The Hobbit: Tales Untold

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The sound of clashing metal pierced her ear drums. It was a sharp noise that made her brow furrow slightly, her eyes narrowing, trying to push the echo and reverberations out of her mind. The force of the impact itself momentarily unsettled her, threw her of balance and as she passed by king's side, her step was briefly uncertain. Yet, she quickly regained herself, passing further to the right, almost circling around Thranduil, before she attempted on another strike. Strangely enough, the unsuccessful attack encouraged her to try harder, pushing hesitation aside.

Making another fast step forward, Tirneliell shadowed her previous sequel of movements as if she wanted to duplicate it. As the blade was once again driven upwards, there was no hesitation in her body language this time, she was solely determined to do one thing, to succeed, while her inner self screamed in horror. However, even Tirneliell knew that repeating the same movements twice was not only foolish, but also unproductive. If she wanted to survive the skirmish, she had to be creative. And so, just before the blade could meet any resistance, she surprisingly skilfully twirled the dagger in her hand with an adroit flick of a wrist, suddenly having the dagger in reverse grip. At the same time as doing that, Tirneliell made a bold move and stepped towards the king, as if into his comfort zone. The dagger moved in a curved fashion across as she brought it over her other shoulder to get enough swing to attempt on stabbing the other side of Thranduil's chest. At that moment, her right side was facing the king, the dagger being driven fast towards its aim. No second thoughts, just resolve.
 
Thranduil twisted as if to use his armored forearm to block that strike that came too close, his blade snapping back with a shrill and airy whistle as it halted mid-air and arced back and around towards Tirneliell. His movements were reactive and rigid like the King was too distracted to perform properly on his own. He matched her with a form befitting a king, but the way in which he used it was distrait and yet overpoweringly quick as the spar continued, almost as if he intended to heighten the challenge in which he offered without considering the fact that she was hardly ready for such a sudden change.

And then the king's countenance changed and he drew into himself, reserved and commanding as he ended their spar with a back step and a swift and nearly silent command. The short sword balanced precariously in the palm of his hand, a loose grip that tightened as he then sheathed the blade and addressed her in a firm, insistent voice.

"He taught you well," the king murmured. There was a natural talent in the she-elf's movement, built upon with learned skills and light training. The kind he would have received from his own father some millennia ago. "But that... is as far as we will go. For now." Time would wear on, and the orcs would not wait forever. He swore to himself to bring up another session to test her when they were out on rougher terrain.
 
It was more an instinct than an actual observation, but Tirneliell felt as if the king has momentarily failed to respond in the flowing, elegant manner that came along with his talent. She could not see, nor physically feel the slight stiffness of his movements, but something told her, that it was her chance to impress. However, her attempt on coming stronger in the attack was quelled by Thranduil's adeptness in swordplay, despite his seeming distraction and she found herself stumbling backwards, seeing the king putting away his weapon, ending their training session. At first, she thought that she has done something wrong. The whole room has turned colder, but it was not due to a breeze coming in from the outside, it was the sudden re-emerged reservedness. Maybe she has overstepped her boundaries, has been too bold with invading the king's comfort zone. She sheathed her own dagger at her belt and bowed in thankfulness. There was no need for words and she had nothing to say.

However, it was not long before the time to depart has arrived. It was like a dawning realization that they had to set out on their journey to crush the orcish threat once and for all. Tirneliell wasn't sure whether she knew that the time has come from the king's body language or whether it was her inner clock that counted down the seconds. At once, they both left the quarters to arrive at a clearance filled with soldiers mounted atop of their horses. Even the fabled elk was waiting for his rider, who just passed Tirneliell by as she took hold of the leads of her own horse. Just in that fleeting moment when their paths crossed again, Tirneliell could feel the thrill. Now that the 'private' training was over and a ride was ahead of them, she could reflect on what has happened. She knew that the king has devoted so much of his time to her to prepare her for this, but she also felt as if something else about their whole encounter eluded her. She was long past her youthful years of wishful thinking and chasing dreams that would never come true, so she could not wrap her mind around the fact that she once again felt as if she wanted to solve the mystery that was embodied in the man who was her king.

"Madame, by the orders you are supposed to stay here with us," said the soldier who rode next to her as she directed her horse out of the heart of the unit. She looked at him, maybe a bit more authoritatively than her position allowed her to. "I have my own orders." She replied, her voice indicating that the authority from which her orders came would surpass both of theirs put together. She spurred the horse into a trot to get into the head of the procession, receiving variety of questioning and curious looks along the way amidst the stone-like expression of seasoned warriors. At last, she found Thranduil and slowed her horse, remaining behind the king as riding next to him might be pushing her luck a bit too far already.
 
Elves were organized, focused. The mounts on which they rode were well taken care of, intelligent animals that reflected the elegance of their riders. Sturdy, a speed unmatched, and a strength that had seen them safely through orc battles for thousands of years. They were respectable beings in their own right. But Thranduil was... different. The great elk to his right was the only creature he truly believed surpassed horses in every possible manner, and he held the beast in high esteem as the King's mount, and so did others to knew of what the king rode in on. It was a stark difference, but all who saw the beast knew to whom it belonged, and offered it the same respect they would normally reserve only for the king himself.

Thranduil was pleased to know that his subjects knew exactly what its presence meant.

The stern gaze of the Elvenking studied the mounted soldiers, his stormy eyes flicking between each individual one at a time in appraisal, determining their specialty based on where they were situated within the clearing. Archers drawing in towards the center, swordsmen forming a neat and open formation around them. Units guarding units as was discussed. Organized, confident and determined. The younger soldiers appeared eager and yet poised atop their horses, knowing full well that the king would always be observing.

As Tirneliell approached behind him, Thranduil offered acknowledgement with a subtle turn of his head. "You ride well," he commented passively. "Do you feel it?" He did not expect her to understand the question, and kept his eyes forward.
 
"My father taught me. It was needed when he took me out of the kingdom into the forest to collect some herbs or plants that we could not grow in the garden," she explained feeling the warm sensation of pride once again spreading throughout her chest. Moreover, riding a horse for an elf was a second nature, if not for the fact that elves connected with animals easier than any other race, then it was for the inborn talent that everyone surely possessed. Upon Thranduil's next question, Tirneliell brought her attention to her surroundings. The gloomy, dark shadows of the trees with branches hanging over their heads creating a hostile environment. All she felt was death, the stench of it, its reverberation throughout the forest that was once magnificent. Yet there was this scent, or a feeling at the very edge of her senses that she has only just picked up and it made the hair on the back of her neck stand, a shiver ran down her spine.

"I feel death and rot, but..." Trying to find words to describe the peripheral tinge of something she could not put her finger on, Tirneliell gave up and instead directed a question at the king. "Are we getting closer to the camp?" Her voice dropped a notch in loudness as if she was afraid that the sound could be carried over to branches to the orcs and reveal their battalion approaching. She could feel her heart starting to pump slightly faster in a mix of adrenaline starting to flow through her blood, but also in angst. Her outer appearance remained controlled, she was very well self-possessed. The only give away of the state of her mind were her eyes and even then it was just a hint in the depth of the dark grey irises.
 
"Your father taught you many things, it would seem." Thranduil spared a quick glance at the she-elf beside him. "He had always been... prepared, your father. Always knowing what was to happen next."

Thranduil quite clearly remembered teaching himself under his own father's watchful eye. He'd had a natural talent for it that went far beyond what was expected for elves, a certain grace that stood out even among his own kind. At one point, he may have claimed that it was simply years of experience culminating into a second nature, but with time had come pride, and Thranduil had become convinced that he'd required little teaching in the first place. Whether that was true was purely speculative, as the King rarely spoke of his past, and when the exception was made, it was vague and brief.

"Nothing thrives in orc territory but themselves. Corruption is abundant here." It was a slick, oily feeling that twisted the forest life into hollow shells of colorless decay, warping what still lived into something eerie and wrong. They were nearing the edge of an orc encampment, likely one with numbers on its side if the corruption had taken such a hold as what he had seen so far. A single band of orcs was hardly enough to cause so much damage to a forest of this size, and something within the corrupted section of forest struck him as odd and distinctly out of place. The king's eyes narrowed into slits as the expedition continued on, his mind searching his extensive knowledge for answers.
 
Tirneliell nodded in agreement. Yes, the king spoke truth. Her father, despite being the quiet type, was the one who always observed and predicted many things before they happened. He was ready for almost anything and throughout Tirneliell's childhood, she believed that her father could do the magic of old times. Until one day, he told her the secret but she rarely utilized it. As much as she wanted to be like her father - diligent, observant and prepared for anything; her mind wasn't as trained in focus and constant awareness as her father's. She was more like her mother in that regard, still observant but more situated in the moment, acting on impulse or intuition.

As Thranduil spoke, she could also feel the corruption permeating the forest and apart from angst, it also infuriated her. No foul creature had the right to pollute something as great and pure as the wood elves' forest. If she had the power, the capabilities, she would purge the whole territory of orcs and spiders and restore the balance and harmony. But she knew that on her own, even if she would pray to all the gods, she wouldn't achieve her goal. Not without a support of someone almost equal to the gods themselves, at least in her eyes. Her gaze drifted from her surroundings and settled on the king almost subconsciously. Something drew her to him. She always looked up to the king, but after the past events, the pull became stronger. However, Tirneliell noticed the unsettled look on king's face. His eyes narrowed, intense, scouting the horizon.

Out of a blue, her sensitive hearing picked up a noise that did not fit with the nature of Mirkwood. It was rhythmic pounding, too heavy and slow for thin legs of a spider, hitting the ground harder than even the regal elk did. Before she could voice her concern, a black arrow flew past her head. Thanks to her heightened reflexes and maybe the power of observation and prediction, she managed to bent backwards just in time so that only the feather at the end brushed across the bridge of her nose. In that moment, everything slowed down. She saw each imperfect detail of the arrow and it dawned on her with heaviness of thousand boulders. The orcs were onto them. Somehow managing to crawl through the forest and gaining the advantage of surprise and now they chose to attack on sight. But more than that, she registered the stench of the projectile labelling it as the single purpose and reason for her presence in this expedition.

In the sudden uproar, when orcs started pouring out from behind the trees, Tirneliell head to speak out loudly as she manoeuvred her horse, unsheathing the dagger. "The arrowheads are poisoned!" What good that statement would do, she could not tell, but she'd prefer everyone to take extra care when in contact with orcish weapons as she was sure arrowheads were not the only blades dipped in venom. She soon became too preoccupied, her heart pounding, her eyes widening in bewilderment. The dark, foul creatures seemed to have been swarming them, pouring from behind every tree, even as if the ill earth itself has given birth to them. It was happening. The skirmish has begun. Trying to keep her horse from galloping away, Tirneliell looked around, seeing how far the danger was in relevance to her and if by any chance any soldier has already fell victim to some sort of an injury as the arrows kept flying by and clanging of steel could already be heard at the end of the convoy.
 
The man's insight had been greatly valued by the King during ages of strife, when times had become rough and a morally just decision was no better than the ethically despicable-- such was the eternal struggle of a ruler that Thranduil knew very well, and despised all the same. He had always been prepared, but even a King couldn't anticipate all outcomes and their futures, and so turned to the elf with the peculiar talent for expecting the unexpected and knowing just how to react. What a strange and foreign thing it was, that feeling that came with the healer's death. He detested it with his whole being, and found himself remembering just why friendship was a relationship Thranduil would prefer to have little to do with.

But then, there was the healer's daughter. Some withered part of him demanded her presence always, and Thranduil was hard-pressed to ignore its request. Fearing that such a friendship with the she-elf would end in much the same manner as with her father, the King labeled her as an acquaintance and nothing more.

He knew, somehow, that it would not last.

The heavy stomping of orcs could be felt through the very ground, alerting Thranduil that something was closing in on them quickly. The great Elk backed away from the foliage ahead when the arrows tore through the branches, their poison tips gleaming in the thin streams of sunlight. The focused rage built and Thranduil drew his sword to meet the oncoming attack with a swift ferocity that he was well known for.

In the back of his mind somewhere, he feared that he had finally made the mistake of underestimating the enemy.
 
She manoeuvred her horse backwards as a wall of loyal soldiers formed a fragile front around her, shielding her from the attack as best as they could. Tirneliell could do nothing but watch intently from the first row seat that she was granted in this skirmish. The scent of fresh spilled blood soon filled the air, the sharp clanking of swords rang in her ears, her reflexes were piked up to their utmost capabilities as she dodged the arrows here and there, but mainly as she looked around vehemently, searching for anyone in need of her help. Then she spotted the first man down. Or at least he seemed to be the first. She had no time to warn anyone if she wanted to save the soldier. With one quick glance towards the king, she has made a decision based on impulse and a sense of duty. Steering her horse away from her guards, she galloped to the injured man, dismounting even before it reached its destination. The fact that the rider-less horse now took its leave, rushing through the forest to get as far as possible from the danger, went unnoticed by Tirneliell who was kneeling be the wounded man's side.

"Don't move," she instructed him, laying a hand on his shoulder to emphasize her words in case he didn't hear her. "The less you move, the slower the poison is going to spread through your blood." Her words were exceptionally calm for the situation and the fact that there were enemies everywhere who at any given point, if she faltered in guarding herself by observation, could behead her as easily as a chicken. But Tirneliell would not allow that. She worked swiftly, her hands as sure as that of a sculptor.

The man suffered an arrow wound. Part of the arrow was snapped off as he fell of his horse. The she-elf deftly pulled the remaining part out, being aware of the pain it might cause to the man, but knowing there was no other way. The man moaned as if in uncomfortable dream, which was the first and only alarming sign that Tirneliell needed to stop and look much more closely. The man should be in agony, convulsing as his blood stream began to be corrupted by the poison. Yet, what she saw was a man whose eyes seemed to be distant, dazed. Being a healer, she recognized at once how grave a symptom it was. As horrific as it seemed, it was more unsettling and baffling. What she was witnessing was not a man suffering from a poisoned wound, but a strong soothing serum that was meant to sedate a being. It was putting the soldier in some sort of a slumber. In those few moments, when she focused on the puzzle at hand, she mad the first mistake. She let her guard down. Without realizing an orc has found her to be a great target for his blade swinging. Only her elven speed and reflexes saved her from a mortal wound that would have cut her from right shoulder, across her back down to the left hip. However, as she skilfully tumbled from her seating position to the side, escaping the orcish weapon, the soldier she was tending to fell a victim to it instead. The blade burying deep within his chest, blood flowing from his lips almost immediately. He was dead in an instance. The shock Tirneliell experienced at the sight was paralyzing. For a fraction of a moment, her expression went blank, memory of seeing her mother with exactly the same wound rushing in front of her inner eye, gripping her chest, threatening to crush her vulnerable soul there and then. But instead of watching in horror and letting the orc correct his mistake, the sudden rush of pain and memories created a mixture of anger and blind bravery. In that fraction of a moment when Tirneliell's face was distant, it just as fast turned into an expression of utter hatred and determination. The orc, being as dumb as he looked, had no idea what hell he has unleashed, or more likely what suffering Tirneliell wanted to unleash on him.

As the orc freed his blade from the lifeless body, the elven healer was already standing up, dagger firmly in her hand just as the king instructed her. Her opponent made the mistake of trying to attack her the same way as a few seconds ago, bringing his arm high up on the side for a mighty swing. Tirneliell took her chance, as the orc just opened up himself with multiple possibilities, she already had a plan in place. With a swift step forward, she dropped below the swing that buzzed over her head. The orc was not expecting his attack to be unsuccessful and so the power of the swing combined with inertia forced him to make a precautionary step forward, his back bending down slightly. Tirneliell used that to her advantage as the orc's side was now in front of her. Making another step forward, taking hold of the orcs arm, Tirneliell propelled herself upwards with her other foot, using the close tree trunk as her launcher. Suddenly, she was a head higher than him, her dagger high above her head rushing down with force that was much more powerful than what she used against the king. The reason? It was fuelled with pure rage, her own misery at losing a patient in her hand and resolve to give the beast what it deserve. Death.

This was one of the moments when Tirneliell resembled her mother. Hot blooded in ways and moments that might have been dangerous or inappropriate, but it always bore fruits. As her weapon pierced the orc's throat right at the large vein, inflicting a mortal wound. The painful roar of the injured creature reverberated through Tirneliell's bone structure, but it also caused a certain form of ecstasy to spread along with it. The moment she buried her dagger in the flesh of her enemy, the she-elf knew that she wouldn't be able to get it back. It was buried too deep, in an angle that was most unfortunate. And as she was about to land back on the ground, the injured orc did what any creature who has just been assaulted and was suffering in great pain, would do. He flailed. Throwing his arms to the side, turning and twisting. One of his forearms hit Tirneliell across the back, propelling her forwards even before she could set her feet back on the ground and get to safety. She flew the short distance like a rag doll, colliding with another tree trunk, and as she dropped down, she felt a sharp pain in her own forearm.

It was not the sensation of a broken bone. No, this was acute and cutting feeling she got, followed by warmth spreading down towards her fingers. The impact from the accident caused her vision to blur momentarily, but as she was regaining her senses quickly, she realized the warmth was of crimson colour. She was bleeding from a cut wound on her forearm, but what horrified her more than the reality that she suffered an injury, was the fact that she has suffered it by an orcish weapon. True, the orc was long lying dead, slain by one of the soldiers, but the herbal mixture that the blade was dipped in has already entered her blood stream. Her heart would have pounded faster if the serum wasn't too strong for her. After all, it was meant for soldiers and man who by default had different constitution. On a weaker female like herself the effects appeared much faster. Her vision went out of focus again as she attempted on getting up. She had to warn the king, but her limbs gave up and she fell back, her head hitting the trunk once again, causing needles of stabbing pain attacking throughout her skull. Through the pain and quickly spreading drowsiness, she managed to catch a sight of a tall elegant figure, swinging his sword, defeating the enemies like a true hero.

"Not a poison," she whispered but doubted anyone could hear it in the uproar, especially not the man who she wanted the least to fall victim to this witchery. He had to escape, return to his kingdom, and strengthen his army to defeat this malice. She didn't care about herself no matter how fearful she was without knowing what would happen next after she would awaken, if she'd ever awaken, but she needed him to be safe. Her vision blurred further, losing sight of her king as her head fell to the side, the serum continued forcing Tirneliell into a slumber.​
 
Thranduil's shortsword tore through layers of hide and muscle, a clean cut that severed the head from the body of the unfortunate orc that had wandered too close to the livid Elvenking. The blade tilted and struck out at anoter orc with the same deadly accuracy of the first, leaving a deep and clean cut across the orc's front before driving the blade between the ribs above the heart. The thick, dark ooze of orc blood trickled in thin streams down the blade and pooled at the crossguard, a sight that made Thranduil's expression twist in mild disgust. He tugged the blade free of the orc and flicked the blood away before turning his head to seek out Tirneliell among the chaos.

The king's eyes widened a fraction when he spotted her by the side of a fallen and wounded soldier. She was performing her duty, but he had hoped she'd inform him before making off on her own in such a manner.

He murmured softly and scowled in annoyance as he approached her, a lecture regarding her inability to keep close forming in his head-- until the arrow struck. It was empathy at first, the sensation that he understood what she was feeling as the arrow's poison spread through her. It was a desire to hunt down the orc that had loosed the arrow, a cold fury that had seeped into his already fragile psyche. But then there was the physical warmth in his own body, a disconnected and warm feeling Thranduil knew was not an effect of elven empathy. It buzzed along the fringes of his self and detached his mind from the tips of his fingers, swarming his vision with writhing shadows. Then the pain came, focused and small just below his right shoulder. The pain of an arrowhead piercing the exposed skin beneath his spaulders.

He knew that pain all too well, but now he could do nothing to ward it off. It dragged him under before he could form a coherent thought in response, a mental numbness where he felt neither anger nor peace.

Thranduil hit the ground hard, the plates of his armor scraping and clashing with one another as he collapsed. He felt pinned and breathless beneath the weight, a weight that reminded him of drowning in a powerful river. He vaguely remembered the rough boots of an orc commander filling his fading vision, the growl of orders that he couldn't comprehend, and then he knew no more.
 
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The darkness that surrounded her senses was thick and heavy. It could not have been compared to anything she has ever experienced before and that fact alone frightened her. The heaviness of her body scared her. The acute pain around her wrists, the discomfort of not being able to move her legs combined with the dull headache were the only indicators that she was still alive and breathing. The mist of slumber was slowly dissipating. To Tirneliell, it felt like eternity when in reality it was nearly half a day after injuring herself by accident with the orc weapon. Her wound was already scabbed over, but the prickling sensation has not disappeared just yet.

As she willed her eyes to open, at first she could only see dark shadows, silhouettes moving around her as if in nightmare. The more she regained her consciousness and formed first structured strings of thoughts, the more aware she became of her surroundings. Even though her body still felt like a heavy sack of late harvested potatoes, her mind was able to work in a systematical manner, if a bit slowly. The dark shadows turned into bare branches of the diseased forest, the much closer silhouettes were orcs marching around her. It seemed that she was placed on some sort of a cart, pulled by one of the orcish beasts. Being so close to her enemy would have made her heart spike up in apprehension, if the serum was not still effective. As inconspicuously as possible, Tirneliell turned her head to her left.

She could see a soldier next to her with an outline of another one next to him. They both seemed to be still in the artificially induced coma, but they were both breathing for which she was grateful. She has already lost one man in her hands and just the thought of that pained her deeper now that she was able to direct her mind towards that experience. To distract herself in a way, she turned her head to the right. The moment she laid her eyes on the man next to her, Tirneliell seized to breath, unable to believe who she was looking at. It was her king. Rush of indignation surged through her body accompanied with resentment towards their enemies. She could not understand how they managed to capture the king, but they have done it nonetheless. The shock of the actuality stunned her to the point that she couldn't help but stare at Thranduil in horror. Her gods have betrayed her by not saving the only man she wanted to be safed. The swelling of ire within her chest nearly forced bitter tears to form in her eyes, but she held back content that at least Thranduil showed signs of life with breathing of his own.
 
The first thing he noticed was the emptiness. A sensation of lacking, or something dreadfully wrong with him that it woke him immediately from his artificially induced slumber. His eyes snapped open and stung something awful in the bitter air. For an agonizing moment, the King couldn't figure out where he was, or when, and nor could he remember why. He lifted his head and blinked once to clear his foggy vision, scanning the immediate area to gain his bearings. The heavy frames belonged to orcs, he noticed instantly, and the prone forms not far were easily recognized as the bodies of his soldiers.

They were out, just as he had been. They must have been hit harder with the poison than he had to still be out, or perhaps they were unprepared for such a volatile mixture. Thranduil bared his teeth and murmured curses under his breath, and swung his head around to lock gazes with Tirnieliell on his other side. She appeared to have awoken not long before him, still weakened by the poison as he was. It buzzed somewhere at the base of his skull and began to fade over time, but his limbs still felt heavy and wrong. Like a sickness, or waking up from a sleep he was never supposed to enter in the first place. He supposed he should be thankful that it didn't leave him with an ache in the skull.

And his head...

His crown was missing.

The mantelpiece of his rule, stolen by insolent orcs whose motives Thranduil still did not understand. It was rage that he felt, not despair, with a tinge of loss aching somewhere behind his heart.
 
The signs of Thranduil regaining consciousness caused Tirneliell a momentary relief. At least, he was still alive. Not that she couldn't tell from the fact that his chest was rising rhythmically with his breath, but having him even bare his teeth and mutter things she couldn't understand, just cemented the whole fact into an unmoving block. As he looked at her, in fact fixing his gaze on her, she could see the range of emotions flowing through the grey of his irises with force and urgency. She shared most of them, but there was some sort of gratefulness mixed within that variety that might have seemed out of place unless someone was present to her own personal thoughts. Giving a quick glance to their surroundings, the orcs seemed to have been oblivious to their awakening so far. Tirneliell meant to keep it that way as long as possible.

Shifting lightly, soundlessly, she got herself closer to the king until their upper arms were in contact. Still lying on her back but with head turned in his direction, she ignored the irrelevant quiver that she experienced upon getting so close. For the firs few moments, she was trying to figure out what to say, but all she could do was only slightly open and close her mouth as words would not come. What would be the right thing to say? She asked herself but couldn't figure it out. She was never in a situation like this before, she had no objective opinion to offer. Looking somewhat lost, frustration forming in her expression. Frustration with being somewhat helpless. So she resorted to what she could do at that moment.

"I'm sorry my lord. I should have foreseen the possibility that the orcs might not use poison. I should have prepared something that would have strengthened the troop..." Whilst her words of regret were possibly unnecessary, Tirneliell had the need to seek forgiveness in whichever form it would come. The image of the soldier dying of an attack that was meant for her, flooded her mind. She had to look away from Thranduil to contain herself.
 
At the far end, one of the soldiers seemed to stir and awaken from the substance, thankfully silent as he rolled himself onto his back. The rest of the soldiers were motionless and still out cold; a burden in the unconscious state, and a problem Thranduil was reluctant to think on just yet. He would deal with it when a proper plan was figured out.

The touch came as a surprise, and had Thranduil been capable of a wider range of motion, he would have shrunk away. She had meant no harm, he realized, but her sudden closeness and the apprehension thick in the air made his mind swim with unpleasant, and unwelcome thoughts. He grimaced, refusing to respond in any manner to her apologies. They were wasted energy spent on a king who did not care for them, who turned away from her to study the immediate area instead. The orcs stood not far off. One, he noted bitterly, was mixing something at the edge of the crude encampment, and he had the feeling that he knew exactly what it was.

"Eyes ahead." The king gestured to the lone orc with a pointed look. He figured having the drug readministered was inevitable, but if his assumptions about the size of the jar which contained the dark substance were correct, the effect would not be so dramatic the second time. There was hope, then. If he could regain his strength for long enough to properly formulate a plan with Tirneliell.
 
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What was she hoping for? A sudden sign from Valar that her failure was nothing but a mishap of fortunes? Of course she would not find her peace here, surrounded by their enemies, bound at wrist and ankles, with her sense numbed by a strange substance that she was unable to predict. The bitterness that she felt about the incident has swiftly turned into bitterness towards herself. Her father would have known that this might have happened. He would have prepared himself for every possibility, even the most unlikely one. Or would he? Only the feeling of a soldier stirring somewhere on the cart, brought Tirneliell back from the one way journey of blaming herself. His awakening served as a good distraction for her to stop focusing on her own misery.

Looking in the direction of the elf, she noticed the king gesturing for her to look towards one of the foul creatures and a vial he was holding. Her jawline became more pronounced as she clenched her teeth. She was looking at a piece of a puzzle and a bread crumb that would guide her to forgiving herself one day.

"Barren Seeds of the Fire Flower," she whispered to the king. Barren Seeds came from a flower with petals of bright red and orange colour. Each part of the plant could have been used as a sedative, but because of its strength it was rarely used. The flower used to grow in Mirkwood as well, before it became what it was now. Tirneliell herself has seen the plant only a few times in her life, when her father pointed it out to her, but she hasn't seen it anywhere in the Woodland realm for the past couple hundred years. One of the only places where the Fire Flower seemed to grow now was the region of Enedwaith, south of Eriador, or so the books and letter from other elven healers said. Either way, if it was true, it could only mean that this troop of orcs had someone who gave them the herb.

"My lord, I am afraid that the Barren Seeds are no longer found in Mirkwood. They are common in a region south of Eriador, but in our lands. It is a strong soothing herb, but in such concentrated dosage it has radical effects. Like the slumber that we have all been forced into...or death if the dosage is too great. But I have never seen it used like this before and my knowledge of it goes as far as the books in which this herb was mentioned." Introducing to the king the herb she spoke about and her knowledge of it was the she could do at that moment. However, just seeing the swirling dark substance made her wonder. She never heard of orcs being so well-informed about variety of herbs and how to use them. Somehow, she doubted they were so advanced as to know how to make the serum this strong on their own. But who would be leading them then? And why would the person want to capture them instead of slaying them during the skirmish?
 
The situation was looking grim. Thranduil's pride had taken a hit the moment the arrow struck, and only damaged further when his crown had been removed to deny him his status. He had no fear that his soldiers would refuse to follow a crownless King; they knew of his rulership over them, he knew of their respect and appreciated it. But lacking the symbol of his status and Thranduil felt... smaller.

He'd seen the effects, once. He had only been young, too young to remember it properly, but the incident had stuck with him and he responded with the same expression of disgust. He would not allow him, nor any one of the soldiers dragged into this mess, to be killed in such a dishonorable way. "I have seen it before," he whispered softly. "They will not have enough. To make us weak, perhaps, but not to induce sleep." His knowledge of medicine and herbs was limited, but the King knew the required amounts for such a potent plant-- as he did for all especially dangerous things spread throughout his land.

"They are led. Orcs do not deal in such things on their own." It was an easy thing to deduce, as orcs were rarely this organized on their own. But led even by an orc warlord, surely they would have killed the lot of them, rather than leave him and a handful of his soldiers alive? Who among their ranks was clever enough to devise such a plan while also having the reason to support such actions? "They will re-administer the poison--" he spat out the word as if it were bitter, knowing full well that the substance was not poisonous unless in large doses, as the she-elf had claimed. "But we have time until then."
 
Tirneliell nodded. The king only confirmed her assumptions. The question, however, still was who could lead the orcs and why. Unfortunately, they would not be able to figure that out until arriving wherever they were going. Considering that there was a dim day light weaving its way through the decayed branches of the trees, and the jarring they were experiencing as their cart was being pulled along, Tirneliell could assume that they still had quite some time before arriving at their destination. Also, it occurred to her that they were all out for more than couple hours. How far could they have gone in so much time? Trying to figure out the cardinal point in which they were going, Tirneliell also wondered if the main encampment was somewhere in the woods, which she doubted since the king knew his territory too well to miss such a thing. Or would he?

Averting her eyes from the surroundings, she looked at Thranduil again. Her expression betrayed nothing of the sudden and unreasonable doubt which she soon beat down with loyalty and trust that she carried for the king. "What plan do you suggest then, my lord?" She asked as the body next to her stirred ever so slightly. As great a sign as it was, the orcs were not that stupid not to notice a handful of elves being wide awake and talking under their breaths. One look in their direction would do the trick which only meant that once they see them awake, they would use the serum again. Only gods knew how much time they had left before they'd be weakened again.
 
A working plan would take time, time Thranduil knew he did not have. His eyes darted between the bound elves and their captors, the orc fumbling with the mixture especially. It was a relief to know that the amount these orcs had brought along wasn't enough to put the company down as it had before, but it would still be enough to weaken them significantly. He needed to figure something out and relay it to the group before he became too weak to communicate. A distraction, something simple and easy to accomplish but enough to keep an orc occupied for long enough. Thranduil's limbs lagged in their movements, but his mind remained as sharp as ever; if only he could capture the attention of one of the elves on the far end, without attracting the orcs.

"I need a distraction," he said, his fingers flexing individually as feeling returned to them fully. His movements were still stiff and uncoordinated, but he suspected that he would regain total control soon. He needed to focus and remain patient if he wanted to get them all out of here alive. "They did not plan well, and that is our advantage. I will use that time to formulate a plan before we arrive." Thranduil's eyes met Tirneliell's own, as if to seek out her trust in him.
 
The moment they locked their eyes Tirneliell felt it that the king needed her support. It only solidified her already almost unbreakable trust in him and she gave him a small nod. However, she wasn't sure if she'd be able to help Thranduil with distraction. She was sure that the king wanted something to happen that would direct attention away from their cart but being bound as she was, she could hardly do anything that would divert every single orc's attention away from them.

A frown formed on her brown as she wrecked her brain looking around trying to figure something out. Soon however, her eyes set on the orc with the vial. He was looking their way. To Tirneliell his race had no facial expressions that she could use as an indicator of what the orc was thinking or feeling, but guessing from the way he bared his teeth and growled something at his comrades, he was not happy to see the whole elven entourage being awake as they were. He started to close the distance between him and the cart, pouring the serum over his blade. At least the re-application of the liquid was now obvious.

Her heart rate spiked up again. Yet instead of panic on her face, rock hard determination graced her features. With the new dose of adrenaline in her blood, it felt as if her eyesight has reached new level. She saw everything sharper which ultimately helped her to see the oval shapes of sleeping dark black bats that lived in flocks around the Mirkwood forest, high in tree tops hiding away from the spiders. With the scarceness of the cobwebs in this part of the woods, Tirneliell knew she was correct about what she was seeing. She also knew that these bats were sensitive to high pitched noises. She did the only thing she could do. Pursing her lips and releasing a high pitched whistling noise, she watched the dark shapes steer in discomfort which only served as a cue for Tirneliell to put more effort in the whistle. At that point, the few orcs walking around their cart started growling at her in orcish, things she didn't understand. However, at that exact point the bats were already shrieking on their own. Tirneliell let out a last high pitched blow which finally set the bats off and they descended on the orcs in rage of being woken up, flying in disorganized manner disrupting the already chaotic manner in which the troop moved.
 
The bats were a clever idea, he noted with some semblance of pride. It would do for a distraction. The bindings that limited his movements were thick, sturdy, but their knots were clumsy and rushed-- uncoordinated orcish work would be their savior. Thranduil righted himself as chaos broke out around them, and tugged loose the bindings around his wrists to free his hands. The serum's aftereffects were a dull ache that came and went as often as a heartbeat, but Thranduil was aware of the danger he had put himself in. He needed to relay his plan to the rest of the rest of the group before the bats cleared and the orcs regained the senses enough to readminister it.

Even if the orcs weren't, their leader was intelligent and had planned for this to happen. It was distressing to be in the dark when it came to the orcs and their intentions.

The serum would be something to overcome, that was inevitable. The lack of supply was enough that the effects would be less than what they'd recently woken from, and the orcs were no doubt dragging the elves off to meet whoever had sent for them. However much he wished to leave these orcs and return to the sanctuary, he needed to know who had sent them. Who had so thoroughly planned his capture and the capture of his soldier's, and what they were planning.

"Do not question what I say. Do not question what I do or why." If even a single one of them spoke or acted out of turn, the elves would lose their advantage. Thranduil was determined to avoid such a mistake, and the threatening tone in his voice spoke of it.
 
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