Kingsfoil [Thranduil] LOTR

Threatened

3434, Second Age:

Prince Thranduil stood at the door to his tent, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon, where the smudge of a smoky column billowed up from Orodruin and into the sky. In his youth, Thranduil had read of such things, of fire mountains which breathed smoke and ash, but now he was here, on the enemy's threshold and seeing one with his own eyes brought him little joy. He was part of the Last Alliance, a joining of elves and men to fight against Sauron's dominion. The premise sounded grand a thousand miles away, when he was safely ensconced in the woods of his Father's realm.

Now he saw and felt the one great truth of War.

War was not glorious, not worthy of song. War reeked, of fear and loathing; it was the broken sound of strong warriors dying, their indeterminate groans and gasping breaths haunting the tent rows of the encampment. It was the stench of a thousand unwashed bodies, carrion in the half-light of a veiled sun, the iron tang of blood so thick in the air he could taste its bitterness.

Thranduil knew well and understood the necessity of the alliance. Tomorrow, his father would lead the Woodland Realm along with Gil-Galad before the Black Gate. Sauron must be assailed, defeated—Thranduil knew this—but he wished dearly his father did not plan on leading the charge along with the rest of his kinsmen. He had seen enough of death already, and his heart dreaded the upcoming battle. He was not afraid to fight, to die even, but he hated the sights, the sounds of battle, the wastefulness of it all.

There had been an ugly argument only hours ago between father and son; nay, argument was too strong a word for what actually occurred. Thranduil protested his father's decision to lead the charge. Thranduil had argued. His father had listened and then dismissed him, in front of King Amdir, no less. His father's dismissal wounded Thranduil the most, that Oropher heeded Amdir's counsel over his own son's.

His eyes traced the forlorn silhouette of what the men called 'Mount Doom,' and for once he found himself agreeing with them. There was no goodness here, no life. Only death and the agony of waiting, the dreadful in-between of knowing and doing. Thranduil sighed and turned away. His heart already grieved for what tomorrow would bring.

.  -  .  -  .

March 10, 3019:

The unlikely alliance of two elves and two dwarves found cover in a nearby ravine with a carved out bank from the path of an ancient river, and there, Bofur and Dwalin stopped with their two elven companions. Melui helped Narylfiel rest against the wall of the dugout, and then looked up anxiously at the dwarves. Her queen's face was pale and streaked with ash from the fire, and her eyes were glazed and distant.

"They drugged her," Melui said worriedly. "They gave her something horrible. Wilem made it. I watched him."

Narylfiel pushed herself up, swept the hair from her face with a shaky hand. "I'm fine, Melui. We need to keep moving. I need to get to Thranduil."

Melui exchanged an unsure look with Bofur.

The dwarf spoke up. "Let's just rest for a little bit longer. Let us dwarves gather our strength."

Appeased, Narylfiel nodded and then shut her eyes. She was exhausted.

Melui left her queen's side and moved over to where the dwarves stood. "She's in no condition to travel," she told them. She dropped her eyes for a second and then looked again at her young friend. "Narylfiel is with child," she whispered. "I worry for her and the baby."

Bofur and Dwalin's heads both turned as if drawn by an invisible hand to where Narylfiel rested.

"With child," Dwalin repeated gruffly, but his eyes softened. "The poor lass. As if she hasn't troubles enough."