A/N:
I'm ba-ack! I know that I'm working on my original novel right now, but this idea has been ruminating in my brain for the last 4 months. So I've decided to bring it to fruition for all of you! For those who have read my other Thranduil fic. you will see recurring character names appear but I want to make it clear: THIS IS A SEPARATE STORY. It is not connected to "A Flower Blooms in Adversity" in any way outside of character names. Now, some of the more prominent OC's from my other story will NOT make an appearance.
I hope that you guys enjoy this new story that I have to share. Please feel free to leave reviews as they encourage and motivate me.
Enough of me... On with the tale!
XOXO, Presephone
"Make for the shore!"
She glanced around her as terror built in her chest.
The water rushed around them as dislodged rocks from the cliffside continued crashing into the freezing water. Each new wave pushed water into her lungs, causing her to gag and flail in the rising river. She saw several others beginning to swim to the shore, and she attempted to follow suit. She had only made it halfway when she felt a strangling pressure against her throat as her cloak caught on something under the current.
Panic began to rise as her frozen fingers fumbled with the clasp at the front. Another wave washed over her, and she felt the current beginning to pull her under the water, the water cresting over the top of her head. Suddenly she felt the threads of her cloak separate halfway down her legs. She broke away, swimming several meters before turning in the water to see dark green eyes that she knew as well as her own.
"Swim!" He called over the roar of the river, "Get to the shore!"
A thunderous crack from above drew both sets of eyes above as another large stone descended to where they were. Dread stabbed at her heart as she looked back to meet a warm gaze. A gaze that was full of adoration and love. A father's gaze.
She barely caught his muffled last words before the stone entombed him beneath the raging current.
"Gi melin, pinig (I love you, little one)."
Zilarynn shot from her bed as cold sweat ran down her face. She cradled her head in her hands, pulling her legs into her chest as she took several ragged breaths. She let the tears fall as they always did after the dream. The dream that had haunted her for over a hundred years; no. not a dream. A nightmare. A recurring nightmare of the worst memory of her life. The worst day of her life. Nightmares filled with betrayal, pain, and abandonment.
Memories filled with ghosts who refused to stay dead.
She pulled herself from the mountain of blankets and slipped into her boots that rested at the foot of the small bed. After making her way across the room, she splashed cold water from the basin onto her heated skin to chase away the errant tears that clung to her pale face. After a moment, she glanced at the reflection staring back at her. Her eyes were a perfect match for her father's; a shade of green that resembled the grand Mallorn trees of Lothlorien, accented by her dark brown hair. She opted to pull her dark tresses into a simple braid, the hair around her face covering the pointed end of her ears.
Her race wasn't a secret to the villagers. But after two decades, she grew tired of the stares and questions. A Silvan elf living among mortal humans was strange enough, let alone one running a profitable bar in a small settlement just northwest of the Gap of Rohan. She had decided to settle here about fifty years ago because the surrounding countryside reminded her of home.
A home she would never see again.
Hallon, the former Winemaster of Rahnshell, had found her on the riverbank near death and was able to lift her into his wine cart, and from there, he got her to the healer in the city in time to tend to her wounds.
All that remained of that horrible day was the jagged scar on her back where she struck a rock in the water. When the weather changed drastically, she could feel a deep ache in her body along the lines that marred her skin. She wrapped a fresh tunic around herself and knotted it by her hip, and with a final nod to herself in the mirror, she turned and left the room.
As it was broken down around him, the sounds of the camp gently roused Thranduil from another restless sleep. He never slept well when traveling outside of the Realm, but this trip had seemed particularly grueling. He reveled in the time he got to spend with the forest; no matter his mood, it always reinvigorated him. Offering him a sense of peace and contentment that he rarely found elsewhere.
This trip was different, however.
Thranduil felt growing despair with every spider, orc, and the foul creature they had encountered. He knew that his priority was protecting his people to the north of the forest, ensuring their safety within his halls. How could I allow our home to become so overrun with evil? He pondered to himself as he began dressing for the day. He would need to consult Legolas on taking back their forest upon his return.
For now, he had to focus on the summit of leaders—a meeting unlike any in living memory, at least, in living memory of the mortals.
Thranduil remembered when trade agreements and protection treaties, like what was to be discussed at the summit, were not needed. Others chose to help one another without expectation or demand.
But the hearts of man were corrupted and darkened long ago.
A voice disrupted his reflection on the other side of the closed entrance into his private tent.
"Aran nin (My King)?" The voice called.
"Tolo (Come)," Thranduil called as he fastened the front of his elegant blue robe. He turned to see Lord Alistair, the Second-in-Command of the Greenwood armies, standing at the entrance. Without any further greeting to the elf he had known since childhood, he asked, "How long before we are ready to depart?"
"We only need to dismantle your tent; then await your order to move out, Aran nin (My King)."
'Very good," Thranduil gave a curt nod as he slid on one of his ornate rings, "Break down the remainder of the camp, and we depart." Thranduil stepped outside his tent and was met by several respectful bows as the soldiers moved inside to begin packing his belongings. "I wish to reach our destination before the sun sets."
Alistair nodded as he walked next to his King, "We will see it done."
Thranduil moved to where his grand Elk, Poldorea (Strong One), was being groomed. He took a brush from one of the grooms and focused on brushing the creature's face. Never dropping his indifferent mask but offering the animal the tender care it deserved. "Tell me, Alistair," Thranduil spoke again without looking away from his task, "what is the name of this village where the meeting is taking place?"
Alistair thought for a moment, "Rahnshell, Your Majesty," he stopped close to the King as he continued, "It's a neutral, small hamlet near the Gap of Rohan."
"Rahnshell," Thranduil rolled the name the village around on his tongue, "It sounds truly… Mundane."
Alistair, who had seen the village previously in his travels, smirked at the King's more than accurate assessment, "I have been informed that Rohan has been helping prepare the village for the summit. Everything should be in order upon our arrival this evening."
"One would hope," Thranduil drawled.
He was left alone as he continued grooming Poldorea. He didn't know how this summit would turn out in the end, but one thing was for sure… His eyes drifted to one of the carts that rolled by before turning back to his trusted mount, "I feel we didn't bring enough wine, Poldorea (Strong One)."
