Chapter 4

The Elven King's swords slashed and cut, drawing deadly patterns of silver light in the gloom. The enemy came in endless waves, looming out of dark shadows, dropping from boughs overhead or snagging at the King's legs as though the surface beneath his feet possessed disembodied hands of its own.

Sometimes the scenery changed without warning; at one moment he fought in a forest glade, the next he found himself in steaming marshes or on a rock-strewn mountainside. Thranduil persevered despite the claws that raked at him inside his chest, closing his mind resolutely to the crack of breaking bone beneath his swords and the splash of stinking blood across his face.

One step at a time. Corpses behind him, dying things at his side, always another creature ahead. So exhausted he was no longer sure why he was fighting, only that there was something he desperately needed to reach.

One step at a time, doggedly forwards, adjusting his aim to take account of the differing heights of orc and goblin and spider and other nameless beings, half-seen in the dim light.

One step at a time, until eventually he slipped and went down on his knees. His head dropped, defeat now seemed inevitable.

"You are a mighty King."

The smooth voice issued from thin air. Thranduil lurched back to his full height, head swinging suspiciously from side to side, sword at the ready. Nothing. Even the enemy seemed to have disappeared.

"Perhaps the great Elven King grows weary? Perhaps the prize is not worth the fight after all?"

He knew the voice now; smooth, glossy, yet tough and viciously spiked. The Holly. He found himself irked at the tone. How dare the prickly little tree speak to him in that manner? And why did it know the nature of the prize when he did not?

"It appears I cannot remember..."

His haughty words trailed off as light flooded out of the sky. Above him, hazy but instantly recognisable, the bent head of his son, who sat beside him, elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Legolas was injured, that much was obvious, jagged flaws a discordant note in the emerald song of his fae. Injuries that were not healing, as though his son had lost the will to self-heal as an elf should. Thranduil struggled to keep his eyes open, but the morass beneath him was too deep, too powerful even for an Elven King.

"Help me," he pleaded, not knowing to whom he spoke, not knowing where he was, knowing only that he must reach his son's side before he faded, to give the healing only a king could give. He stared around in desperation, finding himself on the slopes of a mountain ridge. Instinctively he knew it must be crossed.

The taste of a tincture of the bark came to him first, offering some small pain relief. Willow. Supple, delicate upon the riverbank, but strong enough to survive most spring floods. It reminded him that life is like the river; it is possible to spend long days dreaming with your roots taking what they need from the water, but on occasion the water rises and rages and it takes all your will to survive.

"The foe will be terrible, Lord King, but you cannot give way if you are to reach the other side."

"I desire only to save my son."

"Even if you lose him anyway?"

The thought alone took his breath.

"Even then." His whisper echoed around him, mocking and sibilant.

"Then Lord King, you must endure."

The sun rose as suddenly as if dawn had been hovering on the cusp. Weak sunlight picked out the jagged heights, painted shape into the folds of rock. And Thranduil's heart cried out with fear, for the mountain was not only terrible and beautiful but also familiar, a place of nightmare made real.

.

His father started, the sudden movement bringing Legolas's head out of his hands. The King's face was tight with fear and the younger elf wondered at the dark paths Thranduil trod in his delirium.

Gently he put a hand towards his father's forehead, thinking to soothe him, but drew it back when his sharp eyesight picked out the finest web of scar on Thranduil's left cheek. What strangeness was this? He raised his head, puzzled, but Mithrildes was already moving towards him. With the most careful of touches she smoothed her palm down Thranduil's cheek, wiping away the network of grey lines.

"What is this?"

"It is nothing," she reassured him. "The remains of an old wound."

He frowned. "I remember no such wound?"

"It was long before your birth, hir-nin. You should not trouble yourself." The reassuring words and tone sat ill with the sorrow on her face.

"What manner of evil would leave a scar for so long, upon one of elven kind, and a king no less? Why do I not know of it?"

She bowed formally. "It is not my place to know the mind of a King. If he chooses not to speak of it, then he must have his reasons."

Legolas subsided, fuming inside. Another secret then. He could order her to speak but his pride would not allow it, tethered as it was by the pity in her gaze.

It was timely for Legolas's temper that a polite scratch on the door cloth interrupted them. Mithrildes hurried to see who waited outside and, after a brief and hushed conversation, informed him that his presence was required.

Thranduil appeared to be momentarily at rest, frozen in place, his face as pale in the candlelight as the white gems of Lasgalen. Despite the odds, he still managed to look both aloof and regal and his son wondered with a touch of guilty humour what his father would think of being clothed in simple linen and lying on a cloak. With a sigh, he turned away and strode out into welcome daylight.

"Tarthalion!"

There was no-one Legolas would rather have seen before him. Quite forgetting his own status, as he often did, he clasped the forearm of the ancient elf in greeting.

Steady eyes of deepest blue showed their affection for the King's son, even as the respectful dip of Tarthalion's dark head and the firm but discreet pat on the back of Legolas's hand reminded him that at times like this appearances were of particular importance.

"I did not expect you here! But I am more grateful than I can say that you have come."

"I came as soon as I heard, hir-nin. The patrol has returned to the Halls to reinforce the guard there."

Tarthalion was heading a patrol on a sweep of the northern boundaries of the realm when Legolas and his father set out from the Halls to face the horde. As one of the Elven King's most trusted warriors, he would normally have fought at Thranduil's side and that thought was obviously playing on Tarthalion's mind.

"I should have been with the King..."

"It was not your fault," said Legolas firmly.

"Nonetheless, I should have been at his side." Tarthalion took a deep breath, his gaze straying to the shelter. "He lives?"

Legolas gave a grim nod, and gestured for the warrior to follow him.

It was not protocol for a warrior to visit a king when he was laid low, and yet Tarthalion had served Oropher long before Thranduil was born. In time he became Thranduil's weapons' trainer while the future king was an elfling; a role that continued into adulthood and until Thranduil was as proficient as himself. With the heart of a warrior, Tarthalion's was often the practical advice that tempered the words of Thranduil's counsellors. In some ways he knew the King better than anyone still living and, without losing any measure of respect, the nature of the warrior elf's private communication with Thranduil was almost fatherly. It was only right he should now be allowed into the Elven King's presence.

The close bond between ruler and subject was obvious in the way the warrior hovered, stricken, over the bed before going down on one knee. He seemed to forget Legolas was present as he spoke directly to Thranduil as though he was fully conscious, informing him in calm, gruff tones of the movements of the patrol and chastising him gently for going to battle without Tarthalion at his side. The King's head rolled slowly in his direction, as if Thranduil heard him on some distant field of delirium, and Legolas bit down on an unworthy feeling of jealously that some warrior could reach his father so easily when he could not. He shook himself mentally for having such a thought and, being Legolas, easily found his better nature.

"You have known my father since he was an elfling," he said carefully.

Tarthalion straightened. "It has been my pleasure to serve the Elven King, and your grandfather before him."

"He would count you as a friend?"

"I would not presume..."

"Please, Tarthalion. I do not seek to entrap you in being disrespectful." Legolas breathed deep, calming himself. "I merely wish to know more about my father."

To his credit, Tarthalion did not suggest it was better to ask the Elven King himself, although he did look deeply uncomfortable.

"What does my Lord wish to know? The King's life as ruler is all recorded in the histories of Mirk Wood."

It was shameful to admit it out loud. "I know him well enough as a ruler. What I desire is to know him as an elf." As I should know my father, he thought. As any elf should know their father, king or not.

Tarthalion considered the earnest set to the younger elf's expression, the honest desire in his blue eyes, and nodded his understanding.

"As an elf then." He waited for Legolas to indicate that he could be seated and lowered himself to the grass. "I remember Thranduil well as a small elfling, long before we arrived in Greenwood the Great. He was much like you were yourself, hir-nin. All long legs and full of life and laughter, very mischievous. He was a pleasure to teach and quick to learn, although he preferred sword play where you prefer the bow."

Tarthalion's gaze was far away with memory, and all of Legolas's attention focussed upon his words.

"By the time he reached the age of majority, your father was taking an active part in the running of the realm and was a keen warrior. Your grandfather, seeking to direct Thranduil's wild energy, gave him command of a band of warriors who were despatched to the corners of Greenwood the Great and far beyond; tales of their exploits travelled back to the realm in song. King Oropher did not entirely approve, but darkness was rising fast in Middle Earth and his son needed leadership and combat experience to hone his skills." He smiled fondly. "It seemed they were always seeking the next adventure and in truth, they made quite a name for themselves. Thranduil was truly his namesake."

Legolas tried to keep the disbelief from his face. He was not completely successful. "He seems to have changed somewhat."

Tarthalion inclined his head. "That is so, hir-nin. There are many things that can happen in life that change an elf and the front he presents to the world."

"I would know of those things that change an elf so."

The question whether or not Tarthalion would have continued was swept aside with the arrival of a harried rider and the report that spiders were on the move, heading towards the encampment. For the time being at least Legolas had to be content with the little he had learned.

"I must leave, hir-nin."

It went without saying that Tarthalion's place was on the field of conflict. Legolas hovered, indecisive, every fibre telling him to fight, and yet some instinct bidding him to stay with his father.

The warrior saw his indecision and spoke gently. "The King needs you."

Legolas snorted. "I fear the King has never needed me."

Tarthalion's look was fathomless. He bowed formally. "In that, hir-nin, you are sorely mistaken."

.

A sharp gust of wind picked up the tail of Thranduil's black cloak, snapped it hard enough that the crack of cloth carried over the bleak stones. He stood tall, a shining being in this place of gloomy shadows and weak sunlight. The wind tugged at his hair so that it streamed golden over his shoulders, those strands heavy with dried blood falling down to rattle against his armour.

The Elven King was frozen with fear, knowing he had to climb over the ridge, but physically unable to move. His every instinct screamed at him to turn and flee, to run until his lungs coughed blood, for the thing that lived on the mountain was his personal Mordor.

"You must go on." The wise, warm song of the Beech.

"I cannot fail," he agreed, but his voice had lost its normal rich tones, had become husky and ragged.

"The prize is great."

"The prize is all I have. Yet still it seems I fear." Thranduil squared his shoulders, sent an unspoken plea to the Valar and took a resolute step forwards.

Nothing happened, other than the slow shift of small, jagged stones beneath his feet. He took a breath, the air biting at his lungs. There was an injury there, he knew, but it did not belong in this time or place. It could be ignored. For now.

Another step. It seemed he could hear someone speaking. A calm, deep voice. He could not make out the words, only the reassurance and affection surrounding them. It gave him courage. Last time he had not been alone; there had been others, although only one of his companions had survived.

"Ion-nin, I do this for you. If I should fail…" The thought was unbearable. "I cannot fail. You are worth more than anything to me."

Thranduil took another slow step. Above him, high on the mountain slope, a dark shadow stirred. He gripped his swords, tried to swallow and could not.

"Legolas."

When the shadow above him reared up on its hind legs and spread its wings, the light of the sun was blocked out; all he could see was the red of its eyes and the dribble of flame from its nostrils.

They faced each other, as they had done long ago. The elf, tall and beautiful and terrible, all silver and gold and ice. The great dragon lord of the north, powerful and ancient as the mountains, all smoke and flame and poisonous fumes.

More soon…love to hear from you.

Thank you so much for reading. Extra special thanks to reviewers: Cling0514, SilverOnlyReads, Shirlocked, Sachita, Violet, FramedCuriosity, AndurilofTolkien, zAflrO4, Posher10 and guests. You keep me writing : )