notes: Whoop, sorry this took so long to get up! I had a TERRIBLE writer's block about 3/4 of the way through. It was awful, lol. Thank you for your patience, though - and the next chapter is already started, so it *shouldn't* be so long between this update and the next... I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 49

The twenty-ninth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age

Thranduil, King of Eryn Galen, was livid.

"What do you mean, he's gone?"

"I am sorry, sire," said his stable master, Cannor. "He rode relentlessly and would not stop. The gatekeepers were afraid he would kill himself—or his horse—if they did not open the gates."

Thranduil massaged a temple. I should have put him under lock and key, he thought—though he knew that thought came too late. What will his father say? was Thranduil's second thought, chased an instant after by, What if I am responsible for the entire family's death? What will Celebrían say? What will Arwen think? Then, even more horrifying, What will the Lady Galadriel do, if she finds out that both her grandsons and her son-in-law were slain in my forest?

A pit opened up in Thranduil's stomach, a new layer of fear added to that which already curled and twined in his gut. He was afraid for his son, afraid for his friend, afraid for son's friends—and now, the one person Thranduil had thought was safe, was safe no longer. Was riding toward likely death relentlessly and fearlessly, without a thought or a care for the position he was placing everyone else in…

Thranduil turned to the rest of the Elves gathered in his study. They were perched on the sofa and armchairs centered around the fireplace, a map of Greenwood the Great laid out on the table standing between them and the hearth. The map was weighted down by four small stones, one on each corner, and by small, painted blocks representing each unit of Elves and Orcs at play on the field. Thranduil's three Marshalls, plus Aravadhor, were all present, and were now staring at him and Cannor with varying degrees of alarm.

Cannor had arrived nearly an hour after the strategy meeting had begun, white and wide-eyed. He had brought with him the grave news of Elrohir's frantic flight from the Halls, and it was clear he feared Thranduil's wrath.

Thranduil sighed and once again massaged his temples. "What is done is done," he said simply at last. "You may go, Cannor."

Cannor bowed and retreated quickly, closing the door behind him.

"We must go after him!" It was Aravadhor, rising from his place in one of the armchairs, hands in fists at his sides and fear clearly written across his face. "He is in no place to fight—we must ride after him at once, and bring him back bound to his horse if we must."

"You do not think he will expect pursuit and push his mount faster than we dare push ours?" Thranduil asked tiredly. "He is determined—and he is a Peredhel." Thranduil grinned wryly. "You of all people here, Aravadhor, should know of the stubbornness of the Peredhil."

Aravadhor pulled a face. "I do know," he said softly.

"Right now, I think," said Thranduil slowly, "we must ride out as quickly as we can. Already I have given the order for the army to marshal and to stand ready to march. Even now they are armoring up."

"Will it be enough, though?" Aravadhro asked softly.

"We can only hope," said Thranduil heavily. He grinned dryly. "Though that will not keep me from giving that boy the tongue lashing of his life when we find him."

Aravadhor grinned to match Thranduil. "I will be right there with you, my lord," he assured him.

Thranduil crossed to the low table before the hearth, and knelt down beside it. He smoothed one long, pale finger across the surface of the map, threading it down and along the road leading from his Halls to the gorge Níreryn had reported Elladan's escort was taking shelter and refuge in.

"If we attack from here," he pointed to the road where it crested the final hill before the gorge, "as well as from either side in a pincer movement," and here he swept his fingers around both sides of the hill, "then we could catch them from three sides. Should Elladan's escort be in fighting condition, they should attack from behind at the sound of our horns, trapping the Orcs on every side."

There were nods around the table—and then Aravadhor spoke up.

"You do not think this dangerous?" he asked. "There is little more dangerous than a cornered Orc."

"It would be best for none to survive, methinks," said Thranduil. "We kill them all—or none of them."

They wrapped up the meeting within the quarter of the hour, all of them rising and departing one by one to equip themselves for the journey. All three of Thranduil's Marhalls, plus Aravadhor who would lead the Rivendell detachment, were accompanying him.

Thranduil stood for a moment in his quiet and empty office, staring down at the map. He could only hope that they were not too late to save Elrohir—or Elladan and his escort.

~*x*~

An hour later, Thranduil stepped out into the courtyard in front of the grand double doors leading into his Halls. It was filled with the milling horses of his Huntsmen, as they arranged themselves into their positions in squads. A page was standing with his mount just to one side, the horse armored for war, just as Thranduil himself was. Thranduil approached the page, who bowed, then offered his liege the reins.

Thranduil accepted them, then swung up into the saddle with a single, fluid move that he had practiced for thousands of years. He settled into the saddle, armor clinking faintly, and then urged his horse onward toward the gates. Before him, his Marshalls and Aravadhor, likewise armored and geared for war, mounted up as well, and behind him his standard bearer drew close, his banner fluttering in the wind of his riding.

His army was marshalling on the other side of the gates, in the wide, open field before them. They stood in long ranks of fifty, spears glittering in the wan light of the cloudy day, bows and white-fletched arrows gleaming on their backs, shields slung over their shoulders and swords at their hips.

As Thranduil rode out, a great cry arose from the ranks of his warriors. "Aran-nîn," they cried, once, twice, three times, thudding their spears against the ground with each iteration. Thranduil raised his gauntleted hand in salute, and a great cheer arose.

Through the gates behind Thranduil rode his Huntsmen squad by squad. Each squad was ten strong, with a lieutenant at the head marked by a band of scarlet cloth on one arm. They were clad not in metal armor as Thranduil and his Marshalls, as well as his army's warriors, were, but rather in leather armor mottled in greens and browns. Their horses were small and nimble, swift of foot and long-enduring—though not bred or trained for bearing fully-armored knights on long treks, or in the art of war as Thranduil's stallion was.

Raising his voice to a loud pitch that could carry across battlefield, Thranduil said, "We march forth today to slay Orcs and other evil creatures who dare to threaten not only our land, but our friends and family as well. Today we march to protect our people, our kingdom, our brothers of blood and oath. Today we march to conquer darkness!"

Another cry arose, louder this time, and Thranduil nodded once to his Marshalls and Aravadhor, then wheeled his stallion and sent him trotting to the head of the first column of warriors. There he took his place, his standard bearer beside him, his Marshalls and Aravadhor behind him—and he gave the order to march.

end notes: Let me know what you thought? I'd love you for forever!