On the plains of Dagorlad
It is the one hundred fifty second day of the eighth year of war, when Prince Thranduil finally realises just who it is that has crept her way into his first line of soldiers. It is the clear clean sound of a half drawn blade following a crisp cold voice that has Thranduil almost stepping out of the shadows to break the brewing fight between two of his own. Elvish armour hides the soldier's features well, but he now knows. He has been deceived.
"You jest about my height one more time and I'll relieve your miserable shoulders of your wretched head. So then at last we shall be even."
War has been putting a strain on all, and the days fade into growing and ever consuming darkness. Even his Lord Father's army, with its trained and highly disciplined warriors, has begun to feel the gusty breath of discord. And Torwen the Unbroken – now transformed almost beyond recognition and half mad with blood lust – was not among the most patient of her kind.
Thranduil best remembered her for her defiance. His Father, the King, had done her family a great honour by seeing them off as they sailed to the Undying Lands to wile away their grief at losing their son and heir to the endless battles against the foul creatures Evil had stirred in Middle Earth. Only Torwen had lingered, hopeless, yet fearless, as the last lady of a very small household that had once belonged to an ancient and noble family of Elves.
The memories are still with him. When the ship had passed beyond their sight, his Father and his retinue turned to leave at once. War waited on no one, but, in his haste, Oropher would not look Torwen in the eyes. Thranduil believed it was not so much on account of Torwen's obstinate refusal to go with her kith and kin, but because she reminded the Old King so much of her brother, the bravest Elf to have ever commanded an army. Brave and reckless, Thranduil had always thought, but it had not bothered him when they were still winning battles.
As his Father had walked away, Thranduil had spared a moment for Torwen. She had not wept, had not bowed and had not relented. So very brave she was.
"My Father does not understand why you still linger here," he had said.
Torwen had looked at him with cold gold eyes. Her hair was blood red, most unusual, and thick, falling heavily down her back. She was not small, but Thranduil was tall for their kind. Perched as she was on a crumbling step overlooking the sea, they were almost of the same height.
"Neither does mine."
There was no softness in her voice. No weakness.
"But I will not pack my grief and let it dwindle until the memory of my brother's life fades beyond recollection. I will not let my brother's death be pointless. I cannot. It is not in my nature."
Thranduil had bowed his head and let her be. Elves could die of grief. Some more violently than others. But Torwen was brave. And now, the Elven Prince was finding out just how brave and utterly reckless Torwen could be.
"If but your mouth stood higher from the ground, I would perhaps heed your warning. As it is, your words are hot air. Same as your hot head!"
The blades sang in the air, but Thranduil was fast. He was between them in a flash of silver, both soldiers kneeling on the ashen ground.
"ENOUGH! Shame on both of you! Is it blood that you crave? Think you you are men? I will drown you both in it, before you bring dishonour upon this army!"
The tawny haired elf of Greenwood would have defended himself, but the deceiver was silent. Thranduil could feel pale gold eyes fixed upon him, calculating. There was a storm raging inside her, but it would not be released on a whim. She could make it rain blood, he had seen her do so, and in a heartbeat, she could gather those dark clouds and lock them inside her.
"Pick up your sword. Go tend to the horses." That was lowly work, but the Greenwood elf vanished without a whisper. "As for you", Thranduil turned to Torwen, still kneeling on the ground, but not at all subdued, "you are confined in my tent, where you shall wait punishment upon my return. Go."
Torwen would not move.
"Now!"
She left, her short sword glittering defiantly where she had dropped it. Thranduil snatched it angrily and almost followed so he could personally cut out her disobedient heart. At last, checking his impulses on these plains of strife, the Elven Prince decided that waiting would serve them both well.
The messenger took long hours to return, but Thranduil was ever patient. Night had fallen and the warm glow of his tent beckoned across the camp, but there was a demon inside it that Thranduil was preparing to tame. He read the words in the missive and armed with their power, he marched to his abode, pushed aside the flap and commanded Torwen to take off her helmet.
"I would look upon your true face, Torwen of Doriath."
"Torwen of the Greenwood Great. I have never seen Doriath."
"Do not be telling me whence you came from! You come from grief, child, and you are poison! Would that I could send you back into the West. I should have tied you to that ship and let your family deal with your madness."
"Madness!? My madness has won you battles!"
"Your brother has won me battles. Do you wish to follow him into the dark? Now, remove your helmet, I said."
With a vicious tug, Torwen threw the golden helmet on the floor between them, where it gently rolled to Thranduil's feet, a challenge.
Thranduil blanched.
"What have you done to yourself?"
The blood red hair was gone, hacked mercilessly to the shoulders, and dyed a muddy black. Dirt was speckled on Torwen's pale face and there was a bruise blossoming on her cheek. Without thinking, Thranduil stepped forward and brushed his fingers against the marred skin. Torwen winced. "A lucky blow, but the helmet deflected most of it. It will heal." The words formed on Thranduil's lips before he could stop himself and magic seeped through his fingers. Tenderly, he touched her cheek again and took away the pain, until her skin was soft again and unblemished.
Impatiently, Torwen slapped his hand away. The sound broke the silence in the room and for a moment their eyes met in shock and regret, before the storm of their tempers got the best of them.
"You dare raise your hand to your Prince?"
"I told you…"
"You have told me enough! You will wash that filth from your hair…"
"It will grow back! I had to…"
"…and take off the armour which you have defiled…"
"What? I most definitely have not and will not…"
"You disobedient little girl! You would argue with me?"
"I would when you're wrong!"
Thranduil's hand sprang and coiled around her head, his thumb digging into her cheekbones. He could not force her and would not break her, but he was most surely planning on intimidating her.
"Careful, Torwen. You test the limits of my admiration. I thought you brave to remain on this Middle Earth, and I will not deny you your prowess on the battle field. But you have deceived me. And you deceive yourself if you think I will let this go unpunished. I will not have you waste the precious gift of immortality on the same bloody grounds on which your brother perished. I will have you endure. I will have your household prosper."
"You will send me away?"
Thranduil released her. "I am saving you! Word has been sent to the steward of your household. He has already sent a party to fetch you. I trust you well enough to survive the journey home."
Torwen's eyes, pale with rage and defeat, glittered.
"Do not send me away. The deceit was wrong, but necessary, my Prince. If you will it, I will regret it. Punish me as you want, but let me finish this. I will follow my lord father, as you command me, after the war is ended. We are so vey close now", Torwen pleaded softly, wringing her hands and looking up at him, "but the Enemy is not as weak as we would have it. If we attack too soon…"
"If we don't attack now, the Enemy will amount his vast hosts and we will be no match…"
"Fool, we are no match now!"
Thranduil's threadbare patience would have snapped to irreparable consequences, had it not been for his squire heralding the summons of his Father, the King.
"I will be with him anon." The squire retreated cautiously.
Torwen was silent for a while, but when she found no mercy in Thranduil's blue eyes, she bowed her head and surrendered.
"Do not waste the precious gift of immortality, my Prince. Your Father and Gil-galad will fight valiantly, but should they charge too early, I fear they will fall into a trap. I leave now, but I, Torwen of the Greenwood Great, will have you promise me, nay, swear to me that when the blade should fall, you will not be so blinded by your greatness as to not look reality in the face. This is not a war a lonely Company of Elves can win."
A lesser elf might have taken issue with Torwen's poorly veiled insults, but Thranduil harboured a fear deep in his heart. To hear it thrown at him by an elf maiden, half his years and half his size, cut deeper than any Morgul blade.
"My Father is your King and your words are treason," Thranduil hissed, before slowly composing himself. "And yet, Torwen the Unbroken, I grant you this promise. I will bring our people home, safe and sound. But by then, you will have learnt how unwise it is to defy me!"
Raising her head high, Torwen crisply pronounced: "As you command."
"I have ordered you a tent. You shall remain there until the arrival of your kin. There will be no guards, and no mercy should you disobey and disappear. Here," Thranduil produced her sword, "take it. You have earned it."
Torwen reached for her sword and without hesitation, took hold of it and sheathed it next to its longer twin. But before she departed, she looked back at Thranduil and said: "I wish I was wrong."
"I do not believe you."
"Yes, you do. But you fear that I am right. Good bye," and she vanished into the night.
Later, as Thranduil was leaving his Father's war council, he thought back at what Torwen had said and the shadow grew darker in his heart.
Take her by the safest road. I would not have her harmed, no matter how long the journey. There are provisions I have made for you that should last well after you reach the borders of the Greenwood. She is not to leave the lands of her home. And believe me, I will know if she does. Never again will Torwen trifle with war.
Thranduil gave the order to march on the one hundred sixtieth day of the eighth year of war. King Oropher's broken body had been shrouded in preparation for his last journey north. The day dawned red, red as Torwen's blood red hair, as Thranduil had last seen it, cut unevenly short, before her kin had come to fetch her home and doom them all. There were still foul things to fight aplenty and his elves would follow him anywhere, but Thranduil would not be swayed, even when Elrond, battle weary and wise, came to see him.
"I will take my people home. It is a promise I made. You will forgive me for intending to keep it."
"Your Father has pledged…"
"My Father, Lord Elrond, is dead. Alongside the greater part of his company. There is no help I could offer, even if I wished it. They are my people now, what few of them endured. We have bled for Middle-Earth, for Men and Dwarves and all alike, while my woodlands grow darker under the shadow. I will go home and fight my battles there."
And so, King Thranduil led the remnants of his army back to their woodland home, as he had promised, to face his enemies there with what forces were left to him. But always on his mind, Torwen's pale gold eyes starred at him accusingly, cold and unforgiving. Forever unbroken.
A/N: Alright, I have succumbed to the awesomeness which is our Lord Thranduil. Since few have dared to tackle his backstory, I said what the hell, I'll try it. Hope the muse stays strong in me so I can finish this properly. Until then, please leave a review:) Thanks!