Shadow of Mirkwood

Kin against Kin

True siblings are bound together by far more essential things than blood, while more times than many blood isn't thicker than water

The scene unfolded before Legolas's eyes like a nightmarish tableau, each frame etching itself into his soul with cruel permanence. Thalassa's lifeless form crumpling to the ground, a cascade of raven-black hair mingling with the pristine snow, was a sight he wished could be erased from the canvas of reality. Lytharial's maniacal laughter, a chilling echo of broken sanity, resonated in the frozen air, seeping into Legolas's heart like an icy dagger.

        "I swear..." Legolas's voice, usually a melodic cadence, emerged as a guttural growl, resonating with the fury that surged within him—his every muscle strained against the dark mist that trapped him, the chains of Destiny's design. 

The futile struggle intensified as he watched, helpless, the unfolding tragedy below.

Destiny, an enigmatic figure shrouded in shadows, seemed indifferent to the turmoil that gripped Legolas's heart. The elven prince could feel the essence of something ancient, an unseen force, threading through the strands of fate, weaving a narrative beyond his control.

Legolas's gaze remained fixed on Lytharial, vulnerable amidst the chaos—her haunting and fractured laughter gnawed at the core of his being. For the first time, he witnessed her stripped of the armor that defined her as a warrior, laid bare in the face of a devastating loss. A pang of something unfamiliar tugged at his elven heart – a mixture of sorrow, anger, and a surge of protective instinct.

With each strained movement, Legolas inched closer to breaking free from the suffocating mist. His eyes, fierce and determined, never wavered from Lytharial. She was not just his general; she was a soul entwined with his, a force that had irrevocably altered the trajectory of his existence.

The chilling wind whispered through the barren trees, carrying the weight of despair with it. Legolas's fists clenched, nails digging into his palms as he fought against the constraints that held him captive. The battlefield below had transformed into a tapestry of torment, a realm where the boundaries between sanity and madness blurred.

As the elven prince strained against the shackles of fate, he felt a resonance within his being. It was a silent vow, an unspoken pledge that transcended the constraints of destiny. He knew, in the depths of his soul, that he must reach Lytharial – not as a prince or a warrior, but as a kindred spirit, bound by the threads of a shared journey.

On the other side, the once-welcoming fire that flickered in the wintry night lost its warmth, becoming a mere spectral glow against the abyss of Lytharial's hollow gaze. Thalassa's lifeless form lay beside the fading embers, a cruel testament to the brutality that unfolded in the frigid air. Each snowflake descending from the heavens seemed to bear the weight of Lytharial's agony, settling on the crimson-stained ground like frozen tears.

         "I will murder you," Lytharial's voice, though steady, carried the undertones of a storm brewing within. 

Her silhouette rose from the snow-laden earth, a haunting figure framed by the desolation that surrounded her. Blood, an intimate echo of her sister's final breaths, painted her form in macabre hues, a testament to the impotence she felt against the hands of destiny.

Valthor, the orchestrator of this tragic symphony, callously kicked Thalassa's lifeless body aside, an act devoid of remorse. His mocking challenge echoed in the silent night, resonating with the cruelty that seemed to permeate the very air.

         "Try," Valthor dared, an evil smirk playing upon his lips. 

The twisted dance of shadows cast by the waning fire framed the battlefield, where remnants of orcs, corrupted elves, and humans lingered like sinister specters.