The tension churning around the empty tavern was almost claustrophobic as hard green eyes glared into a gaze of ice blue. Zilarynn's head began to swim and she felt as if she would pass out until she realized that she had been holding her breath since he spoke. She slowly exhaled a breath that trembled almost as much as her hands at her side. The moment that she always dreaded would arrive, was now standing across the room from her.
She had glimpsed him throughout the evening; always strategically moving behind Melanor whenever his gaze would travel in her direction. His tall crown had been adorned with orange and red leaves that matched the flower arrangements on the dais table. His light brown leggings and boots had been complemented by a white tunic. The billowing outer robe he wore was a deep auburn orange that finished off the entire grand ensemble.
Rather than basking in the candlelight of the main hall, his features were now shadowed by moonlight; his incredulous gaze burning into her.
The Elvenking took a step forward and Zilarynn immediately took two steps back, her lower back pressing up against the bar and halting her retreat. Thranduil paused midway through his second step as he saw the fear flash across her shadowed features. There must've been candlelit somewhere down the hall behind her that backlit her silhouette. He furrowed his brow at her reaction as he left his second step incomplete.
"How many?" His question was slow and measured a slight tilt to his head, "How many of you survived the fall?"
Watching her demeanor shift at the sound of the question, Thranduil caught a glimpse of the stoic tavern-keeper he saw last night, a remnant of the warrior she was so long ago, and the soldier that he had once fought next to.
Zilarynn felt a long-dormant rage spark within her again. She stopped leaning against the bar and squared her shoulders, "Does it matter?"
Does it matter? Her dark words echoed in his mind although his indifferent mask stayed in place. Maintaining his distance he placed his hands behind his back, "Why would it not matter?"
Zilarynn let out a disgusted scoff as she walked back around the bar and Thranduil heard the distinctive unsheathing of swords. When she walked back around she held dual blades that he knew well. The blades and hilts were as black as the night sky with intricate silver carvings of runes and an elvish blessing. He took half a step backward as she walked towards him with the drawn blades. His gaze rising back up to meet rage-filled green eyes.
"Duag Mor Vagol (Soldiers of the Black Sword)," Zilarynn whispered around clenched teeth as she took a step forward, "Ten soldiers, handpicked by the Great Elvenking himself, to serve as his personal guard and the fiercest protectors of Eryn Galen. I bore mine with pride for nearly three centuries… And what do I have in return? The memory of our whole group falling into the icy chasm. Watching them drown. Watching my Ada—" She broke off, blinking back the tears that stung the back of her eyes. She would not cry in front of him. Moving slowly, she set both swords on the side of the table closest to him before straightening back up, "Keep them. They're no longer of use to me."
With a single step back, Zillaryn turned on her heel and made her way to the hall behind the bar.
"You would turn your back on your King?"
His voice was harder than before, causing Zilarynn to stop. She looked back over her shoulder, the candlelight casting half her face into shadow.
"You are no King of mine."
Thranduil felt his anger rise at the impertinent comment and his eyes narrowed, "How dare you speak to me like—"
"How dare I?" Zilarynn whispered, a hint of rage lacing the words, "How dare YOU?!" Suddenly she spun around the candlelight making her look ethereal; full of seething anger that has finally boiled over, "Ten soldiers! Ten soldiers lost to the depths of that river, never to be brought back from their watery grave. Ten lives who trust in their King enough to follow him into whatever may lie ahead." She was shaking now, her fists clutched so tight that she felt her nails beginning to sink into her palms, "and where was their great King?"
Thranduil clenched his jaw, "If you'll allow me—"
"Did you even look?" Zilarynn cut him off again, this time her voice softer and full of pain, "Did you even try? Those of us who didn't perish instantly to the rocks almost made it to shore. Before the orcs broke away another part of the cliff face Did you just assume we had all been crushed?"
There was a heavy silence between the two as the Elvenking let the truth of her words sink into his mind, into his heart that shattered that dismal day so long ago. I should have searched harder, he thought as he stared at her pained expression. Her chest heaved in adrenaline as she asked the questions that had plagued her mind since her battered body had struck the icy water.
"You asked how many survived," her voice was barely a whisper. But she knew the heightened senses of elves and knew that he had heard her, "Take a long look Aran Thranduil (King Thranduil)," she slightly raised her hands to her sides and Thranduil could see blood pooling in the center of her hands, "I am the last remaining soldier of that battalion of Duag Mor Vagol (Soldiers of the Black Sword)."
With her final statement hanging in the air, she turned back around and left him alone in the abandoned tavern. He heard retreating footsteps that sounded like she had gone up a staircase followed by a door closing.
Thranduil considered following her but, for the first time in millennia, he had no idea what he would say. He remained in the darkened room for a long while, his eyes fixed on the blades that he had not had reforged since the day the battalion fell. A new guard had never been selected, as one could not replace the soldiers that were lost. He picked up one of the swords and held it in the moonlight; reading the elvish blessing he had requested be carved into the blade so long ago.
Galdol vaethor veleg cened e Valar. Berio din le dagor. (Bless this mighty warrior in the eyes of the Valar. Protect them in battle.)
He placed the blade back onto the table beside its twin. They were no longer his to reclaim. Not anymore.
Thranduil silently left the tavern, no longer wanting to rejoin the feat that continued within the main hall. He was almost to the edge of town when he got the feeling of eyes watching him. Turning around his eyes were drawn up to the second floor of 'The Dancing Dragon'. A candle had been lit by the window where a small balcony jutted out from the building.
On the balcony, a lone figure watched on as the Great Elvenking turned and walked the rest of the way to the Greenwood encampment.