AN: This is a recent plot-bunny that has been running around in my head like a caged animal for the past two weeks. I finally decided to let it out (on a leash) and see if it's worth writing. This story (if continued) will be as canon as possible (with a few movie and artistic liberties, but they will be few) and is NOT, I repeat, *NOT* a mary-sue. This OC story is NOT perfect, nor is she going to 'save the day' every time. Hopefully I will be keeping very strict to the book format (i.e.- the chapters will be titled the same and encompass the same...time span as in the books), save for the first few chapters that, necessarily, will be different (I have to set up my OC, after all)
Anyway, enough babbling.
To Whatever End...
Chapter One: Hope Fades
All of Mirkwood was in turmoil. Word had spread like wildfire of the ill-fated scouting party and rumors abounded. Inside the palace healing rooms, frantic preparations were made to accept the many wounded and slain that had been reported by the messengers. Their hands shook as the herbs and instruments were prepared, for they did not know exactly what to expect. One of the rumors bore mention of a Nazgul.
The milling about rose to a crescendo as the wounded were at last within sight of the city. The first of the wounded were finally brought in and the healers began their work. Many elves clad in armor and hunting outfits were brought in, bearing various degrees of injury. One she-elf with a thin silver circlet woven into her dirty blonde hair rushed in carrying another elf in her arms. She made for one of the beds the furthest away from the others and gently laid her burden on the soft fabric. Several healers swarmed around her and the elf, concern and worry marking their faces.
"Hurry," she said, a frown marring her face, already streaked with blood and dirt. One of the healers caught her eyes.
"How did this happen?" he asked urgently.
"A Nazgul struck him with his blade," came the answer, voice filled with loathing. "They have returned to Dol Guldur."
"Hiril nîn," the elf said in disbelief, "this is distressing news! Alas that the prince was not here to help." The woman frowned at the words, but nodded her head in agreement.
"My brother would have been of great help to us, but that does not matter now." She looked down at the pale face of the elf on the bed. "What can you do for him?" The healer sighed.
"The wound itself is not serious, that I can heal easily. It's the contact with the Nazgul that is poisonous. There's no telling how it will affect him." He looked up at her gravely. "He may not survive." She held his eyes firmly, looking for some hint of hope in them, and finding none.
"He must live," she stated as if it weren't already an obvious fact. "There must be something you can do!" Tears were brimming in her eyes, for a moment turning the slight blue tint a vivid violet.
"I am sorry, Laileth," he said, "There isn't." She held his eyes firmly for a long time, even as other healers began their frantic efforts to help the elf on the bed. Then, as if her legs had ceased to function, she fell to the ground, clutching a wound that she hadn't known she'd taken. The healer ran to her side to tend to her but she pushed him away.
"Daro," she cried, "see to my father!" He caught her wrists and restrained her easily, weakened by the wound. He shook his head.
"No. Others will care for him, you need help also." Again she tried to fight him off, trying desperately to get to the elf on the bed beside her but the healer overpowered her and pinned her to the floor.
"Saes!" she cried, "you must save him! He must live!" She continued thrashing about in his grip, but suddenly stilled as the figure on the bed began convulsing. Other healers ran to the bed and began frantic attempts to calm the patient down, but it was no use. The figure stilled and a lifeless hand slid from the bed to hang limp in the air. At first there was silence in the room. It seemed that everyone had stopped what they were doing and just stared. Then, at first low and quiet, but quickly rising to a shrill keening wail, Laileth began to scream.
The healer holding her again restrained her, but nothing could stop her from crying out in her grief. After several minutes her voice faltered and became hoarse, and several minutes after that it stopped altogether, but not for lack of emotion. Her wound at last pinned her down, and the pain of it had sent her into unconsciousness. When her screams had stopped, the room remained silent for several long moments while the healers just stared at what had happened. Slowly, sounds of the others in the room mourning the loss could be heard, but far less dramatic than those of the daughter of the deceased. Then at last the elf holding Laileth down looked up to the others.
"Where is the prince?" he asked no one in particular.
"He is in Rivendell," came the answer. "Shall I send for him?"
"Yes," the healer replied. "Send for him at once." The elf left the room in haste and the healer again looked down at the still form beneath him. "Mirkwood will not survive long without a King," he whispered.