Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm poor.
-8-
Mae Govannen
It's head throbbed, ached with a ferocity that it found most comforting. Bony fingers lifted to gingerly land on the gushing fount that had been its nose. Had it been other than it was it might have acknowledged that said nose was broken. But it knew nothing of noses; knew nothing of anything apart from pain.
A long, cold tongue wound around gray lips catching copious amounts of free flowing blood only to draw back inside to run over teeth. The viscous fluid was bitter and unsatisfying, but irresistible none the less. A finger chased the tongue into its hiding place eliciting a rumble from a parched throat. A soft, wet pop resounded before another digit disappeared between foul lips.
It took each in turn, milking every sweet drop of red blood from beneath razor nails before both hands closed around its nose and shifted. Bones crunched, cartilage gave way with a wet snap, and even more blood poured forth into cupped hands. A low grunt accompanied the shift, which for all its drama, proved much easier than the wounded beast would have imagined, had imagining been a possibility.
Gray lips parted over blood darkened teeth as the creature resumed its crawl. Something drew it forth, calling it, whispering incomprehensible words that it felt as a liquefying tingle low in its gut and a rattling tremor in its bones. Obeying with no concept of why it might do such a thing, the creature moved towards an unknown goal. Earth shifted around it sending enormous rocks crashing to the floor, opening fissures where before there had only been ground. The creature did not alter its course nor acknowledge the crumbling mountain. Naught but a queer sense of comprehension
/empathy/
filled the evil being's head. An odd burning filled its chest, and it felt
/loss/
confused. It paused to ponder a crack where the ground had torn in half, each piece moving feet in the opposite direction until all that remained was a ruined pile of rubble, the sight proving remarkably familiar to a creature that had no memory. A slight head tilt, a slow drip caught by a snaking tongue and all else faded. And there was only hunger.
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Legolas was a blur through the ruined corridors of Emyn Duir, jumping fissures and scaling hills wherever they appeared. Every molecule of his body cried out to find his parents, to assure himself of their safety. Something was loose in their home, some shadowy assassin. What if it had reached them? The prince dug deeper through his reserves of strength to press onward. Long moments passed before Verenaur caught up to him and the prince could feel the other elf's exasperated breath on the back of his neck. Legolas could feel the concerned confusion radiate off his companion, yet Verenaur did not speak. Together they turned and wove through the twisted labyrinth, tracing the unfamiliar terrain to the King and Queen's chambers.
The whole of the keep was upside down and Legolas feared for his brethren. Though he had not witnessed the earthquake, it had obviously been quite powerful. What if someone had been buried beneath the rubble? The thought spiked through his heart, dragging with it the obvious counterpart: should he really be seeking out his father instead of finding some way to aid his people?
The prince skidded to a sudden halt causing Verenaur to crash into him. Both elves tumbled to the ground at the impact in a tangle of arms and legs. Legolas lay flush on his back, breathing labored from the sharp impact to his chest, while Verenaur lay face down beside him, grumbling something profane into the dusty rubble.
Verenaur's head swung up quickly, glaring eyes pinning Legolas instantly. Had they been armed, Legolas would have sworn that his friend might have maimed him just then. "Why did you do that?" Verenaur inquired, tone icy and serious and matching his eyes perfectly.
Legolas could not control the giggle that bubbled out of him, and Verenaur's eyes grew roundly incredulous. This only added to the hilarity of the situation for the prince, and he snorted softly as he giggled over the ridiculous situations in which he continued to find himself.
Verenaur was annoyed. He really was! And he couldn't be sure, but he thought that his right eye might have developed a bit of a twitch, which was only irritating him further. He could feel a smile warring for occupation of his lips and he absolutely refused to allow its victory. He was sick of the floor! He did not want to repeatedly fall onto it. And the fact that Legolas was laying there giggling and veritably glowing with mirth aggravated him most of all. How was he to remain angry when his friend's spirits were so light? For weeks Legolas had been cold and distant, almost aloof, stewing in his sadness and worry.
He felt his anger evaporate and sighed in resignation, the smile he'd been battling finally stake a claim to his lips. "What, pray tell, is so funny?"
"What a pair we make," he commented softly, before saying. "What would our fathers say if they knew how much time we've spent rolling on the floor?"
Verenaur untangled himself from his friend and pushed up onto his knees. "Let us both be grateful that they will never know." He fixed Legolas with a fierce glare.
The prince chuckled merrily for a moment before sobering. "Do you believe we follow the best path?"
Verenaur regained his feet and brushed at his clothes, kicking up a cloud of dust that made the warrior choke. Legolas laughed at his friend as he stood, but silenced himself at the baleful glare Verenaur tossed at him.
The prince's bruised face was a giant lopsided smirk, and Verenaur found himself considering whether he should sneer or smirk back. He settled on neither, instead responding to his friend's odd inquiry. "I do not understand what you mean."
"This night is dark and I know nothing of what has befallen our people. Should we not offer our aid to those who might be trapped? Or injured? Is it wise to seek out my father when others might benefit from my aid?"
Verenaur pondered the question. He understood his friend's fears for he shared them. And he respected them as well. Legolas had always been a kindred spirit, a friend to his people rather than their ruler. As the younger of Thranduil's sons, he lacked all the burdens of leadership, and therefore was blissfully bereft of that aloofness that so often marked royalty. And while this lack was probably one of Legolas's most endearing quality, at this moment it was also his greatest hindrance. For while the prince might serve to aid a few of his people by literally digging them from beneath the rubble, he might better serve all of them by providing a source of stability and leadership in a crisis. But how could he convey such a lofty notion when he only half believed it himself?
Not to mention that the prince had recently suffered some undetermined fit and may, in fact, be dangerous.
"Legolas, I understand what you say, but I feel that we must speak with the King. We must understand what happens else we cannot fight it." His tone was earnest, his eyes steady.
"But…" the prince protested.
"Nay!" Verenaur interrupted. "Perhaps the king even now knows the answer to the mystery? Or perhaps we hold the final piece that will solve this puzzle and reveal the intentions of the encroaching shadow? We do not know, and that is, in fact, the point. Speaking with your father is the only course we can take right now."
Legolas sighed. "Of course you are right, my friend." His eyes stared off wistfully. "But my heart still aches."
Grief shadowed the bright blue of the prince's eyes and Verenaur felt his own heart twist at the sight. Too often recently had the prince bore such sadness. Day after day did he dull further, until the shine had faded from his skin, the luster from his hair and the luminescence from his spirit. Luinaur had asked him several times over the past weeks why the prince seemed so diminished. Verenaur hadn't the heart to speak it aloud, though he was certain he knew. Belegalad. Without even thinking the thought, he wondered how Legolas would ever survive the loss. Such depth of sorrow in one so young was an ill omen, for a certainty.
"Let us speak no more on this." Legolas said, shaking his head as if to rattle away the worry. He moved steadily down the pathway, sniffing at the air. "Do you smell something?"
The elf's eyes were fixed on the terrain as he mourned his brief vision. So transfixed was he that he walked directly into the prince for the second time in mere minutes.
Legolas grasped his friend's elbows in his hands, holding the elf upright should he lose his balance. The prince tilted his head at his friend. Kind blue eyes, tinted ever so slightly with sadness, assessed him and Verenaur swallowed a rising lump.
He must not think such dark thoughts. The shadow only fed them.
The moment passed unacknowledged and Legolas released his friend and turned once more to their path. "What foul odor lingers on the air?"
Verenaur, who walked a half step behind the prince, wrinkled his nose distastefully at the smell. "I know not. But it grows stronger that way," he admitted, gesturing toward the path ahead.
Legolas's body tensed with each hurried step, and a great weight settled on his belly. He could not identify the origin of the offensive odor, but knew as surely as his own name that it was a product of some sort of fire. Fear curled its way through his stomach and he quickened his pace.
A loud groan echoed through the cave freezing both elves in their tracks. Legolas glanced back at Verenaur, eyes wrinkled with confusion. Verenaur studied the ceiling with the intensity that one might a painting. When he finally met Legolas's eyes, he shrugged and gestured to go on. Legolas cast a suspicious look into the darkness behind them, and an equally assessing glance ahead before inching forward.
The world vanished with a shuddering roar, the ground evaporating into a cloud of dust. Legolas fell with all gravity's speed, the surprised exclamation stolen from his lungs before he could give it voice. Everything around him a jumble of gray and darkness, dull thuds and sharp pains. Rock crumbled beneath his grasping fingers as he slipped down and down. Wind rushed past him, tugging at his hair and watering his eyes. Loose stones pelted him like hail as he scraped his fingers over the stone beneath them. His feet skidded down the rocky slope, frictionless, useless.
Until it stopped.
His foot caught on something, ceasing his relentless slide with such abruptness that his momentum nearly carried him backwards into the abyss. Acting on instinct, the elf allowed his knee to buckle, hearing more than feeling the dry pop in his overtaxed joint. He slipped downward again, this time catching the small outcropping between his fingers.
He hung and panted for several moments, the blood pounding in his ears drowning out all other noise. His breathing slowed and he opened his sealed eyelids. His fingers slipped, calloused pads dragging over the grainy surface just a touch, and his heart kicked up its tempo again. Blood pounded behind his wide eyes in a fast, steady throb, tiny sparks of light and darkness accompanying the matching pain. He wanted to shake his head to clear it, wipe the sweat from his eyes, but he didn't dare any movement apart from the clutching of fingers and the tightening of forearms and biceps. Muscles clenched bending elbows by such slow degrees that the prince would have sworn he'd attempted to bend the joint the wrong way.
Half way up his fingers slipped again. Legolas stilled, elbows oddly angled, arms and shoulders set to slow burn. A shallow inhalation and deep exhalation were all he could manage. His fingers were cramping and despite all his long years of archery, his arms would not be able to support him in so precarious a position indefinitely. Another breath, this one deep, and Legolas completed the movement, chin finally surmounting the small outcropping.
He had to move, but was uncertain of how to attempt such a feat. Gravity's incessant pull weighed heavily on his shoulders, and his fingers might never work properly again. His feet dangled beneath him, swaying in a nonexistent breeze, cautiously seeking someplace to rest. He needed some leverage before attempting to shift position, but could find no purchase. In a fit of desperation, the prince yelled for help. "Verenaur!" The silence that greeted his cry chilled him. What had become of his friend? Had his fate carried him down into the pit below? Fear and a tenuous hold kept him from moving too much and the prince felt a sense of hopeless defeat settle upon him. How could he get back up? And even if he did, where would he go?
A sharp shake of head was the only denial he could muster. He could not despair! He could not submit! He was a prince of Greenwood, son of Thranduil, grandson of Oropher. To give up now would be to disgrace his lineage. Sweat stung his eyes and one fine golden hair lay caught in the trap of his eyelashes. His eye twitched its dissatisfaction at the nuisance and he huffed to blow the offending hair from his face. The hair remained firmly tangled in his lashes, his perspiration forming some sort of adhesive that held the golden nightmare in place. Legolas growled. His fingers were growing weak and slippery from their continued exertion, and he wasn't certain but he thought they might have just slid over the rock again. Steadying his thrashing body, the prince laid his chin onto the rock before him and tightened the already overwrought digits of his right hand. With more effort than he would ever admit, the prince relinquished the grip of his left hand and pushed his arm further onto the outcropping, trying to keep his elbow anchored. When the movement was completed and he was certain that he would not slide from the shelf, he pressed his left elbow down and pulled upward with the other arm. The muscles burned in his neck, shoulders and arms. He ignored them. The pain was nothing to him as he dragged first his chest, then his knees over the rocky ledge.
The feeling of solid ground beneath him again was surreal, and Legolas refused to trust it. He pressed his back tight to the wall and panted for a few moments. His arms were knotting up, and his neck would not turn. A length of time that Legolas did not measure passed before the prince even bothered trying to move again. When he did, it was without much of the natural grace he possessed. His knee ached, as did his heart.
"Verenaur?" He tried again, voice full of the sorrow he refused to acknowledge. He knew the truth. His friend had fallen and had not had the good fortune to catch onto anything on the way down. "No." The denial was whispered and crushed, and for a long moment Legolas debated why he should even bother attempting to ascend from the hellish pit. Verenaur's face danced before him, bruised and concerned, and Legolas contemplated finishing the descent and searching for the other elf. He peered into the darkness, eyes dilated so wide he could practically feel them open, and yet still he saw nothing. Verenaur could lay ten or ten thousand feet below. He shut his eyes and opened his other senses, hoping to discern a sound in the darkness: a voice, a breath, a movement. All he heard was the throb of his own blood and the whistle of his breath.
With a heavy heart, Legolas began the ascent. Smooth walls with scant handholds made slow work of the climb. Cold stone and pitch blackness were the only witness to his soft but colorful curses. When he finally dragged his panting, sweating, bleeding body over the lip of the gorge he felt the darkness reaching up to engulf him. How he longed for rest! How he wanted to sleep and awaken to find this whole night was a long nightmare.
Knowing both desires to be unattainable, Legolas dragged himself upright and continued on the scarred path to his parents' room. The journey was slow as each step forward increased his grief by widening the distance between him and his missing friend. His heart ached and his head spun. His back screamed at him with each movement, and his knee throbbed in its swollen glory. And probably most maddening of all, that same golden hair remained tangled in his eyelashes, tickling at his nose and catching on his tongue as it swiped over cracked lips. Too tired to even bother removing it, the prince spat out the fine hair and made the final turn. The whole of the area reeked of burnt flesh and death and Legolas gagged. Yet he saw no sign of fire anywhere. The queerness of the situation made him pause, mulling over possibilities. His mind proved as stiff as the rest of him, too tired to follow a single trail of thought to its most logical conclusion, let alone cope with various possibilities. With a slight shrug of indifference, meant strictly for his own benefit seeing as how he had effectively lost all traces of company for the evening, Legolas stepped with far less caution than appropriate into the threshold of his parents' bed chambers. When his bleary, bloodshot blue eyes met wide gray ones of Thalgaladh, he felt relief wash over him.
The dismayed "No," alerted him to the danger too late for him to do anything. He heard the low whistle of a blade slicing through the air, saw the dim light glint off the metal poised for his throat, and swallowed down the bitter taste clinging to his tongue, eyes sealed in resignation.
--------------------------
The whistling sword lanced a deadly arc only to clash against and slip down a shorter blade. The friction of metal on metal sent sparks flying as the sword's blade connected with the dagger hilt and continued its slide straight into the soft flesh of Thalgaladh's arm.
For an interminable moment the two elves gaped at each other, Thranduil's blade buried an inch into Thalgaladh's bicep, before each elf released their weapons. The two blades clanged on the floor forgotten as Thranduil bridged the gap to assess the damage he'd wrought.
Thalgaladh gripped the injury with his left hand, blood seeping between white knuckled fingers, breath hissing through clenched teeth. It was not the first time he'd felt the bite of a blade upon his flesh. Nor, he was certain, would it be the last. Even still the pain exploded through him, kicking up white flashes behind his eyes and tilting the world beneath him. His head spun for a moment before he clamped down tighter and breathed around the pain.
"Let me see it." The king's voice held an urgent edge, and his fingers were prying at the clasped and sturdy digits of his friend.
"'Tis nothing, my King." Thalgalad insisted, refusing to lessen his grip on his injury.
"Let me see it." He reiterated, tone pitched frantic and pleading.
Thalgaladh dipped his head, trying to catch the king's worried blue eyes. Thranduil sensed the gaze and lifted his own to meet it. Thalgaladh smiled warmly, as he said, "I am well, Thranduil. Do not worry."
A thin eyebrow arched in question, eyes drifting back to the wound in his friend's arm. The strong brow furrowed and a corner of his lower lip disappeared between straight white teeth. "I am sorry," he whispered, so low the General could just make out the words. The king looked painfully young just then and Thalgaladh felt a strange nostalgia warm his heart. The feeling fled a heartbeat after it appeared and Thalgaladh shifted his gaze to the young elf who stood in shocked horror in the open doorway.
"Father?" The prince's voice was ragged, stretched thin from exhaustion and pain.
"Legolas!" Little more than breath and anguish as Thranduil drew his battered son in a fierce embrace. The king could feel his son shake in his arms. Or perhaps it was he who was shaking. Either way, the king shushed his son, stroking tangled blonde hair with a mixture of comfort and affection. Such displays of raw emotion were foreign to the Elven king, and indeed most of the Eldar. But the events of the evening coupled with the uncertainties of what was to come forced his grip ever tighter. The reality of what was versus what had nearly been soaked into the king's frazzled mind, and Thranduil could not repress the shudder. Had Thalgaladh not blocked his blow, he'd have decapitated his younger son right in the threshold to his bed chamber.
Legolas's arms closed about the king, and he basked in his father's presence. He was weary beyond his recollection, and knew that the trials had barely begun. So much had happened in the past few hours! Much he couldn't explain, and moreover, wasn't sure he wanted to. Though his father held him for a long moment, the embrace still ended too soon for the prince, and he could only just contain the small frown of disappointment tugging at his lips.
Thranduil held his son at arm's length and looked him over. Legolas looked, for lack of a better word, terrible. His face was bright with fresh bruises and scrapes, clothes ragged and soaked through with blood and sweat. Dark bruises ringed the prince's pale neck, accented by scabbing scratches and fresher puncture wounds. His pale fingers were swollen and shaking, nails and skin stripped raw. He touched his son's seeping wounds and winced. "What has happened?"
How many times had he made that inquiry today? The king felt the heavy mantle of his rule upon him when he realized that the true question was how many more times would he make it? For a moment, Thranduil felt his shoulder's slump beneath the burden before he cast off his despair and focused upon the matters at hand.
Legolas mulled over the events since he'd stepped out into the night to partake of the peace the woods and sky offered. The hail, the rats, the cave, the sensation of eyes always upon him, the shadowy creature that attacked him…the loss of Luinaur and Verenaur. Thoughts clanged against each other, rattling for supremacy. But when the prince opened his mouth to speak, the only words that did not elude him were, "I know not."
He'd expected irritation, a delicately arched eyebrow and a droll, 'what do you mean you do not know,' or perhaps a short lecture on why it was always important to be aware of his surroundings. Instead, the king nodded his head sagely and said, "I understand what you mean, my son. This night's happenings are mysterious and lack a satisfactory explanation." Legolas smiled crookedly, the swelling on his face warping his bright smile into a parody of itself. Swallowing down his anger at his youngest child's injuries, Thranduil said, "Are you hurt?"
Legolas shook his head, the denial only half a lie. "Not overmuch." But his eyes were wet with pain. "I lost them father."
Thranduil canted his head. Though the words varied, the sentiment was much the same as the one spoken by Luinaur earlier. Who did Legolas lose? Why was he so bereft? Thranduil asked neither question, simply brushed an errant strand of hair from his son's eye.
Legolas crumbled at the gesture, sobbing for long moments into his father's shoulder. He wetted the king's tunic with tears and spit as he cried about the loss of Verenaur, how they'd fallen and he'd abandoned him to languish and die in an abysmal pit. And here he was crying, when he should be searching. Such behavior was shameful! He was a disgrace. Legolas expected his father to cast him off any moment as the pest he'd become; call him weak and pathetic and dismiss him from his arms and home. A prince should not cry like a babe in his father's arms. Legolas straightened, and tried backing away, babbling wet apologies. But the king drew him close, held him fast, and he was too exhausted to protest. He did not wish to protest. He remained in the warm circle of his father's arms until the grief had washed from him with salt and sobs. He sighed softly, sniffled and stepped back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Burning red from his episode, Legolas tried to affect a casual attitude.
"And you father? Are you injured?" The prince asked, though it was plain to see that his father was as strong and composed as always. Legolas had no more luck suppressing his bitterness than the pride that swelled at his unflappable father. How could he be the son of so great and noble an elf and still be himself? Could he not have inherited even a modicum of his father's prowess. "What of mother?" Legolas said, his eyes scanning the room before landing on the fallen forms of his friend and his mother. His breath left him in a rush as he ran to his mother's side. Her eyes roved restlessly beneath closed lids and Legolas looked up at his approaching father with despair. "What's wrong with her?"
The king crouched beside his wife and tilted his head in assessment. In truth, she looked better. The color had returned to her face and lips, and she had shifted her position. "I am uncertain. There is no injury that I could find. She was in the closet when the earth tilted. She may have bumped her head." His tone lacked conviction and he knew it, but could not manage to remedy it no matter the effort he exerted.
"Yet you do not believe this is so," Legolas observed.
Thranduil felt weary beyond his years, and irritated at his ignorance. Fighting hard to repress that irritation, the Elvenking responded with cold honesty. "Nay. I do not think so. But she is not injured and she does look to be improving. I fear we will have to wait for her to waken, for only she can tell us what has induced this state." If she even knows. He left it unsaid, but Legolas nodded as if he'd heard the words before turning to his fallen friend.
"Luinaur…." Legolas whispered, voice breaking on the final syllable. "What have you done?" He questioned the still unconscious elf, not really expecting a response.
"He acted selflessly, if not a tad foolishly." Thalgaladh said warmly, stooping down beside the prince.
Legolas smiled fondly at his unconscious friend. "Verenaur said that you were doing the most foolish thing imaginable." Legolas whispered, taking one bandaged hand gingerly between his own swollen, bleeding fingers. "I should have known that he would be right. He is always right." Was always right, his mind corrected and he choked on the thought. Sweet voice trailed off, and he cast stern eyes toward the elven General. "What happened to him?"
Thalgaladh sighed and began a tale of snakes and fire. The king was tying off the General's injury, punctuating the tale with soft swears and groans. When he finished the story, Thalgaladh found himself pinned by twin sets of blue eyes. He shifted under the weight of their gazes and cursed them inwardly for inciting within him the desire to squirm. It was Oropher's intensity reflected in his kin's eyes, he knew, and for a moment Thalgaladh found himself lamenting his long deceased, obstinate lord.
"What snakes?" Legolas asked, clearly befuddled and disturbed by the entire scenario.
Thalgaladh sneered in irritation. "The ones whose ash you trod upon when you approached this room."
Legolas's eyes were round with confusion, seeking his father's for some sort of explanation. Thranduil gave a small half smile and shrug and the prince said, "I saw nothing in the corridor without, General Thalgaladh." Legolas hoped the use of title might soften the blow he knew his statement to be.
Thalgaladh cast a baleful glare at the prince, having no energy to reign in his irritation. He strolled over to the door to prove his point and stood agape in his shock, unwilling and unable to explain. The corridor that had been a festering, writhing snake pit now stood bare and clean. The only evidence of fire that remained were the dark charred streaks that rose up on the door like waves on the sea. "I do not understand," his voice dejected.
Thranduil replied, "That seems to be the theme for the evening, my friend." Thalgaladh turned to the king, despair plain upon his face. The Elvenking smiled at his long time friend. "Do not fret, for snakes there were. And thousands at that." Thalgaladh looked only slightly appeased by the declaration, and the King continued, "Just because no evidence can be found of their existence now does not mean they did not exist. Our home is cloaked in shadows and not all things are as they seem."
Thalgaladh accepted the explanation as truth. The shadow played with them, preyed upon them. Even if its manifestations did not last forever, that did not make them any less real. Or deadly.
"Perhaps that explains what happened to the rats." Legolas postulated. Hope sparked within him that they might be onto some sort of pattern, even if its ultimate purpose remained muddled.
Thalgaladh nodded at the possibility. "Perhaps."
The prince tried to feel encouraged by the new discoveries, but found his spirit uncooperative. A glance at the red and white digits in his hand triggered thoughts of a deep chasm and a missing friend. Pushing aside his despair, Legolas muttered, "Will he be alright?"
Thranduil stooped down and placed a cool palm across Luinaur's brow. The elf's skin was cool and dry, giving no indication of fever. The king lifted each eyelid, peering into the blue green eyes concealed beneath. "He sleeps now, which is a good sign. He is exhausted and in need of rest, no more. It would be best if his wounds were cleansed more thoroughly, and redressed as soon as possible. But he will recover."
Legolas nodded and smiled at his father's news, fighting to cling to hope in the face of the encroaching shadow. "Thank you, Ada. "
Thranduil's heart was a swelling ache in the face of his son's obvious grief. Hands reached for his son's stooped shoulder, pausing a hair's breadth from contact. He wanted to comfort his son, whisper reassurances to him. The man in him wanted to draw his family to him and run while he could. But he was king. As much as his heart longed to sit with his wife and son, his mind knew that he had to go. He could barely begin to fathom the horrors that awaited him. His people had endured much in the past hours that he'd been trapped or otherwise occupied, and the king could not help but feel shamed at his own absence and weakness. He should have gone to them immediately! They were without leadership, without a clear course of action. What sort of king abandons his people in such a crisis?
Indeed, Thranduil. Do you intend to continue feeling sorry for yourself?
Despite the flare of irritation at the condescending tone in his father's imagined voice, Thranduil conceded the point. Inner imaginary Oropher was right, even if he was damn aggravating.
Once decided, the King moved swiftly to retrieve his sword and join his people.
Thranduil walked toward the General, stooping to lift and sheath his sword. Three steps brought him to Thalgaladh's side only to find his friend drawing his sword. Thranduil took an involuntary step backwards, eyeing his friend's blade warily. He fixed narrow eyes on his friend and awaited action.
Footsteps from the hallway caught his attention and he trained his eyes on the doorway. Cautious fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword as he prepared to greet his newest guest.
A young warrior appeared in the doorway, bloodied, soot covered and grimy from what had obviously been a hard night. Panting in the doorway, he fell to one knee before the approaching king and general. "My lords," the elf rasped, voice thick and wet, "you must come to the wall. An army gathers at our gates."
