Hi everyone! I'm new to this fandom; uhmm well not exactly new but it's my first time attempting to submit my own fan fiction for "The Hobbit". At first, I was thinking of doing a Bagginshield pairing but recently I have found great interest in exploring what possibilities would occur when we ship Thranduil and Thorin. And yes, as you can see, I will be doing exactly that!

Hope you like this! Comments/reviews will be appreciated but please be mindful of the warnings! [If I have mentioned any before every chapter]

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Disclaimer: I wish I could build a universe as great as Tolkien's creation. Still, fan fiction is the next best thing.

Pairing: Thranduil[Elven King of Mirkwood] and Thorin

Genre: Romance, Angst, Friendship

Warnings: Prologue/Introduction of the story ahead! Slash.

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Summary: It was a long ago promise made by the kings. Not only of alliance but also of union. And with that, comes a sacred blessing. However, as tragedy descended upon kingdoms and trust ripped apart, how will two races become one again?

Thorin has lost his home and had lived in exile. With encouraging words from a wizard whose wisdom he has once believed in, he set out to a journey to reclaim the Lonely Mountain. When Thranduil saw the exiled prince of Erebor step foot in his Forest, he knew at once how the gravity of the events to follow would impact their lives.

.….. xXOOOXx ….

Title:

BEYOND REALMS AND KINGDOMS

.….. xXOOOXx ….

CHAPTER ONE

Steel against iron.

Weapons strike flesh.

Battle cries and screams of anguish could never be mistaken even amongst the deafening sound of earth-shattering roars. They were the roars of Dwarves, Men, Elves, Orcs, and Wargs fighting with all their might for different intents and purposes. The sight of the battlefield beheld the overwhelming lust for revenge, honor, treasure, and power.

Thranduil was one of the beings that have witnessed war for the centuries he has lived in Middle Earth. Participating in hostilities was no longer new to him but never would he admit of getting used to it. War wasn't simply an obstacle to be treaded by ones life. It has always brought forth a terrifying change—a loss, hatred, betrayal, a hunger that may not possibly be satisfied with a fleeting hold of power and triumph. For the elf king, reasons for waging war were simply concocted excuses to extort an individual's desire to be recognized.

His eyes searched the gruesome horizon spread out before him. With a cool and collected façade he has trained himself to perfect for hundreds of years, only he could tell the dreadful weight of anxiousness creeping in his bones. This time was no easy feat though, knowing his composure was slipping as he can already feel the penetrating gaze of his son upon the back of his neck. He was aware that Legolas wouldn't let himself get distracted most of the time and especially during a death-filled battle, but he could not help but share the piercing trepidation coming off of his King's bearing. The King was terrified of something but of what exactly, he could not for the life of him tell. Nevertheless, he knew for sure the corpses of their own people and of others weren't the sole source for the King's appalling difference. Stretching out his arms together with his bow and arrow, the next second an approaching Orc has his left eye pierced through to the back of his skull.

Thranduil merely glanced at the falling strands of golden hair on the side of his face that had been cut through by the arrow of his son. A small nod of recognition that he has indeed began to get lost in his other concerns and he has his arm striking out at dead speed to his left for another Orc attempting to kill him. There were several more that followed and the King and Prince found themselves immersed in concentration to annihilate their enemies side by side. Their superior strength, precision in movements, and more than a lifetime of training has given them many advantages in the arts of fighting.

"It's not only your sword I can feel cutting through our enemy's guts." Legolas crushed an Orc's head using the heel of his boot with an elven warrior's frightening fervor. He gave a fleeting squint towards his father as he unceremoniously pulled out an arrow from a Warg's mouth. He has lost all his arrows on the heads and flesh of their enemies and despite having his sword, the thought of being able to pull his bow again never fail to make him feel more at ease.

"Concentrate on our enemies, son. It would do me no good to be the reason for an injury you might receive."

It might be the most unwise moment to feel impressed with his heir simply because the prince can tell of his thoughts and emotions even while in battle. He and Legolas had never been close despite a thousand years of living in the same kingdom. He was only ever a father when the prince was a mere elfling and he had to teach him the way to becoming the next ruler. But even then, he has passed the responsibility to his trusted scholars after a century of doing so.

"It is already an injury to see your reservations clouding your eyes."

A blunt strike went passed the King's shoulder and he found himself grimacing at the blood that was dripping on his armor and beginning to seep through his robe. Legolas pulled out his blade from the Warg's severed neck.

Thranduil had no qualms ignoring his son's words and made to turn away to face the dark beings head on once again. It doesn't matter if his divided concentration has already been revealed so long as it wouldn't be the cause of why he felt so enormously apprehensive. From his side of the field, he could see men, his army, and the dwarves all scattered in their own defensive stations—battle strategies no longer evident to be of importance amidst the chaos. His gift of superior eyesight could even see the blurry end of the war ground but one dwarf in particular he couldn't seem to find. It was frustrating and at the same time, alarming. The vile possibilities once again took over and he couldn't help but brutally charge his enemies when the thought of changing his location presented to help him see what he was looking for. He may have briefly heard Legolas shout for him but the determination in reaching his goal took over.

It wasn't with a royal grace when he fell on his knees the moment he saw the Durin dwarf. He was still a hundred Orcs' away but that fact didn't discourage him from pummeling dark beasts after another on his path towards the dwarf. But no matter how speed he can gain while fighting; the approaching group of Orcs was nearing Thorin.

"What in Eru's name isn't he moving?" Thranduil bellowed in his mind and after the brief rage for the dwarf's arrogance or rather, ignorance for the upcoming enemies, the uncertainty he felt earlier flooded him tenfold.

Thorin was on his knees as well. His hand was fisted on the hilt of his blood-covered bejeweled axe planted on the ground and he wasn't moving. The elven King still couldn't make out if he even was still breathing for there was a considerable distance between their positions. A sense of dread prickled his skin and he was about to scream for anyone's attention in order to direct aid to the unmoving dwarf but was stunned silent when heavy footfalls vibrated the ground followed by a loud, guttural roar. A giant bear was approaching Thorin fast and the eleven King could not tell if this beast would be the one to give the fallen dwarf the last blow to his death. With a string of the foulest elven curses, he snatched off a bow from a dead soldier's arm and took out a long needle-thin dagger from the folds of his robe. The preparation to shoot the beast only took the fewest of seconds and he was about to release the blade when the bear took on the form of man. The next thing that happened, disbelief was evident on the Elf King's eyes. He now recognized the being and recalled his name as Beorn.

Beorn carefully lifted the form of the injured and barely conscious dwarf and drew him to his chest while snarling and giving blows to the Orcs still daring to do harm. A Warg's jaw eventually caught one of his legs as soon as he was surrounded. Even though the pain was the least of his concerns, with a Warg's jaw attached to him, being slowed down would get Thorin all the more towards danger. Indomitably jostling out of the digging fangs whilst crushing Orc skulls, he finally felt the jaw of the beast slacken and at first thought to have fortunately broken its mouth. But after seeing the glint of a flimsy dagger pierced deep into the Warg's brain, one turn of the head and he knew at once where to head for safety.

The elven King didn't hesitate once he saw that Beorn was struggling out of a beast's jaw. He drew his bow and dagger and shot it with a veteran archer's precision. The blade struck true and Beorn had turned his head in his direction with another goal. It didn't need for Thranduil to know the meaning of the man-beast's gaze upon him. They now had one goal. Clearing his own path from dark creatures as Beorn thundered through the crowd of enemies, their eyes met. There were no words needed as Thranduil protectively wrapped his arms around Thorin's form at the same time Beorn once again took form as a beast. This time he transformed into a giant lion with extended fangs and razor blade claws; unflinchingly slashed and gnawed every dark creature in their path as he carried them on his back.

Thranduil's arms gripping around Thorin almost shook when he heard the dwarf groan in pain. He hasn't heard a single sound nor sensed the smallest of movement from the dwarf. But hearing his agony as he was jostled about while they rode on Beorn, Thranduil never felt the drops of blood from his own mouth as he gritted his teeth.

He was too overwhelmed with the indefinite prospect of saving a dying dwarf that the sight of Erebor's towering gates went past his eyes and only the cry of someone saying,

"The Eagles are here! The Eagles are here!", made him gather his focus on the task at hand.

He saw few of his elf healers and dwarves alike swarming about and attending to the injured ones already transferred in the healing rooms. One elf healer noticed his presence at once and worriedly advanced towards him; unafraid of the beast they alighted from. He hasn't yet completely gone down from Beorn when the healer spoke.

"My King! My name is Belanor. Tell me the severity of your injuries so that I can attend to them as s—" He cut himself short the moment Thranduil turned to face him. There was something grave in the eyes of his king and the healer's gaze immediately settled upon the figure he was carrying on his arms.

One look at the gaping wound and the amount of blood flowing from it, the elf healer blanched in pure horror. It doesn't matter if the person his king was carrying was of dwarven race, it doesn't matter if it was said that they were born from the stone of the mountain in which they also forge weapons and live, it doesn't matter as they are still mortal and with this kind of wound, he could never tell if there will even be a drop of chance for it.

The Elven King was reciting in his mind all the herbs he will be using and the healing chants he should have to perform in order to save Thorin's life. When he properly turned his attention towards the healer to ask him of assistance in getting all the needed items, he couldn't help but feel rage at the sight of Belanor's face.

"You are not entitled to be called yourself a healer if you lose hope even before trying everything that you can do in the direst of situations." Thranduil growled and some of the bustling healers were startled.

Belanor flinched and wasn't able to hide the shock from seeing their usually composed King's demeanor shatter easily at this very moment.

"Fo—forgive me, my King—" Belanor was saying but Thranduil was already naming all the supplies he would need for the cleaning and closing of Thorin's wounds to a dwarven healer.

The elven King followed another healer into the recovery rooms, but he gestured that they go further inside the halls as the process for Thorin's injuries would not have any place for disturbances.

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The elven King didn't come out of the room they've placed Thorin into even until the day has succumbed to darkness. He didn't even hear the faraway sound of a horn trumpet announcing the victory of men, elves, dwarves, and others who have come to their aid in battle. As when we speak of victory in war, it was always with great loss and ruin as well.

Oin, the dwarf healer he has tasked to attend to him, had done more than assist Thranduil as he struggled to clean and thought all of the ways he could close Thorin's wounds. It also occurred to him in passing, that the elf healer, Belanor, must have chosen to give his support as well in the background for most of the herbs he had asked for were likely available from their camp's stocks.

He had exhausted all of the healing chants he knew of and thankfully, it did work on the dwarf's smaller injuries. It was inevitable that pints of blood were lost and now, the dwarf's complexion alarmingly blended on the newly changed white sheets of the bed he was currently on. Thranduil was still distressed on the fact that the figure on the bed hasn't responded yet after the grueling method he had made him undergo by searing his wounds with hot iron. The smell of burnt flesh should have been nauseating and the fact that an elf such as himself would resort to such rough mending; Thranduil wouldn't do it any other way. –As it is, the only way left. Most of all, he wouldn't just give up.

What he still couldn't get out of his mind was the moment he laid the hot iron on Thorin's wound, the dwarf king cried out as if he could see and feel himself falling into the pit fires of hell. And after that, the deathly silence that followed was grating on the elven King's nerves. By now, all of Thorin's tattered clothes and every piece of metal has been discarded. A flimsy blanket was all that was left from the healer's supplies and it wasn't enough to stop the coldness starting to creep through the vents of the stone windows. Thranduil was a bit relieved when he noticed the dwarf's body giving small trembles. He pulled the blanket higher and realizing of the cape he removed earlier, made a grab for it and gently laid it on Thorin. He wasn't satisfied with the result and began unclasping his remaining armor, which is made of leather then began removing the outer layer of his robes. These were stained with his own blood and that of his enemies but not much so that he found it revolting. He carefully chose the cleaner side to wrap over the dwarf.

A few more hours of watching over the unconscious figure and with Oin's insistence that he attend now to his own injuries [no matter how small they may appear], he ripped off some fabric from the hem of his remaining tunic to prepare as his makeshift bandage. The dwarf healer has also left him with a portion of food to battle with his exhaustion if he really didn't want to leave Thorin's side.

There was a knock on the door and Thranduil almost sighed. If it were Oin once again, he wouldn't be able to help but compare him to a mother hen and announce it out loud.

"Enter." He said instead and continued to work on his own wounds, minimal as they were.

The double doors creaked open and from outside, entered sounds of bustling still looming and echoing all over the halls. He concluded these were the sounds of people moving back and forth from outside the battlefield and then inside the Dwarven Kingdom to help with cleaning up so as to arrange some kind of order. At that thought, he should've felt a bit guilty for not attending to his duties as both Kings of the two races are huddled up in one room. But not an ounce of regret bothered him.

"Father!"

It was Legolas. He looked up and didn't mind the immediate offer of his son to take over tending to his wounds. His gaze shifted lower and it landed on the thirteenth member of Thorin's company. The Hobbit.

"Master Baggins." He acknowledged and was a bit bewildered by the look of shock and utter sorrow on his face.

"I…You—your Highness…" Bilbo stuttered, his words trailing off as soon as his eyes settled upon the figure on the bed. "H—how is…" He could not seem to ask directly and his voice was thick with heavy trepidation.

Thranduil let go of his gaze on the hobbit and fell on Thorin's. Even he can't say for sure if after all his efforts, the dwarf would survive. And a sudden tightening in his own chest gripped him that Legolas thought there was an injury he had missed out.

…

He could not remember how he answered Bilbo's question. He could not even remember if he was able to answer him at all. All he could feel now, as he was once again left alone in the room with Thorin and the night was so dark there were no stars to give comfort to his thoughts, was the heavy pouring of loss, regret, uncertainty and dread. Was he too late to have changed the events that happened? Will it be too late to uphold his promise? Has the gods above rewritten the prophecy for a chance of hopes and love—that it was suddenly reformed? Thranduil didn't have the ability to know. All he can do is wait for Thorin to wake up and fulfill the promise that was long overdue.

He silently stood up from the chair he was sitting on and carefully fitted his limbs over the remaining space beside Thorin's figure. He didn't disturb the blankets draped over the dwarf, as Thranduil wouldn't much notice the cold due to the tremendous emotions boiling his skin. With graceful maneuvering, his arms were now softly caressing the unmoving figure. Fingers threading through dark silken locks and a soft kiss placed on Thorin's forehead, Thranduil began singing of the promise he made more than a hundred years ago.

The elf King remained awake and the tears flowing from his eyes were the only ones shining amidst all the darkness.

Hi again everyone! I hope I didn't bore you to death with the chapter one of my story. I am planning to keep this story short, about five chapters only. I hope you like it! And there might just be "shocking" developments I am also forming to put in here.

By the way! CREDITS to the uploader of the image I used as my "book cover!" Just googled it so am not sure who exactly uploaded this picture. :)

Reviews are fuel to the mind! Thanks!