The Last Elf Queen of Arda

Chapter 32 - Deadly Silence

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All was quiet. Thranduil's restless dreams gave way to a strange place, caught somewhere between waking and wandering. He felt disembodied, somehow removed from his physical self. Seeing without opening his eyes, Thranduil realized that he was in his field tent.

Moonlight shone through the fabric tent walls, turning the air an otherworldly hue of silver. The night was eerily still, without even a breath of wind to move the tent flaps. Everything felt like a dream, but yet looked real.

Tentatively, Thranduil looked around. He saw an inert figure lying on a camp bed and realized with a detached sort of interest that it was himself. It was a curious sensation, observing one's physical self as you would a separate being. Thranduil felt a confused moment of empathy and pity for the mass of bandages that swathed 'his' face.

'What a poor, scarred creature.' Thranduil thought.

Even recognizing his own, half-obscured features, he could not entirely reconcile that this body was in fact him. He wondered then if he were dead. A closer look though revealed the rise and fall of breathing from his body's chest.

Something brushed Thranduil's spirit then, a presence that filled this waking dream. Suddenly afraid, Thranduil slowly turned his ethereal gaze toward the entrance of the tent. And then he saw her.

It was Anthelísse, but not Anthelísse as Thranduil had ever known her. She stood silhouetted in the moonlight, the pale light shining both around and through her. Her sea-blue eyes were glossy with tears, and her face seemed oddly out-of-focus.

"Anthelísse?" Thranduil asked, his voiceless words sounding hollow. He did not know what was happening, but seeing his beloved brought some small measure of relief. The urge to go to her and comfort her was overwhelming, but he could not move.

Then Anthelísse raised her arms toward Thranduil, and his heart dropped with horror. Her nimble, clever hands were dripping with blood. A crimson droplet fell from Anthelísse's fingertips, mingling with a crystal tear from her chin. She reached out for him, bleeding and weeping, a spectre of pure anguish.

"No, Anthelísse!" Thranduil cried out. He was screaming, howling from the very core of his being. He thrashed like a person drowning, suddenly aware of his body around him again. His face burned like hellfire, and he could no longer see anything, including Anthelísse.

"Thranduil, hir-nin!" A voice cut through the veil of horror, very real and alarmed. "Send for Siroth, right now!"

There were hands grabbing at Thranduil now, trying to restrain him from possibly hurting himself. Thranduil thrashed and screamed, not so much from the formidable pain of his burns, but from the sheer agony of that bloodied vision. He screamed until his throat was raw, and even long after that. Many elves in the Woodland Realm whispered for years to come that the sound coming from the king's tent that night was of a heart being torn to pieces.

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Come morning, Thranduil was fully conscious and quiet. Siroth had chalked up his fit from the night before as residual shock from his brush with the dragon. Gurithon watched Thranduil with troubled eyes, but Thranduil did not speak of what he had seen. In fact, he did not speak at all as Siroth checked his bandages and Gurithon delivered his report.

Angmar had indeed been forced into an easterly retreat by the armies Gondor and the folk of Lindon. Glorfindel had taken the Knights of the Valley to cut off Angmar's retreat, along with a small contingent under Thenniel's command. Gurithon apologized for not fulfilling his duty as second-in-command to lead the army alongside Glorfindel; he had not wanted to leave Thranduil's side. Thranduil listened impassively as Gurithon spoke, his one good eye flat and without expression.

About midday, the camp sentries announced that a lone elf had entered their sights. They brought her before Thranduil, despite Siroth's protests that the king ought to be abed resting.

The wretched elf who nearly collapsed on the floor of the tent was scarcely even recognizeable as the queen's favoured handmaiden. Aislinn's long black hair hung in tangled clumps around her face, and her slender form quivered as she spoke.

"We were attacked, our guards slaughtered in the night. The orcs...they took us prisoner and dragged us into the mountain. We thought the pass beside Mount Gundabad was supposed to be clear!" Aislinn wailed, tearing at her snarled hair. "The letter Anthelísse received told us that it was the best way, and to come with all haste!"

"What happened after you were captured?" Gurithon asked, pale and grave. The Silvan captain looked positively stricken to see the state Aislinn was in.

"We... Anthelísse slipped our bonds, and we ran." Aislinn continued, barely contained hysteria evident behind her words. "I tried to stay with her, I swear I did! It was so dark though, and the orcs were right behind us. We...we were separated! When I finally found an escape from the mountain I really did consider going back in to find Anthelísse. But...but...!" The distraught handmaiden hid her grimy face in her hands and sobbed.

"We must prepare a party to rescue the queen." Gurithon declared grimly. "Perhaps the orcs will try to ransom her?"

"Anthelísse is dead." Thranduil spoke for the first time since he had awoken. His voice was hoarse from screaming, but firm with certainty.

Aislinn let out a tiny shriek and collapsed, her whole frame shaking. Gurithon signalled to Siroth, who moved forward to see to the traumatized Noldo. Turning away from Aislinn's grief, Gurithon looked strangely at Thranduil.

"How can you be sure, Aran-nin?" Surely the queen..."

"Anthelísse is dead." Thranduil repeated, still staring straight ahead through his uncovered eye. "I know, I saw."

For a long moment, Gurithon watched Thranduil. Then his shoulders sagged. "What are we to do?" He asked, sounding defeated.

"...Who sent for her?"

Gurithon frowned. "I..." Then his expression darkened. "I explicitly said that the queen was not to be informed of your condition, owing to the danger on the roads. Glorfindel can confirm the truth of this."

"And yet someone wrote to call her here by the most dangerous of paths." Thranduil said. The low monotone in which he spoke unnerved Gurithon even more than Aislinn's wails. "Summon the Master of Birds here Gurithon, now."

Gurithon did as he was bid, although not without some misgivings. He was very concerned for Thranduil; the king had not reacted in the slightest to the news of his wife's death. For the first time ever, Gurithon feared what Thranduil might do.

The Master of Birds came to the tent wringing his hands, glancing about himself nervously. That something was terribly wrong was not lost on the tall, reedy elf. As Gurithon questioned him he continued to glance at Thranduil and his bandage-swathed head.

"I sent the message exactly as I received it Aran-nin." The army's courier declared. "The sentry who delivered it insisted that it was a matter of utmost urgency, to be sent on the leg of my fastest bird."

Gurithon glanced at Thranduil. The king continued to stare straight ahead, emotionless. "And who was this sentry, Master of Birds? Did they give you their name?"

"Oh no, no name." The Master of Birds shook his head. "They had the most unusual eyes though...mismatched green and brown!"

The silence that enveloped in the tent fell with the weight of a hammer-stroke. Even Aislinn ceased in her wild mourning to stare at the Master of Birds.

"Gurithon..." Thranduil whispered, low and hoarse. "Summon Tharnor to the hillside on the northern shore of Lake Evendim. I will meet him there...alone."

"Alone?" Gurithon asked, still reeling and alarmed. "Thranduil, I..."

"Gurithon. Obey me." Thranduil said. Even Siroth dared not voice his opposition hearing the steel in the king's tone.

"...As you command, my lord."

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