18 • Lost of life

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His voice was hoarse from calling her name, his feet worn out from the distance they travelled and his long blonde hair clung to his sweaty face. The sun was afflicting. His scorched skin burned with every move he made. There was no way he would not feel the pain, but his mind was on one thought only: Elithien.

Every stone and rock in the cave he had carefully inspected, hoping for a sign that his wife had been there. The piece of cloth he had found, he had tied around the handle of his sword and the necklace he still held in his hand.

Certainly hours had flown ahead, and still there was no sign of his beloved. Thranduil did not want to give in to it, he did not want to admit that his wife was no longer alive and he might never find her. The possibility that the dragon had torn her body to pieces and consumed it without mercy gnawed at his conscience. Her screams echoing through the cave, begging and praying for redemption and for her husband, who never showed up, plagued his thoughts and the truth that the last thing she had seen was this dark lair, cut through his heart like a knife. He wanted to get rid of the thoughts, but his conscience would not let him.

At least two days drifted by agonisingly slowly and as time passed, he became more and more discouraged. Blisters danced on his skin. Finally, the king collapsed on the rocks and let the emotions in his body overpower him. Tears rolled down his cheeks and salt pricked the open wound on his face. If it hadn't been for those tears, he wouldn't have even thought about it again.

Thranduil knew he had to turn back before the wound would get infected. He did not want to, but he had to face the fact that there was probably no chance his wife was still alive. But how could he return without his queen? How would he tell his infant son that his mother would never wish him goodnight again? How could he get it over his heart to tell him that he would never see her again?

Thranduil squeezed his eyes shut, letting the last tears escape from his eyes and drip onto the ground. Carefully, he stood up. His army might even have already left for home, suspecting that their king had died on the battlefield. His horses were gone or eaten up by the Frostwyrms; it would be a long journey home.

Defeated, he left the mountains behind. Only now he felt the burning pain coursing through his feet; days of travelling were beginning to take their toll. Gusts of wind plagued the wound with each time it licked his skin and the hot sun was almost devastating on his broken face. He dragged himself across the battlefield and gawked at the havoc that had been wrought.

 A gentle wind blew the smell of death and destruction into his nose. Many of his men lay scattered across the field with gaping wounds, body parts torn off and dried blood all over their armour. Blue Frostwyrms lay with throats ripped open among the elf corpses. Injuries and gallons of blood coloured the ground red and not a living soul was to be seen in distant fields.

The wounded had already been returned to the kingdom. Thranduil lowered his eyes and walked towards the edge of the forest. He still had a journey of several days ahead of him and did not want to spend a single second on the battlefield. But with every step he took, he also took a step further away from his wife. The thought that from now on he would wake up alone every morning and never see her warm smile again, broke the remaining remnants of his heart. Never again would he be able to stare into those shining eyes or hear her voice echo through the corridors of the palace. And her singing, too, was lost forever. All that was over.

After days of walking, he finally reached the bridge in front of the entrance to his palace. The guards, surprised by his return, ran towards him, but he turned down their help. Their shouts and chatter passed him by. He sauntered into the doors and walked straight back to his throne. With his last strength, he ran up the steps and sank through his knees on top of the platform. His own heavy breathing echoed through his head as he stared at the ground.

'Ada? His infant son's sweet voice echoed through his ears and he looked up. Two big blue eyes looked at him, slid over his face and the horror the dragon had left there. The golden sparkles beside the deep black pupils reminded him of all he had lost and the king embraced his son. He felt the prince wrap his arms around him and weep. All the pent-up emotions of the past few days were released and for a moment it seemed he would never stop crying. But when he finally did, he got up and walked away.



In the years that followed, the young prince grew into an adult elf, who had taught himself to shoot bow and arrow and swordfight, as his father could not help him much. It was as if he had lost his lust for life with the death of his wife. And with it, the entire kingdom. Never again did the king visit the gardens, and as the years passed, plants grew overgrown and weeds marred the splendour that had once stood there.

The beautiful fountain became overgrown with moss and eventually it too stopped watering. The gates of the kingdom remained closed and visitors rarely came. Never again was a feast held, except the Mereth Nuin Giliath once a year. That was the only time of the year Thranduil still came out, to stare at the stars at night and weep for the loss of his wife.

Thranduil could not bear to keep the beautiful star necklace still in his possession and returned it to the dwarves. He kept only the wedding ring. The people grieved with him, as did Legolas, but no one bore the loss as much as Thranduil. It was as if the lights in the king's eyes had been extinguished forever and his heart turned to stone.

In memory of his wife's beauty, he had a statue made at the entrance to the forest, where he went once a year to place flowers. He hid the scar the dragon had given him from the world with a powerful spell, lest he be reminded of the suffering every time he would see his reflection.

The young prince still remembered exactly what the wound looked like, but did not speak about it to anyone because he knew how much it would hurt his father. Although Thranduil wanted nothing more than to be there for his son, he no longer had the energy for it. Every smile he bestowed on the prince was no longer genuine, and although every embrace brought back the feeling of bliss to him for a moment, it never lasted more than a few seconds before it disappeared again. It was no greater disappointment to him that he could not be there for his son, but even worse he felt that he no longer had his wife by his side and that the little prince would never be able to hear her voice again.

 It was no greater disappointment to him that he could not be there for his son, but even worse he felt that he no longer had his wife by his side and that the little prince would never be able to hear her voice again

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