This chapter's dedicated to the anonymous reviewer who signs by the name 'Reina' -- you brightened my day and killed my writer's block. Thank you. ;)
Notes: Quickie. This /is/ an AU, just to remind ya'll. I've read and seen too many Bad-Galadrial fics for ya'll to come down on me hard for the semi-cliche, semi-out-of-this-world stuff in this chapter, a'ight? Thranduil's insane, by the way, if you haven't guessed. Literally insane.
Disclaimers And Stuff Can Be Found In "Prologue". Enjoy. ^.^
~
Setting: Thranduil's Court
'HE'S /WHAT/?'
Thranduil was incensed. The elven king was... irate. Pushed to a point in his anger that even Sauron himself would cower by the twisted, dark expression written across high cheekbones, he shot up from his throne, and stalked.
'I did /not/ make a deal with Sauron on my own soul for him to go romping about, playing with horses, /living/,' he growled to the elven warrior that had bore the news.
The poor warrior stood as stoic as he could, but one could see the sporastic twitch along one eyelid. He was scared. Terrified, even, by the sight of the dark rage that piled out.
'I did /not/! Do you /hear/ me, or are you just a piece of scenery, elfling?'
'I think it would be rather hard not to hear you, /sir/.'
Thranduil's eyes half-closed in anger. 'Do you dare to mock me, boy?'
'I am no boy. I have served at your table longer than most,' the elf replied stiffly. Dark-haired, his pointed ears slanted back more than typical: green eyes were dark against fair skin. He was much darker than most elves tended to be... much darker. The elf, himself, had sworn allegiance to Legolas: he attempted to hide his contempt at Thranduil's tyrant practices, and trigger-happy wicked bargains with the Dark Master, biding his time until Gandalf could figure out just /exactly/ what happened to cause a /full/elf/ to lose his immortality... and even if he had lost his immortality. The only real way to see was to attempt to kill him, and Legolas had already had far too many such experiences at Thranduil's hand.
The elf -- the dark elf -- in question was called by the name of Riloi.
'You would be wise to not be on my bad side, boy,' Thranduil scoffed, fury interlacing his tones into a deathly threat.
Riloi brought himself up to full height, and stared out stoicly, blankly, private thoughts buried deep. Some of the elves that were enslaved -- for there was no other word for the blackmail and physical threats upon the Elves of Mirkwood -- had whispered that the Elven King had powers of mindreading, granted by Sauron. Riloi didn't believe such gossip, but... it was better to bury thoughts, anyhow, and what harm could it do?
'Tell me again,' he growled at Riloi, settling back into his throne of twisted silver.
'Your spy,' he half-choked on the word, 'Within the Last Homely House reported seeing Legolas, very much alive.'
'And what of Prinela?'
'Priynel we haven't heard of,' Riloi said less-than-truthfully. His heart skipped a beat, silvern blood beating fast and hard. If the rumors were right, and Thranduil had divulged into such matters of mindreading...
...but he had not, apparently, as the elf settled back, satisfied. 'And what news of the ring?'
'We have not traced it down thus far,' the warrior-messenger was able to reply, though he was once more terrified at the possibility of being caught. They /did/ have a promising lead, but it would be quite a journey.
'You lie to me?' Thranduil said, almost idly, chilling eyes centered on Riloi.
He was about to black out from the stress. Why him? Riloi swallowed, and attempted to stammer out a reply.
'I heard of this 'Shire', and I most certainly know the tale of Bilbo Baggins. Fetch me the ring, and be quick about it -- and send out archers to bring back my son. You, yourself, will get the ring. Do you hear me?'
'Yes, sire,' Riloi stiffly replied.
'Dismissed,' the king stated, already looking contemplative -- possibly on what the future might hold, possibly what he would do with his renegade son, possibly on what he would go to Sauron for next.
All Riloi knew, was that Thranduil with that thoughtful look on his face... well, it chilled his bones. Chilled his bones, and beyond: it chilled his very essence, his very soul.
As soon as he was of a considerable distance away from the throneroom, he broke down, and prayed to the Valar that Thranduil would be taken from this realm before he could inflict more harm onto the elvish race: before he could finish his Master Plan with the Dark Lord.
Before he could exterminate the age-old race of Elves.
~~
Setting: Rohirrim field, eastern border
They rode on in companionable silence, northbound, as the sun was setting. The four rode a loose diamond: Estel took point, with the elvish archer riding to his port and back a length, Eqil to his starboard, loosely mirroring Legolas's positioning, and Priynel, back a distance.
Eqil glanced at Estel's back, glanced over at Greenleaf.
**| I wonder what he is thinking, |** the Rider contemplated. The elvish prince's braids were neat, his eyes were brighter than what Eqil had thought of as 'normal', but what he was fastly realizing /wasn't/ normal... Legolas looked alive, he realised. He looked alive, and even... even /bright/, when he was around Estel, when he talked to the son of Imladris's Lord.
Priynel's thoughts weren't along the lines of Eqil's -- rather, the lagging warrioress was staring, face drawn, at a group of riders. She couldn't count how many; there were quite a few, but little more than a handful. They were big, yet small, fast, yet excruciatingly slow. It hurt her golden eyes to try to focus on them; she tried to think of why they looked so /off/.
And as the blood drained away from startling features, she realized why.
There were nine...
...and they rode upon black horses.
Notes: Quickie. This /is/ an AU, just to remind ya'll. I've read and seen too many Bad-Galadrial fics for ya'll to come down on me hard for the semi-cliche, semi-out-of-this-world stuff in this chapter, a'ight? Thranduil's insane, by the way, if you haven't guessed. Literally insane.
Disclaimers And Stuff Can Be Found In "Prologue". Enjoy. ^.^
~
Setting: Thranduil's Court
'HE'S /WHAT/?'
Thranduil was incensed. The elven king was... irate. Pushed to a point in his anger that even Sauron himself would cower by the twisted, dark expression written across high cheekbones, he shot up from his throne, and stalked.
'I did /not/ make a deal with Sauron on my own soul for him to go romping about, playing with horses, /living/,' he growled to the elven warrior that had bore the news.
The poor warrior stood as stoic as he could, but one could see the sporastic twitch along one eyelid. He was scared. Terrified, even, by the sight of the dark rage that piled out.
'I did /not/! Do you /hear/ me, or are you just a piece of scenery, elfling?'
'I think it would be rather hard not to hear you, /sir/.'
Thranduil's eyes half-closed in anger. 'Do you dare to mock me, boy?'
'I am no boy. I have served at your table longer than most,' the elf replied stiffly. Dark-haired, his pointed ears slanted back more than typical: green eyes were dark against fair skin. He was much darker than most elves tended to be... much darker. The elf, himself, had sworn allegiance to Legolas: he attempted to hide his contempt at Thranduil's tyrant practices, and trigger-happy wicked bargains with the Dark Master, biding his time until Gandalf could figure out just /exactly/ what happened to cause a /full/elf/ to lose his immortality... and even if he had lost his immortality. The only real way to see was to attempt to kill him, and Legolas had already had far too many such experiences at Thranduil's hand.
The elf -- the dark elf -- in question was called by the name of Riloi.
'You would be wise to not be on my bad side, boy,' Thranduil scoffed, fury interlacing his tones into a deathly threat.
Riloi brought himself up to full height, and stared out stoicly, blankly, private thoughts buried deep. Some of the elves that were enslaved -- for there was no other word for the blackmail and physical threats upon the Elves of Mirkwood -- had whispered that the Elven King had powers of mindreading, granted by Sauron. Riloi didn't believe such gossip, but... it was better to bury thoughts, anyhow, and what harm could it do?
'Tell me again,' he growled at Riloi, settling back into his throne of twisted silver.
'Your spy,' he half-choked on the word, 'Within the Last Homely House reported seeing Legolas, very much alive.'
'And what of Prinela?'
'Priynel we haven't heard of,' Riloi said less-than-truthfully. His heart skipped a beat, silvern blood beating fast and hard. If the rumors were right, and Thranduil had divulged into such matters of mindreading...
...but he had not, apparently, as the elf settled back, satisfied. 'And what news of the ring?'
'We have not traced it down thus far,' the warrior-messenger was able to reply, though he was once more terrified at the possibility of being caught. They /did/ have a promising lead, but it would be quite a journey.
'You lie to me?' Thranduil said, almost idly, chilling eyes centered on Riloi.
He was about to black out from the stress. Why him? Riloi swallowed, and attempted to stammer out a reply.
'I heard of this 'Shire', and I most certainly know the tale of Bilbo Baggins. Fetch me the ring, and be quick about it -- and send out archers to bring back my son. You, yourself, will get the ring. Do you hear me?'
'Yes, sire,' Riloi stiffly replied.
'Dismissed,' the king stated, already looking contemplative -- possibly on what the future might hold, possibly what he would do with his renegade son, possibly on what he would go to Sauron for next.
All Riloi knew, was that Thranduil with that thoughtful look on his face... well, it chilled his bones. Chilled his bones, and beyond: it chilled his very essence, his very soul.
As soon as he was of a considerable distance away from the throneroom, he broke down, and prayed to the Valar that Thranduil would be taken from this realm before he could inflict more harm onto the elvish race: before he could finish his Master Plan with the Dark Lord.
Before he could exterminate the age-old race of Elves.
~~
Setting: Rohirrim field, eastern border
They rode on in companionable silence, northbound, as the sun was setting. The four rode a loose diamond: Estel took point, with the elvish archer riding to his port and back a length, Eqil to his starboard, loosely mirroring Legolas's positioning, and Priynel, back a distance.
Eqil glanced at Estel's back, glanced over at Greenleaf.
**| I wonder what he is thinking, |** the Rider contemplated. The elvish prince's braids were neat, his eyes were brighter than what Eqil had thought of as 'normal', but what he was fastly realizing /wasn't/ normal... Legolas looked alive, he realised. He looked alive, and even... even /bright/, when he was around Estel, when he talked to the son of Imladris's Lord.
Priynel's thoughts weren't along the lines of Eqil's -- rather, the lagging warrioress was staring, face drawn, at a group of riders. She couldn't count how many; there were quite a few, but little more than a handful. They were big, yet small, fast, yet excruciatingly slow. It hurt her golden eyes to try to focus on them; she tried to think of why they looked so /off/.
And as the blood drained away from startling features, she realized why.
There were nine...
...and they rode upon black horses.