Shadow of Mirkwood

Fireheart

The Fireheart knows no boundaries, for its flames reach beyond the confines of the soul, igniting the world with passion and purpose

Legolas, bearing Lytharial in his arms with tender strength, moved gracefully through the shimmering ranks of the elven army. The golden armor of the warriors gleamed in the radiant sunlight, creating an ethereal atmosphere as if the very essence of the forest was embodied in their armor.

The elven host, a sea of majestic warriors with bows and blades, seamlessly divided into two symmetrical lines. A hushed reverence rippled through their ranks as they witnessed the prince of Mirkwood carrying the wounded Lytharial. The soldiers, usually resolute and stern, lowered their heads in a gesture of respect, creating a solemn pathway for Legolas to traverse.

The path ahead seemed almost sacred, with the elven warriors parting like the flowing waters of a majestic river. The vibrant greenery of the surrounding forest framed this extraordinary scene, enhancing the otherworldly aura that enveloped the procession.

Among the elven soldiers, Legolas spotted Aranel, the vigilant guardian of Mirkwood's borders. His stoic expression, typically marked by a vigilant gaze, softened in recognition and concern as he glimpsed the wounded warrior in Legolas's arms.

Aranel, a skilled warrior with a heart as unwavering as his blade, stepped forward from the ranks. His silver hair caught the glint of sunlight, and his eyes, pools of wisdom, held a mixture of sympathy and solidarity. It was as if the forest itself acknowledged the passing of one of its own.

     "Where is my father?" Legolas inquired, his gaze piercing the battlefield. Aranel gestured toward the distant fray, and Legolas's eyes focused on a grand white stag, a majestic emblem of Thranduil leading the elves into battle.

Legolas, his expression strained, redirected his attention to Aranel, who now peered down at Lytharial cradled in his arms. The elven prince caught between the urgency of the battlefield and the concern for the wounded warrior, hesitated for a moment.

      "What happened?" Aranel's voice was laced with both curiosity and worry, mirroring the sentiments that lingered in the air. Legolas, however, found himself grappling with the weight of his responsibilities, the urgency of the battlefield pressing upon him.

     "I don't have time to explain," Legolas said, his voice firm but edged with a hint of frustration.

 With a deliberate motion, he transferred Lytharial's delicate form into Aranel's capable embrace. The wounded warrior seemed almost ethereal against the backdrop of elven armor, a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding in the distance.

      "I need to go to Thranduil," Legolas declared, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the distant figure of his father leading the charge. "I trust you Lytharial. Guard her with your life if you must."

Aranel's brow furrowed in concern, and he attempted to voice his apprehensions. 

      "But—"

      "You dare to contradict?" Legolas interrupted, his tone sharp and authoritative. "I'm a prince; don't forget that. This is an order. Look after her until I get back, and find someone to stop her bleeding."

The command hung in the air, a testament to the weight of duty and the unspoken understanding among warriors. Aranel, though momentarily conflicted, nodded in acknowledgment, cradling Lytharial with a newfound sense of responsibility. Legolas, fueled by the urgency of the battle and the duty that awaited him, turned away, his silhouette blending into the ebb and flow of elven warriors converging on the battlefield.