Victorious

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Artwork credit: Zeliamsb

Thank you to all my readers! Your comments and support encourage me to keep going, to keep writing, to stay up late dreaming, and above all—to finish this chapter!

You are loved!

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March 16th, 3019

It was well past midnight when Thranduil finally returned to his tent in the middle of camp; Narylfiel had stayed by his side all through dinner, a simple camp stew, but it was the most delicious fare he'd had in days, and perhaps his appetite had more to do with the company than not. It just felt right to have Narylfiel sitting beside him, her eyes bright as she laughed at -=another one of Galion's bad puns, with the elk calf curled up beside her, its head resting on her lap. She and the elk had already become fast friends; within minutes of seeing him, she named him Mithren. Thranduil was thankful for the distraction and hoped Mithren might take his wife's mind off of the upcoming battle. After dinner, Thranduil walked her back to the tent, carrying the elk calf for her. She insisted on looking after him and even talked Galion into donating a blanket or two for the calf's makeshift bed.

Four hours ago, he left the pair of them in the tent warm and secure. Narylfiel fussed a bit about making sure her new woodland friend was warm enough in his blankets on the floor. Then Thranduil kissed his wife goodnight and left to work on arranging provisions for leaving with the army. In truth he did not want to leave her. He had only just found her, and now he would have to leave again.

Thranduil stopped short upon entering the tent. The little bed Narylfiel devised for the calf was empty. His eyes scanned the length of the tent and then paused on the bed where Narylfiel rested. Curled up next to her in a nest of blankets was Mithren,.

Quietly, Thranduil slipped off his tunic and sat down on the far corner of the bed to pull off his boots. "Traitor," he murmured to the sleeping elk calf, "I rescue you, and this is how you repay me?"

Then he carefully lifted the elk calf from his side of the bed and returned it to the blankets on the floor. The calf sleepily raised his head and blinked his big, warm eyes at the elvenking.

"Now don't you look at me like that," Thranduil told him firmly. "This is a very good place to sleep."

Mithren blinked again. Thranduil eyed the bed. "There isn't room for both of us there, Mithren, and I am not sleeping on the floor," he whispered to the calf and patted him soothingly on the head.

Satisfied, Thranduil stood and stretched. All he really wanted was four or five good hours of rest. He pulled back the blanket on the bed and slid in next to Narylfiel. She did not stir, not even when Thranduil pressed a kiss to her cheek and pulled her into his arms. She still slept with her eyes closed, even after three months. Hüredhiel had said these things would take time, but Thranduil worried regardless. But she was resilient, a fighter—goodness knows, she was a fighter—Thranduil still reeled over her tale of escape from the Easterling camp. It was exactly these sorts of things that kept him up at night. He just needed to get her home, back inside his halls where he could keep her safe—and their child, he added as an afterthought. Really, the baby was an unlooked for blessing, doubly so in this dark time. It was something he would never have permitted or even considered, but Narylfiel had conceived nonetheless. As staggered as Thranduil was by the notion—by Eru—he was glad of it.

For Narylfiel was young, and she had charged into his carefully ordered life with her bright eyes, and her questions and laughter, and unwavering warmth, the way she invaded his thoughts, his resolve. By all semblance of reason and good conscience, he should have no right to her...but then again Thranduil was king—should he not have the best and finest his kingdom offered? And he had wanted Narylfiel. All it had taken was that one dangerous glimpse into her dreams to see the obvious truth of what she had known all along; she loved him. It was the promise of that love which proved irresistible.

Thranduil's eyes found his wife in the dark, the low lamplight slanting over the lovely planes of her face. He thought of holding her now, the way his body molded to his, the way her curves fit the perfect contour of his hand. In a number of months her belly would softly round, proclaiming to all the indisputable evidence of one great truth. Thranduil Oropherion was madly, to the point of distraction and losing all control, in love with his queen.

And Thranduil smiled to himself in the dark, now he would not have to fight with Narylfiel about her not going with him to Dol Guldur; he had the perfect reason for her to stay home.

With that happy thought, Thranduil relaxed and let himself drift into a peaceful sleep...

...until he felt the press of a cold, wet nose against his shoulder and then his cheek. A snuffling noise, more wetness, and the hazy darkness focused back into sharp details of the canopy of his tent overhead. Thranduil turned his head toward the snuffling. Mithren stood next to the bed, stretching his head toward the elvenking, nuzzling his cheek with his warm damp breath.

"Oh, no you don't," Thranduil told him. He lifted a sleepy arm toward the blanket on the floor and pointed. "Go lay down."

The elk calf ignored his command and rested his head against the bed, scooting closer until his soft whiskers tickled Thranduil's cheek.

Thranduil turned his head against the pillow enough to meet Mithren's eyes. "Go lay down, elk. Your king commands it."

But Mithren merely angled his head at his king and chuffed softly.

"Already challenging my authority, I see," he noted half-amusedly. Thranduil turned his head to glance at Narylfiel. Of course, she still slept soundly. She had assured him the elk calf would be no trouble at all, yet here it was well past midnight, and who of all the elves in his kingdom was stuck playing nurse-maid to a baby elk?

Thranduil was.

It was very clear to Thranduil that Mithren had no intention of returning to his blankets on the floor. Why should he, after having the queen cuddle him in her own bed?

Thranduil fixed the young elk with a knowing look. "Mithren, just because the queen let you sleep on the bed for a few hours, does not mean that you should sleep there all night," the king told him firmly.

Mithren responded with an adamant look followed by a long rough tongue brushing across Thranduil's cheek.

Sitting up, Thranduil wiped his face dry with his sleeve and favored Mithren with one of his most wilting stares of disapproval. But the hoped for effect was quite lost on the young elk, who merely angled his head and wagged his short white tale just once.

"You are a most determined negotiator," Thranduil told him, "but your terms are far too dear." He slid the covers back and planted both feet on the travel rug carpeting his tent. He gently scooped up the elk and marched him back over to his nest on the floor.

"See this?" Thranduil whispered to him. "This is your bed, Mithren."

Mithren seemed to understand, although not without giving the king and queen's bed one last longing look before settling down. He turned around twice and then lay down, those same warm eyes beseeching his king to reconsider their terms.

Pleased with the negotiation's resolution, Thranduil returned to his own bed, feeling quite triumphant and only a little saddened by the despondent look in the elk's eyes.

Ah, if only his siege on Dol Guldur could run as half as smoothly, he mused, comforted again by the feel of Narylfiel's warm body next to his own. The quiet intake and exhale of her breathing lulled him back toward his own restful waking dreams...

...Until he felt the bed shift under the pressure of new weight. Thranduil's eyes refocused and landed upon the outline of a young elk calf, clambering onto the foot of the king's bed. Mithren wavered for a moment, as if he might lose his balance and slide off, and then he dropped to his belly and began to inch along the blankets.

Thranduil pursed his lips, half-wanting to use his leg under the blanket to roll the calf onto the floor. The other more amused half of him wanted to see what exactly Mithren had in mind.

The elk calf sidled up close to Thranduil's leg, stretched out his long grey neck and nuzzled into the king's side.

"I see you're very determined to have your way in this," concluded the king.

Mithren agreed. He inched a little closer.

Thranduil sighed. "Only for a few minutes," he said, lifting up his arm for the young elk to burrow into his side.

Much later that morning, Galion nearly dropped his breakfast tray at the unexpected sight of King Thranduil still asleep, one arm protectively curled around a sweet young elk calf.

The blankets on the floor, for all intents and purposes, looked quite unused.

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March 23th, 3019

His farewell with Narylfiel had not been easy. Thranduil had donned his armor with Narylfiel watching quietly from their bed in the tent. She scowled at him nearly the entire time, but when when it had been at last time for him to leave, she flew into his arms and kissed him soundly.

Now Thranduil led his army south to the ruins of a once great elven stronghold. Dol Guldur. Long had it been a stain on his homeland, a scourge, pestilence, and now he would end it. He and Celeborn both believed the enemy's forces had been considerably weakened in the recent battles.

Whatever fell creatures remained, his army planned on clearing them from the land. The air was heavy around them and the light strained as the armies moved silently toward the southern edges of the once great Greenwood. Even from afar, the elves' sharp eyes could make out the smudge on the horizon where the plains land swelled to meet the forest, which now stood frayed and ragged as an ill-mended cuff, the twisted trees' deadened branches tangling like tattered threads against the fading light. A red sun dipped low toward the Anduin behind them casting the elves' bright helms in crimson shades as their shadows stretched before them like a dark path leading them to a an even darker end.

When Celeborn's forces joined his own, the volume of their combined armies as they cut through the worst sections of the southern forest were a reassurance to both elven lords. Lady Galadriel travelled with Celeborn as well, and Thranduil believed she wished to see the fortress cleared as much as he did.

He had spoken very little to her apart from their initial greetings, for the forward progress through the woods did not afford for idle conversation. Darkness fell too quickly, and in the distance, the uneven peaks of Dol Guldur loomed against the dying light.

On their second night's march, Galadriel drew near on her white palfrey and rode alongside the Elvenking.

For minutes or hours, Thranduil would never be sure how much time passed, she did not speak to him, but merely kept pace with his large gray charger; her face as perfect and unlined as it had been so many ages ago when he had been a young elf in Doriath and she, a favorite of Queen Melian.

Finally, when the moon sank low in the deep hours of the morning, she spoke, her voice low. "Thranduil. I understand congratulations are in order."

His eyes slid to her then, and he smiled briefly. "Is this something you have seen, my lady?"

"Nay, I heard it from a most reliable source," she said, teasingly omitting any mention of a name. "He was very obliging to tell me much of what has happened in your kingdom over the past months."

Thranduil did not doubt it. Probably one lovely look from Galadriel would have any of his captains or kinsmen telling her in detail all that had happened in the Woodland Realm for the past age.

"Your new queen sounds lovely," she told him. "I had not seen this path for you, Thranduil. It was a surprise to hear of your marriage, and in this case, I am happy to be wrong."

"Thank you, my lady," Thranduil said regally, looking straight ahead. What he really wanted to ask was—

Beside him, Galadriel smiled knowingly. "I have seen your son in my mirror. Four days ago, he left Minas Tirith along with Aragorn and a great host, the Host of the West. They march for the Morannon, Thranduil."

To his credit, the Elvenking did not show his immediate dismay on his face; he merely swallowed stiffly. "Thank you for telling me," he said slowly.

"My grandsons also ride with him," she said. "We must keep hope they will prevail."

But Thranduil could only nod, and they both fell into silence once more as the shadows deepened in the gloom of the dark trees stretching for miles before the rise of Dol Guldur.

Night was more difficult, but that was to be expected. The elves settled a safe distance from the fortress walls and archers' arrows, and set a ring of armed guards around their camp.

The enemy snuffed their torch lights on the first night of the elves' arrival, but all sorts of hideous noises, shrieks, fell-growls, moans issued from inside the fortress walls.

Only a fool would believe the fortress to be deserted.

Only a fool would believe Dol Guldur could be easily taken. No, the evil ran too deep here; Thranduil could feel it in the air; a deep sickness lay upon this land, corrupting the earth, poisoning the air, the water, the trees until nothing good and green remained.

Many years ago during the Second Age, Dol Guldur had once been known as Amon Lanc, a stunning elven fortress set upon a hill of stone on the southern edge of the wood. Oropher had ruled his people there from the protection of its high walls and broad gate, and stone causeway spanning a deep chasm. As time passed and Oropher gathered more and more Sylvan and Sindar elves under his fair and generous leadership, the Woodland Realm outgrew the fortress and moved northward to the underground halls where Thranduil himself reigned. Still, seeing the decay, the desolation of the once lovely place he had called home for many years left a bitter taste in Thranduil's mouth as the army rode and marched past the break of ruined trees and stood before the massive seat of their enemy.

Thranduil could not speak for his Lorien counterparts, but he had not slept since leaving the protection of his southern wood. He paced restlessly in his tent, his mind torn between the battle ahead and the fate of his son. His son marched on Morannon along with the Host of the West. Legolas would stand before the Black Gates and face the worst of all Sauron's forces. Galadriel was right to cling to hope for the Host's chances on that cursed field, but Thranduil could not. All he could think of was his last battle with his father before the same Black Gates: his father, charging ahead of the call from Gil-galad, the image of his father's once strong body lying spent and ruined in the mud.

Oh, Legolas, he thought. No, he would find no peace here, no rest until he knew his son lived, until he knew every abomination in Dol Guldur had been purged. Thranduil poured himself a shallow glass of wine, swirling the dark liquid in the glass as he tried to clear his mind of the ghosts from Morannon. He drank from his glass, one long swallow to wash away the image of a red sky and endless black iron walls. Then he left the solitude of his tent and stalked across the camp where he found Celeborn arranging markers on a rolled-out map of the fortress.

"Not resting?" the Lorien lord remarked drily.

"Hardly," said Thranduil, eyeing the map. "Any sign of Nazgûl?" he asked. Nazgûl. For too many years, Nazgûl Khamûl reigned unchecked from the dark towers of Dol Guldur in his lord's absence.

Celeborn looked up. "Not yet, and if Khamûl should fly out on one of those fell creatures, we have archers enough to shoot him down."

"My scouts believe Khamûl left ten days ago. He flew south on a fell beast." Thranduil said, his eyes darkening with mention of the Nazgûl's name, that accursed polluter of his lands.

"We do not know if he returned though," speculated Celeborn.

"Does it matter?" countered the Elvenking. "We have the numbers and strength to bring down the walls of Dol Guldur."

"Together we will see it done," Celeborn agreed, "first light tomorrow."

"I will inform my captains." Thranduil took one last look at the markers on the map, but the guards' voices from outside the tent caught his attention.

"...I could have sworn I saw a shadow move on the wall just now."

"I am looking at it with you, Aldiren. A shadow? It's as dark as pitch out here. There's no one on the parapet."

The fortress map forgotten, Thranduil looked past the silhouettes of the two elves outside Celeborn's tent and toward the jagged spires meeting the inky sky.

"Look—there!" the first guard exclaimed, drawing his bow, pulling an arrow from his quiver, his youthful face hardened.

"Wait," Thranduil cautioned him and held up his hand, the hair on the back of his neck pricking with equal parts dread and loathing. "Listen," he whispered, and next to him, Celeborn's breath caught.

"I don't hear anything," the other guard said under his breath, but the one named Aldiren tightened his grip on his bow, his knuckles gleaming white against the carved wood.

"Exactly," Thranduil breathed, for the howling, riotous din from inside the castle had grown still.

Silence stalked the ranks of the camp.

Wordlessly, Celeborn doused the lamplights in the tent. "Tell the archers to draw and spread the word for all the warriors to be armed and ready."

Then a shout from the front of the camp's circle: "Lord Celeborn, the enemy moves along the front walls!"

Indeed, the entire wall seemingly moved in the darkness, undulating, uneven, like a dark current stirring the water, slick and black. The woodland elves saw this and knew—knew in their hearts what terror the enemy had unleashed, and so sprang into action, pulling a barrel of arrows dipped in pitch from the supply wagon and others springing toward the fire to bring torches to light the flames. So it was that the Woodland Realm fired first in the Battle of Dol Guldur, sending forth fiery arrows dipped in pitch at the base of the walls and the connecting bridge, fighting back the darkness with a thousand arcs of light, and Thranduil watched them, his heart glad his people had struck first, for the villainy of the fortress and the enemy's crimes against his people had been severe.

The arrows struck the stone and ground, splintering into bright shards, and it became clear to all in the elven camp that the walls were, in fact, not moving but alive.

Hundreds, nay thousands of spiders, in all sizes, ranging from smaller than a fist to enormous ones large enough to fell a full grown elf, crawled forth from the walls, a horrid black mass.

A few turned away from the elves' fiery arrows, but the rest consumed the fortress wall and then spilled over onto the bridge, a seething river of legs and pincers, fat bodies and globular eyes.

Both Celeborn and Thranduil stared at first, unwilling to believe their eyes, and then Celeborn swore under his breath. The horde of spiders eagerly surged toward the elven encampment.

Celeborn

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