Thranduil strode his fury out along the path. How could his son have been so careless, so foolhardy, so foolish!

He paused looking out across the great dark river, one hand resting on the comforting bole of an oak. Anger burnt through him. Would the boy never understand how little room there was for mercy in a world that offered them none?

He is young, the tree comforted and Thranduil sighed. Young he was, but the darkness grew ever closer and no longer could Thranduil shelter him. His son must ride tonight for Mithrandir and the consequences of his kindliness.