CHAPTER 28 - The Power Of Revenge
The black cloak of night was wrapped around the lands east of Mirkwood, and stars twinkled down like diamonds. The silver moon shone down on Dale in a crescent shape, like a sliver of the sun. The sky, as a whole, was deceptively peaceful. Perhaps it would have been more adequate for it to be filled with heavy, angry clouds, rolls of thunder and flashes of white lightning, gone almost as soon as they struck the ground. Perhaps it would have been more appropriate if the sky had thrown rain or hail at the ground and soaked the earth, making it a sea of mud.
The stillness of the sky was almost mocking the terror going on, down on the lands of Rhovänion. A small farming settlement about a days ride away from Dale was under attack from a band of two hundred orcs. Frenzied feet pounded the ground as their owners ran from the attacking orcs, and voices screamed in agony and pain as they were hewn down by the laughing attackers. One by one the wooden huts of the settlement went up in smoke and flames, lighting up the night and smothering the sky with thick smoke.
A young mother slipped and fell, a small child in her arms. She scrambled to get up, but was knocked back down to the floor again as her neighbours and friends rushed past in their panic to escape. She screamed with frustration, sure that her baby was going to be murdered like her eldest son had been moments before. A snarl above her indicated that an orc was standing over her. A horse galloped past her, having escaped its owner and trying to escape the confusion.
She flung herself over on to her back and screamed again as she looked in to the yellow, evil eyes of her advisory. The orc raised a blade, filthy with blood of people she knew, and snarled again. A small sob escaped her mouth as the mother pressed her howling child to what she expected would be the last embrace, as she waited for the killing blow to fall.
It never came.
From the west, a loud and clear horn blew, piercing the sound of the mêlée. The sharp point of an arrow suddenly protruded from the chest of the orc standing above the helpless woman, and a look of confusion crossed its face at the sight of its own blood, before the creature keeled over forwards on top of the mother, almost smothering her and her child. It was dead.
King Thranduil of Mirkwood blew the horn again, and charged towards the village on his proud, white stallion, yelling a war cry. His golden hair flew out behind him, rippling in the wind created by the speed of the horse, held down only by a circlet of silver leaves. His polished armour glinted, reflecting the tortured land as he raced past it. His fair, eternally beautiful features glowed with power. The sword he held raised above him was long and sharp, dangerously beautiful, and his silver shield mirrored the moon, hanging proud in the field of stars around it.
Only twenty-five of his warriors had managed to prepare for the attack in time, but in his blood wrath, numbers were not important to the king. All he could see was the image of his sons returning home changed, terrified of everyone, and his beloved dead wife and daughters.
Tonight, revenge would belong to the elves of Mirkwood.
Even though there were only twenty-six elves against two hundred orcs, the rage and lust for revenge that filled them was enough to fill the orcs with terror. It was now the turn of the orcs to howl with despair as they were hewn down by angry blades and arrows. The initial surprise of the elven attack, however, wore off the orcs quickly, and the creatures of the darkness began to realise that there were very few warriors facing them.
"Attack 'em!" snarled one of the orcs, "There are more of us! We can take 'em!"
The dull realisation hit the orcs at last, and they turned around from their retreat. The creatures, leaderless now, their new captain having had his head hewn off by Thranduil, snarled and growled. Many of them had dropped their weapons when they had heard the horn of Mirkwood blowing, but now they had taken fresh weapons from the hands of their dead comrades.
"Kill 'em all!"
The orcs gave the attacking elves, who were thundering down the mud track on their horses, a volley of spears. Most of the shots went wild, but three of the horses were hit and let out whinnies of pain and reared, throwing their riders off balance and to the floor. The elves quickly got up and began fighting for their lives as orcs sprang up from among the dead, where they had lain in wait.
Charging down on the orcs, the elves trampled many of their adversaries beneath the hooves of their horses, and cut down even more with their sharp swords. Starlight reflected on their blades as they came swishing down to cut through the squealing creatures before them.
At the head of his small band of warriors, Thranduil had completely lost all sense himself to the power of his blood wrath. All he could see were sneering orcs, laughing at the misfortune of his family, covered by a deep red mist. The screams of pain from the orcs meant nothing to him, as he cut his way through them, mowing them down. A pile of dead enemies began to mound up around his feet, and the elves found themselves having to stand on dead and dying bodies, covered in blood. The dying orcs howled out for mercy as they lay there, deadly wounded, writhing on the ground.
The mortal villagers ran here and there, attempting to avoid the blood wrath of the elves in case they were killed themselves, and trying their hardest not to be skewered on the filthy blades of the orcs as the creatures tried to kill anybody who got in their way in their haste to escape.
Caught in the middle of the battle, a small boy, clutching the hand of his even smaller sister, stood still and began to cry. He pulled the young girl close to him as an elven horse jumped over the pair of them and clattered down on the orc running past them, killing it.
Then, there was nothing.
The elves looked around to kill the next orc, but there were no orcs to face them. One by one, the villagers realised that they were no longer in any danger. They only orcs left alive lay on the grounds, groaning in pain and clutching at wounds.
Thranduil, free of his blood wrath at last, strode over to Culkemen, where she stood shaking. They were both dirty from the thick smoke billowing around them from the burning houses, whose flames still licked at the sky. Blood was speared and splattered across their faces and armour. Thranduil brushed a strand of wild hair behind an ear, spreading the blood further across his face.
Beside them, and orc writhed on the ground, clutching at a wound in its stomach. Without even looking at the miserable creature, king Thranduil skewered its throat with his sword. The orc gave a last choke, gurgled, and then died.
"Battle report, Culkemen. Have we lost any of ours?"
"No sir," she replied, "Though seven are badly wounded, I think."
"Any orcs left?" he growled, looking around at the ruins of the village. Bodies of the mortals and the orcs lay stretched or curled in obscure positions, half submerged in pools of blood and covered by other bodies.
"None sir," Culkemen answered. Her voice shook slightly, and she tried not to wretch as she became aware of the stench.
"Good. Send a messenger to Dale and tell them to get healers here. Tell them that it is not a request. We will stay here until the warriors are all fit to travel and the villagers no longer need help. Understood?"
The captain nodded, not daring to open her mouth again, and hurried off to find a messenger. Sighing, Thranduil looked westward to Mirkwood, and thought of his beloved sons. Now, perhaps, they would believe that he truly did love them.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The dull grey light filtering through the dark canopy of the trees indicated to the elves of Imladris that it was now dawn of the fifth day since the Royal Guards had left them. Elrond, riding at the head of the party, was becoming increasingly worried that the king of the dark realm had not yet made an appearance, making his sons believe that he loved them as much as any good father loved their sons. His wife had also become quite nervous. His sons, however, seemed to be only confused and a quite unhappy at the thought of having to say goodbye to princes when Thranduil turned up.
As they rode on through the forest, and the hours drew on, the unrest Elrond and Celebrian were feeling had almost become panic. It did not escape the notice of the princes, who pressed the twins for answers.
"Elladan," asked Legolas, in a low voice, "What are your naneth and adar so upset about?"
Shrugging, the young elf of Imladris desperately tried to think of an excuse. Being unable to come up with anything believable other than the truth, he said, "Shall I go and ask them?"
The youngest prince of Mirkwood shook his head.
"I do not want to intrude upon something that is not my business."
Elladan and Elrohir exchanged looks of relief that they had not been pressed for answers. Although they could easily come up with an alibi or tell little white lies to their parents, the twins did not think that they would be able to lie to the princes. They had been fed so many lies recently it had been, and still was, almost impossible for them to tell the truth from a lie. Adding more lies to the list would only make them more confused, and by becoming more confused, the princes would only become more withdrawn and depressed.
More hours passed uneventfully, until the dull grey light left the forest, and the elves were swamped in the pitch black anti-light of Mirkwood night.
"Shall we carry on, or shall we stop for the night?" asked Lady Celebrian, and then added in a whisper, "If we stop, King Thranduil is more likely to catch up with us."
Thinking for a moment, Elrond shook his head, although Celebrian only just saw it in the flickering light of the burning torches.
"We must press on, I think. The forest is stifling. King Thranduil will catch up with us whether we stop or not, I hope."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The Royal Guards who had been escorting the Imladris elves though Mirkwood had arrived back at the halls of the king, and had settled back in to the normal routine of life. They had been home for two days, when Silnan called Inithil to him. The young guard stood nervously before his captain, biting his lip and shifting from one foot to the other.
"You have never lied to me, have you Inithil?" He asked, in quite a friendly tone. Inithil shook his head.
"No sir, you know what I think about lying sir."
"Not one, little, white lie?"
That was when Inithil realized Silnan knew about the lie on the path. He bit his tongue.
"Well, Inithil?"
The guard looked up in to the eyes of his superior, and knew he was cornered. Looking around desperately for some way to escape, his eyes rested on the dark door to the office they were standing in. Silnan noticed, and moved to stand in the way of Inithil's line of sight with the door. Inithil gulped.
"I don't like lying, captain Silnan sir," he muttered, looking at his feet.
"But you have lied to me, Inithil." It was a statement, not a question. Inithil nodded miserably.
"Yes sir, I apologize sir."
"Why did you lie to me?"
Inithil went white. He was torn between two loyalties - that of the princes, and keeping their secret, or telling his captain every scrap of detail he knew. He whimpered.
"They. . .they said if I tell you, I would be betraying them, sir," he squeaked. His voice was barely audible, and Silnan found himself having to lean closer to the young guard to hear what was being said. This, unfortunately, made Inithil feel as though he was under even more pressure.
"Who did?"
"They said not to tell you, sir."
"Why?"
"Because it would make me a traitor, sir."
"A traitor to whom?"
"A traitor to. . ." Inithil bit his lip, and looked down at his feet. He had almost given away the secret that had forced him to lie in the first place, but he refused to let down his defences so easily. After all, he had been given orders from the prince, and the princes ranked higher than a captain, even if it was captain Silnan.
The captain in question banged his fist on his desk with frustration, letting anger get the better of him.
"Inithil, if the king was here I would drag you strait along to him and then you would have to answer to the king! As it happens, I have been informed that the king is not in Mirkwood right now, and therefore I am the highest ranking warrior in Mirkwood. Yes, there are the princes, but they refuse to. . ." he stopped abruptly, and light dawned on his fair features.
"Is this to do with the princes, Inithil?"
Trembling, and feeling like a traitor, Inithil nodded slowly.
"They said if I told you I would be a traitor. Does that make me a traitor, sir?"
Silnan gave the terrified guard a funny look.
"The princes said that?"
"No sir, the sons of Elrond."
A flash of anger replaced the look of triumph that had been covering the features of the elven captain.
"I knew we should never have trusted them!" he shouted, and stormed out of the study towards the stables, to go and search for his king.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It had been four days since the last stand of the orcs, and Thranduil smiled grimly. The healers had arrived from Dale, and most of his warriors had recovered. There were only three warriors unfit to travel now, and soon they would be on their way back to Mirkwood.
The bodies of the murdered villagers had been laid to rest just outside the village, and a very tearful ceremony had been held. The king would not have gone, feeling that it was not his place, but the men and women of the burnt village had insisted, saying that if he had not appeared with his warriors like something out of the old tales, then the orcs would have killed them all.
The bodies of the orcs had not been treated with anywhere near the same amount of respect, being piled up in to a mound of stinking, ugly corpses and burnt in a huge bonfire. Thick, black smoke had filled the sky for the second time in the week, but this time it was welcomed. They had all watched the spectacle with grim triumph.
Now the clearing of the bodies was over, and the mortals both from Dale and from the farming village had thanked the elves over and over again for coming to the rescue. The elves had been provided with everything they needed, and more, not least of all healing for the wounded and food for their empty stomachs.
The king of Dale walked up to king Thranduil and bowed.
"I thank you, king Thranduil, for all that you have done for my people."
Thranduil bowed back to his ally.
"I am glad to be of service, though in truth the main reason I came to kill the orcs was quite selfish."
"We were very sorry when we heard your tragic news."
The two men stood silently for a while, looking over the work that was being done to rebuild the village. Elves and men were working together to rebuild the destroyed houses, and the result was pleasing for both sides.
"My elves and I will not leave until the village is rebuilt, king Dorlas," vowed Thranduil suddenly. His companion blinked with astonishment.
"That is very gracious of you, but I find myself wondering why."
"I feel partly at fault," replied Thranduil sadly, "For not killing them all when I had the chance. Look at what has happened because I let them go."
To that, the king of Dale could find no reply. He looked up at the dirt track leading to the settlement, and saw an elven rider galloping down it as fast as the horse could go. The pair of kings watched as the rider approached - one tall, slim and golden, the other a little dumpy with very dark features. The rider drew up to them and dismounted, bowing to them. It was Silnan.
"King Thranduil," he gasped, out of breath, "Your sons. . ."
King Dorlas of Dale heard the sharp intake of breath.
"What has happened?" hissed the king of Mirkwood.
"They have gone, my lord. To Imladris."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A/N: Look! I have over 300 reviews! Yay! Thank you all so much for reviewing!
REVIEW REPLY THINGY
DRAGONFLY ~ my dear, everything that can go wrong *always* goes wrong. Law of life. Don't worry, he came out of it fine.
LARVLE ~ don't worry, it won't end for a good while yet. You're on holiday? No fair!
ELIZABETHBLACK4 ~ so basically poor everyone involved, right? Why poor Mithrandir though? Ooh, and sorry to nit pick, but you spelt Astaler's name wrong. . .
TAMARA ~ thanks!
MORBID MIND ~ thank you!
IMBEFANIEL ~ oh the poor thing! No need to be depressed if she's okay now though.
PIRATE-CHICHA ~ don't worry dear, the princes don't get caught again this fic. The nasty orcs have all been killed now, anyway. Angst is good. I like angst.
EBONY FALCON ~ was there enough action this time?
ORODRUIN ~ falling apart, or being ripped brutally apart and being crushed beneath the feet of orcs? Nah, Thranduil knows the strength of his own people better than any others do. . . except maybe Silnan. Mithrandir's threatening look wouldn't work on Thranduil. Partly because Thranduil is a king, and partly because he has an equally scary look.
LOTRSEER3350 ~ I see somebody hasn't read the appendixes in the back of Lotr. You see, Celebrian and Aragorn were never around at the same time. Celebrian sailed west long before Aragorn was even born. Again, you have your timelines mixed up. Thranduil *can't* die in battle, because he is in The Hobbit, and that hasn't taken place yet. How do we know? Because Celebrian is still here.
COOLIO02 ~ heh. Never get in the way of a Thranduil rampage. The orcs learnt the hard way.
The black cloak of night was wrapped around the lands east of Mirkwood, and stars twinkled down like diamonds. The silver moon shone down on Dale in a crescent shape, like a sliver of the sun. The sky, as a whole, was deceptively peaceful. Perhaps it would have been more adequate for it to be filled with heavy, angry clouds, rolls of thunder and flashes of white lightning, gone almost as soon as they struck the ground. Perhaps it would have been more appropriate if the sky had thrown rain or hail at the ground and soaked the earth, making it a sea of mud.
The stillness of the sky was almost mocking the terror going on, down on the lands of Rhovänion. A small farming settlement about a days ride away from Dale was under attack from a band of two hundred orcs. Frenzied feet pounded the ground as their owners ran from the attacking orcs, and voices screamed in agony and pain as they were hewn down by the laughing attackers. One by one the wooden huts of the settlement went up in smoke and flames, lighting up the night and smothering the sky with thick smoke.
A young mother slipped and fell, a small child in her arms. She scrambled to get up, but was knocked back down to the floor again as her neighbours and friends rushed past in their panic to escape. She screamed with frustration, sure that her baby was going to be murdered like her eldest son had been moments before. A snarl above her indicated that an orc was standing over her. A horse galloped past her, having escaped its owner and trying to escape the confusion.
She flung herself over on to her back and screamed again as she looked in to the yellow, evil eyes of her advisory. The orc raised a blade, filthy with blood of people she knew, and snarled again. A small sob escaped her mouth as the mother pressed her howling child to what she expected would be the last embrace, as she waited for the killing blow to fall.
It never came.
From the west, a loud and clear horn blew, piercing the sound of the mêlée. The sharp point of an arrow suddenly protruded from the chest of the orc standing above the helpless woman, and a look of confusion crossed its face at the sight of its own blood, before the creature keeled over forwards on top of the mother, almost smothering her and her child. It was dead.
King Thranduil of Mirkwood blew the horn again, and charged towards the village on his proud, white stallion, yelling a war cry. His golden hair flew out behind him, rippling in the wind created by the speed of the horse, held down only by a circlet of silver leaves. His polished armour glinted, reflecting the tortured land as he raced past it. His fair, eternally beautiful features glowed with power. The sword he held raised above him was long and sharp, dangerously beautiful, and his silver shield mirrored the moon, hanging proud in the field of stars around it.
Only twenty-five of his warriors had managed to prepare for the attack in time, but in his blood wrath, numbers were not important to the king. All he could see was the image of his sons returning home changed, terrified of everyone, and his beloved dead wife and daughters.
Tonight, revenge would belong to the elves of Mirkwood.
Even though there were only twenty-six elves against two hundred orcs, the rage and lust for revenge that filled them was enough to fill the orcs with terror. It was now the turn of the orcs to howl with despair as they were hewn down by angry blades and arrows. The initial surprise of the elven attack, however, wore off the orcs quickly, and the creatures of the darkness began to realise that there were very few warriors facing them.
"Attack 'em!" snarled one of the orcs, "There are more of us! We can take 'em!"
The dull realisation hit the orcs at last, and they turned around from their retreat. The creatures, leaderless now, their new captain having had his head hewn off by Thranduil, snarled and growled. Many of them had dropped their weapons when they had heard the horn of Mirkwood blowing, but now they had taken fresh weapons from the hands of their dead comrades.
"Kill 'em all!"
The orcs gave the attacking elves, who were thundering down the mud track on their horses, a volley of spears. Most of the shots went wild, but three of the horses were hit and let out whinnies of pain and reared, throwing their riders off balance and to the floor. The elves quickly got up and began fighting for their lives as orcs sprang up from among the dead, where they had lain in wait.
Charging down on the orcs, the elves trampled many of their adversaries beneath the hooves of their horses, and cut down even more with their sharp swords. Starlight reflected on their blades as they came swishing down to cut through the squealing creatures before them.
At the head of his small band of warriors, Thranduil had completely lost all sense himself to the power of his blood wrath. All he could see were sneering orcs, laughing at the misfortune of his family, covered by a deep red mist. The screams of pain from the orcs meant nothing to him, as he cut his way through them, mowing them down. A pile of dead enemies began to mound up around his feet, and the elves found themselves having to stand on dead and dying bodies, covered in blood. The dying orcs howled out for mercy as they lay there, deadly wounded, writhing on the ground.
The mortal villagers ran here and there, attempting to avoid the blood wrath of the elves in case they were killed themselves, and trying their hardest not to be skewered on the filthy blades of the orcs as the creatures tried to kill anybody who got in their way in their haste to escape.
Caught in the middle of the battle, a small boy, clutching the hand of his even smaller sister, stood still and began to cry. He pulled the young girl close to him as an elven horse jumped over the pair of them and clattered down on the orc running past them, killing it.
Then, there was nothing.
The elves looked around to kill the next orc, but there were no orcs to face them. One by one, the villagers realised that they were no longer in any danger. They only orcs left alive lay on the grounds, groaning in pain and clutching at wounds.
Thranduil, free of his blood wrath at last, strode over to Culkemen, where she stood shaking. They were both dirty from the thick smoke billowing around them from the burning houses, whose flames still licked at the sky. Blood was speared and splattered across their faces and armour. Thranduil brushed a strand of wild hair behind an ear, spreading the blood further across his face.
Beside them, and orc writhed on the ground, clutching at a wound in its stomach. Without even looking at the miserable creature, king Thranduil skewered its throat with his sword. The orc gave a last choke, gurgled, and then died.
"Battle report, Culkemen. Have we lost any of ours?"
"No sir," she replied, "Though seven are badly wounded, I think."
"Any orcs left?" he growled, looking around at the ruins of the village. Bodies of the mortals and the orcs lay stretched or curled in obscure positions, half submerged in pools of blood and covered by other bodies.
"None sir," Culkemen answered. Her voice shook slightly, and she tried not to wretch as she became aware of the stench.
"Good. Send a messenger to Dale and tell them to get healers here. Tell them that it is not a request. We will stay here until the warriors are all fit to travel and the villagers no longer need help. Understood?"
The captain nodded, not daring to open her mouth again, and hurried off to find a messenger. Sighing, Thranduil looked westward to Mirkwood, and thought of his beloved sons. Now, perhaps, they would believe that he truly did love them.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The dull grey light filtering through the dark canopy of the trees indicated to the elves of Imladris that it was now dawn of the fifth day since the Royal Guards had left them. Elrond, riding at the head of the party, was becoming increasingly worried that the king of the dark realm had not yet made an appearance, making his sons believe that he loved them as much as any good father loved their sons. His wife had also become quite nervous. His sons, however, seemed to be only confused and a quite unhappy at the thought of having to say goodbye to princes when Thranduil turned up.
As they rode on through the forest, and the hours drew on, the unrest Elrond and Celebrian were feeling had almost become panic. It did not escape the notice of the princes, who pressed the twins for answers.
"Elladan," asked Legolas, in a low voice, "What are your naneth and adar so upset about?"
Shrugging, the young elf of Imladris desperately tried to think of an excuse. Being unable to come up with anything believable other than the truth, he said, "Shall I go and ask them?"
The youngest prince of Mirkwood shook his head.
"I do not want to intrude upon something that is not my business."
Elladan and Elrohir exchanged looks of relief that they had not been pressed for answers. Although they could easily come up with an alibi or tell little white lies to their parents, the twins did not think that they would be able to lie to the princes. They had been fed so many lies recently it had been, and still was, almost impossible for them to tell the truth from a lie. Adding more lies to the list would only make them more confused, and by becoming more confused, the princes would only become more withdrawn and depressed.
More hours passed uneventfully, until the dull grey light left the forest, and the elves were swamped in the pitch black anti-light of Mirkwood night.
"Shall we carry on, or shall we stop for the night?" asked Lady Celebrian, and then added in a whisper, "If we stop, King Thranduil is more likely to catch up with us."
Thinking for a moment, Elrond shook his head, although Celebrian only just saw it in the flickering light of the burning torches.
"We must press on, I think. The forest is stifling. King Thranduil will catch up with us whether we stop or not, I hope."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The Royal Guards who had been escorting the Imladris elves though Mirkwood had arrived back at the halls of the king, and had settled back in to the normal routine of life. They had been home for two days, when Silnan called Inithil to him. The young guard stood nervously before his captain, biting his lip and shifting from one foot to the other.
"You have never lied to me, have you Inithil?" He asked, in quite a friendly tone. Inithil shook his head.
"No sir, you know what I think about lying sir."
"Not one, little, white lie?"
That was when Inithil realized Silnan knew about the lie on the path. He bit his tongue.
"Well, Inithil?"
The guard looked up in to the eyes of his superior, and knew he was cornered. Looking around desperately for some way to escape, his eyes rested on the dark door to the office they were standing in. Silnan noticed, and moved to stand in the way of Inithil's line of sight with the door. Inithil gulped.
"I don't like lying, captain Silnan sir," he muttered, looking at his feet.
"But you have lied to me, Inithil." It was a statement, not a question. Inithil nodded miserably.
"Yes sir, I apologize sir."
"Why did you lie to me?"
Inithil went white. He was torn between two loyalties - that of the princes, and keeping their secret, or telling his captain every scrap of detail he knew. He whimpered.
"They. . .they said if I tell you, I would be betraying them, sir," he squeaked. His voice was barely audible, and Silnan found himself having to lean closer to the young guard to hear what was being said. This, unfortunately, made Inithil feel as though he was under even more pressure.
"Who did?"
"They said not to tell you, sir."
"Why?"
"Because it would make me a traitor, sir."
"A traitor to whom?"
"A traitor to. . ." Inithil bit his lip, and looked down at his feet. He had almost given away the secret that had forced him to lie in the first place, but he refused to let down his defences so easily. After all, he had been given orders from the prince, and the princes ranked higher than a captain, even if it was captain Silnan.
The captain in question banged his fist on his desk with frustration, letting anger get the better of him.
"Inithil, if the king was here I would drag you strait along to him and then you would have to answer to the king! As it happens, I have been informed that the king is not in Mirkwood right now, and therefore I am the highest ranking warrior in Mirkwood. Yes, there are the princes, but they refuse to. . ." he stopped abruptly, and light dawned on his fair features.
"Is this to do with the princes, Inithil?"
Trembling, and feeling like a traitor, Inithil nodded slowly.
"They said if I told you I would be a traitor. Does that make me a traitor, sir?"
Silnan gave the terrified guard a funny look.
"The princes said that?"
"No sir, the sons of Elrond."
A flash of anger replaced the look of triumph that had been covering the features of the elven captain.
"I knew we should never have trusted them!" he shouted, and stormed out of the study towards the stables, to go and search for his king.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It had been four days since the last stand of the orcs, and Thranduil smiled grimly. The healers had arrived from Dale, and most of his warriors had recovered. There were only three warriors unfit to travel now, and soon they would be on their way back to Mirkwood.
The bodies of the murdered villagers had been laid to rest just outside the village, and a very tearful ceremony had been held. The king would not have gone, feeling that it was not his place, but the men and women of the burnt village had insisted, saying that if he had not appeared with his warriors like something out of the old tales, then the orcs would have killed them all.
The bodies of the orcs had not been treated with anywhere near the same amount of respect, being piled up in to a mound of stinking, ugly corpses and burnt in a huge bonfire. Thick, black smoke had filled the sky for the second time in the week, but this time it was welcomed. They had all watched the spectacle with grim triumph.
Now the clearing of the bodies was over, and the mortals both from Dale and from the farming village had thanked the elves over and over again for coming to the rescue. The elves had been provided with everything they needed, and more, not least of all healing for the wounded and food for their empty stomachs.
The king of Dale walked up to king Thranduil and bowed.
"I thank you, king Thranduil, for all that you have done for my people."
Thranduil bowed back to his ally.
"I am glad to be of service, though in truth the main reason I came to kill the orcs was quite selfish."
"We were very sorry when we heard your tragic news."
The two men stood silently for a while, looking over the work that was being done to rebuild the village. Elves and men were working together to rebuild the destroyed houses, and the result was pleasing for both sides.
"My elves and I will not leave until the village is rebuilt, king Dorlas," vowed Thranduil suddenly. His companion blinked with astonishment.
"That is very gracious of you, but I find myself wondering why."
"I feel partly at fault," replied Thranduil sadly, "For not killing them all when I had the chance. Look at what has happened because I let them go."
To that, the king of Dale could find no reply. He looked up at the dirt track leading to the settlement, and saw an elven rider galloping down it as fast as the horse could go. The pair of kings watched as the rider approached - one tall, slim and golden, the other a little dumpy with very dark features. The rider drew up to them and dismounted, bowing to them. It was Silnan.
"King Thranduil," he gasped, out of breath, "Your sons. . ."
King Dorlas of Dale heard the sharp intake of breath.
"What has happened?" hissed the king of Mirkwood.
"They have gone, my lord. To Imladris."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A/N: Look! I have over 300 reviews! Yay! Thank you all so much for reviewing!
REVIEW REPLY THINGY
DRAGONFLY ~ my dear, everything that can go wrong *always* goes wrong. Law of life. Don't worry, he came out of it fine.
LARVLE ~ don't worry, it won't end for a good while yet. You're on holiday? No fair!
ELIZABETHBLACK4 ~ so basically poor everyone involved, right? Why poor Mithrandir though? Ooh, and sorry to nit pick, but you spelt Astaler's name wrong. . .
TAMARA ~ thanks!
MORBID MIND ~ thank you!
IMBEFANIEL ~ oh the poor thing! No need to be depressed if she's okay now though.
PIRATE-CHICHA ~ don't worry dear, the princes don't get caught again this fic. The nasty orcs have all been killed now, anyway. Angst is good. I like angst.
EBONY FALCON ~ was there enough action this time?
ORODRUIN ~ falling apart, or being ripped brutally apart and being crushed beneath the feet of orcs? Nah, Thranduil knows the strength of his own people better than any others do. . . except maybe Silnan. Mithrandir's threatening look wouldn't work on Thranduil. Partly because Thranduil is a king, and partly because he has an equally scary look.
LOTRSEER3350 ~ I see somebody hasn't read the appendixes in the back of Lotr. You see, Celebrian and Aragorn were never around at the same time. Celebrian sailed west long before Aragorn was even born. Again, you have your timelines mixed up. Thranduil *can't* die in battle, because he is in The Hobbit, and that hasn't taken place yet. How do we know? Because Celebrian is still here.
COOLIO02 ~ heh. Never get in the way of a Thranduil rampage. The orcs learnt the hard way.