Hidden Intention(Thranduil X Reader)

Chapter Seven.

You lie on your bed. Leaving all of the windows open, letting the cold breeze of night entered your room. The village you live in already went into silent hours ago. The lamps all been put off, leaving the lingering smokes behind. The air that you breathe in was so fresh that it made you felt so calm after the most stressful week. After a few agony months in the palace, to be back in your village was such a blessing.

The village is still the same. This small village is bustling with lives. The people here were so kind and warm to you. They treated you as if you belong here since the very beginning. Most of the villagers here were commoners, mere civilians that took no part in the war. They were blissfully ignorant of the darkness that engulfing the realm for this past few months. They did not know of the Orcs that tried to breach in the defence, did not know of the spiders that have been festering the forest, rapidly increasing in numbers.

You pushed all of the problems that have been infesting your mind and focus on the present. Sometime you wondered if, if you were not a warrior, not a soldier that sworn to serve the throne, then who will you become? Not designer, that for sure. You have no skill in altering and sewing. A baker? You have some skill in baking but it not really your forth. A librarian perhaps? Yes, you love book. It was no a terrible occupation for one to occupied.

The trees sang a soft lullaby, lulling the elves to sleep without any disturbance. Beckoning them all to the realm of dream, giving the body and mind the chance to rest. You threw your legs off the bed and went to the window. The leaves twinkling, the dew on them reflects the moonlight. The fire you lit in the hearth cackle, slowly reducing to embers, painting your sleeping gown into bright orange. The fire shading a side of your face in its glow. It was a peaceful time for you. You basked in it.

Then your gaze rested on the wall. There, above the hearth, hung your weapon of choice. The weapon you used to annihilate your enemies. But that was in the past. Your times as the warrior of Greenwood are no more. They were mere memories that you cherished and you hated.

Your brows furrowed as memories flashed in your mind. The last battle you fought back then came back, haunting you. The screams and cries embedded in your mind. The sweats, the dirt, the warm blood and fleshes that once sticking to your skin. No matter how hard you tried to scrub it away, it was still there. It will be always there. When you look at your hand, you swear you can still see the flesh under your nail. The colour of red, the metallic taste and the sharp, nauseating smell that jabbed into your nose.

Your body jerked as you remembered the pain. Several arrows made of jagged metal, tipped with poison showering the air. Some embedded into your back. With a dagger struck into your armpit. Struck deep into the hilt, aiming to leave a permanent injury to the victim. Successfully disabling you from moving your hand without straining the wound even further. It was hard for you to swing your blade and beheaded the enemies. You could not do that anymore. Mortally wounded they said, but you survived. You survived the pain. You are a survivor. Escaping Death's embrace, cheating Death. Blinded by the pain of the past, you took your sword and rushes into the forest. You pulled the sword out of its scabbard and started slashing through the trees.

They didn't cry.

They didn't scream.

They didn't even plead for you to stop.

They just accept.

Accepting the pain that you merciless inflicting on them. They kept quiet, giving you the chance to let out you rage.

They embrace it.

Just like how you embrace your pain and started anew. Pain started to flared, forcing you to drop your sword. Gingerly you brought your hand to your armpit and touched it. Feeling a slick texture, you saw that your hand were wet with blood.

Blood.

The wound will never heal. They leave scar behind. One rough stretching and the wound reopened. Blood dripping down your arm as it staining your gown red. You staggered to the small river that flow through the small village. Pulling off your gown, you entered the river. Cold but you can't feel it. Red blood turn pink as it the touch the water and began to swirl on the surface. You ducked your head under the water and back up to the surface. Water dripping down your hair, creating a small ripple on the water. A lone tear make its way down your face.

But is it tear or it just the river water?