Author's Note: A very short Thranduil story! Please enjoy and review!
Thranduil often took pleasure in gazing at the stars, much like many other Mirkwood elves did. They seemed so close, so near to where he sat. He felt bathed, blessed with their white light. He noticed how they glittered, each one glistening slightly differently to the one before it. Whether it was brighter or it seemed to flicker or it was more yellow that the one before, it was different. They shone out from the dark skies hanging over Mirkwood. One of them shone brighter than the rest; it glittered like a jewel: the Arkenstone. The jewel which he had seen many times whilst visiting Erebor before Smaug arrived. It fascinated him. It enthralled him until he even began to understand why the dwarves were so obsessed with it. The way it seemed to hold the whole of the night's sky, every single shining star, in it polished walls.
He thought of Erebor often. There wasn't a lot he didn't often ponder over in his long days. He thought of the line of Durin. Thorin Oakenshield, in particular, who he knew was soon to be returning to the mountain. He remembered when Smaug descended on Dale and the Lonely Mountain. They looked down from the cliff and over the blazing town. It burned bright red and crackled loudly in the breeze. The screams rang like bells. He then looked back to his warriors: people who he had made an oath to when he became king. These were people who he had sworn to protect as their leader and king. Sending them in to help the dwarves of Erebor would be asking for them all to be killed. Too many would have died that day if he hadn't have turned away from the dwarves. Besides, they had brought it on themselves through their greed and insolence. He had warned his grandfather many times. He had told him time and time again that his greed would bring him nothing but corruption and dragon fire.
He knew all too much about the fire of a dragon. He had fought them and come off worse. He knew the pain, the searing pain of the fire on skin. The fire starting within the dragon, glowing orange in between the scales, was something that still terrified him. He remembered the intense burning, the way it melts away flesh, the sound of it roaring and cutting the air with it's heat. He remembered screaming in agony until he could not scream anymore because his throat would not let him. Afterwards, he screamed silently with only forced breath to convey his pain. He writhed and pleaded for someone to stop the pain pulsating through his entire body. He remembered sweating, bleeding, crying out for help. He remembered losing everything in a mad plea for health and for the pain to cease. That feeling was something that nobody could ever forget. Thranduil was as good as immortal. He would have to live with the memories and the scars for the rest of his days. Along with Mordor, the death of his father and his wife; all were etched into his soul.
But now there were only the stars. The white beads of pure light dotted around the blackness of the night. Something about the stars made him forget, for just a moment. These stars had seen more than him and their light does not fade even then. They are always there, it seemed, always sitting in the same place relative to each other. They made shapes, each with individual stories and tales behind. He did not care for those stories. He did not care for tales. He cared for the white stars.