Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.
The Warrior King
It had been several days since his scouts on the northeast borders had informed their King that Erebor was under siege from the Easterlings and Orcs, but Thranduil did not need to hear the reports, nor did he need to see the destruction of the forest that heralded the rapidly approaching invasion. He had long been able to sense that Sauron's minions were close at hand, and he knew not only that the shadow had risen in Dol Guldur, but also that it was about to engulf the very heart of his realm of Mirkwood.
Whilst he had every confidence in the fighting abilities of the Dwarves and Men who were his northerly neighbours, Thranduil was not certain how long the folk of Dáin and Brand could defend against the might of Sauron's forces. He was certain, however, that it would only be a matter of time before the Dark Lord set his sights, and his evil minions, onto the Elves of Mirkwood. 'Let them come,' he thought, remembering his vow not to let history repeat itself. 'This time the Silvan Elves are well prepared to defend ourselves, this time we will savour the sweet taste of victory!'
Deciding it was time to call his warriors to arms, the King hurriedly made his way to the armoury and retrieved the banner that, millennia ago, had lead the Silvan host into battle. Carrying the folded cloth reverently to the gates that protected the entrance to his Hall, he carefully raised it high above where all could see the symbol of the might of the Elves. Many of the elder Wood Elves in the courtyard below had already fought in wars of Ages past, and had seen the banner newly unfurled at Dagorlad. They bowed their heads out of respect for their lost comrades, and their King, before resuming their preparations for the battle to come. The banner, woven of fine elvish cloth had once been strong shades of brown and green, with the emblem of the House of Oropher emblazoned boldly in the centre. Over time its edges had frayed, and it had faded, with some discolouration in spots that might have been bloodstains giving it the appearance of nothing more than a tattered rag as it fluttered in the cold wind. To the approaching invaders it symbolised that their enemy was weak and unprepared for battle, but the Orcs and the Easterlings could not have been more mistaken It was so much more than just a piece of cloth. It had been damaged during the battle of the Last Alliance when the standard bearer had fallen next to Oropher as he was trying to protect his King. Their blood had mingled on the banner as they died, but the army, part of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, had fought on courageously over the following years until the enemy had been defeated. Thranduil had never repaired nor cleaned the banner in that time, nor since, for it had always been the symbol of a strong willed King and had invoked a steadfast loyalty from his warriors. In more recent times it had been carried proudly into the Battle of the Five Armies, where the Elves again proved themselves to be fierce warriors who would fight to the death to defend their King and all that the banner stood for.
So it was several days later that Thranduil did not need to look to the morning sky to know that the grey heaviness of Sauron's shadow had finally blanketed his realm; the chill of fear that penetrated to his very soul told him it was so. It had taken three thousand years, but the battle he had dreaded, ever since Isildur took the One Ring, had finally begun, only this day when he looked south, it was not fear of the Dark Lord that filled his heart, it was fear for the safety of his son. 'May the Valar keep you safe, Legolas, wherever you are,' he whispered.
The distant sound of horns, warning of intruders in the forest, reawakened the fiercely powerful warrior who had once fought bravely against Sauron, and Thranduil quickly donned his armour and sought out the captains of his army. Only a few of the most senior warriors had also fought alongside him at Dagorlad, and survived. At his insistence they had spent the last few centuries training the younger elves in the skills of war, and the defence of their realm. Thranduil watched proudly as, with the precision learned from many practice drills over the centuries, every Wood Elf quickly moved to their appointed place, either in the trees outside the entrance to the caves of the palace, or to within the safety of the stone walls.
The forces of Sauron were also well prepared, and from behind the advancing ranks, flaming arrows were being fired into the dwellings that were built in the forest as well as into the trees themselves, setting everything alight. The agonised whispers of the burning trees only further enraged the Elves, who cared not so much for the destruction of their homes, as for the senseless destruction of the living forest. Quickly realising the danger of the blazing trees to his archers, most of whom had chosen to hide in the branches, Thranduil ordered a retreat to the caves that, in his wisdom, he had foreseen would become a refuge.
The warrior King stood guard at the end of the bridge leading to the entrance of his palace until the last Elf had reached the safety of the caves, his very stance a challenge to the approaching evil horde, his bow at the ready daring them to attack. As the wave of swarthy men and Orcs bore down on the defiant Elf, the air was filled with the singing of arrows, and the ringing of metal on metal as swords locked in their deadly dance. Discarding his bow in favour of his sword, and barely able to see or breathe in the thick smoke that now shrouded his beloved trees, Thranduil skilfully defended his retreat from the bridge to the gates. He ignored the shrieks of the enemy that echoed through the burning forest as they fell, but each silent cry as the light of immortality of another slain Elf faded away, cut deep into his heart.
As the gates were slammed behind him, he leaned wearily against them, and wiped the grit and grime from his eyes, bidding a safe journey to the Halls of Mandos to those of his people he had seen fall in the battle.
The palace was now under siege, but Thranduil was well prepared for this outcome, and he allowed himself a small smile, knowing that it would take more than mere stone or wood or even brute strength to break through the seal that he had placed on the gates with his own power. With a sigh of relief he walked quickly to his throne room, which had now become the war council room, and it suddenly occurred to him that this attack was likely not an isolated incident, but part of Sauron's final war on Middle Earth. 'Be safe, Legolas,' was his next thought before his attention returned to the battle plans.
Spreading the plans to the palace onto the large table in the centre of the room, Thranduil and his captains quickly reviewed the next stage of their defence; the destruction of the attacking horde. Small groups of Elves were to leave by the 'escape route' through the floor in the cellars that the Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins had 'discovered' many years ago. This would allow them to make forays into the forest from the river, the surprise attacks hopefully gradually reducing the numbers of the enemy at the gates. These were similar tactics the Wood Elves had often employed in their defence of Mirkwood over the centuries and all the warriors had the skills and the expertise to make the plan succeed. And it did. After several days, and many surprise attacks, the forces of the Dark Lord were greatly diminished in number, and had abandoned a direct attack on the unyielding gates in favour of hunting the Elves in the remains of the forest. Taking advantage of the situation, Thranduil opened the gates and a final battle was waged and, as he had predicted, the Silvan Elves easily defeated the remnant of Sauron's forces.
**************
The celebrations were somewhat subdued that evening, for there was a need to lament their slain warriors, and the destruction of the forest. Despite the sadness, there was now an undercurrent of hope, and as they feasted beneath the stars, somehow the Silvan Elves felt that Sauron had been totally defeated this time, that the shadow had been lifted from all of Middle Earth.
Thranduil especially felt it, and he slept peacefully for the first time in millennia. Rather than dreaming of battling the shadow, or reliving his father's defeat at Dagorlad as he usually did, he found himself wandering beneath a clear, blue sky, savouring a feeling of freedom as the sun warmed his face. Someone called his name and he turned to see a silver haired Elf Lord he easily recognised as Celeborn beckoning to him to follow. They walked alongside the Anduin, and as he looked to the south, a flash of golden hair caught his eye. The beloved sound of silvery laughter confirmed the presence of his son, alive and well. Then the path Celeborn took lead them into a large glade in which once stood Dol Guldur, and Thranduil was delighted to see a group of Lorien Elves singing a song of celebration for the New Year and dancing among the ruins.
"Come and join us, the Shadow is no more," said Celeborn as his image faded. Thranduil returned slowly to wakefulness, wondering just how much of his dream was in fact real. That Celeborn could speak to him thus he had no doubt, it was just that it had been many centuries since he had done so, and Thranduil was not really sure he approved of the method of communication. However, he had heard no news of Legolas in months, and if that was the only way to hear it, he had to accept it, just as he would travel to south to meet with Celeborn, to hear what else he had to say in person.
Until he was fully reassured that no danger existed from stray bands of orcs or other minions of Sauron who might still be lurking in the forest, Thranduil allowed a small group of warriors to accompany him to meet Celeborn. The Lord of Lothlórien had been of the same mind and the two groups met in a glade, much like the one in Thranduil's dream, on the day the Elves celebrate New Year. Whilst the two elder Elves moved to one side to speak privately, the others who had accompanied them set about preparing a simple meal as they discussed their recent battles.
"The Shadow is no more," said Celeborn, as he and the Woodland King settled themselves comfortably in the shade of an old oak tree.
"So you told me, when you entered my mind," answered Thranduil, his tone of voice indicating slight displeasure at the invasion, regardless of the reason.
"Your mind has been closed to me for so long, I was not certain you heard. The One Ring has been destroyed. It is good news, is it not?" he asked, noting Thranduil's tenseness, but making no comment. It would take time and patience to re-establish a friendly relationship with his wary kinsman, but Celeborn had plenty of both.
"It is indeed good news, and an excellent way to start the New Year," agreed Thranduil. "Do you have news of Legolas?" he asked, unashamedly allowing Celeborn to hear the concern in his voice for his beloved son.
"Yes, he is well. From all accounts, he is a fearsome warrior much like his father and grandfather before him, but I believe his skill with the bow and arrow surpass either yours, or that of any other archer for that matter," said Celeborn. "I believe he plans to return to Mirkwood once he has fulfilled a promise to a friend."
"Perhaps it is just as well that he intends to delay his return, much of our forest was destroyed during the invasion, he would probably feel guilty for not being there to defend his home," mused Thranduil. He knew that there was no reason for Legolas to feel that way, his destiny had lead him elsewhere, but he was certain his son would disagree, at least until Thranduil convinced him otherwise.
"I am sorry to hear about the destruction, but the trees will regrow, and it is regarding the forest that I wish to speak with you. It has taken a great effort on the part of the Lorien Elves to destroy Dol Guldur, and, unless you have a serious objection, I would like to claim that part of the forest and rename it East Lorien, in honour of those who gave their lives in its liberation from the Shadow."
"You are asking my permission?" Thranduil asked sceptically. "Why?"
"Because I recognise your claim to the realm that was once known as Greenwood the Great, and that it is through your efforts that the Wood Elves have thrived, despite the ever-encroaching darkness. It is only fitting that I ask your permission," conceded Celeborn.
"Then you have it," agreed Thranduil. "I will keep my realm in the northern region of the forest, and shall rename it Eryn Lasgalen."
"The Wood of Greenleaves, very appropriate, as is the timing."
"What do you mean?" asked Thranduil; intrigued by the strangely mellow attitude of one he had always thought of as aloof and controlling. Perhaps it was time to look to a new beginning with the Lord of Lorien.
"Just that there can be no better time than the New Year for new beginnings, new names, even renewing of friendships," suggested Celeborn, extending his arm in invitation, and smiling as Thranduil hesitantly but firmly gripped it in the fashion of warriors.
The Warrior King
It had been several days since his scouts on the northeast borders had informed their King that Erebor was under siege from the Easterlings and Orcs, but Thranduil did not need to hear the reports, nor did he need to see the destruction of the forest that heralded the rapidly approaching invasion. He had long been able to sense that Sauron's minions were close at hand, and he knew not only that the shadow had risen in Dol Guldur, but also that it was about to engulf the very heart of his realm of Mirkwood.
Whilst he had every confidence in the fighting abilities of the Dwarves and Men who were his northerly neighbours, Thranduil was not certain how long the folk of Dáin and Brand could defend against the might of Sauron's forces. He was certain, however, that it would only be a matter of time before the Dark Lord set his sights, and his evil minions, onto the Elves of Mirkwood. 'Let them come,' he thought, remembering his vow not to let history repeat itself. 'This time the Silvan Elves are well prepared to defend ourselves, this time we will savour the sweet taste of victory!'
Deciding it was time to call his warriors to arms, the King hurriedly made his way to the armoury and retrieved the banner that, millennia ago, had lead the Silvan host into battle. Carrying the folded cloth reverently to the gates that protected the entrance to his Hall, he carefully raised it high above where all could see the symbol of the might of the Elves. Many of the elder Wood Elves in the courtyard below had already fought in wars of Ages past, and had seen the banner newly unfurled at Dagorlad. They bowed their heads out of respect for their lost comrades, and their King, before resuming their preparations for the battle to come. The banner, woven of fine elvish cloth had once been strong shades of brown and green, with the emblem of the House of Oropher emblazoned boldly in the centre. Over time its edges had frayed, and it had faded, with some discolouration in spots that might have been bloodstains giving it the appearance of nothing more than a tattered rag as it fluttered in the cold wind. To the approaching invaders it symbolised that their enemy was weak and unprepared for battle, but the Orcs and the Easterlings could not have been more mistaken It was so much more than just a piece of cloth. It had been damaged during the battle of the Last Alliance when the standard bearer had fallen next to Oropher as he was trying to protect his King. Their blood had mingled on the banner as they died, but the army, part of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, had fought on courageously over the following years until the enemy had been defeated. Thranduil had never repaired nor cleaned the banner in that time, nor since, for it had always been the symbol of a strong willed King and had invoked a steadfast loyalty from his warriors. In more recent times it had been carried proudly into the Battle of the Five Armies, where the Elves again proved themselves to be fierce warriors who would fight to the death to defend their King and all that the banner stood for.
So it was several days later that Thranduil did not need to look to the morning sky to know that the grey heaviness of Sauron's shadow had finally blanketed his realm; the chill of fear that penetrated to his very soul told him it was so. It had taken three thousand years, but the battle he had dreaded, ever since Isildur took the One Ring, had finally begun, only this day when he looked south, it was not fear of the Dark Lord that filled his heart, it was fear for the safety of his son. 'May the Valar keep you safe, Legolas, wherever you are,' he whispered.
The distant sound of horns, warning of intruders in the forest, reawakened the fiercely powerful warrior who had once fought bravely against Sauron, and Thranduil quickly donned his armour and sought out the captains of his army. Only a few of the most senior warriors had also fought alongside him at Dagorlad, and survived. At his insistence they had spent the last few centuries training the younger elves in the skills of war, and the defence of their realm. Thranduil watched proudly as, with the precision learned from many practice drills over the centuries, every Wood Elf quickly moved to their appointed place, either in the trees outside the entrance to the caves of the palace, or to within the safety of the stone walls.
The forces of Sauron were also well prepared, and from behind the advancing ranks, flaming arrows were being fired into the dwellings that were built in the forest as well as into the trees themselves, setting everything alight. The agonised whispers of the burning trees only further enraged the Elves, who cared not so much for the destruction of their homes, as for the senseless destruction of the living forest. Quickly realising the danger of the blazing trees to his archers, most of whom had chosen to hide in the branches, Thranduil ordered a retreat to the caves that, in his wisdom, he had foreseen would become a refuge.
The warrior King stood guard at the end of the bridge leading to the entrance of his palace until the last Elf had reached the safety of the caves, his very stance a challenge to the approaching evil horde, his bow at the ready daring them to attack. As the wave of swarthy men and Orcs bore down on the defiant Elf, the air was filled with the singing of arrows, and the ringing of metal on metal as swords locked in their deadly dance. Discarding his bow in favour of his sword, and barely able to see or breathe in the thick smoke that now shrouded his beloved trees, Thranduil skilfully defended his retreat from the bridge to the gates. He ignored the shrieks of the enemy that echoed through the burning forest as they fell, but each silent cry as the light of immortality of another slain Elf faded away, cut deep into his heart.
As the gates were slammed behind him, he leaned wearily against them, and wiped the grit and grime from his eyes, bidding a safe journey to the Halls of Mandos to those of his people he had seen fall in the battle.
The palace was now under siege, but Thranduil was well prepared for this outcome, and he allowed himself a small smile, knowing that it would take more than mere stone or wood or even brute strength to break through the seal that he had placed on the gates with his own power. With a sigh of relief he walked quickly to his throne room, which had now become the war council room, and it suddenly occurred to him that this attack was likely not an isolated incident, but part of Sauron's final war on Middle Earth. 'Be safe, Legolas,' was his next thought before his attention returned to the battle plans.
Spreading the plans to the palace onto the large table in the centre of the room, Thranduil and his captains quickly reviewed the next stage of their defence; the destruction of the attacking horde. Small groups of Elves were to leave by the 'escape route' through the floor in the cellars that the Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins had 'discovered' many years ago. This would allow them to make forays into the forest from the river, the surprise attacks hopefully gradually reducing the numbers of the enemy at the gates. These were similar tactics the Wood Elves had often employed in their defence of Mirkwood over the centuries and all the warriors had the skills and the expertise to make the plan succeed. And it did. After several days, and many surprise attacks, the forces of the Dark Lord were greatly diminished in number, and had abandoned a direct attack on the unyielding gates in favour of hunting the Elves in the remains of the forest. Taking advantage of the situation, Thranduil opened the gates and a final battle was waged and, as he had predicted, the Silvan Elves easily defeated the remnant of Sauron's forces.
**************
The celebrations were somewhat subdued that evening, for there was a need to lament their slain warriors, and the destruction of the forest. Despite the sadness, there was now an undercurrent of hope, and as they feasted beneath the stars, somehow the Silvan Elves felt that Sauron had been totally defeated this time, that the shadow had been lifted from all of Middle Earth.
Thranduil especially felt it, and he slept peacefully for the first time in millennia. Rather than dreaming of battling the shadow, or reliving his father's defeat at Dagorlad as he usually did, he found himself wandering beneath a clear, blue sky, savouring a feeling of freedom as the sun warmed his face. Someone called his name and he turned to see a silver haired Elf Lord he easily recognised as Celeborn beckoning to him to follow. They walked alongside the Anduin, and as he looked to the south, a flash of golden hair caught his eye. The beloved sound of silvery laughter confirmed the presence of his son, alive and well. Then the path Celeborn took lead them into a large glade in which once stood Dol Guldur, and Thranduil was delighted to see a group of Lorien Elves singing a song of celebration for the New Year and dancing among the ruins.
"Come and join us, the Shadow is no more," said Celeborn as his image faded. Thranduil returned slowly to wakefulness, wondering just how much of his dream was in fact real. That Celeborn could speak to him thus he had no doubt, it was just that it had been many centuries since he had done so, and Thranduil was not really sure he approved of the method of communication. However, he had heard no news of Legolas in months, and if that was the only way to hear it, he had to accept it, just as he would travel to south to meet with Celeborn, to hear what else he had to say in person.
Until he was fully reassured that no danger existed from stray bands of orcs or other minions of Sauron who might still be lurking in the forest, Thranduil allowed a small group of warriors to accompany him to meet Celeborn. The Lord of Lothlórien had been of the same mind and the two groups met in a glade, much like the one in Thranduil's dream, on the day the Elves celebrate New Year. Whilst the two elder Elves moved to one side to speak privately, the others who had accompanied them set about preparing a simple meal as they discussed their recent battles.
"The Shadow is no more," said Celeborn, as he and the Woodland King settled themselves comfortably in the shade of an old oak tree.
"So you told me, when you entered my mind," answered Thranduil, his tone of voice indicating slight displeasure at the invasion, regardless of the reason.
"Your mind has been closed to me for so long, I was not certain you heard. The One Ring has been destroyed. It is good news, is it not?" he asked, noting Thranduil's tenseness, but making no comment. It would take time and patience to re-establish a friendly relationship with his wary kinsman, but Celeborn had plenty of both.
"It is indeed good news, and an excellent way to start the New Year," agreed Thranduil. "Do you have news of Legolas?" he asked, unashamedly allowing Celeborn to hear the concern in his voice for his beloved son.
"Yes, he is well. From all accounts, he is a fearsome warrior much like his father and grandfather before him, but I believe his skill with the bow and arrow surpass either yours, or that of any other archer for that matter," said Celeborn. "I believe he plans to return to Mirkwood once he has fulfilled a promise to a friend."
"Perhaps it is just as well that he intends to delay his return, much of our forest was destroyed during the invasion, he would probably feel guilty for not being there to defend his home," mused Thranduil. He knew that there was no reason for Legolas to feel that way, his destiny had lead him elsewhere, but he was certain his son would disagree, at least until Thranduil convinced him otherwise.
"I am sorry to hear about the destruction, but the trees will regrow, and it is regarding the forest that I wish to speak with you. It has taken a great effort on the part of the Lorien Elves to destroy Dol Guldur, and, unless you have a serious objection, I would like to claim that part of the forest and rename it East Lorien, in honour of those who gave their lives in its liberation from the Shadow."
"You are asking my permission?" Thranduil asked sceptically. "Why?"
"Because I recognise your claim to the realm that was once known as Greenwood the Great, and that it is through your efforts that the Wood Elves have thrived, despite the ever-encroaching darkness. It is only fitting that I ask your permission," conceded Celeborn.
"Then you have it," agreed Thranduil. "I will keep my realm in the northern region of the forest, and shall rename it Eryn Lasgalen."
"The Wood of Greenleaves, very appropriate, as is the timing."
"What do you mean?" asked Thranduil; intrigued by the strangely mellow attitude of one he had always thought of as aloof and controlling. Perhaps it was time to look to a new beginning with the Lord of Lorien.
"Just that there can be no better time than the New Year for new beginnings, new names, even renewing of friendships," suggested Celeborn, extending his arm in invitation, and smiling as Thranduil hesitantly but firmly gripped it in the fashion of warriors.