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Siroth made a half-hearted attempt to keep Thranduil in his tent, but the king exerted his authority with steely purpose. In the end the healer could only step back as Thranduil dressed himself and belted on his sword. His head throbbed within its shroud of gauze, but Thranduil's one good eye was grim and set as he prepared himself. Even his personal servants were not allowed to help as he pulled on his cloak and pinned it. Thranduil's silence forbade anyone from approaching him.

When Gurithon returned, he bowed his head and looked back up, not shying away from Thranduil's bloodshot gaze.

"I found Tharnor among the infantry...he awaits you by the lake, alone."

Thranduil nodded. He was halfway out the tent entryway when Gurithon moved slightly, blocking his path. Thranduil glared, but Gurithon leant in to speak in a low murmur.

"Please, mellon-nin...will you not let me go with you? When I have been by your side through all other evils we have faced in this world together?"

Thranduil did not answer. His glare barely softened, but he laid a hand on Gurithon's arm.

"No...this evil I must confront face-to-face, with no one to stand between us." His words rasped and grated painfully inside Thranduil's raw throat, making them sound ungentle. Gurithon understood though. He moved aside, leaving the way open to the world outside.

Thranduil could feel hundreds of eyes upon him as he walking through the camp. These were his people, and yet their gazes became a gauntlet that he had to endure. He knew what a sight he must look; half his head swaddled in white gauze, his long silky tresses cut short after having mostly been burned off. Thranduil did not look at anyone as he passed. Instead he kept his eye and his course set straight ahead; toward the shores of Lake Evendim.

When he reached the edge of the camp the stillness of the land came as a relief. The scars of battle could still be seen clearly upon the ground as he passed. Orcs, goblins, trolls, their black blood had stained the rocks for a full league around. Thranduil paused only slightly when he came upon the burial mounds the elves had raised over their fallen kin. Noldor, Sindar, Silvan, they all became equal in death. Here their bodies would become one with Arda, as their souls passed beyond to Mandos's keeping.

The realization that he would be unable to give the same peace to Anthelísse's body came crashing down upon Thranduil. Anthelísse had come to him one final time in dreams, of that he was certain. What had become of her physical form though? In what wretched place would her bones lie forevermore? The thought nearly brought Thranduil to his knees.

A cold wind blew from Lake Evendim, bringing with it the scent of still water. Thranduil remembered his purpose then, and found the strength to stay on his feet. Setting his jaw and clenching his fists, Thranduil carried on toward the lake. There he would find the one who had summoned Anthelísse to her death. There he would find the one who had betrayed them both and Legolas as well. However would he tell Legolas?

At first Thranduil did not see Tharnor. He climbed the hill on the edge of Lake Evendim, gritting his teeth as the chilly air attempted to probe the flesh beneath his bandages. He spied a lone figure standing at the water's edge then, their back to Thranduil as they stared out across that still expanse of water. Rage and grief barely contained, Thranduil approached the treacherous Silvan.

He was only a body length away when Tharnor drew in a deep breath. Thranduil stopped short, his own chest heaving with emotion.

"I will not beg forgiveness for my actions...but I did not mean for her to die."

Tharnor turned around, his green and brown eyes both resigned and defiant. The former Master of Coin wore the plain forest hues of a sentry. He had been stripped of his weapons though, Thranduil noted. Leave it to Gurithon to be thorough in all matters of security. The wind caught Tharnor's white-blonde hair and teased loose tendrils of it from his braid.

"You..." Thranduil had to stop and take a steadying breath before speaking. "You delivered Anthelísse to the orcs. Your missive sent her straight to them in their lair."

"Yes."

Thranduil didn't know what he had been expecting, but it was not Tharnor's calm admission of guilt. Seeing Tharnor's placid, unmarked face made Thranduil want to fly at him and maim him as he had been maimed. Only with great difficulty was he able to ask the question that had been burning him alive from the inside out.

"Why?"

Tharnor smirked then, ever so slightly. "You know why, Thranduil Oropherion. Once you came to me years before now, and demanded I share my thoughts on a matter that you in truth did not want to hear. You have never wanted to hear anyone's thoughts but your own, have you? If you had but thought of anyone but yourself and your own wants, you could have spared the Greenwood and even your Anthelísse from all this."

"You...sent her to her death, had the orcs do your dirty work, simply because Anthelísse was a Noldo?" Thranduil gritted out. The blood was rushing from his head so fast he feared he might faint. The memory of Anthelísse's bloodied, weeping specter came back to him though, and he kept himself upright through sheer will.

"As I said, I did not mean for her to die." Tharnor shook his head, looking for the first time just the tiniest bit regretful. "I thought the orcs would take her captive. Abuse her, yes...but in the end I believed they would hold her for ransom. The Noldor have passed from Arda, and I thought to 'prompt' her to go back where she and her people belong; Aman. Fëanor and his ilk never should have come here, the Noldor have wrought untold sorrows upon Middle Earth since they exiled themselves upon these shores." Tharnor looked away, staring back toward the ripples on Lake Evendim. "She was not supposed to die. She was supposed to choose to leave the Greenwood for the Havens of her own volition."

"...You would have seen her tormented, tortured to the point of breaking her spirit?" Thranduil hissed. He had known rage in battle, righteous anger towards the servants of evil. He had also known anger and frustration towards others. Never before had he felt hate for another. Hate, as pure and black as venom sang through his veins, chilling his blood. "You would have knowingly driven her to take ship, leaving our son, your prince, without a mother?" A sudden thought brought Thranduil to a jarring halt, and he stared at Tharnor in a new horror. "Would you wish harm on Legolas then, being of the Noldor blood as well?"

Tharnor frowned then, his lips thinning until they were white and pale. "You presume to suggest that I would do ill to an elfling? I acted on behalf of my people! The Woodland Realm cannot have the 'Lady of the Noldor' sitting in state upon the throne, her very presence was an insult. Your son..."

"Our son." Thranduil snarled. "Anthelísse's son. Grandson of Oropher and Nellas of Doriath and nephew of Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor. Nothing you can say will ever make me not fear for Legolas's safety now...not so long as you live."

"Then I have nothing to say." Tharnor shrugged, turning his back on Thranduil. He stood with his boots just touching the lapping waters of the lake, staring far away at nothing.

"Face me, villain!" Thranduil roared. His hands moved seemingly of their own accord, gripping the hilt of his sword. The blade slid free of its sheath with a ringing note, causing Tharnor to turn.

"Are you a kin-slayer then, Thranduil?" Tharnor asked quietly. He made no move to defend himself, his arms still folded across his chest.

Thranduil clenched his sword so tightly that his fingers went cold. His heart thundered in his ears, and his face burned as is being flayed anew by the dragon. The tip of his sword trembled, hanging in the air between himself and Tharnor.

"Will you swear to me now, in the name of Eru Illuvatar himself, that you will leave the Woodland Realm forever? And will you swear that you shall never in word nor deed oppose my son should he ascend the throne? Swear to me now Tharnor, or I will swear my own oath. I swear by Anthelísse's spilled blood and Legolas's love that I will kill you."

Tharnor stared at the blade pointed at his chin. Then, drawing himself upright, he looked Thranduil straight in the eye.

"What I have done, I did for my homeland. Throw me in the dungeons for the rest of eternity if you must, Oropherion, but I will not leave the Greenwood."

"Then I will honor my oath!"

"You will try...!" Tharnor hissed. A quick as a striking snake, he tore an outer layer of cloth from the underarm of his leather jerkin, revealing a slim knife strapped beneath. Ripping the blade off his arm, Tharnor moved to stab at Thranduil's hand.

Thranduil was faster though. Blinded in one eye, maddened with pain and grief, he was still a trained warrior. Tharnor had been molded to the role of a courtier long before he ever laid hands on a weapon. Easily batting the stiletto blade aside, Thranduil forced Tharnor back on his heels.

"For Anthelísse." Thranduil growled. Seizing Tharnor by one shoulder, he ran the treacherous Silvan elf through the chest with his sword.

Tharnor jerked, in shock or surprise Thranduil did not know or care. His mismatched eyes widened as he stared down at the sword protruding from his breast. Blood ran down the blade to rain onto the surface of Lake Evendim.

Drip. Drop.

Sickened, Thranduil withdrew his sword and released Tharnor. The dying elf wavered for a moment. Then, he slowly pitched over backward like a felled tree. Tharnor hit the waters of the lake with a splash. One brown eye and one green stared sightlessly up at the grey sky above, and Tharnor's pale hair fanned out in the bloody shallows around him.

Thranduil stared at the slain Eldar for almost an hour. The whisper of the wind and the lapping of the lake were the only sounds. Finally he roused himself and turned away. He saw the blood on his sword and was suddenly afraid.

Kin-slaying. There was no more fearsome word in the elvish vocabulary to describe one of their own. Fëanor and his seven sons had lived in infamy throughout history precisely for such crimes. The Valar themselves dealt with the punishment of kin-slayers; Fëanor himself would likely never leave the Halls of Mandos. No one in Arda knew exactly what had become of his sons, but whenever their names were mentioned it was always with a hushed tone.

"Surely you wouldn't want to compare yourself to Fëanor Kin-Slayer? His is hardly a standard to follow."

Anthelísse's words on the journey back from Imladris so many hundreds of years ago came to Thranduil. They echoed cruelly in his mind. What would Anthelísse say if she could see the blood upon Thranduil's sword?

"But in the end, Fëanor's courage came to naught. He and his sons never reclaimed the Silmarils, and the Halls of Mandos shall be his prison even until such time as the Second Music of the Ainur."

Thranduil remembered Iminyë, Anthelísse's wise and murdered handmaiden. Would that be his fate now too, to be imprisoned in the Halls of Mandos forever? To never be released into the Blessed Realm to reunite with Anthelísse, Nellas, Oropher and all others who had gone before him?

A chill raced down Thranduil's spine, and he felt doom fall upon his shoulders. The Havens, which had always been a place he thought of with fondness and veiled anticipation, suddenly seemed a terrifying thing. What would be his fate if he were to ever sail into the West now? Would the Valar pounce upon him the second his ship landed, spiriting him away to be forever jailed? Would he even be granted one last chance to see Anthelísse again?

All these thoughts turned Thranduil's heart to ice with grief and fear. Everything seemed grey. For the first time since learning of Anthelísse's death, Thranduil really felt the burden of everything he had lost. He realized then that the only thought that had been keeping him going was the hope of one day being reunited with Anthelísse and his loved ones. In one fell deed, Thranduil had stripped himself of his only hope.

When Thranduil returned to the camp, he thought now that elves shied away from his presence. He had wiped his sword and sheathed it, but some sense still seemed to tell everyone that he was unclean. By the time he reached his tent, he wanted nothing more from the world or anyone in it. All Thranduil wanted was to close his eyes and sleep for eternity. His heart was broken, and now his spirit.

Gurithon met Thranduil at the doorway. Lifting the tent flap, he stared long and hard. Thranduil said nothing, standing and waiting to be judged for the crime only he knew he had committed. For a moment, Gurithon looked to be on the verge of weeping. Then he stepped back and urged his king inside.

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