TITLE: Nothing Special, Chapter Four
PROMPT: #171: Question (500 words)
AUTHOR: Marethiel/ThinkingLady
RATING: PG-13 (for potentially disturbing images)
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em, drat it. I just take ‘em out to play. Many thanks to Professor Tolkien for creating these wonderful souls to populate my imagination. OC present.
NOTES: Sequel to Prompts #168: Special, #169: Careful, #170: Letter
BETA: The generous Cairistiona!
The mighty, blond Elf made an awesome image as he stood on the cliff: sharp wind whipped his hair around his starkly handsome face, his eyes molten sapphires, his expression deadly. His white-knuckled grip on his bow showed no sign of weakness, despite the bandaged wound on his forearm.
Aradhoron stood at the base of the small cliff, watching, guarding his father’s solitude. The prince knew the emotions churning within the Elvenking: first outrage and fury, then desperation as his outnumbered party fought bravely against ambush by a den of Orcs found deep within Mirkwood’s borders. Then surprise and gratitude as the Imladris Elves seemed to come from nowhere, providing the extra strength and good fortune needed to win the day. And then shock, hearing of Legolas’ capture…
“How do you know this to be true?!” Thranduil demanded, pushing through the throng until he was nose to nose with Elladan. Elrohir moved to intercede, but mighty Glorfindel, lord of Imladris’ forces and his superior in this foray, held him back, shaking his head almost imperceptibly: Your brother is strong. Let him be.
True to Glorfindel’s faith, Elladan held firm, his grey eyes cold and fierce, facing Thranduil head on. “Estel and Legolas left us, planning to go ahead of our party to let Mirkwood know of our coming. We found Estel’s blood-soaked satchel” -- Elladan’s voice broke then, thinking of his young brother, barely twenty –“and this.“ His bloodied fist brandished, blade down, a white-handled knife, Legolas’ name etched in the handle as well as a sentiment. Thranduil did not need to read it; he’d written it. Clamping his jaw fiercely, Thranduil held onto his temper, but the pain of seeing his child’s weapon retrieved told him the truth of the Peredhel’s words: Legolas would never have left that knife behind willingly. Never. Agony seared the Sinda, and he sagged slightly against his first-born, eyes squeezed shut in pain… I cannot lose him! I cannot lose my Greenleaf!
Firmly, yet with great tenderness, Glorfindel insinuated himself between the two. “As we have done here, let us join forces to find and aid those we love,” the ancient warrior declared gently. “Legolas is as dearly loved by Imladris as he is by Mirkwood. As is Estel, Elrond’s son.” Glorfindel put out a hand and gripped the Elvenking’s shoulder, an Elf he’d known for two ages. “Come, my friend. Rest while my patrol readies the search. You have been wounded – ”
“It is nothing,” snapped the King, surprised to find himself firmly held in place.
“You are wounded,” Glorfindel repeated sternly, “and we need you at your best to find Legolas and Estel. In your youth, there was no better tracker than Thranduil Oropherion. Put those skills to work now, my friend. But rest first.”
The words touched Thranduil, and his lips clamped together as he nodded tersely.
Now, he stood tall on the cliff, as though daring the very elements to stop him from hunting for and finding his child.
** to be continued **