"I have to leave."
He turned suddenly, eyes narrow and sharp as his hand gripped tightly to the quill it had been utilizing. “Leave? And where exactly do you plan to elope to, Dinendir? Do you really believe that I will simply let you walk away?” He dropped the quill to the roll of parchment, wiping his hands on his robes before standing in one graceful movement. His height was like an imposing shadow as he strode across the room, stopping just in front of the bold scribe. “You. Will. Not. Leave.”
"Dinendir." There was no emotion in the word, no traceable amount of ire or sadness or wrath. It merely existed, the formation of breath into something that held meaning for ears to discern. The king remained still in the corner, a living statue that blended into the shadows like a wraith from the burrows… and yet, with the spark of life returning to a battered corpse, he found himself breathing in relief. It was a strange feeling, one that he had thought obliterated when he had placed the ring on his finger… but no, when he looked deep inside, DEEP enough to examine the thread work of his fea, of the shadows and light intertwined like a diseased web… he knew that it was true. He had worried. Panicked, even. And now that Dinendir was safe, he was relieved.
The distressed sobs came to his ear as an intrusion of the tense silence. He finally walked forward, slowly and carefully, as a hunter who did not want to frighten his panicked horse. “Calm down, Dinendir, and lay back. You will open the wound again.” His hands reached out and clamped onto the scribe’s arms, pulling him back to the sheets as gently as his countenance could allow. He simply stood there for a moment, thinking, watching the tears as they trickled down pallid cheeks as smooth as starlight… it was hard to form words when he no longer knew what to say.
"Do not attempt that again," he finally stated, pulling the covers up over the bloodstained bandage on the scribe’s abdomen. "I forbid you from it - and if you disobey me, I will chain you hand and foot to the wall so that you never have free range, ever again. Do you understand?"
Whether it was his own mind which created the illusion or something else had its play in it, he could not tell. There seemed to be concern present in Thranduil's expression. Perhaps even voice. Was it possible that, whatever madness has had its claws pierced in his mind, was now fading away? There was a shimmer of hope in his eyes but he did not wish to jump to any conclusions.
Obediently, he nodded to the threat, wondering whether he would get away without any punishment. Dread was still beating within his chest, causing his eyes to warily observe the king. His hands subconsciously tugged at the sheets. His eyes stung. The breathing stopped for a moment as he sunk into the sheets.
And then the urge to grasp the knife and finish what he began reappeared. Unaware, his hand reached to feel around his waist where the knife used to be sheathed. Of course, it was not there and thus he began to feel all around, being immersed in the search and forgetting about everything else for a moment.
He turned to his side, slowly and painfully, allowing his hand to feel beneath the pillow. "Where is it...? I had another one... I..." There was no other knife, though. His mind seemed to be an imbalance between thoughts, dreams and reality. There were no inner monologues he could control or hide anymore. "Sharper, finer... shinier. M-my lovely knife... It was here."
