Unbeta'd as my fab beta is focusing on Seven Stars and Seven Stones.

This is part of the unfinished business I still have from the Sons of Thunder series

The Battle Under the Trees

Characters:

Thranduil Celeborn. Legolas. Elrohir Gimli Aragorn OCs Galadriel

Azgarâzir- Name given to Thranduil by the Nazgul. The Nazgul's name for Thranduil, whom they hate more than any other ruler for his defence and war against them in Dol Guldur. Although it was the White Council that overthrew Sauron as the Necromancer at the end of The Hobbit, Thranduil it was who continuously fought them. Literally "wage war" cf. azaggara

Agannâlo – Nazgul's name for Mirkwood. Literally death-shadow.

Canon timeline:

March 10-Various hordes sallied forth. Attack upon Lothlorien from Dol Guldûr.

March 12- Ents join Lothlorien's forces from Fangorn as Orthanc has already fallen.

March 15- Second attack on Lothlorien. Simultaneous attacks upon Mirkwood, and Erebor and Dale attacked by Easterlings from Rhun. Erebor battled for three days and Brand fell. All retreated into Erebor.

22nd March- Third attack on Lothlorien.

25th March- Sauron fell- Celeborn and Thranduil meet at Dol Guldûr and Galadriel threw down the tower.

Summary

Whilst Aragorn led the Host of the Dead from the Stone of Erech to the Pelennor Fields with Legolas and Gimli at his side, Thranduil and his folk were fighting a terrible battle under the trees. As Thranduil fights, his two older sons fight alongside him but Thranduil is haunted by dreams of his sweetest child and the perils he faces in Gondor.

Note: lapwings often pretend to be injured to lure predators away from their next.

Chapter 1: 10th March

It had begun with a distant tremor in the Earth. Then the breathless messengers arrived from the East Bight.

'…smoke in the South,' they panted, weariness and fear on their faces. 'On the plains of Rhovanion…'

More messengers came. 'It is not smoke but dust, lord. From legions of iron-shod feet marching, spilling out of Dol Guldûr like plague. Warg-riders fly over the wilderness, hunting.'

In the council of the Woodelves' King, Laethron, oldest, unbegotten, the Singer and Dreamer, said 'They are the vanguard and Sauron's legions follow in their wake. They bring fire and steel.'

It had begun.

0o0o

Thranduil leaned over the maps he knew by heart, scored and lined with years of planning, waiting for this final assault.

Galion looked at his King with concern. He looked weary, a shadow behind his slate-green eyes that was not the oncoming war, but worry for his youngest.

When they had received the brief letters from Legolas, and others from Elrond and Mithrandir that had Thranduil shaking with fury and fear in equal measure: Legolas had told them that he travelled on a secret quest in the company of the Man, Aragorn amongst others. Legolas had written, as if in surprise, that Aragorn was Isildur's Heir. What surprised Galion was that Legolas even knew who Isildur was. He would certainly not understand the implication of travelling with Aragorn. He would have no idea how the Enemy would hunt Isildur's Heir, would seek him out.

At least, he told himself in the quiet of his own rooms, the others of this strange company included Mithrandir, and Galion speculated that it would take some doing to get rid of the Wizard so he trusted that Legolas would be safe, at least until they had crossed the Hithaeglir when Legolas was free to return him.

Galion could not imagine why in all of Arda, Elrond had chosen to send four Hobbits but Bilbo Baggins had proved to be an exceptional individual, and although he had had that magic ring, he had also been very brave and resourceful. But Galion was most bothered by the dwarf, for he was the son of one of those dwarves who had interrupted the Feast of Starlight and who had brought ruin upon Esgaroth and War upon Dale, the Lake, and the Wood. It was not easily forgotten that many a Woodelf had perished in defence of Erebor and though Dain had proved gracious in his gratitude to the Elves, there would always be some distance between the Wood and the Mountain.

Galion drank Dorwinion. Steadily. One goblet after another until he no longer saw the brutalised and mutilated face of Anglach, that in his dreams, became the face of Legolas and then Anglach, so there was only one face, screaming. His pillow was wet.

0o0o

THALOS

Thalos scanned the faces of the gathered lords of the Wood. They shared the same serious expression for all knew War, had fought in the Last Alliance, in the wars against the dragons of the North. Some had fought in Beleriand.

Though Thranduil stared down at the map of the Wood, his gaze ever drifted to the edge of the map, where Rohan was scrawled in tiny letters like it was unimportant, and an arrow pointed toward Gondor.

Thranduil breathed in deeply and then turned sharply towards Thalos now.

'Thalos, you will stay here to protect the Wood from the fires they will light. Dispatch troops to guard the leats and waterways, the dykes we have dug to brake any fires. Use everyone. When they press close, fall back to the stronghold and hold it with all you have. Until, if you must, escape.'

'We have expected it,' Thalos agreed and he looked at the King, his father, with concern. 'All is ready. But…'

Thranduil did not let him ask the question on his lips. Instead he turned to his trusty captains and gave a steely smile. 'We have indeed waited for this. At last it comes. Let us not waste all our planning. The Enemy does not know how strong we are.' His slate-green eyes gleamed in the firelight.

'And where…' Thalos began again but Thranduil would not let him speak. Thalos knew that his father was well aware of his concern and merely sought to ignore it. The idea that the King would lead the charge and leave Thalos to defend the stronghold, was unthinkable. It was not for glory that Thalos protested, but for love of his King and father.

He clasped Thalos' shoulder and caught him in his heavy gaze, weighted with the years and years of battle, of fighting the Shadow. 'We have played the lapwing's game,' he said. 'Sauron, and the lackey he has left in the tower of Dol Guldûr, think us weak, depleted.' Thranduil turned his head to capture all his council in the sharp, fierce gaze. 'He will find out that he is quite mistaken.'

He turned back to Thalos and looked deeply into his eyes. Trust me. The silent message pierced Thalos. He looked away. Thranduil had every intention of riding in the vanguard and nothing Thalos could say would gainsay his father. He knew enough by now.

As if he read Thalos' acquiescence, Thranduil nodded once. 'Laersul. It has been your strategy that has given the Shadow confidence.' He smiled fiercely. 'Is everything in place?'

'Yes lord.' Laersul stood beside his father, tall, strong. Like a young oak. He filled everyone with confidence. 'We have been falling back, retreating as if we were beaten for the last six months. We have let our victories seem hard-won and snatched from disaster. As if we have been merely lucky.' His look was steady and reassuring. 'The Orcs have become emboldened, careless. They think that they have driven us back beyond the Bight. In truth, we have hidden our battalions and are deeply entrenched in the South, and the East Bight, in the flanks of the Wood ready to hold the line against the hordes that we think will descend from the Hithaeglir. Perhaps. Our strategy is to lure the Orcish army in, strike at their heart, drive a wedge between their forces. Defeat them.'

Thranduil looked up at his councilors.

Gilvaren, his oldest friend, most trusted, looked concerned. 'It is not a perfect plan,' he said softly. 'Battle plans never are. We are depending too much on the stupidity of the enemy.'

'That is true,' Laersul admitted. He tilted his head on one side and looked down at the map. 'But Orcs are very stupid and many a plan has succeeded because of it.' He flashed a grin at Gilvaren. 'As you know yourself, lord.'

Thranduil laughed softly and when others glanced brightly at each other, Gilvaren conceded for it was he who had taught Laersul so well. Indeed, he had led the same strategy in the wars against Gundabad when the orcs had turned their attention to the Woodelves.

'Will Lothlorien come to our aid?' Laegrist asked, oldest of the Silvans, noblest and bravest for it was he who had fought his way to Oropher's side during Dagorlad, the ill-fated Last Alliance, and brought back the bloodied body of the King.

Laersul shook his head. 'Orcs are on their way there. We have sent messages though I doubt they were needed.'

'Have we had word from Erebor?' Erédis, the healer, turned to Galadhon who had been set to watch upon the Eastern flank of the Wood and to look towards the Lake and Mountain. 'Dain swore to aid us in our need as we did to him.' Her grey eyes glittered in the rushlight, uncompromising. 'Surely they are not forsworn?'

'This came, lord.' Galadhon held out a scroll, its seal broken for he was amongst Thranduil's most trusted officers now. 'The Dwarves will not come.'

There was a silence, Erédis snorted in contempt but Laersul spoke.

'In truth, lord, they cannot, 'he said. He had been the emissary to broker the treaty with Erebor and the Dwarves had a respect for him, if not liking, for he appreciated their culture and was fascinated by the grandeur of their art. 'When the Nazgul offered them a Dwarvish Ring and they refused, as you know, it was made clear that the first assault would be upon the Mountain, even before us. The Dwarves had hoped that we could come to their aid but they see now this cannot be. Laketown and Dale will be in the front line of that assault.'

The immensity of War silenced the gathered lords.

'The army we thought was headed across Rhovanion to here is destined for Erebor.' Thalos jabbed a finger down onto the map, and traced a path from the South towards Erebor.'

Thranduil shook his head slightly. 'We have sent a message to warn them?'

'They know. They are ready.

He nodded, satisfied. 'Then we have no more to do than give the order to march.' He cast a quick look towards his two remaining sons. 'Let us make sure we draw the Enemy's Eye to us,' he said obliquely, but though Thalos tried to catch his gaze, Thranduil seemed to slide over him.

0o0o

Later, when he was alone, Thranduil stared at another map. This one showed the southern lands of Rohan and Gondor: a heavy book, the Histories of Elu Thingol, weighted down a corner and a wine stain circled the mark that was Orthanc. But he did not see any of it. In his mind's eye a child held up a small carved pony and his green eyes shone with delight for Thranduil had made it for him. His heart squeezed with love for his youngest, his sweetest child who, guileless and alone with only hobbits, Men and Dwarves for company, was walking quietly, stealthily, he thought, into Mordor itself for he knew Legolas would not turn away and return. Not once his help had been sought. Legolas never could; his heart was so easily given, and it sounded that he had pledged himself to the Heir of Isildur.

Inwardly he cursed Mithrandir. Anglach had already paid the price of Thranduil granting the Wizard's request.

But he could not bear that thought and turned away.

When Thalos knocked upon his door and entered, Thranduil had a glass in his hand and deep red wine stained his lips.

'Father,' Thalos said.

So, thought Thranduil, it was to be an appeal to him as a father, not the King. 'Son,' he replied wryly and saw that Thalos, subtle and clever, had recognised how it was to be.

'Do not do this.'

'What?'

'Do not lead the vanguard. Let Laersul do it. Or me.'

'Do you think I cannot ?' Thranduil asked almost lazily, wryly amused.

'No, I did not say that… but it is long since you fought in battle.'

'Oh? So you do say that.' Thranduil turned towards his middle son, lifted an eyebrow. He had no intention of changing his mind, nor did he doubt himself so he was not angry that his child questioned him. It was the same fear that made him keep Thalos back in the stronghold; he needed one son safe.

'No…I …' Thalos looked away, uncharacteristically hesitant. 'Perhaps I do. Please, listen to me.'

Thranduil put his wine goblet down carefully, over the city of Minas Tirith like he might block it out, obliterate it before his youngest even reached it and had to test his mettle in full blown war.

'I was fighting wars before I had even met your mother, Thalos,' Thranduil said gently for Thalos' words were ignorant and borne out of love and concern. 'I fought in the War of Wrath and before that I fought endlessly the Black Foe who crept onto our borders in Doriath. I fought in the Kinslaying of Doriath against the Fëanorians, curse their name. I fought the Dragons of the North. Do not tell me…'

But Thalos had quickly stepped forward and reached out to Thranduil. His hand was upon his father's shoulder before he could finish his litany and Thranduil looked at him.

'I do not doubt your valour, or your might, father. But if you should fall…'

Thranduil did not smile but his heart wrenched. They might all fall. But he could not say that. Here he was King as well as father.

'I will not.'

And then Thalos said, 'So spake Oropher when you bid him the same.'

0o0o

Thranduil thought he would not sleep, but it came quickly and was fitful and full of dreams….

In his dream, he saw Legolas, and his heart leapt with joy for he was alive. A fiery little horse cantered along a mountain track, tossing its head and wanting to run but Legolas held it back. He rode slightly off balance, Thranduil noted distantly, as if he were missing something. Low clouds were grey and roiled over the horizon, the black silhouette of pine trees on the ridge above him and the peaks of the mountains.

Why was he on his own? Had the Man, Aragorn been killed? Where was Mithrandir?

Thranduil felt an unreasonable fury churning in his belly: Legolas had been abandoned! Left alone in a far and distant land with none to protect him!

Reason asserted itself then; his son was a warrior of renown, the best archer in the Wood. He was used to this. Thranduil realised that Legolas must be scouting, for he did not look anxious. But there were shadows beneath his eyes and his skin looked stretched tight. There was a feverish excitement in his eyes.

Now Legolas was urging the horse faster along the open paths once more; flocks of birds circled high in the sky over the plains. Crows, buzzards. Carrion. So here was War. Distant smoke rose up far away and he recognised that this must be Gondor. And they had run out of time, even as he had in the Wood. The Enemy smote at all of them.

Now Legolas turned the horse down from the high ridge towards a road, no more than a track but still the riding was easier and faster. Hoofs pounded the dry earth and the wind caught Legolas' hair, streaming it behind him.

At last he slowed, and seemed to wait. The weak sun, dimmed by thick cloud, was high. Midday, thought Thranduil somewhere. But then he saw something flickering in the dust of the road. A strange mist almost was coming towards Legolas, but Thranduil perceived it was no ordinary mist- there were shapes in it. Ghostly horses, riders, banners that waved in a long forgotten wind.. He tried to cry out, tried to run, to warn Legolas.

No! No! cried Thranduil. But Legolas could not hear him and had turned to face them.

From the trees emerged a company of Men and horses. Thin and trembling ghosts glimmered in the shadow of the mountains as the first horses appeared through the trees. An army of Dead Men and at last, Thranduil understood.

It was the Oathbreakers.

He remembered Isildur, head flung back and screaming a curse upon the Men of the Dwimorberg.

Only Isildur's Heir might free them.

Thranduil could almost see Oropher striding out, buckling on his heavy sword and the round shield that now hung in his own halls, forest green pennants streaming, snapping in the wind… Elendil standing tall with Gil-Galad, shining and valiant… These dishonoured Men had seen them all, had witnessed the last battle. And despaired.

He knew that Legolas listened to their songs; there were so many souls beneath that one song they shared. He saw how they leaned towards his son as he listened, for it soothed them and Legolas had never easily ignored any one in misery, and their pleas were insistent whisperings….

Long have I lain in the grave of my own making, long unheard…

…Not felt the brush of the wind, the whisper of tall grass...

Aye, naught but silent graves, empty bones forlorn

…so long dead; so lonely...

We have forgotten the beat of blood in our veins,

the pulse of flesh…

Only the creak of old bones, crumbling into dust, decay….

We have lived in darkness, in utter silence, stillness.

Forgotten the throb of blood, the feel of flesh, the snap of sinew, hunger and thirst….

Steel rusts, crumbles, light fades, darkness only…

…I have needed to feel the wind rushing past me, to hear the drumming of horses galloping and the ring of steel and stirrup, to see the high cloud and huge empty skies…

There was movement in the grey shroud that surrounded them a whisper of anticipation, of yearning. They longed to be free.

The Man, Aragorn. Thranduil had recognised him of course, the moment the bedraggled and weary Ranger had entered the throne room, his pitiable monstrous charge squalling and straining at his leash.

Now in his dream, Thranduil saw that Aragorn rode at the head of the company. He looked tired and drawn with the weight of expectation heavy upon him. Thranduil understood that weight. A King had to lead, could never tire, never doubt, never falter. And for Aragorn, there was so much expectation. The King Returned. For a moment it seemed to Thranduil that all the Heirs of Isildur rode behind.

Aragorn did not pause but turned, standing in his stirrups, and shouted over his shoulder at the following company, 'We ride! Our time is come, Dúnedain, Guardians of the North, inheritors of Gondor! Minas Tirith is assailed. We go to War!'

A strange sound, like the wind sighing over the mountains surrounded them and grew and as the Rangers surged forwards to answer their Lord's command, the Shadow Host seemed to grow stronger and more substantial. They surged around the Grey Company and would have overtaken them had not Aragorn held them back. He rode at their head, tall, stern of face, lordly and with immense will he kept them onwards.

Thranduil stood watching as the ghostly army galloped past and through him for he was but a ghost himself in the far South. He cried aloud as his sweetest child charged past, his face alight with excitement and battle fever… a Dwarf clung to him like a bur. And lightly across the edge of the Song, lay another, like a skein of silk, a deeper, endless note that breathed and soughed, and whispered of home…

The Sea.

Thranduil had never seen it. But he remembered that sound, the deep breaths, the sough and sigh of the Sea. 'Do not go there,' he murmured. 'No. Do not go there for your heart will never rest under the trees again.' With bitterness, he knew that Legolas would not turn back.

A great banner unfurled and fluttered; there was the White Tree of Isildur crowned with seven stars. Ah, thought Thranduil. So this was Mithrandir's purpose all along. Here was Isildur's Heir, the last of the race of Numenor, noblest and proudest of Men. Elessar.

Thranduil lifted his hand in acknowledgment, one King to another but he could not be seen. And then he saw that someone approached Aragorn; at first he thought it was Elrond, but no. Not as bowed by care and worn by his past. This must be one of the Sons of Thunder. He approached Aragorn swiftly, his cloak was black, sable fur and it swirled about him in the unearthly light. He held out the silver horn which Aragorn Elessar lifted it to his lips and blew. The sound was unearthly – growing slowly in strength and volume. It was the sound of Oromë's horn. The ghostly pennants that had hung still and lifeless now fluttered a little and then one ray of light broke through the massing cloud, and seemed to glint off the forest of spears.

For a moment there was absolute stillness, and then a long sound like a sigh. The wind shimmered and trembled across the darkened grass. Then that moment of utter stillness was broken by a sound like waves breaking as the Dúnedain and his Shadow Host charged down the slopes of Lamedon and down to Linhir.

A keenness in the wind that fluttered in his breast. He saw Legolas glance around him, and suddenly knew.

'Legolas!' he cried. 'No! No! DO not go there!'

Legolas turned his head and looked straight at Thranduil. He reached for his child. 'No! You must not go to the Sea!'

But it was too late and Legolas had plunged into the affray…..

0o0o

tbc