A/N: Sorry for the long wait, guys. A-levels, forgotten plots, new arcs, the need of more research and a general feeling of 'I can't write well; why do I bother?' got in the way of posting for a long time. (Can I just say that writing fics set in wartime is very hard when whenever you type the word 'army' you think Loki...)

Thranduil glared around him at the Noldorin healers and wounded, refusing to answer any questions asked of him. (Elrond had tried the conventional approach of asking where Thranduil hurt but, after consistently receiving no answers, he had resorted to the unorthodox technique of poking his patient and tending the places that made him wince.) One question in particular – why did you charge before the order was given? - seemed to be a favourite of the equally harassed soldiers around him. The Sinda felt small and somewhat out of his depth. The tear tracks on his face didn't help his façade of a confident king despite all the odds, and he was sure the Noldor were judging or laughing at him. And then there was the dull ache in his chest; Galion's betrayal. He hated being made an invalid at the best of times but this; stabbing kin in the back was what happened in the old lays of the West, not here and now.

Once Elrond had tightly bound his chest – "Don't move unless absolutely necessary" – and had moved on to the more superficial wounds, they were paid a visit by an anxious Gil-Galad. His distress made him seem like any other solider camped in this Valar-forsaken face. His expression stirred dark memories in Thranduil's mind but he tried his best to ignore them. Upon spying Thranduil he moved in front of him, knelt down and placed his hand over Thranduil's smaller one. His eyes were full of pity and Thranduil found himself trusting the Noldo despite everything.

"You have my sincerest condolences in this dark hour," the High-King told him. Grey eyes gazed earnestly into blue ones as though Gil-Galad was trying to read Thranduil's thoughts. Such things made the Sinda uneasy, so he brought memories from the last time Gil-Galad had been this distressed to the forefront of his mind to make Gil-Galad get out of his head. But Gil-Galad couldn't read minds and all Thranduil did was scare himself further. "I wish to speak to you further about what we should do next, but first I must ask you if you know where Amdír is."

"Why?" The Sinda's voice buzzed in his fractured nose.

Gil-Galad looked down for a second and bared his teeth in frustration. This was war; why must the Sindar be given reasons for every question posed to them? But when he looked back his expression was controlled again, "His army seems to have disappeared. Not one of his men has made the camp yet, whereas all of yours are here in… in one form or another."

Thranduil's expression didn't change, and the Sinda didn't move for a long time. Gil-Galad stared him out, despite the cramp building in his already aching legs. He wondered what was taking the younger Elf so long to answer; in fact Thranduil had quite forgotten about Amdír and his army and now he'd been reminded new concerns for them flooded through him. But eventually he answered:

"He was pushed back into the marshes." Gil-Galad closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. "We were in front of them, separated by flank upon flank of the enemy; I know nothing more about it."

Gil-Galad nodded and stood up. "Thank you," he said in a stage whisper. "Take some time to recuperate, but you must come to my tent as soon as you can. We have urgent matters to discuss." He saluted the new king before leaving.

Thranduil watched him go icily. "He wants my army," he muttered, "but I will not fight for him again. Especially not now my father martyred himself so that we might march under our own colours."

"That's how you see what's happened?" Elrond asked, surprised.

Thranduil transferred his glare onto the healer: "It's part of what's happened."

oOo

"Maybe he'll forgive you," Erestor said soothingly to Galion, "You are as close as brothers after all."

Galion shook his head, "That makes what I've done all the worse. How can he pretend nothing happened?"

"But people act strangely in war. You have jeopardised his very existence by lashing out at him so."

Galion buried his head in his hands, "You aren't helping."

"What I mean to say is he's a good person; he'll see that any harm he does to you could be your undoing. You can't seriously think he wants you dead."

"No, I do not think that," Galion murmured, "but that would be a rational take on the situation."

The two Elves were sitting on a boulder overlooking the main thoroughfare through the makeshift camp. They had their backs to the Black Gates, but such things were not so easily put out of mind.

A short while later Thranduil came into view. Even Erestor, who both saw and brought out the best in people, had to admit Thranduil's expression wasn't one of forgiveness. It was one of defiant anger, one who thought himself lesser than the leaders around him but was damned if he was going to succumb to them. Similar expressions had started the greatest and most terrible deeds of the Eldar Days; such expressions were dangerous. His gate was one of pain; he rocked from one leg to the other as though maimed. But he sent withering stares in the direction of any and all persons who looked at him strangely.

"He'll get his own back," Galion said, glumly, "he'll think of something."

One of the Númenorians stopped the Sinda with the best of intentions. He could see the anguish in the Elf's expression and imparted news that would have cheered anyone else slightly. "Have heart, herdir; the greater part of the enemy's forces are vanquished and we have incurred far fewer losses than he has."

Galion, who unlike the Man could pick up Thranduil's minute warning twitches, groaned on his behalf. Thranduil slowly rounded on him. Though his speed was dictated by the movement of his cracked ribs, this slowness in fact increased the tension in those moments of silence before Thranduil's reply. He looked the Man up and down, a sneer forming on his lips.

"Yes," he said, his voice quiet and deadly, "and if you took away all the Silvan dead you would have lost hardly anyone at all." The Man swallowed and Galion felt infinitely sorry for him. But he was also egging his gwador on. Other people in the vicinity had stopped what they were doing when they heard Thranduil's venomous tones and were now listening in. The Man swallowed and held his hands up in apology. Thranduil paid this no heed, "My king and half his army is dead and Amdír's whole army has disappeared off the face of the earth, but so long as you and your precious mortals are intact that's all that matters. After all, we are just dogs who refuse to bow down to our betters. We deserve to be mown down. Maybe if we'd listened rather than being so bone headed we wouldn't be in this mess. Maybe this is a just retribution for our stupidity. I don't need you telling me not to worry or to have a heart. How dare you tell me how to feel? Well, if you can advise me on personal emotions then let me advise you; the next time we engage the enemy beware friendly fire.

"And that goes for the rest of you," he continued, turning round to face the gathered crowd. Though his voice was still low on account of his injuries it carried far, "we may not be as noble or as well-equipped as the rest of you but we matter. Know how many lie now in filth and darkness fighting for your freedom as much as their own. Know how many people are maimed for life because of what has happened here. And we shall not go down in history. We shall not be in the songs which will be sung from Gondor to Arnor. I'm not saying you aren't suffering as much as we are - war is war no matter where you're standing – but I am telling you to acknowledge and respect us now, because no one else will."

"He's exaggerating," Galion said as Thranduil took his swaying leave, "he always exaggerates when angry."

"We all do," Erestor reminded him. "I would stay out of his way for the time being."

oOo

Thranduil held onto the pole sweeping up past his head and looked at the interior of the tent. Not much had been put out yet, just a desk, a map, a tattered banner and a chair which just a few hours previously had belonged to his father. These were all to Thranduil's left. The right side of the tent was reserved for Amdír. Thranduil closed his eyes; this tent was to nearly all intents and purposes useless. Vanity on the Sindarin kings' part. If Gil-Galad and Elendil had a throne room then so would they. Was throne room the right phrase? Or did throne tent fit better? He opened his eyes again when he realised he was waiting for someone who would never arrive. Where were the Lothlórien royals? Advice he needed from Amdír and a friendly smile from Amroth. Amroth was always smiling, but then he was an eternal optimist.

He let go of the pole and meandered towards the chair. He brushed it with the tips of his fingers, walked round it, tried to feel his father's presence. Nothing. If anything made him realise the void he had to fill it was this empty seat. He couldn't bring himself to sit down, even though he so wanted to. To sit on this chair was to acknowledge that he was in charge. He couldn't govern a kingdom or an army; he could barely govern himself sometimes.

He stood there in silence for a long time, postponing the inevitable. But, though he was filled with sadness, he didn't cry. He was too angry to cry.

Eventually, he was brought out of his stillness by the appearance of Círdan. Though he made no sound Thranduil knew he was coming, and he bowed to him as he came into view. There wasn't a person among the Allies who didn't respect Círdan, and as far as the Elves of Beleriand were concerned they owed their lives to him. But he never drew attention to or boasted about the things he'd achieved; he just carried on. There was always more to do. Thranduil moved out from behind his father's chair and looked down at the ground just before Círdan's feet, but the older Elf told him to look up.

"We are equals now," he said in his calm yet commanding voice. Thranduil noticed for the first time the cushion he was holding in his hands. It was made of burgundy velvet and, though it had been kept out of sight until now, it hadn't escaped the black dust that was everywhere.

But it wasn't this cushion that held the king's attention. It was he ring upon it. A ring he knew instantly; he had seen it many thousands of times before on his father's finger. The emerald represented the Silvan Elves and the silver it was set into was the Sindarin lords who ruled and protected them. The silver was tarnished now, showing that no matter the hardships the Sindar belonged to their Silvan kin now and wouldn't abandon them. That's what the elements of the ring were supposed to mean, but all Thranduil saw in it was responsibility.

"I have been asked to give this to you," Círdan told him. "Under the circumstances it seemed crass for Gil-Galad or Elendil to do this. You know what it is?"

Thranduil wanted to snap at the shipwright. Of course I know what it is! It was my father's ring; I was there when it was given to him. Why wouldn't I know? But instead he just said "I do."

"You understand that to wear this ring will be considered the same as wearing the crown of Eryn Galen until such a time as you can be officially crowned?"

"I do," Thranduil repeated. He looked at Círdan with confused, slightly suspicious eyes. "Why are you doing all this?"

Círdan smiled, "To let you know that we recognise and respect your power. We heard about your outburst earlier and it concerned us. It told us we aren't all on the same page, and I am sure you are as eager to remedy that as we are." He had moved the cushion closer to Thranduil as he spoke, so now the ring was well within his reach. But still Thranduil didn't immediately take it. He looked at it for a short while, then looked up at Círdan once more:

"You talk so smoothly. Are you trying to manipulate me? To bring me under your power without my realising it until it's too late."

Círdan tried to keep his cool façade but couldn't. He lowered the cushion with a huff and raised an eyebrow at the younger Sinda the way a grandfather might at his grandchild. Even though Thranduil wasn't of noble birth and had no place in the songs of the First Age, he was a Sindar and so Círdan felt warmth towards him. There were precious few Sindar left now. "You are being paranoid," he told him. "Everyone in the Allied forces is aiming for the same goal, but while we're all taking different routes to get there we can't fully work together. And that's what I want, what I've always wanted; cooperation." He took two small steps towards Thranduil. "I understand if you can't trust the Noldor and the Men but that doesn't make it impossible to work with them. They are noble races, both of them, and the deeds of yesteryear are in the far distant past."

"I can't forget them," Thranduil stated, then faltered, "apart from those forty-odd years…"

Círdan waited, but Thranduil didn't elaborate so he continued: "I'm not asking you to forget them. I'm asking you to accept them and to move on." He raised the ring on its cushion again, "So let's move on one stage at a time."

Hesitantly, Thranduil took the ring and put it on his right index finger. The same finger Oropher had worn it on. It was loose on him but still caught on his lower knuckle.

"Cuio Thranduil Elaran anann," Círdan said, as Thranduil rotated his hand and looked at the ring again now it was on his finger. "Now, I'm going to ask for a promise from you." Thranduil looked up at him, questioningly. "I'm going to ask you not to hide yourself away from the world, not until this war is over at least. And I ask that you make an effort to work with Gil-Galad and Elendil and not against them. Will you do that?"

"Yes, herdir."

Círdan narrowed his eyes and watched the other from under his eyelids. "Make sure you do; I shall be watching." He turned to go, but as he reached the threshold Thranduil asked:

"Why are you being so kind to me? All the free world knows you and loves you and I am no more than a name and now a title to all outside Eryn Galen. So why do you bother with me?"

"You sell yourself short," Círdan said, smiling, "true you aren't known throughout the world but what does that matter so long as you're known and respected throughout your realm." Then he laughed, "As for being kind; break that promise and you'll find me far less amiable."

It was only once Círdan had left that Thranduil sank for the first time into his father's chair. He put his hands flat together and looked at the rings on his finger. The clean gold body of his wedding ring* set off the dark silver of his ring of sovereignty and vice versa. Oropher, who'd also had a golden wedding ring and had worn both on the same finger, had made sure neither eclipsed the other.

How can two bands of metal sum up so much? Thranduil, this is your life.

He hadn't had time to think about home recently but now sickness for both the forest and his wife stabbed him like a cruel scimitar. He shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be forced to wait for him. He suddenly felt painfully alone. It took him a while to realise why. Míriel couldn't have been here with him while Círdan swore him in but someone else should have been.

The first thought he had about Galion was a memory from many years ago. It wasn't a spectacular memory – in fact nothing much had happened on that day – but it stuck with him. He didn't know why. They were by a small mere, all six of them. His wife, Galion, Galion's wife and their two children, and himself of course. That was all there was to it; the adults just sat on the bank while Dannalas and Lianna splashed water at each other and laughed. Maybe it was something to do with the late summer light filtering just so through the leaves that made it so special. Maybe it was the temperature, just right so that it felt like there was no air at all. Maybe it was the stillness of the moment. Or maybe it was because it could never happen again.

Thranduil rapidly blinked away the tears. He couldn't succumb to his emotions again, not yet. He had justice to execute.

oOo

The gas in the marsh water made it smell and taste repugnant. Amroth spat it out and wretched for good measure. Then he proceeded to drag is sodden body out of the dip onto reasonably dry land. The cotton o his garments had absorbed the water like a sponge and dragging his legs through the marsh was like dragging two lead weights. Once he'd made the bank he pulled off his boots and let the water go back to where it belonged. Then he wrang himself out and wondered what to do next.

Amdír was dead. That was old news. He could mourn later. Mourning wouldn't help him now. Neither would worrying about the gash on his hip which he'd got trying to protect his father. He'd done very little however; the orcs had just pushed him backwards into the marsh. Look for his army. That sounded like a plan. He pulled himself to his feet and wiped his face, looking at the slimy, stinking weed now on his hand with detached objectivity. Judging by what felt like wet ropes slapping his face, it was all over his hair too. He made his slow way over to the bank.

He was by no means the first to arrive there. Palandir was already directing other survivors off the marshes, but he bowed to his new king.

"So many bodies," Amroth stated as he reached the bank and looked back over the misty green expanse. The glint of armour and weapons was everywhere, even in this dim light. Palandir nodded wearily and Amroth put a hand on his shoulder. "Keep up the good work, meldir, I shall return shortly."

"Where are you going?"

"To find the rest of the Alliance."

Palandir blinked, "But surely your army will need to go with you-"

"No." Amroth's denial was louder than he'd intended. But he didn't care; he was sore and soaking and had to endure the sight of half his comrades slowly sinking into the murky depths of the marsh. "We aren't going back. This is us finished. I'm going to tell Gil-Galad, Elendil and Oropher that we're leaving and when I get back we'll start the march home. We've sacrificed more than enough already. I don't care what they say; there's more to life than pride."

Palandir nodded again, "I agree, sire, but what shall we do with the dead? With your father?"

Amroth waved his hand, "We're taking my father home. As for the rest I leave them to you. Tell the survivors where I'm going lest they think I'm dead as well."

He turned away and began the march through the main battle field to the camp miles beyond. And this time, when the eternal optimist looked at the clouds, all else he saw was banks and banks of yet more clouds behind them.

Translations:

Cuio Thranduil Elaran anann – Long live Elvenking Thranduil

Herdir – master

*from Tolkien Gateway: Elven Life-cycles. Elves wore their wedding ring(s) - I think they could have more than one depending on how rich their spouse was probably - on their index finger rather than ring finger. It doesn't specify which hand.

A/N: Worth waiting for? Hopefully.

I need to write a lighter story sometime soon; Thranduil's becoming more and more like how I imagine the Fëanorians to be. (Not so much in this chapter but in later ones you might see what I mean.) Or more like Thingol (I was about to roll my eyes and say 'because Thingol and the Fëanorians are so similar' but actually they are). At least Thingol's almost allowed considering Tolkien wrote the Elenking's first appearances with Thingol in mind and not Thranduil. But actually why should I write something lighter? (coughs even though I deleted most of those stories for other reasons) I've written plenty of stuff where Thranduil's his usual impish, slightly eccentric self so why shouldn't I look into his more sinister side for a change? ;¬ ) Maybe Eli should take her head out of the YT/FA legendaerum for a little while...

And apparently I've moved to Iceland. Avoiding the Olympics; nice one, me. Even though the only foreign country I've actually been to this year is Wales ;) It'll probably be back to normal by the time you read this but for the moment I'm enjoying this mix up in a strange 'oh look it's happened to me now. Raina! We both have the wrong flags!' way