B2MEM: With Bow and Blade
Rebirth
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Filth. Blood. Gore.
The stuff drenched him until he no longer knew where the grime ended and he began. So long as he fought, he lived. Nock, draw, release. He glanced up, a foul darkness covered the sky where the sun should be or had blood marred his vision? Unsheathe, parry, thrust - his blade found its way home again and again, until he no longer cared about the hour, nor feared to count himself among the dead.
Resheathe. He hung his head for a moment. Exhausted. Numb. Did Aragorn yet live? Bitter tears stung the back of his closed lids. He did not know. He needed to tell him he understood. Weary. Tired. All those man-words that never before made sense, suddenly took hold of his heart.
A fierce battle cry rang out across the valley.
Legolas shook himself. "Ada?" Yet Thranduil was leagues away. Legolas felt the boughs of the Green Wood bend at the first assault; knew his father would not leave their people in this time of need.
Again, he heard the familiar voice, commanding, “Do not despair!” it seemed he would not leave Legolas either.
"Ada!" The image of the King faded.
No time -- Legolas faced their foe again. Nock, draw, release...
He felt renewed.
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Deliverance
Thranduil raised his blade. The weapon arched, shimmered silver, and neatly separated flesh from bone. Blood. Gore. Filth. He spat on the enemy then pulled his sword free. Attacked from behind, he swiveled and swung again, savoring the singing sound the iron made before it tasted death. Slash. Parry. Thrust. An age-old dance the Elven-King knew too well. He did not falter; knew the enemy could not, would not, overcome his people. He would not allow it.
He raised his arm to attack again, and found his blade met air, the corpses of the enemy surrounding him.
Just ahead, an elf stood alone in the clearing, his head bowed. A goblin approached him from behind. “Does the fool not see the danger?” Too far away to make use of his sword, Thranduil sheathed it quickly, raising his voice in a cry of warning and then, in alarm. Nock, draw, release…
The arrow found its mark.
The image before Thranduil melted into the shadows. The lone figure somehow reminding him of his son.
Would that we could fight this foe together.
Thranduil walked on. Ahead the battle loomed. He drew his blade.
“Do not despair!”
The King joined the fray.
-------------------
Filth. Blood. Gore.
The stuff drenched him until he no longer knew where the grime ended and he began. So long as he fought, he lived. Nock, draw, release. He glanced up, a foul darkness covered the sky where the sun should be or had blood marred his vision? Unsheathe, parry, thrust - his blade found its way home again and again, until he no longer cared about the hour, nor feared to count himself among the dead.
Resheathe. He hung his head for a moment. Exhausted. Numb. Did Aragorn yet live? Bitter tears stung the back of his closed lids. He did not know. He needed to tell him he understood. Weary. Tired. All those man-words that never before made sense, suddenly took hold of his heart.
A fierce battle cry rang out across the valley.
Legolas shook himself. "Ada?" Yet Thranduil was leagues away. Legolas felt the boughs of the Green Wood bend at the first assault; knew his father would not leave their people in this time of need.
Again, he heard the familiar voice, commanding, “Do not despair!” it seemed he would not leave Legolas either.
"Ada!" The image of the King faded.
No time -- Legolas faced their foe again. Nock, draw, release...
He felt renewed.
-----------------
Deliverance
Thranduil raised his blade. The weapon arched, shimmered silver, and neatly separated flesh from bone. Blood. Gore. Filth. He spat on the enemy then pulled his sword free. Attacked from behind, he swiveled and swung again, savoring the singing sound the iron made before it tasted death. Slash. Parry. Thrust. An age-old dance the Elven-King knew too well. He did not falter; knew the enemy could not, would not, overcome his people. He would not allow it.
He raised his arm to attack again, and found his blade met air, the corpses of the enemy surrounding him.
Just ahead, an elf stood alone in the clearing, his head bowed. A goblin approached him from behind. “Does the fool not see the danger?” Too far away to make use of his sword, Thranduil sheathed it quickly, raising his voice in a cry of warning and then, in alarm. Nock, draw, release…
The arrow found its mark.
The image before Thranduil melted into the shadows. The lone figure somehow reminding him of his son.
Would that we could fight this foe together.
Thranduil walked on. Ahead the battle loomed. He drew his blade.
“Do not despair!”
The King joined the fray.