Mae Govannen!

I hope anyone reading this is enjoying it, but i'll keep blabbing to a minimum:

so,

disclaimer: i own nothing of J.R.R. Tolkien's work.

and please reveiw!

namarïe!

"I have seen its wrath and ruin."

-Thranduil

Thranduil did not rest well that night.

His body was a sea of agony. The dragon fire a smouldering coal beat to life within his very flesh. How did you escape from a thing that was part of you? Was within you? It was all he could do to lie on his back, damp hair spread out beneath him, taking one shallow breath after another. Soon, unable to stand it, he let the enchantment drop, feeling the cold night air on his ruined face as a brush from the hand of Mandos. It was agony given form. Thranduil felt a gasp of pain escape him against his will, and turned his head, laying his burnt skin against the cool silk of a pillow, the fabric soft against his skin.

It only grew worse.

Feeling trapped, he threw back the covers and heaved a breath as he rolled onto his side. He could not remember much from the war where he had received these burns. It was all a fog of pain, filled with the soft voice of Elrond as the peredhel tried to stay the hand of the burning embers in his fair skin. Tried to halt his flight into the halls of Mandos.

He had been more than ready to go. He knew that to stay and wait would only result in pain eternal. In this agony now living within him.

It had been Legolas and the echo of his little voice sobbing, Ada! Ada! that had made him decide to fight. With a massive struggle, he had opened his eyes and met Elrond's. the left side of his body was afire with agony, and a helpless gasp escaped him before he realized his left eye was now sightless. An evil sea of black rose up to his left, and a shiver stole over him. How had it come to this? A cruel trick of fate, perhaps?

Elrond was sitting by the side of the bed in Thranduil's chambers, his eyes grim as the storm outside. Thranduil could hear the rain and wind as a far-off drumming. "Can you feel my hand, edhelaran?"

He could. Giving an exhausted nod, Thranduil felt the peredhel's fingers intertwine with his own, the cool touch of Vilya seeping into his ruined flesh, soothing the ache.

"Legolas…" he managed to murmur; throat raw from screaming. He remembered screaming. Or perhaps…perhaps it had been someone else. This could not have happened to him- he was dreaming. It must be a mistake. Some work of evil…

White bandages covered his burns, tight enough to feel uncomfortable as he drew breath. They probably held a manner of poultice to his wounds. Only his face remained uncovered. Thranduil's gaze was on Elrond as the Lord of Rivendell smiled softly.

"He is here, mellon nîn. By your side."

A little hand took hold of Thranduil's right, thin fingers entwining his. "I am here, ada. I will not go," whispered the small voice, sounding fierce.

Thranduil felt the dark reaching out to take him. He was exhausted; the pain trying its level best to draw a scream from his parched lips. His eyes slid closed, then open again. he could not. If he did…

"Rest," soothed Elrond's calm voice.

"I do not know if I will have the strength to wake again," he confessed weakly, voice a fain rasp; thinking of the blessed darkness that would engulf him ere his eyes closed again.

"You will. Legolas will not let you die, Thranduil. He will be here for you. Worry not."

That was how Galion found him.

Unable to bear it any longer, Thranduil was sobbing softly into a pillow, his shoulders trembling. He knew that Legolas was gone. Dead. But while he knew that he should put it out of his mind- and he had-, he could not put it out of his heart. His scars were searing pain, but the Elvenking payed it no heed. Legolas had always been there for him, and yet, when he had most needed his father, Thranduil had not come in time.

He had failed. Had the end come swiftly for his son? Or had he been in torment?

"I am sorry, ion nîn," he choked softly, before trying to compose himself as Galion sat down.

"Let it out, aran nîn," whispered the elf, laying a hand on Thranduil's shoulder. "Let it out."

Thranduil clenched his jaw and sat up, head swimming, and Galion's eyes studied his face. The Elvenking's silver robe hung to his ankles, but not all the ugly burns were concealed. The maze of scar tissue down the side of Thranduil's slender column of a neck stretched as he swallowed, and it was all he could do to hold in a moan of pain.

Galion's eyes were sad. Thranduil knew that the elf fathomed how much pain he was in, yet could do nothing to aid his king. "How bad is it this time?" was all he asked.

"I survived it before. I will do the same now."

"No," said Galion softly, sitting beside his king. "Le alinnas. Olan ôn dúner."

You will not. It becomes worse.

Lies withered on Thranduil's tongue, filling his mouth with the taste of ash. "How can you know this?" he felt suddenly cold. His heart pounding in his pointed ears. No one knew. No one knew of the death sentence that lay over him like a breath of foul air. Of the doom that slunk behind him in his shadow- haunting his every step, his every breath.

"I was there; beside you on the battlefield," said Galion. "It was I who carried you off it." His face was calm, but Thranduil could see the horrors of that day reflected in the elf's eyes, twin to his own.

He turned his head to face Galion. "Elrond spoke to you."

Memories of his own conversation with the peredhel echoed like dying breaths in his ears. Phantoms of a darker time:

"You could go to the Grey Havens, mellon nîn," Elrond had said softly. "Sail into the West. You would be rid of the pain."

"I will not take the coward's way out!" Thranduil had shouted, full of rage. "Nor will I go to grovel at the feet of the Valar!"

"Yes." Galion's voice was heavy. "Daurnhernôs amlugûr le dostan." Dragonfire never stops burning. "The Lord of Imladris won you only a brief respite. Nothing more."

Thranduil bowed his head. "Ni ista." I know. "I will die from it…but not tonight."

"Del car le gûr, aran nîn?"

Do you fear death, my king?

"No. I do not." Thranduil lay back, black clouds blurring his vision as his scars seared once again. "It is of no use to fear a thing unchangeable." He closed his eyes. "Pen icanûr amarth nîn."

My doom is set.

"Lie hidden!" hissed Legolas, watching as the company of Thorin Oakenskield hurried along the riverbank.

A squat little orc beside him grunted. "Why? We can attack now!"

Legolas shook his head. "We strike once they reach the river. Not before."

"Give the order!" snarled Bolg, sniffing the air.

"No!" Legolas spat back as they shadowed the dwarves and their halfling; a host of evil shadows sliding like ink through the trees. A plague of darkness. "If we attack now, the elves might yet come to their aid!"

"The air smells of orc," Tauriel murmured, as she and Helluin watched the company hurry for the sluice gate, following the white-crested river, their pointed ears intently listening, hands on their blades. Helluin's braided hair was thrust down the back of his brown leather tunic. It was the hue of Rowan bark. "The forest is holding its breath…"

They both froze as heavy footsteps pounded through the earth, the breeze falling still. Mirkwood was frozen in silence. The very air tasted like death. The bird ceased their calls as a horde of orcs burst from the trees, their ugly voices raised in harsh snarls.

"Orcs!" yelled Kíli from the rear of the company.

Tauriel and Helluin sprang gracefully down from the rocky bluff, bows bent, and arrows drawn, but Tauriel found herself lowering hers with a slight breath of great shock. She stood facing an elf; the side of his elegant face carved with devastating scars, pink as a new rosebud. He looked so much like her lord Thranduil that Tauriel felt her heart skip a beat. His notched ears twitched, as he drew two gleaming black blades, their evil edges curving, hungry smiles.

Tauriel raised her bow, hands trembling. There was no doubt in her mind as to who this elf was. "Hîr nîn, Legolas."

My lord Legolas.

The prince of Mirkwood.

The red-haired she-elf swallowed. "Hîr nîn, Legolas."

He darted forwards, ducking her arrow as she let fly, slashing with his blades. She drew her own and parried him. Back and forth they spun, the movements a vicious dance, hair unfurling behind them like the banners of war. The she-elf was good…but she looked uncertain, eyed wide with indecision. His identity had thrown her.

Good.

"Tauriel!" cried her companion, before he was seized by several of the orcs and flung hard to the ground, sending up little sparks of leaflitter and dirt. "The dwarves! They- "

He was cut off as Bolg brought his mace down hard, ugly lips parted in a gruesome leer. There was a dull crack. The she-elf let out a cry of anguish as her companion's bones splintered, his blood misting the air as Bolg brought the mace crashing down again.

Legolas knocked her blades from her and sent her tumbling over a rocky shore towards the raging rapids. "Bolg, enough," he said to the orc, who halted in his pounding of the elf's broken body, grunting his annoyance.

A small, deformed orc came scuttling up to Legolas, rasping for breath. "The archers struck one of the dwarves," he croaked, in Westron. "The wargs can smell his blood."

Bolg snarled, eyes alight with glee. "The hunt is biginning."

"Which dwarf?" asked Legolas,falling into the same toungue and sheathing his knives.

"He was hardly bearded, with dark hair."

The she-elf let out a gasp, lying sprawled on the stone drop that plunged down into the river, the water flecking her skin. She was trembling, he saw. Though if in fear or rage, Legolas knew not. He watched her for a moment before turning.

"Mount up. We ride now."

Tauriel watched them go, her mind reeling.

Legolas Greenleaf was alive? the truth unfolded before her eyes, and a sick feeling rose up in her stomach. Her prince had not died, he had been stolen away. Raise by the orcs. Fed on lies. Filled with an un-abiding hate for elven kind, through whatever falsehoods the creatures had taught him. She shivered. This would destroy her king…

A weak voice whispered then. "Tauriel…?"

It was Helluin. His face like bone- it was so white. She crawled over to him, and knew he was dying. His body was hopelessly broken, blood spotting his lips as he took a shallow breath that bubbled in his throat.

"Rest, mellon nîn," she whispered, despair clouding within her as she beheld the agony in his dark eyes. "Rest."

"You must not tell the king of what we saw here," Helluin croaked. "It would make him reckless…destroy him."

"Shhh…" she soothed, brushing hair out of his face. "Lie still."

"Promise me, Tauriel," he rasped, pleading with her now. "Promise me you will not tell him."

"I promise," she said softly, and he relaxed. Her eyes were burning, her face damp with tears. "Senn, mellon nîn."

Rest, my friend.

Helluin was struggling to breathe, his chest fluttering weakly. "Enlinón…" he gasped.

I am sorry…

Soon after, he stilled, eyes sliding closed as though he were drifting off into slumber. She knew in her heart, though, that he was not resting. He was dead.

Tauriel did not know how long she sat there beside his broken body, liquid salt running in streams down her face. It seemed an eternity, the very forest silent, grieving for yet another elf lost to the darkness. They had lost so many this year.

Harvanin, Silivren, Noroth, Rínas, Emlin, Galadhross, Naruvír, Narphen, Helluin.

Their names turned in her head as a mourning chant. So much death…so many immortal lives wasted. Lost to the black hand of evil. What would she tell her king now, at yet another gone?

As though her thoughts had summoned him, the Elvenking emerged from the trees, silver garb rippling like molten starlight, silver blade drawn, thorned crown dewed with spray from the foaming river. His gaze lit on her and concern stole over his face. Galion and Ingwil were beside him, horror in their eyes as they took in Helluin's mangled body.

"Tauriel," said her king softly, sheathing his blade as he dropped to his knees beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Le ere eithris?"

Are you alright?

"I am unharmed," she murmured, her throat thick as she beheld the similarity between his features and Legolas's. "But I must go after the dwarves, aran nîn."

"Amman?"

Why?

"One of them has been struck with a poisoned arrow. He will die if not healed."

Thranduil tilted his head, faint understanding in his eyes. "Is it the dwarf who took affection of you?"

She swallowed, seeing Kíli's face. "Yes."

He nodded. "Go then, if you so wish. After giving them aid…it would be most annoying to have them die so near the gates of Erebor."

Tauriel took a deep breath. "Aran nîn…before I go…there is something you must hear." She saw his face darken as he heard the tone of sorrow in her voice. His piercing eyes narrowed as she hesitated, his mouth a thin line. He was bracing himself.

"It is about Legolas."

Díhena nîn, Helluin…she pleaded silently, wondering if his spirit could hear her from the Halls of Mandos. The words spilled from her, Thranduil letting go a soft moan as Galion and Ingwil exchanged a shocked glance. Forgive me…I cannot keep it from him. He must know. Tears spilled over her cheeks once again, but she kept talking, unable to stop now.

Forgive me…

Forgive me.