As the arrows fell beneath Thranduil’s swords and pinged off his armour, he took a moment to survey the scene to see where the threats remained. His eyes were immediately drawn to the sight of the Witch King of Angmar moving in on Radagast. From what Thranduil could see he was holding off the Witch King’s attacks, but could he hold on….they couldn’t risk anything happening to their wizard!
Aiwendil (or Radagast as Thranduil was learning to call him) was important – he loved the Greenwood as much as Thranduil and his people did. He’d cared for it’s creatures for over 2000 years and watched over the Western eaves of the forest. And whilst all wizards could be….excitable…they had whiled away many a pleasant evening together when their paths had crossed. He had to be protected!
The decision made itself. As he urged his elk over the orc bodies strewn about them, he spotted his hobbit friend trying to take a swipe at the Witch King. Halflings were truly brave if this youngster was anything to go by, but a frying pan would not be enough to stop a Nazgul. Flanking the group, he raced up behind the corrupt Witch King and with all the force he could muster, he thrust his swords into it’s back.
The effect was instantaneous. Whether the dark creature had imploded or exploded, Thranduil couldn’t say, distracted as he was by the intense cold spreading up his arm and the sight of his beautiful swords melting from the blast. The chill touch of darkness….a reflection of it’s creep into his realm…..was painful, but a numb pain and nothing….nothing like the agony of loss or the searing pain of fire. Fire so hot that even being near it burnt. So hot that skin melted away in a malodorous vapor. So hot that after thousands of years you could still feel the memory of it.
Thranduil took a slow breath and pushed the memory away, giving his numb arm a shake in annoyance. Ignoring the tattered, polluted robes of the expelled Nazgul, he rode over to the exhausted wizard and pulled him up behind him onto the elk. Before a word was uttered, Thranduil felt the cold numbness receding from his arm, leaving just the feeling of the wizard’s friendly grip on his elbow. He smiled – yes Radagast cared for them and they needed to keep him safe.
“Le fael, Aiwendil” he offered over his shoulder, his hand briefly clasping Radagast’s own where it held his elbow. He shouted to the rest of the group, “We need to leave this place now and head to Lorien”. Lorien, where the fair Lady dwelt and where he hoped he would find the small cache of weapons his father had left there in the 2nd Age.
Riding over to his hobbit friend, he grabbed his arm and pulled him up into his lap. The hobbit had fought well, but being smaller than the rest, he was at risk of falling behind if they weren’t careful. And they must get away now, before the Witch King returned or the other Nazgul appeared.