A/N: Warning for a brief description of violence in the final section of this chapter.

88 - Targeted Remnant

Thranduil awoke suddenly in the middle of the night, not knowing what woke him. Nothing was amiss around him — Elluin was tucked into his side, sleeping peacefully. Her steady breathing was the only sound he could detect, even after straining his ears for many long moments.

He shifted his perception, then, knowing that something was not right. He closed his eyes and reached threads of awareness out into the forest.

Greenwood was waking from its silent slumber to find itself in a nightmare.

"Elluin," he said as he rose from the bed.

She stirred and blinked, sitting up rapidly as she noted the swiftness of his movements. "What is it, Thranduil?"

"Maethon! Naudeth!" Thranduil called before turning back to his queen, barely pausing as he started to pull on his clothes. "I sense some danger outside," he admitted quickly, disturbed that he could not identify the source. "We should be prepared to meet it."

The body servants entered quickly. "Fetch my armor," Thranduil ordered Maethon as he pulled on a shirt. The Elf fled in an instant.

"Naudeth, help me dress," Elluin said, striding ahead of the elleth into her dressing room.

Once he had his clothes on, Thranduil strode into the receiving room, surprised to find a palace messenger already there, preventing the need to walk across to the hallway. The young ellon blinked, startled to have his vigil interrupted, but managed a hasty bow even before Thranduil could speak.

"Send word to the garrison to prepare for assault, if they have not done so already," the Elvenking ordered. The messenger was off at a run when Maethon came up behind him with his clanking burden.

The body servant worked quickly, his usual stoic demeanor even more grim with unanswered questions and suppressed alarm. Thranduil appreciated that he knew better than to ask anything at that moment. But the answers presented themselves.

Captain Telior burst through the door. The only indication of his shock at finding the king already donning his armor was a fleeting slackening of the Elf's jaw, gone as soon as it appeared.

"Sire," he said with a brief salute before moving to help Maethon at a word from the king. "Scouts report that our remaining southern village has been attacked by Orcs. They are fleeing to the palace as we speak, escorted by what soldiers could be gathered from the area. The few night birds we have about have communicated that the Orcs number many hundreds, bearing blades and fire."

The Elvenking could feel the knot in his stomach tighten. This was it, then—the threat that had been gnawing on his mind for so long. Now that there were so few Elves left, few bright eyes with bright voices and sharp arrows to defend, the attack has come. Thranduil cursed himself for a fool. He should have had everyone travel together, months ago, he thought with regret.

"Have our soldiers been mobilized?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Yes, sire," Telior replied, tightening the buckles on the king's pauldrons. "Cembeleg sent half of our on-duty warriors south to meet the villagers."

"Only half?" That was merely a hundred Elves.

"The general did not wish to leave the palace unprotected, my king. The other half has been distributed around the grounds, concentrating near the gates, and the reserves have been sent for."

Of course, Thranduil thought. The foreboding he had felt revolved around Elluin. Cembeleg had noticed, and was clearly acting accordingly.

Legolas stepped into the room, his own body servant trailing behind with the half of his armor he had not yet strapped into place. Thranduil briefly gave him the news, his heart aching at the knowledge that this would be the prince's first encounter with what would certainly mean the loss of many Elves in terrible violence. But he was proud of the determination in Legolas' eyes, and his calm as their preparations were completed.

Elluin joined them, now wearing a simple Silvan gown with her hair braided back for ease of movement. "I shall await the villagers in the throne room," she told them, already moving toward the door.

"Elluin," Thranduil called, and she turned to him. Maethon and Telior stepped back, their task complete, to give the royal a brief moment to themselves. Thranduil extended a hand to her, and she clasped it tightly, bringing her other hand up to his face. Her deep blue eyes twinkled up at him, her love shining clearly despite the worry etched on her features. She swept a thumb across his cheek.

"Stay safe, my love," she whispered earnestly.

"Do not leave the palace," he commanded, gripping her almost desperately around the waist.

"As you wish," she promised.

He kissed her forehead, lingering there for only a breath before he drew back. She nodded at him resolutely, giving her silent permission for him to step away from her into danger.

Legolas came to kiss her cheek.

"Take care, my dear child," she cautioned.

"The forest fights alongside us, mother," he replied with a grim smile. "We will descend upon the creatures of evil as Orome of old under the light of Elbereth's stars."

Thranduil knew the words came from an innocent heart. He prayed they would be true.

~.~.~

Legolas froze as soon as they left the palace gates. The forest was shouting its discontent, which he could clearly hear through his Greenwood-bred connection with the place. Beside him, his father stiffened. Undoubtedly, he had recognized the same uneasiness through his connection to the Great Music, fostered in Doriath under the indirect tutelage of Melian.

Something evil was approaching. But what gave Legolas pause was not the knowledge of the horde of Orcs coming ever closer. No—it was the other source of malice. Two pairs of icy blue Elven eyes swept the branches, searching for the shadow-weavers they knew were hidden there.

"Legolas," Thranduil muttered, eyes still searching, "take your guards to intercept the fleeing villagers. Have your bows ready."

"Father, should I not stay and meet the threat here with you?"

"The villagers only have a small patrol with them. The soldiers will be fighting the Orcs, and the villagers will not likely be prepared to fight the spiders."

Neither are we, Legolas thought wryly. This was not a threat against which the Elvenking's warriors had yet been trained. But awareness of the threat was certainly an advantage they could bring to aid the fleeing Elves.

"Very well, Father." Legolas saluted and Thranduil gripped his son's shoulder for a moment before

nodding in dismissal. Legolas stalked away to give his men their orders, and soon they were leaving the palace behind, running southwards along the branches. He was relieved when the feeling of the spiders' encroaching presence lifted, but knew there was an equally formidable threat ahead.

It was a long journey through the canopy before they met their goal. They heard the snarling of the Orcs and the clanging of metal long before the villagers came into view. The fleeing Elves were running more or less in a group, though those who were able to climb were in the trees. Half the patrol that had first gone to aid them were scattered throughout the forest in their wake, having broken off to engage the pursuing enemy in small groups. The Orcs that broke through this guard were kept mostly at bay by the other half—archers keeping pace with them from above, though Legolas saw as his company approached that they were dropping to the forest floor one by one as they spent the last of their arrows.

He realized with a suppressed shiver that the horde of Orcs following could not be easily overcome. The villagers' only hope now was speed. In the wavering starlight, he could see about three hundred of the beasts, but suspected there were more further behind he could not spot past the trees. The fleeing Elves numbered around two hundred, relief on every face as the Elvenprince's company intercepted them.

Legolas called out for his archers to flank the group and pick off the closest of the Orcs, delaying their pursuit. He himself leaped to the ground in front of the group of villagers. Assessing them with a glance, he saw there were fortunately many hale enough among them to support those who had been wounded. However, he knew they had traveled far in fear and haste and would not be able to maintain their pace for much longer. He whistled a few warriors down to carry the more severely hurt Elves. The question of how many of the villagers were less fortunate in their encounters with the Orcs was forced decidedly from his mind. Legolas shouted for the group to increase their pace, knowing that his company was not sufficient to overcome the threat of the Orcs behind them.

His eyes cast about them continuously as he led the group northward to the palace, paying no mind to preserving the underbrush with his light Elven boots in his speed. He relished the gradually diminishing sound of the Orcs as the soldiers managed to slow their advance. All his remaining senses were focused on the branches above and hints from the trees, awaiting the malevolent whispers of multiple segmented limbs skittering towards them.

Legolas forced himself to relax his hold on his bow as he ran, knowing the excess tension would not serve him. The palace drew ever nearer. He could not see it in the faint light of the stars through the canopy, but he recognized the trees about him. Only another mile, perhaps…

And there it was, the sense of threat from above. He despaired for a moment, recognizing that his group was now trapped between Orcs and spiders, and that no matter what they did, they would meet with more danger before gaining safety.

It would be safer with the main force of his father's armies at the palace, he decided, regardless of the spiders. At least, that is what he told himself. He spurred the villagers onward, shouting encouragement before sounding his horn to alert the palace guards of his company's impending arrival. The joyful sound rang out through the darkness. He felt the evil essence of the spiders pause in its approach for the briefest moment, then, as if in retaliation, it pressed with more strength against his perception.

Legolas picked up his pace and notched an arrow to his bow. Dawn was far off — no sunlight would aid them now. The moon was a sliver long since set. He knew their only hope was in Elbereth's stars and their own strength.

~.~.~

The spiders had descended upon the palace only moments after the prince's company was out of sight. Each of their knobbed legs was as long as a horse. Their chittering fangs dripped with a sticky substance as they hissed at the defending Elves. They moved so quickly that their underbellies, though they appeared soft, could not be reached by spear or arrow before they darted off to a side. They used the surrounding trees to their advantage, slipping up between tall branches to drop suddenly beside one of the soldiers, propelling their fanged faces forward and reaching with the hooked claw on the end of their forelimbs.

Several of the Elvenking's soldiers had already fallen, suddenly tackled, pinned to the ground or skewered as the spindly forelegs slipped between plates of armor. Then the fangs would sink into whatever flesh they could find that was not armored, usually the Elf's face, leaving a bloody mess through which there was no breathing.

Thranduil and his soldiers were immediately hard pressed to maintain any semblance of a defensive line between themselves and the palace. They soon found, after too many less effective attempts, that the best way to dispatch the spiders was the riskiest: knocking aside the legs to slide beneath the spider, shoving upwards with a sword and escaping behind the dying spider before it could bring its fangs down onto its killer in its final retribution.

A shout from Feren called Thranduil away from his fifth kill. The captain sprinted to him, ducking to avoid the active skirmishes around him. He pitched his voice above the screeching of beasts and yelling of Elves.

"Sire, a bird messenger reports another group of Orcs traveling from the plains! They will soon be upon us!"

"Send our reserves to funnel them this way," Thranduil ordered, knowing they could divide their force any further.

The prince's horn cut through the din, and Thranduil stifled a curse. He fought his way over to Cembeleg to tell him that he was moving a squadron to meet his son, providing the villagers with an additional shield against what was soon to be two masses of Orcs. Cembeleg could only nod his acknowledgment, turning back immediately after he heard Thranduil's message to continue coordinating the defense against the spiders. A defense, Thranduil saw glumly, that was steadily pressed backwards toward the palace.

He was suddenly torn with the realization that he now had a choice between Elluin and the village. Was he truly willing to abandon Cembeleg's slowly retreating force, risking the safety of those in the palace, to give the fleeing villagers a better defense against the Orcs?

Despair clawed at his chest even as he realized that there was only one choice he could make. He was forced to trust in his general and his wife's guards, and gestured for his squadron to move out towards the south. His son and his people were in more immediate danger if they could not be safely escorted to the protection of the palace in time.