No Legolas. No Aragorn. Instead, we have a glimpse into the Woodland Realm after the victory at the Black Gate.

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Proud. Arrogant. Unyielding and uncompromising. Cold. Vengeful.

All these things were thought of the Woodland King Thranduil Oropherion, spread mostly by idle rumours and hobbits' tales. Though on a rare occasion such tales emanated from within the Woodland Realm when such gossip served its purpose. And truth be told yes, he could admit to being all these things at some point in all his long life, but they were not words that could justifiably be used to define him.

After his father, Thranduil had carried on the administration of a darkening realm – a position the Silvan settlement had elected their family to. That alone was enough to fill Thranduil with a burning sense of determination – which he had been told, many believed was the sole reason they had been able to hold back the shadow of Dol Guldur for so long. And so his people defined him.

At the changing of every season, Thranduil would weave the newly emerged flowers, branches and leaves into small circlets for the elfings of his kingdom, and would proudly present his own at the celebratory feasts. Nature and all good, green things defined him.

Many a man, and indeed many an elf too, had been surprised upon their first meeting of the Elven King. Somehow the image of a weary, battle-worn monarch had filtered through Middle Earth, and so when they arrived for whatever purpose – trade, safe passage, or aid for their settlements – they were surprised to find, if not always amiable, a vibrant, quick-witted, sharp-tongued and animated host awaiting them. Vigorous spring. His name defined him.

And on his favourite days, where a respite had finally come and the sun had fought its way to them, and no one was banging on the door with the dire news of spider attacks, Thranduil would seek out the company he liked best. He would rediscover the mischief in all elves; he would discourage his chosen companion from his 'duties' and they would spend a morning or afternoon or even a whole day together. Most of all, his son defined him.

Yet more than a year had passed since he had last seen that shining face, beset with blue eyes the same shade of his own, pale golden hair fastened in his warrior braids, with his smiling mouth and easy laughter. More than a year had passed since Thranduil bid his son farewell as he set off to bear message to Lord Elrond Peredhil of Imladris; since Thenithond had returned, his face grim as he handed his King a letter written in a cursive and elegant hand, explaining what had become of the great Council.

In private, Thranduil had raged.

Only Galion knew of the broken vases, mirrors, and furniture; of the bellow of anger and frustration and of so much fear.

But Thranduil was not allowed to give in to his breaking heart. He had forced himself to accept his son's decision, his heart knowing that it was a path that must be taken. Truly, once Gorgoroth released its blackness and all foul things upon Middle Earth, all would need to unite. Unite or perish.

And so he had soldiered on, as some say. He ran Lasgalen (he still utterly refused to call it 'Mirkwood') with renewed ferocity, preparing his warriors now for the horrors that would undoubtedly come in the following months. He exhausted himself daily, protecting his people with his sword, his mind and his magic. More than once had Thenidorn stepped in and quietly forced his King to rest, and Thranduil would only give in with the knowledge that he would be too tired to dream, as more often than not the path of elven dreams tormented him with images of his child.

And now – now the last of the spiders were being hunted with renewed vigour. Not one web escaped the roust. Goblins and orcs were not being driven from the forest, but hewn in droves, and then taken past the eaves and burnt in the open air. Song was constant. Songs of healing for their charred and hacked trees and poisoned animals; songs of nearly indescribable joy at the fall of Sauron; and laments of the fallen. The night he and his kinsman, Celeborn, alongside the Lady Galadriel and Mithrandir had taken down the walls of Dol Guldur, his people had flocked there, trampling the evil ground under their dancing feet. They had reclaimed the land for the rightful people of the wood. Even Galadriel had fastened a small chain of silver bells around her ankle and danced upon the blackened grass.

The realm was recovering. His people were healing and, always faithful to the earth of Arda, the Silvan elves prepared to settle into the twilight years of their kind. Still a long time off by mortal reckoning, the time of the elves was indeed fading, andthe Silvan folk would remain and be witness to it. It was not their fate to flee to the sea. And as their King, Thranduil doubted that it would be his, either.

Yet, although peace may have been creeping over the lands of Middle Earth, the Woodland King knew he would find none until he could lay a hand upon the heart of his son, and look upon those blue eyes.

Yes – that time will come! He refused to believe otherwise. His green leaf could not be lost to him. After all they the Valar had taken from him – his father and his mother, his beloved wife, and so, so many ellon and elleth whom he had sworn to protect by donning his crown. They could not be so cruel as to take that light from his life as well.

The door to his council chamber swung open behind him. The clink-clank of metal armour stepped closer.

"What on Arda could you have for me to do now, Thenidorn?"

He had not meant for his voice to sounds to weary, or burdened. Perhaps this was a gift of one of his oldest friends – one of the few who surely felt the absence of the prince almost as keenly as he did, as he had been his guard since his birth until Legolas no longer had need for one. Thenidorn knew when he was brooding, and threw himself into finding ample distraction for his King.

Sure enough, as Thranduil cast a silvery glance to the intruder, the archer's teasing smile was fixed securely in place. The thin red line that slashed down the left o his face looked less angry today, and for that Thranduil was pleased. The last great battle they had fought with the spawn of Dol Guldur had been brutal and frenzied. One moment of carelessness in the chaos had given Thenidorn that scar and spared the life of the King.

The archer caught his look and raised his eyes to Arnor, his arms lapped in frustration. "By Rodyn, Aran-nin. I did not come to pull you from your sulking just to fill you with guilt. We are feeling maudlin today, aren't we."

Thranduil glared hard at him. "Sulking, Thenidorn?" A dangerous edge crept into his voice.

"Aye," he said brightly. "For an errant elfling who, no doubt, shall be well acquainted with the cells in the cellar upon his return. If you ever manage to release him from your arms again, of course." A wide grin swept his handsome face. Thenidorn smiled more than any elf or peredhel he had ever met. It was a most irritating trait of his, especially when one was trying to hold onto his anger.

"His retur-"

"It will do you no good dwelling on such things, my lord." His voice was softer than before. "Truly, it is almost as if you enjoy being miserable, or treading down paths that could be dangerous for you."

Thranduil scoffed. "And this comes from he who threw his face in the way of a yrch's scimitar?"

"I think it looks rather distinguished."

"Of course you do."

Thenidorn strode forward and tugged the King away from his table. "I did have a purpose in disturbing you, my King. Truly 'twas not only for my entertainment."

"You should seek it at Galion's expense, next. Or Galvorn."

"I am no longer permitted inside Galvorn's smithy. And after Galion's performance with a blade, I think that is a stone best left unturned."

Thranduil grimaced. "How fortunate for me." He wondered briefly how Thenidorn managed to exile himself from Gavlorn's smithy. His patience was endless, or so he had thought. It must have taken a great deal for the metalsmith of Lasgalen to break. Perhaps he threw Thenidorn bodily out the door.

"We have found a final party of yrch, Aran-nin." Thenidorn's voice became low and urgent. "It is a significant threat. I wonder at how they could have concealed themselves from us until now."

As did Thranduil. Perhaps they had become lax as the shadow had slowly bled from their forest. Or perhaps the disgusting cowards had hid in any and all corners to avoid the righteous wrath of the Woodland elves. "You are certain this is the last?"

"Mal, Aran-nin. We have had scouts track them for several days. They led them to all their hiding spots, and the surrounding areas were all searched. There are no more." His green eyes sparkled, not with mirth but with pride and anticipation. "Good King, will you ride out with us, one last time?"

No, Thranduil would never rest easy until he was with his son again. Yet for the moment, he would fight for both of them, and to give a lighter forest for its Prince to come home to.