Disclaimer: I own zilch. Except the plot. And Lothmiren. But nothing else.
A/N: Whoa! I posted the last chapter up, and the next morning I had SEVEN more reviews! Seven! Go me! And you! But mostly you!
Hey, all my readers are worried about Thranduil! Well, now you get to find out about what I did to him...and by the way, this part might be quite fast- paced.
/Smites keyboard. / Blast...I can't do accents unless the spell-check puts them in.
And I PASSED ENGLISH! Wahoo! Yippee!
Morals and Priorities.
The dark felt...nice. Comforting, and safe, like the embrace of a mother when one is too small to comprehend danger and death, but understands love.
There was a little light. Some of it came from a flickering source above and behind him. The remainder came from a tiny pinprick of warmth and solemn joy, and patience. There were feelings around both of them. He knew that, by natural selection of favoured emotion, he should wish to move towards the second light...but he didn't.
The first offered pain, huge quantities of it. It promised him dangers and sorrows and hatred and terrible agony. Yet somehow it also seemed the most preferable one. There was another, surprisingly complex, group of feelings and longings that lay around it. He wanted to get closer to it, to grasp it...but he was being pulled steadily away, and he could not break free of the force hauling him to the second light.
So he struggled. And, in doing that, he had to admit his identity once more.
Thranduil groaned slightly. It had been so easy just to forget who he was, and so simple to understand when he no longer understood sentience. But of course, now he was sentient again, and he knew exactly where he was and what he was doing there. He was on the way to the Halls of Mandos, and he was trying not to finish the trip. He was there because his body had been unable to cope with his son's rough treatment of his infested leg, along with all the other injuries he had sustained. And he wanted to leave here and get back to being properly alive.
Unfortunately, that did not appear to be an option.
The flow of the invisible stream of power that was tugging him gently through the blackness jerked at him insistently. He pulled back. He did not want to face death just yet. He had too many reasons for life.
His son was trapped in a building full of orcs and Ringwraiths, and probably would not last more than a day without his father. His wife was, to the best of his knowledge, still alive. There were many Elves whom he had led for hundreds of years, and they could not possibly all remain in Lorien for too long. Mirkwood had been held by their strength alone. In less than three centuries, if unguarded, she would be overrun with all the fell beasts of Melkor and Sauron. He had friends whom he was loath to leave. And life was- there was no other word for it- exhilarating.
He had plenty of motives for staying. But he lacked the ability to do so.
No! I have fought the creatures of Morgoth for thousands of years, I cannot simply die! For that would leave my son alone to die, and...he is too young for that! He should not be taken from life- and neither shall I. He shall not lose his father...none ought to experience that grief at all, and certainly not a child of his age. But I...who can say if I still have the strength to remain?
I must have. For my son.
The Elvenking somehow forced his exhausted fea to stop moving forward. He never truly understood what he did, but he managed to halt the deterioration of his body's system before he went beyond recall. In his chest, his heart beat back to life.
It was barely noticeable at first, but the tiny flickering allowed him to draw in a cool breath of sweet, soft air. The darkness slowly passed, becoming a kind of fiery light. He was dragged backwards, and, as realization came, he felt as though he could laugh and laugh and laugh. But he did not.
Instead, he opened his eyes to the shadows that danced eerily over the crude ceiling. Crimson and golden streaks lanced the rough stone, decorated with the midnight hues where the light did not penetrate. Rippling over the rock, they caused the semblance of the calm roof of the quietly lapping sea, when one lies beneath the waves and watches the silver and blue textures, ever changing. Except that this was a somewhat sharper contrast.
Swiftly, his attention was drawn to the soft sobs near his ribs. A warm kind of salty water was trickling down his side, and there was an obvious weight on his chest, though not so great as to prevent his breathing. Whatever it was...
And then Thranduil knew.
It was Legolas. His child's head was resting on his father's ribcage, and tears were pouring from the Elfling's eyes. The tiny frame trembled like a leaf, shaken with practically inaudible cries of mourning for the parent he had supposedly lost. The boy was huddled beside the Sinda Lord, his warm body seeming unnaturally frail, pressed as it was to the Elvenking's body. He was a child who had had everything taken from him, and he was giving the last security in his life the only gift he had left.
The heartbroken tears that flowed thickly from his eyes.
The older Elf stiffened almost imperceptibly. His son was in a worse condition than he had thought. Grief was tearing the child apart, eating him away from the inside. The magnitude of it stunned the Sinda into silence- for a moment.
He sat up, his muscles aching from long misuse. Before the Elfling had realised what was going on, his father's arms were wrapped tightly around him, holding him close to Thranduil's body. The tiny boy started in shock, and then he relaxed, leaning forward into the warm embrace. Emotions welled up suddenly, and with surprising abundance. Joyful tears coursed down the Elvenking's cheeks, running into his son's corn-coloured tresses, before mingling with the tears on his child's wet face. Both could hardly believe that they were together again, even if it was in Dol Guldor. Life and love were enough to make them forget where they were, however briefly.
"My son, oh, my little Greenleaf... I did not mean to cause you such sorrow- I am so sorry, I... I love you, my child; always remember that, no matter what happens. It does not matter where you are; I shall never forget you. Never."
"Ada...Ada, your eyes were shut...I thought- I thought that you were dead, Ada, I thought you were gone. I thought that they had killed you. I thought that I had killed you."
"No, Legolas...if anything, you probably saved my life. Those beasts would have sapped my strength beyond hope of recovery if you had not removed them. You are not to blame, I am. I was not strong enough to protect you..."
"Protect me from what?"
"From the knowledge of close death...from losing one close to you..."
They remained silent for a while, drawing courage and power from each other's bodies. They both desperately needed the contact; each clung to the energy and life and care and warmth projected by the other. They held on to every feeling that was offered, cherishing the individual moments that they spent in their tight embrace.
Finally they pulled reluctantly apart, knowing that it would be folly to remain in such a hold when both had to rest- and, if even remotely possible, to nourish themselves later. Thranduil dug a sort of nest into the small heap of sacks on the floor, pressed Legolas into it, blew out the single candle, burrowed down beside his child, and slept.
It was a tired, spent kind of sleep, with vague, undefined glimmers of dreams.
When the pair awoke, it was quite a while later. Both felt somewhat refreshed after the peaceful night. Their minds were clear and startlingly energetic, as if they had been given three days' sleep, rather than a few hours.
A nasty side effect of this clear-headed state was that the two were starving, extremely thirsty, and had developed a full awareness of exactly how much trouble they were in. When one is half-dead, one does not care much whether one is caught. There is a definite sense of urgency, but one does not fully think this feeling through- one acknowledges it and moves on, trying to work with it. The pair of Elves were no longer anywhere remotely near death- although that situation could quickly be rectified. But the fact was, they were free to think on otherwise trivial matters...hunger included.
Legolas lit the candle, seized one of the tough bags and fumbled with the stitched- up opening. His father began attempting to pry the top off a barrel. The rough wood bruised and cut at his fingertips, but he persisted, drawn by the smell and sound of the water sloshing about inside. He was so engrossed in his task, he paid no attention when his child succeeded in tearing open the sack, scattering old grain over the floor. He merely continued in prying at the wooden lid, which had been securely fastened down with small latches.
When he finally managed to break it open, he turned to the wheat. His son had already eaten a few handfuls. Thranduil scooped some up and chewed at it hungrily, gulping a little water as he did so. Neither really noticed that the liquid was stale, and the grain shrivelled and dry. More than twenty years the sacks and barrels had lain there, left by a hunter who had thought to live in the fortress, avoiding the goblins, and hidden from all. His plan had not worked, but for six months he had survived. Now two Elves feasted on his gatherings.
Before long, the pair stopped their ravenous eating, and, checking that the door was indeed secure, sat down to discuss their most pressing concern: getting out of Dol Guldor.
The Elvenking considered the problem for a moment.
"The paths leading up- and therefore probably out- are at the centre of the building, from what I could make out. The network immediately surrounding the core certainly slopes upward slightly. The difficulty will be navigating the more complicated areas whilst avoiding the orcs. Sauron designed this building cunningly- the most complex parts are nearest the exit to the cells, so that any attempting to find their way out would be confused by the suddenly complicated passage systems. I passed by them on my way to find you."
"In that case, Ada, should we not find one who is familiar with the architecture of this fortress, and persuade them to lead us out?"
"We would have trouble discovering a goblin that was willing to both guide us to the exit and keep quiet afterwards. No, our best hope is to either catch one and force it to lead us out, or to try and find our own way out. I would suggest the first option."
"But would it remain silent about our escape? Ada, if it will not keep our exit a secret, and we cannot allow it to tell it's masters, then...what do we do? We do not seem to have any choices. We will be recaptured."
"No. We shall not. The creature shall not be left alive to convey word of us."
"Ada! We are Elves, and you are the King of Mirkwood. We cannot attack from behind, as assassins do! Neither can we kill an unarmed being, even if it is an orc. Do you not remember what you told me two centuries ago? We are not like the spawn of Morgoth. We must keep ourselves from becoming like them, no matter how hard we fight them. You told me that, father, and I have not forgotten it. To defeat the Nazgul- we must avoid becoming them."
"Legolas...I do remember. But our main priority is to leave this Valar- forsaken place. We do not have time to otherwise restrain the creature. Morals come second. Understood? I will not have you die merely because the Elves do not normally kill from behind!"
The Elfling lowered his gaze to the floor. Thranduil could see the turmoil flicking through his features. Truth be told, the Elvenking was facing a similar dilemma. He had felt none of this inner quandary on morals when trying to find his son- he had been too concerned with needing to remove the child from the cell and finding them both a safe hiding place. Now, however...leaving Dol Guldor was important, but was he really prepared to give up his convictions on fairness and fighting? He wasn't sure.
"No, little Greenleaf, we have to do this. It is the only way...for you to die would destroy me, little one..."
Silently, the two got to their feet, picked up the candle, pushed open the door, and slid out, leaving the room in darkness.
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Something was amiss.
The Witch-King of Angmar looked up from the darkness that writhed at his feet, flooding down the tunnel. Somewhere, he was certain, something...wrong had happened. He was not sure what it was, but he did know that it was a situation that should be rectified as soon as possible.
He moved quickly down the passage, sniffing for the scent of the propagators.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Legolas froze against the cold, slimy wall. They had been wandering around the fortress for hours, and still were no closer to the exit. The child was shaking from nervousness and worry. He kept starting at practically undetectable noises, and his breath came in jarring, stilted snatches.
Fear was pounding through him, making the blurred jumble of his thoughts an almost inaudible patter. A cool chill shuddered in his bones as a dark wind seemed to encompass him. He struggled against it, but the terror would not stop. It swept over him; bleaching away all will to live with its foul embrace. And, in the near distance, a high-pitched scream rose from an undead throat.
His heart stopped for several beats, and then began hammering in a wild, frantic fury. Adrenaline rushed into his bloodstream, and his body prepared to run. But the Prince's mind was trapped, held, and so he did not move...he merely waited for the end. The end of thought and hope and warm, full- blooded life.
And so he remained, while blackness rushed in.
A light exploded in the suffocating darkness, and he raised his tired eyes to the sight of...his father.
Thranduil's bright glow shone out, illuminating the gloomy passage with a white-gold gleam. The Elvenking was magnificent and terrible in his rage and hate, glaring with loathing at the black-robed figure that stood at the end of the tunnel, barring their way. His eyes burned angrily, fire smouldering in the steel grey depths. He took one step toward his opponent, taking the candle from his son before reaching up and seizing a brand from the wall. Lighting it, he placed the candle on the floor and strode forwards.
Legolas wanted to cry out, to stop his father from advancing towards this certain death...but he could not move. He could only watch helplessly as the white-hot flame that was Thranduil moved toward the towering shadow that was the Ringwraith. Could only pray to the Valar as the tears raced bitterly down his cheeks. Could only hope that his father would somehow win.
His vision cleared, allowing him to see every detail of the two soon-to-be fighters. Thranduil's face wore a proud, confident, yet slightly wary expression. His body had assumed a strong, solid stance, yet one that would allow him to retreat swiftly if such an action became necessary. The Nazgul, on the other hand, was a pillar of menace. Dark terror rolled off it, seeping into the two Elves. The child's breath came in horrible gulps and gasps, tearing at his throat with their sudden abruptness.
And then the Elvenking's torch-wielding hand moved up in a fantastic blur of speed. The golden fire at the end cut a burning yellow streak through the dark, musty air, causing Legolas to blink in almost-pain. But the Nazgul reacted just as quickly, whipping backwards and exhaling a foul blast of the Black Breath. The Sinda staggered, and his son tried to cry out to him, but all to no avail. His lungs seemed to have frozen with the shock of the Ringwraith's weapon. His mind was reeling, and he could barely stay upright.
And then Thranduil regained his balance, and struck out once more. Then again, and again. He forced the undead creature back against the wall, driving it to the point where it would be unable to retreat, and attack was its only option. He was working it into a trap, and Legolas hoped that the Nazgul wouldn't realize this fact until it was too late. His father was giving no opportunity for retaliation, his attention clearly devoted to running his opponent into the place where it would be possible for the Elvenking to vanquish it. The tiniest slip of concentration could be lethal at this point, and so the Elfling clamped his lips tightly shut, watching the intense duel before him unfold with wide eyes and pounding heart.
It was a strange and incredible sight to behold. One figure was a star, a creation of pure light, and boundless energy. Courage pulsed from the slender frame, for all that the fighter had been nearly to Mandos' Halls just hours before. The swift, shining body was like quicksilver, impossible to catch, sliding away from the other's grasp like smoke. The brand he held was corn-coloured, and even the child could feel the heat of it, radiating out from the gleaming orange centre.
The other was a pillar of darkness. Towering over its smaller opponent, it screamed its horrible scream over and over again. It was the very embodiment of fear in the short time of the fight, something that could not be imagined in the worst of nightmares. The bitter sword that it held struck faster than sight could follow, whilst the horror of its presence almost suffocated the pair. It was something that should not be seen or heard, and yet there it stood, taunting and mocking them with its presence. Look, it seemed to say, see what our Master is capable of creating...something stronger than you shall ever be...something that all living beasts dread, something that you try with all your might to avoid...if he can do this to Men, who knows what he can do to you?
The final blow came so fast and strong that Legolas couldn't see it. But one moment his father was standing before the Nazgul, and the next he was leaping away from it, and then turning back, still holding the flaming torch.
Whatever he had done, the effect was instantaneous. The creature shrieked in abominable pain, attempting to dodge sideways along the wall...as it's robes went up in flames. It beat itself roughly against the stonework, trying to douse the fire, before turning desperately back to the Elvenking.
Thranduil stood noble and tall, his face a stern mask of authority. He stepped forward, brandishing his burning weapon in one hand. His eyes crackled dangerously, and the Ringwraith shrunk away from his wrath. As the Sinda Lord advanced, with a slow, menacing pace, it practically whimpered. Thranduil raised one hand in a threatening manner, and the creature shook its invisible head frantically, trying to dart away. The Elvenking regarded it impassively for a short while, and then turned away. Taking another torch from the wall, he lit it and tossed it to the Nazgul's feet, where it remained, burning brightly.
Legolas found himself suddenly able to move once more. He made a tiny noise in the back of his throat, and his father strode swiftly towards him, leaving the Witch-King there in the passage to burn. Kneeling, the older Elf held his son to him briefly, before gently helping the boy up and leading him out of the dank tunnel.
And the Nazgul burnt behind them.
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Well, I suppose I did ask for excitement.
Celeborn heaved a sigh and turned from the window. Outside, Lothlorien was beginning to resemble a six-year-old human's idea of a battlefield after twenty expert pranksters had been let loose on it. Mainly because it was a two-century-old Elf's idea of a battlefield after twenty expert pranksters had been let loose on it.
That basically meant red and black dye on the trunks- and occasionally the leaves- of the trees, buckets of water concealed in branches, pink, orange, blue, and purple streamers draped over all the flets, and general all- around chaos.
The Lord of Lothlorien considered the scene almost wistfully. It would be such fun to...no, he could not. It would not do for Lorien's inhabitants to see their Lord tip pails of yellow and violet dye over twenty-eight children, even if said children had just proceeded to severely destroy the Golden Wood's normal serene image. No, it would not do at all.
Oh, who cares? asked a voice in his head. Not me. It would be most amusing- and it would certainly serve to teach them a lesson. Maybe then they'll think twice about drenching my wife. Although, to be fair, I do not assume that they knew she would be the first person there after they rigged up that little...surprise.
Celeborn had to bite down a tiny smile at the memory of that incident. Two Nandar children, only just able to climb, had somehow set a bucket of pale green dye over one of the few walkways that helped connect those parts of the city not linked by the branches of the trees. Galadriel had chosen to use that particular walkway later in the afternoon, and had managed to get soaked to the skin when she passed directly beneath the pail. She had stormed back into their flet, changed her dress, and gone to find the pair who had set the pail. That evening, two young Nandar girls had stumbled back into the city...having been stained a very pretty indigo colour.
Yes, that had been an extremely amusing incident.
It had also brought about Lothmiren's first real reaction since her arrival in Lorien. Mostly, the Elf had been withdrawn, her smiles ghostly, her voice hushed. But upon seeing the fate of the two children...she had thrown back her head and roared with laughter like the rest of them.
Celeborn smiled suddenly. If Galadriel is allowed to cover children in dye, then why should I not be permitted to do the same? After all, she is...more respected than I am, and is expected to behave more- regally, so...
"Good afternoon, Melethen," came a voice from the door. He swung round, and was greeted with the sight of his wife standing in the doorway, a broad smile on her face. She walked over to him, wrapping her arm around him. "Hmm, it appears that you do have a good reason for showing those children exactly what you are capable of."
"You are hardly one to talk," he teased her gently. "The Artanis of the First Age would not even have considered throwing pails of dye over young Nandar girls. Rather, she would have-"
"Gone straight to their parents, and then given the troublemakers a severe lecture. I am aware of that...I have changed."
"Time has softened you, beloved. You are no longer as stern as that Artanis was." He smiled mischievously at her. "And I think I am glad for the change!"
"I believe what you are trying to say is that you would have preferred me to be less of a fighter and a challenge when you first met me."
"Nay, I merely meant- you are easier to be with and talk to now, in that one does not have to guard one's tongue when speaking to you. It is easier to talk to you of simpler matters- and the Artanis I first met would not even have considered having children! I love you, and I have always loved you, but I also like the way that you have changed."
"I see."
He took her hand and led her outside.
Five hours later, twenty-eight Elflings, every one of them drenched in pink dye, stumbled back into the city. They looked rather sheepish, but, at the same time, rather pleased.
Two miles out, a pair of much older Elves perched side by side on the top of a tall tree. One, a lady, had an extremely satisfied look on her face. Her companion was simply smiling.
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He stumbled as he ran. His body was not near being completely healed, and the recent encounter with the Ringwraith had left him noticeably weakened. His mind kept trying to shut out the reality of what was occurring around him, and he had to force his attention back to the path he was taking. Additionally, his leg was stiffening up as he drove himself on, the pain of the wound finally having been reduced to numbness. Now his muscles were seizing up as the injury tried to close over.
But he had to run.
Thranduil's breath suddenly halted, and then came again. He doubled over, gasping as pain lanced through his lungs. He knew that they had to stop. But he also knew that they could not afford to waste time. They needed to find the exit, and they were getting closer to doing so. He could almost smell the fresh air. It was certainly becoming easier to breath as they moved nearer to the exit, probably due to the untainted oxygen, and the light breezes that blew even about this forbidding tower.
So close...and yet that freedom, the freedom of the forest, was denied him. He did not have the energy to continue searching. Below his feet, in a deeper passage, the Witch-King was still shrieking, drawing the attention of his minions and underlings away from the two Elves. But that distraction would not last long. They had to get out, they had to.
But they could not, and the blame lay solely with him. It did not occur to him that it was actually the goblin that had wounded him that was the cause of their troubles. To his mind, all that had transpired since the attack on the Elven city was his fault, and his alone.
A small hand gently touched his own. Glancing down, he saw Legolas' young face upturned to his. The child pulled his father's arm down, until the Elvenking was leaning slightly to the left, some of his weight being taken on his son's shoulders.
"Ada?" Such a tiny whisper, none but an Elf could have detected it. "Ada, you cannot travel in this state. We need to stop. Maybe we will be able to treat your injury further. At this moment, you are straining yourself dangerously. If we persevere in our path for too long, the slightly closed edges may rip open again. If that happens, the wound will bleed more severely, and we will be forced to stop. And then maybe the infestation will return. However, if we halt now, it is less likely that the insects will scent your blood and come for you, and the wound will have some time to heal. That would be beneficial to us, as it would allow us to increase our speed, while leaving less of a blood trail."
Thranduil stared at the Elfling. He is unusually wise, for one so young. What he suggests would indeed be the best course of action. And this wisdom from the mouth of a child!
No...not a child. His body is that of a child, and some of his thoughts retain that innocence, but his mind- why is it that even those who have not even grown up are exposed to the Necromancer's viciousness? Why indeed...it is a question that most likely will never be answered. Our children have aged beyond their years. They understand warfare, and ailments, and no doubt many other things. Ai, that they have had their cherished naïveté taken from them! It should not have come to this, but Sauron forced it to.
That Maia is responsible for too many evils. And so was Morgoth, his master. Too cruel, the pair of them...one created orcs, and Balrogs, and destroyed the Two Trees. The other brought normal life in our realm to a halt, and changed Greenwood to Mirkwood, and forged a Ring that would have brought him victory even over the Three. And that power would have shattered even Imladris.
He blinked at that thought, and brought his mind back to the matter at hand.
"Yes, ion-nin, your idea is a good one. We shall rest now. But not for long, and we must make haste after that. Remember, our current situation is a precarious one. When the Witch-King recovers, he will immediately send out searchers to look for us. We must be out of this fortress before that happens. Our rest shall be short, only an hour at most. Then we move on." His tone was urgent.
His son acknowledged him with a slight nod, and the pair slipped into a tiny niche in the wall. It was just deep enough to offer some semblance of cover, but not quite enough to conceal them from anyone who might happen to look directly in. The walls were decorated in a thick blue-green slime, which squelched unpleasantly when the two bodies pressed against it.
The Sinda suddenly realised that he was exhausted. Physical and mental strain had been his near-constant companions for several days, and he was almost collapsing under them. It seemed that whenever he managed to rest, the brief burst of energy that he gained was quickly consumed by the overbearing weariness that continually ate away at his mind and body. It was not just the stress, it was the place. Dol Guldor exerted some kind of power over its unfortunate victims, wearing them down. Until he broke free from its oppressive grip, he would be trapped under the unnatural pressure it forced upon him.
The stinging in a particularly long-lasting welt on his back had vanished. Frowning, he turned his head. The cut was still there- but the rough edges had been coated with the slime that covered the walls of their 'refuge'.
It must have healing properties- ha, not what one would expect of a 'plant' that is more like a liquidified mould. But then, do we ever expect what we find out? Rarely, and then it is mostly in familiar surroundings that we are able to predict what we will likely discover. And by all means, if it will enable injuries to heal faster, then what objection do I have to it? None whatsoever.
With a mutter about things not being easily understood, Thranduil took a handful of the substance and slapped it onto the more serious wound in his leg. To his relief, the pain diminished almost instantly. He also noted that the sides of the hole began to- well, stick to each other would probably be the most easily understood term. Turning to face Legolas, he gently rubbed more of the plant into the lingering weals on the boy's shoulder blades. His son stirred from his still position, from which he had been watching the passage, and gave his father a questioning glance. A moment later this expression became one of understanding, and the Elfling offered his father a small smile for the effort.
They did not remain there long. Soon they had to clamber to their feet and stumble out, continuing their search for an exit. It was two hours later when the Elvenking felt the most wonderful sensation he had in decades.
It was a light evening zephyr, and it was blowing teasingly down the dark tunnel that they occupied.
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Heh. Well, here I am again. Blasted school.
And there are other reasons why I didn't update faster. I wanted to, honest, but...A: I read this RIDICULOUS rapefic called Celebrian at greyarchieves . com, in which Elrond's wife, Celebrian, chooses to be sexually abused by orcs. And then runs away from Rivendell to be abused some more. I could really have done without knowing what sick little fantasies people harbour. Bad mental images.
B: I also read an illustrated original fiction about a lesbian girl with a guy's parts who does immoral things to herself. That squicked me for ages.
C: there was an issue on a posting board that I frequent over some alleged 'Christians' who apparently want to nuke those parts of the world that don't have Christian governments. I am a Christian myself, so, as you can imagine, the idea of these maniacs pretending to share my faith was quite upsetting. I seriously do not think that God would like us to blow up the USA. He is our Saviour, and He believes in PEACE. I think these idiots missed that part of the Bible.
Aaaanyway. I guess some of you didn't have your Fellowship of the Ring directly to hand. If Thranduil died, I'd have had to label this an AU. But don't worry, I'm not laughing at you. If anything, I'm touched at your concern. One or two people said that they were crying...wow. I didn't know that I was that good. Well, he's not dead, so I hope that cheers you up.
And I have lurkers! Whee! I am very pleased to hear that. It means that more people are reading the story than I thought. And if you're having trouble imagining Galadriel playing tricks...think a bit. She's not in the middle of a war right now, and there are children dying the mallorn purple. Oh, and I do get a bit of Artistic Licence with her- just not too much.
And next chapter- we leave Dol Guldor.
Starwind Rohana, still trying to recover from the mental images caused by reading Celebrian.
A/N: Whoa! I posted the last chapter up, and the next morning I had SEVEN more reviews! Seven! Go me! And you! But mostly you!
Hey, all my readers are worried about Thranduil! Well, now you get to find out about what I did to him...and by the way, this part might be quite fast- paced.
/Smites keyboard. / Blast...I can't do accents unless the spell-check puts them in.
And I PASSED ENGLISH! Wahoo! Yippee!
Morals and Priorities.
The dark felt...nice. Comforting, and safe, like the embrace of a mother when one is too small to comprehend danger and death, but understands love.
There was a little light. Some of it came from a flickering source above and behind him. The remainder came from a tiny pinprick of warmth and solemn joy, and patience. There were feelings around both of them. He knew that, by natural selection of favoured emotion, he should wish to move towards the second light...but he didn't.
The first offered pain, huge quantities of it. It promised him dangers and sorrows and hatred and terrible agony. Yet somehow it also seemed the most preferable one. There was another, surprisingly complex, group of feelings and longings that lay around it. He wanted to get closer to it, to grasp it...but he was being pulled steadily away, and he could not break free of the force hauling him to the second light.
So he struggled. And, in doing that, he had to admit his identity once more.
Thranduil groaned slightly. It had been so easy just to forget who he was, and so simple to understand when he no longer understood sentience. But of course, now he was sentient again, and he knew exactly where he was and what he was doing there. He was on the way to the Halls of Mandos, and he was trying not to finish the trip. He was there because his body had been unable to cope with his son's rough treatment of his infested leg, along with all the other injuries he had sustained. And he wanted to leave here and get back to being properly alive.
Unfortunately, that did not appear to be an option.
The flow of the invisible stream of power that was tugging him gently through the blackness jerked at him insistently. He pulled back. He did not want to face death just yet. He had too many reasons for life.
His son was trapped in a building full of orcs and Ringwraiths, and probably would not last more than a day without his father. His wife was, to the best of his knowledge, still alive. There were many Elves whom he had led for hundreds of years, and they could not possibly all remain in Lorien for too long. Mirkwood had been held by their strength alone. In less than three centuries, if unguarded, she would be overrun with all the fell beasts of Melkor and Sauron. He had friends whom he was loath to leave. And life was- there was no other word for it- exhilarating.
He had plenty of motives for staying. But he lacked the ability to do so.
No! I have fought the creatures of Morgoth for thousands of years, I cannot simply die! For that would leave my son alone to die, and...he is too young for that! He should not be taken from life- and neither shall I. He shall not lose his father...none ought to experience that grief at all, and certainly not a child of his age. But I...who can say if I still have the strength to remain?
I must have. For my son.
The Elvenking somehow forced his exhausted fea to stop moving forward. He never truly understood what he did, but he managed to halt the deterioration of his body's system before he went beyond recall. In his chest, his heart beat back to life.
It was barely noticeable at first, but the tiny flickering allowed him to draw in a cool breath of sweet, soft air. The darkness slowly passed, becoming a kind of fiery light. He was dragged backwards, and, as realization came, he felt as though he could laugh and laugh and laugh. But he did not.
Instead, he opened his eyes to the shadows that danced eerily over the crude ceiling. Crimson and golden streaks lanced the rough stone, decorated with the midnight hues where the light did not penetrate. Rippling over the rock, they caused the semblance of the calm roof of the quietly lapping sea, when one lies beneath the waves and watches the silver and blue textures, ever changing. Except that this was a somewhat sharper contrast.
Swiftly, his attention was drawn to the soft sobs near his ribs. A warm kind of salty water was trickling down his side, and there was an obvious weight on his chest, though not so great as to prevent his breathing. Whatever it was...
And then Thranduil knew.
It was Legolas. His child's head was resting on his father's ribcage, and tears were pouring from the Elfling's eyes. The tiny frame trembled like a leaf, shaken with practically inaudible cries of mourning for the parent he had supposedly lost. The boy was huddled beside the Sinda Lord, his warm body seeming unnaturally frail, pressed as it was to the Elvenking's body. He was a child who had had everything taken from him, and he was giving the last security in his life the only gift he had left.
The heartbroken tears that flowed thickly from his eyes.
The older Elf stiffened almost imperceptibly. His son was in a worse condition than he had thought. Grief was tearing the child apart, eating him away from the inside. The magnitude of it stunned the Sinda into silence- for a moment.
He sat up, his muscles aching from long misuse. Before the Elfling had realised what was going on, his father's arms were wrapped tightly around him, holding him close to Thranduil's body. The tiny boy started in shock, and then he relaxed, leaning forward into the warm embrace. Emotions welled up suddenly, and with surprising abundance. Joyful tears coursed down the Elvenking's cheeks, running into his son's corn-coloured tresses, before mingling with the tears on his child's wet face. Both could hardly believe that they were together again, even if it was in Dol Guldor. Life and love were enough to make them forget where they were, however briefly.
"My son, oh, my little Greenleaf... I did not mean to cause you such sorrow- I am so sorry, I... I love you, my child; always remember that, no matter what happens. It does not matter where you are; I shall never forget you. Never."
"Ada...Ada, your eyes were shut...I thought- I thought that you were dead, Ada, I thought you were gone. I thought that they had killed you. I thought that I had killed you."
"No, Legolas...if anything, you probably saved my life. Those beasts would have sapped my strength beyond hope of recovery if you had not removed them. You are not to blame, I am. I was not strong enough to protect you..."
"Protect me from what?"
"From the knowledge of close death...from losing one close to you..."
They remained silent for a while, drawing courage and power from each other's bodies. They both desperately needed the contact; each clung to the energy and life and care and warmth projected by the other. They held on to every feeling that was offered, cherishing the individual moments that they spent in their tight embrace.
Finally they pulled reluctantly apart, knowing that it would be folly to remain in such a hold when both had to rest- and, if even remotely possible, to nourish themselves later. Thranduil dug a sort of nest into the small heap of sacks on the floor, pressed Legolas into it, blew out the single candle, burrowed down beside his child, and slept.
It was a tired, spent kind of sleep, with vague, undefined glimmers of dreams.
When the pair awoke, it was quite a while later. Both felt somewhat refreshed after the peaceful night. Their minds were clear and startlingly energetic, as if they had been given three days' sleep, rather than a few hours.
A nasty side effect of this clear-headed state was that the two were starving, extremely thirsty, and had developed a full awareness of exactly how much trouble they were in. When one is half-dead, one does not care much whether one is caught. There is a definite sense of urgency, but one does not fully think this feeling through- one acknowledges it and moves on, trying to work with it. The pair of Elves were no longer anywhere remotely near death- although that situation could quickly be rectified. But the fact was, they were free to think on otherwise trivial matters...hunger included.
Legolas lit the candle, seized one of the tough bags and fumbled with the stitched- up opening. His father began attempting to pry the top off a barrel. The rough wood bruised and cut at his fingertips, but he persisted, drawn by the smell and sound of the water sloshing about inside. He was so engrossed in his task, he paid no attention when his child succeeded in tearing open the sack, scattering old grain over the floor. He merely continued in prying at the wooden lid, which had been securely fastened down with small latches.
When he finally managed to break it open, he turned to the wheat. His son had already eaten a few handfuls. Thranduil scooped some up and chewed at it hungrily, gulping a little water as he did so. Neither really noticed that the liquid was stale, and the grain shrivelled and dry. More than twenty years the sacks and barrels had lain there, left by a hunter who had thought to live in the fortress, avoiding the goblins, and hidden from all. His plan had not worked, but for six months he had survived. Now two Elves feasted on his gatherings.
Before long, the pair stopped their ravenous eating, and, checking that the door was indeed secure, sat down to discuss their most pressing concern: getting out of Dol Guldor.
The Elvenking considered the problem for a moment.
"The paths leading up- and therefore probably out- are at the centre of the building, from what I could make out. The network immediately surrounding the core certainly slopes upward slightly. The difficulty will be navigating the more complicated areas whilst avoiding the orcs. Sauron designed this building cunningly- the most complex parts are nearest the exit to the cells, so that any attempting to find their way out would be confused by the suddenly complicated passage systems. I passed by them on my way to find you."
"In that case, Ada, should we not find one who is familiar with the architecture of this fortress, and persuade them to lead us out?"
"We would have trouble discovering a goblin that was willing to both guide us to the exit and keep quiet afterwards. No, our best hope is to either catch one and force it to lead us out, or to try and find our own way out. I would suggest the first option."
"But would it remain silent about our escape? Ada, if it will not keep our exit a secret, and we cannot allow it to tell it's masters, then...what do we do? We do not seem to have any choices. We will be recaptured."
"No. We shall not. The creature shall not be left alive to convey word of us."
"Ada! We are Elves, and you are the King of Mirkwood. We cannot attack from behind, as assassins do! Neither can we kill an unarmed being, even if it is an orc. Do you not remember what you told me two centuries ago? We are not like the spawn of Morgoth. We must keep ourselves from becoming like them, no matter how hard we fight them. You told me that, father, and I have not forgotten it. To defeat the Nazgul- we must avoid becoming them."
"Legolas...I do remember. But our main priority is to leave this Valar- forsaken place. We do not have time to otherwise restrain the creature. Morals come second. Understood? I will not have you die merely because the Elves do not normally kill from behind!"
The Elfling lowered his gaze to the floor. Thranduil could see the turmoil flicking through his features. Truth be told, the Elvenking was facing a similar dilemma. He had felt none of this inner quandary on morals when trying to find his son- he had been too concerned with needing to remove the child from the cell and finding them both a safe hiding place. Now, however...leaving Dol Guldor was important, but was he really prepared to give up his convictions on fairness and fighting? He wasn't sure.
"No, little Greenleaf, we have to do this. It is the only way...for you to die would destroy me, little one..."
Silently, the two got to their feet, picked up the candle, pushed open the door, and slid out, leaving the room in darkness.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Something was amiss.
The Witch-King of Angmar looked up from the darkness that writhed at his feet, flooding down the tunnel. Somewhere, he was certain, something...wrong had happened. He was not sure what it was, but he did know that it was a situation that should be rectified as soon as possible.
He moved quickly down the passage, sniffing for the scent of the propagators.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Legolas froze against the cold, slimy wall. They had been wandering around the fortress for hours, and still were no closer to the exit. The child was shaking from nervousness and worry. He kept starting at practically undetectable noises, and his breath came in jarring, stilted snatches.
Fear was pounding through him, making the blurred jumble of his thoughts an almost inaudible patter. A cool chill shuddered in his bones as a dark wind seemed to encompass him. He struggled against it, but the terror would not stop. It swept over him; bleaching away all will to live with its foul embrace. And, in the near distance, a high-pitched scream rose from an undead throat.
His heart stopped for several beats, and then began hammering in a wild, frantic fury. Adrenaline rushed into his bloodstream, and his body prepared to run. But the Prince's mind was trapped, held, and so he did not move...he merely waited for the end. The end of thought and hope and warm, full- blooded life.
And so he remained, while blackness rushed in.
A light exploded in the suffocating darkness, and he raised his tired eyes to the sight of...his father.
Thranduil's bright glow shone out, illuminating the gloomy passage with a white-gold gleam. The Elvenking was magnificent and terrible in his rage and hate, glaring with loathing at the black-robed figure that stood at the end of the tunnel, barring their way. His eyes burned angrily, fire smouldering in the steel grey depths. He took one step toward his opponent, taking the candle from his son before reaching up and seizing a brand from the wall. Lighting it, he placed the candle on the floor and strode forwards.
Legolas wanted to cry out, to stop his father from advancing towards this certain death...but he could not move. He could only watch helplessly as the white-hot flame that was Thranduil moved toward the towering shadow that was the Ringwraith. Could only pray to the Valar as the tears raced bitterly down his cheeks. Could only hope that his father would somehow win.
His vision cleared, allowing him to see every detail of the two soon-to-be fighters. Thranduil's face wore a proud, confident, yet slightly wary expression. His body had assumed a strong, solid stance, yet one that would allow him to retreat swiftly if such an action became necessary. The Nazgul, on the other hand, was a pillar of menace. Dark terror rolled off it, seeping into the two Elves. The child's breath came in horrible gulps and gasps, tearing at his throat with their sudden abruptness.
And then the Elvenking's torch-wielding hand moved up in a fantastic blur of speed. The golden fire at the end cut a burning yellow streak through the dark, musty air, causing Legolas to blink in almost-pain. But the Nazgul reacted just as quickly, whipping backwards and exhaling a foul blast of the Black Breath. The Sinda staggered, and his son tried to cry out to him, but all to no avail. His lungs seemed to have frozen with the shock of the Ringwraith's weapon. His mind was reeling, and he could barely stay upright.
And then Thranduil regained his balance, and struck out once more. Then again, and again. He forced the undead creature back against the wall, driving it to the point where it would be unable to retreat, and attack was its only option. He was working it into a trap, and Legolas hoped that the Nazgul wouldn't realize this fact until it was too late. His father was giving no opportunity for retaliation, his attention clearly devoted to running his opponent into the place where it would be possible for the Elvenking to vanquish it. The tiniest slip of concentration could be lethal at this point, and so the Elfling clamped his lips tightly shut, watching the intense duel before him unfold with wide eyes and pounding heart.
It was a strange and incredible sight to behold. One figure was a star, a creation of pure light, and boundless energy. Courage pulsed from the slender frame, for all that the fighter had been nearly to Mandos' Halls just hours before. The swift, shining body was like quicksilver, impossible to catch, sliding away from the other's grasp like smoke. The brand he held was corn-coloured, and even the child could feel the heat of it, radiating out from the gleaming orange centre.
The other was a pillar of darkness. Towering over its smaller opponent, it screamed its horrible scream over and over again. It was the very embodiment of fear in the short time of the fight, something that could not be imagined in the worst of nightmares. The bitter sword that it held struck faster than sight could follow, whilst the horror of its presence almost suffocated the pair. It was something that should not be seen or heard, and yet there it stood, taunting and mocking them with its presence. Look, it seemed to say, see what our Master is capable of creating...something stronger than you shall ever be...something that all living beasts dread, something that you try with all your might to avoid...if he can do this to Men, who knows what he can do to you?
The final blow came so fast and strong that Legolas couldn't see it. But one moment his father was standing before the Nazgul, and the next he was leaping away from it, and then turning back, still holding the flaming torch.
Whatever he had done, the effect was instantaneous. The creature shrieked in abominable pain, attempting to dodge sideways along the wall...as it's robes went up in flames. It beat itself roughly against the stonework, trying to douse the fire, before turning desperately back to the Elvenking.
Thranduil stood noble and tall, his face a stern mask of authority. He stepped forward, brandishing his burning weapon in one hand. His eyes crackled dangerously, and the Ringwraith shrunk away from his wrath. As the Sinda Lord advanced, with a slow, menacing pace, it practically whimpered. Thranduil raised one hand in a threatening manner, and the creature shook its invisible head frantically, trying to dart away. The Elvenking regarded it impassively for a short while, and then turned away. Taking another torch from the wall, he lit it and tossed it to the Nazgul's feet, where it remained, burning brightly.
Legolas found himself suddenly able to move once more. He made a tiny noise in the back of his throat, and his father strode swiftly towards him, leaving the Witch-King there in the passage to burn. Kneeling, the older Elf held his son to him briefly, before gently helping the boy up and leading him out of the dank tunnel.
And the Nazgul burnt behind them.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
Well, I suppose I did ask for excitement.
Celeborn heaved a sigh and turned from the window. Outside, Lothlorien was beginning to resemble a six-year-old human's idea of a battlefield after twenty expert pranksters had been let loose on it. Mainly because it was a two-century-old Elf's idea of a battlefield after twenty expert pranksters had been let loose on it.
That basically meant red and black dye on the trunks- and occasionally the leaves- of the trees, buckets of water concealed in branches, pink, orange, blue, and purple streamers draped over all the flets, and general all- around chaos.
The Lord of Lothlorien considered the scene almost wistfully. It would be such fun to...no, he could not. It would not do for Lorien's inhabitants to see their Lord tip pails of yellow and violet dye over twenty-eight children, even if said children had just proceeded to severely destroy the Golden Wood's normal serene image. No, it would not do at all.
Oh, who cares? asked a voice in his head. Not me. It would be most amusing- and it would certainly serve to teach them a lesson. Maybe then they'll think twice about drenching my wife. Although, to be fair, I do not assume that they knew she would be the first person there after they rigged up that little...surprise.
Celeborn had to bite down a tiny smile at the memory of that incident. Two Nandar children, only just able to climb, had somehow set a bucket of pale green dye over one of the few walkways that helped connect those parts of the city not linked by the branches of the trees. Galadriel had chosen to use that particular walkway later in the afternoon, and had managed to get soaked to the skin when she passed directly beneath the pail. She had stormed back into their flet, changed her dress, and gone to find the pair who had set the pail. That evening, two young Nandar girls had stumbled back into the city...having been stained a very pretty indigo colour.
Yes, that had been an extremely amusing incident.
It had also brought about Lothmiren's first real reaction since her arrival in Lorien. Mostly, the Elf had been withdrawn, her smiles ghostly, her voice hushed. But upon seeing the fate of the two children...she had thrown back her head and roared with laughter like the rest of them.
Celeborn smiled suddenly. If Galadriel is allowed to cover children in dye, then why should I not be permitted to do the same? After all, she is...more respected than I am, and is expected to behave more- regally, so...
"Good afternoon, Melethen," came a voice from the door. He swung round, and was greeted with the sight of his wife standing in the doorway, a broad smile on her face. She walked over to him, wrapping her arm around him. "Hmm, it appears that you do have a good reason for showing those children exactly what you are capable of."
"You are hardly one to talk," he teased her gently. "The Artanis of the First Age would not even have considered throwing pails of dye over young Nandar girls. Rather, she would have-"
"Gone straight to their parents, and then given the troublemakers a severe lecture. I am aware of that...I have changed."
"Time has softened you, beloved. You are no longer as stern as that Artanis was." He smiled mischievously at her. "And I think I am glad for the change!"
"I believe what you are trying to say is that you would have preferred me to be less of a fighter and a challenge when you first met me."
"Nay, I merely meant- you are easier to be with and talk to now, in that one does not have to guard one's tongue when speaking to you. It is easier to talk to you of simpler matters- and the Artanis I first met would not even have considered having children! I love you, and I have always loved you, but I also like the way that you have changed."
"I see."
He took her hand and led her outside.
Five hours later, twenty-eight Elflings, every one of them drenched in pink dye, stumbled back into the city. They looked rather sheepish, but, at the same time, rather pleased.
Two miles out, a pair of much older Elves perched side by side on the top of a tall tree. One, a lady, had an extremely satisfied look on her face. Her companion was simply smiling.
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "
He stumbled as he ran. His body was not near being completely healed, and the recent encounter with the Ringwraith had left him noticeably weakened. His mind kept trying to shut out the reality of what was occurring around him, and he had to force his attention back to the path he was taking. Additionally, his leg was stiffening up as he drove himself on, the pain of the wound finally having been reduced to numbness. Now his muscles were seizing up as the injury tried to close over.
But he had to run.
Thranduil's breath suddenly halted, and then came again. He doubled over, gasping as pain lanced through his lungs. He knew that they had to stop. But he also knew that they could not afford to waste time. They needed to find the exit, and they were getting closer to doing so. He could almost smell the fresh air. It was certainly becoming easier to breath as they moved nearer to the exit, probably due to the untainted oxygen, and the light breezes that blew even about this forbidding tower.
So close...and yet that freedom, the freedom of the forest, was denied him. He did not have the energy to continue searching. Below his feet, in a deeper passage, the Witch-King was still shrieking, drawing the attention of his minions and underlings away from the two Elves. But that distraction would not last long. They had to get out, they had to.
But they could not, and the blame lay solely with him. It did not occur to him that it was actually the goblin that had wounded him that was the cause of their troubles. To his mind, all that had transpired since the attack on the Elven city was his fault, and his alone.
A small hand gently touched his own. Glancing down, he saw Legolas' young face upturned to his. The child pulled his father's arm down, until the Elvenking was leaning slightly to the left, some of his weight being taken on his son's shoulders.
"Ada?" Such a tiny whisper, none but an Elf could have detected it. "Ada, you cannot travel in this state. We need to stop. Maybe we will be able to treat your injury further. At this moment, you are straining yourself dangerously. If we persevere in our path for too long, the slightly closed edges may rip open again. If that happens, the wound will bleed more severely, and we will be forced to stop. And then maybe the infestation will return. However, if we halt now, it is less likely that the insects will scent your blood and come for you, and the wound will have some time to heal. That would be beneficial to us, as it would allow us to increase our speed, while leaving less of a blood trail."
Thranduil stared at the Elfling. He is unusually wise, for one so young. What he suggests would indeed be the best course of action. And this wisdom from the mouth of a child!
No...not a child. His body is that of a child, and some of his thoughts retain that innocence, but his mind- why is it that even those who have not even grown up are exposed to the Necromancer's viciousness? Why indeed...it is a question that most likely will never be answered. Our children have aged beyond their years. They understand warfare, and ailments, and no doubt many other things. Ai, that they have had their cherished naïveté taken from them! It should not have come to this, but Sauron forced it to.
That Maia is responsible for too many evils. And so was Morgoth, his master. Too cruel, the pair of them...one created orcs, and Balrogs, and destroyed the Two Trees. The other brought normal life in our realm to a halt, and changed Greenwood to Mirkwood, and forged a Ring that would have brought him victory even over the Three. And that power would have shattered even Imladris.
He blinked at that thought, and brought his mind back to the matter at hand.
"Yes, ion-nin, your idea is a good one. We shall rest now. But not for long, and we must make haste after that. Remember, our current situation is a precarious one. When the Witch-King recovers, he will immediately send out searchers to look for us. We must be out of this fortress before that happens. Our rest shall be short, only an hour at most. Then we move on." His tone was urgent.
His son acknowledged him with a slight nod, and the pair slipped into a tiny niche in the wall. It was just deep enough to offer some semblance of cover, but not quite enough to conceal them from anyone who might happen to look directly in. The walls were decorated in a thick blue-green slime, which squelched unpleasantly when the two bodies pressed against it.
The Sinda suddenly realised that he was exhausted. Physical and mental strain had been his near-constant companions for several days, and he was almost collapsing under them. It seemed that whenever he managed to rest, the brief burst of energy that he gained was quickly consumed by the overbearing weariness that continually ate away at his mind and body. It was not just the stress, it was the place. Dol Guldor exerted some kind of power over its unfortunate victims, wearing them down. Until he broke free from its oppressive grip, he would be trapped under the unnatural pressure it forced upon him.
The stinging in a particularly long-lasting welt on his back had vanished. Frowning, he turned his head. The cut was still there- but the rough edges had been coated with the slime that covered the walls of their 'refuge'.
It must have healing properties- ha, not what one would expect of a 'plant' that is more like a liquidified mould. But then, do we ever expect what we find out? Rarely, and then it is mostly in familiar surroundings that we are able to predict what we will likely discover. And by all means, if it will enable injuries to heal faster, then what objection do I have to it? None whatsoever.
With a mutter about things not being easily understood, Thranduil took a handful of the substance and slapped it onto the more serious wound in his leg. To his relief, the pain diminished almost instantly. He also noted that the sides of the hole began to- well, stick to each other would probably be the most easily understood term. Turning to face Legolas, he gently rubbed more of the plant into the lingering weals on the boy's shoulder blades. His son stirred from his still position, from which he had been watching the passage, and gave his father a questioning glance. A moment later this expression became one of understanding, and the Elfling offered his father a small smile for the effort.
They did not remain there long. Soon they had to clamber to their feet and stumble out, continuing their search for an exit. It was two hours later when the Elvenking felt the most wonderful sensation he had in decades.
It was a light evening zephyr, and it was blowing teasingly down the dark tunnel that they occupied.
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Heh. Well, here I am again. Blasted school.
And there are other reasons why I didn't update faster. I wanted to, honest, but...A: I read this RIDICULOUS rapefic called Celebrian at greyarchieves . com, in which Elrond's wife, Celebrian, chooses to be sexually abused by orcs. And then runs away from Rivendell to be abused some more. I could really have done without knowing what sick little fantasies people harbour. Bad mental images.
B: I also read an illustrated original fiction about a lesbian girl with a guy's parts who does immoral things to herself. That squicked me for ages.
C: there was an issue on a posting board that I frequent over some alleged 'Christians' who apparently want to nuke those parts of the world that don't have Christian governments. I am a Christian myself, so, as you can imagine, the idea of these maniacs pretending to share my faith was quite upsetting. I seriously do not think that God would like us to blow up the USA. He is our Saviour, and He believes in PEACE. I think these idiots missed that part of the Bible.
Aaaanyway. I guess some of you didn't have your Fellowship of the Ring directly to hand. If Thranduil died, I'd have had to label this an AU. But don't worry, I'm not laughing at you. If anything, I'm touched at your concern. One or two people said that they were crying...wow. I didn't know that I was that good. Well, he's not dead, so I hope that cheers you up.
And I have lurkers! Whee! I am very pleased to hear that. It means that more people are reading the story than I thought. And if you're having trouble imagining Galadriel playing tricks...think a bit. She's not in the middle of a war right now, and there are children dying the mallorn purple. Oh, and I do get a bit of Artistic Licence with her- just not too much.
And next chapter- we leave Dol Guldor.
Starwind Rohana, still trying to recover from the mental images caused by reading Celebrian.