Forgive Me! I wanted this up on Wednesday, but life seemed to have a different opinion. My crappy Tuesday decided to have a litter, and I was stuck with a crappy week. UGH!

Enough complaints. On with the tale.

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its residents are the property of the Tolkien Regime. The original characters are products of my college years. ;)

-11-

A Time To Act

Evil lived here. She felt it keenly, fancied that she could even see the source, despite her blindness. Great wraiths perhaps, a powerful shadow. Some ancient beast summoned forth by a primordial power and set upon the unsuspecting elves of Greenwood to destroy them in one swoop.

Her grip on the broken warrior tightened as cold breath puffed over empty sockets. She could sense the malice as it honed its scythe, preparing to reap all life in a glancing blow. She could not allow it! She would not allow this warrior to be the first sacrifice upon the altar of this Necromancer, for that is what he was! Whomever attacked them, whatever their name, their magic was wholly evil. Magic of the dead besetting them with foul plague and pestilence to utterly destroy them. And this warrior would prove the tiny stone that starts the rock slide. Should he fall, all the fury of this night would plummet down upon their unsuspecting heads. She doubted not that once the slaughter began, it would not end until every last elf in this forest lay dead and cold.

With all the strength and grace bestowed upon her she shielded him, wrapped him in her protective arms and pulled him from their sight. She was Queen of Greenwood, dubbed the Silvan princess by her late father-in-law and gifted with the strength of her birth. She would protect her people, if only for now, by preventing this one death, allowing this escape.

"Run!" She ordered him and prayed he heard. Each was hidden from the other's sight. She hoped fervently that his ears were not equally shut against her. You must run to my husband. You must tell the king what lay here. She thought these things, hoped he understood. But the stunned warrior lay kneeling, gaping at a horror she could only imagine.

She felt the fear course through him as violent tremors that reverberated through her soul. She brushed his brow, felt how the fever and terror had seized him. He was no longer himself, she knew. Unnatural heat had sapped his brain of sense as pain and injury stole his strength. He would be destroyed within her grip without ever revealing his identity. This nameless, faceless elf warrior would die in the circle of her ethereal embrace, and she would have done nothing to prevent it. He would be lost in this dark pit, frightened, injured and alone. No one would ever know of his fate save the blinded Queen, who roamed formless through the bleak catacombs of her mind. Her heart forbade it! She would not allow the senseless death of this brave, lone warrior. Desperately she groped for an answer, wrapping herself tighter about the immobile, trembling elf. Calling on her latent powers, summoning forth all the magic, healing and love that coursed through her body and spirit like life blood, she pressed a single, lingering kiss upon his heated brow. The backflow of pain and weariness nearly knocked her from her incorporeal feet, and had the idea not been so ridiculous, she would have sworn she almost fell onto her ghostly butt. The Queen rose feeling drained, dragged her charge limply with her, and only had time for a fleeting hope that her efforts would be sufficient to see him to safety as she pressed him away from her. "Run, foolish elf, before they see you."

He staggered away with renewed strength. She heard his soft footfalls beating a steady retreat, each step carrying him further from the evil within and toward the evil without. A chill swept over her as that burning eye filled her mind, but she dodged it before it fixed. It was searching for something: for her, or perhaps him. Must have sensed their presence and its premature discovery. The Evil around her swirled and skittered, agitated by the life that escaped it, smelling the blood and pain. She stood before the open cavern, willing the servants of the beast to pass it over while fighting to remain beneath notice.

She was caught in a maelstrom of madness, felt hungry jaws glance by her, snap around her, seeking the presence they could feel but not see. The Necromancer and his servants were as blind as she, and while she found that knowledge heartening and empowering, she remained afraid. Who was she to stand against this mighty enemy, blinded and weakened as she was? She had not the will of Galadriel, nor the grace of Melian. Simplicity had ever been her gift, and a great affinity for the forest and all its children.

I cannot stand against this.

The whirlwind around her intensified as the evil things sought their intruder. She cringed and pulled inward, fighting the urge to weep bloody tears. She could not do this! She had no magic, no power to speak of. Nothing but her own self to throw before this evil.

They'd almost found her now. That cursed eye had almost fixed its unblinking gaze upon her once again. And when it did, the beasts around her would rend her soul to shreds.

Let them!

She knew not whence the thought came. It was not a part of herself, she knew. Nor did it feet a part of the surrounding malice. Confusion tore through what remained of fear and she stood erect, uncaring of the unwavering eye or its minions. They and worse had fallen in the past, and before lesser creatures than herself.

/Curious creatures/

And a flash passed before her blind eyes. Something long passed, or perhaps something to come. Some other battle, some other hero: a tiny man with a great will. Something reminded her of the dark haired child, thick crown weighing down his head and spirit. He must be protected, she knew. They must protect the child. It nagged at her besieged mind and she packed it away for later consideration.

The evil ebbed, its presence no more than a soaking stench. Fear made her icy, sent her chasing the elf. He was the key, she knew. He must be protected.

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

This is not right. The thought played itself over and over in his mind unto madness. However did Thranduil manage to talk him down from the wall? It was his station to lead the warriors into battle. After all, he was the General. It was not up to him to lead the people. That's the king's duty. He should not have agreed to his friend's ludicrous plan. Thalgaladh snorted derisively at the idea of Thranduil requiring his approval. The stubborn Elvenking did precisely as he chose, precisely when he chose.

It had not helped matters that the king's argument was based entirely on his honor and nobility. How could one fault a leader who was willing to die fighting beside his warriors? He could no more argue against that than refuse his protection to Thranduil's family and people. Better to have rendered him unconscious than dispute him. Why should he be so surprised? His father had been equally as noble and bull-headed. Damn him and the whole manipulative House of Oropher.

Worry gnawed at him like a dog on a bone, but he could not cater to it. Even now were warriors sweeping through the various corridors and chambers within the keep to round up everyone, except for the injured, and send them toward the northern caves. No one was to carry more than necessary personal provisions. All medical supplies, extra weapons and any other necessary stores were being thriftily loaded onto the majority of the war horses rather than the pack animals that usually served for such purposes. The waste of the horses ruffled the General, but they could ill afford the slow pace that laden pack animals would set. Lightly packed horses would run like the wind, far outdistancing the elves, and probably reach their new home long days before the elves. The rest of the horses would carry the injured, and a few flanking warriors.

The plan was weak and poorly thrown together, their odds of survival slim. Thalgaladh did not have high hopes for a low casualty rate for this migration. Indeed, he wondered if any of them might survive. Yet, despite his misgivings he knew Thranduil to be right. Staying put while an unknown enemy continued to press upon them with wave after relentless wave of attack was not only foolish but pointless. True, it was possible that the shadow could exhaust itself in a few hours, eventually shattering under the intense light of the sun. The remote possibility of such an outcome could not sustain enough hope to warrant entertainment, let alone enactment. He had to agree with the king's assessment. The battle had only just begun and the worst had yet to come.

The sturdy General felt himself shiver at the prospect. Where would this night lead them? What horrors might they witness to outweigh a cloud so thick it blocks the light of the sun?

"General Thalgaladh, we are ready."

No we aren't, he thought. Unaccountably, Galdor stood beside him. That he had not heard the warrior's approach was either a testament to the young warrior's abilities, or a signal of his own distraction. He rather thought the latter to be the case, and he realized dimly that he had to correct this habit or it would prove his undoing. Still, something about this all nagged at his mind: the nature of the battle, of their foe. Unknown creatures stood at their gates readying for invasion. But why? Already had the shadow infiltrated their home. Their enemy had proven that he could conjure fell creatures, manifest them within their very halls. Why not utilize those creatures to destroy them? The whole thing left a bad taste, like that poisonous insect he'd bitten into earlier. If he'd had more time perhaps he'd pinpoint its origin, but the time for thought and discussion was past; the time of action at hand. It was ironic how a thousand years had passed with nary a thought and now he found himself pressed for time.

"Are all the elves moved toward the northern cavern?" A veritable automaton, asking questions with little care for the answer.

"All but the injured, my lord." Thalgaladh nodded. He'd wanted to give the injured as much time to rest and heal as possible before the traumatic movement.

"And we are certain we have forgotten nothing? We can ill afford any errors."

"We have taken only essentials as you commanded. The stores of food, herbs, bandages and weapons should hold us to our new home. But if we erred, 'twas on the side of caution, my lord. Our priority is speed, you said, and we did not forget. Anything that could be left, we did so." Thalgaladh nodded as he listened, trying to dispel the unease that clutched at his bowels. His guts twisted and he found himself facing toward the south wall where his king stood waiting to defend their retreat. "All due respect, my lord," Thalgaladh redirected his attention to the warrior beside him, "the people are uneasy."

Aren't we all, the General thought, then castigated himself for his sarcasm. "Explain Galdor."

"They fear for the Royals, General." Thalgaladh hiked a brow at the warrior, noting the slight stiffening posture. Good to know it works on someone. "First Prince Belegalad went missing, and they are all aggrieved for him. As if they know some ill befell him. And by now everyone's heard that the Queen lay in some mysterious sleep."

"And how would they know such a thing?"

A small smile played on the fair face. "You know how it goes, my lord. Only two things in the world faster than a warhorse. Lightning and Gossip."

The humor in the statement broke on Thalgaladh like waves on the shore. He had no place for humor now, no mind for it. His heart ached at their wretched state, made even more wretched now by such ill tidings, for if the people panicked, then all would be lost. He turned from Galdor, unwilling to allow the warrior to see the doubt playing so openly across his features. With a resigned sigh, he said "What else do they say?"

"They say the Royal family of Greenwood will fall this night. That Prince Legolas is too young yet to take up the mantle of rule and the King stands on the walls facing near certain death."

The General whirled and glared, literally skewering the warrior with his ire. "Never speak such words to me! The King will not fall!" Thalgaladh hissed at the warrior, causing him to slink back.

"Of course not, my lord." Galdor mumbled, obviously doubtful.

Thalgaladh's anger deflated, somehow augmenting his worry. "My apologies, Galdor. You have done nothing to deserve such treatment. This shadow has wearied me beyond all memory."

Emboldened by the General's humility, the young warrior clasped the General on his uninjured arm. "We are all worried, my lord. But you spoke truly. King Thranduil is mighty. It wouldn't surprise me to find him standing upon the threshold of our new keep in the north, waiting to greet us and asking whatever took us so long."

This time the General did laugh, for the image the youth painted of the smarmy king was accurate and fitting. And, if he be honest with himself, entirely within the realm of possibility. "Thank you, my friend."

"Not at all my lord. Shall we gather the injured then?"

"Aye. And tell the warriors to have the horses laden with supplies stand at the ready to lead the charge. They are swift and mighty. Nothing that stands before them will live to oppose us. A battalion of archers should follow to lay down a cover fire before…."

The ground shook beneath his feet, severing word and thought. Thalgaladh grasped Galdor's shoulder, to steady both himself and the warrior. Galdor's hazel eyes widened, his mouth forming a soundless 'O' of shock. For a moment, each elf believed that the ground would cave from beneath or the ceiling from above, and Thalgaladh clutched the other elf with a bruising intensity. But the walls did not fall, nor the rocks shift. It was not another earthquake despite their initial fears and while Galdor's tensed muscles unwound under his brutal fingers, Thalgaladh's own trepidation only multiplied. For if it was not an earthquake that shook the ground, what in all levels of hell had it been?

"My lord?" Galdor questioned uncomfortably, calloused fingers prying at clutching hands. Thalgaladh shushed the warrior with a stern look, not relinquishing his vicious hold an iota. Galdor obeyed, trying not to squirm from the intense discomfort of crushing fingers, when he was thrown bodily into the wall. The air left him with a hiss rendering him dizzy and confused. He blinked and wheezed for clarity, finding it just in time to watch the General wriggle out from beneath a fat, twitching spider.

Inky black blood stained Thalgaladh's tunic and blade. He snarled in disgust at the filthy creature that lay dead at his feet, nudging it none to gently with the his toe to be certain. When it did not move, he faced the very shocked Galdor. "Are you hurt?"

"No, my lord." Galdor replied, recovering from the shock of both the blow and discovery.

"This is an ill omen indeed." Thalgaladh said, trying to ignore his own flagrant understatement.

"Aye, my lord. For where there is one spider in sight, you can be assured several more lurk in the shadows."

The truth of the warrior's observation could not be ignored. Their situation had just changed from grave to critical. They had to move. "We can delay no more. Head north and prepare to leave. In one half hour, whether I am there or no, begin the march northwards."

"My lord?" Galdor questioned, obviously flabbergasted by the General's statement.

'My family….I would trust no one else with this task.'

"I will be there. But I must see to the Queen and Prince, and they remain amongst the injured in the throne room. If for some reason I have not returned to you, I trust you to lead them out. Stick with the plan. Warhorses lead, archers follow to lay down cover fire. Armed soldiers flank the people both on foot and horseback. I trust you Galdor. You will not fail me." With a firm handclasp as farewell, General Thalgaladh spun and charged towards the throne room while Galdor sprinted towards the northern caverns.

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

Run! The voice commanded him, but he was frozen in place. His keen vision pierced the oppressive dark revealing the pestilence that lay within.

Fat bodied spiders, larger than he'd seen in even the deepest south of Greenwood hung from a great webbing overhead. Scores of them, poised and salivating. The walls were alive with their young, crawling and starving, chewing on each other wherever they could. A veritable army of spiders nestled neatly inside their home, waiting now for some sign, some command from their master in Dol Guldur.

Run, foolish elf, before they see you. He felt hands drawing him upwards, shoving him through a small tunnel to his right. He hadn't noticed the tunnel, hadn't noticed anything beyond the obscene ambush. Hadn't noticed the cessation of pain, the cooling of fever, the cool blast of fresh air upon his face. Hadn't noticed that he was outside in a familiar glen to the north east of his home until he collapsed breathless onto the cold, wet grass.

He knelt, panting for air, felt the now familiar shifting grate of broken bones as only minor discomfort. He clutched at his ribs, felt the dampness on his palms from his sweat soaked tunic, but couldn't think of any of it. Couldn't worry about the shock he knew his body to be in. All he saw was the trap waiting to spring and he had to do something, had to tell someone.

Do not stop, you cannot linger.

Verenaur spun around searching for the owner of the voice. His freshly cleared mind recognized that it was not the same taunting voice that had willed him to die. Still its owner remained elusive, the answer just beyond his grasp.

A hushed rustling to the south drew his attention, distracting him from his thought. The sounds were soft, no more than a mere crunching of grass underfoot. The whole of the wood had fallen into silence around him, the animals either fled or dead, the trees stripped of leaf and song, the insects dormant in the earth. No sounds in the entirety of the world save the soft movements of foot and earth, bone and sinew. And they echoed louder still for all the void.

Sweeping anxiety crushed him in its grasp, and Verenaur made way for the highest vantage point. Clever hands and feet made quick work of climbing the tree in spite of his protesting, weary body. No leaves remained on the boughs, and the tree did not sing a greeting to him. It remained as silent and inanimate the rock of the mountain, as if he were a mere man ascending its lofty heights. Swallowing down his grief, Verenaur cast his eyes about the ruined forest that only yesterday had been his lush home. The whole landscape was ravaged, as though by fire or wind, allowing him to glimpse through the leafless boughs what might otherwise have remained concealed.

The army was vast and dark, standing before their gates and sweeping its way around. The sheer size of it was overwhelming, extending far beyond what his eyes could decipher through the thick shadow. Horror seized him. They meant to storm the keep and destroy the elves in their own fortress! Verenaur imagined his friends and comrades hovered together within their walls, anticipating their swift approaching end. And yet, something didn't sit right with that theory. The shadow did much to conceal the movements of the dark army, but he thought he heard digging, saw long pikes.

These are not tools of siege but of defense.

He scanned the too near horizon for any sign of ladders, towers or catapults. Anything that might be used to scale a wall, or attack from afar. There were none to be seen. His weary mind struggled for the answer and it was suddenly horribly clear. He knew it all, he realized, all that they did not. The hail, the rats, the insects, the tricks of the shadows, all had driven the elves deep within their home, forcing them to shut themselves away from the surrounding wood; the raging storm stripped and silenced the trees, stealing the any cover or aid they might find; the earthquake which had opened up deep chasms in the earth, providing new, unexplored and unknown access throughout the keep: tunnels that the enemy within would use to sneak upon the unsuspecting elves and destroy them where they huddled together.

They do not want to get in. They mean to keep us from getting out.

The horrendous simplicity of the whole plan cost him his tenuous handhold and nearly sent him plummeting to the earth. Invisible hands caught him, pressing him back into the tree. He held onto the branches, clutched them for dear life as he panted around his tears. His mind groped for other possibilities, tried to reason against the answer he'd discerned. He remembered General Thalgaladh's words to him early on, that it was best when looking upon something to dismiss preconceptions lest you miss the truth, and so he tried. But each avenue his mind explored led straight back to his preconceived notion. These beasts without had no need or intention of coming in. They were a blockade and distraction. While the elves concentrated on the foe without, the one within would devour them unsuspecting.

Go! The soft voice whispered to him, and he obeyed. Swinging out on the branch, he dropped, catching a limb from a nearby tree. He needed to warn them somehow, get to them before this horror came to pass. A lingering glance to the south strengthened his resolve, and Verenaur ignored all protest from his broken body and flew through the treetops. None of the trees sang in joy at his presence, nor did they shun him. Occasionally would a limb he'd reached for bend down to aid him, renewing his hope that all was not yet lost. This night could still be won, if only he could reach them in time.

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

Legolas bolted upright, uncertain of what jarred him so from his comfortable reverie. The room was abuzz with confused activity. The few healers and warriors that remained behind were casting leery glances out into the halls, tense as overdrawn bows.

"The ground vibrated again." Luinaur whispered by way of explanation. The voice startled him more than it should have, more than he'd admit. Luinaur seemed to pick this up and smirked at the prince, always enjoying getting one up on him. Legolas sneered in response, which only widened his friend's smirk into a full blown grin.

Shaking his head in acquiescence, Legolas said, "Another earthquake?"

"Nay. At least, I do not think so. But the ground shook beneath us all the same."

The idea did not sit well with the prince. "My mother?" He asked apprehensively, eyes darting to the still sleeping form on the dais.

"Asleep, if that is what we can call it." Luinaur replied, unable to keep the worry from his voice. "I checked on her a little while ago. Her condition is puzzling for its lack of any discernible cause. But her pulse is strong and her breathing even. " He shrugged his shoulders in helpless confusion and nodded toward the doorway. "They have me much more concerned with all their useless chatter."

Legolas kept his eyes on his mother for an extended moment, searching for any sign of movement in the form before glancing at the objects of Luinaur's concern. Indeed, the elves congregated by the door seemed agitated and he stood up quickly, intent on finding out the matter when his injured knee screamed in protest. With a small cry he fell back to the ground, clasping his leg above the knee in an effort to control the pain. Luinaur knelt beside him, his face a mask of concern. "What is wrong?"

Frustrated at his injured state, Legolas said, "'Tis nothing. I forgot that I hurt my knee and put too much pressure on it." The pain ebbed into a throb even as he spoke, and he loosed his strangle hold on his thigh. "I think that immobility has made it stiffer, is all. I will just have to be more careful."

As Legolas said this he stood again, this time using his uninjured leg to buttress his weight. Luinaur rose beside him, burned fingers wrapping cautiously around Legolas's bicep: an offering of support should it prove necessary. The prince took a moment to look over his friend, smiling at the evident improvement. Luinaur's eyes were no longer dilated, hopefully a sign of reduced swelling in his brain. His blue green eyes contained no trace of the pain that had so besmirched them earlier. The burned hands were wrapped securely and no evidence of seepage could be seen on the clean, white bandages. The friend who only hours ago lay in unconscious agony was now mobile, and probably more than ready for action. "You look well," the prince said decisively.

"Well you do not," Luinaur countered, taking inventory of Legolas's various cuts, gouges and bruises. Rather than fading, the bruises that ringed his pale throat seemed angrier, more pronounced. Such marks should have faded from blue into green already, but it seemed that rather than getting better, the injuries were worsening. Luinaur wondered idly if the cuts were poisoned somehow before shoving the notion aside. It was more likely his guilt at having abandoned his liege and friend to suffer these injuries that whispered within him. Continuing he said, "And we should wrap your knee before you move if it causes you such pain." Legolas did not argue as Luinaur obtained a long bolt of cloth and bent to wrap his leg. Even if he'd had a mind to protest, he was far too weary for it. Silently, he stood leaning against the wall as Luinaur bound the swollen joint with a quick efficiency that spoke of his many years of tending injuries in battle. The pressure was uncomfortable and the prince grimaced as Luinaur tied the knot on the wrapping. But once finished, his leg took his weight far more comfortably and his limp faded.

"Thank you." Legolas said, before strapping on his new weapons and walking over to the entranceway. Luinaur followed him without comment, eyes drifting over the room as Legolas spoke with the warriors at the door. He caught wisps of their conversation, but nothing that made any particular sense. Talk of twisted armies and hasty retreats. Luinaur's mind filtered out the world for a moment, all thoughts focusing on one point: his brother. Where was Verenaur? He had expected him to appear sometime during his nap. He had, in fact, been grateful for the respite afforded to him by his nagging brother's absence as it had given him a chance to prepare a retort to every insult and reproach that he knew Verenaur would hurl at him. But now, hours later, he began to wonder at his brother's unusual absence. With a clearer mind, Luinaur realized that he had not seen his brother since he'd propped him against the wall in the corridor, leaving him with explicit instructions to remain while he went back for Legolas. And here Legolas stood, so Verenaur must have found him. So the mystery remained as to the whereabouts of his overbearing brother.

Leaning into the prince and ignoring the fact that he was obviously interrupting a conversation, Luinaur whispered, "Where is Verenaur?"

Legolas swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat. What ever would he say? How could he possibly tell his friend that his brother had fallen into shadow and he had not taken up search for him? The guilt of that action still ate at him despite the knowledge that there had been nothing he could do. Blue eyes stung with unshed tears of grief, and he found that it took all his courage to raise them to meet his friend's steady gaze. When he did, words were superfluous for Luinaur could see the truth plainly written in the moist, azure eyes.

"Nay." The protest was breath, but it shredded through Legolas's composure. The prince stammered for an explanation, any words that might somehow ease the grief that washed over himself and his life long friend, but Luinaur stopped him with a raised hand. "I cannot hear this now."

"Spiders!" The cry destroyed the melancholia that had ensnared the two elves, and Legolas peeked his head out the doorway to see. Luinaur's hands tugged at him, trying to draw him away from the approaching danger, but he shrugged them off. Huge spiders spilled from the freshly opened cracks in the floor, pouring through the hallways like waters over falls. Hairy legs scurried along floor and ceiling, charging toward the throne room and the helplessly injured elves within.

Before any could react, Legolas had drawn, nocked and loosed three arrows into the onslaught. Each arrow struck true, dropping heavy bodies from the ceiling onto those beneath it. "Bar the doors. They mustn't get in." Legolas cried as he fired arrow after arrow into the approaching mass. Evil voices hissed their displeasure at him as he lifted a torch from its wall sconce and tossed it into the horde. The spiders screamed and scampered in an effort to avoid the flying flame, and Legolas took advantage of their distraction, slipping into the throne room and closing the doors. The heavy bar fell into its designated hooks just in time to rattle under the stress of the spiders' weight.

Legolas turned, pressing the length of his back against the doors as if to add extra support. The effort was unnecessary, he knew. Unless the spiders were equipped with battering rams, they would not break through the heavy oak doors. Luinaur stood before him with wide eyes and tense jaw. Teal eyes, warrior eyes, swept the room for any weapon. His hands were too ruined to be very effective, but he needed something if he was to fight this onslaught. His gaze lighted on the fallen tapestry, noting the heavy wooden pole that it had hung from and he quickly set about liberating it from its cloth confines. Though a staff was not his primary choice of weapon, he was more than capable of using one. When he rose from his task, Legolas stood beside him, eyes aloft.

"We are trapped." Luinaur whispered, sorrow temporarily forgotten. He was a warrior, had been a warrior for centuries, and would do his duty this night.

Legolas nodded an acknowledgement, before saying, "Aye. Though that is not my primary concern." Luinaur's gaze traced the path of his friend's, landing on the open ventilation ducts high on the walls of the vast chamber.

"I do not think that they can fit through there." Luinaur said, his voice less hopeful than his words.

"Perhaps, but I do not wish to take that chance." Legolas scanned the room for anything that might aid him, but he had no idea what he should do. Spiders were strong, too strong to block with simple wads of material. They were also evil and intelligent in their own rights, so it would only be a matter of time before they came through the ducts. He had not gotten a count of them, but from the looks of it there had been dozens, hundreds even. The few dozen elves in this room were injured, some grievously so, and would be incapable of defending themselves for long against so abundant and clever an enemy. An image filled Legolas's head for a moment. The whole throne room draped in an intricate webbing of spider silk, decorated with thick white cocoons of paralyzed elves. Food for evil to devour at their laughing leisure. And in the middle of it all, his mother, her beauty a source of mockery for the shadow that defeated them.

The prince shivered and grunted at the vision, felt Luinaur's hand as a reassurance on his shoulder. "We must get out of here."

"How?" Luinaur's question, though serious and without a trace of sarcasm, ignited the prince's frustrated irritation, and he felt an overwhelming urge to punch his friend. Legolas clenched and unclenched his fists while wringing his mind for an answer.

"I don't know," the prince's fair face was folded, his voice distressed.

A shrill cry filled the room, making elves jump and cry out in turn. Legolas had drawn a blade from its sheath before he'd completed a thought and Luinaur lifted his make shift weapon. Both warriors scanned for the source of the cry before landing on the writhing form of the Queen.

"The child! We must protect him." The elves had formed a tentative circle about the ravening queen. Legolas nearly dropped his blade in his haste to sheathe it and get to his mother. Luinaur was a half step behind him, and yet despite both their best efforts, the Queen was still conscious and on her feet before they reached her.

"Mother!" Legolas cried, dropping onto his knees at her feet, ignoring the pain in his injured joint. He took her hands in his own, holding them in a gentle yet firm grip, as if fearing that she might any moment vanish from him again. Luinaur knelt and bowed respectfully as the Queen's vivid green eyes darted around the room. Her face was awash with feelings, none of which the young warrior could discern. Confusion perhaps, and possible rage. "The child. Do you hear me? He walks the paths, hears the call. We must stop him, protect him." The confused faces around her only agitated her further. It was only when green eyes landed on the kneeling form of her son, everything faded into quiet joy.

"Legolas," she breathed, and her big emerald eyes filled with tears. "I never thought to look upon your face again." Indeed, she'd never thought to see again, but she was not ready yet to express that thought.

Legolas kissed his mother's hand, pressed it to his face and gazed adoringly at her. "Mother, I was so worried for you. All has gone ill and I feared that I'd be left alone."

Linnaloth tugged her son up to stand before her. He was a cornucopia of bruises, a mosaic of injuries and she felt her eyes brim at the sight of him. Oh, but to see him was a blessing, so she would not weep. He was hurt, true, but he was alive and whole and standing before her, so she took him into her loving embrace and held him to her. He rested his head on her shoulder as she stroked through his fine hair. "It will be well, now."

"Nay," Legolas said, pulling back. "We are trapped. A horde of spiders lay beyond that door, and I fear it is only moments before they come through the vents. We have few weapons to fend them off. Father has ordered the keep evacuated, and I do not think that anyone will find us in time."

Linnaloth smiled, and it was full of peace. That Thranduil had ordered an evacuation and retreat only proved that she had loved both well and wisely. Her husband was clever indeed, knowing that to lay within these halls would spell doom for the elves of Greenwood. She could practically hear his velvet voice as he whispered, 'did I not say I would take care of everything?' and she chuckled merrily. Coming back to herself, she realized that all the elves within the throne room had fear in their eyes, and Legolas had crooked his head in concerned assessment.

"We are not trapped," she winked conspiratorially to Legolas, noting that the concern only increased. She leaned toward him, whispering for his ears only, "Always have a path of retreat, my son." She saw the spark of recognition ignite in the blue eyes, Thranduil's eyes, and she smiled again.

Walking to the back of the room, she placed her palm flat on the stone wall and whispered something. All the elves watched in silence as the wall slid open to reveal a secret passageway behind the thrones. The oohs and aahs were silenced by a dismayed cry. "Look, they come!" Legolas spun to see a swarm of tiny spiders, babies, each about the size of a hand, pouring in through the vents. They blanketed the wall, running swiftly down, some scampering across the ceiling to drop on silken threads to the floor below.

"Quickly, inside," the Queen commanded, and all obeyed. Within moments they'd exited the throne room, a few muttered words from Linnaloth sealing the door again, crushing several bodies on the threshold. Once again Legolas found himself cast into total darkness, his traumatized mind certain that something would spring on them any moment. Luinaur clung to the back of his tunic, whispering reassurances aloud for everyone's benefit. Suddenly there was light. Linnaloth had mysteriously produced a torch, humming a contented tune as she pushed to the front of the group with Legolas and Luinaur flanking her. "Follow me, dear ones." And she marched along, singing merrily in the damp cavern to freedom.

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Thalgaladh's feet barely touched the ground as he skittered over broken stones and scarred rocks to reach the throne room. Something churned deep within him, driving him forward through the darkened hallways. None of this was right. The corridors stretched endlessly before him, devouring endless minutes that he could ill afford. The host of elves was to leave in a quarter hour, and at the rate of his progress, he would never join them. He would fail his king before he even began his task. That thought was the most distressing of all, and not simply because Thranduil was his king; not even because he was his dearest friend, although he was that as well. The crux of the matter was that Thalgaladh had sworn to his long dead liege, King Oropher, as he lay dying on the bloodied earth that he would serve and protect his son with his life. And until this day, Thalgaladh had kept that promise.

Abandoning Thranduil on the walls to face his death alone had been a betrayal of Oropher, but Thalgaladh believed he could live with that. But to fail Thranduil in his final request was to fail them both, to fail himself. It was a shame he did not think he could bear.

His dismal musings passed the time quicker, and Thalgaladh realized as he pulled himself from them that he was mere seconds from the throne room. He picked up his pace wanting to reach the Queen and Prince immediately. He turned the corner where cold dread slammed him to a dead stop.

Oh, no. Please no.

He whispered a prayer he knew would not be answered. Too late by far to answer it, he thought ruefully. The hallway was swamped with the great evil spiders that had ever dwelt in the southern reaches of the forest. Never before had he seen them so far north, nor in the numbers in which they now amassed. Thalgaladh felt the last shreds of hope incinerate in the fires of his rage.

The world tilted, turned red as he emptied his quiver into the mass of spiders. His injured arm protested each draw of the bow, pumped blood from its reopened wound. He noticed none of it in his mania. Each movement contained all the speed and precision that he'd ever possessed. Dozens fell dead before the rest even noticed the attack. Angry screams filled the corridor, and the General answered with his own, shrieking his rage as his blade screamed from its sheath. His bow lay forgotten at his feet, his quiver emptied into the spiders, and he stood waiting, broadsword at the ready, to fight these demons to his death.

The spiders charged at him, coming by floor and ceiling, and his blade tore through them two and three at a time. He moved faster than they could anticipate, his rage lending him speed, his grief granting ferocity. He stabbed and slashed, hacked and spun, whirling in deadly arcs and severing limbs from their fat, hairy bodies. The spiders howled their rage, but shrank from him even as he pressed his attack. He heard their whispers of madness, their plans of blindsiding, but he skewered them when they approached and not one got closer to him than the length of his sword.

The red haze faded from his mind as he found himself before the doors of the throne room. He cast a glance back at the corridor, saw the trail he'd blazed through chunks of flesh and limb. He'd torn through the horde with the finesse of a tornado. The few living spiders that remained kept distant from him, fearing his might. He pounded on the doors that were barred from within, heard the chatter of more spiders answer his call and deflated with defeat.

They were lost.

He had to tell the king. Too late he saw the truth, though now all the nagging doubts presented crystal clear answers. Thranduil had been right all along about their vulnerability. The attack wasn't coming from without. With a great roar, he bolted toward the wall, leaving a gory trail in his wake.

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Thranduil stood on the ramparts, staring into impossible black. The army that stood a few furlongs to the south was little more than a smudge on the tree line. His keen sight could detect faint motions that thundered in his even keener hearing. The sights and sounds were easy enough to interpret if not to decipher. The army was shifting, spreading slowly outwards from the middle to flank them from east and west. But why?

"The warriors are ready, my lord." A small nod and smile were his only response. The fair being cast his gaze toward their foe and said, "They are coming."

"Let them!" The king's eyes flashed with defiance, and the warrior wore a matching look. Thranduil nodded again at the warrior, clamping tightly down on his shoulder and channeling all his strength and camaraderie into the gesture. Morthaun was his name, mighty and brave, and Thranduil was proud to have remembered it. Sorrowful blue eyes cast over the host of warriors who stood with him before their enemy. He wished that he remembered all their names. Wished fervently that he did not have to ask any of them to place themselves as a flesh and blood shield twixt the enemy and their kin. Knowing that they'd each volunteered for the post did not lessen the burden on his soul

It should not, my son. This time when Oropher spoke, Thranduil did not roll his eyes. No irritation blossomed at the intrusive voice. He remembered his father's words as though they'd been spoken yesterday, though more than a millennium passed. The Elvenking allowed himself the memory, indulged it even, for it was the last time he'd seen his father alive. The fear of battle had pressed upon him and he had divulged that fear to his father, despite his reluctance at appearing weak. And in a manner quite contrary to his normal behavior, Oropher listened in silence. He listened as Thranduil told him of his fears of death, his sorrows at never witnessing the birth of his youngest, his worry of losing his friends and loved ones in the upcoming battle. He remained silent as Thranduil expostulated on their battle for the greater good, defeating evil so that his family might live in a better world and how that should make this sacrifice of themselves, their lives and lives of the warriors who'd followed them to war somehow easier. And only when Thranduil fell into quiet melancholy did Oropher speak again with an uncommonly soft voice. 'It should not, my son. Do not disparage yourself for mourning and grieving what we all lose this day. Many of us shall fall because of others' senseless hatred. And each death will weigh on me, and someday you, for it was my decision as their king to lead them to this battle. And though they fight proudly, and though our fight is just, that will never lessen our grief or loss. Such is the burden of kings.'

Thranduil blinked away the moisture and memory. Such malaise had its place, and staring out into a maneuvering enemy army was not it. His thoughts turned back to its earlier train. Why thin out the middle? The greatest point of weakness in the mountain keep was obviously the gate. Why not just attack it? Why give them the chance to group themselves, to form a plan, when the enemy clearly held the advantage?

"My lord, we await your command."

My command. None of it felt right to him, though he could not see another choice. Thalgaladh had gathered the remainder of the warriors and set off into the tunnels. At least, he should have by now. All Thranduil and these warriors need do is distract the foe.

So why the hesitation? Why so dire? What was it that pressed so on his mind?

"My lord?"

Nothing about this was right, but the time for thought and talk was passed. He had to act. Should he strike the first blow in this battle at his gates, or should he wait for the enemy to make their move? Which would buy more time?

"King Thranduil?"

To strike first would divert the enemy's attention, put them on the immediate offensive. That might stop their outward spread, might stop them from noticing the host of retreating elves until it was too late. Of course, such a decision would doom the warriors that stood with him to death. He glanced around, looking at each warrior who stood poised, fearlessly awaiting his command.

He had not time for speeches, but he had to speak, to say some words to these brave few who would volunteer to die so that the rest may live. "It is my honor to fight beside you this night," he declared. "And should we die here, it will be my honor to stand before Mandos with each of you. On my command, we attack." He raised his hand, the whisper of arrows drawn from the quivers, nocked and drawn. He drew two arrows, fitted them to his bow string, drew back and held….

"My king!"

The voice tore through his concentration, his commands, and for an eternal second, Thranduil thought that he'd released his arrows into the offensive front ahead of his own command. Frustrated, heart pounding he spun to face his distraction.

"Thalgaladh?" A thousand questions ravaged his mind as he stared at the gore soaked General. "What are you doing here?"

"Thranduil, you must come." Thalgaladh panted, wiping his bloodied sword on his bloodied cloak, cleaning the gore before it dried onto the blade.

The king was aghast. Thalgaladh was supposed to be gone, leading the people to safety. Protecting his family! Rage filled Thranduil, and for a moment he considered drawing his sword against his long time friend. The arrows in his hand clattered to the ground as his fingers instinctually groped for his sword. The gesture did not go unnoticed by any. "We've been through this, Thalgaladh. What are you doing here?"

A million unasked questions, but he heard them all plainly. "This is not right," the General said, approaching the enraged king cautiously.

"You don't say?" Thranduil hissed, wrestling with his anger, fighting against the shadow's firm hold on his mind.

"Thranduil, old friend, you must listen. You must hear me!" The voice was pleading, desperate, and every warrior on the wall lowered their weapons to watch the exchange.

The grip on his sword lessened and with it, the rage. He looked at his friend, really saw him, drenched from head to toe in foul blood, radiating regret like the sun does heat. "I am listening." The king said, his voice velvet with a steel edge. He stepped closer to the General, so close he could feel the warmth of his skin and breath along his own. "This better be good," he whispered, tone and eyes deadly.

Thalgaladh nodded at him. "The keep is besieged. The throne room taken. I did not get there in time."

"What?" The king deflated, lost his grip on the hilt of his sword. Blue eyes begged the General to explain the statement, refute its meaning.

"Don't you see?" Thalgaladh exclaimed. "It is a lie, a diversion. They stand without to distract us from the attack within." Thranduil's head was shaking in denial as the rest of him just shook. Thalgaladh placed a tentative hand on the king's shoulder, not certain if he would lose it for the presumption but willing to assume the risk. It was no less than he deserved, in his estimation. "Spiders. Dozens, nay, hundreds of spiders crawl within our halls. It is an ambush."

Thranduil was nodding, leaning heavily into the General's touch. Anger had left him, replaced by all consuming grief. "What of everyone else?"

"They are gone. I sent Galdor to arrange the retreat, gave him explicit orders on what to do. They will make it, I think." Though he did not know. They too could have been attacked. But that host had been heavily armed and numerous. The spiders would not stand long against them.

Thranduil nodded, fighting to control his grief before the warriors. His family. The thought made his stomach twist and for a moment he thought he might just retch. His normally quick mind had solidified and an ache that started somewhere in the vicinity of his heart spread fiery tendrils around his head and squeezed. Swallowing down the rising gorge, the king whispered, "I do not know what to do."

The silver haired elf swallowed his rising emotions at the sight of his grief-stricken friend. For Thranduil to admit weakness was no small thing. To do so with an audience was heartbreaking, for it spoke volumes about his friend's fragility. The king needed guidance and he would give it. "Forget the army. Who knows where their purpose lies. Perhaps they are no more than tricks of the shadow. Come with me to break down the doors to the throne room." Thranduil was shaking a denial but Thalgaladh was firm, "Yes. Forget this folly. They can do us no harm." What is left to take?, he thought, leaving that thought unsaid. "They still have to surmount the wall. We will light fires behind us, burn everything as we go. We will see what lay in the throne room and then follow our people north. They will need us should this evil give chase."

Thranduil squared his shoulders and met his friend's gray eyes. The silver haired warrior saw no trace of the grief that only moments before threatened to engulf his king, only steely determination. With a small nod, the Elvenking barked out to the warriors, "Men, follow me."