First Age, 502:

It was not the smoke that choked Thranduil the most, but the overwhelming darkness—the haze between blurry shapes in the night, the undefined voices, shrieks, the utter blindness.

Menegroth had fallen. The king was dead, and in her grief, the queen fled. Driven by their grief and the need to avenge their kin, the dwarven army of Nogrod sacked the fortress, the kingdom, delivered ruin to the once mighty stronghold of Thingol. All was lost.

Now darkness descended, and the great stone bridge across the Esgalduin was slick with the blood of the fallen.

Thranduil lurched forward, his hand pressed hotly against his side. His garrison had taken up defense of the causeway, and the casualties...he drew a ragged breath...the casualties devastated him. He had been struck in the side by a dwarven lance, knocked against the wall as the hoard thundered savagely past him and into the city, while his friends and fellow guards tried desperately to withstand their charge. His captain's cry to arms still rung in his ears as did the cries of the fallen. It was too much. Much too painful. Now in the aftermath, the great citadel of Menegroth lay wasted, and all Thranduil wanted was to find his father, and he dared to hope, his mother.

The last he saw of his father had been as Oropher raced past him to defend the enormous stone gates to the entrance of the city, but those gates had been overrun by the dwarves. He knew that now. Seeing the destruction, the fallen stones, the torn iron hinges, Thranduil lost hope that his father might have survived. Bodies littered the ground amid fallen weapons, bloodied banners, the refuse of war.

A steady stream of survivors now flowed from the halls, picking their way carefully around the fallen and across the bridge, leaving the once great realm of Doriath as refugees, and Thranduil peered through the darkness at the line of weary faces, streaked with soot and sorrow. He clung to a fragile hope that any minute he might see his mother's heart-shaped face or the silhouette of his father's armor. His heart was a riot of pain and fury and grief and fear.

Biting back a groan, Thranduil shifted and tenderly prodded his side where the lance had struck him, rent his mail, and probably broken several of his ribs. He could not stand this, the waiting...and waiting, through the dark and straggling line of pitiful elves, once proud and now humbled by loss. So Thranduil clutching his side, cut a path back through the survivors and headed toward the gate.

His eyes watered and strained to see more clearly through the smoke, and the things he did see, he wished he could unsee: a wife silently holding the hand of her fallen husband, a half-burned doll dropped amid the ashes, the wide dead eyes of his friend Irlath staring up at him from the rubble of the gate.

Until at last, he caught the glow of the few remaining torches against the bright sheen of his father's hair, coming around the corner and toward the main entrance. Then the crowd thinned. His father carried his mother. Thranduil's heart leapt in his throat, and he blindly pushed his way past the injured and slow moving.

"Father," he meant to say, but the word came out as a strangled sob as he beheld his mother and the grief in his father's eyes. His mother, beautiful and kind, lay still in his father's arms, the long white fall of her gown stained crimson.

They left Doriath that night and did not return.

. - . - .

March 10th, 3019

The sun sank behind the trees, casting long shadows around the camp, and only a few fires burned greedily. The stars were veiled, and the Elvenking sat alone in his tent, his heart uneasy. His troops were ready, captains set, the assault and strategy meticulously planned. The camp was quiet, and when his warriors spoke, it was in reverent whispers set against the scraping of branches pushed by the wind, the creak of ancient trees waiting for what would come. Tomorrow, they would battle the enemy.

He eyed his armor hanging near the door, his thoughts immediately turning to Narylfiel and how she had found him in the armory and helped him fit and lace his vambraces. She had been so quiet the morning of his departure. He kept picturing her eyes, wet with unshed tears, as she had looked up at him. Her long dark hair had been silk against his hand as he tasted the fullness of her lips one last time.

He should have brought her with him. Except if Narylfielhad come, then she would want to fight, and if she insisted on fighting, then he would be driven mad with worry. As it was, he felt a little ill at ease anyway. Thranduil needed a drink, a strong one.

From his tent, Thranduil heard the sound of a horse racing into the camp, then a single shout: "Where is the king?"

Seconds later, a dusty messenger, one of his own, followed Galion into his tent.

"My lord," he said and bowed. His name was Tuven, and he was pale and travel worn as if he had not stopped for rest over a many days' ride. "I bear ill news from Lord Galadhor." He reached into his vest and produced a folded and sealed letter, offering it to his king with trembling, weary fingers.

Thranduil took the letter from the messenger and murmured a thank you. Galion touched the edge of Tuven's sleeve, and together the pair of them quit the tent in order to give the king privacy.

Then a whisper from outside the door, barely audible, "it's bad news, Galion. The worst. The queen is missing."

The walls of the tent seemed to close in around Thranduil after hearing those words. The queen is missing. Thranduil numbly glanced down at the still unopened message in his hand. He had unknowingly crunched it into a wrinkled mess. The queen is missing. The elven king sank onto the edge of his chair, feeling that his legs might give out at any moment. Narylfiel. What had she done? What happened?

He broke the seal in Galadhor's letter and scanned the contents. His stomach sank with every word, and everything dimmed around him, blurred. The queen is missing. He knew that Galion now waited concernedly at the door, but his mind hung over the letter, surfeited by his fear and the feel of absolute helplessness.

Narylfiel, missing. Melui, missing. Dorwil, found grievously wounded at the entrance to the cellar. He had yet to regained consciousness...and one more thing, Wilem had also disappeared. Elfir left the palace three days ago with a tracking party to find the queen.

Thranduil folded the letter once and then looked at Galion with hollow eyes.

"King Thranduil, I am sorry," he said softly as he regarded his king.

His king did not answer but rather folded the parchment once again, his long fingers working out the creases. Narylfiel. Taken, missing, stolen.

"My lord?" Galion asked, tentatively stepping toward him.

Despite Galadhor's best assurances that every measure was being taken to insure the queen's safe return, Thranduil had never felt so helpless. Undoubtedly, the enemy meant to strike and test their defenses in the next day or so, possibly through the night. He could not, would not abandon his troops, his army, but Narylfiel... The queen is missing. A lump rose in his throat as he pictured her warm brown eyes and then imagined them frightened, her crying out his name for help, help which would never arrive. He could not leave. He could not save her.

The most he could do was to put his faith and trust in Elfir and his hunting party, that somehow they would find her.

"King Thranduil?" This time Galion stepped closer, into the king's line of sight. "Do you wish—"

But Thranduil cut him off with a wave, eyes flashing. "Send for Captain Beriadan immediately. See that Tuven's horse is replaced and that he is ready to leave again in half an hour."

Galion bowed and backed out of the tent. "Yes, your majesty."

In Galion's absence, Thranduil stood. He briefly picked up his decanter and contemplated chucking it as hard as he could, but decided against it. Instead, he palmed his face and sank onto the low cot on the far end of the tent. It was strewn with several nice furs and a silky quilt, all Galion's doing. Thranduil sighed. Poor Galion. Beriadan would arrive in minutes, but now...in this short reprieve, Thranduil concentrated on his bond with Narylfiel and relieved, felt the warmth of his connection to her. She still lived. He knew that she still lived. He closed his eyes and listened to the hush of the forest, the breath of the earth moving through the trees, willing himself to hear a distant note of her song. Under the low flying clouds and the dim moonless night, this forest, these trees with their new spring buds and the fresh vibrant green of the moss and silvery lichens, called to their king, their part in the song a balm to his heart. His bond with Narylfiel was yet unbroken. It was enough to give him hope, however a tenuous thread it might be. Oh, Narylfiel, he thought, not for the last time.

He stood as his captain entered the tent. "My lord, I heard the news," Captain Beriadan said grimly, his eyes dark.

Thranduil regarded him carefully. "Do you believe the enemy means to use her against us in battle?"

"I think we must consider it a possibility, my king," Beriadan replied, his voice low.

Thranduil shifted on his feet and reached for his decanter of wine. Pouring himself a glass, he downed it in one long swallow. He met his captain's eyes, hating what he was about to say. "Do you think they will kill her?"

Beriadan hesitated and then reached for the decanter and poured himself a glass. He took a long swallow before answering. "Yes, but it makes more sense for them to keep her alive, at least for now—especially if they plan on offering her as some sort of trade."

"Valar," Thranduil swore and pressed his hand to his temple as he met Beriadan's eyes. "I need to know that you will be ready to take command, Beriadan." The unspoken words hung between them...because if the enemy killed the queen, Thranduil knew he would be a liability to them all.

"Let us hope it does not come to that," Beriadan said, his eyes widening. "Thranduil, let me send out a few of our best trackers. If they mean to use her against us, the enemy must bring her south. Let me send Alassien, of the Forest Guard with a few of our best scouts. He is one of our best trackers and a long time friend to Narylfiel."

Thranduil nodded, doing everything in his power to keep his face stoic and still falling short.

"We will get her back, my king," Beriadan assured him. "And Narylfiel herself is hardly helpless. She is strong and resourceful. Her captors may come to regret their decision to take her prisoner."

The Elvenking weighed his captain's words briefly , but his thoughts soon turned to Narylfiel. He remembered their capture by Marbûrz's men, her cunning and escape, but even so, the memory brought him little peace. "Send out Alassien with the scouts," Thranduil said at last, folding his arms across his chest to steady himself. He then dismissed Beriadan and sank down in his chair. He closed his eyes and murmured a prayer to the Valar. He knew not where Narylfiel was, if she was hurt or safe, or being threatened, but he prayed that the Valar would keep her from harm's way.

. - . - .

Narylfiel woke up slowly. Her eyes felt sticky, her vision, bleary. Every muscle in her body felt sore, almost as painful as her early days training for the Forest Guard. She blinked twice and stretched. Well, she attempted a stretch. Her hands and feet were bound. She lay on the ground, hard packed earth that did little to ease the stiffness in her joints. Several feet from her lay Melui, her eyes closed

Overhead, the grey sky stretched between the swaying branches of a few trees, and Wilem looked down where she lay and smirked. "You missed most of our exciting trip downstream, your highness," he said, "but don't worry, we still have some of the journey left for you to enjoy."

He knelt beside her, tilting his head ever so slightly as he studied her. "You've been so well-behaved, a model prisoner, really," he told her. Narylfiel's eyes drifted to her boot, where she had tucked her hunting knife, and Wilem watched her. "Oh, no," he chided her. "I've already taken the liberties of disarming you." He then stood and gestured to his belt, where Narylfiel's knife hung in its scabbard. "Imagine my surprise when I found it. Hidden knife in the boot! I suppose old habits die hard after all."

Narylfiel cleared her throat, her voice croaky and thick to her ears. "Wilem, please. You're frightening me."

Wilem cut her off with a cold laugh. "Stop the act, Narylfiel. Don't think that I will make the mistake of underestimating your abilities," he told her. "I saw the damage you inflicted on Maubûrz's man in Dale. He was too injured to leave the city, so I had to slit his throat. I could hardly have him blabbing to the king about how I'd been selling poison to the Easterlings."

"This isn't you, Wilem. Let us go. Come with us back to the king's halls, and we can offer you protection from all this," Narylfiel said.

Wilem's teeth flashed in the low light. "There is no protection you can offer that can conceal the taint of the things I have done," he said and met her eyes as he kneeled next to Melui to check her pulse, "nor can any of your promises outweigh the spoils promised by your enemies.

Narylfiel stared after him. She tried to find words but her mouth was bitter and woolly...and she could not think clearly.

Wilem smiled down at her. "Drink this." he offered her a water skin, but as soon as she tasted the water, she knew it was laced with something vile...and the woods grew fuzzy and distant... She thought she could hear the sharp crude voices of orcs and felt herself being lifted up.

The days blurred into long, starless nights and then blurred back into days, days of drifting in and out of consciousness, being jarred on the back of a swift black orc, the swaying and the stench turning her stomach as they ran and ran and ran.

That was three days ago.

At the end of the third day, Narylfiel and Melui's captors slowed to a brisk walk, grunting at armed sentries as they arrived at a camp spread across the eastern edge of the woods. Led by Wilem, the orcs carrying the elves passed rows and rows of eastern tents, passed lines of picketed horses dark and sleek under the gloom of the overcast sky until at last they stopped in the center of the camp before a tent more ornamental than the others. The orcs unceremoniously dumped their prisoners onto the ground.

Wilem spoke up to an Easterling soldier in full battle armor. "Let Lord Marbûrz know that Wilem has arrived, bringing a mighty gift."

. - . - .

Author's Note: Oh MY! Where are the dwarves? The team of SWAT elves coming to the rescue?

Narylfiel: ...When you wake up hung over after being stuffed inside a barrel #OverIt

Thranduil: And this is why I tried to stay isolationist #BadGuests #KnewIt