Chapter 15

CW canon-typical violence.

Hopefully, the resolution to this cliffhanger is satisfactory.

…

Cantering through deep undergrowth, Miri continually glanced backward to gauge the warg's distance. It was weaving in and out of sight, light-footed, and too adaptive to the environment for her taste. She'd made the choice to keep her sword sheathed, fearful that she'd do herself more harm than good at this juncture. She was hardly a warlord — she'd never been in more than a skirmish and had little notion of carrying a weapon safely on horseback.

Legolas, at least, was safe from this danger.

Valar, may he not simply be charging towards a new, different threat.

Miri hadn't yet formed a plan when she'd urged her horse forward after the orc had fallen, only knowing the warg was still a threat and now Legolas was without a mount. Legolas was vulnerable and she'd promised, she'd promised Thranduil she'd keep him safe. Promised Cala too, even if her friend had never known it. If so much as a scratch marred his soft skin, she would never forgive herself. One day he'd do many great deeds, fight all manner of foe. But today was not to be that day.

They tore through the trees, darting between gaps in the foliage, dashing over falling logs, and skittering beneath low-hanging branches. It was difficult to keep track of their pursuer between the sound of their own frantic retreat and the overgrowth. The deeper they ran into the Greenwood, the heavier the gloom. The dimming light did not aid in their cause.

After thirty minutes of riding hard, she lost sight of the beast. Miri took a chance on coaxing her mount to slow to a walk. They stopped at the base of an ancient mossy oak. The horse shuffled anxiously, hooves pawing at the tangle of roots beneath them. Miri rubbed the mare's neck in a vague attempt at comfort, willing the creature to quiet so she might discern if they were finally, at last, alone. Surely the large paws of a warg would offer the crack of sticks and slip of fur against foliage?

There was nothing but the crisp sound of leaves shifting in the breeze and the creak of branches overhead. Not even birds could be heard — though, this was not unusual for certain parts of the Greenwood.

Suddenly, to the left, Miri heard a shrill cry. She jerked the reigns, urging the mare right without thought. Was it the warg? A spider? One of the orcs, creeping through the undergrowth? Someone from her own party, injured? Miri pushed them away from the sound, snapping the reigns, unwilling to explore the possible answer to those fretful questions. Yet she shifted in the saddle, glancing back even as twigs tore at her face.

The combination of panic and distraction resulted in her mare suddenly stopping short when she burst through another layer of thick underbrush only to find that the ground ceased. But it was too late; the horse launched them both into the unseen ravine with a clatter of hooves and shrieking. And they were not alone.

Upon the poor mare's stumbling, the warg took advantage of the chaos and caught it by the dock. All three careened down the slope. A terrifying cacophony of twisted limbs, snapped branches, and cries followed.

When her horse collapsed with a shriek, Miri only had a moment to roll off the poor creature's back. She slammed into the barren ground of the ravine, head colliding with the edge of a large rock. The world reverberated. Within seconds she could feel warm wet blood trickle down her temple.

Meanwhile, the warg removed its black claws from the flesh of the shrieking mare. Using the momentum from the fall to surge forward with a hoarse growl, it landed directly above Miri. It gnashed its teeth, flinging bubbling saliva upon its fallen prey.

Sprawled on her back, the first thought the disoriented elf could muster was, "That breath!"

It smelled of decay in high summer. Had the circumstances been less dire, Miri might've held her nose.

The second thought was less coherent. As the yellowed teeth scraped against her throat, readying to render her flesh a shredded mess, Miri scrambled to seize the blade at her waist from her sheath. Her right wrist ached something awful, but she managed to withdraw the sword with little trouble. Carefully angling with what little space was left between herself and the warg, Miriel thrust upward, tearing into the beast's chest where its grey skin stretched tight over pronounced ribs.

A high-pitched cry sounded above, but she withdrew and thrust again, using both hands to grip the pummel. Leveraging as much strength as she could manage, Miri shoved upwards again until she felt nothing but hot, wet blood between her fingers. And then she kept pushing. Withdrew. And thrust the blade in again.

There was a gurgle. After a beat, the warg sank, burying her in its putrid fur. A few hot breaths ruffled the hair on her crown. Then all was still.

It took several minutes to drag herself from beneath the corpse. Miriel's efforts were not aided by the broken leg she now sported, nor a wrist that ached painfully with each push. Nor the start of an absolutely dreadful headache. And definitely not by the blood flowing down from her brow that was seeking to impair her vision.

When she finally was free of the beast, her heart ached to see her mount on its side, shaking and the whites of her eyes visible. Miri dragged herself forward on all fours across the bed of dead leaves and dirt until she reached the horse.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she stroked the creature's velvet nose, watching as the light faded from her fearful eyes.

Shortly after, her rider followed her into blackness.

…

It did not take long to convince Thranduil that attempting to pick up Miriel's trail was a fruitless endeavor. The nature of the undergrowth this time of year made it nearly impossible to discern if a beast had crashed through the landscape. Vines and leaves stubbornly fell back into place, hiding any gaps that might've been made in a game of escape and pursuit.

With a pounding heart, he steered the stag westward, hopeful the elleth may already be making her way back to the cavern fortress. The hope in his chest was a small yet determined flame, unwilling to let the mounting fear diminish its light. Miri may not have been skilled in the way of physical combat, but she was reliably stubborn. Better still, she was angry with him. That alone might be enough to spur her to survival.

The memory of their fight in the Lothlorien garden caused Thranduil to inadvertently tighten his grip on the reigns, to the elk's protest. After reassuring the creature of his apology with a gentle hand to his neck, the king turned his thoughts back to the words they'd last thrown at one another.

"You're full of conceit as ever, Thranduil Oropherion."

"Better conceited than a fearful liar."

No one could rise anger in him like Miriel. Even now, desperate and afraid on her behalf, a tremor of fury shot down his spine. She was a fool to think he was anything other than earnest in his proposal. She was a fool the first time and then again days ago when she'd crushed his spirit. But he would ask again, no, demand, when she was found. Even if discovered stinking of sweat and covered in gore, he would crush her to him before insisting she marry him. He could not bear to let another lifetime pass between them unattached, at an angry impasse.

When he reached the bridge that lead to the blue doors of his home it was just beyond dusk. The guardsmen saluted just as the doors opened. An exhausted Galion emerged, followed by Lord Morcion, Rovain, Beleg, and Ceven.

The stag had hardly halted from his canter and Thranduil's feet were on the pavers. "Did she arrive?"

Morcion shook his head. "Galion called for additional wardens around the perimeter as soon as he arrive. They just alerted us to your arrival, but we've seen neither hide nor hair of Lady Miriel."

Galion shifted forward. "The rest of the party arrived two hours ago save for the wagon. Two agreed to stay back to drive it through so that the rest might make a hasty return. We did not encounter a trace of her."

Thranduil felt the coldness drop down upon him like a heavy pile of snow falling from a springy branch. Stilted, he turned back to his stag, eyes unseeing. Distantly, the king heard himself say, "A new mount, at once. As many wardens as can be spared, I want every available person in our northwest corner."

The healer's face swam into view, his hand clasping Thranduil's shoulder. "Surely you do not mean to ride out again, so soon?"

"I intend to find her," the king intoned, shaking off the elder elf's hand.

"My king, this is madness. You've been riding since daybreak."

"I've ridden longer," was all he said as he lead the party towards the stables. The group followed, every brow furrowed in worry. "For much less."

"We'll put every possible elf on it," Galion said, glancing at Rovain and Beleg who both nodded fervently. "But you must rest, my lord. Venturing out while exhausted is more dangerous than being unarmed. And your son, he's asking for you."

This, if anything, ought to have stopped him. But Thranduil only paused momentarily before saying calmly, "If something were to have happened to Miri, I will never be able to look him in the eye knowing I did not do all within my power to bring her home."

"You are doing everything in your power!" Galion protested.

Thranduil rounded on the small party. "Either send for a fresh mount or skulk away. I'm riding out as soon as I've gotten a fresh horse. You're all here at my leisure, so I suggest you consider abiding by my commands."

It was a low blow — and not one he was at all prone to making. Yet desperate times called for something to strike them into action. Rovain nodded once and gestured toward the nearest guard. Beleg made for the warden's hall. Ceven threw his hands up in the air before walking off, back to his healing hall, muttering under his breath, "call upon me when you've returned to your senses." At the same time, Morcion merely sighed deeply and continued following his king in his march toward the stables.

Galion, for his part, was temporarily rooted to the spot. Thranduil simply never spoke to him in such a manner. But the king's glare broke the spell. Galion sprang into action, calling for one of the periphery servants who'd been passing by to hunt down Tuigalen. The king would no doubt need a swift dinner.

Within the next hour, three teams of wardens were readied. Rovain headed one himself, Thranduil another. Beleg accepted the final group. Galion was meant to guide the third but he insisted on accompanying the king.

"Forgive me for saying so, you're not in your right mind, my lord," he'd simply said sternly as he saddled his horse alongside Thranduil. "Someone needs to keep an eye out for you."

The king did not protest, merely snorted in derision. Adrenaline prevented him from feeling the weariness that ought to soak his bones. He trusted himself not to crash until the elleth they sought was found.

Galion rolled his eyes, swinging onto his gelding when Rovain called for the party to move out.

And so, a few hours after nightfall, they rode out into the forest's dark embrace.

…

"There," Beleg shouted, pointing down the ravine. The mist had parted briefly and he could see a form curled against the stones. Thranduil jolted forward, unthinking, only to be stopped by Galion, who nodded towards the steep edge.

"We will find a way down," he reassured.

Beleg was already calling out orders to search for a path downward. Thranduil followed the first warden who responded, having found boulders that would allow someone to edge down carefully. He hurried, uncaring of the rough stone against his skin, sliding down the last bit a little recklessly. Once Thranduil had hit the ground of the ravine, he ran towards where Miriel lay. She was flat on her back, one hand cast out at an odd angle — undoubtedly broken. Across her lap lat the muzzle of her mare, clearly dead. He only barely noted the warg spread eagle a few yards away, the ground beneath it soaked dark with blood.

Despite a few wardens beating him to the site, they stood back, allowing their king to sink to his knees beside her. Gently, Thranduil pulled her out from under the mare's head and onto his lap. To his immense relief, her chest rose and fell in shallow, shuddering breaths. Tilting her face, he discovered blood matted in the hair of her left temple. More was caked along her throat — the result of a shallow bite from the warg that lay dead several yards away.

"She's hurt," he barked.

Galion was suddenly at his side again. "Beleg has sent a horse further south, a warden discovered an incline. We can get you both in a saddle within a few minutes."

Thranduil breathed deeply, attempting to keep his emotions under control. Rage, unfocused and all-consuming, ran hot through his veins. He wanted to be on his way back to the fortress, now. They might not have time for patience. Who knew how long she'd been down here? How much blood had she lost? Or what else might be damaged? He knew of injuries that could hide, just below the surface of the skin, undetectable until it was too late.

"I have Haegorn going ahead to alert Ceven," Galion reassured, resting a light hand on the elfking's shoulder. "They will meet us at the bridge."

He merely nodded, eyes still on the elleth in his lap. Her eyelids, touched with lilac from the cold, blue veins spidering across, flickered. Fingertips skimming her inner arm, he found her skin to be icy to the touch. Thranduil removed his cloak, gently wrapping the unconscious Miri. At the moment he felt powerless to do much more.

"It's nearly dawn," Galion said softly.

Thranduil barely heard him, eyes and ears only for the injured creature he held. The world beyond Miri was mere background noise.

…

Normally the healer shooed everyone out of his examination room. No matter their connection to the patient, Ceven demanded privacy and peace. A patient's agonized family did little more than cry excessively or demand explanations whilst he was in the midst of delicate procedures. So he'd learned long ago to bar entry to anyone but his assistants.

And, as it would seem, the elfking.

Ceven didn't even attempt to argue when Thranduil refused to be dislodged from Miriel's side. The king himself had carried her inside and laid her gently on the bed, and seemed entirely unwilling to leave the elleth for even a moment. The healer knew the hills on which he was willing to die, and this was not one of them.

So Thranduil watched stoney-faced as Ceven examined Miriel. Stormy grey eyes took in every scrape, bruise, and abrasion. He made his own inventory of her wounds, from the black eye that blossomed on her right side to her broken tibia. The sight of her neck, the ragged teeth marks stark even after Ceven's assistant had successfully wiped away all grime, made his gaze shift from stone to hot iron.

He averted his gaze when the healer's assistant removed her bloodied attire and continued to sponge off the caked dirt, sweat, and blood, revealing an unfamiliar pallor. When she was dressed in a cotton shift, Thranduil silently assisted in holding her hair aloft so it wasn't caught in the ties that lined the back. When the healer mentioned needing to stitch the gash along the scalp of her left temple, the king gently began separating the hair from near the wound in a neat braid that pulled away any encumbering locks. He observed as Ceven set her tibia and plastered a cast upon her leg, knuckles whitening against his thigh as though it were his bones being manually shifted. The king's keen eyes stayed followed as Ceven counseled his assistant in administering the proper dose of milk of the poppy.

When the healers were finally done, three hours after Miriel Dolithien's arrival, the elfking was still beside the unconscious seneschal.

"You need rest, sire," Ceven finally ventured as he pulled a woolen blanket up to the elleth's chin, tucking the edges around her prone form. "I shall not leave her unattended. Go, sleep."

Thranduil's eyes did not stray from the elleth in the bed. "When will she wake?" he asked.

"It is difficult to say," the elf said heavily. "She's been rather physically traumatized. The body needs time to recuperate. Even without the opium, my best guess would be anywhere between a few hours and a few days. It all depends on her."

The elfking nodded, lips downturned.

"Come, my king, eat and rest. You will be of no use to her exhausted. I will summon you the moment she awakens."

It took the threat of sending Tuigalen to badger him to finally convince Thranduil to leave Miriel's side. Once more reassured of her stability, the king relented. The healer walked him to the family's apartments, then sent for a meal from the kitchens. Galion met Ceven outside the oak doors of the royal wing, eyes thick with dark circles. He'd not had a moment's rest since the attack, either. The secretary sank against the stone wall, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"She'll live," Ceven answered the unspoken question. "But I believe she'll drive our king mad if she takes much longer to wake."

Galion managed a weak smirk. "Nothing worse than she's put him through before."

...

Y'all, I've read and re-read this chapter for probably 6-ish months now while this story was underway. Still not completely satisfied. Maybe one day I'll revise.

Much appreciation for the reviews, follows, and favorites.