Thranduil was angry.

He was angry at the foul creatures for polluting his forest. He was angry with Galadriel for bossing the lot of them around, compelling them to do whatever she saw fit. And mostly, he was angry with himself to failing to listen to his aides regarding the infestation problem. The King had assumed that the population of spiders would continue to multiply, yes, but he'd never imagined they would stray so close to the borders of the kingdom—nor that they might develop such a preference for elven flesh.

As he stared over at one of the matriarchs, he gripped the haft of one of his twin blades. That's when he noticed something strange. The large, female spider seemed to have something… attached to it.

There. Manwë, if that wasn't a harness—and a rider. A goblin.

Startled, he looked around at the other spiders. A few of them seemed to sport the same sort of rig. There were forest goblins riding these creatures, steering them into attacks and maneuvering them to an advantage.

Goblins. In his forest.

It was not to be borne.

He kicked at Aerin, who surged forward and carried him toward a cluster of the nasty things. Thranduil drew his second blade and reversed the grip on each just before slashing mercilessly into a pair of half-grown spiders. These were riderless. They shrieked and buckled, hissing thin streams of venom at him—too late.

Thranduil screamed as his blades bit into another, an elder. He took a few of the legs off before spearing the thing in the eye. Streams of bitter ichor spattered his armor and the air about him, stinking of guts and death.

From his periphery, the King could see his son Legolas firing off arrows madly. Two at a time. Three at a time. The ellon sprinted toward a large fallen log and sprang lightly up onto it, trying for a better vantage point.

A matriarch spider approached the Prince and he took the opportunity to leap up onto its back, unseating its handler and hurling him toward the ground. Even from that distance, Thranduil could hear the goblin's neck break.

Legolas trained two arrows straight down into the matriarch spider's head and fired. The beast groaned and slowly collapsed.

Thranduil's blade sang as it cut through the air, slicing first this enemy across the throat and then hamstringing that one across the back of the knee. Aerin reared as he riposted and bound off the enemies' strikes. The goblins pelted the company with their sharp, wicked-looking arrows.

Two came at him at once, and he charged them instead of slowing, dropping his blades at the last moment to maim them hard at the knees. He left puddles of blood and shrieking goblins in his wake.

Around them, elves had dispersed among the undergrowth. Most of the unarmed elfkin had taken off at a run for the palace walls, but there were several who hadn't been cognizant enough to follow—or perhaps hadn't heard or noticed. Naturally stealthy, those left had taken to hiding in the brush, crouching in the shadows of the Mirkwood trees, or clambering up into their branches.

"They can climb, too!" Thranduil heard himself screaming. "Hiding in the trees will not avail you!"

A shadow flitted over his face and the King glanced up into the drawn bow of a goblin perched on a low-hanging tree branch. Without thinking, he used one of his blades to slice through the arrow and then sink it deep into the creature's body. The skin caught at the sword and resisted at first when Thranduil yanked it back out.

He looked around and took a quick count, discerning that the elves were outnumbered. Where was Galadriel?

As if in answer, he heard her shriek. It sounded more angry than frightened, but he followed the sound anyway, dismounting and giving Aerin leave to kill and destroy.

He cut down another half-grown spider on the way.

The Lady of the Golden Wood held four spiders at bay. Some unseen wind was streaking through her robes and hair, pushing them back from her face as she glared at her attackers and spoke a series of spells. One glowing hand was trained on the group of them. "Vara tel' Sildarine," she called. "Lova poldora, templa en' tessa…"

Thranduil charged forward and sliced them down instantly, whirling so the last mounted goblin received all of his blade and split in half at the waist.

She lost no time, turning to face him amid the chaos and slaughter. "I told you," she screamed at him. "You've known for hundreds of years that this could happen. And you did nothing! I could kill you myself!"

He didn't answer her. He was suddenly struck by how many elfkin, both armed and unarmed, lay scattered unmoving on the forest floor.

"Aiya!"

It was Legolas. There was a large group of goblins converging on the prince, and he was firing as quickly as possible. Thranduil saw him kick one in the face. He pierced another's eyeball with his drawn arrow and then fired it at another. Legolas was unparalleled as a warrior, but he was isolated from the fight in that corner. There were too many enemies—he would need backup.

At Thranduil's whistle, Aerin was back at his side. He mounted swiftly and urged the elk forward.

The fighting seemed to intensify, and scores of nasty little skirmishes barred the way. Aerin swung his great antlers to and fro decimating scores of the detestable creatures.

It was maddening, needing to reach his son and yet not being able to. Amid the frenzy, Thranduil saw his son struck by an enemy arrow and go down.

"Legolas!" the King screamed, silvery hair flying.

Reyren came riding up then, his mount agitated by the noise and carnage.

"Find him!" Thranduil shouted over the din, and the ellon turned hard and rode on.

A few moments later, one of the larger spiders had decided it was time to make her attack. She did her best to take a bite out of the King—her pincers clacking and slakes of venomous drool issuing from her maw.

He focused on her legs, cutting them down one at a time, until her pain drove her to kneel and the impulse to crawl away began to fire.

By this point, the royal guard had rallied and the spiders and their keepers had begun to retreat.

The King caught sight of Legolas, insensible, wedged between a fallen tree trunk and a mound of soft-packed dirt.

"There!" screamed Thranduil, and the patrol descended on him.

The Prince roused for a moment and looked as if he would fight them off with his hunting knife. One or two of them sprang back in alarm, but Reyren darted forward and took the knife away, telling him, "Come, my Prince. Come! It is us!"

And as the wretched noises of the foe began to fade with their passing, the guard collected themselves, shored up the wounded, and began the trudge back to the compound.

The Prince had taken an arrow to the shoulder, which Thranduil snapped and discarded, leaving about five inches protruding from his son's chest. He had lost enough blood to be dizzy and unreliable on his feet, so they hoisted him up into the saddle in front of his father.

Thranduil wrapped his arms around the ellon and encouraged him to lean back and relinquish his body weight to the King.

"Goheno nin," Thranduil whispered into the ellon's hair. "Odulen an edraith angin."

When they'd all but reached the retaining wall, the Prince fainted and had to be carried inside.

When the small contingent of elves reached the compound, I stopped at the gate and hurried them through.

"Go to your homes," I told them insistently. "Take the wounded to the house of healing."

My breath came quickly, burning in my throat from having run so far.

My sister and Dalyon had returned, pale and shaking but unhurt. Not far behind them stalked the Lady Galadriel, looking as if she might incinerate anyone who looked at her the wrong way.

There was a commotion toward the back of the column, and I caught sight of several officials—including Ilitren Reyren—riding back into the compound. For a moment, I thanked the Valar that Chalia hadn't yet been assigned to patrol duty.

And then I saw the King, resplendent and looking fiercer than I'd ever imagined, atop Aerin, his elk.

In his arms was Legolas.

Everything about that moment was wrong. The crown Prince Legolas, generally so self-sufficient and utterly glorious in battle, was insensible. The front of his jerkin was speckled with blood, most of which was concentrated at his left breast. His eyebrows were drawn together in pain, his lips parted. With his head lolling slightly and all of his body weight entrusted to the King, it became apparent how large he was, and how well-muscled. He looked heavy.

Thranduil rode steadily on through the courtyard, not deigning to look at anyone. He was an ellon singularly focused—looking as though he were considering how best to quickly get his son to a healer without further agitating the injury.

Aerin stopped at Thranduil's command, and the King looked to those around him.

"Reyren," he said quietly, grimly. "Here…"

And the commander general assisted him, gingerly helping to lower the Prince from the saddle. Several members of the patrol sprang forward also, and carefully, the group lifted Legolas to carry him inside.

Thranduil dismounted and stayed a moment longer, looking dazed and handing off his reins to a guard. "I need…" he muttered to no one and nothing. "It should be cleaned…"

"Fil!"

It was Chalia. She was in full dress and had been manning the wall, and now she rushed toward me in a swell of gratitude. Enveloping me in her arms, she cried, "I was so worried! I thought you might have been one of the injured ones…"

I hugged her, feeling the warmth of her back, damp with excitement or fear.

When I pulled away from her, I became aware of Thranduil King moving toward us. "I need able-bodied elves," he was saying to a patrol member. "Two or three…" and then his gaze fell on us. "You'll do," he said to Chalia suddenly. "You will come with me, and—" here he glanced down at my slim fingers and then smiled grimly at me. "And you. We've need of you, bard."

The two of us exchanged glances and then followed Thranduil inside to the dim palace corridors.

Translations:

Goheno nin = Forgive me (Literally translated, the forgiver and forgive-ee are equals)

Odulen an edraith angin = I came to save you