls swing between rocks. The King raises the vial.

Do it, Ylvätär thinks, do it now. Force-feed the drink to the wastrel, and you shall be mine. Try to suppress him under your regime, and it makes you mine. Torture him, and all in this world shall be mine.

Ylvätär still has one more insight to show the elf. This should do it, she thinks when she forces Thranduil's mind to drown in the last of her imagery.

Sulrochil is lying on the ground, weeping and trying to clutch the remnants of her torn clothes to cover her nakedness. Legolas arrives at the clearing. Disgust washes his face when he sees her. The disgrace stabs him, and he turns his face away.

Humiliation hangs on the tree branches. A pine trunk cracks. The crown of the tree falls down. Legolas turns his back to the scene and treads away.

The light that once was theirs does not lighten their path anymore.

The sun has been executed from the sky. The light is gone, the warmth vanishes, and all hope disappears. Thranduil watches the vial in his hand and knows what to do with it.

To see them suffer, his deepest desire
To delight in hatred, he learns
Soon he is the master of revenge
To feel it, he exists

She is tied, ripped and bled
Raped by hate
Disgraced by lust

For every wrong they did to her
He is to give back to them

Pay the price
The victim in bloodlust
Pride lifts its head
All reason flights
Innocence dies

Flares lick her white skin
Mercy is dead
Trust betrayed, all virtue gone
Dirt breaks every rule

He has been an empty shell, detached from life, a desolate desert. Fresh water is pouring into him now, making him alive again. It is the fountain of wrath. He has revived. For Glaneth, he had arrived three eternities too late.

Now he is on time.

Ylvätär smiles as the last of her visions finally conquers the elven soul. The King can no longer shield himself against the fraudulent notions but lifts the vial and strides closer to Lokowid.

I have the first vial of venom in my pocket. Forever, I have carried it near my heart, awaiting the day I would pour the drink between the lips of my nemesis. In my mirror, I have seen you many times. There you have been lurking, over my shoulder, dodging my gaze. Today is the day.

I will disfigure you. I will peel your eyelids so that you can no longer shut them. Forever you shall be forced to see. Without rest, the images shall infiltrate your mind. I will pierce your ears so that you shall hear voices all over again. Never-ending noise in your ears will make you insane. Rest will not find you.

Soon, Ylvätär thinks, all earth shall be mine. Pour the venom into the leech's mouth, and all living beings shall belong to me. Everything that exists shall be of my possession. I will bless you with beatitude and satisfy all your sincerest needs.

Thranduil raised the vial.

Ylvätär eagerly watched his movements, and the blissful prospect finally shimmered within her reach.

It was a land of joy

Everyone laughed when
She asked them to

It was a land of peace
Her peace

It was a land of love
Everyone made it
Whenever she pleased
With everyone
She asked them to

She watched it with delight
And saw that it was good