To all who have reviewed, I offer a humble and hearty thank you. I'm so glad you are enjoying the story. I had a long, trying day today and did not think that I'd be able to sift through this chapter and post it. All your kind words motivated me.

Disclaimer: I do not own Middle Earth. If I did, I wouldn't have to work for people who insist I drive through blizzards in order to yell at me for being late.

-10-

Discoveries and Resolutions

Ages had passed as she wept in bitter darkness. Her light was gone. Her love had left. No more could she see the fair woods. Greens and blues were forever lost to her, and only a shadow of the memory of gold remained. The gold of the sun, the gold of her lover's hair.

Elves were rumored to have perfect memories, yet she could not conjure his eyes, his skin. As if the gouging of her emerald eyes stole not just the sights of the future, but those of the past.

A tear for each flower, a tear for each elf. Thousands would wither, diminish and die while she floundered in the infinite darkness for some inkling of time or place.

Evil lurked close. It pressed upon her from everywhere, slowing her beating heart in its bony prison, suffocating the very life from her body. Fearless, heedless, she pressed on with soft footsteps, the damp coldness of the ground seeping into her feet. She had no need for eyes to know she treaded through woods no longer. The floor was stone, as were the walls. A cave, a palace, a tomb. No matter. She pressed on, groping hands sliding over the cool wall as she walked the path, tracing unknown footsteps. She could smell blood and pain along the trail. Salted tears marked her way like breadcrumbs and she followed them, tasted them on her lips though her own eyes were far too ruined for weeping. Someone had passed this way fleeing from the evil that even now dimpled her skin.

SSS-Sleep.

A hiss. A command, but not for her. It struck a deep chord within her, spurring her onward, drawing no fear. She was beneath notice now, the great burning eye turned from her and intent on some other soul--the warrior whose path she traced. And now she knew her blindness was not purposeless. Had she eyes, she'd never have found the shivering form upon the floor. The dark in which she walked was not just her own now. It was a blanket, heavy and scratchy, laden with ice. No, eyes could not pierce this darkness, she knew. But her mind could see what her eyes could not, and the voice again suggested sleep to the poor dying soul withering beside her.

Warm fingers sifted through bloodied locks to rest against an unnaturally heated cheek. She wanted to speak, thought she might have whispered of awakenings. Her voice no longer worked though, at least, not so she could hear it. Perhaps the creature that had torn out her eyes and stolen away with her hearing? Nay, that was impossible, for she heard the oily voice as it wound round the poor broken soul on the floor, strangling the life steadily from his body.

He was slipping away.

Sadness welled within her heart. Tears filled her mind's eye, their reality running as blood down her porcelain face. Hands that could feel could not be felt, it seemed, for the body beneath her gentle hands stirred only with each shallow breath. And that too was fading.

She was cursed. Or perhaps damned. Cursed to feel this life slip from her grasp, to be a blind witness to some solitary warrior's pain and torment. Why did Iluvatar send her here in her blind reverie if not to save this soul? How could she save it in her own debilitation? Frustration at the conundrum mounted, then ebbed as quickly, fading into a lingering woe. Sitting beside the fallen warrior, stroking his heated brow the Queen of Greenwood did the only thing left in her power. She sang:

I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew:

Of wind I sang, a wind there came and in the branches blew.

Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea,

And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree.

Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shone,

In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion.

There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years,

While here beyond the Sundering Seas now fall the Elven-tears…

(-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings. p.363)

The sadness flowed from her as water through a sieve. Never before had songs of Valinor poured forth from her. Ever had her songs been of wood and leaf, of toil and triumph. But never had she felt such loss as the visions of diminishing woods, poisoned rivers and war torn land impressed upon her. For the first time in her life did she feel the weariness which sent so many of her kin across the Sundering Seas to seek the peace of the Undying Lands. Or the peace that lay within the Halls of Mandos.

Perhaps that is why I come here. Not to guide him to life, but to accompany him on his final journey. Finding some sense of satisfaction with that notion, Linnaloth hummed and murmured as she stroked the bloodied, silky locks, listening for his final breath.

Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore

And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor.

But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me,

What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea? p.363

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

The darkness didn't bother it, had it any notion of bother. In fact, were it capable, it might even find the dark comforting as it folded itself up neatly and settled down. There was a vague sense of something seeping through cloth and flesh and settling into the sharp hip joints. It neither recognized nor dwelled on the feeling. It was cold, for a certainty. But the creature had no memory of any other state of being, so the cold slipped away from its mind with everything else.

Everything but the blood.

The hot blood of the golden haired thing that lingered still on its tongue, that lay crusted yet beneath sharp claws resisting all efforts of its hunger. Even now after so long it could feel the soft warmth of creamy skin as it ruptured to pour forth even warmer liquid. A veritable fount it had been, and it couldn't expunge the want of it with all else. Yellow eyes fixed on claws that seemed a part of some other thing, yet responded to wishes it didn't even realize it had.

Reaching, brushing the thing before it, the round, plump thing covered in thousands of smaller things. All unknown to such an empty creature, and yet somehow familiar. It sniffed, nose twitching and wrinkling at the scent that pulled at its mind. Moist, sweet smell. It closed its hand about it, rubbing fingers and thumb over the smoothness, felt the life in the inanimate thing, heard it whisper

/sing/

to it, momentarily drown out the other incessant voice. Drew its hand back and it was standing, heard the silence except for the whispering voice that commanded it. Snaga, the voice rasped, and it knew that to be itself. And it settled down again to wait, for the voice of its master commanded it so. It was still, eyes fixed on the shiny, waxy, living thing before it. Without thought, it reached again, touched the thing with life and voice and something ignited in its mind.

/Leaf. Greenleaf./

And there was light as the sides of its head shrieked. Golden hair and a gentle smile filled its mind before pain and shadow shredded the vision. The voice that thus far had whispered, roared through it, setting limbs to tingle and mind to burn. The image vanished, devoured by rotten teeth inside its head and digested by shadow.

The sky hovered above it, thick and swirling, and it blinked its cloudy eyes, felt the cool wet drop slide down its face to join the coolness beneath its back. From its prone position upon the dampened earth, it studied the pulsing sky and its empty mind for something…. There were no answers to be found without or within. Drawing its sinewy frame upright, its eyes once again fell on the strange, living thing before it. A vague recognition swirled through it and it snarled.

/Agony/

Clawed fingers reached for the singing thing, enfolded it once more in a gentle clasp before fisting. Sharp points disappeared inside the thing's strange, crisp flesh, wetting their tips with its moist life, before rending it asunder. With every ounce of violence the ruined thing possessed, it shredded the perceived source of its pain, snuffing out its song before devouring its remains.

What had once pulsed with life tasted of death as razor teeth chomped and a parched throat convulsively swallowed. It's master chuckled his pleasure at the display, and the last vise hold loosened on the poor, wasted mind. The pain ebbed, washing away the song and the damp, leaving behind only the bright memory of gold hair and hot blood. And a word.

Greenleaf.

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

Exhaustion soaked him. Or was it sweat? He could not tell as he continued on his trudge through the darkness. His footfalls had grown leaden with each step, some part of his mind registering the fact that such weariness was unnatural for one of the Firstborn, and probably indicative of hidden injuries.

As if in response to the unvoiced reflection, Verenaur's body seized up in a coughing fit that had him clutching uselessly at his cracked ribs. The air wheezed and crackled out of him, taking with it a great deal of energy. Colors exploded in his head, and dark splotches danced across his vision. He would have thought such a thing impossible when considering the total void of light around him, but the darkness pressed in points upon him all the same, threatening to steal away consciousness. He fought for a long moment, dragging in gulps of air to clear his mind, only to choke even harder. The new onslaught brought him to one knee and might have toppled him completely had he not been leaning so heavily upon the wall. Eventually the spasms ceased, granting him respite from their ferocity. A dry tongue swept over cracked, feverish lips, noting dimly the coppery tang of blood.

He was bleeding internally. Verenaur felt oddly detached as he made the observation, despite its implications. He was a warrior, a fairly seasoned one at that, and so no stranger to injuries. Broken bones will mend and surface cuts will heal, but without attention, internal hemorrhaging would claim even the stoutest of souls.

Weary eyelids drooped along with the rest of his body, and before he'd realized what happened, Verenaur felt the floor pressed full and intimate along the length of his body. Something deep within screamed at him to rise, to keep going, that it was neither sleep nor unconsciousness falling over him, but the icy veil of death. I just need a little rest, and he wasn't certain if he said the words, or merely thought them, but their simple formulation heightened the need acutely. Half lidded eyes closed despite the weak protestations from what was left of his conscious mind.

Cold. He was vaguely aware that he was cold, though he couldn't muster the energy to curl in on himself for warmth. He shivered and trembled on the damp floor, tasting the blood that lingered in the back of his throat.

SSS-Sleep.

The hissed suggestion nudged him toward the bliss of painless darkness, slowing his breathing and heart. Numbness spread through the various levels of his body, taking the feeling from his limbs and the pain from his ribs. The cold dampness faded into memory as he was sundered even more from his physical being.

SSS-Sleep, the dark voice beckoned and he heeded it, giving himself over willingly to the darkness enfolding him.

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

Legolas hefted his burden up onto his shoulders, his injured knee buckling beneath the weight. The journey between the royal chambers and the throne room was brief and wholly unfamiliar now. Fallen rocks and shifted terrain made a mess of the short walk, and unstable, uneven ground made the normally carefree elf wary. All too well did he remember his plunge into darkness, and he was not at all interested in a repeat performance with the burden of his injured, unconscious friend upon his shoulders. One friend plummeting into the deep abyss was more than enough for one evening.

"Come on then, Luinaur. We are almost there." The distressed groan that answered his whisper was more than he'd expected from the burned elf. He toyed with the idea of stopping to rouse his friend, ultimately deciding against it. Such a stop might prove time consuming and ultimately counterproductive, and the prince did not wish to dally longer than necessary in returning to his injured mother. "Peace, mellon nin. Rest a little longer." He murmured, hoping the soft tones would lull the rousing elf for a little longer.

Legolas never would have imagined a task so simple as moving his mother and friend to the throne room to be so grueling. Abandoning his injured friend upon the floor of his parents' chambers in order to transport his mother to the throne room had been difficult. The prince could not shake the fear that he would return to an empty room, his friend a victim of the thick, enveloping shadow. But there was no choice really. Luinaur would box his ears if he found out that Legolas had left his injured and unconscious mother prostrate upon the floor to see his friend to safety first. Not to mention the fact that his own heart would not allow such a thing. He'd cursed his injuries for long moments before something whispered in his mind to stop dawdling and get on with it already. With a lingering, sorrowful backward glance, the prince bore the queen up in his arms and to the throne room.

The room still stood tall and proud, with only a few tapestries and baubles spread across the floor. With a sardonic smirk he noted that his father had been correct yet again. He wasn't certain if he was surprised or disgusted to find the near entirety of the court huddled together, cowering in the once lavish room. They were no happier to see him than he them, but Legolas couldn't muster the energy to even glower at them for their audacity. He decided to remain silent when one of the elf lords whose name he didn't bother trying to recall came to aid him with his mother, blabbering about some nonsense the prince could not abide. That they should be hovering here while the people of Greenwood were besieged within their home proved them little more than finely clothed cowards, and had the night not been such a marathon of evil, he might have told them so. You are lucky my brother is not here, the prince thought as he mentally sneered at the lords and ladies of Greenwood. He would not have demonstrated such restraint. Still, he could not resent their presence entirely as it meant that he did not need to leave his mother alone while he returned to fetch his fallen friend.

Without pomp or courtesy, the prince retreated from the room, doing his best to conceal his limp from the vultures of his father's court. Never let predators or nobles sense weakness in you, brother. They will pounce without thought. Belegalad shared in his father's annoying habit of being right, and so the youngest prince always heeded his advice, especially in dealings with the court.

The thought of his brother visiting his ire upon the nobility brought a smile to Legolas's lips and a sadness to his heart. The two princes, with more than a little help from Luinaur and Verenaur had played numerous inventive pranks on the nobles. Their pranks had more than once caused Thranduil to turn bright red in anger, and Linnaloth to shake her head in dismay. Thalgaladh, the princes' only ally within the court, would often lean over and whisper something in the king's ear which would inevitably cool his wrath and draw a small smirk. "Why couldn't I have had daughters?" The king would respond under his breath, which only served to elicit more laughter from the already hyperventilating elves. The nobles were never pleased with the king's lack of punishment for his sons' 'unacceptable' behavior. But then again, the nobles were seldom pleased.

"At least some things remain the same, eh Luinaur?" Legolas mused, chuckling at his own joke. The elf across his shoulders shuddered, disrupting Legolas's balance. The prince's knee wrenched and popped as he shifted his friend's dead weight back up onto his shoulder, and he swore quite proficiently into the echoing corridor.

The throne room was abuzz with chatter as he limped in and settled his friend down on a fallen tapestry. Luinaur's eyes were twitching beneath the sealed lids, fighting their way open. Legolas settled beside him and lay a cool palm across the hot cheek. With gentle voice and soft words, the prince lured his friend back to consciousness.

Blue green eyes snapped open, still roving madly in an effort to focus. The sharp lines and colors of the world remained blurred and jumbled, and Luinaur shut his eyes against the nauseating image.

"No. Do not drift off again." The entreating voice hovered near enough that its warm breath tickled his nose. He twitched his heavy eyelids again, turning his head into the voice and felt the cool palm across his cheek. "Come on, my friend. Just try."

His weary mind placed the voice. "Legolas."

"Aye, that's it Luinaur. Come back."

Impossible. Legolas was dead. He'd seen it. They'd left him. He'd fallen. No wait, that wasn't right, was it? Not fallen but burned. No, that didn't feel right either. "Legolas?" He shuffled through his weary mind for any inkling of reality. He blinked open swollen eyes, saw a faint glint of gold and fought for focus. "How?" He struggled with heavy limbs, twitched and reached for the golden blob before him.

"Don't move just yet," Legolas said, staring into the alarmingly dilated eyes. Luinaur ignored him, so he took the burned hand and held it in his own. "Can you see anything?"

Tired eyes closed again and the elf swallowed audibly. Legolas feared that he'd drifted once again into unconsciousness when the eyes opened again and focused a little more on him. "Everything is fuzzy." A secret smile tugged at the injured elf's mouth. "But I can see you."

Legolas smiled back at his friend. "You gave me quite a fright," he said, turning his attention to the burned hand between his own. He slowly unwound the bandage to examine the wound. "What did you think you were doing?"

Burned fingers tightened around his own and Legolas looked back into his friend's eyes. "I am so sorry Legolas."

"Whatever for?" Sensing his friend's grief, the prince affected a light tone.

"We left you." Luinaur replied incredulously, his questing eyes implying that Legolas might be a bit dim.

Left him? He sought through his memories for the answer to the riddle before realization dawned. He could not help but chuckle. Valar, that had been so many hours ago that he'd nearly forgotten about it. "Don't be foolish. I told you to leave. Besides, I'm fine."

The injured elf had the nerve to harrumph before mumbling, "You don't look so fine to me."

Legolas arched a brow before saying, "You obviously haven't gotten a good look at yourself lately. Now hold still. I'll be right back."

Before Luinaur could protest, Legolas was gone. In truth, his head hurt horrendously, as did his burned digits. He longed for the numbness that unconsciousness afforded. He closed his weary eyes for a moment only to open them under the cool weight on his forehead. He looked up into Legolas's blue eyes. "Oh good. I thought you'd drifted off again."

A small head shake was all he could manage. "Just resting my eyes." He rasped, trying to clear the frog from his throat. Heavy eyelids closed once more, and the coolness disappeared from his head.

"Rest then, mellon-nin." The prince sang softly as he set out to carefully clean the wounds. In the time he'd been transporting Luinaur, several healers and more injured had arrived at the throne room by order of the king. The warriors had set up a triage area where injuries were assessed and then tended based on severity. Legolas had hoped to obtain attention for his friend, but all the healers had been occupied with more seriously injured elves. The prince did, however, manage to wrangle up some clean water, salve and bandages for his friend's injuries, as well as the promise of a healer that they would come and tend to Luinaur as soon as possible.

With gentle hands, Legolas cleaned as much of the soot and dried blood out of the ruptured blisters as possible. Luinaur winced and stiffened, but didn't make one sound of protest during the long, painstaking process of redressing the wounds. The burns were bad, but in truth, Legolas had expected them to be more gruesome than they were. Though he was certainly no healer, he felt that, given time, Luinaur would fully heal from the self-inflicted injuries.

By the time he was done, he and the burned elf were utterly exhausted. The pain of his injuries and the soft song Legolas sang sent the injured elf into a peaceful reverie, eyes half lidded and staring into the heavens. Deciding to follow in the wise footsteps of his peaceful friend, Legolas pulled himself along side the sleeping elf, pondering their predicament until he too drifted off into the walking dreams of elven sleep.

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

The journey through his stronghold proved arduous. Collapsed ceilings and split floors made an obstacle course of what had once been an intricate network of corridors. Dust coated everything like a pulverized, gray shroud. Everywhere the injured lay moaning and crying out to him for aid.

He did not stop.

Each step propelled him nearer to the wall and the enemy without. Each moment of travel lent advantage to his enemies and cost him endless choices. What would he do now? How much had his preoccupation cost him? He redoubled his momentum, shaking off the bloodied fingers of the injured as if they were insignificant pests.

"My king. Please help me."

The voice was small and fell on deaf ears. He glanced at the injured elf who called to him and immediately averted his eyes. He could not look into the pain filled eyes of the injured without stopping to help and he could no more pause in his march than he could make the sun rise or stars shine. His heart ached. He was weary. So, so very weary these days. Should they survive this battle, he no longer knew if he could stay in this Middle Earth. Better to quit it now, take his family and whatever people would follow him and leave before this shadow engulfed it all. Too many had he lost in the Last Alliance. Ilú vatar only knew how many this night would cost them.

With a shudder, Thranduil cast off his introspection. Now was no time for reflections on the past or longings for the West and the promised peace of Valinor. Neither train of thought would aid him in the coming hours. He needed to focus on the here and now in order to ensure that the elves of Greenwood would survive to see the next sunrise.

The heavy sigh of relief caught in Thranduil's throat as he stepped out of the ruined interior of the keep onto the parapet. He'd believed that he'd find a reprieve for his torment once the voices of the injured no longer assailed his ears. One quick glance outward into the vacuous darkness proved that belief folly. The sky swirled and bubbled with black, low hanging clouds that stretched and reached as far south as his keen eyes could see. The air was close and heavy, laden with malice and laced with a gripping chill. Fierce thunderbolts spider webbed through the clouds, lending pulse and life to the roiling shadow above. And amidst the darkness, just before the tree line sat a vast, dark army of Valar only knew what creatures. They were hunched and gnarled, with armor thick and black, camouflaging them so well that in the shadows they appeared little more than ragged shrubbery amongst the stripped trees. Except, of course, for the pale glow of their inhuman eyes.

Before he'd processed the enormity of the situation, Thalgaladh stood beside him, speaking of tactics and war. Thranduil stepped away from the General. Without a backward glance, he strode over to a lone, vigilant warrior.

"You." The king thundered. The warrior gawked for a moment at the approaching regent, shifted in an uncomfortable, uncertain manner, then dropped gracefully to one knee. "What is your name?"

"Galdor, my lord."

"Rise." The elf complied with as much grace as he could muster in the face of his angered lord. "Galdor, there are many injured elves within the walls of this keep. I want you to gather as many of your fellows as you need to aid them. Dig them out of the rubble and bring them to the throne room." The elf had the decency to gape only momentarily before hurrying off to carry out his king's instructions.

Thalgaladh once again claimed the king's side, watching Thranduil as he stared out into the darkness. A moment of silence stretched between the two before the king finally said, "We will not last this night."

"My lord?" The General was perplexed. He'd known Thranduil for thousands of years, and had been his second for the duration. When Thranduil was no more than a mischievous prince raising hell amongst Oropher's advisors, Thalgaladh had been right beside him. In that entire length of time, he'd never heard the stubborn elf admit defeat.

"Have you not noticed anything wrong with this view?" Thranduil made a sweeping gesture with one arm to include the expansive landscape.

Thalgaladh half-chuckled at the ridiculous question. "You mean besides the army that lies just outside our gates?"

Ignoring the sarcasm, the king continued, "Yes, besides that." Piercing blue eyes met confused gray, and the General frowned and looked out into the darkness again.

In truth, it was all wrong. The trees were barren, and many had collapsed under the force of the earlier storm. The air's weight dictated that it be warm and humid as a midsummer day, but contained the ferocious bite of winter. The world had become its own inverse, a veritable tableau of death and darkness. But judging by the king's rigid demeanor and arched eyebrow, Thalgaladh knew these were not the answers he sought.

"Anar does not shine, though it has long since risen. Can't you feel it?" Thranduil tilted his face toward the blackened sky and shut his eyes. By his estimation, the sun was over one hour into its progress through the heavens. Yet he could no more see the light than feel the warmth through the hovering ceiling of darkness.

Thalgaladh was not one given to shock. Indeed, when one lived thousands of years, few novelties remained. By his estimation, he'd received more surprises in this single evening than he had over the past millennium. And this was the greatest one of all. Not so much that the shadow obscured the sunlight, but that he hadn't even noticed! How could he not have noticed such a thing? That sort of obtuseness would be their downfall.

"This encroaching shadow is strong enough and close enough to block out even the brilliance of the sun. I know not how to begin to defeat such a thing." The king continued his lament, oblivious of his friend's struggle.

What should they do? He thought on his father, and what he might do. Oropher had always been headstrong, but had enough foresight to ensure the survival of his people. What might he do tonight? Thranduil sealed his eyes and listened, hoping that the tiny voice that had plagued his mind all evening might offer him some counsel now. Inner Oropher remained stubbornly silent, and Thranduil was forced to make the decision alone.

Strong fingers dug into the Elvenking's shoulder in an attempt to redirect his attention. The General could sense the despair welling within his king, just as he could feel it churning throughout the ranks of warriors. Many were injured and all were weary and the true battle had not yet begun. They could ill afford the king succumbing to his woe. "King Thranduil?" he inquired, using both title and name as a reminder to them both of their responsibilities this night.

The blonde head shook fiercely and familiar cobalt eyes that never ceased to unnerve him with their intensity pinned him. "What is our status?"

Another thing that never ceased to unbalance him was the king's violent mood swings. One moment lost in sorrow, the next a fierce warrior, and barely a heartbeat to set the two apart. Thalgaladh half wondered if these swift changes were a symptom of some malady that afflicted the House of Oropher, for the former king had been prone to similar behavior. Shoving away the odd reflection, the General began running through the state of their defenses.

"Archers line the walls and we have braced the gates against attack. I have ordered stones to be piled on the top of the wall and over the gates. Seeing as how many lay strewn throughout the halls, they seemed an abundant weapon to drop on an invading army. Half of our forces now set up our defense while the other half rests. I saw no purpose in wearing all our warriors. By my reckoning we can defend the keep against an onslaught in this fashion for sometime."

The king was shaking his head through the speech, either not listening to, or not agreeing with the General's tactics. "This will not do." The shadow that attacked them tonight had been nothing if not unpredictable. Always was it a step ahead. Simple means of defense would not deter it from its goal for long. If it sought their destruction, then it was certain to have it.

"My lord?" Thalgaladh asked again, exasperated by his king's cryptic behavior. What did he mean that this wouldn't do?

"We cannot linger here. These halls are indefensible." Thranduil explained under his breath, his gaze still cast out far southward.

"All due respect, Lord Thranduil, but I have already explained how we can defend the walls."

The king's face scrunched up as if he'd tasted something offensive. "The walls yes. Certainly, we can defend the stone of these mountains against whatever that is," he gestured to the hunched and twisted army. "Unfortunately, the mountains are not my concern."

As tempermental as his father and exasperating as his sons, Thalgaladh thought bitterly. "What exactly are you suggesting?" In truth, the silver haired elf doubted that he wanted to know exactly what the king bore in mind. He felt a creeping dread tingle through him as he braced himself for the answer.

"We must retreat." The king stated, casting a sympathetic glance to his friend.

"Retreat?" Thalgaladh gasped. Preposterous. An army stood just beyond their walls, a cloak of shadow blanketed the land concealing Valar only knew what. His lips described words his voice never uttered as his mind grasped vaguely for some semblance of response to his king's ridiculous and rash decision. Thranduil arched an eyebrow at him as if to suggest that the time for discussion was at hand. "Retreat to where?"

The Elvenking sighed affectedly, speaking to the General as one might to the village idiot. "To our new home. If we leave all the provisions, we can travel more swiftly."

"Our new home which lies unoccupied and more than fifty leagues from here?" He was flabbergasted that his friend and king would suggest so foolhardy a thing. Even without provisions, it would take them weeks of journeying to reach the new halls. Weeks of journeying through the open with an army of darkness all around them. Thranduil's bored look only served to further inflame him. "Are you mad?"

"I'm getting there." The king deadpanned, his blue eyes flashing.

"My lord, you cannot be serious. I just told you that I believe we can defend these walls sufficiently to repel any attack, and you are suggesting that we send our injured, exhausted people out into the darkness to face this enemy?"

Thranduil nodded. "How long do you think we can hold the enemy at bay?"

"As long as necessary." The General replied, veritably snarling at his king.

Thranduil knew his friend would force this issue, debate him bitterly on every point. So why am I so annoyed? he internally questioned himself. The sarcastic child within him replied, Oh yes! Because I am King.

A soul deep sigh released his petulance out into the night where it could be gathered in by the darkness and honed into a weapon to use against them once more. He was tired of this shadow invading their minds to turn their own fears against them. He was growing more and more irritable under its influence, and he feared it was only a matter of time before the elves turned against one another. They had to go and he could see no other path. But he also knew that his friend and second was wise, and this was a decision that merited discussion. If Thalgaladh could convince him of a less risky plan, the Elvenking would be more than happy to employ it. Thranduil was not happy about the risk of leading his people out into this unending shadow. "Okay, my friend. Say we play this your way. We stand here and defend these walls. How long until this shadow creeps in through one of the thousands of tunnels in these mountains?"

Thalgaladh ran dirty fingers over tired eyes. He was not in any mental condition to have a battle of wits with the king. But he knew that in order to get his way, he would need to convince Thranduil. "We have sealed the ventilation system…."

"Thus cutting off our fresh air supply." The king quipped, gesturing for the General to continue.

Thalgaladh could see where this was going and understood why neither Belegalad nor Legolas enjoyed debating with their father, the damnable creature. "I have ordered the back tunnels to be boarded up and guarded…."

"Cutting off a point of retreat." Thranduil observed.

The General ground his back teeth together. The fruitless nature of the argument wasn't lost on him. If anything, he was convincing himself of the king's argument, which he knew to be Thranduil's plan all along.

Sensing victory at hand Thranduil stepped up with his own arguments. "Already has this shadow invaded our home, sending forth harbingers of its ill intent. The sanctuary that was my halls has been compromised. Not only does it manifest and attack us within, but I believe it responsible for shaking the very earth beneath us. How long before another earthquake brings the mountains down upon our heads? How long before the bugs and rats and snakes return and devour the injured where they lay trapped beneath the rubble? How long do you think we can stay here and defend against a force that attacks us from without and within?"

With a weary heart, Thalgaladh gave a small nod of concession to his king's valid point. "Some of us will have to guard the retreat from here, else that army will overtake us within the caverns of this mountain."

"Yes." Thranduil conceded with a nod. "I figure a quarter of our forces. The rest must go northwards and protect the people."

"A quarter will never be enough to hold. We must have more."

"They do not have to hold, just buy time. We can spare no more warriors for rearguard. The bulk of our forces must travel with our people to see them safely through this trek."

The idea of their people having a safe trek through the dark and haunted woods, now cloaked so thoroughly in shadow almost made the General laugh aloud. "We will lose many on this venture my king, regardless of how many warriors protect them."

The king's shoulders bowed slightly as the first indication of doubt. "I know. The thought grieves me. But how many shall perish if the mountains crumble atop our heads?"

Unable to debate the king's logic further, Thalgaladh conceded. "Very well. If we are to undertake this feat, then I will lead the forces here at the gates." Thalgaldh volunteered. But the king was already shaking his head in denial.

"Nay. I fear that responsibility is my own."

"My lord, please hear reason," he choked. This was unacceptable. The safety of the king was his charge! The task of rearguard in this undertaking was suicide, though neither of the two spoke of it. A quarter of their forces would be all that stood between the army of thousands and the people of Greenwood. How long would it be before all the rearguard was exhausted and destroyed? What would become of them if their King fell here?

Thranduil silenced him with a sharp look that softened into a small smile. "My dear friend! I would not ask any of my warriors to fight a battle which I would not fight myself. My father led the initial charge at the Black Gates knowing full well that he risked his life in doing so. Would you have me do less? Would you have me ask my people to stand here and fight knowing death is the probable outcome and then abandon them to that fate. What kind of king would that make me?"

"Alive is the first word that comes to mind," the General grumbled, not at all happy with this course of events. He'd served Oropher faithfully for many years, and watching him fall had been as watching his own father perish. To lose his son now…. The thought sickened him.

Instead of the anger that Thalgaladh had anticipated for the sarcastic retort, Thranduil gifted him with a gentle smile. For a moment the silver haired elf thought he might have won the argument, convinced the king to let him lead the defense in his stead, but Thranduil simply said, "You will lead our people north." Thalgaladh's head shook in voiceless denial. A firm hand on his shoulder stopped the gesture as the king continued, "My family, my people Thalgaladh. You will take them and protect them. I would trust no one else with this task."

Thalgaladh wanted to scream and rage. This could not be allowed to occur. He half considered knocking the king unconscious, binding him and ordering the warriors to escort him from the halls for his own protection. Of course he knew he could never do such a thing. Thranduil was his king, and his word law. Though it would chafe the General's honor, not to mention break his heart, he would do as he was commanded.

"On my word, Thranduil, I will protect your family and your subjects with my life." The General bowed in respect and turned to leave, when strong hands gripped his shoulder and spun him around. Fingers strengthened and calloused by centuries of swordplay and archery clamped down around his forearm, and before he could return the pressure, the king drew him quickly in for a tight, brotherly hug.

"Namarië , mellon-nin." He clapped the General on his back before stepping backwards, fingers still locked around the other's arm. "If we never again meet on these shores, may the Valar have enough mercy to reunite us across the sea."

Piercing gray eyes stared into stormy blue, and in the span of a single moment Thalgaladh their entire friendship flashed before him. Their first meeting as children and the many pranks they played. The fall of Doriath, the trek to Lindon and eventual move to Greenwood. Thranduil's marriage, the birth of his sons. The fall of the mighty Oropher at the Black Gate and subsequent crowning of his reluctant, grieving son. Every sorrow and joy revisited in a heartbeat, and the silver haired General drew the king back into a hug and whispered into his ear, "We will meet again, my friend. I will not say farewell." With a dramatic whirl he was retreating to make the preparations for the flight from the mountains. Almost as an afterthought he called out, "Take care, and I will see you later."

He did not see the smile played over the king's face.

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

The weight upon his head was the first sensation to penetrate the enshrouded elf's mind. Ghostly fingers picking through his hair, weaving patterns in the platinum like his mother had done when he was a boy. Gestures of comfort, tenderness. And through the darkness he thought he heard a song. A small smile crept onto his face as he came to believe it was finally over. He had come to Mandos. A shift of eyes sent pain firing through his head, brought the world back. The cold damp floor, the pressing evil around him, and Verenaur let out a desperate sob.

Do not weep, brave one.

Voices again. Always the voices. Whispering to him, taunting him. Why would they not leave him? He'd heeded their command, given himself over to that final sleep. Why must they hold him here to torment him thus? He shifted again, ribs grating against one another, and could not stifle the cry. It was not fair! This should not be. He abandoned his effort to move, once again seeking the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness.

Arise! Do not follow the shadow down. Follow me.

He shifted again, stopping his ears against the incessant voice. Fever dried lips split open in the effort to speak. Leave me be, he wanted to shout. The words were an incomprehensible croak and he sobbed again in his fevered delirium. Feather fingers stroked his hair, and a soft song filled his mind. Peeling open his sticky, dry eyes, Verenaur searched for his visitor.

No one was there.

A tear slid down his cheek, the heat of his fevered skin evaporating it before it could ping onto the cold damp earth, and the dying elf went to lay his head again upon the ground. He watched his fingers twitch and tremble inches from his face, saw as they balled in frustration. I am going mad, the dejected thought came. And then he noticed it.

He could see.

Oh, he could not see much, for a certainty. The cave was still incredibly dark. But his fingers were visible where before he'd nearly poked his own eye out in an effort to rub away the constant tears. Where before there had only been the incessant press of weighty black, now there was a new faint glow in the cavern, its source beside him. Amazed, fever dried eyes fixed on it and he was certain that he must be hallucinating. Even as he noticed it did it retreat, move slowly forward into the darkness, and quite unaccountably, he was with it, standing and moving forward. He had no memory of rising, of struggling and gasping to gain his feet. No coughing fits, no lingering taste of blood on his tongue.

Perhaps I am dead, after all.

No answer this time, just the feel of warm fingers in his hand and around his broken ribs. A sweet voice hummed a familiar tune. A lullaby perhaps, but his thoughts were muzzy and unable to grasp onto a singular piece of the puzzle long enough to ascertain its proper size and shape, let alone its placement. He was moving through the gloom again, agony subsided into delirium. His feet were moving along the stony earth without thought and the weight of his body did not cling and hang on each broken piece. The confusion overwhelmed his mind so he ignored it, gave himself over to whatever magic held him in his thrall. Too tired for even thought, he gave himself over to the burning, aching and shivering as he marched (floated) through the darkness.

He could not measure distance and ceased attempting to measure time. He had no idea if it had been hours since he began his trek, or weeks. The combined effects of unending darkness and high fever warped his perceptions, giving him an acute case of vertigo. His stomach burbled from the equilibrium imbalance, and he fought regurgitation as he blearily shuffled forward.

The cavern he'd been following for an indefinite period of time spilled into a large, oblong citadel. The ceilings which had only hovered just above him soared upwards into a nearly perfect natural dome. Verenaur blinked upwards into the great above, saw tiny pinpoints of light and for a brief moment, thought he'd come outside into the night sky. He wanted to cry out, to sing in joy.

SSSh!

The return of the voice sent him reeling, he stepped backwards, fell backwards, closed his eyes awaiting the painful impact. When he opened his eyes again he half expected to have been unconscious for another undetermined length of time. Instead, he remained on his feet cradling his injured ribs. A soft skittering sound and a tingle on the back of his neck sent him onto all fours. Invisible fingers cupped the back of his head, cradled his broken ribs close enough to his heart that they must have felt its fear induced rhythm. There was evil here. And immediately, Verenaur knew what he'd discovered.

The fever disappeared from his mind like fog in the midmorning sun. As hot and bright as the fever burned, it was nothing compared to the infernal fire of horror that now drew his eyes back toward the domed ceiling, revealing the presumed stars for what they were.

Eyes.

Hundreds, nay, thousands of eyes, huddled together. Different eyes and he suddenly the blindness of the past hours was gone and he saw the awful truth.

It was an ambush. There would be a massacre.