A/N A New post and it hasn't even been a year! This my dear friends is what we call progress! Although let me know if you find any grammatical issues, as I don't have a beta and I'm there are things I missed!

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Celeborn's focus was on his bond with Thranduil. He was no longer talking to the other elf, but merely watching the bond, and making sure that it did not once again disappear. The first time it did he had done nothing–never again. The fact of his situation washes over him. They're trying to get home, but there is a chance that they may never make it back.

They may never make it back.

Elrond and Thranduil may be all he has left, and he already almost lost Thranduil.

His tree shook, "Elf! The High King searches for you," a booming voice broke his concentration.

Looking down Celeborn was greeted by the sight of General Oreius scowling up at him, "Of course, General," he said diplomatically and jumped down lightly.

Celeborn followed the General in silence. He could feel the discontentment in the centaur, "I understand that you do not trust us," he said, "I commend it even, but we mean you no harm. Has it not been long enough for you to see that?"

The General turns to him, needing to look down, "Are you not long-lived? Do months even hold meaning to you, you who count time in centuries?" Oreius looked forward, "Two of you appeared where our Kings were separated from their army. The three of you now reside in our castle. I do not believe in coincidence, and do not trust on words alone."

Celeborn paused before answering, then said, "Alright General, we shall give you the action you want. But I will also give you words–we hold no ulterior motives beyond returning to our home, yet while we are here we shall stand by this land and its leaders." Celeborn looked up at the centaur, "We are long-lived, General, but that does not mean that we do not feel the days go by. And sundered from our homes as we are, the days seem to have grown longer."

They fell into silence.

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Awareness came slowly and Thranduil was sure his body had turned to rock. He did not want to raise his head, nor think about what had brought him to the brink and beyond of exhaustion. His mind was blessedly blank, though he knew that remembrance would come soon. Remembrance always came, usually followed by sorrow. He'd rather let the darkness claim him again.

An insistent tugging on his hair pulls him back from the brink of unconsciousness. The monumental effort of opening his eyes brings into focus a very close muzzle attached to golden stands of hair.

"Hickory?" He was slammed with the knowledge of all that had happened. He clenched his eyes shut before he spoke again, "What are you doing you stupid horse? It is not safe here."

Hickory pulled his hair again.

"Stop that," Thranduil growled as he painfully sat up. It felt as if he was fighting the very earth in order to just sit up.

Looking around he found himself surrounded by spiders all shriveled in their own form of rigor mortis, dark blood had dried like ink splattered across a page. He vaguely remembered the attack, the overwhelming odds, and telling King Edmund to retreat. More clearly he remembered the feeling of his strength–his very essence–being drained out of him. And he remembered Celeborn. He could have sworn he had spoken to the Sinda, but that was not possible.

His head hurt.

"I do hope you know the way home, horse."

Hickory pulled his hair in response.

"I said stop it," Thranduil grumbled as he pulled himself up by the stirrup and then slowly pulled himself into the saddle.

He let Hickory choose the way in which they rode, putting his trust in the hope that the horse would know the way back to his home. He still had not regained his strength, and the best he could do was keep himself hunched over in the saddle. It was ironic , he thought, that the loss of essence could leave one feeling more burdened .

Apart from the fact that he just won a battle, it was still a dark-infused forest. He should hold himself aware and prepared to fight whatever came at him next. But the only strength he had left was used keeping him in the saddle. His only focus was on remaining conscious. His inability cost him.

The blow that knocked him out of the saddle came out of nowhere. He landed hard on his back with a weight atop him and a sharp edge against his throat. His eyes came to focus on a wretched creature–what seemed to be a man-sized furless bat–holding a curved knife to his throat.

"Is the Son of Adam hurt?" a mocking voice said to his right.

Moving his eyes to the sound of the voice, he found a dwarf standing over him. His dark beard reached his knees, and his dark eyes were filled with hate. Looking around Thranduil found himself surrounded by a myriad of creatures, all horrid in their own way.

"Looks like we caught ourselves a live one," The dwarf mocks. He grabs Thranduil's face, "at least alive for the moment.

Then in a rush of action, he is roughly pulled up and his hands are much too tightly tied behind him. He takes the chance to try and find Hickory, but he can't see him. He hopes it means that the horse ran off and would find safety.

He is pushed and shoved forward on weak legs, and he feels his hair grabbed by malicious hands. Howls and shrieks surround him as he is led deeper into the dark forest. At last, he is pushed into a clearing–unable to stop himself from falling. Before he can even begin to get up, he is being dragged across the clearing and thrown against a tree. The impact causes his vision to go blurry, but he does not have a moment of respite to clear it, as hands are once again on him. He is shoved up against the rough bark and tightly secured to the tree.

His hair is grabbed and his head is pushed up, "Pretty," a voice creaks.

The fingers in his hair feel sharp, as if they're made of bone instead of flesh. His eyes focus on a face that looks like the cross between a mangled old woman and a bird (beak and all).

"Welcome son of Adam," her breath smelt of rot. She ran her taloned hand through his hair and paused when the hair was pushed away from his ear. "Curious," she continued, "Are you a son of Adam?"

Thranduil wanted nothing more than to shake her wretched hand off and bare his teeth, but he knew the weight of dignity. Stillness commanded more than anger. Thranduil was a master of commanding a room through a level gaze and a held tongue. So he ignored the weakness of his limbs, leveled his gaze and stared in contemptuous silence.

The bird lady paused at his stare, and then letting go of his hair she grabbed his jaw. Her talon-like fingers drew drops of blood. "You're going to be interesting," she said.

Thranduil stayed silent and stared.

"Interesting?" a voice asked from behind her with contempt. It was the Dwarf. "He's just a son of Adam. The only thing I would find interest in is how he takes his last breath."

"Is he a son of Adam?" the bird lady croaked, and then released him.

The dwarf walked up beside her and said, "Of course he's a son of Adam, look at him."

"I am," She reached and pulled his hair away from his ears, "sons of Adam have round ears."

The dwarf snorted, "How are we to be sure? We've only seen two."

"Yes," she drew out her s , "and all the usurpers have round ears."

"Well how are we to make sure then?"

"He's just going to have to tell us," her voice grew sinister.

Thranduil was tired. Beyond physical exhaustion, he was tired of being taken, tired of being tethered, tired of falling into cruel hands. He wanted to go home. He wanted his trees that replenished, his son that gave him strength, and his people. He wanted to be safe.

But first, he must survive. Like always. He was no stranger to danger–to pain. He was intimately aware of both, and he saw them in the creature's eyes. The hate, the hunger, the evil, he saw them all in the bird-like eyes. He's faced them many times before, and he would do so again. He's stared into the depths of oblivion and not flinched–he would do no less now.

But he needed strength. He saw himself as having only one option. Focusing inward he found the bond he had long ago blocked. He remembered the bitter time well. His wife was dead, his people dying, and his forest was being overwhelmed by darkness. His pleas for aid had not been met. He had realized that he would face the evil alone, and he refused to be bonded to those that would leave him to drown in the dark. He walled himself off.

But now he mentally stood before the bond that had broken through the wall he had created. Pressing into it, Thranduil Oropherion did something he hadn't done in centuries, he asked for help.

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A/N Did I post this while on a zoom class? Yes, yes i did.