Into the Fire
Outskirts of the Silvan Camp
Greenwood
The Great
Legolas had absolutely no intention of following orders...none.
What he was good at was technically following orders, and for all intents and purposes he was technically following his King's commands, but with his own agenda. That agenda took the form of a flame haired elleth who practically leapt on him at the first opportunity that he was alone.
Tauriel had expertly stowed away with the guard, something Legolas was not at all surprised about, she was practically small enough to hide in the most obscure of places. What he was shocked about was the fact that she was still determined to fight even after the battering she took, and how her aunt and grandmother had allowed her out of their sights...she was a crafty little thing. Still, he was relieved to see a familiar face, a trustworthy companion with a rebellious streak, and not one to shrink from a plan that deviated from the majority.
Having heard her quiet call from the trees, Legolas caught up the scent and trail of his childhood companion and quickly found her in the heights of an oak overlooking the old fortress. No one would overhear them or find them here, it was a clever place to hatch their plans, he just prayed they would be successful ones.
"I am not even going to ask how you managed to escape the palace," Legolas huffed as he scrambled over a precariously slender bough, tilting his head in faux warning at Tauriel who predictably smirked.
"You just have to know when no one is looking," she tapped her nose, but the playfulness left her features as she gestured towards the camp, "they aren't ready Legolas, none of us are, whatever evil follows those orc packs is keeping them hidden and fuelling the shaman attacks."
"I was afraid you would say that," Legolas grunted and glared out at the crumbling city, "the forest surrounding the old realm is sick, lifeless, whatever surrounds it has taken root in the trees themselves."
"What does your father say?" she pushed, her green flecked eyes glittering with anxiety as she clutched the wood beneath her fingers tightly.
"He is gone, he left to go after Nana himself, convinced it is the only way," he replied, smacking his hand over his brow and rubbing it furiously. "He left me in charge, along with your uncle, to head up the army to aid a diversion for his sake. Honestly, the more I think about it the more I cannot see another way he could have planned this. There is no one, literally no one left, that knows the old fortress the way he does and no one that has the spiritual gifts to drive out the darkness, and even then he is not as equipped as the Noldor. Logically speaking I do not believe he would be able to attack it, only reveal it, his strength lies in the energy of the forest and if that fails him then we could lose more than our King...we could lose our home."
"He is not the only one..." Tauriel dared to remind her friend of one other who could help, one other who was already on her way.
"I cannot put my sister in danger Tauriel, that is the last thing I would ask of her, she is too young...we are too young!" Legolas practically choked on the thought, he couldn't face pulling another of his family into this, especially with his baby brother completely isolated.
"You might not have to do anything," Tauriel cringed when her response caused the prince to pale quite considerably. "Celairiel was two steps ahead of you, she already figured out the essence of the spirit, she went to that outsider - Lord Glorfindel - and they are both on their way here. She means to be the distraction."
There was a strained silence between the pair as Legolas' face seemed to go blank, the only thing that gave away his anxiety was his eyes; the pupils darted from side to side as he rolled through his calculative thoughts.
Tauriel sucked in her bottom lip, uncertain of Legolas' true thoughts on the matter and seriously questioning if she should have brought him this information for he already looked terrible. The stress around his whole spirit aged him in a way that was most disconcerting for the young silvan warrior, she did not like seeing him so burdened, it seemed unfair.
"Legolas," she murmured and reached for his arm to give it a gentle squeeze, "what can I do?"
"You can pray," he answered stiffly, sucking in a sharp breath and puffing out his chest in the next exhale, "for if what we are about to do has any chance of succeeding then praying would be a good start."
"You have a plan, don't you?" she asked suspiciously, for she knew that resolute yet slightly uncertain look in his eyes, it usually meant that he had a terrible and incredibly risky plan - she generally liked those. "What is my part?" she was well aware her tone was way more excitable than was probably acceptable given the circumstances.
"Staying alive would be useful, and not getting caught," Legolas reminded her, gesturing with his chin away to the north of the forest. "I want you to take a horse and find my sister before she does something reckless. Tell her that Ada is going alone into the fortress, and tell her that whatever she intends on doing can she give him as much time as possible, for the army will not be enough of a successful diversion."
"Okay, but what are you going to do if not head up the attacks?" Tauriel asked in her confusion, her brows crinkling, but before she could think anymore about it the truth hit her and she felt her mouth pop open in mute protest.
"Someone has to cover the King's back," Legolas shrugged, a sly smirk spreading across his lips, "may as well be me."
"You can't go into the fortress, you don't know anything about it!" She roared, Legolas only barely able to cut her off mid shriek by clamping his hand over her mouth.
"Good Valar, Tauriel, do you understand the concept of secrecy?" He huffed as he let go of her and avoided the seething daggers she glared at him.
"You are mad, completely mad!" she hissed as loudly as she could, still glowering viciously at her friend for his dull witted stupidity. "You will get yourself killed."
"You are such a drama queen, you are worse than my parents," Legolas chuckled as he began to clamber down the tree, "come on, we do not have much time, 'tis almost dawn."
"No, I am not a drama queen, you are just missing a brain," Taurial grumbled and quickly made after the prince, dissatisfied with how lightly he was heeding her warning. "Legolas, it is not your job to save your parents, if your Adar ordered you to stay behind then he was doing it to keep you alive because he knows the danger he is walking into."
"I know, but he also does not understand that rescuing others is what I am good at it," Legolas replied breezily, shrugging nonchalantly when he hit the forest floor.
"You can't rescue everyone, mellon nin," Tauriel mewed quietly as she dropped beside him holding his calm gaze with her own troubled eyes.
"Perhaps not, but if I do not try, and something terrible happens, then I will never be able to live with myself," he answered honestly and gripped his friend's arm tugging her close for a friendly embrace.
"I know I will never be able to dissuade you, so for the love Eru keep yourself alive, you are the only decent shot we have in the whole guard," Tauriel sniffed pathetically into his ear before stepping away and glancing back towards the forest.
"Tell Celariel to do whatever she can for us, and tell her..." he paused thoughtfully for a moment, "tell her I will do the same."
With a resolute nod the pair parted ways. One towards the forest at lightening speed, appearing like nothing but a streak of flame that whisked through the trees. The other a lone figure, a barely discernible shadow that moved towards the mobilising camp of elves, readying for a battle...a battle he would not fight, but one he dearly hoped he could prevent.
He just had to leave at the best opportunity, and pray to the Valar Aradan would forgive him someday.
xXx
*The Ruins of the Inner Feast Hall of
Amon Lanc*
xXx
Entering the old fortress had proved so much easier than Thranduil had initially imagined, and it was because of this ease of access that his heart sank for it could only mean one thing - this was a trap.
This faceless enemy was not attempting to stop him, and if this had only ever been just about him then he would never have risked such a stupid move, but it wasn't just his life, it was Clara's too.
When it came to Clara he never acted with sensibility, and if it was to be his life for hers then so be it, but he wasn't so naive as to think such an offer would be upheld and thus he was more than prepared to fight to the death for her. As much as his children needed him they needed their Naneth more, and as much as his people needed a King, well, they would always have one secured in his sons. In this moment his choices were as clear as crystal, and he was the most content he had ever been with the prospect of his demise so close, perhaps he had faced obliteration once to often to fear it now?
He walked along the hidden corridors of his childhood home, the old ruins that used to be the small halls of the Silvan chieftains before the arrival of the Sindar. He noted the rot and the gloom, he felt the shiver of the oppressive sprit of death hang in the air, and he touched the blackened walls remembering a fire and a battle. He had fought with his father and the Silvan to try and protect the last of Amon Lanc, although it seemed like another lifetime ago, the memory still felt clear in his mind. He remembered the bitter disappointment in his Adar's eyes when he announced that Amon Lanc was not worth rebuilding, its position to precarious, too close to trouble, and that the North of the wood was their safest option. His father gave the order for all of the Silvan tribes to relocate, and he remembered standing in these very corridors taking in the devastation of yet another siege and thinking to himself how the place held such ill fate about it, and that it was for the best to abandon such a place for it seemed to be cursed. It was ironic how correct his foreshadowing had been, and even more so, that this would be the place he would likely draw his last breath.
Thranduil followed his heart more than his head, for it only seemed right that his enemies would make him bear his heart so that they could strike it, it made complete poetic sense...he almost laughed at their creativity.
His senses led him to the stone steps of the ruins of the Great Feasting Hall. The high stone pillars reached up into the heavens, for it was the highest point of the fortress as it looked across the expanse of Greenwood. The crumbling foundations felt fragile beneath his feet as he ascended the broken steps so he was careful with his footing, well aware of the treacherous drops below.
When at last he reached the top step he felt the gust of a cold and spine chilling wind as it danced over his face, whipping stray strands of his hair and whisking it back from his eyes, almost like it intended him to see better.
Pebbles and debris were brushed across the floor, the subtle noise causing Thranduil to glance downward, only to find stains of blood. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly drying up so that each of his inhales almost choked him.
He stepped forward, his feet gracefully following the swirling pattern of drying blood where it appeared a body had been dragged. His stride faltered when it reached another set of steps that would lead to a platform - a platform where the chieftain and nobility would usually feast, and eventually a King and his Queen.
His gaze drifted from the ground gradually upwards, past the steps, following the blood.
His memories skirted around in the back of his mind, he could almost recall with cruel clarity, exactly where his Adar sat - in a beautifully carved chair in the centre of the back wall.
He blinked...and the memory vanished.
In place of his father's chair there was cruel chains hammered into the wall, and from those chains a spectre hung...suspended just perfectly to appear like she was a welcoming gift made entirely for him.
Thranduil did not recall how he reached the horrific corpse so quickly, for it certainly felt like he had not moved at all, and part of his logical mind tried to reason with him that it was a trap. But there was no logic left now that he was presented with such a vision.
"Clara..." he brokenly cried, his fingers reaching out to touch her pale cheek, the skin there bloodied and bruised, he was almost terrified to touch her in case she turned to ash under his fingertips
She was grotesquely beautiful, he could barely take his eyes from her; captivated, tormented, and haunted all at once by her presence. She had been beaten, badly by the lacerations and deep discolouration of her skin, which was barely hidden under a wisp of dress. Something old and thread bare, probably found in the old chests of the Kingdom, maybe even a corpses' shroud? His stomach churned at the thought.
She was thin...much too thin. Her beautiful curves almost gone, her soft belly and rounded hips - that had still remained a little fuller from carrying their son - seemed to have wasted. It had only been little over two weeks since she had been stolen from him and yet he had never saw her so gaunt, so frail...they must have starved her of everything.
For all of her injuries; the numerous whippings, the shackle burns around her wrists and ankles, the deep gashes and questionable bruises, there was only one thing that made his chest burn with hatred - they had cut off her hair.
A shameful act for any elf to have their hair hacked off so brutally, but it was especially distressing for an elleth, for their long hair was a sign of maturity, beauty, and health. And Clara's hair had always been so beautiful, so long and thick, its platinum sheen the envy of many...and now it had been cut, so the longest lengths barely fell past her chin.
Unable to restrain himself any longer he reached for her, wanting to pull her chains away from the cold stone so he could take her in his arms and shield her from any more of this torturous horror. He cared little if this was a trap or not, she was on the brink of death or perhaps she had already departed, he could barely tell with the smothering of their bond. If these were to be her last moments then they would spend them together, before he handed over the last of his heart to her soul and gave himself over to his rage, for he would have his vengeance.
Thranduil would rip the very beating heart from the chest of whoever did this to his Clara,just so they would know how it felt.
He broke her chains from the wall with two swift blows from his broad sword, catching her featherlight body before it hit the floor and saving her from another cruel blow. Gently he wrapped her in his fur lined cloak and pulled her close, only barely aware of the tears that ran like rivers from his sunken eyes.
Thranduil was reminded of a time once before, a time when he had held her similarly, and how the pain had felt almost unbearable then. Like he could hardly imagine a greater blow, a grief so consuming, a helplessness so paralysing...he had been wrong...this was much worse.
A century he had shared in union with Clara; a century of laughter, warmth, teasing, fighting, bickering, and a love so strong it had practically resurrected his fea from the brink of obliteration. In those years he had watched her change and grow. He witnessed her find her feet in their world, he had stood at her side during her coronation watching how she radiated such noble light, like she was made to be a Princess. He recalled the smaller moments, the quiet times that he held on to a little deeper in the crevices of his heart; the memory of their bonding was something so dear to him, so precious and affirming, that he would go as far as claiming it to be the moment he had found peace with himself. The memory only outranked by the moments he stood by and witnessed his wife bring forth the life of his son and daughter. How she fought, with more courage than he could ever dream to possess, to save their daughter, and how she departed all her strength to deliver their son. And Thranduil remembered, in clarity, every moment she spent after that being a mother and building his family with such ease that he thought himself the luckiest elf alive.
Now that century seemed all too short, wasted almost, like he did not try nearly hard enough to create more of those memories. He had spent years worrying that this very scenario would take place, that somehow he would lose Clara, but instead of acting like every minute was his last with her he spent those precious drops of time worrying instead of living with her. Truly, this was the worst feeling in the world. This was the horror of his guilt, and it would only be by some sheer miracle that he could be allotted the time to fix his mistakes, but perhaps his run of miracles had finally ended.
"I have no right to ask this from you," Thranduil murmured his prayer in a rasping voice, almost deadened from the weight of his emotions, "but, if we are your children...if she is so loved by you that you found it within your grace to give her life...then please...let her live. Not for me, not for any selfish reason I may have, but because of who she is, because she is the very essence of life and grace itself and without it I fear our world becomes all the more darker, all the more broken. Please...Illuvatar...do not let this evil take another innocent soul...I cannot bear another death...please...let her keep on living..."
Thranduil's garbled begging eventually slipped into quiet sobs as he held his mate close; unaware that she heard every word he whispered and fought to find him in the haze of her weakness. She was not dead - not yet - but her mind had been invaded, her spirit shattered so she could barely find herself in it...but she was still there, he just could not feel it.
Thranduil heard the scrape of boots on stone and the brisk, clean, sound of a blade being unsheathed. He lifted his head and stiffened his jaw...he had been snared.
"How horrible it must be to not feel her bond, especially after so many years of wedded bliss...must be terribly inconvenient?" the voice of a traitor reached Thranduil's ears, and he snapped his head in the direction of that voice, his face contorting into a venomous scowl.
"Galour you traitorous bastard!" Thranduil shrieked as recognition lit his suddenly incensed eyes, a flash of silver fire sparking their depths.
"Yes, the very one," the twisted elf snorted in mild amusement as he moved closer to his old King, removing his hood to show the extent of his treachery and decay. "I must say, that was quite the heartfelt prayer Thranduil, I almost teared up a little...you still hold on to such fanciful notions don't you?"
"You did this...why?" Thranduil spat as he gripped Clara closer to him, warring with the instinct to protect her over tearing across the hall to rip the traitor's tongue from his throat.
"Petty revenge, boredom, wanting to make you pay dearly for being an insufferable fool of a King," Galour rhymed off his reasons with ease, pausing to shrug and honestly answer the true question. "But I specifically had a lot of fun with young Clara here...well...simply because I loathe the harlot wench, and the fact she bred out two more unholy abominations, honestly, I was so very close to ridding the world of those misfits, but you two always evaded me. But it seems like Clara's uncanny luck ran out, hmm? Seems like the great creator has grown bored of his little playthings...did the golden haired one die, too? He was an obnoxious, self-righteous, do-gooder, spouting off all these prayers and praises to a weak deity that no one has ever met...it's pathetic really, and here you are praying to nothing but air, at least your mother was able to slit an elf's throat...kinslayer."
Thranduil felt the bloodlust descend on his heart, his vision blurred, and his temper rose at the very insults and threats issued over his children, over his mother, over his wife! He found it all too easy to let the carefully sealed doors of his past crash open. Every last ounce of his decorum shed, overrun by the unhinged anger, the wrath of his memories, the monster that hid in his veins was all too eager to thrash its way free.
In a moment Thranduil broke free from his grieving trance and sprung for his prey - the weaselly faced rat that he would enjoy pulling limb from bloody limb.
Galour sneered in delight as he readied himself for the fight, for he had waited a long time for this opportunity, and he was not about to waste it.
Only one would walk away from this brawl today.
****************************
A/N: O.O ...well that escalated quickly.
*bites nails clean off*
Who's worried?
*raises hand*
Thoughts? Musings? votes? Or anything you'd like to give me for attempting to hack out your hearts?
:)
Quote from Media:
'It takes more courage to suffer than to die.'
Media Music:
Eurielle - City of the Dead
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