One day, Thranduil had finally fallen into a fitful sleep after another yelling and roaring bout with his silent father in the painting when he was woken a few hours later, sitting straight up in bed, eyes wide. Sweat dampened the sheets and covers. He had dreamed that he saw his father, alive and healthy again. But he had been beaten over and over and over again, until he looked exactly like what he was at the doors of Barad-Dur. Thranduil's feet were fixed to the ground; he was rendered useless and motionless. His father had said the same last words. "Don't mourn me."

Thranduil buried his face in his hands and tried to forget.

But worse were the whispers of the people. Thranduil had woken up one day, eyes red and hair disheveled to almost trip on a parchment slid under his door. It was a report on the rumors running in the Woodland Realm. Topping the list, in neat, black handwriting was, 'The young Elvenking may be too inexperienced to lead the people.' It was underlined, in that Valar-forsaken black ink, that condemning blow.

It was almost as if he didn't care anymore. But in one shred of his somewhat-sane mind, Thranduil knew he couldn't give up. But that voice was diminishing, getting smaller and smaller, quieter and quieter by the day. Even those thoughts were enough to make his head spin. Thranduil staggered to his still-sweaty bed and collapsed in it, his eyes closing as his unkempt head touched the filthy pillowcase.

Sometime during the night, Thranduil woke, feeling as if he were shoving boulders off his chest. It was occurring more and more often now, at least five times a night. He felt restless, tossing and turning. The mattress groaned and fell silent. The silence was deafening; the night pressed in on him, the stifling air suffocating his lungs, like a huge weight on his chest.

So, he had swung his legs over the edge of the bed. On unsteady feet, he wobbled to his closet and stuck his hand in, taking out a random dagger from the deadly assortment on the side: daggers, knives, double-handed swords, his own one-handed sword, bows, arrows, spears. Thranduil inwardly grinned, wondering somewhere in the back of his confused, muddled mind if they should really allow him to have all these weapons.

Gripping his dagger, Thranduil threw open his door and headed somewhere. Anywhere but that smothering jail that they called a room. His feet wandered this way and that. Twice he almost crashed into the walls, or imposing pillars of stone. Just a couple weeks ago, Thranduil Oropherion was a proud prince of the Woodland Realm. Now, he was a dilapidated wreck of a living being. Not that he really cared anymore.

Somehow, he found himself in the library. It had never been a particularly favorite place for him, reminding him of angry tutors and endless hours sitting by and reading enormous, obscure texts. But he was far too weary to go somewhere else.

Finding a shadowy corner, Thranduil leaned against the heavy tomes, his back brushing the leather spines. The Woodland Realm was not known for its vast libraries, but they did contain a fair amount. Closing his eyes, Thranduil groaned and slid down to rock back and forth on his heels. He missed his father. He wished Oropher would suddenly appear, kneel next to his broken son, and put the pieces back together again like he always did when Thranduil was a child.

He felt this quake, this thrill that chased up his spine. Only, it was not a shiver of excitement. It didn't bring him joy. In fact, it scared him. It sent a shot of fear through him. He was tired of being a punching bag, verbal and physical. There's only so much a punching bag can bear before dropping to the ground and splitting open, its innards splayed all over the hard-packed floor. You see, it was anger. The same anger that coursed through his veins, the same one that lashes out within a second, wreaking havoc within the radius of earshot. When he heard it, fear shoots through his entire body. Fear, like a rabbit in front of a fox; fear, like a horse chased by a cougar.

Then it made his anger rise too, for a split second. His blood boiled, an uncontrollable anger bubbling up in Thranduil. He wanted to scream and shout.

Pain did not demand to be felt. Instead, it was a constant ache, a mind-numbing hurt. He could choose to ignore it. He could run away from it all he liked. He can be as fast as the Nahar, the steed of the Vala Oromë, and still not evade it. This pain and this anger, it goes round and round, it does. Together, they were a double-pronged sword (or a pitchfork if you like). He could do anything with it he liked. But it hurt. What did I tell you? Pain.

He was whimpering now. It was a pathetic sound, and Thranduil hated himself the more for it. It was weak. It was frail. A king should never be frail. A king should be proud and majestic, an image of the Valar that had once walked this green earth. He rocked himself on his heels, his arms around his legs, head on his knees. Weak. Coward. Powerless. Worthless. Inept. Unskilled. These words circled in his head like vultures, coming ever closer for his corpse, lying just like his father's there in the battlefields of Mordor. The end was inevitable. Life was meaningless.

But death? That cold void would offer a respite from the suffocating affliction known as life. And there, in those beautiful halls of Mandos, he would find his father. Thranduil imagined himself reaching through the veil, grabbing his father's hand. Oropher's tough embrace. How long would it take? He wondered. How long would it take to get there? Thranduil was trembling all over now, shaking like a small, insignificant leaf in a giant storm. Tears ran unashamedly down his face, dripping on his knees. He took a shuddering breath, trying to control himself.

Thranduil was too weak for the hurts of the world. He didn't want to have to care about anything anymore. He didn't want to have to carry the responsibilities, the lives of his people. The dagger bit into his hand once again, drawing a line of blood from his palm.

He had once been shown where to stab, in case an enemy had taken him for hostage. Thranduil inspected the emerald-incrusted dagger again, holding it up in the moonlight….

And it was gone. It had clattered to the side, knocked from his hand by some force. He looked at it, disbelieving. A book had been thrown at his hand, the dagger cast aside. Thranduil yelled something he couldn't comprehend. It was probably Agarwen, Thranduil's guilt and weakness written all over his face. Now they would depose him for sure, set up some other puppet king on the throne. He curled up against the shelves, tears streaking his face. He wanted a dark hole to open up in the earth and swallow him whole.

"Leave," he growled. Thranduil made to retrieve his dagger, but a boot kicked it aside. He closed his eyes shut, not daring to look into the face of his tormenter.

When he opened his eyes once more, there was a hand, palm facing up.

"Get up," a voice whispered.

Thranduil shook his head, closing his eyes once more, tears leaking out from the corners of his eyes. "No," he hissed.

"Get up," the voice said again, more forceful this time.

Thranduil shook his head. He didn't want to get out of this dark abyss he had dug himself into.

"I don't care who you are, Thranduil. You will stand. Get. Up," the voice said again.

Thranduil cast one last look in the direction his dagger had gone. He turned his gaze to the hand, still in front of him.

He hadn't realized it, but….. it was a familiar hand. One scar, on the thumb… He knew.

Would his father want him to die? Would his father welcome him if he died now? Thranduil wasn't convinced. His father would be disappointed, angry even, that he had thrown away his life so easily. And although the world still seemed a bleak hell of dark abysses, thorny vines, and powerful creatures that lay watchful for the ones that dare try to walk the paths which they guard, although the world his predecessors left him was broken and destroyed, although he was the inheritor of a mangled and mutilated world of ash and dust, he would never fail his father. The Thranduil before Oropher's death would never give up the sky.

So with a trembling, weak hand, Thranduil Oropherion grasped the hand, and stood.