Lullaby
folder
-Multi-Age › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
8
Views:
2,777
Reviews:
6
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Multi-Age › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
8
Views:
2,777
Reviews:
6
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Part One
"Oropher was slain in the first assault upon Mordor, rushing forward at the head of his most doughty warriors before Gil-Galad had given the signal for the advance." - the UnFinished Tales, pg. 271
Part One
Who can stand, the elf pondered, his blood stained sword held limply in his hand. The dead surrounded him, his people. Slain they had been by the dark lord’s wrath, a wrath they had so desperately tried to escape.
He lifted his simple helm from his head, releasing his sweat and dirt matted golden braid. It fell with a heavy thud against his back, and he dropped the helm to the ground. His blue eyes darkened in their sorrow and anger.
Fools they had been, Thranduil thought to himself. If the dark one seeks you, you cannot escape him.
His feet were rooted to the muddied field of bodies, and all he could do was stare and watch the fiends of Hell feast upon the dead, those few who remained helpless to stop them though they continued to fight. In his heart and mind, he could hear the cries of the fallen, shrieking for their dignity.
In flurry of anger, he raised his sword and attacked the few near him, hacking them down from his brethren, but he knew it was pointless against so many. He cursed those behind him, the king and his followers, the lord and his lady--and their puppet king, and their followers. None came to his aid.
He searched among the bodies, avoiding the dark creatures, occasionally striking one down, the other survivors also searching and doing the same. He searched for golden hair, bloody and dirty. So many stared in death at him, and his mind whirled, dizzying him. Then he caught a bit of the silver color from his father’s mark. The beech tree sparkled silver and red, the rivers of blood streaming over the armor.
Father, he screamed in his mind. He scrambled and stumbled over the bodies, sinking in the mud to his ankles, the mire slopping as he pulled his feet out and back in. He senses were completely numb to everything but his vision.
“Father!” He shrieked in anguish, eyes toward the heavens then his face crushed against the lifeless face of his father. In desperation and anger, he pulled away the bodies separating him from his father. Tugging the death-heavy body into his arms, Thranduil cradled the fallen king of the Sylvans. Tears mingled with muck and blood. The spirit of his father whisper to him in his ear, of love and wisdom, regret for so much between father and son. Thranduil wept, even as he heard the call for their retreat, the other realms in their condescension beckoning them back under their wing.
Looking over the dead, his father’s head against his breast, Thranduil cursed the gods. The Sylvans that his father had worked so hard to gain trust from lay littering the ground.
Two approached him from the back, with quiet understanding for why he wept.
He looked up with his tears leaving clean trails on his face. Lathdir offered him a hand to rise, and Halathir caught Oropher’s body as Thranduil let it go in his weakness.
“We will take him home to your mother, after all this is over,” Lathdir whispered.
“He will have the burial of a king, as such as he was to us,” Halathir finished.
Thranduil’s legs buckled, but he was caught by Lathdir.
“You must be strong, my lord,” the Sylvan chided. “You are now in his stead. You must confer with the kings that sit so proudly in their tents and upon their horses watching us now.” Thranduil blinked back his tears, furrowing his brow in a grimace. Lathdir spoke the truth, a voice like thunder echoing in his head as the responsibilities of his new situation dawned upon him. He was king now; the thought terrified him for he had never expected to be such, his father reigning for as long as the realm existed.
Anger clouded his head. “I wish nothing more than to return home. It will be hard enough to bring Adar home to her. I do not wish to lengthen our stay.” There was no glory now, when so many would not be coming home with them.
“And of the others, all those that we will not be able to bring home, nor identify? We have near a thousand dead, my lord.” Halathir brought Thranduil back to reality. So many, and he now had to be strong for those remaining.
“Then if it must be, we will combine those little we have left, if only to protect ourselves. It’s not brave when those left behind have no one returning.” Thranduil allowed Halathir and Lathdir to help him bring his father’s body off the field, a signal to the others to find their loved ones if they could and to bring the dead with them.
Part One
Who can stand, the elf pondered, his blood stained sword held limply in his hand. The dead surrounded him, his people. Slain they had been by the dark lord’s wrath, a wrath they had so desperately tried to escape.
He lifted his simple helm from his head, releasing his sweat and dirt matted golden braid. It fell with a heavy thud against his back, and he dropped the helm to the ground. His blue eyes darkened in their sorrow and anger.
Fools they had been, Thranduil thought to himself. If the dark one seeks you, you cannot escape him.
His feet were rooted to the muddied field of bodies, and all he could do was stare and watch the fiends of Hell feast upon the dead, those few who remained helpless to stop them though they continued to fight. In his heart and mind, he could hear the cries of the fallen, shrieking for their dignity.
In flurry of anger, he raised his sword and attacked the few near him, hacking them down from his brethren, but he knew it was pointless against so many. He cursed those behind him, the king and his followers, the lord and his lady--and their puppet king, and their followers. None came to his aid.
He searched among the bodies, avoiding the dark creatures, occasionally striking one down, the other survivors also searching and doing the same. He searched for golden hair, bloody and dirty. So many stared in death at him, and his mind whirled, dizzying him. Then he caught a bit of the silver color from his father’s mark. The beech tree sparkled silver and red, the rivers of blood streaming over the armor.
Father, he screamed in his mind. He scrambled and stumbled over the bodies, sinking in the mud to his ankles, the mire slopping as he pulled his feet out and back in. He senses were completely numb to everything but his vision.
“Father!” He shrieked in anguish, eyes toward the heavens then his face crushed against the lifeless face of his father. In desperation and anger, he pulled away the bodies separating him from his father. Tugging the death-heavy body into his arms, Thranduil cradled the fallen king of the Sylvans. Tears mingled with muck and blood. The spirit of his father whisper to him in his ear, of love and wisdom, regret for so much between father and son. Thranduil wept, even as he heard the call for their retreat, the other realms in their condescension beckoning them back under their wing.
Looking over the dead, his father’s head against his breast, Thranduil cursed the gods. The Sylvans that his father had worked so hard to gain trust from lay littering the ground.
Two approached him from the back, with quiet understanding for why he wept.
He looked up with his tears leaving clean trails on his face. Lathdir offered him a hand to rise, and Halathir caught Oropher’s body as Thranduil let it go in his weakness.
“We will take him home to your mother, after all this is over,” Lathdir whispered.
“He will have the burial of a king, as such as he was to us,” Halathir finished.
Thranduil’s legs buckled, but he was caught by Lathdir.
“You must be strong, my lord,” the Sylvan chided. “You are now in his stead. You must confer with the kings that sit so proudly in their tents and upon their horses watching us now.” Thranduil blinked back his tears, furrowing his brow in a grimace. Lathdir spoke the truth, a voice like thunder echoing in his head as the responsibilities of his new situation dawned upon him. He was king now; the thought terrified him for he had never expected to be such, his father reigning for as long as the realm existed.
Anger clouded his head. “I wish nothing more than to return home. It will be hard enough to bring Adar home to her. I do not wish to lengthen our stay.” There was no glory now, when so many would not be coming home with them.
“And of the others, all those that we will not be able to bring home, nor identify? We have near a thousand dead, my lord.” Halathir brought Thranduil back to reality. So many, and he now had to be strong for those remaining.
“Then if it must be, we will combine those little we have left, if only to protect ourselves. It’s not brave when those left behind have no one returning.” Thranduil allowed Halathir and Lathdir to help him bring his father’s body off the field, a signal to the others to find their loved ones if they could and to bring the dead with them.