Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm making no money. For entertainment only.
-5-
Small Victories
The trip to the kitchen and back had proven quick and uneventful, giving Luinaur time to review his plan. He had to admit that even for him it was quite foolish. The odds of it working the way he planned were slim, and the results could prove catastrophic. He remembered someone once telling him that sometimes the cure was worse than the ill. At the time it had made no sense to him. But now…
He unloaded a crate from the cart, lay it on the floor and pulled out a full jug. He pulled the cork from the top and sniffed the contents. Odd that such a potentially lethal substance should bear no odor. With a nonchalant shrug, the elf poured a thin line of the viscous liquid across the width of the corridor. Once done, he threw the jug into the seething mass of creatures, watching the opaque arc rain down on them. The snakes hissed and snapped in response, twisting over and under each other to grasp at the offending elf.
Luinaur smirked and tossed two more jugs, each to a separate corner, before pulling the torch from its place on the wall. The snakes wove in and around one another, each movement further slicking them. "That's it," he murmured, eyes sparkling with an amalgamation of pain and amusement. "Grease yourselves up good and proper." He cocked back his arm to let the torch fly.
Something clamped onto his wrist with bone-crunching force and the torch slipped from his fingers. Luinaur's eyes snapped shut. He braced himself for the consuming flames but they never came. Taking a chance, he cracked open one eye and started back at the fury reflected in the gray eyes before him.
"What exactly are you doing?"
Luinaur did not answer except to gesture at the hallway with his free hand. Thalgaladh followed the motion with his eyes and gasped at the sight. He dragged the warrior backward two steps, wrapping one arm around his chest for support.
"Valar!"
"My sentiments exactly."
Thalgaladh stood the elf up and turned him around, observing the way he swayed on his feet. The youth suffered; it was plain to see. The bandage wrapped about his injured head was soaked with fresh blood, indicating that Luinaur had either reopened his wound, or it had never ceased bleeding in the first place. Neither option was particularly favorable. The fair face was pasty, covered with an unnatural sheen of sweat. Only great exertion should cause such sweat to bead on an elf's upper lip, and then it would be accompanied by ruddiness. The elf was ghost pale as he panted and wobbled. Thalgaladh pushed through the worry that invaded his mind, determined to deal with the young elf's failing health later. The General steadied him on his feet and turned back to the volatile and surreal problem in the corridor. "What was your plan?"
"To burn them all. I soaked them with oil from the kitchen, and was just about to ignite the pyre when you arrived."
Thalgaladh skewered the young warrior with a glare. "And how exactly were you planning on extinguishing this blaze?"
"Salt." Luinaur gestured to the small cart that he'd dragged from the kitchen. Thalgaladh's eyebrows drew together, crinkling his forehead in plain confusion. "It always works in the kitchen. Or so they tell me." He added the last bit as a speedy afterthought, practically tripping over himself in an effort to spit the words out. Conspicuously crimson after so casual an admission, the elf offered a helpless shrug and sheepish smile.
Some part of his mind wanted to inquire as to why exactly an Elven Warrior knew how to extinguish kitchen fires, but now was no time for mischief. Still, Thalgaladh could not contain the teasing smile that spread across his face. The smirk vanished almost as soon as it appeared and the General's face was once more a mask of placid authority. "Are you certain this will work?" This whole plan did not sit well with the older elf. The idea of setting fire to the hall just outside his king's bedroom was nerve racking.
"No." He said dryly, noting the General's deep frown. "But I did not know what else to do. There are simply too many."
Thalgaladh eyed the torch in his hand. Should he do this reckless thing? What if the consequences were too high to bear? What would Thranduil have him do? His brain turned over ideas, ways of extracting the king and queen from the room. They could use the air-shafts, but if the bugs breached the keep, then they would be overcome before they made it to safety. Besides, snakes could easily climb walls and pursue the Royals into the ducts, making them easy targets. A small battalion of elves might be able to destroy the snakes, but did they have the time to gather one? No. Taking a different tack, he pondered charging through the creatures. If they ran through the snakes, there was a chance that they might be able to avoid being bitten. And even if they were, they would more than likely be able to treat whatever poison might be injected. Was he willing to take that chance? With his own life, perhaps. But with Luinaur's life and the lives of his King and Queen?
No.
Heaving a mighty sigh, the General bowed his head. His normally astute mind offered no viable and logical alternatives to the rash plan. He wondered if this new found obtuseness was a byproduct of the shadow before casting off all doubts: they would not serve him in the coming conflicts. He needed to be clear and focused if any of them were to escape this night with their lives. For a long moment he pondered and weighed his options before making his determination. "We have no choice," he grunted, cocking back his arm and pitching the torch.
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The gray flesh melted into the stone around it. Slight scratches on the wooden door had the desired effect and the obstacle dissipated into a chaos beneath him. Stealthily creeping along the stony ceiling, it gained its entrance unseen, undetected. The heavy shadows clung and moved with it like the finest spider silk, caressing wiry muscles as they flexed and relaxed.
It crawled.
The stone beneath it was hard and cold, but it did not feel. Claw tipped fingers clasped handhold after handhold, as it shimmied through the passageways. Tight to the walls and shadows it clung, eyes sweeping to and fro. It felt a gaze pin it and it froze, every muscle locked against all movement. Nose and ears twitched, fingers boring into rock beneath them.
Something approached. Passed with a shiver and scratch, and most importantly, not a glance.
A tongue, grayish-pink, passed languidly over near invisible lips, catching stray droplets of blood in its wake. A low rumble began in its throat, whether purr or growl even it did not know. The sound rolled like thunder and the stone hummed in response. Its memory was blank, its appetite unsatisfied. Deep hunger swirled in its belly as it churned around the hearts and brains of the furry vermin it destroyed. Not enough. It could never be enough. A deep whiff and the creature was moving again, following the sweet and acrid odors, trailing its instincts ever deeper.
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Thranduil stared at his splayed pale fingers. The wood beneath them was thick and sturdy, for certain. Yet, to think that it was all that stood between his wife and whatever new evil came to claim their lives ate away at him.
No. Not all!
The Elvenking whirled with renewed fervor. Burning blue eyes scanned the chambers around him for any escape. His eyes lighted on the door which stood in silent mockery. There stood such an easy escape! All he need do is swing it open and charge through the venomous villains that lay beyond. Were he alone he would not hesitate to do exactly that. But he would not risk Linnaloth in such a foolhardy plan. With a curse that was no more than breath, Thranduil continued his perusal.
The stone that had ever served as protection now held him hostage. The walls were solid and impenetrable, which was precisely the reason he had designated this area for his chambers. What had been their bedroom might very well be their tomb if he did not find any escape. From somewhere deep within his mind, Oropher's voice jeered at him. Did I not tell you, my son? A true king always has a way out.
The curse when it came was loud and vibrant, and the king, despite his many long millennia, rolled his eyes at the authoritative voice. He did not need this right now. He had enough to deal with without adding his father's posthumous disapproval into the mix.
Thranduil sat upon the gore soaked bed and rubbed his aching head. To sit here idle in this chamber awaiting attack from some fell beast was madness! Yet where was the alternative? His first instinct was to attack his enemies. Yet such an action would leave his wife unguarded. To stay and wait was to play along with his enemy's plans, and keep him isolated while who knows what happened to his people. Around and around he went.
This posture bears a remarkable resemblance to sulking, Thranduil.
Gnashing his teeth, the Elvenking stood up and walked to the closet door. He could sense more than hear Linnaloth's quiet breathing beyond the wood and wondered if she heard him cursing and muttering like some madman.
Turning on his heel he strode back to the bed, poking at the dead snakes with the point of his sword, before whirling and walking toward the chamber door.
So you've decided that pacing is the answer then, my son? The sarcasm in his inner Oropher was unmistakable, and Thranduil growled.
"What am I supposed to do?" He shouted, and then snorted at his own loss of control.
Get a grip on yourself, the inner voice chided. What if someone should see you ravening like a lunatic?
Indeed.
The king took a deep calming breath, wrinkling his nose at the new odor. Smoke.
"What is this, now?" He practically whined before he could censor himself. He couldn't help but cringe at the note of petulant desperation in his tone.
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"I told him to wait right here!"
Legolas could not help but smirk at the note of incredulity he heard in his friend's voice. "Peace, mellon nin. You act as though this is the first time Luinaur has defied your wishes."
"But he was injured," he reasoned, as though that should explain everything. "What if something has happened to him?"
Ordinarily, Legolas would have found the idea of his friend falling victim to some evil in his home ridiculous. This evening's ominous occurrences convinced him otherwise and all levity melted from the prince's face like frost in springtime. Something from without attacked. But what was worse was that Legolas sensed a darkness within as well. "Come, we will find him."
"He never listens!" Verenaur declared as they began searching.
"And you do?" He maintained the light banter, but the dread crept up, tickling unpleasantly from the back of his neck to the base of his spine.
"Do not take his side." Verenaur scowled at the prince, oblivious of his dilemma.
"I am not taking sides. I am merely making an observation." The prince declared. A slight tremor passed through his aching body. Long fingers clutched tighter to the tasseled edges of the bright tapestry in a subconscious search for warmth. The gesture did not go unnoticed.
"Are you well, Legolas?" He recognized the ridiculousness of the question before he uttered it. The prince was far from well. Now that they were a few hours old, his injuries had a chance to appear in their full glory. The deep scratches had ceased bleeding, the creamy skin around them swelling and purpling magnificently. Blood had dried and caked in the elven braids. Verenaur felt a morbid curiosity concerning the origins of said blood.
The new injuries only exacerbated the bone weariness that he'd seen in the prince over the past weeks. The bluish half moons that bracketed Legolas's eyes had deepened and darkened, the color so vivid that in the low light it could easily be black. The usually bright blue eyes were glazed and muted, and suspiciously red. His usually vibrant and jovial friend was drawn and gaunt, and utterly exhausted. And their battle had only begun. Verenaur's concern metamorphosed into fear for the youngest son of Thranduil.
A small smile creased Legolas's face, brightening the pain-dulled features. "Do not worry for me, Mellon-nin."
The reply did little to assuage Verenaur's apprehension, for the prince had not answered his question. And yet, if Legolas felt well enough for evasion and ambiguity he probably shouldn't be too concerned. When Legolas stopped deflecting, then would Verenaur have good cause to worry.
"Where do you suppose Luinaur went?" Legolas wondered, seeking a respite from his friend's critical gaze. He understood Verenaur's concern, but they did not have time for his usual hovering. Something pressed at his mind and urged him forward. Things in their home were awry and haste was the only acceptable course of action. Later he would allow his friend to pick at each individual scrape and flagellate himself all he wanted. For now, they had to move on.
A heaved rush of disapproving breath answered the question. "Knowing him, he is doing the most foolish thing imaginable."
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Wisps of platinum curled into brown balls around a soot coated face. The fire burned hot and bright as only an accelerated flame could. Acrid black smoke drifted toward the ceiling, staining it to match the walls and floor beneath it. Everywhere snakes slithered to escape the blazing inferno. But Luinaur had done his job well and thoroughly soaked the perimeter of the hallway leaving the foul creatures with no escape. Each desperate wriggle served only to ignite other snakes as they rattled and hissed in death throes.
Flames leapt and danced, twisted and climbed walls gracefully, throwing bright orange light into the deep shadows of the cave. They grew, feeding on oil, flesh and themselves, rising higher and hotter to nip and lick at the heavy oak door to the Royal Chambers.
Fire was a stubborn beast, for a certainty. Deny it one source of food and it would find something altogether different to consume. The oil had burned up first and fast, feeding the fire long enough for it to engulf the snakes. The snakes' bodies were all cinder now, burnt into tiny blackened coils of ash and teeth. Without oil or flesh to feed the flames, they cooled and lowered, sending tentative exploratory tendrils up the heavy wooden door.
The lump that rose in Luinaur's throat tasted suspiciously like his stomach. He swallowed, hoping to choke down the anxiety in the face of this fire that he'd unleashed. But try as he might, he couldn't shake the overwhelming feeling that they would not be able to extinguish the flames, and it would be their design--his design--that ended the reign of the Thranduil and Linnaloth.
"Now, it is time!" Thalgaladh cried out, charging into the dying fire to extinguish the blaze.
The General and warrior began dumping salt by the bag around the edges of the fire. The flames petered out beneath the salt's weight, but refused to die. Instead they clung stubbornly to the door frame, blackening the thick wood in a battle for survival. An industrious coil clasped onto the robe that was wedged beneath the door and lit it up like the Anor at dawn. The robe blackened sending wave after smoky wave up the door.
The young warrior realized with sickening certainty that his premonition was realizing itself before his very eyes. The enemy was defeated, but this night might yet claim the lives of the King and Queen of Greenwood. And what of Legolas? He too might have fallen to this shadow.
That too, is your fault. The voice that whispered in the back of his aching head was not his own, but that did not make it any less accurate. It was for his sake that Legolas had stayed behind to face the endless wave of rats.
"No." He whispered the denial like a prayer drawing his companion's attention. He paid no heed to the inquisitive gaze upon him. Instead, Luinaur grabbed the flaming garment, the heat and fire blistering the skin from his fingers to his elbow. He cried out at the intense agony, but refused to relinquish his grip on the burning material. The fire wrapped around him, lapping and kissing his white flesh until it charred. Still he pulled and tugged at the burning garment until he freed it from beneath the door.
His flesh was melting, curling back from his muscles like burning parchment. It was unlike any other pain in the whole of existence, a pain external and internal, and his body vibrated under the assault. The heat from the fire blasted into his eyes, dissolving the welling tears before they'd had a chance to make their pilgrimage down his face.
Your fault. They shall all die and it will be your fault.
He blinked at the heat and wondered if his eyelashes had burned away. He could smell burning hair, burning cloth, burning skin until the heat seared the tender flesh of his nostrils and he smelled no more. Still did his fingers cling to their burden. He had to do this! He had to save the king and queen!
The skin of his hands matched the blistered wood of the door. It was brown and red, withering and receding in on itself much like the bodies of the ashen snakes he treaded upon. And even though his mind demanded it, he would not release the robe. Though it was free from the door, he could not let go. He waved it in the air in an attempt to extinguish it. But the fire was roaring loudly and he whipped it away from the door, away from his king, the flaming belt lashing him across the cheek.
Luinaur spun and ran, trying to escape the agony of his own body. His hands refused to uncurl and drop the deadly material. The choice, it seemed, was no longer his, for the soft materials of the robe had melted themselves onto the flesh of his fingers. He tried to tear away the burning cloth and each weakened tug on the fiery robe tore charred skin. Screaming, he fought to unfurl his powerful hands, but the muscles stubbornly refused his commands. They remained clenched in protest. He waved the garment wildly, flailing his arms, mindless of the possibility that such action might set his hair or garments ablaze. He only sought escape from the red agony that comprised his whole universe. He howled in helpless impotence as red shifted to black, and he collapsed onto the ashen floor.
