Disclaimer: I own nothing except my dog and my car. And copious amounts of shoes. Legolas, Thranduil, etc, are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is for entertainment only.

-6-

Strange Conjurations

It was stuffy for such a big closet. The air was so close, so stale, that she thought she might suffocate before she escaped. The smells of silk and linen were polluted by something dank and moist. She crinkled her nose at the acrid odor, opting to breathe through her mouth to mute it. She pressed tight to the back wall, hugging her knees close to her, not sure if the stone at her back was more comforting or disconcerting.

Resting her head on the wall, Linnaloth tried to think about anything other than the small dark space. She closed her eyes to picture the vast forest around her: the mighty beeches that climbed and reached with spindly fingers toward the singing stars; the lush canopy that blanketed her home, protecting her people from both rain and sun. This vast forest had been her home since her birth, and never had she left its embrace. She had heard tales of the glory of other Elven Lands: the mighty mallorn trees of Ló rien, so grand that the Galladrim had built cities in their boughs; the wistful beauty of Imladris, nestled in its fertile valley on the far side of the Misty Mountains. Her late father-in-law Oropher had waxed poetic on the magnificence of Doriath, and her husband would often whisper about the sanctity of Valinor when the weight his rule grew heavy upon him. But never had she longed for anything beyond her own borders. The Great Wood sang its song loud and clear, and its harmony reverberated through her soul. So in the darkness of that closet, she tilted her head back and began to hum along with the tree song that echoed through her blood.

She could see it all so clearly: the vivid greens and blues highlighted with stark white sunlight and she smiled at the picture. Warm peace filled her mind as the dank closet melted away and left her standing in the lush wood. She hummed louder and clearer, awaiting the forest's reply.

The reply, when it came, was not what she'd expected.

As she hummed the greens browned and the blues faded to grays. She squeezed her eyes tighter in a vain attempt to reclaim the beauty. She focused on recalling the colors, hummed the springtime song to invoke the colors of life and rebirth. But the harder she groped, the more tainted the image became. Trees withered and blackened, their leaves littering the earth below; the sky clouded, and the light of Anar seemed somehow dimmed as it filtered onto the barren boughs of Greenwood. The whole world was Shadow and the trees sang a lament until their voices were stolen as their beauty, and all was silent.

Linnaloth snapped from her nightmare trembling at the bleak vision. Her lip trembled and she fought the urge to weep for the fate of her beloved wood. She tried to redirect her thoughts, to divert them from the horrible and paramount truth that her home would fall to the Shadow. Her thoughts shifted to her sons, her brave Belegalad and her sweet Legolas. What would they do in such a desolate wood? Would they be forced to abandon their home? What would become of them this night?

She shook her head resolutely, refusing to allow herself to despair. There was no point in reflecting on her sons while she sat locked in a closet. To do so would only have her tearing the hair from her idle head, sweaty head.

Sweaty? She paused, wiping the back of her hand across her brow. It came away damp. Is it getting hot in here?

As soon as the thought formulated, she realized that it was indeed quite hot. Linnaloth took a deep breath hoping to cool herself down a bit, but the air in the closet was so warm that she was half convinced it did not exist. She ran one finger under the collar of her dress, drawing the stifling material away from her throat for a momentary respite. When she released it, it only seemed to hug tighter to her moist flesh.

I cannot breathe!

Panic welled up within her, setting her heart to pound uncomfortably in her throat. She closed her eyes tightly and began counting her breaths, forcing her body to calm and her mind to focus on anything that wasn't the small cramped space. Once again she summoned the image of the forest to aid her. All that she saw was a stripped, spindly wood, drenched in death.

What was going on? Certainly she'd felt the cold shadow breathing down their necks; she was no fool. The woods to the south whimpered while they could, begged for aid before their voices were snuffed out like a candle. She and Thranduil had been discussing the growing threat in the south for decades, and planning for the eventual battles for years.

Why now did she feel so unprepared? And why did this vision leave her so bereft?

Thin bejeweled fingers clenched at the warmed hilt of the dagger. The gold of her emerald ring rasped against hilt, emitting the tiniest sound. Her body convulsed when she heard it, and she whispered an undignified curse at her own foolishness. She twisted her hands on the hilt, feeling the moisture that eased their movement. She had to calm down! She filled her lungs and released, hoping that the simple act of breathing would still her trembling body. But her heart thundered in her chest and ears without pause, lending pulse to the darkness. It was not long before the weighty darkness pressed and eased on her skin in time with the sound that filled it and her. She covered her ears to block the sound, curled up to avoid the vise of the Shadow.

The hilt clacked painfully into her cheek directing her attention once again to its weight and texture. It was the only cool thing remaining in the inferno of the closet. Her pulse thrummed ever louder, so loud now that she could barely hear the breaths she was heaving into her thin frame. She gulped mouthfuls of air, but it was hot. Too hot to breathe. Like taking a deep breath too close to the camp fire and finding your face ashy and nostrils singed. She tried to calm her breathing as consciousness blurred and fuzzed on her. She just needed to focus.

It was too loud to think!

She had to stop that infernal racket. Then she could think again. Then she'd be able to control her breathing. She placed the flat of the blade against the soft flesh of her wrist, letting the metal cool her skin for a moment. She felt her pulse pound viciously in her wrist, kicking at the blade above it. She clenched her fingers and pressed down, intent on digging out the source of the noise.

"What am I supposed to do?" The voice was small and distant, but it snapped her attention to the sealed doorway. The sound vanished, her breathing calmed and the queen blinked into the darkness. Clarity came fast and hard, and Linnaloth gasped at what she'd done. She ran the thumb of her right hand over the soft skin of her left and felt warm stickiness. She rubbed along the cut to judge its severity. It stung, but no more, and the bleeding was minor. She'd barely scored the skin, and it would no doubt be healed completely in a few short hours. She was not at all concerned about it.

She was, however, concerned about the speed an efficiency of the Shadow that assaulted them. Linnaloth had never considered herself a weak minded creature. She had lived to see the face of Middle Earth change, had witnessed and welcomed the coming of the Sindarin princes to the bosom of the Silvans. Many of her people had rebelled against the rule of Doriath's and Lindon's refugees, but she did not. The trees had whispered to her of their coming, and the forest sang in welcome. Even then had she felt the growing Shadow in Mordor, and she believed that the Sindarin Princes would prove to be the salvation of her people. Soon, others believed her.

Mere months after their first meeting at the foot of Aman Lanc, Thranduil and Linnaloth were bound to one another. Oropher had welcomed the Silvan Princess, as he'd always called her, as his daughter, and kept an open ear to her advice concerning the encroaching Shadow. Ever had she been sensitive to its presence. How now could she succumb so quickly? Had Thranduil not shouted…

The memory of her husband's exclamation had the queen on her feet and moving to the door. She groped blindly in the dark, her fingertips finally grazing the cool wood. Palms flat on wood, she pressed an ear intimately to the door. No sound issued from the room beyond and she longed for just a quick glance, a peek at whatever tableau lay beyond.

She struggled with the urge before pushing it away. If something lay beyond the door, then Thranduil would take care of it. She liked to chide him for his inflated ego, but the simple fact was her husband was a fierce and capable warrior. Opening the door might very well distract him at a critical moment. She stepped back into the closet, resuming her place in the far corner so as to avoid any temptation the doorknob within arm's reach might offer. She would be patient and wait. For now.

------------------------

Verenaur and Legolas strode quickly through the hallways scanning for any sign of their injured comrade. Verenaur was still pontificating on the many reasons that his brother was an ill-mannered, immature knave. Legolas had ceased listening to the rant, favoring his friend with small grunts of affirmations at each dramatic pause. The prince instead was focusing on their path, which somehow seemed long and unfamiliar. He scanned the passageways over and over, examining each intersection as though he were trying to navigate his way through some foreign place rather than his own home. He felt as though he were moving round and round and getting nowhere.

The corridors were darkened, all torches either extinguished or removed and Legolas found himself slowing in his march. Something was amiss. The prince knew where he was, and yet, he would have sworn that he'd passed this point minutes before. Verenaur was still expostulating on the many ways he would repay his wayward brother for defying him when Legolas halted. Verenaur fell mercifully silent and turned curious eyes to his friend. "What is it Legolas? Do your hurts trouble you?"

Legolas made no reply, just stared first right then left, eyes sweeping the vicinity. His stomach grew sour, his head light, and there was an itch just beyond his reach. He shifted beneath the heavy tapestry, rubbing his back on the scratchy material, seeking some relief to the nagging irritation. A dull throb began behind his eyes and he squinted into the darkness.

Verenaur had drifted silently to the prince's side, glancing between his friend and the hallway that had captured his undivided attention. Legolas could feel his friend's eyes on him, could hear the unspoken question. He made no reply, for there was no reply to make. He continued to peer out into the absolute darkness that had claimed the interior of his home. His eyes lost their focus, pupils eclipsing the blue.

A small flash in the dark caught the prince's attention and he focused quickly on it. He narrowed his eyes, hoping to pinpoint the source of his misgiving, but came up with nothing. There was nothing there. "Did you see that?" he asked Verenaur.

"See what?" Verenaur tried to follow Legolas's line of vision to a target. All that stood at the end of that path was darkness. He glanced back at the adamant prince. Legolas's face was tight, eyes unblinking, and Verenaur felt his heartbeat pick up its tempo. Long ago had he learned that simply because one did not see something did not mean it is not there.

Legolas shook himself out of his reverie. "Perhaps it was nothing." His voice held no conviction and Verenaur cast him a doubtful glance.

A shuffle overhead, scratching and tapping against stone, and Legolas whipped his head up and around seeking the source. Half of him expected to find nothing again. The darkness had been playing with his mind for a while, teasing him with flashes of images that led him nowhere. Such thinking left him quite unprepared for the heavy body dropped onto him.

The weight drove him to the ground and settled on him, long limbs anchoring him to the cold stone. The impact drove the air from his lungs and wrought tears from his eyes. Long, icy fingers clutched his throat, blocking his airflow; sharp, jagged claws bit into the flesh of his neck. Legolas thrashed beneath the body, trying to dislodge it. He felt it tighten its grip around his body and throat. White lights flashed across the blank canvas of his vision, and he snaked his hands up to pry at the ones around his throat. He blinked in a furious attempt to focus on his attacker. The perfect darkness offered no hint of the creature upon him.

He pinched an icy digit, wormed his finger beneath it to grant himself a small respite. A drop of cool air wiggled past the dam in his throat, and his lungs shuddered for more. A flex of palm against his Adam's Apple and claws bit deeper, fingers squeezed harder.

His face was growing warm and his chest was burning in deprivation. He could feel his grip on consciousness weakening. Legolas bucked as hard as he could, his body undulating against the cold stone. The grip on his hips and throat lessened and the prince managed to suck in a little bit of reviving air. Fueled by adrenaline and desperation, he bucked again, and again. Before the creature had a chance to reseat itself upon him, Legolas lashed upwards with fist and head, driving his forehead into the creature's nose.

The incredibly satisfying crunch of cartilage and bone was accompanied by the dull thud of a dropping body. Something brushed his knee in the darkness and he scooted away from it. He slid back against the wall panting heavily and peering wide-eyed into the thick textured darkness. That he could see nothing was disconcerting. Legolas touched his throat, fingers sticky with his own blood. He held his hand before his face, unable to discern the lines of his stark fingers through the tapestry of black. His heart was pounding in an effort to violently escape its calcified cell, each beat forcing scorching blood through his oxygen starved body. He was certain that his ribs were going to crack from the shear force of his heartbeat.

A flash in the darkness blossomed bright in his brain and drew all Legolas's attention. He narrowed in on it, levering himself up the wall, still leaning heavily on it, still gulping huge mouthfuls of air. The slight shadow moved toward him, and the prince found he had to squint into the black in an effort to keep it in sight. When it was right before him, he lunged at it, swinging both fists together and catching its head between them. The move doubled his attacker over. Seizing the advantage, Legolas clasped both hands together and drove them between the creature's shoulder blades, dropping it completely to the floor.

Legolas kicked at its ribs, and it howled at the pain. A satisfied smile slid over the prince's features. His fingers twitched longingly for a blade to dispatch this foe. He cursed himself for venturing out without a weapon, and knew for a certainty that his father would chastise him for so foolish an act.

The creature had made its way to its knees, gasping and grunting in some foul tongue. The prince's brow furrowed under the weight of the scowl that arranged his features. One long fingered hand clasped at his calf. Legolas stepped easily away before reaching a decision.

He would simply have to beat it to death. There was no other answer.

Determined, he stalked over to the hunched form only to find it skittering out of reach. It rose to its full height before him, a dark smudge against a black backdrop, and clasped both his shoulders in a firm grip. Its face was impossibly close, hot breath ghosting across his cheek.

Razor teeth, jagged and yellowing filled his mind though his eyes saw nothing. A faint touch at his bleeding neck indicated his foe's intentions.

It means to have my throat!

Legolas tore himself from its grasp, lashing out with fist and foot in an effort to stun or disable the creature. The blows had little impact, the shadow still clinging to him fiercely. He had to get away. Or kill it. Yes, he had to kill it!

Teeth bared, Legolas threw all his weight forward into the solid shadow that held him. It stumbled under the ferocity of the attack, and Legolas clasped both hands around its throat. With all his strength he squeezed, hoping to choke the life from this servant of the shadow. He heard a choked gasp from invisible lips and smiled at it.

Kill him.

The words resonated within him striking his muscles with the expert efficiency of a harpist. He redoubled his efforts, fingers cramping from the strain. He longed to wring the life from this evil form, to feel its bones snap and cave under his might.

Pain exploded in his left temple and he reached for it involuntarily. His eye was tearing, head pounding and too late he realized that he'd lost his precious grip on his enemy. A blow from the right caught him on his cheekbone, and that eye too began ruthlessly tearing up.

So close. He'd been so close to victory, to escape, to murder. He'd been so close that he wanted to wail at the loss.

An iron grip settled around him and he could do little but thrash and moan. Exhaustion soaked him, body, mind and soul, and Legolas fought the urge to weep with it. He would not grant this enemy the satisfaction of knowing that not only had it defeated him, it had destroyed him. The prince heaved a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob, and knew his time was over.

His captor grunted at him, something foul and unintelligible, but almost sounded

/forgive me, my prince/

like words. In the moment before the darkness claimed him, Legolas reflected on the strange conjurations of a desperate mind.

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Thalgaladh gaped in disbelief at the events unfolding before him. He'd heard the murmured 'no,' and then the young elf actually reached into the fire and grabbed the burning robe. The smell of burning skin and hair assaulted the general's nose just as the pained screams did his ears.

"No!" He shouted, rushing to the elf. He groped for the burning material, hoping to catch it and dash out the flames. But Luinaur only thrashed madly, resembling a wolf whipping around small prey in order to still their struggles.

"Let it go, Luinaur! Release it now!" He could see blisters welling up on the archer's hands, but still the fingers did not relinquish their clasp. Thalgaladh gripped the robe tighter and pulled, but Luinaur tugged harder, sending the belt in a flaming arc. The belt grazed the young warrior's cheek, leaving a singe on the sooty skin. Tears streaked muddy trails down his face, and he screamed again.

Luinaur's eyes were large and dark in the orange fire light, and the tears flowed freely from them. The pain was evident in the heavily creased face, but the cerulean eyes were haunted and distant. Luinaur made no indication that he'd even heard Thalgaladh yell for him.

One last ineffective tug and the General whispered, "Forgive me, little one," before launching a well aimed fist at Luinaur's temple. The young elf collapsed into the ashy remains littering the floor.

Thalgaladh dropped the robe and stomped out the flame before turning back to the fallen elf. He knelt beside the young warrior and slid two fingers to his throat, checking for a pulse. Luinaur's heart pounded beneath his fingers, urged by the adrenaline still racing through his body. Thalgaladh could sympathize. His own heart beat no slower. He took a deep breath to calm himself before hiking the injured youth into his arms. He heard the door behind him creak open as he rose up, and turned to meet the eyes of his uninjured king.

Thranduil's brow furrowed in confusion at the sights before him. The hallway stood empty and charred, save for Thalgaladh. His eyes drifted to the burden that his General bore and widened. "What has happened?"

"He is injured, my lord."

Thranduil flashed the General an irritated glance. "I can see that." He waved the elf into his chambers. "What has happened? And where are all the serpents?"

Thalgaladh breezed into the chambers and lay Luinaur down. Without looking up from the burned and bleeding elf, he said, "We burned them."

The King cast one more confused glance into the hall before joining the General at the fallen elf's side. "Luinaur." Thranduil murmured, laying a hand over the unconscious elf's brow. The makeshift bandage around the elf's head was soaked with blood, his face sooty and charred, platinum hair singed and matted with blood and ash.

Meanwhile, Thalgaladh had busied himself with examining the burns that covered Luinaur's hands. They were brutal red, blisters raised and burst each time the flames consumed another layer of flesh. "We need to clean and bandage these while he is unconscious."

Thranduil had unwound the wrap about the youth's head and winced at the ragged cut that had reopened. He glanced at Luinaur's burned hands and his lips parted on a gasp. "What happened?" The King asked again, eyes demanding an answer. He was unused to having to ask a question more than once, and irritated that on his third attempt, he'd still received no answer.

Weary gray eyes met stubborn blue and Thalgaladh knew that he would have to yield to the King. "I know not. He seemed to go mad, grasped the burning robe and refused to let it go."

"He inflicted these injuries on himself?" The horror and shock radiated off Thranduil. What madness would drive him to such an act?

Though he thought it, the king did not express the sentiment. In truth, he knew what had possessed the elf, and the reality of the situation frightened him. The Shadow had not only possessed their home, but their minds as well. What would they do now?

"Yes." The General replied, taking the opportunity to survey the King's condition. "Are you well, my lord?"

Thranduil hiked a sarcastic eyebrow at his General before offering an assuring smile. "Yes, my friend. Thank you."

Thalgaladh nodded once, scanning the room. "Where is the Queen?"


Thranduil's eyes widened at the question. In all the commotion he'd completely forgotten about his wife. Shame turned his ears a vivid pink and he stood, intent on remedying his error. The ground shifted beneath him, and for the first time in his long millennia, Thranduil lost his footing.

He fell in an undignified heap onto the floor, landing with a loud, "Mmph." Vivid pink burned vibrant red and Thranduil threw a cautious look at Thalgaladh. As he'd suspected, the General wore a smirk that perfectly matched the mischievous look in his gray eyes. Thranduil narrowed his eyes in challenge and saw the glint brighten, the smirk broaden. Thranduil knew that the General was battling a near overwhelming urge to laugh uproariously, just as he knew that the General would remain silent.

Sometimes it was good to be king.

Thranduil rose with a grace that could only denote overcompensation. Thalgaladh snickered softly, but by the time Thranduil had turned a ferocious glare on him the General had already schooled his features into a calm mask, and redirected his attention to the fallen elf. Concern welled up in the king and he felt an immediate and crushing guilt for worrying over petty trifles such as bruised dignity in the midst of such tragic events.

Halfway through Thranduil's first step to the closet the ground shifted with new violence. "What…?" The abrupt drop of the floor threw the king from his feet again, this time sending him slamming onto his side, effectively knocking the question from his lips. His shoulder flared at the contact and the king paused for two deep breaths before rolling onto his knees. The ground bucked beneath him, and Thranduil abandoned his efforts to regain his footing. His arm tingled unpleasantly and he clutched it at the elbow, drawing it tighter to his body. The closet was only a few paces away, but the expanse of floor between him and it buckled and rolled, opening deep crevices.

"Linnaloth." Thranduil called futilely into the maelstrom. Stones fractured and rained down from the ceiling, throwing dust and noise into the air. The king could just make out his own shout in the echoing din of his chambers. Casting dignity aside and shoving pain deep down, Thranduil crawled on hands and knees toward the closet that housed his wife.

Thalgaladh clasped Luinaur, holding and shielding the injured elf from the violent quaking. He heard the king call out to his wife, and tore his eyes from the pale and bleeding elf in his arms to survey the room. The earth liquefied, rolling like waves on the sea, and Thranduil was caught in their midst. The king moved with more grace than Thalgaladh would have believed possible on hand and knee, but still he struggled to remain upright. The quaking had escalated in brutality enough to shake objects from their shelves, furniture from its position and stones from the ceiling and walls. The General drew his young charge closer, hugging him tight to his chest. He felt Luinaur's groan vibrate against his sternum, and whispered comforting words into a pointed ear. Though an accomplished warrior in his own right, Luinaur seemed little more than an injured child to the elder elf; a child so wan and sickly and Thalgaladh feared that another serious injury might just send him to Mandos.

A loud crash and desolate cry rattled the ancient elf to his core. A quick peek from under the silver curtain of his hair stole his breath. The General tightened his hold on Luinaur, praying for the end of the earthquake, his mind stuttered in rhythm with his heart, both crying out in denial.