A/N I really see no interest in this except my own, but I'm enjoying writing it, so we'll post it and see what happens! Also this is my first time writing these characters so I apologize if they seem ooc at times (though we don't know enough about some of the characters-like Thranduil and Celeborn-to have fully "set" characteristics for them, I think). Also I'm kinda ignoring the Hobbit movies for the most part. Now on with the story!
He was suffocating. The darkness itself was pushing in around him in malice, and it seemed a mist surrounded him with its dark tendrils reaching down his throat and wrapping his lungs in a vice. Everything was intangible and corporeal all at the same time. It was as if it all was far away through a fog, yet it still echoed around him in vibrant cacophony. He was there, or perhaps it was here, or wherever he was, yet he was not a part of it. He was separate, a traveler. Though he knew not where he went, and could not recall from where he came.
But before he could get used to it: all the nothingness, and the stalemate of such stillness that ensconced him-his world exploded. All his senses returned in astonishing clarity, reverberating around him in a loud cacophony of voices and sights, overcoming him in strangeness.
The light was blinding. And all he could see was white.
Then the scene before him came into focus. And he wished for all the world that he could go back into the darkness. For Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, formerly known as Greenwood the Great, was in shock. Thranduil, the King who was known throughout the land (by those that did not truly know him) as unfeeling and impossible to perturb. He who was known for his methodical way of absorbing facts and enacting plans. He who just found himself ripped from all that he knew and thrust into a strange place all in a few seconds. He was panicking.
Humans. Humans everywhere.
They were all around him, pushing, and shoving, and talking. They talked to each other, and at each other, and over each other; all at the same time. He couldn't take the noise! And they were all going someplace, but none to the same place. They were beside him, and in front of him, and behind him, and everywhere. And if he was in their way they would just push him out of the way, and into the path of another to be pushed out of the way again.
And the smell!
It pounded into him without mercy. He could smell the sweat of human and animal alike, not to mention the feces of said animals, and other things he could not name. It was too much. He couldn't take it. He ran.
He did not know where he was or where he was going. All that mattered was getting somewhere quiet. He ignored the shouts of anger behind him as he pushed and pulled his way forward. All that mattered was getting out. He just had to get out. Out meant being able to breath. Out meant freedom. He made it to the edge of the street where at least one side of him was protected by the lining buildings. But it wasn't enough. He could see no way out; every street he ran by was teeming with people.
But there.
A small break in the crowd at the beginning of an alley. Against the stonewall was a wooden crate, and using it he vaulted upwards. Grabbing the edge of the eaves he pulled himself onto the roof. But still he was not free, for the roof he was on was barely cresting over another street. It seemed that whatever city he found himself in was built up a hill, like the many tiers of a cake. And it looked like he was still on one of the lower levels.
It also seemed that his wits were slowly returning to him. He took stock of himself. And to his utter relief he found that strapped to his side was his sword; though he vaguely wondered where his second sword was, but that was a problem for another time. He also found himself in his light leather armor. It seemed he was dressed for hunting. Hunting what, he did not know. But for now he needed a plan, or at least a semblance of a plan.
Thranduil looked down. A shiver ran down his spine. He was not going down there. He looked up. It wasn't any better. It was all teeming with people. What was this place? He shook his head. First he had to get somewhere alone, and then he could figure out what happened and where he was. He just had to get across the street then up a building. That was all. There was no time to think. With a leap he easily covered the two feet to the street above; landing with nary a sound. Then with a deep breath he plunged into the crowd.
It was all a blur. A constant stream of pulling, pushing and climbing. He shut himself off from the fact that none of this should be happening. He went through streets, he climbed up buildings, then he started again. All the while making sure he was moving up. And the higher he went the nicer the buildings got and the better dressed the people were. It was obviously getting wealthier the farther up he went, and to Thranduil's great relief the buildings were also spread out gave room for gardens and the planting of trees; which to his surprise, there were a lot of.
But he felt no relief in the trees-only an uncertainty. He found himself feeling anxiety the closer he came to one. And he knew not why. It was disconcerting. Trees should have been his safe haven, not causing a niggling at the back of his mind. As if his subconscious was yelling at him to watch out. To not trust. If only he could remember. But again, such thoughts could wait for safety- or whatever semblance he could find of it.
He had paused on a roof, and to his utter relief the crowds were slowly clearing and the sun had started its slow descent downward. Soon it would be dark. And luckily the roof he was on was somewhat secluded. And it was flat, as opposed to the shingle clad v-shaped roofs he had run over in the lower levels. It also had a small three-foot wall around its perimeter, and at last he allowed himself to sink down with his back against it. He pulled his knees up against his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Laying his forehead down on his knees, he let out a weary sigh. This was wrong. This was all wrong. If only he could remember what had happened.
But he was tired. So tired.
The glade was golden. It held no resemblance to the rest of the forest that was slowly being overcome by darkness. Though it did not seem as if it belonged to the forest; it seemed separate in its existence; a single stream of moonlight in a cloud filled midnight. It seemed not a part of his reality; yet there it stood.
In it stood a great tree-it was grand, and beautiful, and enticing. It slithered into his thoughts and consumed them; until all he could think of was the tree.
And he was moving towards it.
'Stop!' he yelled in his head, 'Pull back'. But his feet would not respond. They kept going. He was getting closer and closer. And it was calling and pulling. It was wrong, unnatural, and its essence overcame him. He was surrounded by something-other. And he was not strong enough to fight it.
Before he knew it he was upon the tree, and slowly reaching, he went to touch it.
Thranduil startled awake. It was dark, and all he could hear was his heart pounding in his chest, as if it was trying to get out. He was disoriented. He could not recognize where he was. There was stone under his hands and at his back, and this was not his forest. He could hear his breathing start to get louder and took a deep breath to try to calm himself.
Then he remembered everything.
It wasn't just a dream. It was real. As real as the hard stone beneath his hands. He had been hunting and there had been a glade. And the tree. It had called to him, and he had followed. He once again recalled the panic when he realized he could not stop walking towards it. His very will had been ripped from him, and that feeling would haunt him for millennia yet.
Then there had been darkness, and a feeling of nonexistence. But it did not last, for before he knew it, he had been thrust into a foreign Mannish city. Nothing was familiar: from the way the humans dressed, to the words that had been yelled at him in his mad dash through the city. He did not know where in Middle Earth he could be. If this was even Middle Earth at all. The thought struck him as odd. But seeing as how he had been brought to this place by a magical tree, he couldn't afford to rule anything out.
A cool breeze caressed his cheek, causing him to close his eyes and raise his head to the night sky. With a deep breath he reached into the detached part of himself that he found solace in before any battle. It was the part that he had perfected through each tragedy of his long life. It was the part that had let him to continue to lead his people after the death of his father and two thirds of his army. It was the part that made him survive. And he was a master of survival.
With an exhale he put away the frightened elf surrounded with uncertainty, and out he pulled the warrior. It was the part of himself he was most intimate with. For long before he had ever been a husband, father, or a king; he had been a warrior.
He stood up, and grabbing the hilt of his sword, he felt comfort. He would figure out what was going on, then he would go home. He looked up at the twinkling masses in the night sky. And the comfort left him. These were not the stars he knew, and they told him nothing of where he could be. Looking out over the edge of the roof, it seemed that even though it was night, not all were asleep. Though it was only a few humans still about, and Thranduil could think of no better time to see this place he found himself in without the haze of his mind made up, he took a deep breath, as if he were about to dive into a deep pool, and vaulted off the roof.
His landing was as soft as a snowflake in winter, and he made his way like a wraith down the almost empty street, pausing in dark corners whenever eyes strayed towards him. He was sure none had seen him, yet he could not shake the feeling that eyes were upon him, and he had learned never to ignore his instincts. There was a darkness in this place, and it had nothing to do with the night. He had felt the weight of such darkness before, and this place, wherever it was, was heavy. It seemed to surround him from all angles, pushing and pressing upon him, as if he was a light that needed to be snuffed out. It so overwhelmed his senses that he did not feel the danger until it was too late and an arrow had embedded itself in his shoulder. Then the darkness crowded him even further and the last thought he had before it fully consumed him was-poison.