The news comes from a rider out of the north, three days after the strange flames had first licked the distant skies beyond Nan Dungortheb. He is war-ragged, war-weary - a golodh.

From his post in the same tree - now sharing it with Thandir - Thranduil picks through the branches to observe the

ellon halt at the border, bewildered. The strange charms confuse and disorient him. Panic is kindled in his eyes as he casts his head to and fro, seeking a way around. But there is no other way into Doriath.

Pity stirs in Thranduil's heart, but he reminds himself of his duty - protect the borders without any compromise - and of his king's distaste for the Golodhrim. He steels his heart with silence and Thingol's prejudice, and does not move, save to turn to Thandir and ask, "Messenger?"

"I think so."

"What action are we to take?"

Thandir's eyes narrow slightly in thought, still fixated on the golodh, who has now backed away from the Girdle and is staring in fearful anger at the trees.

"You know the King, cousin," Thandir murmurs. "The rules are simple with the Golodhrim. If he's not from the House of Finarfin, he's not to pass."

"And I do not see the sigil."

"Then he is not to pass. We can speak to him as ambassadors and bear his message back to Menegroth."

"Can we do that?"

Thandir raises his eyebrows. "I can."

He descends the tree and motions for Thranduil to follow him. "Beleg may be chief of all Doriath's marchwardens, but I'm chief of the Northern marches, you remember."

A sudden jolt of realisation hits Thranduil, as something clicks in his mind that hadn't occurred to him before. "Is that why I'm in your sector?"

Thandir pauses. "What do you mean?" he asks, appearing genuinely confused.

"So you can keep an eye on me," says Thranduil, working through his thoughts verbally. "Being chief of these marches means you know what's going on all along them and you have a position of command."

"If you're suggesting," says Thandir, landing lightly on the forest floor, "that someone specifically requested your assignment to the northern border, cousin, you'd be right."

Thranduil's eyes narrow. "Who?"

"I did."

Thandir gives Thranduil his rare, veiled smile, and walks off towards the Girdle without waiting for him.

For a moment, Thranduil just stares after him. He had, for a second, suspected Oropher. Set him up on these quiet northern marches, foster a distaste for the march-warden lifestyle if he could. But it was Thandir - he manipulated the placement. Thranduil is the farthest thing from displeased, but he is curious. And the thought sneaks up on him - how indeed was it that there were no interventions by Oropher when he'd stood, back straight and chin jutted forward, and announced his intent to join the marchwardens? How was it the only protest and rebuke was a stiff and silent dinner the day he had been placed on the roster of recruits? Thandir was so respected in their family. If he had made any assurance, promise, agreement, condition or, dare he think it, threat - Oropher would have complied.

He wants to ask Thandir if he had anything to do with how Oropher took the news. However, something about the simplicity of his words - "I did" - makes Thranduil feel that he doesn't need a concrete answer.

He jumps out of the tree, landing soundlessly, and walks briskly to catch up to Thandir. They are almost to the border now. A small barrier of thinly spread trees, tall and gnarled with age, separates them from the golodh. They pass through the barrier, and a heavy, cold feeling washes over Thranduil, as if he is stepping through a thick wall of mist. Despite the strange sensation, his mind, wits and ability to move with swift, silent surety, remain unaffected. With his gaze fixed ahead, he stops beside Thandir, behind the last tree before the Girdle falls away at the forest's boundary.

Thranduil does not often subscribe to fear, but a pang of uncertainty enters his heart.

"I know the stories," he whispers, "but tell me honestly. In your experience, are they treacherous?"

"More often than not…" he says softly, "yes."

He motions with one slender hand, and Thranduil nods, nocking an arrow and stepping stealthily to his right, behind one solid, knotted trunk. Thandir steps to the left of the tree.

"Are you going to do all the speaking or do you expect me to threaten him too?" whispers Thranduil.

"Only if you don't say anything foolish," Thandir breathes back.

Thranduil grins. "When have I ever?"

On Thandir's command, they turn round and step quickly forward and through the dense edge of the Girdle. As soon as the sensation starts, it's over, and they are out, bows drawn and trained on either side of the golodh's head.

The rider's horse whinnies in surprise, and he reins it in before it can rear up completely and throw him off. His hand seems to twitch in the direction of his belt and the wicked curve of the blade that rests there. But as his eyes take in the archers on either side of him, he seems to rethink, settling one hand on the horse's neck and holding the other up in a placating gesture.

"State your purpose and from whence you come," commands Thandir. The golodh hesitates, looking over at Thranduil, who glares back with a heady conviction. He seems to shrink and turns back to Thandir's more moderate stare.

"I come from the host of Fingolfin," he says. He speaks Sindarin, but his accent is unmistakeable. "I bring word that the siege of Angband is broken."

Thranduil is not completely schooled in the art of hiding one's emotions behind the mask of an unaffected face. He can only hope he was able to control the mix of shock and muted despair that suddenly sprung into his heart at the messenger's words. Those were the strange flames beyond the Ered Gorgoroth three days ago. The siege is broken.

"Who broke it?" asks Thandir.

"I will speak to your King," says the messenger, almost defensively.

"You will not pass these borders," growls Thranduil. "And you will answer the question."

The golodh stares at them for a moment, incredulous, then settles his expression into a scowl and speaks. "Morgoth. He spewed fire from the peaks of Angband into the great plains of Dorthonion and decimated our camps. There is naught there now but ash and desolation."

Thranduil has never seen any fire larger than those in lamps or fireplaces, but he already knows that despite the warmth and use of it, he does not like it. He doesn't like the illusion that flame can be controlled, with the full knowledge it cannot be. The image of those mountains flooding the plain with searing, destructive flame makes his hands feel cold. He adjusts his bow, pulling the arrow back just a smidge more.

"Our numbers have been greatly reduced," continues the messenger, eyeing Thranduil's arrow. "The hosts of Morgoth have separated us from our kin in the East. We have retreated to Hithlum."

"If Fingolfin is requesting aid you can be assured that it will not be given," says Thandir, sternly and without pause.

The messenger's face falls in acceptance, and he bows his head. "My Lord bade me expect such a response."

"You would do well to heed that counsel," say Thranduil.

The golodh glares down at him. "And you would do well to heed what I have left to tell you."

"And what is that?" hisses Thandir.

"A host of Sindar is coming to Doriath," he announces. "They weary of the war in the north. Surely your King would not turn away his kinsmen."

Thranduil frowns, annoyance springing up inside him at the golodh's choice of words. The Sindar were fleeing because they were weary?

"Tell your King a great host is coming," the messenger continues. "And I would advise you to step up control on your northern border."

"We will advise our own march-wardens," says Thandir evenly. "Our thanks, for the news you have brought."

The golodh looks the two of them over, and with a derisive snort, spurs the horse back to the northwest.

When he is a small dot, fleeing swiftly beyond their field of vision, Thranduil and Thandir lower their bows and walk swiftly back behind the protection of the Girdle.

"You have great perception, Thandir," says Thranduil, as they stand just inside the borderline of trees. "Was he telling the truth?"

"There was never a lie in his eyes. Only anger and disappointment."

"You heard how clever he was to sidestep his own blame," Thranduil mutters. "The Sindar are 'weary' indeed. Weary of having fire and death rained down upon them by the Golodhrim, more like."

"Steady, cousin," Thandir says sympathetically, clasping Thranduil's shoulder. "Focus on what we can change. We must speak to Thingol at once. He needs to know about the host that is coming."

"Menegroth and the forests around it are vast. We can manage."

"Of course. We don't know how many there are, though," Thandir points out. "Or what state they're in. Whatever happens, it's up to the King's decision."

Thandir walks back towards their tree outpost and recovers their waterskins and furs from the lower branches. "You're going to bring the news back to Menegroth."

Thranduil stares at Thandir, aghast. "Me? Why?"

"You saw and heard everything the messenger said," says Thandir, passing Thranduil's things to him. "And I want you to meet the King. You can tell him all of what transpired."

"I - why me?" he asks, baffled. "I'm not in command of these borders, you are. Or even Beleg -"

"I need to maintain command here in case anything else happens, and Beleg is too busy managing all the borders," says Thandir, sternly. "Moreover, you're not just a marchwarden, you're son of one of the king's chief councillors. You will have no problem gaining an audience to deliver the message."

Thranduil is almost certain he understands what his cousin is saying, and he crosses his arms in distaste. "I assume the council will be in session."

"It could very well be."

Thranduil narrows his eyes as his understanding grows. "And I suppose the king will be made to wonder, then, why this councillor's son spends his days crouched in old trees on the northern border."

Thandir understands Thranduil's train of thought immediately and shakes his head. "You will be speaking as a marchwarden giving a report, Thranduil. Nothing more."

"Why did you help me join the recruits?" demands Thranduil. "Was it just so I could bide my time out here, in the hopes that when you tried to manoeuvre me back into Menegroth I might be tired of this lifestyle already?"

"You draw too many wrong conclusions far too quickly," says Thandir, narrowing his eyes. "Do you think I want you to be on the quiet border guard forever? I want you to be able to take responsibility. To lead."

"Lead who, exactly?"

"Thranduil, I thought you'd gotten over this little power play between your vision of your future and your father's, something I have absolutely no part in," says Thandir, and Thranduil instantly feels his blood cool. The sternness and wisdom of his cousin pierces the strange, conspiratorial thoughts muddling his mind, and he feels a touch of shame.

"I simply fear impermanence," he says at last "These last few days have shown that the peace I was raised in is not going to last. So I can never be certain that what I have now - this proof that I've overcome his wishes and achieved my own... I can be certain no longer that it will last."

Thandir's expression changes from annoyed, to understanding. "We can't predict the future, cousin," he says, putting a hand on Thranduil's shoulder. "I can't predict if you'll be with us forever, or if smoother duty will find you. But I'll assure you of one thing. The stone halls of Menegroth will endure far into our future, and so will we. The time ahead of us is long. Don't fear change - it will always cycle back into its natural balance."

"Everyone says that," he mutters, thinking of Beleg's musings on the nature of evil, cycling like the high moon. "What if things change too far beyond fixing - what if there's a new balance?"

"We adapt. We endure." He pats Thranduil's shoulder and leads him onwards through the forest. "Come, I'll see you off."

They trek all the way back to the base for their sector, hoisting themselves up onto the platform and sending two other guards out to take their place. Thandir makes up an excuse for Thranduil's departure, and he understands swiftly the intent - rumour and frenzy are the last things they need. He looks around for Galion to bid him farewell, in the vain hope that he may have come back early from his guard duty. Of course, he's not there. Thranduil reluctantly follows Thandir back down. Some way back, beyond the platform, a few horses are grazing in a small clearing, presided over by a guard. Thandir informs her of their purpose - again, fabricated -and she releases a horse.

"If you aren't returning for some time, please have your replacements ride her back," says the elleth as he mounts the horse. "We've only a few steeds for these marches."

"We don't need that many," says Thandir, perplexed. "Nothing has changed."

"Well, ever since we saw those strange lights, sir, we've been on edge," she admits. "We've no idea what they were. I thought it best we feel prepared."

Thranduil feels a shiver go up his neck. They know what those lights were. They know what's coming. But they can say nothing before reporting to Thingol.

"You are right," says Thandir. His voice sounds sharp in the stillness of the forest. "Best be prepared. Keep a sharp eye."

"Yes, sir."

Thandir leads the horse beyond the clearing, to a path cleared through the trees that almost seems hidden.

"If anyone should question you, show them this," Thandir says, unclasping the golden brooch that holds his cloak at his neck. Engraved upon it are three peaks, ringed in a wreath of beech leaves. The symbol of the northern marchwardens. His cousin's mark of authority.

"Thandir…"

"I have faith in you cousin," he says, flashing his rare smile encouragingly. A stab of fear enters Thranduil's heart.

"What if our kinsmen arrive at the borders before I get to Menegroth?" he asks quietly, turning to look through the darkness of the trees, beyond, to the bewilderment of the Girdle and the terror that lies in the miles beyond.

"They shall have to manage," Thandir murmurs.

"We should have said something. To the others, I mean."

"I know."

He wants to question Thandir's decision for secrecy, but his cousin is already stepping back. He extends a hand from his heart, a tender gesture of farewell. For one terrible moment, Thranduil contemplates the impossible - that the Girdle should break, and more than Sindar would pour through the borders. The hordes of Morgoth have regained the upper hand - how soon until his father's fearful thoughts and predictions came true? How soon until the moon was wrapped once more in shadow, cycling out of the sky and allowing darkness to flourish? Thandir, Galion, his comrades-in-arms…they were so alone and exposed on these borders. If anything were to happen…

"Take care, cousin," he says softly, returning the gesture. Then, before he can speak more on his fear or linger longer in doubt, he spurs the horse onward through the trees, leaving Thandir's pale form to melt away into the shadows behind him.

He rides swiftly, racing the oncoming night that falls ever earlier in these winter months. His heart beats fast and heavy. His horse moves through the trees with practice agility; it knows the way home. It will take about a day's travel to return to Menegroth. Anything could happen in a day. It's not like everything is falling apart - but it cannot be long until it does. With the long journey ahead, Thranduil sets into a steady pace, and his thoughts wander.

Marchwarden recruits train inside Menegroth, but the barracks are far from the halls Thranduil has grown up in, and they must reside there until they are deployed to the marches. As he packs his effects, there is a quiet knock at his door. Turning, he sees Caladwen standing by his door, still clutching the handle.

"May I come in?"

"Of course, nana," he says, stepping forward.

She casts glances over his belongings. "Do you have everything? Your clothes - your most comfortable boots? Your comb?"

"Yes, nana," he says, rolling his eyes in amusement.

"Oh, you must let me fret over you a few moments more," she says, stepping forward to adjust the fine tunic he is wearing to the commencement ceremony. "Look at you. You are about to step forth to defend the realm. I couldn't be more proud."

The words, though said warmly, make Thranduil feel cold. The night before, Oropher had barely spoken during the evening meal. As Thranduil had come to learn, this would only mean that when he himself retired to his chamber, his father would remain in their sitting room, a glass of wine in his hand, brooding before the fireplace. And when Caladwen would sit beside him, and place a tender hand against his cheek, he would, at last, reveal what had been troubling him. Last night was no different.

"The world is changing", he had said, heavy with weariness, as Caladwen looked at him with wide eyes. "The old one will burn in the fires that carve a path through the Neldoreth. Who can defend in the face of fire? I feel it, meleth. The King doesn't wish to hear me, I know this. He is content to remain safe behind the Girdle. He is certain evil will never come to him. I can't be content with such permanence. Nothing stays."

"Ion-nin," Caladwen says, and Thranduil is jolted out of his thoughts. He sees the understanding deepen in her grey eyes. She knows exactly what he is thinking of. Such perceptiveness is in her nature.

"Do not fear," she says placatingly. "You are still young. You shall have an age to grow into your own skin."

"That's not what ada thinks," he says bitterly. "And you know it."

"Your father thinks with both wisdom and a fear of failure," she points out, her voice growing sharp.

Thranduil stares at her, aghast at her words. A moment later, she, too, realises what she has said and her eyes fill with sadness.

"It is the truth," she says softly. "And he would never tell you. But know that this is the root of much that he does. Your father is a very fearful person. In many ways, his thoughts are vital enough in his court, but they do not reflect all of the happenings on the ground. You talk to Galion and Thandir almost every day. Tell me, ion-nin - from what they have told you, do you believe darkness is set to engulf the world any day now?"

"No."

Far off, barely in the line of sight, Menegroth slowly begins to materialise. Here, the stars shine bright, unhindered through the trees. This far from the northern border, Thranduil could pretend that the shadow is rising once more. Despair clutches his heart. This far from the border, who could be blamed for believing Doriath was infallible?

The old world will burn in the fires that carve a path through the Neldoreth. The words had seemed a blatant impossibility before. Now, though? The order was being upended. Suddenly, the future was unmapped. Suddenly, Oropher's words were no longer based only upon paranoia. What should happen when a world built to endure, was prsented the very real threat of being utterly changed? Thranduil sets his eyes on the great halls slowly appearing before him, urging swiftness to his steed. He hadn't believed that darkness would descend upon their world so swiftly. He couldn't have been more wrong.

A/N:

golodh - Sindarin term for Noldor. From what I've read, it is considered derogatory by the Noldor.
ion-nin - my son

Next chapter should be up in about two weeks. However, my midterms for university are coming up, so I can make no promises. As always, any corrections on lore or language are welcome.

Thank you for reading!