11

Chapter One

Still I'm pinned under the weight
Of what I believed would keep me safe.
So show me where my armor ends,
Show me where my skin begins.
Like a final puzzle piece
It all makes perfect sense to me…
The heaviness that I hold in my heart belongs to gravity.
The heaviness that I hold in my heart's been crushing me.

Lyrics from "Pluto" by Sleeping at Last

The dark passages of Ravenhill were littered everywhere with bodies of slain Orcs. Thranduil was desperate to find his son, his fear increasing as he looked down at all this death. With each step he took, anxiety grew in his chest. His heart began to pound, and thoughts raced through his mind with increasing speed.

Where is he…Varda, please let him be alive… No no no... Please, do not take my son-

He heard a step. His eyes looked up from the ground, and there he was. Thranduil's knees nearly buckled from relief. Legolas wasn't injured, and his face showed anguish and disappointment, but he was alive. Alive! When their eyes met, it was all he could do to keep from crying out from relief. Something welled in his chest that had not been there for countless years; emotions this strong were unfamiliar to him now.

He stood still and gazed upon Legolas, unable to keep the relief from his face, unable to say the words that were pushing to get out.

"I cannot go back," Legolas told his father, his gaze lowered, blue eyes full of sad resignation.

Thranduil had no valid argument to this. He knew his son had developed feelings for Tauriel, though he'd tried to prevent this, in his own, inept, way. He could only guess what it must be like, to watch her cradle the body of the Dwarf she loved.

Thranduil didn't want to lose his son, but His heart told him it was too late. Anything that he could say now to his son, would fall upon deaf ears, and be regarded with suspicion. The distance between them had only grown wider, over the centuries since his wife's death. Legolas hardly regarded Thranduil as a father anymore, after too many years with no affection expressed between them. Legolas had always shown respect and deference to him as his King, but even that had vanished, since the Dwarves had been captured in the Woodland Realm.

Legolas looked away from his father's face and started to walk past him.

"Where will you go?" Thranduil asked.

"I do not know."

My son is leaving... Help me do something…help...

Thranduil had a sudden inspiration. "Go North," he suggested to Legolas, "Find the Dúnedain. There is a young Ranger amongst them. You should meet him."

Legolas looked back to him, curious.

"His father, Arathorn, was a good man, his son might grow to be a great one," said Thranduil.

"What is his name?"

"He is known in the wild as Strider. His true name, you must discover for yourself."

Legolas gave the slightest of nods, and turned to walk away, head down. The sorrow in his son's heart was palpable. This could have been prevented, had if only had he done things differently.

Thranduil's heart and thoughts raced. I could order him to stay as his King, but…I cannot. I need to say something… Say something to him! Now! Do it!

"Legolas?" Thranduil called after his son, a hint of pleading in his voice.

The son stopped, but did not turn to face his father. Thranduil quickly searched himself for words to ease his son's broken heart. Words that could offer him comfort; words that Legolas could hold on to, as he walked away from the life he knew.

"Your mother loved you," he said, softly. "More than anyone. More than life."

Legolas stood very still, absorbing those words. Turning slightly, he lowered his head, put his hand to his heart, then brought it from his chest and extended it toward his father, not meeting his eyes. Thranduil returned the salute, head bowed.

A sigh was heard, then fading footsteps, to be replaced by the sound of the winter wind. Legolas Thranduillion, Prince of the Woodland Realm, was gone; possibly forever. The Elvenking, so reputed to have a heart of pure ice, closed his eyes and lowered his head once again, trying to hold back the tears that wanted to escape.

He took several deep breaths, and once he felt calmer, the sound of weeping reached his ears. Tauriel's heart was breaking, and he knew he needed to go to her. She had accused him of not being capable of love, and to his shame, he'd hardly given her reason to think otherwise. Nonetheless, she needed someone now. Perhaps the Valar had arranged for that person to be him; he sensed he was at a crossroads, and things in his life, which had been stagnant for centuries, were about to shift, and change in ways he couldn't understand now.

He continued through the corridor, following the sounds of weeping, and came out onto the ledge to the mournful scene before him. Tauriel was kneeling beside the Dwarf she had grown to love, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

"They want to bury him," Tauriel said.

"Yes."

"If this is love, I do not want it." Her eyes closed with utter anguish. "Take it from me, please!"

He had no answer that would help her. As much as he wanted to ease her suffering, it wasn't possible. If he'd had that power, he could have saved himself centuries of agony at the loss of his wife. But as soon as that thought occurred to him, he knew he'd never want that for himself — it would mean losing the love he still had for her. And he also knew that Tauriel would not want to lose all memory of her love for Kili, either.

"Why does it hurt so much?" Tauriel sobbed, grasping at her chest, as if she was trying to pull her heart out of herself, taking the agony with it.

Thranduil gave her an honest reply, "Because…it was real." And he could see that it was. There were no words of comfort he could give, no magic that would ease this kind of suffering.

It was unlikely she would fade from mourning; she and Kili had never been joined in marriage – they had never even had the chance to speak of their feelings. Still the pain of Rista-Goeol could affect her badly. Tauriel's strength, both physical, and mental, her character as the leader of his Guard made no difference in matters of sorrow. He had seen elves that he perceived to be much stronger, slowly fade or leave for the Grey Havens from the profundity of sorrow his race was capable of feeling.

He tried to keep his face composed while he considered the possibility of losing Tauriel, as well as his son. She had grown up next to Legolas, and had been in Thranduil's care since infancy, when her parents were murdered, like his wife, by Orcs. He knew he had not treated her as well has she deserved.

He knew it could have been so different…

He swallowed down his sentiment and watched the young Silvan, silently, intensely; his eyes stinging with regret and sorrow.

Tauriel, at Thranduil's recognition of her emotions, looked up at him for several moments and held his gaze. He felt her search his eyes for sincerity in his words, and he allowed it. After finding the assurance she needed, she gave a very small nod of her head.

She looked down at her Dwarf Prince, tears still flowing, but with a smile. She kissed Kili fondly, holding his gloved hand against her cheek, and seemed just a bit more prepared to bid her Dwarf goodbye. The look of determination on her face was not so hard to read: She was going to take what they felt for each other and use that memory as a reason to go on. For Kili. For what could have been. She will use her love as a source of strength, and live for him.

Thranduil watched the scene, wide-eyed with astonishment. How, he marveled, could this "lowly Silvan elf" as she had referred to herself just days ago (and he had let her, to his chagrin), have the strength to do, in a matter of hours, what he couldn't, even after hundreds of years! Not for the first time today, he was humbled.

Presently, a small detail of Dwarves appeared with a litter, ready to take the body of their fallen comrade, with much sadness and honor. Thranduil stepped aside, putting hand to heart and extending it, head bowed; showing respect for the dead Dwarf Prince, and for his companions. One of the Dwarves, the one with the hat - familiar with Tauriel, it would seem – offered, in a soft and kindly voice, to allow Tauriel to accompany the body to Erebor. She was astonished at the invitation, but the others nodded their agreement and approval, should she wish to go.

Tauriel looked up at her King, pleading in her eyes.

Thranduil nodded his assent, and with careful, loving hands, Kili's lifeless form was placed on the litter. As they were leaving, Tauriel looked at Thranduil.

"Thank you, my Lord." She put her hand to her heart and saluted him, then turned to find her place along the side of Kili, holding his hand. Weeping openly, the Dwarves slowly made their way through the corridors, and down from Ravenhill. For quite a while after they left the scene, their sobs could be heard.

Then there was silence, except for the wind.

Thranduil stood, frozen.

No. Not frozen.

Not anymore. No longer was he the cold, remote, unapproachable, Sindarin King of the Woodland Realm.

He had been humbled. No; he had been humiliated - and he'd deserved it.

Tauriel, Legolas, and even Mithrandir had forced him to search his heart, and clearly see, what he had allowed himself to become. It was a horrifying realization, to see how his lack of feeling had damaged himself, the people of his kingdom, and even the forest itself. Worst of all, his distant, icy demeanor had destroyed what was most precious to him: his own son! He'd pushed him away, and avoided the face that was so like his mother's. He had driven away his own son! He was mortified at what he had done.

This day was overwhelming, for many reasons.

~o0o~

Earlier, Thranduil navigated the streets of Dale, taking in the horrific sight of bodies covering the ground, including his beloved elk. He gazed upon the dead, unseeing eyes of his Elven army. When he came across a small pool of red blood, with swirls of the foul, black Orc-blood, he felt the ground underneath him shift.

Please, no... I cannot...

It was Dagorland all over again. It was the same sight of the ground carpeted in bodies and blood! Panic rose in his chest as the horror threatened to overtake him, to stop his heart from beating. He couldn't breathe. He had to stop all this death! He didn't just see the dead in Dale before him. He was seeing and hearing the cries of agony on that plain before Mordor; he was smelling the stench of blood and decay, just as before. He was there, and in the present, at the same time. His eyes widened as all he could think of was stopping this destruction.

He'd ordered Feren to blow the horn and withdraw from this madness. Then Tauriel appeared in his path, forcing his mind back to the present.

She'd been mistaken when she told him, at the point of an arrow, that he had no love in him; she couldn't have been more wrong. Yet, she was right to confront him with this, before he abandoned the good people of Dale and the Dwarves to their annihilation. There were shock waves, like a kick to the gut when Legolas had stepped up, weapon drawn, forcing the point of his sword away from Tauriel's throat. The look of contempt and anger in Legolas's, eyes at that moment had shaken him to his very core. Though that confrontation took place in front of Thranduil's troops, it was still the right thing to do, and he knew it, even then.

Remarkably, even though Legolas knew his hopes of a life with her would never come to pass, Thranduil watched as his son didn't hesitate to go with her to help save Kili. Legolas had strength his father had never recognized. Strength that Thranduil knew he himself, did not possess. This compassion and determination was a quality that he'd loved about his wife, Mírelen. This was yet another way that Legolas was so like his mother.

His Mírelen had lived on, in their son; she was still present, through her child, and he hadn't seen it. He'd been too full of grief and anguish, to look deeply enough. Yet, there it was before him, and he could no longer avoid it. And he realized, in that instant all he'd missed out on.

A voice was heard from Thranduil's right. "Those gems were not all that your wife left you, my friend. She left you a son! Tell me, which would she have you value more?" The sharp reprimand came from some nearby steps of Dale's ruins. Thranduil, still in shock, turned his head sharply towards Mithrandir.

The Wizard had known his wife, and enjoyed seeing her when he visited their Halls. He would bow low, kiss her hand, and shower her with flowery words about beauty and grace, which made her smile and laugh. She had very much liked the Grey Wanderer, and he adored her. When Mírelen had been killed, Mithrandir had come to the Palace for a while, to offer what comfort he could, but there was little that could help. He talked to Thranduil over many weeks, in hopes he could help the Elvenking cope with this tragedy. He was met with so much resistance, and loud, angry words, that Mithrandir, sadly, gave up, although he visited several times to keep an eye on him.

Mithrandir's reprimand was met with wide-eyed silence, as Thranduil realized the truth of his words. In the end, he said nothing; just stared at the Wizard intently. He deserved those words, and they both knew it. Thranduil searched the Wizard's deep blue eyes beneath those bushy, grey brows. He looked for the same recrimination that had been in his son's eyes, but he found none.

There was anger and impatience, yes, but mostly, there was pity.

At the time, there was no chance to ponder what had just occurred. He quickly rescinded his command to withdraw, and ordered the Elves to redouble their efforts. They came to the aid of Dale and its people, and helped the Dwarves fight the Orcs, and helped to win the day.

Thank the Valar, the Eagles came just in time to head off most of the second Orc army that had been sent from Gundabad; grasping dozens of the foul creatures into their clutches and dropping them from high above, or dashing them against the rocks and cliffs; over and over. Radagast was astride the Lord of the Eagles, and Thranduil had seen Beorn, the skin-changer, in his bear form. No Orc was a match for that ferocious creature. The tide had turned, then slowed down, then came to a stop. The Battle of the Five Armies, as it was later named, was finally, finally over.

~o0o~

Now, standing alone above the field of battle, he saw the remnants of the Orcs routed and destroyed. The combined efforts of Elves, Men and Dwarves, had fought off the forces of Sauron and the Free People of the North had prevailed. This time.

In the silence here, upon Ravenhill, thoughts he'd pushed to the back of his mind, surged forward. His thoughts raced, memories of his words and deeds swirled into a dervish in his mind.

Thranduil's breath started to come in short gasps. Overcome, he viciously ripped off his gloves and threw them over the side of the cliff. With trembling hands, he undid the clasps of his breastplate, and tore it from him, as if it were burning his flesh. He frantically tore at the many pieces of his armor, removing them with desperate hands and tossing them aside with a roar of anger and anguish.

The mighty, King of the Woodland Realm, the only Elvenking on Middle Earth, and one of the world's greatest warriors, stumbled over to rest his forehead against the stone wall, panting. Eyes still closed, he turned and slowly slid down until he was sitting on the frozen ground. He pulled up his legs, wrapped his arms around his knees, dropped his head and wept.

He wept for his people, whom he had failed. He wept for all who died today, because his commands sent them to their deaths. He knew the names of every one of them. He knew the names of their fathers, mothers, and wives, husbands and children. He wept for them, because many would fade from grief. He wept for Tauriel's loss, and the sorrow he had caused her by dismissing what she felt, as insignificant. He wept at the loss of his beloved father, once again.

He wept for himself at losing his wife, Mírelen, who died protecting their son, covering his little body with her own; a shield between her child, and the sword of the Orc who had raised it, to strike a fatal blow. He wept for his wife, because she would still be alive, but he had failed her; he was seconds too late to save her. Thranduil wept and keened as he thought of the sacrifice she'd willingly made to save their son, only to have her husband treat that act of bravery with fear; hiding behind this fortress around his heart. He had disguised it as indifference and aloofness, and pulled away from everyone, making sure they kept their distance.

What had, at first, been a way of coping to keep from fading, was now a way of life. He wept for the lies he told himself; that he was forever changed, and this is the way he had to be now. He became so used to the lie, he had made it truth.

He wept because he knew he had robbed their son of his mother - first, by failing to save her, then, after her death, by banishing all reminders of her, even forbidding the mention of her name. Most of all, he wept in despair over the loss of his son; made worse because he yet lived, but turned away thinking himself unloved.

Thranduil felt his glamour fall, exposing the wound that would never heal. His face was now feeling the sharp needles of icy wind. Physical agony was added to his anguish. Good, he thought to himself. I deserve to feel pain, for all I caused in others.

He was all alone, because when one pushes love away often enough, it will turn around and leave, just as Legolas did. He was alone, and it was his own fault.

At that last thought, Thranduil lowered his head even further and wrapped his arms around his head, seeking shelter as his sobs overtook him more than he thought possible. A dam had burst; the floodgates had been opened. How to close them again, so he could be stoic and strong for his people? Thranduil had no idea. He was at a loss as to what to do next, and in this moment, he did no longer cared.

After what seemed an eternity, his sobs slowly subsided, and he gradually began to calm himself. Weary beyond words, he just sat for a time, trying to slow his gasps; breathing in and out, in and out. He was too exhausted to make sense of the tangle of emotions. It was too much, too much.

In and out, in and out, he breathed.

The cries of the Eagles filled the air, as they circled over the battle field, searching out what remained of the Orc army. He heard the ravens; cawing as they flew, no doubt carrying messages for the Dwarves. He heard the faint sounds of the Free Peoples below, as they began to sort through all that had happened today.

Mithrandir had been exactly right in his predictions; Thranduil should have listened, but he did not, and had influenced Bard into sharing his dismissal of the Wizard's warnings. He had failed Bard, who looked to him for help. Bard was straining to cope with all burdens forced upon him, and he'd relied on the Elvenking's judgement. And his judgment, like many other things, had been flawed. Thranduil's heart started to pound in his chest once again, and his breath quickened. In and out. Breathe slowly, in and out…

He thought of Bard; a simple bargeman with no military training, leading a desperate, suffering rabble of holocaust survivors into battle. The people of Laketown weren't prepared for the kind of fighting required of them. Yet, there they stood - within the masses of his own well-trained army, equally determined to fight for their cause. It would be easy to dismiss them as inferior, as naive fools, but Thranduil found he couldn't.

They had stood tall and proud, with their makeshift weapons, in rags instead of armor - one man had even fashioned a laundry basket into a shield. Several elves from his Army had done their best, to instill as much fighting skill in these men as possible. Bard's men, did their utmost to absorb what they could from their Elven comrades, with pride and courage to rival any of his soldiers. These were a hardy and resourceful people. Thranduil had little doubt they would survive, and make the most of this victory. With Bard as their leader, these folk would thrive and make Dale their home.

Bard... What to make of him? He'd met the man six years before; only one short meeting. Bard worked for him on the Forest River, recovering his empty barrels of and delivering new ones twice a week. Even then, he recognized the look, the bearing, and strength of his ancestor. This man was the direct descendant of Girion, the last King of Dale; he was sure of it. Thranduil had chosen, back then, not to speak of what he knew. It had seemed tactless, to remind the rightful heir to the throne of Dale, that he had no kingdom, that this noble line had been reduced to a poor fisherman and bargeman, struggling to keep his family fed and warm.

When Smaug had awoken from his slumber, reports had come in that night: Esgaroth, the town on the Long Lake, was in flames. The roar of the dragon could be heard for miles. Thranduil immediately gave the order to start gathering food and supplies for the survivors. Then, word came that Smaug was dead. He had been killed with a Black arrow. Instantly, Thranduil knew who had carried out the deed.

With the dragon dead, he had a chance to get his jewels back. Upon his arrival in the ruins of Dale with the supplies, Bard's face was the one he looked for among the survivors; he knew Bard would be the one in charge, to see his people to safety in the ruins after their town had been destroyed.

What Thranduil had seen back then, at their meeting on the river, and now, in the ruins of Dale, was a true leader. It could be said it was in his blood, but Thranduil had seen too many heirs fall far short of their bloodlines. Too many weak, greedy, men, whose only qualification was their birth, had risen to power, leaving disaster in their wake, such as Master of Laketown. Thankfully, that slippery, greasy, man was dead. Never again would Thranduil be subjected to that revolting man's simpering lies or his cloying, phony words. Good riddance to him, and that assistant of his.

He thought about the Dwarves. Once again, the Gold Sickness brought destruction upon themselves and a city of innocent people. He did hear that King Thorin somehow had overcome the curse which haunted his bloodline, and rallied himself along with the rest of his people; giving his life in the process. Whatever he may have thought of Thorin, there was no doubt he died with honor, defending his people. Thranduil would be a fool not to respect that.

On the ledge of Ravenhill, his thoughts kept turning to the Bowman. Thranduil couldn't help but be intrigued by the man. So much had been forced on Bard; yet he carried out this new responsibility without question, and worked tirelessly for his people. During the meetings with Bard in his tent, he'd insisted that Dale would only accept their fair share of Erebor's treasure, and no more. The Elvenking was astounded by this! Gold and power held no sway over this man, and governance exuded from him with each move he made, with every word out of his mouth. He was a calm, soft-spoken, but strong man, not afraid to fight for what he believed was right. There was no greed or thirst for power in him; just a deep love for his people.

When Thranduil searched those green-brown eyes, he saw no lie in them. He wasn't surprised when Bard searched his own eyes, for the same reason. Bard was not given to loyalty unless one earned it. Good. This would serve him well; it would make him an effective leader, and a just and fair King. It wasn't hard to see that Bard inherited all the best qualities of Girion, as well as his many ancestors before him.

The Elvenking had seen sadness in Bard's eyes, and, in turn, the Bowman recognized the sorrow in his own. Without effort, the Bowman could see beyond Thranduil's cold countenance, and know the truth of him. What to do with that? Right at this moment, Thranduil couldn't say, and he couldn't stop thinking about it. It should make him feel exposed and uncomfortable, but he didn't, and this was both frightening and intriguing.

Thranduil's thoughts turned to the Gems of Lasgalen. When Thrór first took possession of the Lonely Mountain, to re-establish Erebor, Thranduil had taken the broken pieces to the Dwarves, hoping to see it restored to its former glory. Once today's events settled a bit more, and all were ready to move forward, Thranduil stood a good chance of getting the necklace back; it was the key reason why he brought an army to the doorstep of Erebor. He had convinced himself that having those gems restored, would somehow ease the tragedy of losing her. What an utterly foolish notion, he thought wryly. Mithrandir's words had sliced that idea, to shreds, and rightly so.

His wife loved the necklace, but would have gladly cast away an entire mountain of gems, if it meant saving the ones she loved. Mírelen knew how to love; it flowed so naturally and freely from her. Her family, her people were her treasure. Thranduil and Legolas were the real gems of her life. No matter how beautiful or valuable that necklace was, it didn't have the power to ease a broken heart. No gem in Middle Earth could restore a broken life.

In these recent days, many things had come full circle. The Heir of Girion had finished the task that his ancestor had started. His Black Arrow, the last of its kind, hit the exact place where Girion's arrow had broken the scale on Smaug, and killed him. The Dragons of Middle Earth were no more. Dale will be rebuilt, and the Three Northern Kingdoms will, with much diplomacy on the Dwarves part, and even more patience and tolerance on Thranduil's part, become allies, like they used to be. This must happen; it was the only way the North will hold.

Mithrandir was, again, correct in his assessment that Sauron was hoping to weaken or even destroy the defenses of the Northern Realms. Thranduil's foresight told him that this will not be the only battle between these realms and Sauron's forces. The next great battle, possibly merely decades in the future, will be worse; it will be the Final War that will decide the fate of Middle Earth, once and for all. It was essential that these alliances take place, gain strength, and remain stable.

But those were thoughts for another day. As he calmed down, he concentrated, then felt his glamour return, to cover and protect his exposed face, and he felt the relief from pain. He closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the wall.

Just for a short while, Thranduil didn't want to think like a King. He didn't want to think at all. He wanted to stay here, for now, and just be Thranduil, the son, the father, the widower, an ordinary Elf, for Valar's sake! For a few more moments, he wanted to be, without all the noise, without distractions pulling at him from all directions-

"My Lord Thranduil?"

He opened his eyes and looked to his left, to see Feren, Commander of his Military forces, standing in the doorway, with concern in his eyes, but respect on his face.

"Are you injured, Sire? Do you need assistance, or a healer?" he asked.

"No, I do not. Take my armor to my tent for now. I will be there presently."

"As you wish, My Lord. I will have Galion lay out your supplies for you."

"That will be fine. Thank you Feren"

Feren picked up the pieces of armor. He knew his King preferred to clean and care for it personally, so this wasn't an unusual order. The Commander pointedly refused to notice Thranduil's swollen, red-rimmed eyes. Feren had known Thranduil since childhood, and had he fought beside his King for thousands of years, and remain steadfast and vigilant, ready to throw himself between Thranduil and danger, even at the cost of his own life. He loved this King, who was also his best friend, and he would protect his liege in every way possible. He clearly saw Thranduil needed solitude, so the Commander would make sure he was granted this.

With his arms full of armor, Feren looked over his shoulder. "Take all the time you need, Mellon nîn. I will see to it you are not disturbed."

After Feren's departure, the Elvenking closed his eyes again for several long moments; reveling in the quiet. He would not be blessed with such a lack of noise for the foreseeable future; there was so much to be done. He wanted to make the most of the silence while he still could.

An hour or so later, he sighed, and got to his feet, brushed the snow off his clothes, wiped his eyes and nose with the silken kerchief he always kept in his pocket. He rubbed snow into his face to soothe the sting around his eyes from his tears, and to wash off the remnants of anguish, plus dirt or blood that might be there.

He sighed once more, then reluctantly turned toward the doorways of Ravenhill, to make his way down to the ruins of Dale, where his tent, his army, his duty, awaited him.

The ordinary Thranduil was gone. It was time to be a King, again.

ELVEN TRANSLATIONS:

Rista-Goeol – "Terrible Severing" The pain from losing a bond-mate. If this happens after they are married, after their fëas become one, it can be a dangerous thing; the spouse will often need to sail, to keep from fading, or, if they stay, he or she will feel the hollow place forever.