~12~

With Eyes Wide Shut

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For nearly two full days Thranduil did nothing but sleep, his body taking the opportunity to finally rest and try to heal. He drifted in and out of consciousness, but those memories were hazy and dreamlike, and all he could remember from them were soft voices and drinking something with a honey-sweet taste that made his head feel fuzzy but soothed the pain of his wounds. This allowed him to rest uninterrupted, something that had been sorely needed after suffering through both Dagok's torture and the journey from Dol Guldur.

When he woke for the final time, the first thing Thranduil became conscious of was that his eyes were closed. That was strange; elves did not usually sleep with their eyes closed. When he opened them he saw nothing but darkness, and the memories flashed through his mind once again like a lightning strike in the night sky, sending a shiver of phantom pain up his spine. He took a deep breath, feeling like he'd been asleep for a hundred years.

He shifted a bit to regain feeling in his body and found that he was lying on his belly, his head pillowed on his arms while a thin blanket covered him up to the shoulders. The shackles had been removed from his wrists, and he was conscious of bandages around his forearms and torso. All in all he was surprisingly comfortable, or perhaps it was just the fact that not being cold and in pain was a pleasant change of pace. Thranduil was briefly tempted to go back to sleep, reluctant to move from the warmth of the blanket and the pleasant, sleepy heaviness of his body, but something nagging at the back of his mind told him he should get up.

As he attempted to sit up, Thranduil heard the telltale rustling of another presence in the tent, and he stilled, cautiously listening.

"Oh, you're awake," said a female voice, tinged with surprise but sounding warm. "I'll fill you in on what you missed in a moment, but first drink this." She pressed a cup of water into Thranduil's hand, and the sound of the liquid suddenly made the elf realize how dry his throat was.

He drank eagerly, the cool water soothing his parched throat, then handed the cup back to the girl. "Thank you," he said finally, finding his voice now that his thirst was quenched and he was more aware. At least he sounded less like a frog. "Would you mind telling me where I am?" First things first. He felt like he had been asleep for a good while, and it was disorienting.

"Well, first and foremost, in a tent," replied the girl, who was folding linens and packing them up, by the sound of it. "But we're somewhere south of the forest, I think, near the bend of the Anduin."

The bend of the Anduin? That was definitely not where they had been before. Had he really slept through two whole days of travel? And just where were they going, anyway? Thranduil reached up to run a hand through his hair and push it out of his face, and he found it had been combed and neatly detangled while he slept.

"Are you usually this quiet, or just confused?" the girl's voice asked, and there was a hint of playful teasing in her tone. "Don't worry, Gareth told me you'd have questions when you woke up. I'm Ruatha, by the way. Gareth's my uncle."

The girl seemed friendly enough, and there was no hint of the prickling disdain that her mother seemed to radiate. "Well, I've had a bit of a long week," Thranduil replied with a wry smile. It was the understatement of the century, but it got the point across. "Bad luck and other such things. Is there any way I might speak to Gareth?"

"He should be coming by soon," said Ruatha as she was cramming folded linens into a creaking wicker basket. "He wanted to know as soon as you were awake, so Ma's probably gone and told him."

Suddenly the tent flap was pulled open, and footsteps stopped just outside. "Ruatha, I need you and your sister to go and fetch water," came Rhiannon's voice, her tone brooking no argument. "Leave the elf be. Gareth is here for him."

"Yes, Ma," Ruatha said dutifully, setting aside her basket and getting up to leave. She cast a last glance at Thranduil before disappearing outside, her mother's stern gaze following her. Another set of footsteps entered the tent, familiar ones this time, and Thranduil recognized Gareth by his heavy gait.

"It is good to see you've rejoined the land of the living," said the Man, who sat cross-legged across from Thranduil. "How are you feeling?"

Thranduil made himself sit a bit straighter despite the dull ache in his ribs, tossing his unbraided hair behind his shoulders and hoping he looked at least presentable. It never hurt to make a good impression, though he couldn't help but be slightly self-conscious as he remembered he was nude from the waist up; his tunic must have been removed at some point to bandage his back. "Much better than I was," he answered truthfully. "Thank you for letting me rest here."

"It is not our way to abandon those in need," Gareth said. "We would be happy for you to travel with us. It seems to me that we are fleeing the same enemy."

"Of sorts," Thranduil said after a pause. It was somewhat true, but there were more pressing matters to discuss. "But why have you come south? You cannot hope to take shelter anywhere but in the forest."

There was a soft sigh, and Gareth's voice was grim when he responded. "There is nothing left for us there. The orcs and the spiders both have made sure of that. Certainly you know the sickness that has descended upon those woods."

"My people are familiar with it," Thranduil admitted. However, he was rather in the dark about any problems the woodmen might have been having. He stayed busy enough trying to manage the safety of his own kingdom, let alone the scattered human settlements that dotted the western edge of the forest.

"Then you know that orcs are pouring out of that dark fortress like maggots from a corpse," Gareth continued grimly, and Thranduil could imagine the dark look in his eyes. "They have burned our homes and destroyed whatever livelihood we had in our village. We can take no more."

The Elvenking could feel Gareth's eyes on him, and he kept his expression a mask of calm. "Where will you go?" That was the question. While he didn't particularly care for the company of Men, he had little choice right now. Where they were going was of importance, so he could know how long it would take to return to Mirkwood.

"South," was Gareth's simple reply. "To Rohan, or to Gondor. Anywhere we will be safe. As far as Harad if need be."

Thranduil's brows knitted in a frown. "Why south? If it is orcs you fear, then south will take you only closer to Mordor. Head west to the Misty Mountains, and on the other side you will find no safer refuge than Imladris." It would be mutually beneficial if they were to do so; as much as he was loath to ask the Noldor for help, perhaps Elrond could help him with this problem of his sight.

"Rivendell? We would not make it that far," Gareth countered, shaking his head. "Not with autumn already upon us. I would not risk crossing the mountains in winter, not with three hundred men, women, and children in my charge."

"So you place your hopes with Gondor?" Thranduil inquired, somewhat skeptical. It seemed a far cry from a solid plan.

Gareth fixed the elf with a hard stare. "We have no armies to defend ourselves, and no fortress to barricade ourselves within," he said pointedly. "We are not like the wood elves. We have not the luxury of a choice."

He had a point there, Thranduil was forced to admit. "Your plight is grim," he conceded. "I only wish I could offer help. But I must return to Mirkwood. I have urgent news to deliver."

"If you must go, then do so," Gareth said simply, and Thranduil was caught off guard by how easily the Man acquiesced. "I cannot stop you. I would advise that you wait until your wounds are healed, but we cannot tarry here longer than we must. We move south when the camp is packed. It is your choice whether you stay or go."

It took Thranduil only a few seconds to realize he had another problem, even if he was allowed to leave as he wished. He could not admit it to Gareth, but… without his sight he had little hope of finding his way through Mirkwood on his own. He would be hopelessly lost without being able to see where he was going, not to mention that he would be easy prey for spiders, which often struck from above with no warning. The thought made his chest tighten with dread, and the Elvenking was beginning to realize there were far more obstacles in his path than anticipated… Orcs were the least of his worries now.

"Is something wrong?" Gareth pressed, and Thranduil snapped out of his spiral of worried thoughts at once, returning his attention to the matter at hand.

"No," replied the elf a bit too quickly. "I… was merely thinking."

Gareth was silent for a few moments, glancing left and right, then shifted a bit closer to the elf. "Now that I have answered your questions," he said in a low voice, "I hope you will not mind answering a few of mine."

Centuries of diplomatic experience ensured that Thranduil's expression gave nothing away. "And what questions might those be?"

"Like what those orcs wanted with you," Gareth said without missing a beat. "We both know that orcs do not take prisoners without exceptional reason. I saw the wounds on your back. They did not want you dead."

"Their leader is no ordinary orc," Thranduil said, his sightless gaze focused in Gareth's general direction. Despite being blind, he retained his sharp elven senses, including the uncannily precise ability to sense the position of people or things around him. "He is bloodthirsty and vicious, yes, but he is intelligent. He knows that some enemies are more valuable alive than dead."

"You have something they want." It was not a question, but the inquiry behind it was implicit.

"Or they thought I did," Thranduil replied coolly. He had been playing this game of words for centuries. He would not reveal more than he needed to. "He wanted information, you see, and I could not give it to him." Diplomatic half-truths were a talent of the Elvenking's.

Gareth was silent for a long moment, as if judging the veracity of the explanation. "Alright. I believe you," he said finally. "We have a common enemy in the orcs, though far be it from me to pry into the affairs of elves. I am concerned only with my people's safety."

"As I am with mine," Thranduil responded, wishing he could see Gareth's face to determine the man's motivations. It was a bit ironic that he only realized how much he relied on his sight now that he no longer had it. "Which is why I must return to my people as soon as I can."

Gareth was on his way out, called away by someone else needing his aid, but he paused in the entranceway. "I do not mean to delay your mission, whatever it may be, but I would advise you to remain here for the time being," he said, not unkindly. "You would be traveling alone, injured, and on foot. Those woods are dangerous, and not just because of the orcs."

It was as if he'd read aloud the thoughts that were on Thranduil's mind just minutes ago. He nodded in acknowledgement. "Your concern is appreciated, but I have lived in these forests for my entire life."

"And how old are you, if I may ask?" inquired Gareth, curious.

Thranduil gave a mysterious smile. "Older than you can imagine."

Gareth chuckled at that. "Fair enough," he said. "You're free to do as you wish, just don't cause any trouble."

"You have my word," Thranduil replied, inclining his head respectfully. He was a bit surprised at how casually the man reacted to meeting an elf for the first time, but he supposed that Gareth had more important things on his mind. It was fortunate, at least, that Gareth didn't think he was a demon or other such human nonsense.

Gareth's attention was distracted by someone else coming to the door, and the man stepped outside to speak to the newcomer in a low voice, though Thranduil's sharp elven hearing could pick out every word.

"We have five men dead now," said the newcomer gravely. "And two more struck with the same fever."

"There is nothing you can do for them?" Gareth asked, consternated.

"No medicine will bring down the fever," replied the other man, who sounded grimly resigned. "We lost Horst last night, and he had only a scratch from an orc blade."

Gareth sighed, and there was a heavy silence. "There is nothing more we can do for them," he said finally, a grim pronouncement. "Leave the bodies. We haven't the time to bury them."

"Leave them?" the other man repeated in shock. "Gareth, they died for us. For your convoluted rescue attempt. They deserve at least a proper burial!"

"And more will die if we stay to bury them!" Gareth returned sharply. "Is that what Horst and the others would want?"

There was silence from the other man, saying more than he could with mere words.

"We must focus our efforts on the living, Wulfric," Gareth said, more softly. "The dead will forgive us."

"I hope they will," muttered Wulfric, and the footsteps of the two men quickly faded into the noise of the camp.

Thranduil let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as soon as the men were gone, attempting to orient his thoughts. It was a pity that some of the men had died, but that wasn't his concern at the moment. He couldn't stay here any longer than absolutely necessary, blind or not. His wounds were painful, but not unbearably so, and he had suffered through worse. Aside from the little problem of his blindness, he seemed to be alright, relatively speaking. Well enough to walk all the way back to northern Mirkwood, though? It was doubtful, he thought with a grimace. I need a better plan than just wandering north until I get home, he thought wryly. How would he tell which way was north? What would he do if he ran into a pack of spiders, or worse?

Thranduil put his head in his hands, sighing. This situation was growing more complicated by the minute. And the prospects of his returning home within a reasonable time frame were grim if Gareth and his entire village were traveling south. It left him stuck between two dismal options, neither of which seemed like a right choice at this point.

He only hoped that Legolas had made it back to the palace by now. If his son was safe, then that was all that mattered. So long as Dagok and his hordes of hell didn't get their hands on the Prince, then Mirkwood was safe. Part of him could not help but worry for Legolas, who had never before been asked to shoulder the burden of leading an entire kingdom on his own, and especially not so suddenly. But the other part had absolute faith in his son's abilities both as a leader and as a warrior, and there was nothing else Thranduil could do but trust that Legolas would rise to the occasion.

Thranduil closed his eyes briefly and tried to shut out the constant chatter of several hundred humans milling about the campsite. Men seemed to be loud in everything they did— their voices were forceful, their footsteps heavy, and the perpetual clattering of metal things: swords, pots, pans, horseshoes, or whatever else, was almost as bad as a pack of orcs. It was no wonder they were poor hunters, really. It made Thranduil wish he possessed the ability to shut his ears.

The Elvenking heaved a tired sigh, rubbing his temples as he felt a headache forming behind his eyes. Perhaps it was time to do a little exploring. It was terribly dull just sitting in the tent, listening to the humans milling about outside. A little information gathering never hurt, either. Thranduil stood up and felt his way to the tent's exit, his fingertips skimming the walls to orient himself. The air from outside was cool, a gentle breeze blowing in from the north.

The camp was busy, filled with men and women and children all going about their business in a scramble to pack and shore up what they had with them. Fires were doused, tents packed, and bleating goats and sheep and chickens rounded up from all corners of the makeshift village. The ground was soft and muddy from the recent rains, a misfortune that was grumbled about by every other person passing by, though they seemed to look right past the milky-eyed elf wandering about their camp. A few of them stared for a moment or two, but they merely shook their heads and went back to their work, unbothered.

Following the sound of the rushing Anduin nearby, Thranduil was able to slip through the crowd with relative ease, using the sounds of voices and the brush of sleeves to avoid colliding with anyone or anything. Soon the crowd thinned, and Thranduil knew he had passed the edge of the camp, which led out into a stretch of grass that bordered the riverbank.

It was all but empty- and much quieter, too. The background noise of the rushing river felt like a breath of fresh air after the clamor of the human encampment, and Thranduil felt a tension he hadn't been aware of ease from his shoulders. He sighed in relief, glad to be able to hear himself think again. The Anduin was a familiar landmark, one that stretched north all the way until it met the Forest River, which flowed into Mirkwood itself.

Thranduil suddenly had an idea. Of course! If I can just follow the river, it will lead me straight back to Mirkwood, he thought, feeling hope flutter its wings in his chest like a trapped bird. It wasn't perfect, but it was a plan, and the details could be worked out along the way. He was so deep in thought at this point that he was hardly aware of his surroundings anymore, and given the Elvenking's tendency to wander in circles when he was thinking, he was bound to run into something.

Thranduil didn't expect that something, however, to be another person. He didn't notice Ruatha's presence until they walked right into each other, bumping chest to chest in an impact which sent them both crashing to the ground.

"Oof!" Ruatha hit the ground with a noise of surprise, water spilling all over the ground next to her as she dropped her bucket. "Hey, watch where you're going!" she began angrily, and a second later noticed who it was she was berating. "Oh. Sorry about that."

"Well, you are correct that I was not watching where I was going," Thranduil admitted as he sat up and dusted off his trousers, a bit embarrassed to have not sensed her until he literally walked into her. "My apologies. I was not paying attention."

A high-pitched giggle from nearby attracted their attention, and Ruatha rolled her eyes as she watched her sister nearly fall over from laughing so hard. "Yes, yes, I'm sure that was very funny to watch," she said flatly.

"You weren't even listening to me when I told you to watch out," Lyssa snickered. "I told you that you should listen to me more often!"

"You've made your point, you little goblin," Ruatha said with crossed arms, though a goodnatured smile was already spreading across her lips. "Now go back and tell Ma I'll be a bit late with the water. I don't want her to worry."

"See you later, Ruatha," Lyssa giggled and ran off, her footsteps fading as she headed back towards the camp.

"Well, that was embarrassing," Ruatha sighed, though her tone was light as she stood up, dusting off her dress and grasping Thranduil's hand to help him up. "She'll never let me live that one down. What are you doing all the way out here?"

"Just taking a walk," Thranduil replied, his sightless gaze still turned in the direction of the river. He was still thinking of his plan to return to Mirkwood, his mind distracted with figuring out the details.

Ruatha could tell he wasn't really paying attention to her, and she crossed her arms, looking at him with furrowed brows. She had never seen an elf before, but she was sure there was something… different about him. Aside from being blind, that was. "You haven't always been blind, have you?"

Those words got Thranduil's attention. His posture stiffened a bit, involuntarily, and turned his gaze in the direction of her voice. Such an astute observation had not been anticipated, at least not from a human. "…what makes you think such a thing?"

"Trust me. I just know," she replied, and there was a pause. Then, softly, "…I used to be the same way. Uncertain, tripping over things, wondering what I could do now."

Thranduil had hoped it would not be so obvious. He felt strangely vulnerable before her, knowing what she knew, like a mouse in front of a hawk. It was an uncomfortable, tight feeling, and all he could do was lower his head in a silent concession.

"I know how it feels," Ruatha said quietly after a moment, and her voice betrayed that she was just as uncomfortable. "I was… Well, let me just say that I know what it is to have your sight taken from you. Half of it, anyway." She had thought to say more, but emotion made her throat tight, and she lost her courage.

"We should get back to the camp," Ruatha said finally, turning to go, but Thranduil's hand caught her wrist, and she froze, looking up into his cloudy eyes.

"Wait," said the elf quietly. "…you are right. My sight was taken from me not so long ago. It pains me to admit it, but I cannot travel home like this. Not alone." It was a hard thing to admit, especially to a human, but it was the truth. She seemed to understand, though. At least, better than most would.

"I doubt you will find someone willing to go back to that forest," Ruatha responded after a moment of silence, her voice apologetic but resigned. "And even if you could, there are none who know its paths well enough to keep you both safe."

There was another beat of silence, and Ruatha gently took the elf's hand. "But we cannot know for sure until we ask Gareth," she finished. "He might know the way. He used to be a ranger, I hear." She started to walk back toward the camp, leading Thranduil by the hand so that he wouldn't be lost in the crowd. "If anyone knows the way, it's him."

~oOo~

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The rain had begun to pour again not long after Thranduil and Ruatha's return, and Gareth had decided it would be best to wait until the downpour eased up a bit before they tried to travel onward. The people of the village agreed, having no desire to become even more cold and wet, and they were huddled under the few sparse trees that grew near the river to try and keep dry, tarps tossed over the wagons and the animals set loose to graze nearby. The horses and goats didn't seem to mind the rain as much, it seemed. Some took the opportunity to have a midafternoon meal, though trying to light a fire in the rain and the damp was fruitless, so there was naught but bread and cheese to be had while the rain continued to pour down in sheets.

Thunder rumbled overhead, the grey sky showing no signs of letting up, and though it was cold and damp, many of the villagers were quietly grateful for the time to rest their weary legs. Thranduil sat beneath a drooping willow tree with Ruatha and her family, all of them too cold to make much conversation. Lyssa sat shivering in her mother's lap, while Ruatha had wrapped herself in a wool cloak that was only slightly damp in an attempt to keep warm. Thranduil was wearing one of Gareth's spare shirts, which was slightly too loose on him, but it was far better than nothing. A dog had curled up near his feet, the skinny thing hoping to share warmth with someone, and Thranduil stroked its coarse fur absently, his attention elsewhere.

With naught else to do but wait, the Elvenking took the time to think hard on what had happened, and what was to come. Dagok and his rabble were still a concern, but there was nothing that could be done about that now, so it was useless to worry on such a thing. His escape from the orcs was a bit of a blur now, the memories obscured with adrenaline and the exhaustion that followed, but what had come after that lingered in Thranduil's mind…

His dreams had been strange, and while that was not typically cause for concern, Thranduil was not certain they were only dreams. They stood out starkly in his memory like something real, and it brought to mind an ability he had not used in many centuries… Not since Lianna had died. He had not slipped into another's skin in millennia, yet the feeling was so familiar that it could be nothing else. The elk dreams had not come to him since he was a child, and long since had he been able to control the power. But the bond he shared with the forest thanks to his Avarin upbringing had not diminished with time, and even now it pulled at his very soul. The forest calls to me, Thranduil mused silently. But for what?

He did not recognize the other forms in his dreams. Not the other elk, for there were few who took such a form, and he was certain the wolf was one he had never encountered before. But there was something that felt insistently familiar about the white wolf, something instinctive that drew him towards the creature. Thranduil wasn't yet sure if he was right to heed the call, but it felt somehow certain that he should do so.

Pulled back to the present by someone draping a blanket over his shoulders, Thranduil looked up out of habit, realizing the futility of such an action half a second later. He recognized Gareth by the heaviness of his footsteps and the smell of horse and wild mint leaves that seemed to linger around the man, who took a seat in the open space to Thranduil's left.

"You looked chilly," said Gareth by way of explanation.

Thranduil had a reply on the tip of his tongue, something about elves being far more resistant to the cold than men, but the warmth of the blanket was already seeping pleasantly into his skin, and he pulled it a bit closer around him. Instead, he said softly, "Thank you." Men were strange, fallible creatures, but Gareth had shown him only kindness.

"Five men have died from poisoned orc blades," Gareth began after a pause. "I took a group of scouts back to the battleground—the orcs are long gone, thank gods—to look for some clue as to what might be causing it."

Thranduil merely listened politely, not sure what this had to do with him.

"We didn't find anything of use to us," the man continued. "But this I knew could belong to no orc."

Gareth laid the familiar patterned leather sheath into Thranduil's hands, and the elf's eyes went wide as he recognized the weight of the blade within immediately. His hand slid to the familiar hilt of one of his elegant silver swords, though he dared not unsheathe it here. Its twin was nowhere to be found, but he could make do with just the one. "How did you get this?"

Gareth shrugged. "One of the orcs must have dropped it in their haste to leave," he replied. "I only found it. I knew an elf blade could belong to no other."

Thranduil laid the sword across his lap, fingers tracing the familiar pattern of curling vines along the sheath. "I do not know how to thank you," he said finally. The return of one of his weapons felt like a measure of stability in a situation where he otherwise had little control.

Gareth smiled crookedly. "Protect yourself," he responded. "Protect Rhiannon's children, should it come to that. That is all I would ask. Our journey will be long, and Ruatha has told me that you shall be coming with us."

"My home is many leagues north of here, nearly at the opposite edge of the forest," Thranduil admitted quietly. "I have little chance of making the return journey alone. Right now there is only one way for me to go." He had no choice but to remain with the woodmen. His only other option was to venture back into Mirkwood, alone and blind, and that was foolish at best- suicidal at worst.

"I can spare no men to accompany you home," Gareth said apologetically. "And even if I could, you would be hard-pressed to find any man who would willingly venture back into those woods."

Thranduil bowed his head. "I understand." There was nothing more he could do. Mirkwood's hopes lay with Legolas, then, and they would both have to play the hand that fate had dealt them.

A/N: We are still less than halfway done with this story, lol, so nobody panic! It's just going to get more interesting from here, I promise.

Also, would anyone be interested in reading a fic detailing Thranduil's childhood with the Avari? It's a sort of prequel to this story, but most of it takes place before Legolas is born and focuses on Thranduil's relationship with Lianna and with his own parents. (Y'know, 500 years after they left him with a bunch of strangers). I'm thinking about picking it up after I finish this fic. Thoughts?