Author's Note: This fic is for a fellow Tolkien lover. Her musings on Thranduil's past and the love he bore for his unnamed wife inspired me to write this fic. While watching The Desolation of Smaug, I found myself wanting to know how Thranduil had sustained the horrible injuries he revealed to Thorin in a moment of rage. This is my version of how it possibly happened. Enjoy!

"Stay here, if you will, and rot. A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf. I am patient! I can wait."

As Thranduil sat once more on his throne, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, he watched his guards remove the insufferable would-be dwarf king from his presence. The sight of the egotistic dwarf being manhandled by his well-trained forces brought a small measure of grim satisfaction to Thranduil's seething mind. He sat back into the chair, lounging more comfortably among the folds of the rich silk brocade of his robes. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of the fabric against his skin, allowing this small measure of comfort to ease his anger. It had been quite some time since someone had spoken to him as Thorin had and had incited such fury within him.

He raised a slender-fingered hand to his left cheek, the remnants of magic making his skin tingle from where it had revealed the injuries he sustained hundreds of years ago. He felt blessed to have had a skilled healer repair what damage had been done, and it was only powerful memory that would reveal the ugliness that was once there. Instead of the large, gaping hole that revealed bone and teeth, he felt smooth, soft skin and the taut muscle underneath. As he withdrew his hand, his thoughts remained on the muscles in his face. They were tight and not because they were strong, but because Thranduil was clenching his jaws in an effort to quell the melancholy that threatened to consume him. Thorin had unwittingly awakened memories that Thranduil wished had remained hidden. While the contents of his reminiscences were mostly fair, it was the overwhelming grief that accompanied them that he wished to avoid feeling. No matter what, he couldn't remember...not even the sweetest of moments...without that gut-wrenching, searing pain in his breast that left him breathless.

Her. He couldn't bear to remember her: the one taken too soon from him.

Thranduil had no recollection of how he had come to the Halls of Healing within his father's palace. He slowly came to awareness, noting that he was awakening from a slumber of some sort. His eyes remained shut as he took inventory of his surroundings. He could hear voices murmuring around him, the soft lilting music of a harpist, and the smell of various herbs combining to assault his nose with a cacophony of discordant scents. He could feel the softness of the mattress and pillow beneath him and the warmth of the light blanket that covered him. He then noticed that he was in substantial pain, and he attempted to grimace as his only expression of the discomfort, but then he could feel a wet stiffness on the left side of his face and realized there was some sort of covering there. He lifted a hand to feel the bandage as his eyes flew open in shock.

"My Prince!" a female voice cried out. "My Lord!"

He could feel the hardness of the plaster beneath his hand, and he wondered what it was covering. This train of thought was brief as he realized something far more distressing: his sight was not what it was. He blinked a few times to accustom himself to the bright softness of sunlight filtering through the trees and once his vision had cleared, he knew he could see clearly out of his right eye. The other eye...it was complete darkness to his left. He sat up quickly, his head swimming from the sudden movement.

"What-"

A gentle but firm pair of hands took hold of his strong shoulders, pushing him back to rest against down pillows. His father came into view, and Thranduil felt his heart skip a beat at his father's worried expression. Oropher usually guarded his emotions well, and Thranduil knew that he had to have been close enough to death for his father to express himself so. He had no idea who else was there, but whoever it was remained out of his field of vision. Oropher, wearing a rainment the color of burnished copper, sat beside his son.

"You are blessed to be here," Oropher whispered.

Memories began to assail Thranduil all at once. He had gone to the northern border with a small retinue of warriors to scout the area. There had been rumors of enemies attempting to infiltrate into the Greenwood, and he had gone to lend credence to these rumors. He supposed there may have been some Orcs wandering dangerously close, and he could handle them. Hunting Orc was a sport to the young prince, and he took great pleasure in decimating their numbers with few companions - showing off his skill as a warrior. When he arrived at the base of the mountain, he had quickly realized that Orcs were not the threat.

"Dragon!" Thranduil choked out, finding it difficult to move his face to speak.

"Be still, my prince. It is not wise to speak much until you have fully healed," the female voice instructed.

Thranduil cast a questioning look to his father, who continued to look gravely upon his only son. "Yes, there was a dragon. You were foolish to attack with such a small number, and it is a wonder any of you survived."

Thranduil closed his eyes, the sensation of searing flesh igniting his senses. His eyes crinkled in response to the sharp pangs. He attempted to limit his expression of his discomfort, but he concluded this was the worst he had felt in his short life thus far. He felt a gentle, cool touch on his brow, heard the murmur of words from the maid, and he could sense that the pain was receding. He opened his eyes once more and stared up at Oropher, hoping his blue eyes conveyed his desire to know the extent of his injury.

Oropher sighed as way to release pent up tension. "Did you slay it?"

Thranduil nodded slowly, hoping the movement wouldn't jar the plaster on his face. He began to explore his face once more where the dressing was, and he noticed that the plaster covered the entirety of his left cheek up to his cheekbone. The edges of the plaster came to the base of his ear and right below his eye. As he felt around his eye, he came to realize with growing horror that there was nothing obstructing his view.

"I-" he squeaked through a small opening between his lips.

Oropher nodded. "For now, you are partially blind. I was told you sustained massive damage from the dragon's claw. It will take some time to heal the hole in your face, but I have been assured it can be done. Others in your company were not so fortunate."

Thranduil's eyes filled with sadness as he remembered the influx of hot fire surrounding his company. "I know..." he whispered, using as little of his muscles to speak as possible.

"The dragon cut away your flesh to the bone. I have begun regenerating the muscle, but it will take some time to rebuild everything. The muscle is very fine and weak there, and I must limit what you take in orally. I am afraid it will be liquids only for awhile," the maid cut in.

"I am glad you are returned safe," Oropher stated before rising. He gave a few more directives to the elf maid before taking his leave.

Thranduil could feel melancholy sweeping over him like waves of the ocean. He had survived. He had been certain that he would die along with his comrades at the foot of the Grey Mountains. He remembered the giant Fire Drake they had come upon, the trees alight with flame. Some of his retinue had been felled before him with a single breath of fire, and in anger, Thranduil had struck the monster. He remembered the scorching heat, the feel of sweat running down his face, and the crackling of wood burning amid the shouts in Sindarin. He had dealt the death blow - he knew that much. As his mind replayed the events of the dragon's attack, he began to piece together those last few moments.

Yes... Thranduil thought. I had felled the dragon, and it was falling to the forest floor, but not before it reached out to try to take me with it. He could recall looking up to see the monstrous claws coming down towards him, and he had frozen in place. He knew if he moved just a little, the claws would impale him and there would be a return to the Greenwood on a funerary bier. He had allowed the foul creature to mar him, and as the claw came into contact with his face, he felt the power of the creature in its death throes. He was thrown to the ground, his head crashing against something hard. Probably a rock. He had lost consciousness then.

"My Prince..."

The voice. It was comforting, more so than other healers Thranduil had known over the years. He opened his eyes once more and felt his heart stutter as a face was finally associated with the beautiful voice. She was fair - her blue eyes were full of concern. Her long, blonde locks were pulled away from her face and her robes were the pale green of newly sprung leaves. In her eyes was written concern, but her movements and words spoke of surety in her craft. He was comforted by her commanding yet tender presence. He slid further down the mattress once more, feeling weary.

"Are you hungry, my Prince?" the maid asked.

Thranduil nodded, miffed that he had been effectively silenced by a giant worm of a creature. The maid assisted him with rising to a seated position, the blanket pooling about his waist. She reached over to a nearby table and took hold of a bowl. Thranduil watched every movement, entranced by the grace with which she completed her tasks. She dipped a spoon into the clear broth and held it just at Thranduil's mouth.

"Tilt your head back, and I will pour this in. Your muscles are not strong enough to open your mouth much wider or to suck up the liquid yourself."

Thranduil was affronted by this instruction. He stared at her with an icy gaze, letting her know without words that he found this utterly ridiculous. How could he, the Prince of the Greenwood, be reduced to being fed like a newborn? It was entirely humiliating. The maid did not falter under his scrutiny. She set the spoon carefully back into the bowl and placed it on the table. She returned her attentions to Thranduil once more, and the tone of her gaze was unyielding.

"I understand that this is not the situation you wish to find yourself in, but you are still healing. I cannot allow you to feed yourself and risk damaging the delicate work I have completed."

Thranduil recognized that not only was she truly concerned for his well-being and wished him to heal as quickly as possible, but she indicated that she would be offended if his pride led to the destruction of the effort she had put into his face so far. She was daring him to continue to be flippant in his appreciation for her labors. He suddenly felt angry with her for speaking to him in such a tone, and then...he was mystified by it. She was willing to speak to her Prince as if he was just like any other she had tended. In some small way, he found that comforting. He was still affronted by her attitude, but he grudgingly nodded to let her know he acquiesced to her arguments. She smiled, took hold of the bowl once more and held the spoon up. Thranduil heaved a bodily sigh and tilted his head back, exposing his neck, and the maid tilted the spoon slightly to pour the liquid into his mouth. Thranduil swallowed and felt the broth slither down his throat, warming him as it traveled. He hummed in his throat in appreciation as he titled his head forward, which made the maid smile.

Oh, her smile! It was a gesture that lit up her face and made her eyes sparkle. He felt his breath catch in his throat as she looked back down at the bowl in what seemed to be a demure gesture. He wondered if she knew how beautiful she was. Even if she did, Thranduil knew she was not so prideful as to flaunt it to others. She lifted the spoon up towards his mouth, and Thranduil was reminded of the position he was in. His mood immediately plummeted and he found himself cursing the dragon for putting him in such a vulnerable state.

Perhaps I should have perished on the mountain...

The pain in his face was returning. He could feel the constant buzz of the magic the elf maid had woven to repair his badly damaged face - this pain he could endure. It was the throbbing in his head and the severe sting of torn flesh in his cheek that would drive him mad. Thranduil gingerly touched the plaster on his face, wondering what was beneath it. He realized that he had not seen himself since he had come to the Halls of Healing, and he was caught up in a morbid desire to see it all. He had not moved much from his mattress in days, and he found himself itching to be up and about once more. He wondered why he had been confined to his bed when it was only a facial injury, but at first, he had been happy to just rest. Now he was restless.

It was a cloudy day, and a soft grey light filled the Halls of Healing. Thranduil took some comfort in this as it fit his downcast mood. He whipped the blanket off of him, letting it fall to the floor before he stood, his simple cream robes sweeping downward to cover his ankles. He stood for a moment to restore equilibrium as he felt somewhat weak and dizzy. Once he felt sure of his footing, he strode through the Halls of Healing. The hall was open to allow fresh air and sunshine in to strengthen those who ailed within the walls. There was always a small group of musicians present to play music that promoted peace. Lining the walls were individual beds on which those who needed to could rest. Otherwise, the rest of the space was open for those who desired to move about. Thranduil was glad for it, and he walked as quick as he possibly could to avoid having anyone stare at his face for too long.

As he came to a rather empty section of the Halls of Healing, he found what he sought: a mirror hanging on an otherwise bare wall surrounded by carved scroll work. Thranduil took a fortifying breath before gathering enough courage to look into the glass. He stood before it, hardly recognizing the person that was reflected back to him. What he noticed first was the milky whiteness of his left eye. If he looked closely, he believed he could see some of the blue from his iris, but otherwise, it was clear that he was indeed blind. He wondered how long he would have to look so frightening. Despite that, the rest of his face was weary, and he knew with enough rest, his youthful splendor would return to the untouched parts. Though, the plaster hid what he truly had come to see. Without a second thought, he took hold of an edge of the material and with a deft movement of his wrist, he ripped the plaster off of his face. He grunted from the torment of his delicate skin being ripped by a strong adhesive as he was unable to move his mouth to cry out.

"My Prince! No!"

The maid's words came too late. Thranduil's eyes widened in horror as he stared at his reflection. The injury was greater than he could imagine. His entire left cheek was a deep gash. The maid had indeed begun to change the nature of the wound with her spells, but everything was tenuous. The muscle was still transparent - revealing the white of his fine facial bones and the teeth in his mouth. He was almost disgusted that he could see his tongue inside his mouth, gently prodding the newly formed flesh. He could see the sinew connecting all of the muscle, still weak and ill-suited for the movement of his face. He felt desolate. How could he hope to recover completely from this? Then a burst of red hot anger coursed through him and without a second thought, he turned away from the mirror, swiping it off of the wall with all the strength he could muster. The mirror flew off of the wall - the glass shattering on the floor. Thranduil doubled over, barely registering that the elf maid's arms were wrapped around his biceps, his forehead resting on her shoulder. She cradled him to her, murmuring words that only meant to soothe his troubled soul.

"It is alright, my Prince. It has already improved greatly. It will take just a little more time. You must be patient with me, I beg of you." Her voice was pleading, asking him to see reason through the fury.

Thranduil wanted to rage with his words, but he knew he had been silenced by the healer when she began to rebuild his face. He suddenly felt the irrational urge to do bodily harm to her for robbing him of speech, but he was at least lucid enough in his anger to recognize that it would be poor payment for her careful ministrations. He continued to lean against her, his breath coming harsh through his mouth. A few more moments passed before the maid righted him once more, noting that too much contact with him would be unseemly. He just looked at her, his baleful gaze speaking volumes to her.

"Of course you must feel bitter towards me. I understand that it does not look like much, but your father has entrusted your care to me. He has praised me for my skill, and I must admit that I am flattered by his words. I promised him I would do all I could for you...and I meant those words."

He could see that she did pity him, but the pity didn't make him feel any less for it. She did not flinch at the grotesque nature of his visage, and it helped Thranduil feel nothing but grateful for her form of pity. He wanted to speak, but he knew his words would be difficult at best to understand with his inability to form certain syllables. She seemed to understand this, and she stood, offering him a hand.

"Do you wish to speak to me of your trial? I have gathered everything you would need to write your thoughts, my Prince."

With a nod of his head, Thranduil took her proffered hand and stood to his full height. She smiled, and Thranduil instantly felt his heart lighten. How he wanted to return this simple gesture! He swore then that when he was fully healed, he would show his gratitude by smiling no matter what he was facing. He owed her that much, if not more. She led him back to his designated mattress. Thranduil noted that many watched them pass, their eyes fixed on him. He knew they were attempting to hide their fright at the sight of him, but many were unsuccessful. The maid's gaze grew hard as she faced each person they passed, daring them to continue staring. He wondered at her protective nature. What had he done to deserve such devotion from her? He barely knew her...he didn't even know her name! They came to his bed, and he allowed himself to be tucked in, taking pleasure in her nimble fingers deftly tucking the blanket back around him. Each touch was a comfort to him. She eyed him, her smile small, and...was that a blush crossing her pale cheeks?

She turned away for a short time and came around once more with the parchment, ink, and quill for him. She sat in the chair beside him and offered him the writing implements. She arranged herself in a comfortable position, making it clear that she would not leave until Thranduil wished it. And at this moment, he was sure he never wanted her leave.

Another week passed, and the hole had fully closed. Thranduil looked at the massive knot of scar tissue on his face, marveling at how quickly it had regenerated. He looked over at the maid, who was very pleased with her work. Over the week, they had talked at length through Thranduil's writings. She would read his story and respond in kind. They had laughed, and she had shared in his grief as he recounted his battle with the Fire Drake.

"You are incredibly brave, my Prince," she had whispered. "Do not let their deaths trouble you. They swore to protect you and have done so valiantly."

She had been a comfort and been a pillar of strength when he had his moments of frustration at his weakness. She encouraged him. As he beheld her, he suddenly knew that he wanted to continue seeing her even after his convalescence had ended. He turned back to the mirror and watched himself attempt to open his mouth wide. The process was slow, and his muscles smarted from the strain of being unused for so long. The maid seemed to be aware of this and was quick with her words to quell his consternation.

"There are exercises you can do to loosen up the muscles and build the strength for you to chew and speak as you did. And the scar tissue...I have additional spells to restore that fair-" she abruptly stopped, her cheeks coloring as she realized that her intended words would breach protocol between a prince and his subject.

"Ou...can..s..eak...as ou ish," Thranduil managed to say with minimal use of his entire face.

The red in her face deepened. "I would not deign to believe I have earned that right, my Prince."

Frustrated with his inability to speak properly, Thranduil took hold of the parchment, ink, and quill that traveled with him, and he quickly scratched his thoughts out. He turned the page for her to read. He maintained eye contact to let her know with his eyes just how meaningful he wanted his words to be.

You have, he wrote. Please call me by my given name. You deserve that honor and so much more.

Her eyes widened as she gazed back at him. "I could not!"

Thranduil nodded, grasping one of her hands and squeezing gently. Her eyes fell to their hands, and he could feel a slight tremor in hers. Her eyes found his once more, searching them for something. Thranduil wasn't sure what she could be looking for. She seemed to find what she was pursuing, and she laughed softly in delight. She released her hand from his and bowed to him.

"Shall I teach you those exercises...Thranduil?"

Thranduil nodded and then wrote, I want to smile for you.

"You will. And you will no longer need ink to share your world with me, if that is your desire."

It is.