The first thing to register in Legolas' mind was all of the shouting. Somehow, he always pictured battles to be more orderly—not perfectly planned, of course, but with some semblance of reason and logic. Strategy and formations and a frenzied but controlled when he and his squad entered the courtyard, there was no order among the fray—only pure pandemonium.
Multiple squads of warriors were already locked in a heated battle with throngs of orcs, shouting commands to each other. Some cried for help, others out of fear or adrenaline. Their voices were high and sailed above the battle gracefully, laced with authority and courage amidst such a dire situation. Then there were the orcs, with their brutal grunting and shrieking—and laughter. Many of them were cackling, their shrill gurgles mixing unpleasantly with the musical voices of their intended prey.
The four novice elves climbed the nearest section of the palace wall, digging their hands and feet into footholds that would never have been large enough for a being of lesser grace, getting on a higher level than the fighting. It was more obvious from their perch above the fray that the attacking force of orcs was overwhelmingly large. They were slowly surrounding the small ranks of warriors who'd found themselves in the courtyard from the start of the attack.
"Focus on the larger orcs," Legolas commanded, his voice shaking slightly as he tasted the authority on his tongue for the first time in an actual situation. "Find their weak points and take them down, move quickly, and don't waste arrows."
Alarcien and Mitsion nodded immediately, while Fandir narrowed his dark eyes for a few moments before nocking his first arrow.
"You have excellent skill, young one." Legolas remembered the words of his first archery instructor, Nildon, early on in his training. "But a 'perfect' shot will not always fell your targets. True perfection must be instinct. You must learn to let go of all else and to make perfection yours."
Legolas let go of his fear, his trepidation, and his anxieties regarding his sudden position. For one fleeting moment, he was back on the training grounds with his eyes closed, visualizing his target within his mind. He took a deep, steadying breath and plucked an arrow from his quiver. In one more breath, he had it nocked and released in one smooth motion, barely taking the time to watch his target fall to the ground.
He had taken his first life, and his fingers tensed with strain as a wave of nausea washed over him. If he gave in and let it take over, he would have to stop defending his fellow elves. Any of the warriors in the courtyard below could be felled if he allowed himself to fully realize the implications of his first kill. Kill.
He was a killer now.
Legolas gave himself one breath to process what happened, to accept what he'd done as necessary, and move forward in his task. Yes, he'd taken a life, but the life he took may well have just saved the life of another warrior. And while it was hard to think of, he could dwell no longer.
And with his very next breath, he drew and released another arrow. And then another.
Around him, Alarcien and Fandir were drawing nearly as quickly as he was. Mitsion wasn't far behind, though he focused harder on his targets than the others. The four of them dashed atop the sections of ruined wall where the creatures had broken through, jumping over debris to sight each orc and assess the best placement of every arrow.
This wasn't the training grounds. The seriousness of the situation finally hit Legolas once he realized how different it was from training. All of his father's trepidation, and his brothers' warnings, now made sense. In training, one can call for a halt and take a break. If you lose in training, you can get back up. In battle, if you lose—you die.
The tide of the battle was turning, but not in their favor. It seemed as though orcs were pouring in from all sides like water from a sieve, surrounding the ground troops and overwhelming their defensive ranks. And now, there would be no halt. As he reached for another arrow, he noticed that a few of his fingers were raw and bleeding from friction, but he could not stop.
A flash of ebony hair drew Legolas' eye, and he spared a glance toward Thallion's small group. They were encircled on all sides, formed in a tight rank to keep their bodies guarded by the elf next to them. Despite Thallion's immense frame, even he was forced to crouch slightly just to avoid being incapacitated by the even larger orcs bullying their way into his space.
How long could he keep up his stance? How long could any of them?
Captain Apseniel, Thallion's lieutenant, had a long gash across the back left shoulder of his tunic, and he was favoring his left arm, while a smaller elleth was limping on her right leg.
None of them would last much longer, Legolas realized with a jolt of fear that made his face feel numb. Something more had to be done.
"We have to go down there," he breathed heavily, nocking and releasing another arrow even as he jumped down from a large hunk of debris and joined his squad back on the central part of the wall. "They are about to be overwhelmed; they need reinforcements. If we lose them, we lose the courtyard!"
"And I suppose you think that we are those reinforcements?" Fandir spat angrily, locked into a battle-induced fury that simmered just below the surface and lit his eyes like two burning flames. "We can't just 'go down there' and expect to win!"
"They won't last much longer without relief," Legolas argued, nocking once more and pausing to refocus just before his fingers loosed the arrow into another hulking creature. A pain-filled shriek from the orc caused only a minor grimace to cross the blond elf's face, too engrossed in the battle to acknowledge—though the faces of each felled orc seemed to dance in the back of his mind, waiting for their chance to bring him down. "We're going down there. That's an order."
Alarcien was the first to nod, reaching out and tapping his shoulder in a moment of acceptance before lithely jumping off the edge of the wall and landing on the mushy ground in a graceful crouch. The rest of the squad joined her just seconds later, and Legolas couldn't entirely ignore the cold thrill of fear that washed down his arms and into his bleeding fingers.
This was really it, his first battle, and he was now going to come face-to-face with the most dangerous foe he had yet encountered.
Stowing his bow over his shoulder, he wiped his bloody fingers on his leggings and slid his white-handled daggers from their sheaths on his back, sparing only a cursory glance at Fandir, who had a white-knuckled grip on his sword, removed from its scabbard at his side. Legolas and Mitsion reached the horde of orcs simultaneously, meeting blows from the stinking creatures in near synchronization.
At first, Legolas felt a swell of confidence rush through him, parrying each strike from the orcs and making graceful, powerful cuts into their ranks. Each orc that dropped marked one step closer to safety for the warriors, which was a goal the young elf felt could be accomplished now that they had joined the mêlée.
But as more blows came without seeming to lessen in intensity, Legolas felt the strain in his arms. A deep burning in his lungs and the stinging of sweat in his eyes threatened to steal his attention. One hefty strike nearly took him down, and he braced his lithe body against the attack with so much force that he felt a jolt go straight through his teeth.
Shouts continued around him, including calls of strain from his squad. He was getting the sinking feeling that perhaps this had been the worst idea, one that could have fatal consequences. And he'd brought his entire squad down with him.
"Stay together!" Legolas added his own voice to the mix of shouts, though it felt weak and brittle in comparison. "We'll pick off the orcs at the outsides of their groupings, break up their ranks!"
Alarcien shouldered her way out of a near chokehold, using her diminutive size to her advantage, though at the cost of precious energy. Mitsion was knocked to the ground and barely managed to avoid being stomped when he was thankfully pulled to his feet by Fandir.
All around him, orcs and elves shouted and grunted and called out in pain. Blood and sweat mixed with mud on the ground, and Legolas felt his heart pounding into his ears. His entire body felt charged with energy while feeling strangely heavy at the exact same time.
They would soon be overwhelmed, just as they had feared for their comrades only moments earlier. Legolas' squad had purchased but a few minutes of relief for their companions, at the cost of their own safety.
Across the battlefield, Thallion's gray eyes took in the sight of his little brother's squad, their struggle plain for all to see. They had successfully bailed the ground troops out of their prior predicament but were now caught in the same situation—with no relief of their own in sight.
That singular moment of distraction cost Thallion dearly, for he felt a sharp pain under his right arm. The feeling of hot, wet blood soon grew steadily down his side in warm rivulets, so he lowered his arm to hide it as he drove his sword into the chest of his closest adversary. He would cut his way through the mass of enemies until he reached Legolas' side if he had to.
"Regroup!" The Avar shouted, reforming his warriors' ranks and circling the group of orcs, which had finally—thank the Valar—decreased in size.
Legolas smiled an adrenaline-filled smile as he saw a small break in the bloodshed. A light at the end of the violent tunnel. Perhaps they would win after all!
He turned to assess the location of his squad when his heart flew into his throat, and he reacted with more speed than he ever thought he possessed.
One of the largest orcs had sidled up behind Fandir and raised its rusty weapon with an ugly sneer, clearly intending to kill the unsuspecting young elf and move on to further bloodshed. But Legolas, spotting its intentions, embedded one of his daggers deep into the flesh under the creature's raised arm. The feeling of resistance at the end of his blade caused him to throw his entire body into it, sinking in further and dropping the vile thing with a wet gurgle. Blood splashed up into the elf's face, coating his right cheek and neck, causing another nearly forgotten wave of nausea to wash over him.
He heaved in a few gasping breaths and then met the dark eyes of Fandir on the other side of the lifeless mass beneath his thin frame. The other ellon was shaken but nodded in appreciation—and dare he say, respect—toward Legolas. Fandir reached over and offered Legolas a hand, which he wouldn't dream of ignoring, and helped the youngest prince to his feet.
He steadied himself, placing a foot into the dead orc's chest for leverage, and pulled his dagger free with a sickening squelch. Now with solid footing and both weapons in hand, Legolas put his back to Fandir's, and they faced their remaining adversaries together.
Not far away were Alarcien and Mitsion, both of whom had assumed a similar stance along with Limbon, who must have joined the battle before Legolas and his squad arrived. It looked like the watchman would finally have a real adventure of his own to tell once the fight was over.
Few orcs were left in the courtyard, and they were dispatched with extreme prejudice, the remaining elves eager to end the bloodshed as quickly as possible.
Vibrations reverberated up and down Legolas' arms from the sheer amount of energy he had poured into his blades. His breaths came in exhausted huffs, his chest heaving with effort, and his entire body seemed to shudder and shake with minute tremors. His arms and legs burned, as did the muscles in his back. He had bleeding welts on both his palms, no doubt from the death-grip he'd held his daggers with, and his fingers continued to bleed. Both of his white-handled daggers were smudged with crimson fingerprints.
Now that the battle was over, Thallion forced his way through his warriors to reach their young novices with a well-disguised concern hiding in his eyes. His fair face was covered in grime and gore, some of which might have been his own, but his expression was fixed into a cool calm, such that most wouldn't have noticed his inner panic. As soon as Thallion was within arm's reach, Legolas felt the quivering muscles in his legs finally give out.
He never hit the ground but was instead caught by a pair of strong arms.
"Are you harmed?"
Legolas stared into Thallion's burning gray eyes, not entirely understanding the question at first. His entire body shook, but he wasn't sure if he had been wounded or not. Was he hurt? Or had he come out of his first major battle almost entirely unscathed?
"Legolas," Thallion gently shook the younger prince, patting large hands up and down his back, chest, and arms in search of wounds, lingering on his bloody hands for a few extra moments. "You must answer me now, young one."
All Legolas could do was nod, still somewhat unsure of the situation. He could barely hear his brother for the rushing in his ears.
"Words," Thallion urged, his eyes searching the younger brother's face for the truth behind the layers of exhaustion and shock.
"I'm-I'm okay. I think," Legolas swallowed dryly. "I think my body just had enough."
Thallion laughed once with relief, squeezing both of Legolas' shoulders in an understanding grip.
"Adrenaline is a fickle thing, Legolas," he smiled. "Once it is no longer needed, we are left completely drained and wondering just how in the Valar's name we managed."
Satisfied that Legolas was well enough, Thallion stood and moved on to check the other members of the young prince's squad. While he checked them, the senior members of Thallion's company performed similar checks on the other warriors.
Mitsion had a nasty gash in his right arm, and Alarcien had been clawed in the neck, leaving a macabre—and alarming—amount of blood spilled down the front of her tunic. She was still steady on her feet, though her legs wobbled as the same adrenaline which had held Legolas up for so long began to flee her more petite body as well. Mitsion was already at her side, ready to assist her the moment she allowed it.
Fandir was covered in grime and orc blood but appeared to have come out unscathed. He was on his knees, both hands braced against his thighs as he heaved in large breaths.
"What in all of Arda were you thinking?"
Thallion had returned, crouching back down in front of Legolas with fear-driven anger written across his features. He spoke in a low, dangerous voice that Legolas knew no one else could hear. He had a small medical kit in his hands—procured from where exactly, he wasn't sure—and began winding light cloth around both of Legolas' hands.
"You needed help," Legolas began, trying to inject his tone with more strength than he currently possessed. Truth be told, he felt like a used rag, wrung within an inch of his life.
"No," Thallion argued firmly, shaking his head and tying the bandage with more force than he likely intended. "I specifically ordered you to keep your squad up high, to cover us from above. You were not ready for a battle of this size. None of you were."
"Thallion," Legolas tried to reason but was cut off with an icy glare.
"You were right." The reluctance in Thallion's voice bled through, leaving Legolas surprised at the honesty. "It was wrong of you to disobey orders, and I'm sure this isn't the last you'll hear of it, but we were outnumbered and may not have survived much longer without some form of aid. So thank you, Legolas, for listening to your instincts and saving our hides. But don't think I will soon forgive the fear you caused me, Penneth."
Legolas nodded, too stunned to speak.
Thallion prepared to stand back up, ready to assist the injured, when a cry rang across the battlefield that froze them all in their places and threatened to stop their very breaths.
"The king has fallen!"
Four words. That was all it took to steal the air from Legolas' heaving chest, forcing it out in a choked gasp that hit like a punch to the gut. Just four words and the young elf felt his world come crashing down like damaged stone walls. As though they were made of glass instead of hard, unforgiving rock.
His bright blue eyes, wide and full of fear, met Thallion's dark gray, and he watched as a shutter came down. All emotion fled those eyes, and the older elf's face was set in a determined, focused expression.
"We need to secure the keep," Thallion said, measured and calm—like he hadn't just been informed that the world had ended. Like they hadn't both heard the same four words. "We'll also need to evacuate the wounded."
He stood without even a wobble in his stance, reaching down and pulling Legolas to his feet in one swift motion. For a moment, Legolas forgot how his legs were supposed to feel, and he would have toppled over were it not for the firm, steady grip Thallion held him up with.
The tall, sturdy elf made to leave to accomplish his task but was stopped by a bloody fist holding onto his tunic for all it was worth. "We have to go to Ada, Thall," Legolas pleaded, his voice shaking with fear. "Didn't you hear it? We have to go now!"
Two large hands seized both of the younger elf's shoulders in a firm, unyielding grasp. Thallion let the barest hint of emotion fill his eyes, holding the rest back behind a dam that might flood at any second. Like it was all he could do not to become overwhelmed with the same fear that Legolas was drowning in.
"Listen to me, Legolas," Thallion soothed and scolded at the same time. "Listen very carefully. You are foremost, a prince of this realm. And that means shouldering responsibilities to the kingdom above those of your family. It isn't easy. It's painful and very nearly impossible at times—I can promise you that. I know you want nothing more than to be with our Adar; trust me, I feel the same way. But we cannot leave these walls the way they are, undefended and vulnerable to a second attack."
Legolas gulped at the thought of another wave, admitting to himself that he hadn't even considered the possibility.
"And look at your squad," he pointed out, causing Legolas' heart to sink. He was ashamed to realize that he'd completely forgotten them in his fear. "Right now, they need you to lead them through this moment. When the keep is secure, and the wounded have been cared for, we will ask after Adar. But until then, we must continue as is expected of us, both of our rank and our royal position in this kingdom."
Legolas nodded, fighting his inner turmoil and trying to match the expression that his unflappable older brother wore. He forced down the fear and anxiety, willing his legs to hold him steadier. He met Thallion's gaze, finding strength in the calmness that resided there. Feeling as ready as he could ever be, he nodded again and stepped away from the supportive grasp that, once gone, he already missed.
Refocused, Legolas turned to his squad.
Fandir was still on his knees, staring over at the orc that very nearly took his life as though it would rise from the dead to finish its job. Never had Legolas seen the larger elf so disturbed, for he was usually brimming with confidence and bravado.
Legolas swallowed down any hesitation and strode over to Fandir, offering one of his bandaged hands and hoping the other would take it. At first, Fandir stared at it owlishly. Then he looked up at Legolas, eyes wide in a too-pale face. "You saved my life," he said plainly, almost accusingly.
"Yes," Legolas said equally and with little inflection.
And then, almost as though it were a second thought, Fandir took the offered hand and allowed Legolas to pull him up. As soon as he was upright, it was like a curse had lifted. The older elf took a deep breath and shook himself slightly, making his way over to Mitsion while Legolas stood, baffled.
Reassured that Fandir would take care of Mitsion, Legolas looked around for Alarcien.
She sat not far away with Limbon and an unfamiliar elleth at her side, the watchman holding a large bandage to the bleeding gouges in her neck while the other elf held one of Alarcien's shaking hands.
The smaller girl was pale, paler than Legolas had ever seen her, but her eyes still shone with that same fierce determination that he had come to associate with his closest friend.
"How bad is it?" Legolas asked, kneeling in front of her and examining the wound from up close. Despite the bandage that Limbon held, blood flowed down her neck in sluggish, crimson streams. Her skin was covered in a light sheen of sweat, and her face was taking on an alarming shade of gray.
"It will be all right, Legolas," she reassured, though her voice was thin and lacked the fire that lived in her eyes. He wasn't sure if she was talking about herself or their king, for Legolas was certain his best friend had sensed his fear the moment she saw him. Alarcien reached out, patting the top of his hand softly, taking care not to disturb the blood-soaked bandages around his palms. "An orc just wanted to know how long I could hold my breath, is all."
He couldn't help but shake his head at her weak attempt at humor.
"Rest, Ala," Legolas sighed, looking at Limbon and conveying his concern. The watchman nodded seriously. "We'll get you out of here soon." He turned his hand over and took hers, squeezing gently before he forced himself to stand. Limbon and the other elleth would take care of Alarcien for the time being.
Legolas joined Fandir and Mitsion, assisting the remaining unwounded elves in the courtyard.
The orcs had done a great deal of damage to a large section of the palace wall, taking it down with siege equipment that was more complicated than anything they'd seen the vile creatures use before. It was well-built and had caused just the right amount of destruction. The palace had many walls, and the courtyard was merely part of the outer wall, but even a breach such as this was rare. The last time the exterior walls were breached, Calaeron had been just an elfling.
A twelve-foot section of hand-carved stone had very simply crumbled beneath the pressure their weapons had caused. For now, they would need to fashion a barrier from wood, given freely by the trees that surrounded their home, to close the gaping wound in the outer walls. Already, elves were speaking to the forest in low, sad tones as they carefully removed large pieces of wood from the gentle trees.
They formed an assembly line of sorts, weaving the donated wood together to create a makeshift barricade between the two damaged sections of stone. Thallion led the efforts, lifting and guiding limbs as large as he was tall while scolding Apseniel, his lieutenant, who insisted on helping despite lacking the use of his left arm.
In a half-hour, which felt like half a day, they had a well-crafted wall made of wood. In the same time, reinforcements had arrived to assist the wounded out of the courtyard.
The most seriously wounded were attended to first, those elves swiftly evacuated to the healing wards in small groups of two or three. It was a quick, efficient process that had been perfected after centuries of warfare. Legolas was both impressed and saddened by the familiarity his fellow elves had with the practice.
Once the wall was fashioned, Thallion began assigning elves to guard and patrol the perimeter, posting scouts atop the remaining stone to watch for more orcs should they have another squadron waiting nearby. Legolas watched him closely, occasionally looking at him between helping fellow warriors stand and handing them off to be escorted to the healing wards. He moved slower now than he had before, though that could be due to a crash in adrenaline like the one Legolas experienced earlier. Even after catching a second wind, Legolas's body felt twice its usual weight. And the hunger that had driven the blond to the dining halls not so long ago, while now nonexistent due to the situation, still reminded the prince that he was lacking energy.
But something more was wrong with his brother. Legolas could feel as much. Unfortunately, now was not the time to call attention to it.
Finally, the courtyard was secure. The last groups of wounded were being rounded up, meaning it was Alarcien's turn to be taken to the wards. By this time, she had lost more blood than her small body could afford, nearly taking consciousness from her entirely. Limbon was holding her against him while he sent the other elleth to get help, calling Thallion's attention away from Apseniel, who was similarly bloodied but was being helped away by two members of the young captain's own guard.
Both Legolas and Thallion reached Alarcien at the same time, with Fandir and Mitsion not far behind. Her eyes were still full of light, though it was dulled and glassy with pain and blood loss.
"I am fine," she whispered, strength wavering with each word.
In reply, Thallion merely lifted her small frame into his arms, cradling her gently against his chest. He would be the first to admit to having a soft spot where the little elleth was concerned, ever since her defiant encounter with the two eldest princes during the dark and trying time Legolas had been missing on his clandestine journey to Imladris. She had demanded information, refusing to be brushed aside—even by her kingdom's warrior princes. That unwavering loyalty to Legolas forever endeared her to Thallion and to Calaeron, though the crown prince would never openly admit it.
A barely noticeable wince crossed Thallion's features as he lifted her slight weight into his arms, which would have gone unnoticed had Legolas not been paying such close attention due to his concern for his best friend.
"Are you well?" The younger brother inquired, speaking low enough that only Alarcien could have overheard them. Even weak and tired as she was, Alarcien eyed Thalliom with a critical gaze, daring him to lie to them and earning an amused grin from Thallion.
"Well enough for now," he reassured while adjusting his grip and walking with the rest of the group toward the healing wards. Sensing the dismissal for what it was, Legolas followed beside him, keeping his eyes on Alarcien's gray face.
Realization soon hit Legolas like a jolt. They would be reaching the healing chambers, where they would finally learn the fate of the Elvenking. He could get those four awful words—the king has fallen—out of his head for good.
He refused to consider the alternative.
The extent of the battle became obvious the closer they came to the wards. Beds were lined along both sides of the halls, filled with wounded elves in varying states of severity. Healers were being assisted by palace aides and quartermasters, spread so thin were their numbers. Legolas had seen nothing like it, and he felt suddenly very overwhelmed. They hadn't even reached the chambers, and it was already apparent that the situation had been dire, indeed.
He glanced behind him, meeting Mitsion's misty-eyed gaze before glancing at a pale, somber Fandir beside the smaller elf. They were equally saddened by the sight of their fellows so wounded while endlessly thankful for their own good health, all things considered.
Legolas recognized many of the wounded from the courtyard, grateful that most of them were outside the chambers in the hall. The more seriously wounded would be situated within.
Thallion soon ordered Apseniel and Mitsion to take empty beds just down the hall a few feet away from the entrance, assigning Fandir to accompany Mitsion and to be checked out himself. They carefully deposited the remaining wounded in their small group, though Thallion still held Alarcien to his chest with a protective grip. With a small thrill of fear, Legolas realized that her wounds were more severe and she would need to be attended to within.
Legolas thought the halls were nothing compared to the flurry of activity inside the healing wards. While the battle in the courtyard was a hectic mess, the action in the healing chambers was a well-organized dance. There was shouting and swift movement everywhere the eye could see, but there was an elegance to the disorder that only centuries upon centuries of experience could create.
Thallion carefully handed Alarcien to a young elleth, entrusting her care to the healer and searching the room for familiar faces. He bid Alarcien farewell, ordering her to rest with a warm, fond grin on his face.
"Do as he asks, Ala," Legolas smiled, reaching out and squeezing her hand as she smiled back. "I will check on you soon, I promise."
Legolas then followed Thallion, watching as the older prince made a point to nod to or touch their wounded as he passed by, acknowledging their pain and wishing them health as he moved from bed to bed. For someone who had once claimed to be terrible at diplomacy, Thallion's warriors cherished him and viewed him with the highest loyalty and esteem. Legolas could only hope to be bestowed with the same honor one day.
Finally, Thallion spotted the elf he must have been searching for. In a secluded corner, surrounded by a flurry of activity, was Lanyarion. The shorter-haired elf was one of the kingdom's senior healers and had earned the right—or curse, as he so affectionately put it—of being solely responsible for the health of the entire royal family. He was a curmudgeonly, somewhat ill-tempered elf, though his healers knew that he would drop everything in a moment's notice to help someone in the slightest bit, as demonstrated by recent events.
In all his years working in the healing wards, Lanyarion had never known worry—and exasperation—like what he experienced in his dealings with the royal family of Mirkwood. For all he claimed to be gruff and unfeeling, he was a gentle soul who would do anything to ease the suffering of others. Though he would never be one to coddle, absolutely not!
Across the room, Lanyarion busied himself behind a partition that neither prince could see past. But they knew, in their hearts, that that's where the king was being treated.
Standing a few feet off to the side was Elhael, one of the kingdom's most trusted advisors. Elhael had once been a great warrior before being wounded in the Last Alliance, saving the life of King Oropher's advisor, Galion. He paid the price, losing the mobility he'd enjoyed in his youth. He'd given up his role as a warrior and followed his friend Galion, becoming an advisor instead.
For years, he'd advised Elvenqueen Lanthir in matters of commerce and trade. After her death, Thallion was assigned her duties, and so Elhael became his advisor.
The two older elves met each other's gaze, Thallion begging an answer to the question that lingered in the air so thickly. And, to relief so strong it crashed into them with the force of a barreling horse, he received a short nod in reply.
The king was alive.
Legolas could now replace four dreaded, heart-aching words with four new ones. Four words that carried such hope rather than despair.
The king was alive. The king was alive!
