In the shadows of Gundabad, where memories linger like ghosts, they raced against time, pursued by the echoes of a grief-stricken past, seeking solace in the promise of a distant horizon
The charged air in the room seemed to thicken as Legolas and Kili stood in front of each other, each a formidable force in his own right. Legolas, towering and imposing, cast a glance down upon Kili, his elven grace and stoic demeanor radiating an intimidating presence. On the other side, Kili, though not as physically imposing, exuded a unique brand of manliness born from the resilience of a dwarf who had faced battles and adversity.
As accusations were thrown between the two, Lytharial attempted to intervene, her voice a feeble attempt to quell the brewing storm.
"Just stop it," she whispered, her strength giving in as her legs buckled, and she sank to the ground.
Legolas, with his eyes still fixed on Kili, issued a directive to Lytharial.
"We have to go now."
But Kili, standing firm, wasn't about to let the matter rest.
"She can't walk," he stated, his voice carrying the weight of concern for the wounded elf.
Legolas, his gaze unwavering, replied,
"That is not your concern, dwarf. She is under my protection."
Kili's expression hardened, a defiance gleaming in his eyes.
"And I am under the obligation to ensure the well-being of those who need it."
Legolas, unyielding, retorted,
"She brought this upon herself. She is responsible for her actions."
Kili, however, wasn't one to back down easily.
"You can't just dismiss her sacrifice. She came here wounded and fought beside us. You can't just disregard that!"
Legolas, with a cold precision in his voice, stated,
"Her actions were reckless and foolish. She endangered herself and those she claimed to protect."
Kili, though visibly angered, maintained his composure.
"Yet, she saved lives. Does that not count for anything?"
Legolas's eyes flashed with a hint of frustration.
"Her recklessness could have cost her life! What value is there in a sacrifice that need not have been made?"
Kili lowered his head in a momentary acknowledgment of Legolas's argument. The weight of responsibility for Lytharial's well-being weighed on his shoulders, and he understood the implications of her sacrifice.
"We have to find out where the Orcs keep coming from," Legolas stated with a sense of urgency, his eyes fixed on the broader threat they faced.
Without wasting any more time, he gripped Lytharial by the arm and guided her out of the house.
Lytharial, weakened and disoriented, attempted to resist.
"I need to stay with the dwarves," she protested, her voice a feeble attempt to assert her wishes. But Legolas, resolute in his decision, didn't yield.
Instead, he continued to guide her, refusing to let her linger amid the aftermath. The urgency of their situation demanded immediate action. As they reached the dead end where Legolas's horse was, he wasted no time. He swiftly placed her on a horse in front of him, ensuring she had the support needed to endure the journey ahead.
Lytharial, despite her weakened state, couldn't suppress her desire to fight back.
"Legolas, I can still help them," she insisted, her eyes pleading for understanding.
He, however, remained steadfast in his decision.
"Your place is not here, not now," he asserted, his tone firm yet laced with a subtle concern. "We need to understand the orc threat, and you need rest."
The thundering hooves of Legolas's horse echoed through the small streets as he urged the steed to a gallop, desperation evident in his eyes. Lytharial clung to him, the wind whipping against her battered form, as they neared the port. Just as they reached the harbor, the scene unfolded before them — a horde of orcs attacking the town, their malevolence directed toward anything in their path, including the unsuspecting duo.
Chaos reigned as Legolas skillfully maneuvered the horse with one arm, holding Lytharial close for her safety, and wielding a sword with his other arm to slash through the oncoming onslaught of orcs. The clang of steel against steel and the guttural roars of the orcs blended into a symphony of war, the stakes elevated by the urgency of their situation.
"Legolas, we need to find cover!" Lytharial shouted over the chaos, her voice strained but determined.
"There's no time," he replied, his eyes scanning the surroundings for a strategic advantage. "We must push through to the harbor. The orcs are relentless, but we can't let them overrun the town."
The path ahead was fraught with danger, and Legolas's every move was a calculated dance of survival. His elven agility and prowess with the blade cut through the orcish ranks, creating a path for them to advance. Lytharial, her injuries notwithstanding, kept a vigilant watch, ready to strike at any orc that dared to approach too closely.
The horse beneath them galloped with urgency, a desperate attempt to break through the sea of adversaries. Suddenly, the grim reality struck as an orc's crude weapon struck true, bringing down the majestic steed with a gut-wrenching finality.
Legolas and Lytharial were thrown to the ground in the abrupt chaos that ensued. In that split second, Legolas, ever the protector, twisted his body to absorb the impact, ensuring Lytharial fell upon him, shielding her from the full force of the fall. The ground met them with unforgiving force, but Legolas bore the brunt of it, his focus unwavering.
"Lytharial, stay down!" he urged a mix of urgency and concern evident in his voice. As they hit the ground, Legolas quickly untangled himself, ensuring Lytharial had room to move. With a swift, practiced motion, he rose to his feet, his elven agility allowing for a seamless transition.
Lytharial, battered but resilient, staggered to her feet with Legolas's unspoken guidance. His gaze never left the encroaching orc threat as he positioned himself between her and the impending danger.
"Stay behind me," he commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos.
The battle raged on, the orcs closing in from all sides. Legolas, now focused on carving a path toward the safety of the harbor, fought with unparalleled grace and speed. Each swing of his blade was a testament to the elven skill, a dance of death amid the turmoil.
"We need to reach the port, find a boat," Lytharial shouted over the din, her eyes scanning the immediate vicinity for any signs of escape.
They pressed forward, the harbor within reach but seemingly miles away amidst the chaos. Legolas skillfully navigated through the tumult, his senses attuned to the surrounding danger. Lytharial, though struggling, kept pace, determination in her eyes matching the fire in Legolas's.
Finally, they reached the harbor, a temporary sanctuary in the storm of battle. Legolas wasted no time. With a swift motion, he propelled Lytharial toward a small boat, urging her inside.
"Hop in," he commanded, a rare note of vulnerability slipping into his tone.
Suddenly, Bolg, a menacing figure leading the orc forces, emerged from the shadows. Legolas, his senses keen and honed by years of experience, caught sight of him amid the turmoil.
"Stay there," Legolas instructed Lytharial, his eyes locked on the imposing orc leader.
Without waiting for a response, he left her alone in the boat and dashed into the tumult, determined to confront Bolg before the situation escalated further.
Lytharial left alone in the boat, felt the weight of her injuries intensify in the unsettling quiet that followed. The distant echoes of battle, the anguished cries of Lake Town's inhabitants, and the ominous presence of the orcs cast a foreboding shadow over the waters.
The boat gently rocked against the dock, a solitary vessel adrift in the storm of conflict. Lytharial, clutching her wounded stomach, peered anxiously into the darkness, acutely aware that orcs could close in on her at any moment. The boat, once a means of escape, now felt like a fragile sanctuary amidst the raging tempest of war.
The night air carried the scent of smoke and blood, mingling with the acrid odor of fear. Lytharial strained to listen, her senses heightened by the imminent danger. Every creak of the boat, every distant clash of weapons, fueled her anxiety.
On the other side, Legolas threaded his way through the winding alleys, a lone silhouette in the ebbing darkness. The air was laden with the pungent scent of burning wood, the distant glow of fires casting an eerie radiance upon the cobblestone streets.
With a fluid motion, he unsheathed his twin blades – delicate extensions of his ethereal grace. The blades, forged with Elven craftsmanship, shimmered like liquid silver as he entered the dance of combat. His keen eyes scanned the encroaching shadows, seeking the elusive presence of Bolg, the orchestrator of this malevolent symphony.
Suddenly, from the depths of the obsidian night, emerged two hulking orcs, grotesque embodiments of darkness. Their twisted forms, bathed in the crimson glow of the fires, exuded a primal menace. Legolas, a vision of undisturbed serenity amid the turmoil, squared off against these formidable foes.
The first orc lunged forward, a massive club raised in a brutish assault. Legolas sidestepped the onslaught with a seamless grace, his blades describing intricate arcs through the air. The dance of steel and shadows unfolded with a spectral beauty, each movement a testament to Elven finesse.
The first orc fell, its lifeblood staining the cobblestones a dark hue. Yet, the second orc, undeterred by its companion's demise, bellowed a primal challenge. It charged with unbridled fury, a manifestation of Mordor's relentless malice.
The Elven prince spun a dervish of death, narrowly avoiding the sweeping strike. His blades, an extension of his very essence, met the orc's defenses with lethal precision. The shimmering silver cut through the air, weaving a tapestry of grace amidst the chaotic tapestry of war.
The narrow streets transformed into an arena where light and shadow clashed with visceral intensity. Thranduil's son moved through the tumult with an otherworldly agility. His movements, a harmonious blend of elvish prowess and purpose, painted an intricate portrait against the canvas of conflict.
Bolg emerged from the shadows like a malevolent specter, a towering figure of darkness. The air crackled with an unholy energy as Legolas locked eyes with the orc chieftain. Bolg, a grotesque amalgamation of brawn and brutality, exuded an aura of primal power that seemed to distort the very air around him.
Legolas, undeterred by the looming threat, faced Bolg with the poise of an elf prince. The first clash of steel echoed through the night, the resounding clash of blades a prelude to the fierce duel that would ensue. Bolg's weapon, a massive, serrated cleaver, clashed with Legolas's twin blades, the collision of metal filling the air with a symphony of war.
The combatants danced a perilous ballet, each strike a calculated display of skill and savagery. Bolg, driven by the dark forces of Mordor, swung his cleaver with an unbridled ferocity. Legolas, agile and elusive, deflected the blows with a fluid grace that seemed to defy the laws of mortal combat.
The exchange intensified, and the two adversaries locked in a deadly embrace. Bolg unleashed a barrage of strikes that tested Legolas's elven agility. Legolas, in turn, countered with precision and finesse, seeking vulnerabilities in the orc chieftain's relentless assault.
As the battle unfolded, Bolg's sheer strength began to take its toll. Despite his elven resilience, Legolas felt the force of each blow reverberate through his body. Bolg's brutish might allowed him to throw Legolas around like a ragdoll, the elf prince struggling to maintain his footing amidst the onslaught.
Blood began to stain Legolas's fair features – a trickle from his nose, a testament to the toll exacted by Bolg's relentless attacks. The crimson mark on his alabaster skin bespoke the harsh reality of their confrontation.
In a moment of cunning, Bolg, sensing an opportunity, attempted to make a swift escape on his hyena-like mount. Legolas, his senses alert, seized the nearest horse in a desperate bid to pursue the orc chieftain. The thundering hooves of the steed echoed through the night as Legolas closed the distance.
However, the tide of battle soon revealed itself in all its malevolence. Legolas, surrounded by a horde of orcs, faced an impossible choice. The realization that he couldn't single-handedly overcome the overwhelming numbers forced him into a strategic retreat. Reluctantly, he released the stolen horse and watched as Bolg and his hyena disappeared into the shadows.
As Legolas retreated from the tumultuous skirmish with Bolg, a sudden realization gripped his heart like a vice – he had left Lytharial alone in the harbor. A wave of self-reproach crashed over him, and he slapped his forehead in disbelief.
How could he, the Prince of Mirkwood, be so heedless, so recklessly negligent?
His thoughts spiraled into a maelstrom of self-condemnation as he raced back toward the harbor, his heart pounding with a mix of anxiety and regret. The once-clear path now seemed obscured by the shadows of his own mistakes, each step echoing the thunderous beat of his pulse.
Legolas darted through the narrow streets, navigating the chaotic scenes of orc-infested turmoil. His elven agility was strained by the weight of concern that bore down on him. Orcs, oblivious to the lone elf's frenetic pursuit, continued their frenzied assault on Lake Town.
Images of Lytharial, alone in that precarious situation, haunted Legolas's mind. He envisioned her wounded, vulnerable, facing the looming threat of orcs who might have discovered her solitary presence. The chill of fear gripped his heart, and an unspoken oath echoed in his mind – to reach her before the shadows claimed her.
The harbor loomed ahead, and Legolas's pace quickened. His breath came in ragged gasps as he leaped over obstacles, his silver hair streaming behind him like a banner of urgency. The once-unseen peril of orcish foes became secondary to the paramount mission of reaching Lytharial.
Finally, the harbor unfolded before him, a scene of both peril and potential salvation. Legolas scanned the area with an acute gaze, searching for any sign of Lytharial amidst the pandemonium. The boats, mere vessels of wood and rope, now held the weight of his deepest fears.
A surge of relief washed over Legolas as he spotted Lytharial – a lone figure amid the harbor's turmoil. He rushed towards her with a blend of desperation and determination, his voice calling her name amidst the cacophony of chaos.
"Lytharial!" he exclaimed, his tone betraying both relief and reproach. He reached her side, a mixture of worry and frustration etched on his features.
As Lytharial teetered on the precipice of exhaustion, a veil of weariness threatening to pull her into the clutches of sleep, Legolas's voice became a lifeline. The melodic sound, tinged with concern and urgency, acted as a stark reminder of the perilous reality they faced. Her eyelids, heavy with fatigue, fluttered open as she fought against the encroaching darkness.
"Legolas!" she exclaimed, the name a breathless acknowledgment of the relief his presence brought.
In a swift motion, he leaped into the boat, propelling it forward. Lytharial's eyes widened, momentarily catching the sight of dried blood beneath his nostrils. Concern etched across her features, she reached out to touch his face.
"What happened, are you hurt?" she inquired, genuine worry lacing her words.
Legolas, however, hesitated, the desire to appear unyielding battling with the vulnerability that lingered beneath the surface.
Their eyes locked in a moment of shared vulnerability, and Lytharial's hand, guided by concern, traced the contours of Legolas's face. The touch, though brief, carried the weight of unspoken emotions. Legolas, accustomed to bearing the mantle of strength, felt a rare flicker of vulnerability in the warmth of her touch.
A fleeting expression crossed Legolas's face – a mixture of gratitude and a reluctance to reveal the extent of his struggles. Lytharial, sensing the delicate balance, withdrew her hand as if she had touched something too sacred or too perilous.
"Nothing that won't heal," Legolas replied, his voice carrying a stoic assurance.
Yet, beneath the veneer of composure, there lingered a silent acknowledgment that, in this journey through the shadows, even the seemingly invincible could be marked by the trials they faced.
The small boat glided through the dark waters, leaving the chaotic scene behind. Legolas pushed the boat forward, steering it toward the safety of the opposite shore. Lytharial sat in the boat, her eyes never leaving Legolas as he maneuvered with the grace of an elven prince.
As they reached the other side, Legolas wasted no time. He glanced around, the urgency still present in his eyes. Spotting a lone horse tethered nearby, he moved swiftly and silently, untying the reins with practiced ease.
Lytharial, her sense of humor intact even amid danger, couldn't resist a sly remark.
"Well, well, Prince Legolas, stealing a horse? What would your subjects think?"
Legolas shot her a sharp look, a mixture of irritation and concern.
"This is no time for jokes, Lytharial. Your recklessness could have cost us everything back there."
She met his gaze with a steady one of her own.
"And what about you? Do you think your life is worth more than mine?"
Legolas's anger flashed in his eyes.
"I am responsible for you. Your actions reflect on me."
Lytharial chuckled, a bitter edge to her laughter.
"Always the responsible prince. But, Legolas, I don't need you to be responsible for me. I need you to see me as an equal, not just a responsibility."
He tightened his grip on the reins, frustration evident in his features.
"You don't understand the weight of your choices, Lytharial. I cannot lose you."
She leaned in, meeting his gaze with intensity.
"Then fight beside me, Legolas. Don't fight for me."
A heavy silence hung between them as the horse galloped through the night, the rhythmic beat of hooves echoing their unspoken sentiments. The tension was palpable, emotions swirling in the air like a tempest waiting to break.
"Where are we going?" Lytharial finally asked, her voice softer, the humor replaced by genuine curiosity.
"Gundabad," Legolas replied, his jaw clenched. "We need to find out why the orcs are attacking. There's something darker at play."
Lytharial nodded, absorbing the gravity of the situation.
"And you think going to Gundabad is the answer?"
"It's a start," he answered tersely, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. "But we need to be cautious. Gundabad is not a place for the faint-hearted."
The night enveloped them in a cloak of shadows as they rode toward Gundabad, the distant mountains looming like dark sentinels on the horizon. Legolas could sense the weight of unspoken pain hanging in the air, both from the wounds of battle and the deeper scars that marked Lytharial's soul.
As they galloped through the night, the rhythmic beat of the horse's hooves on the uneven terrain mirrored the ebb and flow of their unspoken conversation. Legolas stole glances at Lytharial, her face hidden beneath a veil of fatigue and lingering pain. The gash on her stomach, a testament to the recent battle, seemed to sear with a renewed intensity.
"Lytharial," Legolas began his voice a gentle undertone against the backdrop of the night. "How are you holding up?"
She offered him a faint smile, the pain etched in the corners of her eyes.
"Just another scar to add to the collection. It's nothing."
Legolas furrowed his brows, sensing the bravado in her words.
"Don't dismiss it so easily! I've seen enough battles to know when a wound runs deeper than the flesh."
She sighed, the weight of the unspoken grief settling between them.
"It's not just the physical pain, Legolas... Losing Thallasa, the burden of everything... it's overwhelming."
His gaze softened, a genuine sorrow reflected in his eyes.
"I know and I'm sorry, Lytharial. I should have asked how you're feeling. Losing family is never easy."
She nodded, appreciating the sincerity in his words.
"I'll be fine. We have a mission, and I won't let anything distract us."
Legolas glanced at her, a flicker of concern in his eyes.
"Your stomach... it's burning. The wound hasn't healed."
Lytharial winced, the pain surging as a reminder of the battle fought.
"It's manageable. I've endured worse."
A heavy silence hung in the air, the unspoken acknowledgment of the sacrifices made for their shared cause. Legolas finally broke the quiet, his tone carrying a mix of regret and apology.
"I'm sorry for yelling at you back in Lake Town. It was uncalled for, and you deserved better."
She met his gaze, her eyes reflecting a resilience that refused to yield.
"We're in this together, Legolas. There's no need for apologies. We both have our roles to play."
As Legolas and Lytharial reached the outskirts of Gundabad, they left the stolen horse behind and began the arduous ascent on foot. The mountainous terrain, rugged and unforgiving, seemed to mirror the ominous atmosphere that hung over the orc-infested stronghold.
The sight that greeted them at the crest of the climb was nothing short of terrifying. A sprawling army of orcs marched in grim unison, their grotesque figures blotting the landscape like a swarm of relentless shadows. The air was thick with the stench of malice, and the distant echo of orcish war cries reverberated through the mountainous valleys.
Lytharial, despite the searing pain that had been her constant companion, gasped at the sheer magnitude of the orc army below. The breathtaking vista of malevolent forces stretching as far as the eye could see left an indelible mark on her, momentarily overshadowing the physical agony.
Legolas, too, felt the weight of the moment. The gravity of the situation hung in the air like a palpable force.
"We need to warn everyone," he said, his voice carrying a sense of urgency that matched the pounding of their hearts.
Lytharial nodded, momentarily forgetting the throbbing ache in her stomach as the dire reality unfolded before them.
"There's no time to waste. We must act swiftly."
As they descended from their vantage point, carefully navigating the treacherous terrain, the enormity of the orc army became even more apparent. Legolas, his eyes sharp and vigilant, scanned the marching horde with a mix of concern and determination. Lytharial, her focus unwavering, couldn't help but marvel at the sheer number of orcs that seemed to multiply with each passing moment.
The mountain air was crisp, yet the tension between them hung heavy. Legolas, always the strategist, began to formulate a plan in his mind.
"We'll need allies. Dwarves, elves, anyone who can stand against this force."
Lytharial, her thoughts aligning with Legolas's, replied,
"We must find a way to unite them, convince them of the imminent threat. Otherwise, Gundabad's army will overrun everything in its path."
"We don't have time to try to unite everyone!" Legolas hissed at Lytharial, his hand firmly clasping hers as he pulled her towards the waiting horse.
The urgency in his voice mirrored the unrelenting pace of their escape. The tension in the air crackled like static, every passing moment a reminder of the impending danger that lurked in the shadows.
Lytharial, caught in the whirlwind of urgency, felt the palpable unease radiating from Legolas. The grimace on his face, a fleeting expression of pain and resentment, did not go unnoticed by her keen eyes. As they stood amidst the desolation of Gundabad, she dared to voice the question that lingered in the air like an unspoken truth.
"What is going on?" she asked, her voice a whisper against the ominous backdrop of their surroundings.
Legolas, his gaze meeting hers, hesitated for a moment before unveiling the haunting revelation that tethered him to this accursed land.
"This is where they killed my mother."