#rexvati

[sigrfridr-archive]

WHO IS THIS WULF - rexvati

NO ONE he’s no one. No one important. No one at all.

[rulerofthewoodlandrealm]

                 His son was alive. Gone, but alive to do so, and Thranduil had been able to set a course for him before he had left. Unable to walk this road by his side, the Elvenking did what he could to best lead his son and keep him safe. Being separated this harshly and definitely was painful, not just because Thranduil would miss his son dearly, but because he would not be able to protect him like he always had when Legolas had remained within the confines of the woodland realm. Times were changing and again, it were the battles of mortals that tore his kingdom apart. Tauriel's grief had been contagious, in nature as well as in how it evoked memories Thranduil did not usually dwell in. Words between them had been scarce, but a lot was said without the need to verbalize it. More than any of them would have been able to force into the restrictive patterns of speech. There were no words for the agony inside Tauriel's chest, as the Elvenking knew from experience. But he also knew that it would get better and it would stop tearing her apart, eventually. Elves were made to feel with an intensity that was unimaginable to mortals, but they were given the strength to endure their feelings, with it. Not that they could not break and crack and remain incomplete for all eternity to come. Leaving her to herself and the remaining company of dwarves, as she wished for a moment of solitude, the Elvenking had started his descend down the Ravenhill. Harsh winds howled around broken stone and in the absence of the sounds of metal clashing with metal the serenade of grief could be heard, that was devoted to the three dead dwarves he left behind with the hill. A sound far worse than the battle itself, but one that always followed. Like the stink of dead orcs and the foul stench of their blood that lingered in the air like palpable disease. Like the smell of death, so distinct where it surrounded his own fallen kinsmen. Far too often had he smelled it and far too familiar was the sour smell of eternal life lost to pay for mortal desires, while the conflict of this world remained unsolved. The battle they had fought was reduced to mere quarrels at the corners of streets inside the city of Dale. Single orcs, trying to hide or flee, were driven out or driven through with hard, cold steel, killed by the remaining superiority of elves and humans roaming the town. The Elvenking was soon found walking among them, searching for Dale's new king.  Where he had planned to leave the city behind as he feared more lives of his kin lost in vain, watering a land that was cursed and doomed to begin with, there was no reason to flee this place anymore. Not, when the fight had left this place before him. Steps, light and swift with the desire to find the man he was looking for, took him through narrow pathways and over large, open places. His sword swirled and hummed through the air, every time a single foe came into its reach, leaving the wretched creature dead behind him, oozing black blood onto the pavement. It was not long before he reached the man he had been looking for. Alone, even though he stood surrounded by a few men of Dale, who had built a wide and large circle around him. None dared to approach him. The place before an old, tall building looked whole in a way most of the town did not. Untouched by the gnawing teeth of time and the rage of battle. And just like the building looked distinctively whole, Bard stood before it, looking distinctively in ruins. The Elvenking's steps became slow, his eyes falling from the king's face to the ground to look what Bard was staring, eyes filled with apathy or despair. Thranduil was not quite sure which it was he could see. But the ground did leave no room for misinterpretation or question. The ground was honest and open, unveiling the horror that had to have crept into the bargeman's chest. Colored dark crimson, the snow had been flooded with blood. The taste of metal on his tongue, Thranduil halted his advance, the tips of his boots almost touching the mess his eyes had seen. Eyes, widened now as much as Bard's were, flitted over the bodies of three dead humans, in a large group of dead humans. Easily, he had found them and he knew it was this that the man only a few feet from him could not take his eyes off of. The Elvenking's guards came to stand behind him and stopped just like their king had.           Grief came rushing back into Thranduil's chest; more intense than it had on the Ravenhill. When he had walked the scene, searching, but terrified to find his son lying among the carcasses of orcs, slain and lost to him, he had not dared imagine what he would do if the unthinkable had truly happened. He had been spared such fate and he had been grateful for it, had been relieved despite the pain that the son's departure had caused. Bard, however, had not lost just one son today. He had lost all his children. And Thranduil had an idea of that pain that was vivid like a storm. Humans were short-lived. They were a gentle breeze in the spring of an elf's life or a warm autumn afternoon. They died. They always did. And often it didn't make much difference. Their was only death for them. But while he did not care to buy their lives with the lives of his own kin, because he had an obligation to his own before he did to others, he did recognize the sorrow and grief in the ones left behind and he cared for them. He could pity the death of the king under the mountain and he could grieve for them.      Pain like that demanded to be felt and acknowledged and mortals, even though their life was inevitably leading to death, felt the loss of others so deeply. Made to die, but unable to accept death, they were born with the promise of agony to their souls. Thranduil was neither without mercy, nor was he without empathy and the scene before him touched his heart, just as seeing Tauriel had. Mortal or immortal, it mattered not. Their grief was pain brought into the world that should not have been there. Pain introduced to flesh by the cruel wrath of steel. Agony, that the Elvenking now knew had to rest in Bard's chest. Solace and peace had been what Thranduil had come to seek with the new king of Dale, after a battle fought and many things lost. Now, looking down upon the mess that had been made of Bard's life, he knew he wouldn't find such thing with him.        Yet, he was glad he had come, for Bard surely needed what he couldn't give anymore.

"There are no words," the Elvenking began, gaze finally torn from the lifeless bodies on the ground, so that he could face his friend again, "that I could offer. None, but that I know." Lowering head and gaze alike in a gesture meant to convey what he just had claimed he couldn't put into words, he stood for a long moment, before he went to close the distance to Bard. A flick of his hands had his guards moving; not to follow him, but to stand and break the line of sight between Bard and       his dead family.