Two hundred years ago...

Narylfiel raced across the bridge, not even bothering to dismount before the massive gates of the palace, but she had a good reason for her haste.

"Quickly open the doors!" she cried to the guards. "Prince Legolas has been wounded!"

The elf in question leaned against her sickly, his face a drawn shade of grey. Later, Narylfiel confessed that she would never know how she had managed to hold onto him long enough to make it back to the palace.

The guards swung open the heavy doors, and Narylfiel thundered into the palace, still hanging onto the prince, on her horse. "Get the king!" she called out.

The injury had started innocently enough, a shallow cut on the prince's side from an orc ambush, but Narylfiel was almost certain that the blade had been poisoned. In the two days' ride from their post to the palace, Legolas had become disoriented, nauseous, and then finally incoherent.

More guards appeared in seconds and helped both elves down from the horse. They quickly placed the prince on a litter and rushed him to the Healing Ward. Narylfiel caught sight of Galadhor and shouted to him, "Send for Thaliniel!" She could not bring herself to say that Legolas might be dying. He had survived worse injuries. He could survive this.

Thranduil met them in the healing room. He had already dispensed with his royal robes and crown and hurriedly rolled up his sleeves. He motioned for the healers to bring forth a steaming, fragrant bowl. Athelas.

The king deftly cut away the fabric from his son's injury, and taking a fresh strip of linen, began to clean around the darkly puckered cut.

"Oh, Legolas," he murmured, reaching into the bowl for some of the silvery herbs. He squeezed out the extra water and then began to make a poultice to pack into the wound.

Narylfiel watched, transfixed. She knew that the healers occasionally called upon Thranduil to consult with him about certain, dire cases, but this was a side of the king she had never before seen. He was so tender with his son, so gentle.

Legolas moaned briefly as the king placed the poultice onto the wound and began to chant. His voice soft and stirring, Thranduil invoked the Valar, he called out to Legolas' fea, he spoke words of healing and peace.

Hoping she would not be asked to leave, Narylfiel pressed herself against the wall nearest the door, trying to make herself invisible; she could not look away, not from Thranduil, not from Legolas, fighting for his life. She knew that Thranduil was a powerful elf lord, she had seen him become death on the battlefield to every enemy in his path, but this-this was an unknown to her, a magic so deep and real, the power of a true king to heal those he loved most. So it was that when Thaliniel finally hurried breathlessly into the room, Narylfiel caught her in her arms; tears streamed down the cheeks of the younger elleth's face.

Thaliniel's eyes automatically went to the prone figure on the raised bed in the room. "Is he? Is he...?" She could not bring herself to put words to the fear in her heart.

Narylfiel hugged her all the tighter. "No, Thaliniel. No!" she exclaimed, trying to smile through her tears. "He is going to be all right. Thranduil brought him back. Legolas is going to live."

Thranduil turned from his son at the sound of their voices and guided Thaliniel to the bedside. "He rests now, but it would be best if you were here when he wakes," he said tiredly, pushing an unsteady hand through his hair.

Narylfiel concernedly reached for the king's shoulder as she followed him out of the room. "What about you?" she asked quietly. "You seem exhausted."

He half-laughed. "So I am, a little," he confessed. "That sort of healing..." his voice trailed away as his eyes glanced back through the doorway at his son, Thaliniel now by his side holding one of his hands and brushing the hair from the prince's forehead.

Later that evening only after Narylfiel convinced Thranduil to go down to the kitchens with her for some much-needed sustenance, they sat ensconced in a tiny little table tucked snugly away in the corner by the stove. Finding himself suddenly ravenous, Thranduil wolfed down a pot pie and two glasses of milk as he tried to find words for how he had healed Legolas. That sort of healing, he explained, physically drained the healer because he had to search out the injured person's fea and forge enough of a bond that he could use some of his own energy and strength to help draw out the poison. It was exhausting. Legolas had actually been an easier case, because he already shared a parent bond with him.

"But if you hadn't shared a bond with him?" Narylfiel asked.

Thranduil set down his fork. "It would have been much more difficult, and afterwards-the bond lingers. I can feel what they're feeling, and at worse it can be very painful, or at best, awkward."

"You have a strong bond with Legolas. I can tell," she said.

"Oh, I don't know, Narylfiel," Thranduil said amusedly, his mouth curving into a smile. "I know you've always claimed a sense about these things, but...it seems pretty far-fetched." Sometimes he just liked to rile her up a little, just to see her reaction.

"I can tell," she repeated herself emphatically. "What about all those matches I have made?" she protested, beginning to sound indignant.

"Oh, I will agree you have made more than your fair share of matches over the years," he conceded and then added, his eyes twinkling, "but that could be attributed to lucky guesses."

She gazed at him seriously, and the king could tell she was thinking. Then she smiled triumphantly and asked him, "How do you know that tunic goes with those pants or your robe for that matter?"

The king glanced at what he was wearing. "The colors coordinate," he answered breezily.

"Yes, but how do you know which colors coordinate? How can you tell what goes with what, or what combination looks nice together?" Narylfiel clarified.

"Oh," he solemnly answered, rather enjoying her earnest expression. He adopted a wounded look. "Are you trying to tell me that my clothes do not match?"

She punched him the arm. "Thranduil! You know that you always look impeccable. What I meant was that just like you can tell which fabrics and colors go well together, I can tell the same thing about people, about whom would pair well."

They spent the rest of the evening discussing new possible couples that they could arrange, and Narylfiel was happy to take the king's mind off of Legolas' injury.

Narylfiel never mentioned what she had observed about the king himself. Thranduil's bond with Legolas was the only one she sensed the king had. His fea held only traces of a marriage bond, a lingering remnant, a scar.

What had happened to him?

. . . . . . . . . .
November, 3018:

The eastern paths from the Elven King's halls were not what they once were, mused Narylfiel, as she and her horse expertly navigated their way along the often leaf-covered stones. The air was so close, so thick. She could tell it was going to snow again, and soon. At least the overhead foliage provided enough cover that her path remained relatively dry. For now.

Despite her grim surroundings, Narylfiel relished being out in the woods again, free from her king's halls once more. She had tried her best not to think too much about their fight from last night, or of Thranduil, the inconsiderate...jerk.

And that was putting it nicely, in her mind.

Oh, who was she fooling? Certainly, not herself. She actually felt badly for him. Even if he had been horrible, she still cared about him, and she should never had attacked his personal character.

He just made her so angry.

Still...

There were no excuses for how she had spoken to him that night, whether he deserved it or not. She would have to apologize to him when she returned. He would probably toss her in the dungeons. She wondered if the king had discovered her absence yet. Perhaps she would be better off trying to stay with the dwarves, if they would let her. Narylfiel tried to imagine herself making friends with dwarves and fitting right in and ended up laughing out loud.

The peal of her laughter echoed through the still trees, and somewhere, out of sight, a few crows cawed and swooped down from their branches. So much for stealth. She patted her horse and refocused her attention on the path. She had made good time so far, and...

A distant howl interrupted her thoughts. Her horse nervously pricked his ears.

Wolves, she thought. Although they usually did not venture this far east; they feared the woodsmen from Dale. The wolves posed no real threat to her.

The tenor of the last howl did not ring true.

Her horse skittered, and Narylfiel's head snapped toward the sound of a third howl, closer than before. She could not see as far in the gloom of the forest, but something was out there.

And that something was most definitely not a wolf.

Now, what Narylfiel would have really liked do would have been to turn her horse around and directly investigate those mysterious howls, but instead she remembered the letter tucked into her vest and kept on the path. She whispered to her horse that they needed to move much, much more quickly.

She had a horrible hunch that those howls had belonged to wargs.

She tightly gripped her horse with her legs as they flew down the path while her hands busily checked her weapons and restrung her bow. She would not be caught off-guard. Still Narylfiel wanted to gain as much distance toward Dale as she could.

Her eyes darted toward the left as she heard the close crack of a branch. Impossible, she thought. There was no way that those beasts could have gained so much ground and so quickly. Unless, and here is the moment in her journey that Narylfiel first regretted leaving the Elvenking's halls, unless those foul creatures had been tracking her all along.

She was being hunted.

Narylfiel leaned closer to her horse and kept her eyes scanning the foliage all around her. If she rode into a trap, she at least wanted to be prepared.

Sooner than expected, she heard the sound of heavy footfalls following her. She gripped her bow tightly and then right as she neared a bend in the path, she swung around in her saddle and expertly fired an arrow toward the enormous warg gaining behind her.

She never saw the second warg coming. The foul beast had been hiding just around the corner, where a large outcropping of thorny bushes obscured the turn of the path. The warg slammed into her horse.

Narylfiel's head snapped back from the impact, and she lost her balance and tumbled over the side. She rolled to break the impact and with her next move she pulled two more arrows and nocked them, ready to fire. In the split second that the two arrows sped toward her enemies, Narylfiel sprang up. One of the arrows had struck the first warg cleanly through the eye, and she had wounded the other one.

Her sharp brown eyes hunted for her horse, but he must have reared and bolted. With hungry wargs on the prowl, she could hardly blame him, only now she was stranded. Just as she reminded herself that it could have been worse, at least six dark shapes emerged from the shadows. Orcs. A shudder crawled down her spine.

"What do we have here, boys?" one of them crowed.

Narylfiel did not wait to hear their response. She sprinted in the opposite direction, leaving the protection of the path and heading toward the deepest gloom of the woods.

As she ran for her life, leaping across over-turned logs and ducking low hanging branches, her eyes busily searched the area for any potential ground where she could surprise her enemies. She briefly contemplated climbing up one of the trees but worried about spiders and getting surrounded. No, her best bet was to stay on the ground and hopefully pick her enemies off one by one.

"Spread out! Find the she-elf!" She heard the orcs' shouting behind her. The discordant sound of two more howls meant more wargs. With their fine sense of smell, they would be much more difficult to elude, but Narylfiel could not afford to give up. She had to try. She kept on in the opposite direction, hoping at one point she could circle back to the path and find her horse.

Her heart drumming in her chest, Narylfiel flattened herself against a lichen-crusted trunk, just as an orc, dark and filthy, crashed past her. Knife drawn, she stealthily peeled herself away from her hiding place and crept up behind him. Without hesitation, she slit his throat in one quick, lethal motion. The body sank to the forest floor with a throaty gurgle.

One down, Narylfiel thought, pleased with her success.

"You'll pay for that!" a voice growled behind her, and before she could whip around, a rough claw wrapped around her arm and forcefully yanked her back.

Instinct took over.

Narylfiel lashed out with her knife, finding purchase in her attacker's side. She leveraged his grip on her arm to pull him toward her and then swung her own weight out to snap his arm. The orc broke free, cradling his ruined limb, and bared his teeth.

And he lunged for her, with all the force of a battering ram, colliding into her, tackling her to the ground, and knocking one of her knives from her hand. The other knife she kept and raked the blade across his chest as they tumbled in a blur of blood and flesh into the brambles of the forest floor. Narylfiel hit the ground hard, her breath knocked from her. Then just as quickly, she remembered her attacker and rolled over to push herself up from the ground. Her hands and the hilt of her knife were slick and dark with blood.

She heard a whine to her right side; it was the orc. His face a twisted mask of pain and misery, he thrashed to try and get to her, but a sharp branch had impaled his upper thigh. Narylfiel staggered toward him and drove her knife into his chest.

She exhaled, wiped the blood from her hands.

But all the commotion had alerted the others, and the poor elf found herself backing away from the snarling maws of two wargs. She had never seen one alive so close before, and the rancid breath and the wicked glint in their eyes was not something she would easily forget.

Staggering backwards, Narylfiel tripped over a root in the process and landed hard on her backside. She scrambled to her feet and backed right into another one of the orcs, their burly leader, who took no time in pressing the sharp tip of his blade into her side.

"Go on and move, elf," he dared her with a cruel sort of glee. "We'll see how far you can run with my blade through your gut."

Swallowing a scream, Narylfiel stiffened as he started to gouge the knife into her abdomen. The tip of the blade already burned like a flame carving through her flesh. She twisted in his grip, but he only growled and pressed the blade in further. His eyes glittered evilly. Then she watched in disbelief as her captor's arrogant expression melted away into one of fear and loathing.

An enormous elk, a Giant Elk, bounded into view, his antlers charging into the first warg. Spearing its side with brutal precision, the elk bowled over the warg, sending it shrieking into the brush.

Thranduil had come.

Narylfiel could scarcely believe her eyes, but there he was. Golden and deadly, with his eyes blazing and sword drawn, Thranduil rode upon Taurion, and together, they decimated the remaining orcs and wargs. The foul creatures were no match for the brute strength of the Giant Elk, whose razor-sharp antler points tore through his enemies, flinging them out of his path as Thranduil cut down the remaining foes with his sword.

In the confusion, Narylfiel broke free from the orc's embrace and stumbled away, scooping up her fallen weapons. She pressed her free hand to her side, pulling her vest over the worst of her wound, which still throbbed painfully. Even so, she could scarcely stop watching her king as he and Taurion plowed through the orcs, until none remained standing, save the leader who had held Narylfiel prisoner.

Thranduil stared him down and slid from the elk's side. "You dare enter the realm of the Elvenking?" he asked and slashed his sword through the air. Its curved blade gleamed black with blood and gore.

The orc backed away, his eyes narrowing with malice. "You can tell your king that we are legion and we are coming. All of this forest will burn to the ground," he hissed and vainly attempted to flee deeper into the woods. Taurion easily cut him off, knocking the orc's weapon to the ground with his enormous antlers. When the orc still tried to run, the elk snorted indignantly and prodded the wretched creature forward until he had pinned him to a nearby tree with the sharpest points of his rack. Arms flailing, the orc's feet kicked out uselessly, but Taurion held him there until Thranduil reached his side, sword in hand, and bade the elk to release his prisoner.

The orc slid down the bark into a heap at the ground, glaring up at the elf before him.

"I am the king," Thranduil informed him icily and promptly hacked off the orc's head in one violent arc. "Message received."

Thranduil's shoulders slumped for a second, and then he wiped his sword down, sheathed it, and turned. He wearily surveyed the carnage- gored orc bodies, disemboweled wargs, all the carcasses steaming in the cold afternoon air.

His eyes sharpened as they met Narylfiel's from across the clearing.

Never had she felt so small.
. . . . . . . . . .
Author's Note: Wooh! Introducing the Debut Performance of THE Party Elk- He's not just a show elk, people! Was the Action too much? Too little? Them fighting scenes be tough, y'all! Let me know! Please Vote, Follow, and Comment!

Thranduil and Narylfiel are going to have a special heart to heart...in the next chapter!

Thranduil: #IamTheKing

Narylfiel: #UhOh

PartyElk: #Can'tWeJustAllGetAlong?