The Guards of Greenwood

(Those who seek their deaths in honour and friendship)

Disclaimer: In the name of Tolkien, PJ and the holy scripture that is 'The Lord of the Rings', I do not claim any ownership over anything but the original characters created for this story. I am also aware that I have no sense of canon and will probably be hunted down and killed for my intensely shitty timelines and lack of canon-character background. My only defence is that this is a piece of fanfiction and therefore, not worthy of getting your knickers into a twist about.

Warnings: Slash (which mean homosexuality, sexual actions or implications of attraction between two FICTIONAL people of the same gender). Hints of and possibly even Lemons involving. Perhaps even a little het. No bashing of important female characters. Slight danger of Mary-Sue-ism. Multiple character death. There will also be a character who is underaged and believes himself to be in 'love' with a character older than he is. However this will NOT lead to any form of child abuse. I only put this out, to cover my ass in light of inevitable flames.

Rating: (for I'm not sure what the new system means, even though I've read it three times… so, for those of you who are old school like me and my beta… this story will be unsuitable for those under the age of 13. Chapters will be rated accordingly at a later point.

Beta: My thnxs to the incoragable bluegoo, wihtotu who i no tat my storees wood b pritty crap,

Also: Due to the nature of the story, there will be a lot of confusion. I'll give a little plot line, where each character fits into the story at the end of each introduction. If that helps… (edit:) Having run this by my Beta, Beloved Blue, it is immediately clear that I should state that there will be characters who share the same name by are completely different elves. I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that there are two Thranduil's. One is an Uncle (Thranduil the Elder); the other is the old King's son and eventual King of Mirkwood (Thranduil the Younger).

Why: I've always been interested in the idea of this isolated king. Many fanfictions portray him as evil, yet how can that be if Legolas turned out ok. He is the only elven lord without a ring of power to protect his threatened realm, and it appears he's the one that needs one most. Thranduil has always intrigued me… and this is my story to deal with this curiosity. This is also my first serious attempt at LotR fiction, be gentle. Enough of these extensive Author's Notes. Let us begin anew, friend…

The Guards of Greenwood

(Those who seek their deaths in honour and friendship)

by Doctor Megalomania

Prologue: King Thranduil's Promise.

(Every story must have a beginning…)

(Excerpt from a letter found on the desk of the late King of Mirkwood, sealed and dated three days before the King's disappearance:)

Legolas, my dearest and youngest son.

I know that it is you who will not understand why I have done this, and perhaps to you, that I owe a full and complete explanation of my state and mind. Your elder brothers will understand my actions better, for they stood beside me in the dark time of your mother's passing.

In some ways, I am thankful for this. You have been spared some of my darkest moments, and have only ever known perhaps a few instances of my folly, a temper tantrum or two and hopefully, countless happy memories.

Firstly, my beloved son, I ask of you as I do of your brothers; do not mourn me. Do not let this cast a shadow upon your heart, please celebrate my death. I am attainting my secret heart's greatest desire, something that has kept my sanity in check for the last three thousand years.

It has been deep in my heart, that my death would be the only true freedom that I would ever experience again… ever since the hardest day of my life…

The hardest day of his life was the day he ordered the gates to be shut and locked; despite the fact only a third of his father's army had passed through the door.

"My lord?" The ministers called in confusion, the advisors' faces paled and the minstrels were silent. "My lord, surely there are more…"

"There are none." His hastily promoted captain replied, his tone flat. The elf's grief had sapped him completely, he had no emotion left. "There are wounded, make haste. Prepare beds, healers and food."

In the meantime, Thranduil remained mounted on his horse, watching blankly as they locked the great green gates of his home. The bolts were old, and underused. He was aware he had ordered someone to oil them, but really could not remember the face of the elf he issued the order to. No, all he could remember was the harsh groan of the bolts as they moved. As if they knew the fresh pain of the loss of over a thousand elves.

"My lord."

Thranduil turned his head slightly, not quite taking his eyes off the bolts. His captain, a fresh faced elf that was barely five hundred years old, tugged at his arm. "My lord, it is raining, and you are bleeding. Come; let's get you into the palace."

As they rode away from the gates, Crown Prince Thranduil, son of Oropher … now, Thranduil, King of the Greenwood Realm… reflected that this was possibly the hardest, most painful day of his life. And he cursed it.

He cursed the Valar for not intervening. He cursed his father for his stubbornness. He cursed Gil-galad for his cowardice. He cursed his uncle for not preparing him more for this. He cursed his lover for giving his life for Thranduil's. He cursed himself for being only a turn of century old, far too young to be of any real help.

As he rode toward his palace, Thranduil, son of Oropher, made several oaths with every plodding step through the rain.

He would keep the oaths made to his father, to marry and have heirs. He would keep the oaths made to his uncle, to be a better king than his father. He would keep the oaths made to his lover, to always strive to better Greenwood. And he would keep the oaths he made to himself.

To forget the taste of his lover's kisses.

To forget the joy of his uncle's praise.

To forget the voice and the songs and the beauty and the friendship of his very first friends.

To forget all of the Guards of Greenwood, his friends who showed him the beauties of the outside world. Never again would he venture beyond the woods of his birthplace, never again would he look upon the many glories of their homes.

He had survived. He would be king. He would marry. He would procure his heirs. He would make Greenwood his pride and joy. And then, when all was said and done, he would take his lover's knives and walk deep into the forest.

Thranduil swore never to live again.

(Found in the saddlebags of an Elven Messenger, the horse was found dead, no trace of the body of the messenger has ever been located:)

Lord Elrond,

As one herald to another, I beg that we stop this folly of our kings. Tomorrow at dawn Oropher plans to take the northern pass. I cannot dissuade him from this madness, nothing I can say nor do will change his mind. I ask that you send as much aid to use as you possibly can even though Gil-Galad has clearly left Oropher to his own devices.

Also, I beg that you take the carrier of this messenger into care, he is Oropher's only son, the heir to our throne and it is madness to allow him to ride to battle. My nephew is too young for this slaughter.

If you cannot send aid, at least protect Greenwood's only hope for the future.

Sincerely,

Captain Thranduil of the Greenwood Guards.

The blur of his pitiful coronation, the extensive mourning for all the lives lost in the war, the exhausting attempts to rebuild their ransacked army, his marriage to a fair but distant noble elf of the court, all of it blurred in his mind. Only the cry of his first-born son pierced the fog of his grief-stricken mind and forced him to turn to life again.

While he was cold to the outside world, his people knew him only as an absent-minded, but hardworking king who could be found either playing with his sons (as the family grew) or working hard to the restoration of Greenwood.

When the spiders' numbers increased and the palace overwhelmed, Thranduil led them out of the debilitated palace to a secret cavern that he had had prepared for many years. It was a sad day; a frightening day when the elves of Greenwood looked their last upon their beautiful palace and were forced underground but their king saw them through the darkness.

He became as father to them all, though he was younger than many. His youth seemed forgotten, as he worked hard to turn the underground caverns into a thing of beauty, a place where elves could truly be happy. Thanks to his tireless movements, he gained a reputation of a fat old dwarf hording his gold from the outside world. His woods fell into shadow, her beautiful name forgotten in the face of the brand, Mirkwood. His people became shrewd in the ways of the woodland and in the dealings of men; they did not pursue knowledge, as did the elves of Elrond, or the simple beauty of nature as did the elves of Celeborn. The elves of Thranduil only strove to better themselves in the defence of their caverns, if only to prevent loosing yet another home to the shadows of the nameless evil that plagued MiddleEarth.

The death of their queen, murdered by orcs and spiders, only furthered the fierce nature of the elves of Thranduil. When after a thousand years, Elrond attempted to contact Thranduil directly, his envoys were cast out by the border guards. Celeborn, upon his white horse, and with only a small guard of Galadhrim, were turned away at the Gates of Thranduil's underground palace. Celeborn, lord of the Golden Wood, was turned away by a thin and angry advisor whose fingers pointed accusingly even though he spoke no other words than, "You are not welcome to the home of our king, be gone and do not return."

At the marriage of Celebrian and Elrond, only the crown prince of Mirkwood was in attendance. Balthen, a humourless, thin-lipped elf too old for his young years, arrived only for the ceremony, presented the gift of his people at the reception and swiftly left. He never once took off his armour.

At the birth of Elrond's twin sons, the crown prince and his younger brother, Galdenelos, arrived for the naming ceremony. The gifts of Mirkwood to the two boys were a pair of plain swords, an empty journal for the eldest and an unmarked saddle for the elven rider. As the two Mirkwood princes prepared to leave, Elrond himself came to the stables and presented the two with a letter and a gift for their father. Balthen read the letter and tore it up. Galdenelos tipped the wine into the trough of the other horses. The two rode away without another word.

At the birth of Arwen, the Evening Star, the crown prince and his two youngest brothers were in attendance. Balthen had acquired a scar down the left of his face and was clearly blinded in his left eye. The scar was clearly several years old. Galdenelos' dark golden hair had acquired a white streak of hair. His hand never quite left the hilt of his sword. Legolas was a serious young elf, thoughtful and wary. His bright blue eyes flittered constantly during conversation, checking the woods for threats. Elrond watched the three, and noticed it was only in conversation with each other when no others appeared to be paying them attention did the three lapse in their seriousness. They joked with each other, smiled and embraced each other. Elrond noted this with some relief. That all was not ill with the brothers; merely that they were ill at ease in his home.

The Mirkwood gift to Arwen was a dress. It was plain compared to the styles of Lothlorien and Rivendell, and some of Elrond's lesser-trained advisors were snide and mentioned aloud that the Mirkwood gift was as poor as the gifts had been for the twins.

Elrond cringed internally when he noticed the ears of the Mirkwood princes twitch, their eyes narrowing. Raising an eyebrow at his head advisor, Master Erestor, Elrond moved toward the princes, as he trusted his head advisor to speak to the offenders.

"I apologise for that… I know you heard their comments and I assure you that while it is their narrow held view, it is certainly not mine. Your gifts are most welcomed."

"But you do not understand the value of them." Balthen commented, Elrond noted his voice was deep and gravelled, from injuries done to the throat. His brothers nodded, their varying shades of blue eyes narrowed in thought.

Lord Elrond, knowing that many of his people stood listening, opted for the truth. "Yes, you are right. I do not understand the meaning of them. In my realm, your gifts are plain, unmarked, empty of signature."

Galdenlos cast his eye toward the walls of the Halls of Fire and rested his gaze upon the spear of Gil-Galad. He motioned it before he spoke, "Here you honour the spear of Gil-Galad. The dagger, the chalice, the banners… these are all material things, possessions. They hold no meaning other than the fact that once they were held in the hands of your elven king." He looked at Elrond with grave blue eyes, "Do you wish the same fate upon your sons and daughter? That everything that they were is forgotten in favour of a book, a dress and a saddle?"

"They are unmarked, for your children have yet to make their mark upon the world." Legolas lifted his arm and motioned Elrond's young children, "As the rider rides, he shall make his mark upon the saddle, as the scholar learns he shall make his mark upon the book and as your daughter's beauty grows, it is she that will be remembered, not the tailor who made her dress." The youngest of Thranduil's sons stared at the elven lord with thoughtful blue eyes, "Do the inhabitants of your realm need markings from other people to validate who they are? Or are your peoples' hands incapable of creating their own?"

The three brothers glanced at each other and with a nod, bowed and left. Within an hour, after the stroke of midnight, the three were riding out of the realm of Imladris.

After the sailing of Celebrian into the West, Elrond returned to his household to find the youngest of the Mirkwood brothers waiting for him and his remaining family. Legolas had come with a letter from Thranduil that bore a mere three sentences.

I, too, know the pain of loosing your heart.

It will forever be etched into your memory but in the darkest hour of the night; recall not the sound of her screams but the simple beauty of her smile.

I do not forgive you for my father's death, but I share your pain.

Legolas did not wait for Elrond's reply, stating his father had no interest in what Elrond had to say, only that Elrond read and remembered the words of advice contained within the simple lines.

A thousand years passed before Elrond heard directly from the realm of Mirkwood, and the news was not good. Whispers of a nameless terror which had been stalking Mirkwood since the fall of Sauron had rose to wails of horror as it was revealed that the Necromancer could be a successor to the evil of Sauron.

After Gandalf persuaded the White council to drive out this threat and all seemed to settle again; Elrond attempted to contact Thranduil again – this time to find out how his people had faired the storm.

He proceeded no further than the fringe of the Mirkwood, even with the power of his ring. Gandalf merely smiled, "The king's power has grown great indeed Elrond. He does not need a ring of power to protect his people… their love for him aids him greatly. You will not see the woodland king without his knowledge, nor his permission…"

It was the War of the Ring, the end of the Third Age when Elrond finally met with Thranduil. He was dining with Celeborn, his head advisor, seneschal and his two sons in his guest quarters in Minas Tirith, celebrating the marriage of the new King of the West and his daughter, the now mortal Evening Star. A sharp rap at the door alerted the two lords, and Elrond rose to his feet to open the door.

Thranduil had aged.

Appallingly.

The woodland king's once beautiful fall of golden hair was all shades of limpid grey. His deep forest green eyes were paled and washed out. His face was etched with lines of great sorrow and intense joy. He was an elf who had aged with the years. Behind him, his three sons stood; their faces warred between concern for their obviously frail and failing father and their normal grave expressions worn whenever they dealt with other elves.

Beyond the sons, stood Gimli and his father, Gandalf, Bilbo, Eomer and Faramir who held parchment in his hands.

"I have a long story to tell."

Thranduil's voice was cold, aged as much as his appearance. His pale green eyes narrowed in the dim light, "And I would prefer to tell it as few times as possible. I have gathered all who need to hear it, and one to write it. Will you hear my story, Lord Elrond?"

Elrond glanced over his shoulder, Celeborn stood behind him and nodded.

"Yes, King Thranduil. I will hear your story…"

(Found in the ruins of Greenwood's first palace, locked in a small burnt trunk in amongst other wrapped items, mostly weapons:)

Legolas,

Forgive me. I cannot let you go.

I love you.

When all were settled in the spacious guest quarters, Legolas moved to pour his father a glass of wine and, after handing it to him, settled at his father's side.

"I do not know where I should begin. I suppose I should start at the beginning… but that is a long, long time before I was born." Thranduil, now over three thousand years old – the youngest of the elven lords, yet the oldest in appearances – sighed and stared into the fire. "Once upon a time, long before the War of the Last Alliance there was a fellowship of Middle Earth. There was once a minstrel, Lothlorien's most perfect elf, a dwarf who was too tall, two men from Rohan and Gondor, a healer with blood on his hands, a captain who was kind but cold and a hobbit who grew up very alone ... Their story is one I know, their story is one I shall tell…"