Note: In the last chapter Thranduil thinks, "Sometimes it was good to be king." I meant to note at the end of that chapter the reference to the ever brilliant Mel Brooks in one of his funniest movies, History of the World Part I. I couldn't resist making the reference as it seemed perfectly fitting when Thranduil fell flat on his butt.

Disclaimer: I do not own Middle Earth or the inhabitants therein, and am making no money from the weaving of this tale. Should you have any doubts about either of those facts, I would gladly show you my bank statements to prove that I am, indeed, flat broke.

-7-

In the Aftermath

Verenaur rubbed absently at his darkening bruises, panting from the exertion of the past few moments. Uncertain eyes fixed on Legolas's unconscious form, narrowing with concern and trepidation. Under pain of death, Verenaur could not explain what had just transpired.

"Did you see that?" Something in Legolas's tone nagged at Verenaur and he peered into the darkness seeking the source of the prince's concern. He'd seen nothing, yet he could not shake the cold dread that pooled low in his belly, nor the icy chill that licked his spine. The moments stretched out for years in the dark void before he heard the scraping overhead.

Too late.

The prince vanished from his side and Verenaur spent several long moments groping in the complete blackness for any sign of Legolas. Several interminable moments passed before a wheezing breath snagged his attention. Unwilling to chance missing his friend, Verenaur dropped to his hands and knees on the stone floor and crawled in the direction of the sound.

The crawl through the darkness was slow and painstaking, and Verenaur thought he might go mad. He maintained his stoic silence with great effort, biting down on his tongue until he detected the tell-tale warm metallic taste on the back of his tongue. He longed to call out to his friend, to assure himself of the prince's safety, but warrior instinct restrained him. He swept his hand out before him, running calloused fingertips over cold stone for any sign of his missing prince.

A heavy thud to his left and Verenaur stretched out with searching fingers, brushing against the plush of elvish leggings. The sensation was gone before his mind had processed the discovery, and Verenaur was left groping in the darkness again.

He followed the rustle of flesh and clothing over the stone, rising from his crouch in hopes of a better vantage point. Squinting into the darkness, heart thudding erratically, Verenaur sniffled near silent breaths in an effort to quell his traitorous body. A slight breeze licked his cheek and he fought the urge to squirm at its touch. His eyes swung to and fro in a wide arc, taking in every inch of darkness before him.

There!

The stony wall before him was an empty void almost hiding the form that leaned heavily against it. Verenaur stepped forward with more caution than he really believed necessary until he stood toe to toe with Legolas. Heaving a relieved sigh, Verenaur leaned in to ask the prince what had happened, only to be boxed about his ears.

The change of pressure in his ears coupled with the strength behind the blows robbed the elf of his balance. He didn't realize he'd fallen until the hard ground pounded and bruised his sore knees. His ears rang a constant sour note while the world spun crazily around him. He felt the pain tears catch on his eyelashes on their journey to the ground, and then a sharp pain between his shoulder blades sent his whole body down the same road. He crashed into the stony floor, chin taking the brunt of the fall.

Blood filled his mouth and stars his vision. Verenaur gasped a breath through his now bruised lips that was promptly driven from him by a harsh kick in his ribs. Curling up on himself to prevent more damage to his already injured body, the elf wiggled his way onto his knees.

"Cease, Legolas. Peace, mellon nin." He gasped, fingers clutching for handholds by which to aid his ascent. He gained a solid grip on Legolas's calf only to find his friend stepping out of his reach. He looked up at the towering figure before him finding him far more discernible through the darkness, almost as though a shroud of shadow had been lifted from them. The prince's brow was folded on itself in deep concentration, and blue eyes seemed to stare straight through him.

"Legolas?"

Predatorily he stepped, fingers twitching and eyes blank, and Verenaur could not help but back away from his life long friend. Summoning all his strength and resolve, the warrior pushed onto his feet to meet Legolas. The room spun like a maiden's skirt during a dance, ears ringing out that constant flat tone. The prince was still coming and Verenaur reached out and grasped him, holding him at arm's length with as much strength as he could muster.

"Legolas." He tried again, noting his friend's fresh injuries. Blood trickled from punctures in the pale flesh, and Verenaur touched one with a tentative fingertip. "Ai, what did this to you?"

No answer was forthcoming, but Legolas's eyes widened and he recoiled, trying to tear himself from Verenaur's strong grip. The prince punched Verenaur in his left eye at almost the exact same moment he delivered a fierce kick to his right shin. The twin blows stunned the elf, but no more, and he redoubled his efforts at holding onto his mad friend.

Legolas snarled at him and lunged forward, throwing Verenaur off kilter. The lapse was momentary, but it was more than enough for the feral prince. Long fingers wrapped around his neck and squeezed with all the strength that hundreds of years of archery imparted. The pain was extraordinary, as were the colors that appeared behind his eyes. Verenaur's grip on both consciousness and his friend faltered, and he felt the hands loosen and then retighten, as if Legolas were wringing water from a garment rather than the life from his friend.

With coherency sapped from Verenaur's mind, instinct took command of the body sending his right fist crashing into the side of Legolas's head. No quarter was given as his left fist caught the prince flush upon his sharp cheekbone, splitting the old wound open to pour fresh blood. Verenaur caught Legolas in a mighty bear hug, pinning the strong arms down and locking both hands behind the prince's back. He murmured a litany of platitudes, hoping to soothe his enraged and senseless friend. Legolas only moaned and wriggled in his arms leaving Verenaur panting against a bleeding neck.

The scream that erupted from the prince was born of misery, and came from the very depths of Legolas's soul. The sound was the cry of a wounded animal caught in a hunter's snare, and it raised goose bumps all along Verenaur's body. The wail broke on a sob and Verenaur leaned back to stare into the vacant and bereft eyes of his dearest friend.

"Forgive me, my prince." He whispered into Legolas's ear before knocking him unconscious with a sharp blow to the head.

Legolas went limp in his shaking arms, and Verenaur almost lost his hold on his friend. His whole body was shaking like an overdrawn bow, and the warrior was not certain that it wouldn't snap in half at any moment. The muscles in his back balled up and his lungs still burned in his bruised chest. Summoning more strength than should have been necessary, Verenaur readjusted his hold on Legolas and gingerly lowered him to the ground.

He wanted to examine his friend, to try and revive him or at least bring him to someone who might understand what had happened here, but he was too exhausted at the moment to do so. Without alternative, Verenaur plopped down before Legolas's unconscious form and simply breathed and watched, watched and breathed for several minutes.

When the ground jerked from beneath him, Verenaur did little more than roll his eyes. The floor shifted, opening a small crevice in the corridor, and the elf could only just muster the energy to care. Dust showered down on him that he sputtered and wiped from his face.

He was unimpressed.

Trembling evolved into rumbling which quickly morphed into churning. The floor liquefied and exploded beneath him, half tearing in one direction while the other sank. Dust showers turned into a hail of stone and Verenaur drew Legolas close to shield him. The prince groaned, mumbled something vague,

/Burzum/

and shifted in the tight embrace.

The earthquake lasted mere moments, but when the roiling ceased the entire landscape of their corridor was foreign. The floor had been fashioned in the likeness of stairs, descending sharply into a deep void. Jagged stalactites took the place of the once smooth ceiling. What had once been a corridor appeared a broken smile of some dark demon, fangs poised to devour its unconscious prey. Verenaur knew that he and the prince had to move from their present locale with the same conviction that told him said motion was impossible. He had no strength left to carry the prince.

Time ticked away with the drumming of his heart and the calming of his body. The adrenaline fired muscle tremors ceased, taking with them the final bits of strength. Verenaur was well and truly exhausted, longing only to curl into a fetal ball and slip into reverie.

Teal eyes glazed and blinked. Wake up! He shouted at himself, and Verenaur shuttered before shifting onto his knees to lean over his friend. His attention was flittering away from him and he mentally slapped himself. Focus.

"Legolas?" Verenaur murmured, his voice a light caress.

Nothing.

"Legolas?" He tried again, this time his voice was stronger.

Nothing.

Out of patience, the elf grasped the prince and shook him this time shouting his name.

"LEGOLAS! Wake up, we must go!"

Legolas's eyes fluttered and then focused, his whole body taut. Verenaur braced himself for the prince's reaction. Should he attack again, the other elf would have no choice but to knock him out (if he could) and leave him behind to seek help. His heart shriveled at the thought.

Legolas rubbed his head once before pulling himself into a sitting position. "What happened? Where are we?" Confusion tinged blue eyes scanned the unfamiliar terrain.

"Legolas?" Verenaur questioned hopefully, pulling himself to his feet without waiting for affirmation. "Come. We must go."

Legolas allowed himself to be pulled upright, eyes sweeping the broken edifice of the corridor before finally lighting on Verenaur's bruised, hopeful face. Dozens of questions fluttered through the prince's mind like butterflies through a meadow. His lips opened to ask a question only to find that they could not speak what his brain had not formed. Like water through a sieve they poured, only the faintest traces left behind to taunt him with his own inadequacy.

Legolas's face folded on itself, wrinkling the fair features in a clear display of confusion. The creases only folded tighter, branching around his eyes and mouth. Verenaur eyed his friend, balling his right hand in a tight fist while grazing the prince's arm with the gentle fingers of his left. Legolas glanced at the hand resting on his arm and then back into Verenaur's eyes.

"Did it attack you too? What happened?"

Did what attack me? Verenaur's mind shouted. He thought he might drown in his curiosity, so deep and vast as it was. And before the question could tumble from his loose tongue, a more sobering question flitted through his mind. Should I tell him? Should I tell that it was he that attacked me. Loyalty to the prince urged him to divulge all he knew, and perhaps together they could conjure some answer to the ever growing mystery. Yet his heart told him that he should wait. They knew too little about what had occurred. What was, in fact, occurring right now. Perhaps telling Legolas that he'd been as a creature possessed would reassert the shadow's hold over the prince's mind. Speaking of such evils was never a good idea when so engulfed in darkness. Nay, he would say naught until he'd taken counsel with one who better understood their predicament. They needed to speak with the king.

"In truth, I know not." Gentle fingers probed at the bruised, bleeding skin of the prince's neck. Legolas winced, but did not pull away. "We must go. We need to speak to the king about what has happened here." And I must find my brother, he added wordlessly.

The horrified look that captured Legolas's features had Verenaur back pedaling for fear of another attack. Fingers that had nearly choked the life from him now clung to his arms with bruising intensity. Verenaur had no idea what had passed through the prince's head, but he could see faint ripples reflected in the blue eyes. "We must hurry."

The fingers vanished, leaving a dull ache in the aftermath.

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

Thalgaladh found that pulverized rock weighed as heavily on his lungs as the stones themselves did on his back. Lifting his head proved more of a challenge than it ought have and his semi-alert brain scanned his body for possible injuries. He ached for a certainty but found nothing grievous about the pain. Probably a combined effect of all the evening's adventures. Gray eyes opened only to tear up and slam shut.

Damn dust.

"My lord?" His voice was ragged and broken as he spoke, and he choked on the dust that clung to his pallet. The taste of wet rock and dirt lingered on the back of his tongue, and Thalgaladh spat and choked for a brief eternity. At the conclusion of the fit he wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, sweeping tears and dust away and calling out for the king again. When his inquiry garnered no response a cold coil of panic wound through him. He remembered the falling rocks raining around the king and could not help but fear the worst. "My lord, are you well?" A small whimper from the body beneath him motivated him enough to try and peel open his eyes again.

Thankfully Luinaur was no worse for the wear, which was not to say he was well. But he'd not sustained any fresh injuries, nor had the old ones reopened so Thalgaladh dared to believe that the young warrior would be okay. The General lay a calming hand on the elf's brow and whispered a quiet reassurance before rising up and scanning for the king. The air was thick and cloudy, heavily laden with grit and dust that made it painful to breathe. He opened his mouth to speak again only to burst into another violent coughing fit.

"Thalgaladh, please help me." The king's voice was steady and desperate, but contained no hint of pain.

Navigating through the dust and debris proved easier than he'd anticipated, and a few seconds of staggering brought him to the King's side. Thranduil stood before a great pile of rock, blue eyes fixed on it as intently as his fingers. "Are you injured?" Thalgaladh asked, voice soft and relieved. The question was an unnecessary formality, for he could plainly see that the king was well.

Thranduil shook his head once. "No." The reply lacked its usual sarcastic standoffishness, and Thalgaladh suddenly found himself worrying. A feeling which turned to dread when the king said, "Please help me. Linnaloth is in the closet and the ceiling has collapsed." Thranduil was trying to maintain his composure, refusing to allow despair to take hold and choke all rational thought from him. But he found with each passing moment his hold on himself slipping away. He tugged ferociously at a stone and heard the pile groan in protest.

Thalgaladh's eyes widened at the sound and he lay a restraining hand across the king's back. "Wait," he ordered. Thranduil's glared resentfully at the General. Thalgaladh ignored him as he lay an ear against the rock pile and closed his eyes, listening to the soft whispers of the stones and what lay beyond. The rocks shifted within, accompanied by a steady shower of gravel. "The pile is unstable." He rapped on the stones with one knuckle and heard the sound echo within. "And hollow." He looked up to see that the stones reached almost to the ceiling. If the pile came down…. "Back away, my lord."

"I will not!" The meekness had vanished in lieu of the king's normal arrogance. "I am going to get my wife out of there."

Thalgaladh's eye twitched once. So much like his father, sometimes I just want to punch him. "Listen to me, Thranduil," he hissed, irritation peaking. Blue eyes widened a touch before narrowing, and Thalgaladh knew he'd better make it good. It was not often that he dispensed with formalities, and even less frequent that he allowed his temper to go unchecked. "It is my duty to protect you and the queen and I plan to carry out that duty. But I need you to back up."

Narrowed eyes squeezed even tighter and Thalgaladh half wondered if the King's eyes were even open anymore. He could feel the rage radiating off his friend and knew that at least part of it was directed at him right now. At any other time, being on the receiving end of the king's wrath might worry him. Right now, Thalgaladh merely arched an eyebrow and awaited whatever reaction Thranduil would hurl at him.

Without easing the magnitude of his glare, Thranduil took two steps back from the pile. He did not appreciate being commanded by anyone, not even one whom he considered a trusted friend. Some rational part of his mind whispered that Thalgaladh was merely carrying out his duties with a loyalty that should be rewarded, not punished. Heaving a great sigh, the king sought to calm his body and mind. He ran trembling fingers through his tangled, dusty hair, and cursed his weakness. He held his hand before him, watching as the fingers quivered and clutched the offending appendage in an effort to still it.

"I cannot lose her," he mumbled the words, not even realizing that he'd spoken them aloud.

In the meantime, Thalgaladh had begun sifting through the pile. He heard the desperation in Thranduil's whispered plea and felt an immediate shame sweep him. His thoughts had been unkind concerning his friend. Well did he know the King's fears about his missing son's fate and now his wife's was equally in question. Not to mention Legolas.

Thoughts of the prince caused the General's concentration to drift and he almost brought the whole pile of rubble down atop his head. Thranduil tensed, eyes wide with alarm. Thalgaladh had the decency to look sheepish and the king rolled his eyes at his friend. "Are you certain that I cannot aid you?" Thranduil's voice was an odd mixture of sarcasm and concern and Thalgaladh gritted his teeth.

Instead of answering the other's petulant question, Thalgaladh easily ascended the pile and dismantled it from the top. The rubble shifted around under his weight, but not enough to unseat the General from his position. Thalgaladh pushed and pulled at the pile, hoping that all the disturbance wouldn't bring the rest of the ceiling down on their heads. He looked down at the tense figure of the king who stood staring as if he could see straight through the rubble to his heart's desire .

It was useless to try and get him to leave and Thalgaladh knew it. Still, as General and consultant to the king it was his duty to offer said king suggestions that were in his best interests. "My lord, perhaps it would be best if you left the room. The structure is unstable."

Thranduil didn't even acknowledge that he'd spoken, not that the General had expected him to.

Without pausing in his task, Thalgaladh continued, "Perhaps then you would be so kind as to see to our young friend. His injuries still need wrapping."

Thranduil's shoulders slumped and he walked in silence to the young elf. Once again he felt ashamed that he'd ignored the injured warrior in favor of his own troubles. Luinaur looked so small and defeated, burned and ruined, and Thranduil's heart ached. His mind skittered to his sons and their unknown fate and he banished the thought from his mind. Such a trail of thought was far too dangerous and self-indulgent to follow at this time, and to do so would only lead to despair. Banishing his guilt and woes, the king stooped down beside the injured elf and took his burned digits into his own sword roughed hands. Luinaur whimpered and the King whispered, "I am sorry, little one. I shall endeavor to be more careful." A quick glance around the room and Thranduil located his wife's overturned vanity. With effortless grace he rose and approached it. Righting it, he rifled through the drawers to come up with soft linen kerchiefs and a salve she used when the sun would pinken her fair skin. Neither was exactly appropriate for treating the injuries that the fallen elf had endured, but they would suffice for now.

Three paces brought him back to Luinaur, where he knelt again and examined the burns. He was no healer, for a certainty, but he was not ignorant either. The burns on the elf's hands were severe and without proper treatment would become infected. Thranduil swore softly as he coated his fingertips with the balm and gently dabbed and rubbed at Luinaur's blistered hands. The elf whimpered and flinched, blue green eyes roving beneath fluttering eyelids. "Easy little one," the king murmured, hoping the soft words would ease the elf somewhat. The words had the opposite effect. The burned elf's whinnying swelled into a raw shout startling him conscious again. Luinaur's bleary eyes snapped open and swept the room before landing on the king.

Confused was too understated and coherent a word to describe Luinaur's mindset. The agony that wracked his body was inescapable, and he groaned and writhed. Something pressed down on his chest, something holding him still. He trembled beneath the tiny weight, his body fighting to cope with the pain as his mind fought for memory. Flashes of peeling skin and dancing flames haunted him and he cried out in an effort to examine the burns. Someone was speaking to him, whispering in his ear incomprehensible babble as the weight upon him increased. Dilated, teary eyes sought his tormentor, saw the shadowy outline. His mind could not process much beyond the agony of his injuries, and so the bleary figure before him remained enigmatic. Something nagged at him and he knew, even through the haze of pain, that he should know the figure before him. Determined, he bent all his thought into placing a name to the face. Realization, when it came, was often a harsh acquaintance. One word flitted about his groggy mind as he took in his situation: disgrace. "M-My king?" The voice was raw and gravelly, choked with pain. Luinaur did not know what had happened or how he'd ended up…wherever he was, but he knew that lying on one's back was not an appropriate manner in which to greet one's king. He tried pulling himself upright, intent on kneeling before King Thranduil as was fitting, but was waylaid by the firm hand planted smack in the middle of his chest.

"Lay still, Luinaur." Thranduil commanded "You are injured," he said as he wrapped the first burned hand in the soft linen and tied it off.

"What happened?" was all he managed to get out. His throat was dry, and the air hard to breathe. His entire body throbbed with a merciless abandon, and the room spun nauseatingly around him. Sealing his eyes as tight as he could manage, Luinaur fought his body's overwhelming urge to vomit. Such an act was humiliating by any standards. To do so before (or even worse, on) his King was unthinkable.

"I was rather hoping that you could tell me." Thranduil remarked, carefully smoothing the salve over the burns on the other hand.

"I don't understand. The last thing I remember…" Fire. Death. All your fault. The fair and bruised face tightened into a grimace, and Thranduil slowed his movements. With more care than anyone would have thought him capable, King Thranduil wrapped the hand from forearm to fingertip before laying it across the fallen elf's chest.

"The last thing you remember…?" He prompted, unwrapping the bandage about the elf's head to get a better look at the scalp wound.

They will all fall tonight because of your weakness. Even now does your friend lie in shadow. "Legolas," he whispered dejectedly.

Thranduil stiffened. "What of Legolas?" His voice betrayed nothing as he placed a clean linen over the wound and rewrapped it.

"My fault." Luinaur murmured. "All my fault. They're all going to die and it's my fault."

Thranduil fought down his impatience, gritted his teeth against the growing shadow in his heart and said, "Who is going to die? Of what do you speak?"

"I killed them. I burned them." The elf was sobbing now, making no sense, and Thranduil relaxed a bit. It was obvious Luinaur was delirious. No doubt a result of the combined efforts of the head wound, burns and exhaustion. Perhaps the young elf had merely called out to his son, believing it was Legolas that now tended him rather than his father.

"You did not kill anyone," the king assured.

"We left him. How could we leave him?" He shifted and groaned.

Again Thranduil did not know of what or whom Luinaur spoke, and he decided that interrogating him in this state would be too cruel. "Do not worry, little one. Everything will be well."

"They're dead!" Luinaur shouted, sealed eyes leaking tears, voice as raw as his heart. Thranduil wiped the traitorous tear away with the tip of his thumb. "They are all dead. All burnt and I killed them. " Luinaur continued his bereft litany as the king covered the prone form with a blanket.

Thranduil watched the youth shake beneath the blanket, weeping in his delirium. He longed to offer some comfort, to explain that the only one that Luinaur had harmed was himself. But Luinaur was in no state for conversations or lectures so the king simply lay his palm across the freshly bandaged forehead and hummed.

"My lord."

Thalgaladh's voice shocked the king, so absorbed had he been in caring for the injured warrior. "Too late," Luinaur whispered before drifting away. The king panicked when the elf went still, pressing urgent fingers to his throat. The pulse beat slow and steady, indicating that Luinaur had merely faded into unconsciousness. A small mercy, the king thought, as he turned toward the General. When Thranduil looked up he found the pile of rubble significantly decreased and the closet door ajar. Immediately, he was across the room , wrenching open the heavy wooden door.

The whole of the contents of the closet lay on the floor, but thankfully the ceiling had remained in tact. The dread in his heart deflated a bit as Thranduil dug through the piles of fine clothes in search of his wife. His fingers closed on something cold and metallic, and Thranduil liberated it from beneath the pile. Small reflections glinted off the jeweled handle and the king handed the dagger off to Thalgaladh without a second look.

Thalgaladh eyed the pile on the closet floor before directing his attention to the dagger in his hands. The blade was sharp and cool, stained and sticky. The General swallowed down his anxiety before running a dusty forefinger over the stain.

Blood.

"My lord?"

Thranduil ignored him, growing more and more agitated as he tossed through the closet. He was near frantic when he reached the back, eyes burning, body trembling and head shaking in denial. Roughly he grabbed a dress and tossed it, fingers brushing something warm and soft. He let out a soft exclamation before stooping down and gathering Linnaloth into his arms.

"Linna" he whispered, shaking and hoisting her limp form up. She made no response, but she was warm, breathing and in his arms so Thranduil felt his anxiety leave him. He stepped back through the closet, allowing Thalgaladh to aid him only when he reached the rubble and needed to ascend it and carry his wife.

They lay her down, each elf conducting their own cursory exam when Thalgaladh remarked, "She does not appear injured." Thranduil couldn't argue the point, and so worry began creeping into his bones again. If she was not injured, why was she unconscious? She hadn't stirred at all since he'd found her. And despite her lack of injuries, she still looked wan, her skin not only lacking its usual luster but assuming a gray tinge. Thalgaladh lifted a fragile wrist into his hand to feel the pulse only to find his fingers sticky. He turned the wrist over and gasped. "Thranduil!"

The king jerked and abandoned his examination for hidden injuries on his wife's head. His eyes lighted on Thalgaladh's before shifting downward to see the gouge in the soft flesh of the queen's wrist. The wound was no longer bleeding, but looking upon it still made the king feel ill.

"What is happening here?" Thranduil questioned, though he knew the answer quite well. The encroaching darkness had finally engulfed them and was determined to lay waste to the Elves of Greenwood.

Thalgaladh did not respond for a moment, too intent on the mumblings of the injured warrior beside him. Finally he looked at his king, head still bent low over his wife, and said, "there is much I must tell you, my king. All has gone awry."

Thranduil groaned and met the General's eyes expectantly. An odd mixture of confusion, worry and fear tainted the gray eyes and the king felt his own anxieties edge up a notch.

So much was happening with no reprieve! Thranduil cradled his wife in his lap, fingers fidgeting idly with the soft linen wrap tied around the scored wrist while Thalgaladh listed through the evening's happenings.

"This is madness!" Thranduil declared midway through the tale, his wife's limp weight the only thing preventing him from resuming his restless pacing. Rustling in in the corridor beyond his chamber drew the attention of the two seasoned warriors. Thranduil shifted Linnaloth's head to rest on the floor and quickly rose to find Thalgaladh hovering before him. The king stepped forward, his lips bare inches from his friend's ear as he whispered, "What do you think, old friend?"

The general shook his head in reply and stepped forward, pressing his back against the wall just beside the gaping doorway and clutching the jeweled dagger in his hand. Thranduil scanned his now overturned chambers for his sword, cursing himself for releasing it. A true warrior would not have released his sword, especially not in such chaos as this night wrought. His gaze landed on the hilt a breath before his fingers clasped it, and the king assumed his position across from his friend.

The shuffle grew closer; fingers clenched tighter. A shadow filled the doorway and slid across the floor before enfolding one of Luinaur's burned hands in its midst. Thranduil's eyes narrowed along with all thoughts. The muscles in his shoulders and arms tensed as he brought the heavy sword to bear, wrists tensing in anticipation. Like a bow drawn taut he paused, power held in check just barely as his muscles vibrated. He was potential energy undiluted, stillness belying the power building in his bunched muscles. And as the shadow slid further, spreading over the fallen warriors chest like ink spilt upon parchment, Thranduil swung the sword with all his skill and might, fully prepared to cleave the intruder in twain.

He heard Thalgaladh's abbreviated, "No!" as he swung, but the blade whistled through the air heedless of all cries and cares. Unable to recall or check the blow, the King could only brace himself.