Disclaimer: "No! I am not [J.R.R. Tolkien], nor was meant to be;" (Adapted from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" Line 117 "No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;".) If you've never read it, I highly recommend it. Anyway, all recognizable characters belong to Mr. Tolkien and his estate. I'm simply borrowing them so that my original characters won't be lonely without their King and Prince. Not to mention how ridiculous a story about wood elves might be if it took place someplace other than the woods. The elves of the desert? It just doesn't work.

Warnings: This chapter has a bit more blood and violence than the others, though not so much as the future.

-3-
Ruptures

"I have never seen a night this black," Legolas remarked as he stepped into the glen. "There is not a single star visible in the sky." The sight should have been unsettling, but the prince felt oddly detached. He gaped overhead and stared at the infinite ceiling of the sky.

Verenaur looked up and shuddered. The sky hovered just above them, thick and black. The normal vast openness of the night sky had been replaced by a low hanging, ominous ceiling that he could practically touch. Verenaur had to stamp down on an irrational claustrophobia that took hold of his mind. Try as he might, he could not dispel the feeling that the sky was little more than a mighty axe waiting to drop. His feet remained rooted in place as the universe collapsed around him and his mind screamed at him to flee before he was crushed beneath its weight. His stomach fluttered at the thought and he turned to his companions to express the urge when Luinaur asked: "Do you hear that?"

Legolas tilted his head and furrowed his brow in concentration. "Yes, I hear it," the remark more question than statement, and Verenaur felt the dread grasp onto his guts and twist.

Closing his eyes against the darkness, Verenaur devoted the whole of his attention to the sounds that lurked within it. He did hear something, faint and far off-but moving closer. It whirred and buzzed, tapped and crunched. But for all his long years of life, the elf could not place the sound.

The sky tore open above their heads, thousands of branches of lightning veining the low cloud cover and casting the world in a pale blue light. Before the flash dimmed, a bang louder than a hundred trees collapsing shook the world and left the elves' ears ringing. The fading flash left a muscular darkness in its wake, a void pressing and pulling at their flesh.

Verenaur smoothed his hair back, blonde strands wrapping around his fingers and sticking to his palms. That lightning had passed close. Too close. Close enough to taste, he noted as he wet his lips. The whole of his attention focused into a singular point, everything else caught in its gravity until the swirling jumble crystallized into one throbbing word. Danger! They were in terrible danger and they had to flee. Intuition or impulse, it mattered not, for the truth of the thought hummed through every fiber of his being. Snapped from his reverie, he looked at his companions to see if they had experienced their own ill premonitions, shared in his fear. Legolas and Luinaur stood still, heads back, ogling the sky with wonder.

"We must go inside!" He demanded, snapping them from their trance. How they could not feel the horrible intent buzzing through the air he did not know. The air was charged with it, as surely as it was with the static from the too close lightning flash. "Now!" He yelled, when they did not respond to his satisfaction. He grabbed Legolas's wrist intent on dragging him back toward the safety of his father's halls.

Something large and hard struck his shoulder and Verenaur loosed his hold on Legolas. For one lingering heartbeat, he believed that the prince had carried out his earlier threat and struck him in anger. With balled fists he turned, intent on defending himself. Another blow caught him on the top of his head and another on his neck. Thoughts of attack evaporated as new pains blossomed across his body. Verenaur raised both hands above his head only to feel dozens of blows to his knuckles. His mind groped for an explanation, a course of action.anything that would pass for a complete coherent thought. But the sharp blows rained down upon him too quickly for his brain to process anything more intricate than a yelp.

"Ai!" The pained cry came to him through the maelstrom and Verenaur sought the source. The dark was a blanket over the earth, over his eyes, and he squinted into it and through the falling ice until he glimpsed his companions. Legolas was pulling Luinaur to his feet, wrapping one pale arm around his neck while bracing him up about the waist. Luinaur swayed and weaved against Legolas nearly sending both elves to the ground.

"Luinaur!" Verenaur ran to his brother and took his other arm. With one arm firmly around his brother's waist, Verenaur hauled the younger elf off his feet and ran toward cover. The hail coated floor provided little traction, hindering the elves' movements and forcing them to move slowly to avoid toppling. Thus they were forced to endure long seconds of the foul storm as hail the size of fists pounded down upon them, striking hard, deep blows.

Relief came as suddenly as the onslaught as the elves finally gained the mouth of the cavern. Each one felt the bone deep bruises cry out for attention. Concern for their injured companion numbed all their aches, and both the prince and Verenaur worked cautiously to ease Luinaur to the ground. Legolas winced at his friend's pained groan and ran comforting fingers across the wrinkled brow. A sharp hiss and sticky warmth on his fingertips greeted the gesture and the prince rose in search of better light.

"Luinaur?" Verenaur's voice remained steady, despite his panic. "Where are you hurt?"

Legolas returned with a torch and knelt beside his friend again, bringing the light close to his face. The wound was jagged and bleeding heavily, the skin purpling at the edges. Verenaur paled at the sight of so much blood. "Head wounds bleed viciously, my friend." Legolas whispered as he tore a strip from his tunic and wrapped it around the injury, earning a pained groan from the other elf. He wasn't certain if he'd meant the statement as a comfort or a warning. Perhaps a little of both.

"I am fine." Luinaur moaned, sitting forward. His vision swam before him, the light of the torch splintering and fracturing into a dozen lights, all revolving around each other. His stomach wrenched and Luinaur contracted all his muscles in an effort to hold down the rising gorge.

Legolas pressed Luinaur back into the wall, glancing over to catch Verenaur's worried eyes. As promised, the wound bled profusely. Already a bright blossoming bloodstain seeped through the binding. Luinaur's eyes were all pupil, refusing to dilate in the torch light. "You are not fine," the prince declared.

Luinaur twisted his head from side to side in what might have begun its life as a protest. The small movement forced him to reconsider his denial, however. His skull felt split, like an egg that's fallen from its nest. He half expected all the contents to pour forth from some imperceptible crack. Everything felt like it was swelling, pressing against the inside of his skull, pounding with the thrum of his heart. He wanted to rub at the ache, but the slightest touch brought tears to his eyes. He shifted onto one hip, closing his eyes and laying his face against the cool stone.

"What is that pounding?" Luinaur whispered, feeling vibrations against his cheek thrum a counterpoint to the throbbing in his head.

Verenaur's face folded in concern. "It is hail." Pale fingers sought to smooth the pained creases from a torn brow.

Luinaur winced then smiled around the pain. "Oh good. I was worried that my head might be exploding."

Legolas smirked and lifted his friend. "We must go. We need to get you help." Verenaur caught his brother's arm and pulled him to his feet, echoing the other's pained wince. "And I must speak with my father," Legolas murmured, almost an afterthought.

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No sooner had Thalgaladh passed into the main gates that an earthshaking boom thundered through the woods. His skin prickled and tingled. The fine hairs that downed his arms stood at attention. The great noise riled the warrior within, sending one hand unconsciously grasping for the hilt of his sword. It received a violent shock for its trouble. The jolt rippled up his arm, numbing his fingertips and causing the nerves to tingle from his wrist to his shoulder. Thalgaladh was busily rubbing feeling into his fingertips when the hail started to fall.

Like a rockslide it came, threatening to crush and bury all that it landed upon. The General squinted into the darkness, unnerved by his limited vision. The tree line that only moments before had stood proud and clear before him was indecipherable. The only shapes he could make out were the chunks of ice that struck the ground just beyond the palace doors. Murmurs around him drew his attention from the freakish weather and Thalgaladh schooled his features into a passive mask.

"What happens?"

"It comes for us.."

" We are too late.."

"..the king."

"We'll not last the night."

Thalgaladh pushed through the throngs of elves who stood to gape at the churning tempest without. The lightning flashed, tracing intricate pathways through the roiling black clouds, briefly illuminating the distant tree line and glinting off the falling ice. One bolt tore into a mighty oak. The tree dissolved from the strike, its trunk splintering and shattering, its foliage burning and sending great plumes of thick smoke to join the already low cloud cover. The thunder boomed again, fuller and louder than last time and Thalgaladh imagined he felt the ground shift beneath his feet. His ears rang in protest and his head throbbed momentarily. He placed a steadying hand on the wall and felt a vibration like a fluttering heartbeat beneath his palm.

Thalgaladh stared at his splayed fingers, willing the sensation away, willing it to be a trick the shadow played on his mind. He removed his hand, waited, then replaced it. The sensation remained and intensified until he heard it trilling and humming in the stone. Wary gray eyes drifted upwards, seeking the source of the new sound before finally landing on the small square hole above him. A tendril of ozone tainted air gusted into his face and Thalgaladh's eyes widened in comprehension.

"The air shafts!"

And then they were on him. Like ten thousand autumn leaves dropping at once they flew into his eyes, his face, his open mouth. Thalgaladh spat and swatted, snapping his mouth shut only to find it wrapped around something that sputtered and buzzed, leaking foul fluids onto his tongue. Trembling with revulsion he reached into his mouth, withdrawing the still twitching carcass of half a bug. He doubled over, gagging and spitting in an attempt to rid his mouth of any remaining pieces. From between his teeth he withdrew a wing, leaf green and mangled, veins bent from his clenched jaw. The General could not contain the moan of disgust that slipped out any more than he could cease the convulsive slaps at the light wispy touches of wing or leg against his flesh. A lingering touch between his shoulder blades caused a full body twitch. He grasped the thing, yanking it off to bring before his eyes.

The bug was big: the size of his palm and the color of newborn leaves. The wings quivered lazily as it sat in his palm staring at him with an intensity equal to his own. The wings fluttered, spindly legs barely lifting off before he clapped his hands together to smash the foul creature. Had there not been thousands, Thalgaladh might have been fascinated. Never before had he met these creatures in his long wanderings in Middle Earth. To kill something without thought or curiosity was not his way, indeed, not the way of any elf. But the enormous insects were swarming, flying around and diving at the elven warriors in odd, clear attack patterns. Each elf was running, clawing at their eyes, their clothes as the fat insects perched on their bodies. Thalgaladh picked the pieces of smashed bug off his hands, wiping the smears of guts off onto his leggings.

"Come," he shouted to the scrambling warriors. Without watching to see if they followed, Thalgaladh sprinted down the long corridor, unfastening the clasp that gathered his cloak about his throat. The silver clip rasped open, releasing the sturdy material from its grasp to slip from broad shoulders. Slender fingers balled the cloak under one arm as the General leapt for the lip of the stone duct.

Flat palms pressed against unresisting stone and Thalgaladh slipped an interminable inch down the abrasive wall. He thrashed for any leverage, somehow unprepared for strong hands that caught his feet and pressed him upward into the vertical tunnel. He gritted his teeth and clasped the edge of the horizontal shaft, hearing the buzzing that was coming and coming..

He stuffed the balled robe into the horizontal shaft, hoping to bar these fell insects progress beyond their main entrance and walls. There was no telling what kind of damage they would do.

Sliding back down the shaft, Thalgaladh landed soundlessly upon the stone. He was surrounded by wide-eyed elven warriors, agape and awaiting his command. "Seal up all the air ducts into the keep. Stuff the horizontal shafts with whatever you can find. Board up everything. I do not want these creatures breaching our home."

The warriors rushed to comply with the orders, swatting at anything that flew at them, ducking and dodging the dive-bombing insects.

Once the matter of sealing off the air ducts was under way, the General broke out into a full run to seek out his king. The solution he'd offered was only temporary, he knew. A simple manner to buy them some time. Thalgaladh knew the simple irrevocable fact that, through the intricate network of air-shafts tunneled through the mountain, these creatures had access to everything. Something had to be done!

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Luinaur's eyes refused to focus. He blinked, alternately squinting and widening his eyes in an effort to focus on the path before him. His vision remained stubbornly blurred. The sensation reminded him of hot summer days in the Brown Lands, heat waves rising off the scorched earth and casting the illusion of movement over the stagnant, barren ground. His felt nausea rise in him again and knew that his unfocused eyes were the cause. He wanted to rub at them, to coax them to focus but his arms were wrapped around his companions as they dragged him down the passageways. He closed his eyes in resignation, setting his brain into a sickening twirl. Bleary eyes snapped open under the whirling onslaught and he once again battled his injury induced nausea. He shook his head in frustration and groaned as his brain banged against the inside of his skull.

The groan caught the attention of a concerned brother. "Luinaur?"

Instead of answering, Luinaur lolled his head onto his brother's shoulder and closed his eyes. Maybe if he didn't try to hold up his head.. He felt Verenaur's hand tighten its grip on his waist while the other smoothed the hair back from his face. Legolas's voice came to him as if over a great distance. "Perhaps we should rest for a moment." Movement against the top of his head indicated his brother's wordless reply, and then he was shifted and lowered, the stone cool against his back and bottom.

Verenaur studied his brother, his face painted with concern. The bindings on his head were already soaked through with blood. The younger elf's eyes were clenched shut, his whole face fixed in a grimace of pain. Luinaur's natural pallor was tinted an alarming greenish tinge that Verenaur had seen him wear only on mornings after he'd imbibed too much sweet wine. The sickly complexion coupled with the soaking bandages only increased his worry. "We cannot linger long," Verenaur said, hands a flurry of movement hovering about but never touching his injured brother.

Legolas studied his friends for a moment before something caught his attention. He crooked his head listening, then peered down the hall behind them. Nothing stirred before him. Yet he swore that he heard something like tapping, or scratching. He pushed the torch before him, illuminating even more of the cave.

"What is it Legolas?" Verenaur asked, voice steady despite the rising anxiety.

"I know not." The prince said, and stepped in the direction of the sound.

Nothing seemed amiss, yet something of the sight nagged at him. Movement caught his eye and he peered deeper to find its origin. With such low light, Legolas could not pinpoint the source of the disturbance. Until his brain finally processed what his eyes had been seeing. He could not discern the source of the movement because there was no singular source. The entirety of the floor was moving, ebbing and flowing like waves on the stormy sea. It rose up with teeth and claws, threatening to engulf the sedentary elves.

"Rats!" Legolas yelled a heartbeat before they were on him. Writhing, chattering bodies of flesh and fur surrounded his feet. Claws and teeth pierced the flesh and muscle of his calves and ankles and the prince kicked out sending rodents crashing into the cave wall. Squeals of animal pain filled the cave as the prince stepped on and kicked rat after rat. But where one was destroyed, ten rose up in its place, eyes and teeth red and dripping.

A pained cry behind him had Legolas moving. The fell creatures had swarmed past him and were on his friends. Verenaur tore rats off his prone brother, bashing them against the wall. He dragged Luinaur toward him to lift the elf to his feet, ignoring the moan that broke from his brother's lips. Claws ripped at his back and hands as the rats climbed him. Teeth sunk into the flesh of his wrist and forearm, the muscles of his thigh, the nape of his neck. Rivulets of blood welled and flowed from the bites and scratches. Verenaur paid them no heed. He was too busy swatting the foul beasts from his brother, pulling them from Luinaur's arms before they made their way to his face.

Legolas grasped a fat body from his friend's back, wincing as he heard Verenaur's flesh tear around the fangs. Disgusted by the creature in his hand, fat and full with his friend's blood, Legolas dashed it against the wall, its brains a red and gray spatter across the stone. The dripping carcass fell twitching and writhing to the ground before disappearing beneath its comrades. A mad glee filled him at the violent and grotesque image and the elf prince found himself longing to repeat the action.

Kill them!

The words spoke his heart's fondest wish, its deepest desire. To grant each and every creature the violent death it deserved. To squeeze the hairy things until their eyes exploded; to hear the satisfactory snapping of tiny bones; to squish them until all skeletal structure was obliterated and he could wring the blood and juices from them like water from a rag. The feeling of rightness at the thought was so pronounced, so pure that it startled Legolas back to himself. Something was amiss; something grander and darker than the plague of rats and the prince knew with no uncertainty that they needed to flee.

Shaking with adrenaline, Legolas grabbed onto Luinaur and pulled him up. "Come, we must go!" It comes! He howled with mind and soul. The injured elf's head rolled back and he cried out at the unexpected pain. Legolas's clenched jaw was the only outward indication that he'd even heard the sound. He hooked Luinaur's arm over his shoulder and began dragging the limp elf down the corridor.

Rats nipped at his heels, squealing at every kick received. They sunk their claws into leggings and teeth into tendon as they dove for his ankles. Luinaur cried out and kicked, thrashing frantically in his companions' arms. Legolas pushed his friends ahead of him. "Go!" He yelled, kicking out at the sea of attackers, brandishing his torch like a weapon.

Verenaur hesitated a moment, watching the prince stand amidst thousands of salivating rodents. "Legolas?"

"Go!" The prince commanded, his very tone demanding obedience. Verenaur cast one more worried glance at his friend before lifting his brother over his shoulder and pushing through the swarming animals ahead of him, kicking aside those in his path.

The rats were climbing him and Legolas beat at his legs with his free hand. He thrust the torch forward, scorching those foolish enough to snap at his hand. The smell of burned hair and flesh filled the cave accompanied by the screams of the dying. The burning creatures scurried around in an attempt to escape the agony, succeeding only in igniting others. Those that were fortunate enough to escape the flame fell upon their fallen comrades, snapping at each other in an attempt to devour the fresh meat. Legolas snarled in disgust as he watched the rodents cannibalize each other. He retreated a bit as another wave climbed over the dead and feasting rats.

Legolas turned and ran full speed down the tunnel. He heard the creatures scurrying after him, claws tapping, jaws snapping. His mind attempted to keep pace with his feet, to come up with some viable option. Escape, though a pleasant notion, would prove impossible. All his hasty retreat accomplished was to blaze an unhindered trail directly into their home. He needed to stop them, to somehow prevent what he knew to be an unnatural invasion, but his heart was pounding a counterpoint to his footfalls making cognitive thought a chore. His only true hope, pale as it may be, was that he might put enough distance between himself and these dark vermin that he might effectively seal off the tunnel before they gained the entrance. Still images of a hungry horde spilling through a rupture of defenses that he'd created danced through his overwrought senses, and the prince could not repress the shudder that rippled through him.

A change of texture beneath his feet drew the prince from the taunting visions of pestilence. The caked earth and stone gave way beneath his graceful sprint, sending a spray of wet warmth across his cheek. Queasy fingers dashed away the viscous fluid, the coppery scent nearly overwhelming the already nauseated prince. Blood. Curious eyes glanced over sticky fingers before risking a quick peak at the ground.

He cursed his morbid curiosity.

The hallway was strewn with broken, mangled corpses of rats that had somehow managed to get in front of him. They were in tatters, chunks of flesh and unidentifiable bits of innards painted the entirety of the hallway. Many had been decapitated, heads missing, while others were turned inside out. The prince focused once more on his flight, but not before the image of carnage had emblazed itself completely in his memory. His stomach did a half flip, gurgling once with a brief surge of acid before settling back down. Legolas could only conclude that Verenaur had killed these rats in his flight, though he could not account for the violence of their deaths. His distraction cost him as he stepped directly onto the broken corpse of a particularly fat rat and slipped on the gooey entrails. He skidded along the stone, boot finding no traction on the slick, slimy surface. His arms pin-wheeled for balance and for one unending moment, Legolas was certain that he would fall face-first into the gore lining the corridor.

With his free hand he caught the wall and the prince resumed his sprint through the caverns. The loss of balance, however, resulted in a loss of lead and the rats' breath heated his heels once more. One misstep now and they would devour him as surely as they had their fallen comrades.

He had to think of something! He might be able to outrun the creatures, but that would only lead them straight into his home. He was too close to the entrance to ever gain a proper lead and they were too close now for him to ever hope to seal the corridor against their onslaught. Seeing another lit torch ahead of him, Legolas dropped the one he was carrying in hopes of slowing the pursuing vermin. Pained screeches reached his ears as the smell of roasting hair filled the air again, and Legolas double-timed it to the lit sconce on the wall. He tore it off without a backward glance and ran onward.

A vicious tear at the back of his knee buckled his leg beneath him. Legolas crashed onto his bleeding leg, crying out at the sharp pain in his knee. He forced his other leg beneath him and pushed, but a dozen bodies colliding with him at full speed sent him sprawling. He thrashed like an animal in a snare beneath the crushing weight of a hundred attackers, to no avail. Within seconds he lay beneath a blanket of tearing, biting flesh.

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"My love, do you hear something?" White fingers stroked gold hair.

Thranduil sighed contentedly, head resting upon his wife's chest, a lazy smile on his face. "Aye. I hear your heart beating." He stroked his fingertips over her clavicle, tracing the contour of the bone. Warm lips followed fingers, blazing a moistened trail up to a pale throat. Smiling lips hovered, grazing over the soft pulse before whispering, "'Tis a most lovely sound."

Musical giggles answered his whisper, turning to a pleasured hum beneath his open mouth. She luxuriated in the sensations of her husband's hot tongue tickling at her skin for a moment until the strange sound distracted her. "There it is again," she said, her voice an odd mixture of confusion and irritation.

This time Thranduil heard it too. In half a heartbeat he was standing beside the bed drawing on a robe, eyes sweeping the room for any sign of danger. Nothing stirred or shifted under his persistent gaze, no sound drifted in the stillness. He turned uncertain eyes back to his wife who arched an eyebrow in question. "Perhaps it is best if we get dressed," she sighed, earning a small smirk from her husband.

The quip perished on his tongue, taking the humor from his eyes with it. Something stood beyond his chamber door. He'd heard it rasp, or perhaps murmur. Maybe he just felt it as a full body itch. He couldn't be certain how he knew. He just knew. Linnaloth must have sensed it too, though he had no time or thought to ask her. Two fingers pressed against his lips in an unnecessary gesture for silence as he slowly drew his blade from the scabbard. The faint ting of vibration as the blade cleared the sheath raised the tiny hairs on his neck, sending a chill down his spine. He glanced over to his wife, saw her enrobed and poised at the side of the bed, eyes asking the question her lips could not. A small shake, more of eyes than head, told her to remain where she was as he made his way to the door.

Sure swift feet carried him across the room, and in seconds the Elvenking found himself pressed tight to the heavy wood. This is foolish, his brain taunted. What should he fear lay beyond his chamber doors? The royal chambers lay in the very bosom of their stronghold. What could reach them here?

Though logical, the thoughts rang hollow in his mind and heart. What place did logic hold amidst shadow? The chill in the air and the gooseflesh covering his body told him the truth of his heart's fears: something lay beyond the doors.

Stop behaving as a silly woman and open the door, Thranduil!

The king shook off the eerily familiar voice, clutched the ornate door pull and pulled mightily. The door swung open with a barely audible whish (he'd half expected it to creak obscenely) leaving the Elvenking standing upon the threshold with no more than a robe and sword as defense against whatever ill lay without.

Whatever horror he'd anticipated fell shy of the reality. Thranduil's heart stuttered in its eternal beating, as if it too had to freeze to take in the sight. A momentary cease only before it shuddered to catch up with itself, leaving the king with only the knowledge of its brief pause and his slack jaw. He snapped his mouth shut at the indignity of such open shock before gently chiding himself for worrying about things such as dignity when staring into the gaping, devouring mouth of evil.

The walls and floor were lined with squirming, rippling flesh, and a tongue of thousands of tentacles lapped outward for the Elvenking. Thranduil danced away, beheading the first snakes to slither into his chambers before his brain had even processed what it was seeing. He caught the door's edge with strong fingers and sent it flying on its hinges back towards its nook within the stone wall. The rushing breeze caused by the abrupt movement stirred the chilly air and sent a tiny shiver down the king's back, which only redoubled at the slither of snakes pouring beneath the door, thick and dark and constant.

Linnaloth shrieked beside him, directing his attention away from his own horror and onto hers. Thranduil grasped her around the waist and lifted her into his arms, desperate to keep her from the poisonous fiends. Frantic, he searched for any escape to their predicament. Eyes, brain and hands worked separately but in cooperation with one another. His eyes swept the floor and ceiling for attackers for his hands to dispatch, while his mind grasped for any possible escape. The snakes were pouring forth in vast numbers, drawing ever closer to their prey, and Thranduil knew that if he did not stem the tide somehow, it would only been minutes before he lost this battle and their lives. That was unacceptable, and the king swung his wife onto the bed in time to sever a venomous mouth from its body. The dripping jaw rolled end over end to come to rest bloodily in the corner.

"What happens?" Linnaloth cried, unable to contain the ridiculous question. She stood up on the soft mattress, feeling incredibly vulnerable and useless in their current predicament. She was unclothed and unarmed in the middle of a room teeming with enemies, and she could not manage to quell her panic no matter how hard she tried.

Thranduil heard the quaver in his wife's voice and felt his anger mount. His fortress had been breached, his home compromised, and his wife was threatened in their chambers! Any of these things alone would be enough to ignite his anger, but together he thought he very well might combust. His cheeks and ears burned with a rage that the king could not squash and he slashed and hacked, cleaving the twisting masses as he made his way back to the door.

The king shucked his robe quickly, then sliced the snakes the poured from beneath the door in half. The severed bodies spasmed, spurting foul fluid onto his bared skin. Resisting the urge to wipe the filth from his flesh, he stuffed his robe beneath the door, sealing the crevice against further invasion. Once accomplished, he whirled and scanned his chamber for any living serpent. One snapped as he turned and Thranduil skewered it, before grabbing its tail and hurling it full strength into a wall. It left a thick, inky trail as it slid to the floor.

"Thranduil!"

The panic in his wife's voice had him charging to her side. Linnaloth stood in the middle of their bed, snakes twisting up the four wooden posters. The Queen was scanning for any escape, feinting left then right to clear a path, swatting at them with pillows to knock them from their perches. But they kept coming, snapping on all sides of her, weaving and bobbing in concert with her movements, awaiting the chance to strike.

Unaccountably, her husband stood before her on the bed and was swinging his sword in a wide arc at her neck. Green eyes grew round with shock as the breeze from the keen edge kissed her cheek and stirred her hair. Half a snake fell onto their pale sheets and stained them with foul poison. She recoiled from the twitching flesh and stepped backwards only to find herself drawn into her husband's strong embrace. She wanted to bury her face in his neck to escape from this horror, but she knew there was no time for such a luxury.

"Are you hurt?" The king whispered, sword slicing through snapping snakes.

"No." Her voice shook and she cursed her failing courage.

He glanced her over to assure himself before drawing her tight to him with one arm. "Hold on, love," and her fingers tightened around him and dug into soft, pale flesh. He lashed out with his sword, chopping at the snakes on the intricately carved columns before him. When they were clear, he leapt from the bed and scooped his wife into his arms in one fluid movement. Thranduil hurried to the dressing table and sat the Queen upon it. He kissed her on the forehead, lips ghosting over flesh. "Get up on there." He withdrew an ornate dagger from the top drawer and slid it into Linnaloth's open hand. "Take this. Kill anything that gets near you."

With that, the king turned to face the onslaught.