With Bow and Blade

Thranduil raised his blade. The weapon arched, shimmered silver, and neatly separated flesh from bone. Blood. Gore. Filth. He spat on the enemy then pulled his sword free. Attacked from behind, he swiveled and swung again, savoring the singing sound the metal made before it tasted death. Slash. Parry. Thrust. An age-old dance the Elven-King knew too well. He did not falter; knew the enemy could not, would not, overcome his people. He would not allow it.

He raised his arm to attack again, and found his blade met air, the corpses of the enemy surrounding him.

Just ahead, an elf stood alone in the clearing, his head bowed. A goblin approached him from behind. “Does the fool not see the danger?” Too far away to make use of his sword, Thranduil sheathed it quickly, raising his voice in a cry of warning and then, in alarm. Nock, draw, release…

The arrow found its mark.

The image before Thranduil melted into the shadows. The lone figure somehow reminding him of his son.

Would that we could fight this foe together.

Thranduil walked on. Ahead the battle loomed. He drew his blade.

“Do not despair!”

The King joined the fray.