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We Were Young Once ~ III  by Conquistadora

Chapter 14 ~ The Storm Breaks




Despite the shadow of the Necromancer lingering in everyone’s mind, the next few years passed in relative peace.  It was not like the carefree days they had once known, but the Elves of Greenwood found they could go about their business without being too inconvenienced by the increased vigilance ordered by the king.


The new city had been built up around the palace, and though it was more densely populated than had previously been customary, everyone managed to make the best of the situation.  The population had grown exponentially during the peaceful years, a fact that was more apparent now that they were all settled in one region.


The swollen ranks of the army were on call at all times, each contingent serving in turn as a standing guard deep within the forest under the command of Lord Luinlas.  Their numbers varied from day to day based on whatever intuitions darkened Thranduil’s mind.  Stationed in rings radiating out from the city to the foothills of the mountains, there would be abundant warning in case of any attack.


The choking shadows of Mirkwood soon overtook the old site of Galadhremmen Lasgalen, but seemed to be momentarily halted by the mountains, validating the decision to remove north.  The king prowled the woods regularly, sometimes accompanied by the prince or the queen, refusing to be lulled into complacency by what he was certain was a false calm. 


Thranduil knew his forces were strong numerically, but inexperience could make those numbers meaningless.  The difference was obvious in their faces, the jaded determination of Oropher’s veterans beside the restless energy of the younger generation.  He drilled them mercilessly.  The best were recruited to replenish the ranks of the Royal Guard under Dorthaer’s command.  Thranduil had a great deal to protect, but his family was certainly among his first priorities. 


The warrior queen had come out in Lindóriel.  She and the other ladies had not forgotten the hard lessons of Beleriand, and they had begun training together with the mothers and daughters of Greenwood.  She made certain they all had whatever arms and armor they required, determined that at the utmost need there would be no one in their wood who could not defend herself.


The silvan Elves were not naturally inclined to a militant lifestyle, preferring a simpler and quieter existence, but they learned quickly when provoked.  No one was entirely sure what they would be facing, whether it be an invasion of Orcs or a gradual infestation of evil creatures, but they were determined to repel it.  For the time being, however, it seemed there was little more to do than watch and wait and go about their lives.


Thranduil woke with that thought on a gloomy spring morning after a particularly restless night.  He could see nothing from their subterranean bedchamber, but nonetheless he could feel the gathering storm above them.  He sat up and lit the bedside lamp.


“Were you dreaming again?” Lindóriel asked, as though she had been waiting for him to give up any attempt to sleep for some time.


“No,” Thranduil said, frowning.  “I am just especially uneasy today.”


“Why?”


He sighed.  “Your guess is as good as mine, love.”


“It could be that the king takes far too much upon himself,” Lindóriel suggested facetiously, pulling him back down beside her.  “Surely his lady wife is more than willing to help distract him.”


“He is well aware of the queen’s abilities,” Thranduil assured her, sliding his hand freely over her skin.


They laughed together, thankful they still could.  The stress had begun to wear on them, and at the end of the day their best comfort was still in one another’s arms.  Their evenings took an insatiably passionate turn more often than seemed entirely proper for Elves of their age.  Each day they remained safe and unmolested seemed a blessing too precious to go unappreciated. 


Thranduil kissed her and sat up once again, coaxing more light from the lamp.  Their bedchamber was hung with royal heraldry until they could fashion more permanent decoration. 


“I miss being able to see the sun,” Lindóriel sighed.  “It is so difficult to guess the time down here.”


“I suspect it is just before dawn,” Thranduil said, selecting some of his most durable clothes from the wardrobe.  “But there will not be much sun today, I am afraid.”


Unable to shake that restless uneasiness, Thranduil donned his leather armor once he had dressed.


“Will you be riding south?” Lindóriel asked, helping him into his gear.  “As you say, it may be a very wet day for it.”


“Perhaps,” Thranduil said, still uncertain himself, “but I am too agitated to be still.  In fact,” he said, as she brought him his sword belt, “I would feel better if you armed yourself as well, Lin.  Something is not right today.”


“As you wish,” she said, her brow furrowing slightly.


“Also,” Thranduil continued after a moment, “tell Gwaelin to bring the children inside until I can have a look around.”


Lindóriel nodded, the situation suddenly becoming more serious.  All families with young children already lived in the shadow of the palace.  Periodically, whenever Thranduil felt especially paranoid, they were brought into the fortress to be regaled by Lady Gwaelin with songs and tales of the Elder Days until it could be determined that they were in no immediate danger.  It was one of those days.


“Be safe,” she said, catching his hand as he turned to leave.


“And you as well,” Thranduil replied, cupping her lovely face in his hands and kissing her firmly.  “Hopefully, I shall return empty-handed once again.”


As he made his way to the main hall for breakfast, Linhir met him in the corridor with the bulletins for the morning. 


“Thranduil,” he said, falling into step beside him, “everything has remained quiet through the night, but the spiders have been seen north of the mountains.”


“That does not bode well,” Thranduil agreed.  “I want the forest guard increased immediately.”


“By how many,” Linhir asked.


“By as many as can be spared,” Thranduil insisted.


Now Linhir frowned.  The king’s dress that morning had not escaped him.  “Is it one of those days?” he asked.


“It is.  Arm yourself.”


The hall was sparsely populated at that hour, but Thranduil was glad to see Legolas already seated at the king’s table.  He looked distracted, and seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time over his fruit and cream.  Thranduil took the seat opposite him.


“May I call it a good morning?” he asked, prying into his son’s thoughts as delicately as he knew how.


“As good as any other, I suppose,” Legolas conceded.  “It is rather difficult to be certain lately.”


“Yes, I know,” Thranduil agreed.  “I am actually undecided at the moment.”


“I see you are prepared for the worst,” Legolas observed.  “Would you like me to come with you?”


“I would.  Unless, of course, you had other plans.”


Legolas rolled his eyes.  “I try not to make plans anymore,” he said bitterly.


Thranduil said nothing, understanding completely.  Legolas had every right to be frustrated, but he feared there were many hard lessons to come.  Changing the subject, he nodded at the plate between them.  “Are you going to eat that?”


Legolas handed him his fork.  “I shall meet you at the stables,” he said.


 



The clouds overhead were truly threatening, darkening the sun to the point that it looked more like late evening than early morning.  They only made Thranduil more uncomfortable, though he could not explain why.  A rumbling roar of thunder made his gray stallion shudder beneath him. 


“Steady, Ninniachel,”  Thranduil whispered, stroking the horse’s neck.  He might as well tell himself to be calm, for it would be equally hopeless.  Legolas emerged from the stables astride his own horse, and together they turned toward the southern road with Dorthaer and nine other Guardsmen.


The wood itself was very still.  Everything that could take shelter from the impending storm had already done so.  A mile from the city they encountered the first line of soldiers.  Another mile away, the next line seemed equally secure.  The same held true of the third line.  No one had heard or seen anything amiss.  The reinforcements he had ordered were still arriving, and everything seemed to be in good order.


“Perhaps it is nothing after all,” Legolas suggested hopefully.


“Perhaps,” Thranduil allowed, though he did not share that optimism.  Something was absolutely wrong.  He wanted to understand what the wood was trying to tell him, but he could discern only a mute dread.


With a startling clap of thunder, torrents of rain at last began to drench the forest.  A look of tacit displeasure passed the faces of the entire company, and Thranduil was too distracted to concentrate.  He was prepared to turn back when all at once a horn sounded above the noise.


Everyone looked up immediately, hearing the call.  It had never sounded before, but they all knew what it meant.  A wave of suppressed panic shook the ranks, and the captain turned and blew his own horn, warning those behind them. 


Orcs had been sighted.


“Return to the city!” Thranduil ordered Legolas at once.  “Make certain the children are secured and that the defense is prepared.  Go!”


Legolas looked for a moment like he would object, but then turned and galloped back up the road with his four guards.  Thranduil and Dorthaer turned their horses down the path to the east, the most likely passage around the mountains.  They drew up beside Lord Luinlas, who seemed to have just received a runner from the forward ranks.


“Speak to me,” Thranduil demanded, already soaked to the skin.


“They were not able to obtain an accurate count,” Luinlas relayed grimly, “but an extremely large number of Orcs are headed north.  They do not appear to be organized into a proper army, but behave more like a large raiding party.”


“The distinction will hardly matter in a moment,” Thranduil said.  “As their numbers overwhelm you, fall back to join the rank behind.  It will do us no good to let them take us piecemeal.”


“Yes, my lord.”  Luinlas sent the runner back to convey the king’s orders.  Thranduil himself turned north to inform the other captains.


 



They came erupting into the Elven wood like a plague of rats.  Though the Galennath put up fierce resistance, they were gradually beaten back by sheer weight of numbers.


It was midday when what was left of the forward ranks fell back to join the heavily reinforced second rank.  The rain made everything more difficult, but could not drown out the howling of the Orcs and the cries of the wounded.  Thranduil had dismounted and was standing with the archers, ordering volleys of arrows which protected the strategic retreat.  Those wounded who could be recovered were rushed behind the lines where the healers would either treat them or carry them back to the safety of the fortress.


It had become more desperate now.  Their enemy came with no coherent tactics, and the battle was no more than a continuous slaughter.  The forest was already strewn with corpses, but the Orcs continued to rush at them and Thranduil was not willing to fall back any farther.  They were too close to the city already.


They were being pressured on all sides, for a second wave of Orcs had apparently come around from the west.  Somewhere down the line arrows ran short, and swords flew out of their sheaths. 


Thranduil cursed and ran toward the failing line, drawing his own blade.  He caught the first Orc to muscle his way through, nearly severing his head, but soon the entire line collapsed and chaos ensued. 


The Orcs ran everywhere like the rapacious mob they were.  The Elves tried to fall back to the last rank remaining, but they could not escape the vicious close combat.


Thranduil was in as desperate a position as any of them, defending himself with an almost frantic ferocity.  It was not about repulsing the advance anymore; it was simply about staying alive.  Three more rushed him, and just as he managed to dispatch them all, he was struck solidly in the hip with a familiar biting pain.


“Damn it!” he hissed, an arrow embedded in his leg.  He stumbled backward, lifting his blade once again to whip the arm off an Orc before stabbing him in the throat.  Grasping the arrow as near the wound as he could, Thranduil hacked off the rest of the shaft with his sword.


A standard-bearer managed to sound a desperate horn call for reinforcements before he was cut down.


Looking up, Thranduil saw something that finally looked like an enemy captain striding across the battlefield directly toward him.  He reached for his bow but had more immediate need of his sword as he was broadsided by other Orcs.  He managed to overcome them all, but tripped over a corpse and fell hard into the mud.  The others swarmed at him, but another sword swung round in a bright arc above his head, deflecting their iron blades and striking brutal wounds on either side, driving them away like scavengers from a kill.  Lindóriel stood over him like a mother bear, her blade dark with blood, and with her came a fresh contingent of the King's Guard to retake the field.


“What are you doing here?” Thranduil demanded, horrified, as she seized his arm and began dragging him to his feet.


There was no time to answer.  Lindóriel thrust him back to the ground just as the black captain loosed his bow.  The arrow struck her full in the chest. 


At least eight arrows pierced that Orc in the next moment as a roar of dismay coursed through the Galennath. 


Thranduil crouched over her, seized with panic.  “Lin!”  Her eyes were wide with fear, but quickly growing glassy.   His own wound forgotten, Thranduil scooped her into his arms just as another shaft struck him below the first.  “Dorthaer!”


Recognizing what was happening, the Guardsmen rushed to his aid, defending their escape as Thranduil limped as quickly as he could toward the city.  Behind the lines, Illuiniel and several other women were sending the wounded away on bloody stretchers.  She paled when she saw them, but within a few moments she had them both carried back to the safety of the palace.


The main hall had become a field hospital.  Noruvion was supervising a small army of healers as they rushed to save as many lives as they could, but everything stopped for a moment when the king and queen were brought in.


“Never mind me!” Thranduil insisted vehemently, directing Noruvion to Lindóriel’s bedside.  “She needs you!”


He desperately wanted to remain with her, but he had his own injuries to contend with.  He grit his teeth as Noruvion’s son Nilmar carefully extracted the two arrows from his hip and cleaned the wounds.  The pain was just as excruciating as he remembered, but his attention was bent upon the exchange between Noruvion and his assistant.  It was not until Noruvion began cursing that he began to panic once again.


“What is happening?” Thranduil demanded, afraid of the answer.  Receiving no reply, he sat up and swung down from the table before his wounds could be bandaged despite Nilmar’s protests.


“I need my antidotes for venom!” Noruvion shouted to anyone who could hear.  “All of them!”


Thranduil knelt at the head of Lindóriel’s cot, helpless to do anything but watch.  The wound had grown to twice its original size, her flesh corroded by poison.  The arrowhead had come loose when Noruvion had tried to pull it free, releasing the toxin from a hollow in the shaft.


Receiving his box of antidotes from Nilmar, Noruvion quickly applied several of them with a salve directly to the gaping wound, pressing a bandage over it to stem the bleeding.  For a few breathless moments they waited.  Thranduil held his hand over the vein in her throat, praying desperately that each feeble pulse would not be her last.


“That was a devilish weapon,” Noruvion said at last.  “I can only be grateful we have not seen more of them.”


“It was meant for me,” Thranduil said miserably.  “What have they done to her?”


“I cannot know for certain until I study the poison more closely,” Noruvion told him, “but I strongly suspect it is a potent mixture of serpent and spider venom, perhaps among other things, which would explain her bleeding and the size of the wound.  But I have never seen a toxin act so quickly, so I cannot be certain.”


“Will she survive it?”


Noruvion did not answer, but continued to temporarily dress the wound.  The grim set of his features was not encouraging.  When he had finished, he felt her pulse, listened to her breathing, and looked disheartened.


“Thranduil, she will not last the night,” he admitted at last, choking back his own grief.  “I am truly sorry.  More damage has been done than I can repair.”


Thranduil hardly noticed Noruvion leave them, something in his heart twisted near the breaking point.  Lindóriel’s breathing was barely discernible, there was blood on her lips from the wound in her lung, and all the delicate blush of color had left her face.  She had not strength enough to acknowledge his presence. 


Tears streamed uncontrollably down his face, and his shallow breathing became sobs.  She was slipping away from him, just as his father had, in the blink of an eye.  It was unfathomable.  It was intolerable!


Leaning over her wasted form, Thranduil kissed her through his tears, slowly imparting whatever intimate force of life he could spare, even if it meant bringing himself within an inch of his own death.  He did not stop until he felt his grasp on consciousness weakening.  He let himself down slowly, kneeling in a heap at her bedside, her limp fingers entwined in his own.


He would not let them take her from him.







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