Kingsfoil [Thranduil] LOTR

Desperate

First Age, 502

The stars shone that night, but to Thranduil, they'd never felt more cold and distant. His chest tightened to the point that he thought his heart might shatter at any moment. His mother, his beautiful and kind mother, lay dying in the half-glow of the small campfire he'd built earlier.

Menegroth had fallen. His father had emerged from the trailing stream of survivors carrying his mother, mortally wounded.

Now she lay cradled in his father's arms, and Thranduil could only watch her fade away.

He never felt so helpless.

He loved his father, but his mother—she was everything in their small family. The whole center of everything, and...

...And he did not know how he would survive without her.

Or how his father would be able to go on.

"Thranduil." His father's voice.

He looked up and instantly looked away. His father's eyes were devastated.

"She wants you, son. Come and say goodbye."

Numbly, Thranduil stood and took the few steps around the fire to be close enough to kneel by his father's side. He blinked a few times and swallowed hard.

"Thranduil," his mother whispered.

He picked up her hand and warmed it against his cheek. "I am here, Mother," he said, leaning in so she might see him.

"I am so glad—you were not hurt—" she said, her words coming slowly in between breaths. "You are meant—for wonderful things, Thranduil—not just war."

"I should have saved you," he said quietly.

His mother met his eyes. "You—you can't save—everybody, Thranduil. And I have lived—a good life."

He hung his head, willing away the tears, before he leaned over to kiss her cheek and told her he loved her.

She died a few hours later in his father's arms, and Thranduil never would forget the look in his father's eyes that night. He should have saved her.

His mother said he could not save everybody.

The next morning the sun crept over the stony ridge of hills flanking the woods, and the birds called out their early morning greetings. It seemed wrong to Thranduil that the world kept on going, that the morning could be so bright and cheerful, when his mother lay stiff and cold and unfeeling. She would never again check on him at bedtime and chide him for staying up too late reading. She would never again laugh at one of his stories. She would never again ruffle his hair and tease him about eating too much jam on his toast. He should have gotten to her sooner. He should have saved her.

His mother said he could not save everybody. But as he helped his father prepare his mother's body for burial, Thranduil promised himself that he would never stop trying.

.  -  .  -  .

Dwalin watched Wilem disappear down the laundry chute only for a second before deciding the best course of action would be to take elven lass to her king as quickly as possible. No doubt he would have some sort of witchy elven cure to save her. Dwalin tightened his grip on her, lifting her up so her head rested safely against his shoulder and then kicked the outside door open that led to the main hall.

The main hall was in a lesser form of chaos. With tables turned over and tankards spilled on the floor, across the great dining room babies cried, men shouted, and children raced frantically looking for their parents. Dwalin's eyes scanned the crowd for one of the tall elven guards, but he did not have to look long.