Thranduil's Longest Day
By SkyFire
--
Paper Crane: I don't know where Legolas is at the moment. He might show up, he might not. I guess
it depends on whether or not he gets wind of what I'm doing to his Ada; if he does, he might
decide to stay hidden.... *grin* You just never know.
--
A/N: FF.net is being a !@#@%$#^$%^ lately. If you see that part of the chapter is missing (it
should be quite obvious), please let me know at archivist@melethryn.net It already won't let me
upload the "Saruman's Revenge" continuation-snippet that I wrote; I had to upload *that* at
eFF.net instead, and I *hate* breaking up my stories like that. *sigh*
Thoughts, as always, are in // //.
For disclaimer, see part 1.
*****
Thranduil's Longest Day
By SkyFire
Part 3
"Next... week?" Thranduil said weakly, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The bath, the
clothes, the whole morning... all for naught? "There are no meetings this morning?"
"None, Sire," his advisor confirmed.
Thranduil walked in a daze to his seat at the head of the council chamber's long table.
Gathering his robes carefully about him so they wouldn't fall open, he sat down heavily.
Mere moments later he sat on the cold stone floor, the broken remains of his chair around him,
robes spread open around him, showing plainly the lack of clothing beneath them.
//Truly, I should have seen that one coming,// he thought to himself.
As if on cue, he heard his advisor's startled "Sire!"
Slowly, face flushed with embarrassment, Thranduil climbed to his feet, pulling the robe close
about him as he did. He looked to the other, saw the wide-eyed look. He opened his mouth to
explain, but then closed it with a sigh instead, shaking his head.
//This day...// he thought to himself in exasperation. Everything just seemed to get worse and
worse. //I need some fresh air.//
That thought brought to mind the remembered sight of his hunting outfit, waiting in his wardrobe
for just such a time.
//Hunting,// Thranduil mused. //Yes, that will do nicely. Perhaps my luck will improve once I am
out of the Palace.//
Resolved, Thranduil looked to the other Elf. "I am going hunting," he said simply. "See to it
that my regular hunting group assembles outside the gates."
Then he left the council chamber on his way to his rooms, ignoring his advisor's half-hearted
words of protest.
***
Within the hour, Thranduil arrived at the gates, passed beyond them with a short nod to the
guards stationed there.
One eyebrow raised in question as he saw the group that waited for him.
The number was the same as usual - a clean half-dozen - but many of them were unfamiliar to him,
and not his usual companions as he had requested. Only two of the six were those he usually
hunted with.
Of the remaining four, one was a youth barely adult, looking quite nervous in the presence of the
Elvenking, constantly fidgeting with his bow, repeatedly fingering his arrows until the feathers
were somewhat ragged. His hunting leathers were obviously new, and would doubtless be chafing him
mercilessly by the time it came for them to return.
The three other Elves in the group were rather nondescript, wearing comfortably worn leathers,
staring calmly out at the forest as they waited.
Thranduil looked to his two regular companions. "Where are the others?" he asked simply. "And who
are these...?"
"They have the fever," one of the two, Mîdhlaer, said. Both were sons of his advisors and had
ridden out hunting with him since reaching their majority. "These... well, we needed four more to
fill out our group, and these were available."
The second, Rhîwbrethil, nodded. "I have hunted with the older ones before, and they are fairly
competent."
The three were distracted from their conversation by the soft thudding of approaching hoofbeats.
They turned to see a set of stablehands leading a group of seven horses toward them, then
dividing the mounts up among the seven.
Thranduil looked at the horse that was brought to him, then looked to the Elf that had brought it.
"Where is Gwaenaur?" he asked; Gwaenaur was his favored hunting mount.
"He was well when we brought him in last night, Sire, but somehow during the night he acquired a
large scratch on one of his legs and cannot be ridden until it is healed."
Sighing at the fact that apparently his bad luck now extended even to his mount, Thranduil sighed
an mounted Mîrsador, his secondary.
Around him, his companions were also leaping onto their given mounts, speaking to them in low
voices of the hunt to come.
Once the groups was mounted, Thranduil signaled them to move out into the forest to begin their
hunt.
Legs firmly gripping the barrel of the horse between them, keeping him firmly in place despite
the lack of saddle and bridle that were so common amongst the mortal race, Thranduil urged
Mîrsador into a faster gait.
As he rode, he breathed deeply of the scent of the woods around him, of the fresh air that ran
over him from the speed of his passing. The occasional beam of sunlight that managed to penetrate
the canopy was warm on him skin.
//Perhaps my luck will finally improve,// he thought optimistically.
***
Three hours later, he wasn't so sure about the change in his luck. They had not seen any game at
all; not so much as one of the black squirrels that were ever-present in Mirkwood. No deer, no
rabbits, no birds, no *anything* even partially worth eating.
With an annoyed sigh, Thranduil called a halt. They were all tired of searching for nonexistant
game, and were ready for a rest.
Dismounting and letting their horses roam free to find their own fodder, the Elves sat in a small
glade, the sun at just the right angle to pour down at them, bathing them in warm sunlight. They
passed around what provisions they had brought with them, sharing a light meal of meat and dried
fruit.
For a little over an hour, they lazed around the grassy glade in the sunlight. Then, one by one,
they went on the alert, their senses telling them that something was not right, that something
was going to happen....
Standing now, bows drawn, sharp Elven eyes relentlessly scanned the woods around them, searching
for the cource of their unease.
Suddenly, drawn out by an especially strong gust of wind in the canopy above, a tree creaked
loudly in the forest outside the glade.
With a small squeak of surprise, and fear, the youngest member of the group pivoted in place and
loosed his arrow before he even recognised the sound.
Thranduil, standing alone at the edge of the glade in the direction of the creaking, straightened
abruptly as the youth's arrow slammed forcefully into his rump. At first, there was only the
shock of impact, then a wash of white-hot pain shot through him, pushing pain in molten rivulets
through his veins. His shriek of pain and anger echoed through the Wood, startling the feral boar
that had been sneaking up on them, scaring it into flight.
For a long moment, Thranduil could not move, could do nothing but stiffly stand there, eyes
staring blankly out at the forest. Then Mîdhlaer and Rhîwbrethil were there. They gently lifted
the Elvenking, carried him further into the clearing and lay him facefirst onto the grass so that
they could tend to the embarrassing injury.
Thranduil came back to himself as they were cleaning the wound. His eyes slowly focused on the
bloodstained arrow that lay in the grass nearby. The ragged fletchings showed that it could only
have belonged to one person.
//I am never,// he thought to himself, wincing as his wound was firmly packed with healing herbs,
//*never* taking an untested youth out hunting with me again.//
But there was nothing he could do about it now. All he could do was lie there in the sun-warmed
grass and try to ignore the fact that his leggings were pulled down around his thighs, baring his
rear to the world, as Mîdhlaer expertly wrapped his wound with bandages.
That done, his leggings were pulled back up. They couldn't do anything for the bloodstained hole
in the seat of them, but at least the arrow was out and the wound carefully attended to.
Slowly, Thranduil sat up, quickly decided that sitting wasn't a very good idea, then stood
instead. He cast a look around the glade.
Somehow, between the not finding any game and being shot, he had lost the urge to hunt that day.
//Enough is enough,// he said to himself. //Valar only know what *else* could happen to me out
here. At least in the palace, there are *healers* at call to see to any injuries I might sustain.
This is just *not* my day.//
His big bed was looking more inviting every time he thought of it. The urge to go home, clean up,
crawl into bed and not come back out for a *long* time... it was nearly irresistable.
//No, it *is* irresistable,// he thought.
"Mount up!" he barked, the pain wearing his temper down to a thin strand. "We are going back."
It was only when he had mounted that he fully realized just how uncomfortable and painful riding
on an arrow wound *was*. But he would not stay one minute more than necessary away from his nice
comfortable bed, and kept silent about the pain, though anyone who looked to him could see how he
was gritting his teeth against it, his face paler than usual.
Seeing the king's foul mood, the others refrained from protesting their return to the palace.
As if to mock them, during their ride back the forest around them was alive with animals of all
sorts.
Thranduil only growled.
TBC...
--
Don't ask how I came up with these names. Really. I just went through my Sindarin dictionary,
picked English words at random, got the Sindarin for them, then put together those that sounded
halfway decent.
Mîdhlaer: Summer-dew
Rhîwbrethil: Winter-birch
Gwaenaur: Wind-fire
Mîrsador: Faithful jewel
--
Anyways, like this part? I said it would be a bit slower-paced than last chapter, but I trust
there was still enough Thranduil-torture to make everyone except my ThranduilMuse happy? *grin*
Next chapter will see him get a bit more miserable, at about the same pace as this chapter, but
paet five picks up quite a bit... or at least, that's what the plotbunnies have been telling
me.... ;)
That aside, reviews are really nice things! The plotbunnies like them, I like them.... We re-read
them over and over and over and over and.... ;oD
By SkyFire
--
Paper Crane: I don't know where Legolas is at the moment. He might show up, he might not. I guess
it depends on whether or not he gets wind of what I'm doing to his Ada; if he does, he might
decide to stay hidden.... *grin* You just never know.
--
A/N: FF.net is being a !@#@%$#^$%^ lately. If you see that part of the chapter is missing (it
should be quite obvious), please let me know at archivist@melethryn.net It already won't let me
upload the "Saruman's Revenge" continuation-snippet that I wrote; I had to upload *that* at
eFF.net instead, and I *hate* breaking up my stories like that. *sigh*
Thoughts, as always, are in // //.
For disclaimer, see part 1.
*****
Thranduil's Longest Day
By SkyFire
Part 3
"Next... week?" Thranduil said weakly, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The bath, the
clothes, the whole morning... all for naught? "There are no meetings this morning?"
"None, Sire," his advisor confirmed.
Thranduil walked in a daze to his seat at the head of the council chamber's long table.
Gathering his robes carefully about him so they wouldn't fall open, he sat down heavily.
Mere moments later he sat on the cold stone floor, the broken remains of his chair around him,
robes spread open around him, showing plainly the lack of clothing beneath them.
//Truly, I should have seen that one coming,// he thought to himself.
As if on cue, he heard his advisor's startled "Sire!"
Slowly, face flushed with embarrassment, Thranduil climbed to his feet, pulling the robe close
about him as he did. He looked to the other, saw the wide-eyed look. He opened his mouth to
explain, but then closed it with a sigh instead, shaking his head.
//This day...// he thought to himself in exasperation. Everything just seemed to get worse and
worse. //I need some fresh air.//
That thought brought to mind the remembered sight of his hunting outfit, waiting in his wardrobe
for just such a time.
//Hunting,// Thranduil mused. //Yes, that will do nicely. Perhaps my luck will improve once I am
out of the Palace.//
Resolved, Thranduil looked to the other Elf. "I am going hunting," he said simply. "See to it
that my regular hunting group assembles outside the gates."
Then he left the council chamber on his way to his rooms, ignoring his advisor's half-hearted
words of protest.
***
Within the hour, Thranduil arrived at the gates, passed beyond them with a short nod to the
guards stationed there.
One eyebrow raised in question as he saw the group that waited for him.
The number was the same as usual - a clean half-dozen - but many of them were unfamiliar to him,
and not his usual companions as he had requested. Only two of the six were those he usually
hunted with.
Of the remaining four, one was a youth barely adult, looking quite nervous in the presence of the
Elvenking, constantly fidgeting with his bow, repeatedly fingering his arrows until the feathers
were somewhat ragged. His hunting leathers were obviously new, and would doubtless be chafing him
mercilessly by the time it came for them to return.
The three other Elves in the group were rather nondescript, wearing comfortably worn leathers,
staring calmly out at the forest as they waited.
Thranduil looked to his two regular companions. "Where are the others?" he asked simply. "And who
are these...?"
"They have the fever," one of the two, Mîdhlaer, said. Both were sons of his advisors and had
ridden out hunting with him since reaching their majority. "These... well, we needed four more to
fill out our group, and these were available."
The second, Rhîwbrethil, nodded. "I have hunted with the older ones before, and they are fairly
competent."
The three were distracted from their conversation by the soft thudding of approaching hoofbeats.
They turned to see a set of stablehands leading a group of seven horses toward them, then
dividing the mounts up among the seven.
Thranduil looked at the horse that was brought to him, then looked to the Elf that had brought it.
"Where is Gwaenaur?" he asked; Gwaenaur was his favored hunting mount.
"He was well when we brought him in last night, Sire, but somehow during the night he acquired a
large scratch on one of his legs and cannot be ridden until it is healed."
Sighing at the fact that apparently his bad luck now extended even to his mount, Thranduil sighed
an mounted Mîrsador, his secondary.
Around him, his companions were also leaping onto their given mounts, speaking to them in low
voices of the hunt to come.
Once the groups was mounted, Thranduil signaled them to move out into the forest to begin their
hunt.
Legs firmly gripping the barrel of the horse between them, keeping him firmly in place despite
the lack of saddle and bridle that were so common amongst the mortal race, Thranduil urged
Mîrsador into a faster gait.
As he rode, he breathed deeply of the scent of the woods around him, of the fresh air that ran
over him from the speed of his passing. The occasional beam of sunlight that managed to penetrate
the canopy was warm on him skin.
//Perhaps my luck will finally improve,// he thought optimistically.
***
Three hours later, he wasn't so sure about the change in his luck. They had not seen any game at
all; not so much as one of the black squirrels that were ever-present in Mirkwood. No deer, no
rabbits, no birds, no *anything* even partially worth eating.
With an annoyed sigh, Thranduil called a halt. They were all tired of searching for nonexistant
game, and were ready for a rest.
Dismounting and letting their horses roam free to find their own fodder, the Elves sat in a small
glade, the sun at just the right angle to pour down at them, bathing them in warm sunlight. They
passed around what provisions they had brought with them, sharing a light meal of meat and dried
fruit.
For a little over an hour, they lazed around the grassy glade in the sunlight. Then, one by one,
they went on the alert, their senses telling them that something was not right, that something
was going to happen....
Standing now, bows drawn, sharp Elven eyes relentlessly scanned the woods around them, searching
for the cource of their unease.
Suddenly, drawn out by an especially strong gust of wind in the canopy above, a tree creaked
loudly in the forest outside the glade.
With a small squeak of surprise, and fear, the youngest member of the group pivoted in place and
loosed his arrow before he even recognised the sound.
Thranduil, standing alone at the edge of the glade in the direction of the creaking, straightened
abruptly as the youth's arrow slammed forcefully into his rump. At first, there was only the
shock of impact, then a wash of white-hot pain shot through him, pushing pain in molten rivulets
through his veins. His shriek of pain and anger echoed through the Wood, startling the feral boar
that had been sneaking up on them, scaring it into flight.
For a long moment, Thranduil could not move, could do nothing but stiffly stand there, eyes
staring blankly out at the forest. Then Mîdhlaer and Rhîwbrethil were there. They gently lifted
the Elvenking, carried him further into the clearing and lay him facefirst onto the grass so that
they could tend to the embarrassing injury.
Thranduil came back to himself as they were cleaning the wound. His eyes slowly focused on the
bloodstained arrow that lay in the grass nearby. The ragged fletchings showed that it could only
have belonged to one person.
//I am never,// he thought to himself, wincing as his wound was firmly packed with healing herbs,
//*never* taking an untested youth out hunting with me again.//
But there was nothing he could do about it now. All he could do was lie there in the sun-warmed
grass and try to ignore the fact that his leggings were pulled down around his thighs, baring his
rear to the world, as Mîdhlaer expertly wrapped his wound with bandages.
That done, his leggings were pulled back up. They couldn't do anything for the bloodstained hole
in the seat of them, but at least the arrow was out and the wound carefully attended to.
Slowly, Thranduil sat up, quickly decided that sitting wasn't a very good idea, then stood
instead. He cast a look around the glade.
Somehow, between the not finding any game and being shot, he had lost the urge to hunt that day.
//Enough is enough,// he said to himself. //Valar only know what *else* could happen to me out
here. At least in the palace, there are *healers* at call to see to any injuries I might sustain.
This is just *not* my day.//
His big bed was looking more inviting every time he thought of it. The urge to go home, clean up,
crawl into bed and not come back out for a *long* time... it was nearly irresistable.
//No, it *is* irresistable,// he thought.
"Mount up!" he barked, the pain wearing his temper down to a thin strand. "We are going back."
It was only when he had mounted that he fully realized just how uncomfortable and painful riding
on an arrow wound *was*. But he would not stay one minute more than necessary away from his nice
comfortable bed, and kept silent about the pain, though anyone who looked to him could see how he
was gritting his teeth against it, his face paler than usual.
Seeing the king's foul mood, the others refrained from protesting their return to the palace.
As if to mock them, during their ride back the forest around them was alive with animals of all
sorts.
Thranduil only growled.
TBC...
--
Don't ask how I came up with these names. Really. I just went through my Sindarin dictionary,
picked English words at random, got the Sindarin for them, then put together those that sounded
halfway decent.
Mîdhlaer: Summer-dew
Rhîwbrethil: Winter-birch
Gwaenaur: Wind-fire
Mîrsador: Faithful jewel
--
Anyways, like this part? I said it would be a bit slower-paced than last chapter, but I trust
there was still enough Thranduil-torture to make everyone except my ThranduilMuse happy? *grin*
Next chapter will see him get a bit more miserable, at about the same pace as this chapter, but
paet five picks up quite a bit... or at least, that's what the plotbunnies have been telling
me.... ;)
That aside, reviews are really nice things! The plotbunnies like them, I like them.... We re-read
them over and over and over and over and.... ;oD