Chapter 13: And Then There Were None

A/N: Please PLEASE read the notes I’ve included at the bottom of the chapter. I promise it’s worth your time. Before anything else, I must offer a most sincere APOLOGY for how ridiculously long it’s taken me to write and upload this chapter. A bad combination of real life + writer’s block has stalled this chapter. I hope you enjoy!

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In the lifting darkness just before dawn, Thranduil leaned against the parapet of the bridge and examined the horizon with expertise. The sun had yet to make an appearance that morn, but the king knew that the day was not far off. He listened attentively to sparse birdcalls, as many of the winged creatures had abandoned Mirkwood in the previous years. Thranduil felt the River running strongly and swiftly below him.

Ironically, it had been Thranduil himself who had decided upon this day of rest ere his army would set forth to Dol Guldur, but the king could find no rest. Thranduil had left the celebration in the early hours past midnight, and yet many had remained merrymaking. The king had found no sleep and so had resolved to greet the dawn before seeking out Malaithlon. The Elven-King had already determined a course of action for each possible answer the dwarf could give him. Although his prisoner’s cooperation was not essential, it would facilitate the initial attack and perhaps decrease elven losses. However, Thranduil admitted to himself, that was not entirely the reason for his anxiety regarding the dwarf’s decision. He wanted the leader to recognize their common enemy and perhaps swallow some of its pride and help the elves.

The Elven-King sighed softly as a cynical voice in his head mocked his thoughts. The past is written in stone, his father’s voice resonated inside his head. The naugrim were lesser beings, stunted in body and limited in mind. Irascible and unreasonable, it was impossible to cooperate with them for long in any endeavor. And yet, if…Thranduil shook his head. The past is written in stone.

The king blinked as he realized that while he had been lost in his thoughts, the sun had begun its journey across the sky. Thranduil loved the quality of light peculiar to that brief time just after sunrise. It made the world seem somehow clean and young.

The Elven-King raised his head sharply as the familiar voices of his sons carried on the breeze. He smiled as he noted that he had long been aware of their presence in the near distance, but his mind had been preoccupied. Turning his full attention to their discourse, Thranduil mentally joined their conversation.

“Perhaps if you would perform some heroic deed, the lady will speak with you again.” Girithron’s bass sounded amidst the trees, and Thranduil pictured the mocking grin with which these words had undoubtedly been delivered.

The brevity of Legolas’s laugh indicated that this topic had already been discussed, and the king pondered whether Hananuir was irritated or amused by his brothers.

“I think not, muindor,” Hananuir’s cheerful voice replied. “I need not engage in any sort of activity for fair ladies to speak to me.”

“Is their pity for you so great?” Girithron quipped rapidly.

Thranduil’s smile broadened as he recognized Hananuir’s tactic of baiting his elder brother. In his mind’s eye, he saw Hananuir’s barely restrained composure of serenity.

“Nay, but given their other options, I am the only prince with whom it is worth speaking!”

The king chuckled as Hananuir’s laugh floated from the forest together with Girithron’s expression of disgust and Legolas’s assertions to the contrary. Thranduil walked the length of the bridge as his three sons emerged from the woods and came within his sight. He watched the three fair heads as they approached him. Girithron was the tallest in stature and broadest in build. His heir seemed to have been designed especially for warfare. Legolas was the next tallest, but much more lithe than his brother. The quiet strength of his youngest son reminded Thranduil of the aspen tree, which always grew back, no matter fire and ice. Hananuir stood shorter than his brothers, but possessed a calm confidence commensurate with his inexhaustible patience.

“Adar!” Legolas hailed the king as the brothers finally realized his presence.

“Still celebrating?” Thranduil’s eyes twinkled as he greeted his offspring.

“We watched the sunrise,” Hananuir provided.

“I take it you have not been reveling all night, Adar?” Girithron raised his eyebrows in amusement.

“Would my vast age prevent such nocturnal pursuits?” the king replied archly as the four elves fell in step together back across the bridge toward the gate.

Legolas chuckled as his elder brothers broke into smiles.

“’Twould be unusual.” Hananuir remarked.

Suppressing a laugh, Thranduil shook his head. “Nay, ionnath nín, I rose early with a particular purpose in mind.”

“Indeed?” Girithron prompted after several moments of silence.

The Elven-King did not bother to hide his smile. Girithron’s tone had been politely respectful, but layers of curiosity had broken to the surface. Hananuir’s face appeared neutral, but his natural inquisitiveness sparkled in his eyes. For his part, Legolas opened his mouth to speak, but thought the better of it.

“Aye,” Thranduil replied evasively.

The group had entered the palace, and the king directed his steps down a corridor. Realizing that their destination was not the family’s private chambers, the sons of Thranduil followed their father with heightened interest. All three of them knew that the king was baiting them deliberately for his own amusement, but none of the elves took offense at to this somewhat juvenile game. The elves of Mirkwood did not forego an opportunity for levity.

Working his way down the twisting hallways of the lower caverns, the Elven-King suspected that his sons had guessed their endpoint. However, he doubted whether they would surmise the purpose of this trip.

Thranduil entered the guard’s chamber first. The novice on duty literally fell off his chair in surprise at the arrival of so many illustrious personages so soon after dawn on a day of rest.

“My…my l…lords,” the young elf stuttered with a deep bow.

“And you are?” Thranduil asked kindly.

“Círdir,” the guard whispered.  

“Círdir, I am looking for Gáthanar. I believe he was assigned to guard the dwarven prisoners yester night. Has he been here this morn?” the Elven-King asked.

Círdir shook his head.

“When did your shift begin?” Girithron interjected firmly.

“Dawn,” came the faint reply.

“Ah, in that case, go find Captain Malaithlon. Please inform him that I need the keys to the dwarf leader’s cell. I will meet him thither.” Thranduil eyed the youth as he hurriedly bowed and fled from the room.

“Adar?” Hananuir began in confusion. “Surely the dwarves have not altered their manners? Why seek you discourse with them?”

“Come.” Thranduil indicated the door and the passageway beyond with a thin smile. “I will explain my plan as we walk.”

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 Malaithlon gazed across the bridge as he approached the palace gates. The morning was yet unspoiled and no elves moved about the forest. The guards on either side of the entryway saluted him briefly as he walked into the nearly empty corridor. The Captain of the Guard arrived at an intersection of several hallways, a place usually bustling with activity. Today, the way was deserted.

Malaithlon sighed deep within himself. Such would be the norm on the morrow and continuing until the king’s army returned from war. The silence was always jarring in the beginning until the captain accustomed himself once again to the parity of elves in the palace. Once the quiet was established, Malaithlon remarked upon it not. He knew himself to be the last guardian of the last home and refuge of an ancient people. With pride did he remain at his post.

The Captain of the Guard turned his head sharply as the rapid pounding of an elf running assailed his hearing.

“Captain!” A wide-eyed novice skidded to a halt in front of Malaithlon.

“Is aught amiss, Círdir?” Malaithlon demanded with his senses immediately primed for possible problems.

“The king and the Crown Prince and Prince Hananuir and Prince Legolas are in the Guards’ Chamber, and King Thranduil requires the keys to the dwarf leader’s cell!” The young guard spoke with breathless velocity and was forced to trail his captain as Malaithlon immediately began making his way to the lower halls upon hearing half of the information.

Malaithlon’s curiosity was piqued, but he was not overly concerned. It was unusual for King Thranduil and all of his sons to deal jointly with the same issue. Moreover, unless he was grossly misinformed, Malaithlon knew of no matter affecting the Palace Guards that would warrant such early attention from the royal family.

Entering the Guard’s Chamber at a furious pace, Malaithlon made straight for a thick ledger displayed prominently on a side table. The Captain of the Guard scanned the entries of guards’ names, searching for Gáthanar’s mark. He found it for the previous night, but the space for that morning’s check lay empty.

“Círdir.” Malaithlon pinned the guard with a severe look. “When you relieved Glíchon this morn, did he say aught of receiving keys from Gáthanar?”

Círdir paled as he shook his head.

Malaithlon frowned as the failure to follow routine grated on his nerves. “Círdir, go to the barracks and see if you can find Gáthanar, or any that know of his whereabouts. Send the next two on-duty down here immediately. Now!” he reiterated the young guard fled.

The Captain of the Guard did not have long to wait as Brastor and Losdir soon reported to the Guards’ Chamber. Malaithlon rapidly delegated the impromptu search he had contrived as he finally departed the room toward the prisoners’ cells. Malaithlon was so focused that he walked past Galion without noticing, but turned on his heel as he realized whom he had just crossed.

“Galion!” the Captain of the Guard called the butler back.

The old elf frowned as he nodded stiffly. “Captain,” he practically whispered.

Raising an eyebrow at Galion’s unusual taciturnity, Malaithlon related, “I am searching for a guard, Gáthanar. Should you see him, tell him to report to the Guards’ Chamber immediately.”

Galion froze. “As you wish,” he managed after a pause.

Malaithlon eyed the butler for the barest of moments before turning back down the hall. He had more important matters with which to concern himself that morn that Galion’s ill humor.

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The first sensation was one of burning. His lungs were on fire and his throat screamed for water. His tongue felt nailed into his mouth. The next feeling was one of weakness. He could not move his arms nor shift his head. His limbs were weighty, as if he were somehow made of sand and had gotten wet. The last realization was of confusion. He could not remember how he came to be in such a state. He could not understand his whereabouts.

Despite these impediments, Gáthanar had always been a curious elf, and so in conjunction with his lack of judgment, he opened his eyes. Immediately, painful pinpricks of light accosted his sensitive eyes, and Gáthanar heard himself groan aloud. He did not recall this malaise and wondered at its source. Had he been attacked? Was he wounded? Was he imprisoned?

With his eyes tightly shut, Gáthanar shifted his head, inhaling deeply and hoping to discover clues of the world around him. The air was cool and slightly stale, and he realized he was in the caverns of the Palace. Surely, there had been no battle? Breathing deeper, Gáthanar identified the rich smells of wood and…wine?

Starting upright with his eyes bulging, Gáthanar cried aloud. “Wine! Dorwinion!” But surely, surely he had not drunk to excess! He would not have behaved as a mortal! Surely this had not been.

Gáthanar braced himself against the table in front of him. His pounding head, shaking limbs, and agonizing thirst confirmed his worst suspicions. He had indeed drunk very much to excess.

Gáthanar hung his head in shame. He was unworthy to serve the house of Oropher. If Captain Malaithlon could see him now, he would be unfit even as a target for the novices’ archery practice. Perhaps the Captain did not know? Gáthanar lifted his head as a faint ray of hope illuminated his countenance. Perhaps his misdeed would go unnoticed? Realizing that a stealthy retreat was his only option for evading catastrophe, Gáthanar crept silently from the room. At least, he attempted to creep. His actual gait resembled more of a lurch punctuated by the occasional groan. Praying that he would not encounter other elves, Gáthanar continued along the hall.

Suddenly, the world spun violently about him, and Gáthanar quickly brought up his right hand to hold his head in place. With his left hand, the guard gripped the wall. The motion subsided, and, as Gáthanar lowered his hands, he realized that he had brushed against something metallic strung upon his belt. He probed the object in question and brought it up to his face for closer inspection. A bunch of keys! He pondered this reality. He did not remember possessing so many keys.

A thought nagged his mind. Something important had happened before the wine. He had been given a task—nay, it was more formal, a command. It must have been given to him by Captain Malaithlon. But this did not explain the keys…Keys were used for storing valuables or opening doors or locking doors...

Locking doors! The prisoners! He was in charge! These thoughts attacked Gáthanar’s fragile mind in unrelenting succession, and the poor elf physically cringed as the weight of responsibility bore down upon his shoulders. He was supposed to have guarded the dwarven prisoners during the feast! He had done no such thing. And now, here he was with a bunch of keys that did not belong to him. How was he to return them to the captain without confessing his blunder?

Gáthanar’s brow furrowed in perplexity as he attempted to solve this dilemma. If he returned the keys immediately, someone might question him about the prisoners. If he delayed, then he would be punished for his tardiness. He was sadly lacking in creative information regarding dwarves. He tilted his head to one side a novel idea introduced itself in his mind. He could simply check on the prisoners now and then return the keys. Then, if any questioned the delay, he could truthfully attest to having been round to inspect the prisoners.

Satisfied, Gáthanar straightened. Turning down a corridor, he decided to begin at the furthest cell. He would check on the leader first.

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Blowing out his breath in frustration, Girithron folded his arms and regarded his father with a raised eyebrow. “And how long do you propose to wait?” he demanded with restrained irritation.

Thranduil eyed him warningly, but did not reply. The Elven-King was also annoyed by the amount of time it was taking Malaithlon to produce the keys to the prisoners’ cells. The Captain of the Guard had already been by twice with rushed apologies for his disorganization and assurances that the keys were to arrive at any moment. For his part, Thranduil was surprised at Malaithlon’s unusual incompetence.

The father and his sons had not noticed the wait in the beginning, as their discourse was deep and lengthy. Yet all conversations must come to an end, and as the silences stretched longer, Thranduil began to wonder exactly how long they had been in the lowest caverns.

Hananuir and Legolas bore the wait quietly, though the latter was beginning to demonstrate signs of wishing to be elsewhere. Thranduil could not blame his youngest. The hallway was not exactly the most interesting locale, and all of them had plenty of other matters to attend to before their departure on the morrow.

With a deep sigh, Thranduil decided that enough was enough. The Elven-King moved away from the door to the dwarf leader’s cell and began to make his way up the corridor. Before he had taken two paces and his sons had not yet had chance to follow him, an elf turned the corner and all but walked into the monarch.

The elf was Gáthanar, and when he realized his mistake, the guard turned completely white.

Before any words could be exchanged, Malaithlon rounded the exact same corner, and Gáthanar actually began to tremble.

“Captain,” Thranduil remarked dryly as the Elven-King shifted his gaze between Malaithlon and Gáthanar. “Is aught amiss?”

Malaithlon was furious. The Captain of the Guard had spent the better part of the past hour searching for the missing Gáthanar. He was embarrassed and ashamed of having kept his lord waiting so long on a triviality. And now the truant guard stood quaking in front of him. Malaithlon clenched his jaw against the tirade that threatened to escape his control. Gáthanar would not be spared.

“My most sincere apologies, my lord,” Malaithlon ground out with a deferential bow to the Elven-King. “Here are the keys.” Without looking at the guard, Malaithlon grabbed the ring of keys from Gáthanar’s weak grasp. The captain proceeded to the cell door. He placed the key in the lock and turned it with perhaps more force than necessary. The lock clicked, and the heavy door creaked open.

Thranduil regarded Malaithlon for the barest of seconds before entering the cell. Girithron followed with a torch in hand, and Hananuir and Legolas brought up the rear.  As the last prince disappeared into the cell, Malaithlon turned to glare at Gáthanar.

“Why did you not report this morn?” he demanded through clenched teeth.

Gáthanar’s mouth moved to respond, but his eyes widened instead. Turning to see what had captivated the guard’s attention, Malaithlon was startled to behold King Thranduil and his three sons practically running out of the cell.

“The prisoner has escaped!” the Crown Prince all but shouted into Malaithlon’s face. “Search the other cells! Now!”

The Captain of the Guard froze, and finally giving vent to his frustration, Girithron took the keys from Malaithlon. Followed closely by Hananuir and Legolas, the Crown Prince made short work of inspecting the other cells. They were all empty.

“They are gone!” Girithron called as the brothers returned to Thranduil, Malaithlon, and Gáthanar. The captain and guard had withered considerably under the Elven-King’s stern gaze.

“The palace must be searched!” Thranduil commanded with a severe look at Malaithlon. The Captain of the Guard remained immobile, but somehow Gáthanar revived himself enough to obey the king’s command. The guard ran down the hallway bellowing a rallying call to all and sundry.

“Girithron, organize some kind of search in the palace. Legolas—search the forest,” Thranduil ordered rapidly with a look of disgust at Gáthanar’s retreating back.

“They cannot have traveled far,” Hananuir asserted as the royal family moved past the stunned Malaithlon.

“Captain.” Thranduil turned back to speak to Malaithlon before the king rounded the corridor.

The Captain of the Guard found himself compelled to meet the eyes of his lord, despite his utter incapability of movement only moments prior.

 The Elven-King’s eyes snapped and his face was grim. “See to it that the prisoners are recovered. I expect your report this evening.” Without awaiting a reply, Thranduil turned the corridor, and Malaithlon was left alone.

The Captain of the Guard proceeded weakly into the open cell. There were neither signs of destruction nor any possible apertures that a dwarf could have used to escape. Malaithlon sank slowly to the floor.

The dwarf had simply vanished.

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Thranduil was exhausted. The Elven-King rested his head in his hands and pressed his elbows deeper into the wood of his desk. He did not have enough patience for the events of the day. Rolling his shoulders, Thranduil amended his thought. No one had enough patience for the events of this particular day.

The dwarves were not in the Palace and neither were they in the immediate surrounds of the forest. Legolas had taken a patrol deeper into the forest, and his youngest son had yet to return with news of the prisoners.

Thranduil sighed deeply. He had managed to quarrel with both Girithron and Hananuir during the course of the day. Girithron was furious with the dwarves’ escape and advocated harsh punishments for the authority figures involved in the debacle. Thranduil was more lenient. Hananuir had succeeded in unnerving Thranduil’s entire Council with a diatribe regarding Sauron’s complicity in the dwarves’ escape. Thranduil had responded to both his sons with more anger than he would have wished to use, and the king did not relish the tense atmosphere among the family.

The king’s interview with Gáthanar had been draining. Despite Girithron’s suppositions to the contrary, Thranduil was also furious at the dwarves’ escape. Especially because the king could not fathom how it had been achieved without outside help. Thranduil was astonished that a guard could be so totally irresponsible as Gáthanar had been. However, the Elven-King’s wrath was somewhat cooled by the pathetic remorse of the chastised guard in question.

Gáthanar was hiding his tears, but they were evident in the quavering voice with which he spoke. “Let me give my life in the attack upon Dol Guldur, my lord,” Gáthanar had begged. “This way will I die knowing that I have served you in some small way.”

Biting back the sharp reprimand that had come to mind, Thranduil had denied the guard’s plea. The Elven-King had been satisfied to strip Gáthanar of his rank, relegating him to a status even below novices.

“You will remain in the Palace for the last defense,” Thranduil had ordered. “See to it that you do not abandon your comrades when the hour grows dark.”

By the time Malaithlon materialized to report to the king, Thranduil’s anger had dissipated to disappointment.

The Captain of the Guard had been subdued. He hung his head and refused to meet the king’s eyes. “I have failed you, my lord, in every aspect of my duty. I am ashamed to call myself ‘captain’. Take from me, I beg, the charge of service that you had the generosity to bestow on my unworthy self. I ask your leave to depart.”

Thranduil had known Malaithlon for centuries, and the king knew of the captain’s unswerving loyalty and total devotion to his house and family. Malaithlon did not often make mistakes and never had his faith in a guard been so misplaced. Thranduil knew that in this case, nothing he could say would punish Malaithlon more than that captain’s own regretful thoughts.

It had taken the Elven-King the better part of an hour to convince Malaithlon that he must keep his rank. By the time a subdued yet grateful captain had left the throne room, Thranduil was enjoying a rare headache. From the moment of his discovery of the prisoners’ escape that morn to his last conversation with Malaithlon, the Elven-King had not stopped resolving problems. He had eagerly sought the refuge of his study only to sit and review the frustrating day.

A timid knock roused Thranduil from his somber thoughts. “Enter,” he said wearily.

Without looking at the king, Galion shuffled into the room. He stood before Thranduil’s desk and did not speak.

The Elven-King raised his brows at the butler’s demeanor, as Galion was not one to succumb to the myriad disappointments of life. “Galion, is aught amiss?” Thranduil asked gently.

The silence stretched between them as Galion did not respond immediately, and the king did not press him. Finally, the butler heaved a sigh from the depths of his being and turned to regard the king. In his countenance, Thranduil read shame. “My lord,” the butler began softly, “I have aught I must relate to you, though my heart trembles and my mind rebels.”

Shaking the last of his weariness from his shoulders, Thranduil straightened in his chair. “Take a chair, Galion. I would hear you.”

The butler shook his head briefly and remained standing. “My lord, it…’twas I, my lord, who allowed for the prisoners to escape.”

The words lay heavily in the air, and the Elven-King regarded his butler in mild shock. “Exactly how could you be responsible? As I recall, were you not organizing a feast that night?”

Once again, Galion denied the statement. “Thus was I charged, yet this I did not do. In the early eve, I went down to the cellars…to receive the wine.” The butler paused.

A series of conclusions from this statement flashed through Thranduil’s mind. Firmly dismissing these conjectures until Galion had confirmed them, the king indicated for the butler to continue.

“As is customary, I sampled the wine to ensure the vintage was fit for your tables. However, I…there was another who sampled with me,” he finished hurriedly.

Thranduil met Galion’s eyes. “Gáthanar,” the king stated without preamble.

The butler closed his eyes and nodded. “’Twas I, my lord, who offered him the drink, and I who sought not to curb his enjoyment. Never had he tasted Dorwinion and little did he know of its potency. We drank til slumber overcame us.” Galion confessed reluctantly.

Thranduil’s jaw tightened as he digested this information. So the incompetent guard had slept through the prisoners’ escape. The Elven-King frowned. The mystery had deepened. “How long did you sleep?” he inquired evenly.

Galion blushed. “I was roused by the guard’s who came down from the feast to dispose of the empty barrels. ‘Twas full dark, I believe, perhaps ere midnight. I…allowed Gáthanar to sleep on.”

“Who were the guards?” Thranduil demanded.

“Faervel, Belton, Thorchanar and Túgnir. They can corroborate my tale.”

The king waved his hand dismissively. “My trust in you has been shaken, but not broken. I need hear no others to believe your words.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Galion whispered.

“So the barrels were disposed of?” Thranduil prompted.

“Aye, my lord, in the same manner as is customary. I admit to…feeling the ill effects of drink, but I remained with the guards throughout their labor. We parted upon completion of the task, and I must confess to having sought my quarters.”

“And Gáthanar slept on?”

“As far as I know, my lord. I saw him no more.” Galion hung his head.

Thranduil stared in the middle space as he contemplated Galion’s narrative. Gáthanar’s absence was now explained, but this shed no light on the manner in which the dwarves managed to unlock their cell doors, escape the palace, and return the keys without exciting elven attention. The Elven-King frowned. True, his people had been merrymaking and the wine had flowed freely. However, Thranduil would eat his staff if one dwarf, never mind thirteen, had managed to so much as tiptoe past an elf, even in a state of drunkenness, and evade detection. Thranduil turned his eyes back to his butler, and the lines around the king’s mouth softened.

“As much as I wish that you had not issued the invitation, Galion, I find no cause to blame you for the prisoners’ escape.”

Galion lifted his head in amazement. “My lord, I came to beg your pardon, for had I not—”

“We cannot arrive at those conclusions, my old and faithful friend. I see no correlation between your actions and the dwarves’ escape.” The Elven-King spoke from the sincerity of his heart, and as the words escape him, Thranduil felt the levity that comes with acting justly enter his being.

Galion blushed again. “Thank you, my lord. I am unworthy.”

“Nay, I wish not to enter upon this conversation,” Thranduil admonished teasingly. “I am depending upon you in my absence, Galion,” the king said suddenly serious.

“I shall not fail you again, my lord,” Galion swore with utter conviction in his eyes.

Thranduil nodded in satisfaction and dismissed the butler. Despite the gravity of the situation, he could not resist smiling as the mental picture of an inebriated Galion entered his thoughts. Thranduil chuckled, but immediately sobered, as his eyes lit upon a map on the wall that highlighted the southern half of the forest. The Elven-King narrowed his eyes slightly as he contemplated the marking that read Dol Guldur.

How could it be, he mused, that Sauron had utilized some dark and secret magic to help the dwarves escape? In his many and varied encounters with the Enemy, Thranduil was long familiar with the taint that evil carried and abandoned in its wake. There was always a particular feel to darkness, a presence in the mind and in the heart. Yet the Elven-King had felt neither stirrings of danger nor portents of shadow during the night’s festivities. Nor had he experienced warning signs when speaking with the dwarves personally. Surely, there would have been some slight presentiment, even a shiver of perception, which he would have noticed and whose warning he would have heeded. And yet, Thranduil and his brethren had remained blind, almost as if an invisible hand had stretched forth and snatched the dwarves without the barest whisper of a sound.

The Elven-King sighed deeply as he returned to himself. He would not forget this conundrum, but neither could he dwell on it to the exclusion of all other matters. The day had been brazen evidence of this fact as last-minute details of the attack had accosted the king without mercy.

A flicker of doubt pierced Thranduil’s heart. Was this the right course of action? Would his decisions be deemed rash and foolhardy once enough time had passed for them to reflected upon? He had prepared his mind for death…for defeat…for ruin. The Elven-King stood abruptly. Nay, his mind told him firmly. This is the only course of action and I will take it courageously, without hesitation.

Thranduil rolled his shoulders and decided that the hour had grown late enough. He should seek rest ere daybreak. The king turned from his desk, and just then, there came another knock on the door.

Closing his eyes in resigned disbelief, Thranduil ground out the command to enter. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the grimly determined face of Ivanneth.

“Thranduil.” His advisor greeted him informally. “I debated whether I would talk to you on this matter this night or wait til the morrow. I have sworn my loyalty and allegiance to you, and so I will speak as my heart bids me.”

Taken aback by the urgency in his advisor’s tone, Thranduil sat once again behind his desk. “Then I bid you speak quickly, long trusted counselor. What matter so weighs upon you?”

“I will fight,” Ivanneth said simply.

The Elven-King stared at the fire in Ivanneth’s eyes and was lost for words. “Fight?” he found himself repeating dumbly. “Yet the oath you had sworn?” Thranduil regained his composure as his advisor’s unprecedented statement fully bore down upon his mind. Ivanneth had sworn to never raise blade or spear nor draw arrow since the fall of Gondolin.

A thin smile graced the otherwise marble face of the king’s advisor. “It is precisely my oath which bids me fight. You were not there, Thranduil, when I made this promise, and so you did not hear the words that I spoke. Though I have related them to you.”

The Elven-King frowned slightly as he attempted to recall the exact phrase which, centuries before, Ivanneth had presented to him as the unbreakable vow of his refusal to participate in any military campaign. “I will raise no blade, heft no spear, nor draw any arrow in vengeance of my kin…” Thranduil pronounced slowly and trailed off as he found the last few words were vague in his memory. He regarded his advisor expectantly.

“Until I may challenge the Dark One himself and crush him forever,” Ivanneth finished with triumph.

Thranduil felt himself pale somewhat as he regarded the usually placid elf before him. No longer stood a tranquil source of quiet wisdom. Now, the king saw a warrior, fell and burning with a long-festering desire for vengeance. And this elf before him awoke in Thranduil the steely valor, which had driven the king to dole out death to his enemies.

The Elven-King rose and walked to stand before his advisor. Thranduil reached and clasped Ivanneth’s hand as warriors salute each other in mutual companionship. No words were necessary. Ivanneth departed in silence.

Once again alone, Thranduil remained standing in front of the door for a long moment. He felt stronger and more alert than in weeks prior. Victory would be theirs—and if Sauron proved invincible, if his orcs proved too many, and his traps too cunning—then Thranduil would die with all the glory of an ancient people’s legacy.

A knock sounded on the door. His mind no longer dwelling in the petty trivialities of the day, Thranduil evinced no surprise that yet another sought to speak with the king. “Enter,” he commanded, moving behind his desk.

A fair-haired elf slipped quickly into the room and bowed his head to his king.

“Legolas,” Thranduil greeted his son warmly. “Late is the hour.”

“Aye,” Legolas agreed ruefully as he settled himself into a chair.

“Well?” Thranduil raised an eyebrow, though his son’s dejected demeanor was answer enough.

“Absolutely no sign of them, Adar. It cannot be!” Legolas threw up his hands in frustration.  “I divided the patrol, sending a group to the eastern edge of the forest, and then again north. I myself went as far west as should be possible for dwarves, and then again south, and we found nothing!”

Thranduil raised a hand to pacify his son. “Peace, Legolas. There is a deep mystery here that puzzles me exceedingly. Those dwarves were aided by some higher power, and so their limits must extend beyond what normal dwarves can and will do.”

Legolas grunted. “I sent a trio northwards, as far as Lake Town. It occurred to me men may find what elves have lost.”

Thranduil shrugged noncommittally. “As you wish. ‘Twould be the first time, I imagine,” he concluded acerbically.

His youngest heaved a sigh. “Forgive me if I acted rashly, but truly—”

“Nay, I am not reprimanding your decision, ion nín. Perhaps the strangest course will prove the most rewarding,” Thranduil mused. “Never before have prisoners escaped my halls, much less thirteen dwarves of all creatures, so I am at a loss with advice. Let it be as you have done.”

Nodding wearily, Legolas cast his gaze about the room. Barely a moment passed before the prince rose in frustration and began to pace the room. “I simply cannot understand it, Adar! The forest is completely undisturbed! Not a single track, broken twig, or trampled bush! ‘Tis unnatural!”

“Aye,” Thranduil agreed seriously and rose. He closed the distance between them and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “That much is clear to me. Put it from your mind—as best you can,” the king amended as Legolas raised both eyebrows at his father. “Your mind must be clear to focus on our attack.”

Legolas looked away for a moment. “Aye, my lord,” he said formally.

“Legolas,” Thranduil said warningly. He would not be appeased by half-hearted formality.

His son sighed. “I will turn my heart and mind fully upon the attack, Adar, but do not expect me to forget this.”

“I expect no such thing from a son of mine,” Thranduil replied warmly. He smiled as the tension in Legolas’s face subsided. “Come.” He opened the study door and gestured down the hallway. “The morrow will arrive far too quickly.”

oooo

A/N: Yes, my friends, you read that correctly up at the top: this chapter is indeed the end of this particular fic. Before you freak out at me though, know that there will ABSOLUTELY be a sequel. My original intention in beginning this story was to write my version of the elven perspective on the events in The Hobbit. As everybody knows, those events are FAR from over. Unlike Mr. Jackson, however, I am not trying to milk this for all it’s worth, but I really do feel that the upcoming chapters deserve a story of their own, separate from this interlude. The next story will be all about The Battle of the Five Armies. Oh yeah, bigtime warfare. And I really want to be able to update the next fic on a more regular basis. SO I am going to try and write as much of it as I can in the next couple of months, and then begin posting with less time between updates. Hopefully, that’ll make for a more enjoyable read for everybody. I don’t want to make any promises though, since I’ve recently signed my life away in my new career path. Though, really, it’s gonna happen.

I want to take up some more of your time and ask for a review (pretty please?) Now that the story is complete, I am dying to hear opinions/likes/dislikes (politely of course). I know some readers wait until a story is complete before reviewing, so now’s your chance! Of course, I want to say an enormous THANK YOU to those dedicated readers who have stuck with me since the beginning and have reviewed. I hope that the story has gotten better (I think my writing has at any rate!) So, without more rambling from me, THANK YOU TO:

Fiondil

eiluj

ellie

Larner

Agape4Gondor

demeter d

obsidian

rikwen

Your words literally made my day on several occasions!

~Estel_Mi_Olor

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

I’m abbreviating this to only those characters actually mentioned in the chapter.

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Warriors

Captain Malaithlon—captain of the guard

Guards

Belton

Brastor

Círdir

Faervel

Gáthanar

Glíchon

Losdir

Thorchanar

Túgnir

TRANSLATIONS:

Adar: father

Ion nín: my son

Muindor: brother

Naugrim: literally “stunted people,” derogatory Elven name for Dwarves