A Battlefield Prayer
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Category:
-Multi-Age › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,074
Reviews:
1
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.
A Battlefield Prayer
Title: A Battlefield Prayer
Author: TICS
Rated: R
Genre: Drama
Warnings: Battle scenes, violence.
Summary: Written in response to the Summer Challenge at Dream Elf. The Challenge called for a story taking place mostly in the Second Age, including a list of thirty words given as part of the challenge, and at least one Elf. Although the battle depicted in this story took place during the Third Age, Thranduil's reminiscences take place mostly during the second Age.
Disclaimer: I own nothing...not the elves, not the places, not the concept...nothing. Well, I DO own a copy of every book the Professor wrote...but I hardly think that gives me a proprietary interest...I'm just playing, and will put them back neatly where I found them.
A/N: Thranduil's memories indicated by // and //.
A Battlefield Prayer
Blood sprayed in an arc of crimson droplets, splattering his face and armor in a gory shower as he yanked his sword from the gut of a Goblin. Without pausing, the Elf swung his gore-drenched sword over his head and sliced through another of the fell creatures. One after another they succumbed to his blade as he cut a path of destruction through the horde of Goblins and Wolves.
Finally, a moment's peace. Around him lay the carcasses of Goblins and Wolves piled several deep, the panting, sweating, and ofttimes bleeding Elves, Men, and Dwarves who had banded together to fight them standing over, looking every bit as fatigued as Thranduil felt. Mixed with the carcasses of their enemies lay many good and decent folk, their bodies ravaged by sword and tooth and claw.
Suddenly, a Wolf raised its matted head from above the rise, snarling, its yellow fangs dripping rancid saliva, ready to mangle yet another of the Elf's kin and allies. Another moment and the beast sported an arrow in its skull from Thranduil's own bow. Falling heavily to its side it dislodged a stone from the hilltop, which rolled and bounced its way down to lie at Thranduil's feet.
"Thranduil! Come! We retreat to the forest to regroup!" called the gravelly voice of one of the Naugrim.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
// The child sat in the sunlight, glints of gold sparkling in his hair as he studiously considered the next move of his army. Scattered on the ground about him were the remains of several battalions of archers and warriors who had died valiantly in the War. Picking up one of the carved wooden soldiers, he slammed it with full force into the line of smooth river-rocks that served as the advancing Goblin horde, sending several rolling away.
"Ha! Take that, you ugly Goblins! Gil-Galad has broken through!" the young one cried, proudly marching his little wooden soldier across the ground. He immediately scooped up a handful of other soldiers, most having been recently dead but now miraculously alive and well, and marched them through the opening made by Gil-Galad.
"Another war won, Thranduil?" asked a deep voice from behind the youngster.
Turning, Thranduil beamed a gap-toothed smile at his father. "Aye, Ada! Gil-Galad has triumphed over the Goblin Horde! Look...they run in fear of the King!" he laughed, nudging one of the stones with his foot and sending it rolling away toward the thicket ofshrubbery that ringed the courtyard where Thranduil's army sprawled.
Oropher laughed, bending to ruffle the fine golden hair on his son's head. "Good work, son. You have kept Lindon safe yet another day!" He gave his son's tiny button nose a tweak, saying, "Now, quickly...come inside and eat your lunch...your Nana worries that you will starve to death out here in the battlefield."
"Must I, Ada? The Goblins will regroup and strike again, you know. They might overrun Lindon if I am not here to thwart them!"
"Ah...I believe Gil-Galad can hold them off until you've finished your soup and juice, Thranduil," Oropher replied, giving his son a more stern look. "Come inside and eat ...then you may resume defending the city."
"Aye, Ada," the little one reluctantly agreed. He accompanied his father into the house, dragging his feet, casting many regretful backward glances at the army he felt he was being forced to desert. //
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sleeve of his leather jerkin had been ripped open from shoulder to elbow along with the skin underneath it, blood flowing in rivulets down to his wrist, droplets of his lifeblood spraying with each slice of his sword, each pull of his bow. Weary, his body acted on instinct - thrust, parry, lunge...nock, aim, release...thrust, parry, lunge - as wave after wave of the obnoxious beasts swarmed over the rise in a seemingly unending supply.
Their own numbers thinned, and for the first time that bleak and black afternoon Thranduil wondered if they would prevail. Through the corner of his eye he watched Goblin and Wolf alike fly through the air like shaved kindling as Beorn, a behemoth of a Man in his bear-guise waded through the melee, his roar of anger rising above the din of battle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
// Wide-eyed, the elfling who was quickly approaching adolescence eyed the pelt in wonder, running his fingers lightly over the thick, dark brown fur and head of the beast. Frozen in its death-mask, the bear seemed to grin at him as he tentatively touched a forefinger to one of the yellowed and fierce incisors.
This particular bear had been a worth adversary, his Ada had told him. Fierce and bold, it had made several attacks on the outlying villages of Lindon taking the lives of two Elves in the process. The hunt had been short but frought with peril, for the bear was cunning for one of its ilk, finally taking to the trees when cornered. Oropher had told Thranduil that it had taken many arrows to fell it, and the crash made by its heavy body when it finally returned to the ground had shaken the very earth beneath the hunters' feet.
"Be not lulled into complacency simply by the fact that your enemy is not one of the Children of Ilúvatar, Thranduil. The beasts of the forest are often cunning and sly and more dangerous than any two-footed adversary you may have need to fight. Even the prong of the gentle and shy deer's antler can be dangerous if you are ill-prepared or ill-attentive," Oropher had lectured him, grabbing hold of the fur between the bear's ears and pulling its head up to stare at Thranduil with dead eyes. It was all Thranduil could do not to cringe as those orange eyes, though dulled in death, seemed to bore right through to his soul. //
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Another moment's lull in the onslaught of Goblin and Wolf. Another moment to breathe, although the air was putrid with the smell of blood and death. Uncorking his waterskin, Thranduil poured some of the precious fluid over his head, sluicing away a bit of the thick, sticky mixture of blood and sweat that covered his fair skin. The leather of his tunic was sodden with it, having soaked up his bodily fluids like a sponge. A deep drink of the clean water revived him, cooling his parched throat. Wiping an arm over his brow, his turquoise eyes scanned the battlefield for movement, either friend or foe. Friend, to aid and offer what little comfort was to be had in the midst of battle; foe, to end another miserable life and rid the world of a bit more evil. Just off to his left, amid the bloating ruins of several wolves, he caught a flash of red-streaked silver and a slight movement.
His muscles rippled beneath the torn sleeves of his jerkin, and unmindful of his own wounds that once again bled freely, Thranduil hoisted a malodorous beast from the body of an Elf that lay beneath it, face down in the mud. With gentle hands, he rolled the body over and removed the battered helm that covered the Elf's face.
Wide blue eyes stared back at him, pain-clouded, the spark of life already dimming. A jagged, brutal wound had nearly split the archer in two and Thranduil knew at a glance that no healer's ointment or wizard's gimmick could save this one. With a soft word and a swift hand, he eased the elleth's passing and ended her pain.
Laying her head back down in the mud, her eyes closed in death, he sent a silent prayer to the Valar to watch for her soul and guide it safely to the Halls.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
// She was the loveliest creature Thranduil could ever remember seeing.
They had just arrived in Lórien, newly come from Lindon as his father led his people to a new life east of the Misty Mountains. It was early spring, and although the great mellyrn had sprouted their leaves of gold they were still young and tender, and the air was still chill with winter's last breath.
A feast was being held in honor of the visiting kin at the behest Amroth, Lord of Lórien, and the musicians had struck up their instruments just a few moments ago. The air was thick with laughter, the tables piled high with cheese, sausages, fruit, and wine.
Thranduil sat at a booth with a few of his friends, all elves well past their majority, staring at a bowl of wide noodles that had been placed in front of him by a well-meaning Lórien cousin. A dollop of something curdled and white had been plopped on top of the mound of pale-looking strands, and although Thranduil knew it would be impolite to refuse it, he wasn't quite certain that he could manage to ingest it, either.
His attention was taken from the bowl before him by the elbow of one of his fellows digging into his side. Following his friend's line of sight, Thranduil beheld the most exquisite vision he had ever seen.
Smiling gaily, she swished her full skirts to and fro in time to the beat set by the musicians, her feet stepping lightly to the tune. Skin as pale as milk glowed beneath her crown of gleaming silver hair, bound into a single thick braid and sparkling with a fine mesh covering of mithril. Sparkling blue eyes that reminded Thranduil of the crystal clear lakes that had dotted the land of his former home in Lindon, flashed with good humor as she danced.
Her bosom was full for an elleth, accentuating her tiny waist and slender hips as she spun and laughed not twenty feet from where Thranduil sat, enthralled. Her dancing led her closer still, until when the music finally stopped she stood facing him mere inches away.
He rose from his seat, his eyes never leaving hers, and reached for her slim hand.
He did not let go of her until nearly a millennium later, when death stole her from him as she labored to bring their child into the world. //
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A battle cry ripped from his already rasped raw throat, as Thranduil continued to slash and hack at the advancing hordes. In his mind's eye he saw Thorin fall again, nearly beheaded by the blade wielded with skill by Bolg's bodyguard, his young nephews with him.
No matter what cause for the original hostile meeting of the Elves, Men and Dwarves, be it escape from Thranduil's dungeons or the destruction of Laketown and a righteous call for restitution, the common enemy had bound them all as brothers and Thranduil felt their loss as he would one of his own.
From over the hills the Eagles had come, diving and snatching Goblin and Wolf alike in their mighty talons, ripping them apart or dropping them from great heights to splat upon the ground like fat, red raindrops.
A young Elf ran past, his sword drawn and crashing sparks against the sword of a Goblin as he met the fell creature head-on in a frenzy of inexperienced thrusts and parries. Only Thranduil's quick move kept the young ellon's head still attached to his body as the Elven King sliced the grimacing, snaggle-toothed head from the shoulders of the Goblin in one clean stroke. A quick look of gratitude and the young ellon was off to seek another enemy and another chance at glory. Thranduil stared after him for a moment, grieved in his certainty that the young one would not live out the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
// Thranduil stood in his favorite garden, a thicket of rosebushes planted by his wife just outside of the Great Cavern's mouth. The air smelled sweetly of the large, round, dark red blooms, and he often came here where her spirit lingered to find a few moments of peace from the responsibilities of his kingship.
A slight movement caught his eye and he spied a bit of long, fine platinum hair moving with childish stealth within the thick fronds of the rosebushes. Quickly hiding a knowing smile, Thranduil feigned ignorance of his son's presence in his garden, pretending to study a nearby bloom. When the elfling Prince flung himself at the King, Thranduil turned at the last possible moment and caught his son in his arms, turning the tables on Legolas. Squealing with a combination of delight and indignation, Legolas squirmed in his father's arms.
"Ada! I am a warrior and you are an Orc! Put me down...Orcs do not overpower warriors!" he squealed, quickly dissolving into childish giggles at his father's tickling.
"What have you here, Legolas?" Thranduil asked his son, referring to the wrinkled parchment clutched in the prince's chubby hand.
Stilling at last, but still smiling, the elfling proudly showed the parchment, covered in childish scribble, to the King. "Galion said I did well in my lessons this morning, Ada! He said we should bind this in leather and place it in the bookcase in your library!"
"You have done well, my son!" Thranduil smiled, looking at the haphazard curls and shaky loops of his son's endeavors to write his name in Elvish script. "I doubt even Rumil himself could have done so well at your age! We shall indeed have this bound so that others might study your wondrous writings!" With a hearty laugh and a light heart, Thranduil scooped Legolas up into his arms, parchment and all, and carried him into the Cavern, his nose buried in his son's sweet-smelling hair.
Thranduil thought that he could still smell that baby-scented hair even now, so many years later, although his son was grown to an ellon warrior and no longer brought his accomplishments to his father seeking affirmation, although his father was no less proud of them. //
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bolg fell, crushed by the tremendous strength of Beorn. Destroying all they could manage to catch, the Elves, Dwarves, and Men, aided by the Eagles and Beorn and his kin, made short work of their enemies. A few escaped, plunging through the forest and losing themselves in the shadows and quiet corners, eventually finding their way into the deep dark places of the world.
Surveying the battlefield, piled with the bodies of friend and foe alike, Thranduil wondered, not for the first nor the last time, when, and if, the bloodshed would end, and when, and if, the evil that grew and spread like a poisoned wound across the land would finally be cast out from his beloved Arda. He sent a prayer to the Valar to end the misery of this world once and for all. To sweep clean the black evil, and restore peace to all the peoples who resided there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Across a continent, amid pumpkins and turnips a young Hobbit named Frodo played, blissfully unaware of the part he was to play in answering Thranduil's prayer.
THE END
Author: TICS
Rated: R
Genre: Drama
Warnings: Battle scenes, violence.
Summary: Written in response to the Summer Challenge at Dream Elf. The Challenge called for a story taking place mostly in the Second Age, including a list of thirty words given as part of the challenge, and at least one Elf. Although the battle depicted in this story took place during the Third Age, Thranduil's reminiscences take place mostly during the second Age.
Disclaimer: I own nothing...not the elves, not the places, not the concept...nothing. Well, I DO own a copy of every book the Professor wrote...but I hardly think that gives me a proprietary interest...I'm just playing, and will put them back neatly where I found them.
A/N: Thranduil's memories indicated by // and //.
A Battlefield Prayer
Blood sprayed in an arc of crimson droplets, splattering his face and armor in a gory shower as he yanked his sword from the gut of a Goblin. Without pausing, the Elf swung his gore-drenched sword over his head and sliced through another of the fell creatures. One after another they succumbed to his blade as he cut a path of destruction through the horde of Goblins and Wolves.
Finally, a moment's peace. Around him lay the carcasses of Goblins and Wolves piled several deep, the panting, sweating, and ofttimes bleeding Elves, Men, and Dwarves who had banded together to fight them standing over, looking every bit as fatigued as Thranduil felt. Mixed with the carcasses of their enemies lay many good and decent folk, their bodies ravaged by sword and tooth and claw.
Suddenly, a Wolf raised its matted head from above the rise, snarling, its yellow fangs dripping rancid saliva, ready to mangle yet another of the Elf's kin and allies. Another moment and the beast sported an arrow in its skull from Thranduil's own bow. Falling heavily to its side it dislodged a stone from the hilltop, which rolled and bounced its way down to lie at Thranduil's feet.
"Thranduil! Come! We retreat to the forest to regroup!" called the gravelly voice of one of the Naugrim.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
// The child sat in the sunlight, glints of gold sparkling in his hair as he studiously considered the next move of his army. Scattered on the ground about him were the remains of several battalions of archers and warriors who had died valiantly in the War. Picking up one of the carved wooden soldiers, he slammed it with full force into the line of smooth river-rocks that served as the advancing Goblin horde, sending several rolling away.
"Ha! Take that, you ugly Goblins! Gil-Galad has broken through!" the young one cried, proudly marching his little wooden soldier across the ground. He immediately scooped up a handful of other soldiers, most having been recently dead but now miraculously alive and well, and marched them through the opening made by Gil-Galad.
"Another war won, Thranduil?" asked a deep voice from behind the youngster.
Turning, Thranduil beamed a gap-toothed smile at his father. "Aye, Ada! Gil-Galad has triumphed over the Goblin Horde! Look...they run in fear of the King!" he laughed, nudging one of the stones with his foot and sending it rolling away toward the thicket ofshrubbery that ringed the courtyard where Thranduil's army sprawled.
Oropher laughed, bending to ruffle the fine golden hair on his son's head. "Good work, son. You have kept Lindon safe yet another day!" He gave his son's tiny button nose a tweak, saying, "Now, quickly...come inside and eat your lunch...your Nana worries that you will starve to death out here in the battlefield."
"Must I, Ada? The Goblins will regroup and strike again, you know. They might overrun Lindon if I am not here to thwart them!"
"Ah...I believe Gil-Galad can hold them off until you've finished your soup and juice, Thranduil," Oropher replied, giving his son a more stern look. "Come inside and eat ...then you may resume defending the city."
"Aye, Ada," the little one reluctantly agreed. He accompanied his father into the house, dragging his feet, casting many regretful backward glances at the army he felt he was being forced to desert. //
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sleeve of his leather jerkin had been ripped open from shoulder to elbow along with the skin underneath it, blood flowing in rivulets down to his wrist, droplets of his lifeblood spraying with each slice of his sword, each pull of his bow. Weary, his body acted on instinct - thrust, parry, lunge...nock, aim, release...thrust, parry, lunge - as wave after wave of the obnoxious beasts swarmed over the rise in a seemingly unending supply.
Their own numbers thinned, and for the first time that bleak and black afternoon Thranduil wondered if they would prevail. Through the corner of his eye he watched Goblin and Wolf alike fly through the air like shaved kindling as Beorn, a behemoth of a Man in his bear-guise waded through the melee, his roar of anger rising above the din of battle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
// Wide-eyed, the elfling who was quickly approaching adolescence eyed the pelt in wonder, running his fingers lightly over the thick, dark brown fur and head of the beast. Frozen in its death-mask, the bear seemed to grin at him as he tentatively touched a forefinger to one of the yellowed and fierce incisors.
This particular bear had been a worth adversary, his Ada had told him. Fierce and bold, it had made several attacks on the outlying villages of Lindon taking the lives of two Elves in the process. The hunt had been short but frought with peril, for the bear was cunning for one of its ilk, finally taking to the trees when cornered. Oropher had told Thranduil that it had taken many arrows to fell it, and the crash made by its heavy body when it finally returned to the ground had shaken the very earth beneath the hunters' feet.
"Be not lulled into complacency simply by the fact that your enemy is not one of the Children of Ilúvatar, Thranduil. The beasts of the forest are often cunning and sly and more dangerous than any two-footed adversary you may have need to fight. Even the prong of the gentle and shy deer's antler can be dangerous if you are ill-prepared or ill-attentive," Oropher had lectured him, grabbing hold of the fur between the bear's ears and pulling its head up to stare at Thranduil with dead eyes. It was all Thranduil could do not to cringe as those orange eyes, though dulled in death, seemed to bore right through to his soul. //
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Another moment's lull in the onslaught of Goblin and Wolf. Another moment to breathe, although the air was putrid with the smell of blood and death. Uncorking his waterskin, Thranduil poured some of the precious fluid over his head, sluicing away a bit of the thick, sticky mixture of blood and sweat that covered his fair skin. The leather of his tunic was sodden with it, having soaked up his bodily fluids like a sponge. A deep drink of the clean water revived him, cooling his parched throat. Wiping an arm over his brow, his turquoise eyes scanned the battlefield for movement, either friend or foe. Friend, to aid and offer what little comfort was to be had in the midst of battle; foe, to end another miserable life and rid the world of a bit more evil. Just off to his left, amid the bloating ruins of several wolves, he caught a flash of red-streaked silver and a slight movement.
His muscles rippled beneath the torn sleeves of his jerkin, and unmindful of his own wounds that once again bled freely, Thranduil hoisted a malodorous beast from the body of an Elf that lay beneath it, face down in the mud. With gentle hands, he rolled the body over and removed the battered helm that covered the Elf's face.
Wide blue eyes stared back at him, pain-clouded, the spark of life already dimming. A jagged, brutal wound had nearly split the archer in two and Thranduil knew at a glance that no healer's ointment or wizard's gimmick could save this one. With a soft word and a swift hand, he eased the elleth's passing and ended her pain.
Laying her head back down in the mud, her eyes closed in death, he sent a silent prayer to the Valar to watch for her soul and guide it safely to the Halls.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
// She was the loveliest creature Thranduil could ever remember seeing.
They had just arrived in Lórien, newly come from Lindon as his father led his people to a new life east of the Misty Mountains. It was early spring, and although the great mellyrn had sprouted their leaves of gold they were still young and tender, and the air was still chill with winter's last breath.
A feast was being held in honor of the visiting kin at the behest Amroth, Lord of Lórien, and the musicians had struck up their instruments just a few moments ago. The air was thick with laughter, the tables piled high with cheese, sausages, fruit, and wine.
Thranduil sat at a booth with a few of his friends, all elves well past their majority, staring at a bowl of wide noodles that had been placed in front of him by a well-meaning Lórien cousin. A dollop of something curdled and white had been plopped on top of the mound of pale-looking strands, and although Thranduil knew it would be impolite to refuse it, he wasn't quite certain that he could manage to ingest it, either.
His attention was taken from the bowl before him by the elbow of one of his fellows digging into his side. Following his friend's line of sight, Thranduil beheld the most exquisite vision he had ever seen.
Smiling gaily, she swished her full skirts to and fro in time to the beat set by the musicians, her feet stepping lightly to the tune. Skin as pale as milk glowed beneath her crown of gleaming silver hair, bound into a single thick braid and sparkling with a fine mesh covering of mithril. Sparkling blue eyes that reminded Thranduil of the crystal clear lakes that had dotted the land of his former home in Lindon, flashed with good humor as she danced.
Her bosom was full for an elleth, accentuating her tiny waist and slender hips as she spun and laughed not twenty feet from where Thranduil sat, enthralled. Her dancing led her closer still, until when the music finally stopped she stood facing him mere inches away.
He rose from his seat, his eyes never leaving hers, and reached for her slim hand.
He did not let go of her until nearly a millennium later, when death stole her from him as she labored to bring their child into the world. //
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A battle cry ripped from his already rasped raw throat, as Thranduil continued to slash and hack at the advancing hordes. In his mind's eye he saw Thorin fall again, nearly beheaded by the blade wielded with skill by Bolg's bodyguard, his young nephews with him.
No matter what cause for the original hostile meeting of the Elves, Men and Dwarves, be it escape from Thranduil's dungeons or the destruction of Laketown and a righteous call for restitution, the common enemy had bound them all as brothers and Thranduil felt their loss as he would one of his own.
From over the hills the Eagles had come, diving and snatching Goblin and Wolf alike in their mighty talons, ripping them apart or dropping them from great heights to splat upon the ground like fat, red raindrops.
A young Elf ran past, his sword drawn and crashing sparks against the sword of a Goblin as he met the fell creature head-on in a frenzy of inexperienced thrusts and parries. Only Thranduil's quick move kept the young ellon's head still attached to his body as the Elven King sliced the grimacing, snaggle-toothed head from the shoulders of the Goblin in one clean stroke. A quick look of gratitude and the young ellon was off to seek another enemy and another chance at glory. Thranduil stared after him for a moment, grieved in his certainty that the young one would not live out the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
// Thranduil stood in his favorite garden, a thicket of rosebushes planted by his wife just outside of the Great Cavern's mouth. The air smelled sweetly of the large, round, dark red blooms, and he often came here where her spirit lingered to find a few moments of peace from the responsibilities of his kingship.
A slight movement caught his eye and he spied a bit of long, fine platinum hair moving with childish stealth within the thick fronds of the rosebushes. Quickly hiding a knowing smile, Thranduil feigned ignorance of his son's presence in his garden, pretending to study a nearby bloom. When the elfling Prince flung himself at the King, Thranduil turned at the last possible moment and caught his son in his arms, turning the tables on Legolas. Squealing with a combination of delight and indignation, Legolas squirmed in his father's arms.
"Ada! I am a warrior and you are an Orc! Put me down...Orcs do not overpower warriors!" he squealed, quickly dissolving into childish giggles at his father's tickling.
"What have you here, Legolas?" Thranduil asked his son, referring to the wrinkled parchment clutched in the prince's chubby hand.
Stilling at last, but still smiling, the elfling proudly showed the parchment, covered in childish scribble, to the King. "Galion said I did well in my lessons this morning, Ada! He said we should bind this in leather and place it in the bookcase in your library!"
"You have done well, my son!" Thranduil smiled, looking at the haphazard curls and shaky loops of his son's endeavors to write his name in Elvish script. "I doubt even Rumil himself could have done so well at your age! We shall indeed have this bound so that others might study your wondrous writings!" With a hearty laugh and a light heart, Thranduil scooped Legolas up into his arms, parchment and all, and carried him into the Cavern, his nose buried in his son's sweet-smelling hair.
Thranduil thought that he could still smell that baby-scented hair even now, so many years later, although his son was grown to an ellon warrior and no longer brought his accomplishments to his father seeking affirmation, although his father was no less proud of them. //
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bolg fell, crushed by the tremendous strength of Beorn. Destroying all they could manage to catch, the Elves, Dwarves, and Men, aided by the Eagles and Beorn and his kin, made short work of their enemies. A few escaped, plunging through the forest and losing themselves in the shadows and quiet corners, eventually finding their way into the deep dark places of the world.
Surveying the battlefield, piled with the bodies of friend and foe alike, Thranduil wondered, not for the first nor the last time, when, and if, the bloodshed would end, and when, and if, the evil that grew and spread like a poisoned wound across the land would finally be cast out from his beloved Arda. He sent a prayer to the Valar to end the misery of this world once and for all. To sweep clean the black evil, and restore peace to all the peoples who resided there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Across a continent, amid pumpkins and turnips a young Hobbit named Frodo played, blissfully unaware of the part he was to play in answering Thranduil's prayer.
THE END