A/N at end of chapter

Mirkwood

"Fear not the darkness." The soothing whisper wove its way through his dimming thoughts like a shining thread, a lifeline he struggled desperately to grasp. Calm, golden warmth finally enveloped him, chasing away the suffocating blackness.

Thranduil clawed his way to consciousness and drew in a deep, ragged breath. His eyes flew open and he clutched at his wildly racing heart, gasping for air as if he was starved for it. He lay motionless but his eyes darted around the room frantically, assuring himself he was actually in his own chambers and not surrounded by shadow. The pale light of Elbereth's stars still shone down on him through the skylight above his bed, gently illuminating his surroundings. He could feel the soft blankets beneath him, could feel the raised embroidery of the fine material he gripped in his hand and the pounding of his heart under it, yet the fear that he was not where he seemed to be still loomed heavily.

Thranduil gingerly raised himself to sit on the edge of the bed, his booted feet planted firmly on the intricately woven rug that had once adorned his mother's chambers. His usual grace had deserted him, leaving him shaky and uncertain. His body felt battered and bruised, his lungs burned, his ribs ached, and his heart pounded painfully in his chest. He felt as if he had come directly from battle instead of dreams.

He rubbed his chest absently whilst his mind sought reason. What was that dreadful beast that had risen from the forest floor? Why had it invaded his reverie? Why had it felt so real? It seemed the growing shadow infected the paths of his dreams as much as it infected the paths of his forest. As with most Elves not possessing the gift of foresight, the dream paths had only ever brought Thranduil to echoes of places and experiences, to memories both good and bad. He had never had what one would call a prophetic dream, had never experienced a dream so tangible, so terrifying. Could it mean something?

Lifting an unsteady hand to brush away the cold sweat trickling down his brow, Thranduil tried to calm his breathing and slow his rapid pulse. He caught sight of his trembling fingers as he lowered his hand and stared at them in dismay. Instead of the glistening perspiration he expected to see on his fingertips there was pitch black liquid. Thick as oil and creeping slowly as if possessing a will of its own it covered and dripped from his fingers onto his lap while thin lines of it moved up the back of his hand and over his wrist, disappearing under his sleeve. His eyes widened in shock and he shook his head. "No," the denial escaped his lips in a whisper as he watched the inky tendrils of his nightmare slither over his skin, black splotches slowly growing and spreading into the deep red fabric of the formal robe he still wore.

He lurched from the bed and rushed to his dimly lit washroom throwing the door open with such force it banged against the wall. "I am still within the dream. I must be," he muttered to himself as he clumsily grabbed a delicate silver ewer with quivering fingers and tipped fresh water into the marble basin. He plunged his hands into the cool water and rubbed them vigorously to rid himself of the vile substance, soaking the edges of his sleeves in the process, but it clung to his skin. Instead of washing away it smeared over his hands and wrists, coating them and leaving them dirtier than before. He reached for the pine scented soap that sat in a silver dish beside the ewer and lathered it onto his hands, scrubbing even harder, but still the stains remained.

Thranduil swallowed the lump of panic forming in his throat and raised his eyes hesitantly to the large round mirror above the marble basin, fearing what he might see. He shook his head in disbelief. "No. No, this isn't real," he reassured himself. The viscous black fluid coated sections of his long hair and left his sullied locks hanging heavily, grimy black mixing with pale blonde. His forehead was smeared and dark rivulets trickled down from his scalp to his cheeks. He attempted to rub the foulness from his face but only succeeded in spreading it further. Thranduil squeezed his eyes closed

hoping that when he reopened them everything would be as it should be, that he would finally wake from this nightmare. His hands fell weakly back into the water with a splash, sloshing the basin's contents over the side and onto the floor. He took several deep breaths attempting to calm himself, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, before slowly opening his eyes and meeting his own gaze in the mirror. The darkness remained but there was something else, something even more horrifying; the eyes peering back at him were not his own. They were not the cool blue inherited from his father; they were the unearthly green of that monstrous creature and held the same eerie glow. His breathing quickened and he felt the panic rising once again. He looked back down at his discoloured hands lying limply in stark contrast with the white marble of the basin, and clenched them into fists. "No," he whispered.

Lifting his eyes once more to the mirror his trepidation was gradually consumed by the flames of anger. He stared back with hatred at his reflection, the green glow in his eyes flaring even brighter with fury, tendrils of black slowly creeping up his neck from beneath the high collar of his gray tunic. The Elvenking roared in defiance at the sight before him, teeth bared and face contorted with a ferocity he had only ever displayed in the heat of battle, the glowing green eyes and dark marks lending him an even more frightful air.

Infuriated, he drew back his right arm and struck his mirror image directly in its unnatural face, his fist driving through his reflection and into the stone wall behind. The glass shattered on impact tinkling down in a glittering rain. Thranduil stood breathing heavily, his fist poised to strike again with knuckles dripping crimson blood, staring in shock at the swaying, now-empty gilded frame. His gaze was soon drawn to the bright red droplets falling from his hand. He listened, entranced, to the soft patter as they fell and looked on in morbid fascination as they splattered onto the broken shards and into the water leaving delicate trails and clouds of red in their wake. Thick globules of black soon joined the red, chasing and engulfing, before sinking heavily to settle on the bottom of the basin as if sated from their feast of blood.

The sound of hurried footsteps and briskly shouted orders snapped the Elvenking out of his daze. He slowly lowered his fist and turned his attention to the carved oaken door of his chambers. He listened wide eyed as Himdir, the captain of the Royal Guard, knocked and called to him from the other side. Thranduil opened his mouth to reply but could not find the words nor the will to answer. Instead he found his eyes wandering back to the sight of his tainted image reflected back to him hundreds of times over in the fragments of shattered mirror. Himdir's courteous knocks and polite inquiries turned quickly to insistent pounding and concerned shouts when his king failed to answer. Thranduil knew the Royal Guards would soon force their way into his chambers to investigate the commotion; he could not let them see him in this state. Dreading their reaction to his appearance and not prepared for explanations he quickly shut the entrance to the washroom seconds before the great oaken door swung open and spilled forth what sounded like every guard posted on the royal wing. He could hear them as they spread out to methodically search his rooms for any sign of a threat or a struggle and, leaning his forehead against the door, wondered briefly if he had left behind a trail of black droplets leading to the washroom. Thranduil heaved a resigned sigh as he heard the familiar footsteps of Himdir approaching.

"Aran nin!" the captain called from the other side, his fist banging urgently on the door. "We heard shouting and a crash. Are you hurt? Do you need help?"

Thranduil lifted his head and stared at the closed door for a long moment, picturing Himdir's concerned face on the opposite side just in front of his own, before finding the words to answer. "All is well, captain. There is no danger, merely a mirror broken in anger. Your assistance is not needed." He made sure to use his most authoritative and dismissive tone to ensure swift obedience, yet to his own ears his voice sounded disconnected and far away.

"Shall I send for housekeeping then, hîr nin?" the captain inquired.

"Did I ask for housekeeping?" Thranduil snapped angrily, instantly regretting the vicious edge to his words. With a growing sense of detachment he observed the red droplets as they continued to splatter onto the floor in a growing puddle, the dark splotches of ebony that fell alongside sluggishly mixing with and consuming the red.

"If you are certain you are well, Aran nin..." Himdir's voice was skeptical and unsure. "Please forgive the intrusion."

Thranduil heard him resheath his sword and relay orders to his men. The footsteps of the Royal Guards retreated, but he could tell the captain hesitated near the washroom before following them out, probably debating the wisdom of questioning the Elvenking further. Thranduil heaved a sigh of relief when he heard the heavy oaken door finally click shut.

Opening the washroom door a crack to ensure he was truly alone, he noted a few lamps had been lit by the guards during their search. Thranduil raised his throbbing hand to eye level, elevating it to slow the flow of blood and resulting in the unpleasant sensation of wet warmth trailing beneath his sleeve and toward his elbow. He inspected the lacerations with a frown. Most were relatively superficial but one of the slices on his smallest finger was so deep the white of his knuckle could be seen through the wide gash. Such a thing would normally require stitching but there was a good portion of flesh missing that made stitching it back together impossible. He would just have to make do. Glass was still embedded in his skin, some driven deeper by his fist's impact with the wall behind the mirror. He winced at the sight and very carefully removed the ornate rings he wore on his first and third fingers, dropping them among the shards on the washstand, and began to pick out the invasive slivers and flick them carelessly to the floor. Glancing around for something he could use as bandages, his eyes fell on the cupboard containing fresh white bath linens. Broken glass crunched beneath the soles of his black boots as he made his way over, studiously avoiding looking at his many reflections in the mirrored shards littering the floor and wash stand.

Using his teeth and good hand he tore one of the cloths into long strips and brought the makeshift bandages along with another clean cloth over to the ruined wash stand. Draping the linens over one shoulder, he checked inside the ewer for broken glass before pouring cool, clean water over his bleeding knuckles. The blood washed away, the blackness did not. Unsure what else to do to rid himself of the stains, he pressed the clean cloth to his wounds keeping his hand elevated until the bleeding stopped. A sharp hiss of pain was drawn through his teeth when he finally pulled the bloodied cloth away only to find it stuck to the worst of the cuts. He soaked the material in what remained of the water until it came away easily, then wrapped his damaged knuckles with the linen strips leaving only the tips of his fingers free.

Thranduil surveyed the room taking in the wreckage. Fragments of shattered mirror, splatters of blood, and large splashes of black soiled the usually pristine condition of his washroom. Bloody handprints smudged the smooth wood of the washroom door. The stains on his burgundy robes of state and gray tunic were probably permanent, not to mention the silken shirt underneath. His housekeeper was going to be less than pleased. He could picture clearly her ire upon seeing the damage he had wrought.

A bubble of hysterical laughter threatened to burst forth from the Elvenking at the ridiculous thought. His lips twitched as he attempted to contain it, to swallow it down, but he failed. He stood amidst broken glass and his own blood, tainted with a creeping darkness, living his nightmare, and all he could do was laugh uncontrollably, tears streaming down his cheeks. Thranduil clutched his aching ribs, bending double and gasping for air between gales of laughter whilst trying to contain this unwanted mirth that felt more like madness.

The laughter ceased abruptly and silence fell when he caught sight of himself in a few of the larger shards of mirror at his feet. He stared down at the sobering reflection, the smile slowly fading from his lips as he took it in - the dirtied hair dangling around his face, blackened smears and ominous marks upon his skin, garments ruined with splotches of dark red and pitch black, a haunted look in those luminous, unnaturally green eyes. "What is happening to me?" he murmured.

Thranduil straightened quickly, feeling an overwhelming need for fresh air and the undeniable urge to be surrounded by his forest. But what if that...thing...is out there? If this is real then so must it be. The thought sent an icy chill racing throughout his body, from the top of his scalp to the tips of his fingers and settling heavily in his core. Fear. He did not often feel it. His people could be in danger. Eyes widening at the thought and at the memories of his Forest Guard being swallowed by darkness, he knew what he had to do.

The Elvenking unfastened his ruined robe, letting it drop in a pool of red at his feet, quickly followed by the silvery gray tunic and silk undershirt. He strode forth purposefully from the washroom clad only in his leggings and boots, glistening trails of dark marks upon his arms and torso, and went directly to his weapons cabinet.

Thranduil stood before it with his stained fingers resting lightly on the double doors. It had been a gift from the Silvan population at his birth and had been crafted by many skilled hands, all contributing a small part to its completion. The cabinet stood as tall as he and was made of a rare ebony wood imported at great expense. Its sides and edges were intricately inlaid with gracefully flowing branches, scrolling vines, and delicate leaves. The paler woods used for the inlays were all given willingly by the many different species of trees making up the forest of Eryn Galen. In the centre of each door was an inlaid image of Thranduil's tree, the great oak he had been born under. He lovingly caressed the images of his tree before opening the doors to reveal the gleaming and deadly metal inside.

An array of swords, knives, and bows were kept safe within but in pride of place resting on black velvet were his twin curved Noldorin swords. Brought by his father from Beleriand long ago, they were bequeathed to him with great ceremony at his coming of age. They had seen him through long years of war and were as familiar to him as his own limbs. The blackened fingers of his left hand ran lightly along the swirling patterns and ancient words of warding engraved into the bright blades, feeling a growing warmth emanating from the usually cold steel. A slight frown creased the brow of the Elvenking as he reached past the swords and into a far corner of the cabinet to retrieve his old Forest Guard uniform, a reminder of his time served amongst the Silvan people. The well worn linen undershirt and leather jerkin slid comfortably into place, his practiced fingers quickly fastening the closures despite the awkward bandaging of his right hand. Thranduil began wrapping his tooled leather belt around his waist before thinking better of it and removing the scabbard from the left side. He would not be able to effectively wield a sword in his damaged right hand so decided with slight regret to leave one of the pair behind. After cinching the belt around his waist he arrayed himself with his favoured weapons as he had countless times before when patrolling with the Forest Guard in centuries past. Boot knives and wickedly sharp dagger in place, the Elvenking finally reached for one of his beloved swords.

His long, darkened fingers wrapped reverently around the familiar silver hilt and lifted the blade from its resting place leaving the other companionless. The hilt felt strangely warm in his hand and grew warmer still as Thranduil sliced the sword through the air in a well rehearsed pattern drilled into him from the time he was old enough to first grip a wooden practice sword. The Elvenking eyed his blade with confusion and ceased his graceful movements as the warmth blossomed into uncomfortable heat. The hilt grew white hot in his blackened hand and he gasped in pain, letting the curved blade clatter to the floor. Thranduil's unsteady breathing was the only sound to be heard as he studied his palm, looking for signs of blisters but seeing none. He knelt to retrieve the dropped blade, his fingers testing the hilt and drawing back quickly from the lingering heat.

"What is the meaning of this?" The quiet question went unanswered though his mind whirled with possibilities. Once more he attempted to retrieve his blade and once more he was burned. Not to be deterred, he rose with a huff of frustration to fetch a pair of leather gloves, shoving his left hand into one angrily. Steeling himself for another burn he knelt and tightly gripped the hilt of his sword, smiling triumphantly when he was able to hold it without pain. With a smirk he slid the blade home into its scabbard and looked thoughtfully back into the cabinet. Would he be able to draw his bow? He flexed the fingertips of his right hand, considering. Perhaps, but not quickly and not without pain. Regretfully deciding to leave his bow behind Thranduil gently closed the doors with head bowed, his hands leaving behind little smears of black on the precious wood. Would everything he touched now be so tainted?

"No more of this," the Elvenking told himself and moved quickly to his balcony doors. He was eager to feel the night air on his face and listen to the sleepy whispers of his trees, eager to get underway with his investigation into the existence of that nightmarish beast. Closing the doors softly behind him, Thranduil stepped out onto his balcony. It was a moonless, cloudless night allowing the stars to shine brilliantly overhead. He inhaled deeply, appreciating the sweetness of the cool air filling his lungs, and hopped lightly up onto the balcony's railing. He stood there for long moments high above the forest floor, still as stone and oblivious to his unearthly appearance, surveying the dark sweep of trees and endless night sky with glowing green eyes. Something was missing, its absence causing his heart to sink. An expression of deep worry marked his face, a face still fair though marred by darkness.

"The trees are silent," he breathed. The symphony of night still played throughout the forest, the chirping of crickets, the calls of nocturnal animals, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, but all without the usual susurration of the trees. The Song of the Forest was incomplete. There was a heaviness to the night, a sense of foreboding. The trees were not speaking...they were listening. But to what? Thranduil was determined to find out. He eyed the nearest tree, gauging the distance, and with a smile of grim determination, he jumped.

Elsewhere…

"Awaken. Arise." The call reverberated through the dark peace of slumber. "Find him." The urge to obey the whispered command was strong, but the pull of dreams was stronger. In dreams he could feel. In dreams his kindred surrounded him, bright points of light like stars sprinkled in a vast night sky, and he was not alone. They were tightly clustered in great number in some places, spread sparsely in others, and between their light existed only emptiness. He felt them all and he knew they felt him; they were connected. He shared their joy in times of rain and warmth and growing, he shared their pain at the vicious bite of steel, their fear at the all consuming, burning hunger of flame, and he shared their sorrow at being unable to help as their kin were cruelly hewn down all around them. He felt keenly their frustration at their own impotence and in return he sent waves of reassurance that it would not always be so; they were strong and numerous, they were connected to the very foundations of Arda itself and therefore not as temporary as those who walked upon it. The dreams had shown him the truth - the world was theirs before the dominion of the Children of Ilúvatar and it would be theirs again.

A/N: My apologies for the long wait for this chapter! The next will be up within a week or two. Thanks to all who have stuck with me, thank you to all who have read, reviewed, and favourited this story. A special thank you to bluefireiceeyes, VanyaNoldo22 and LOTRlover for chosing to follow and The Real Floranocturna and FramedCuriosity for the lovely reviews of the last chapter.

I hope you've enjoyed the story so far..thanks for reading! :D

Until next time... -L.