While the orc, who had been on the receiving end of one of the two elven blades he was wielding, collapsed in front of him, Thranduil was already focusing on the next orc, who was throwing himself at him, out of the shadow of his fallen comrade, but Thranduil was already expecting him, welcoming him with the raised tip of the sword in his left hand. He heard the faint cracking of breaking bones, as his blade drove into the body of his enemy, but he was all too familiar with that sound to even care. Instead he used his second blade to slice the throat of his enemy, ending the life of the orc, still hanging on his left blade. He felt himself sway for a blink of a second, feeling the exhaustion after hours of endless fighting. He took a deep breath, trying to force the exhaustion away. Just when he wanted to yank his blade out of the dead body, he felt a sudden movement of air on his left cheek, indicating that something big was coming his way with a high speed, where his vision was limited. A blink of a second later, when his brain had just given the order to turn to his left to receive what was coming, he felt the impact, a strong impact, knocking the air out of his lungs and him mercilessly to the ground.

He wasn't sure if he had lost consciousness for a few seconds. He felt disorientated, when he reopened his eyes, laying on his right side, feeling the wet and blood stained ground beneath him. The water and blood leaked through his armor, wetting his undergarments. They clung to his skin and he could feel the cold seeping into his body replacing the warmth. It didn't take long for his clothes to be fully soaked and he felt like lying in a swamp, a swamp like in Dagorlad, where he had been wading through the soaked ground, trying not to trip over the countless corpses of his kin, feeling the warm blood of the fallen warriors and the cold water of the swamps soak his boots and leggings, the additional weight making his every step more difficult, wearing him down, inviting him to just give up and lie down with his dead comrades to die.

Panic rose within him and he tried to fight off the vivid memories invading his mind. He told himself, he was not on the battle fields of Dagorlad! He was at the foot of Erebor, fighting a different battle alongside dwarfs and men. This was not Dagorlad! But he couldn't fight them off, couldn't fight off the pale hands of his dead people reaching for him, grabbing his ankles, his legs, pulling him down into the swamps, whispering into his ears, begging him:

"Stay with us, Thranduil Oropherion. You led us here, King Thranduil, so stay with us!"

In fear he tried to yank his legs free, struggling for his freedom, his life but they wouldn't let go, instead he felt more and more hands grabbing his legs, pulling him into the cold waters, pulling him to his death and to insanity. He desperately clung to a nearby patch of high grass, holding on for dear life and sanity, as he watched the grass swing in a gentle breeze. Vilya! He focused his mind on the swinging grass blades, on the gentle breeze caressing his skin, pushing aside the ghosts of his past. He remembered Vilya's cold touch, relieving him of his pains, forcing back his dark side of mind, restoring his sanity. He thought of the meetings, the talks and the silent companionship he had shared with Elrond, the only times he had felt at ease, felt at peace.

"Thranduil! Focus!", someone shouted.

It took Thranduil a moment to realize that the voice had been in his head only but it had the effect the speaker had intended. Thranduil clung to it like a castaway clung to a drifting piece of wood, because this voice had been the only thing that had kept him sane over these last years.

"Elrond…"

"Thranduil! You have lost yourself again! Follow my voice! Stay with me!"

And this time he obeyed. He stayed with Elrond, followed his voice and when he opened his eyes again he was back in the here and now, lying on the ground at the foot of Erebor.

"Focus on your breathing. Don't let your memories take over again!"

He did as he was told. He focused on his shallow breathing caused by his panic and forced himself to take a deep breath. Pain shot through his ribcage, forcing him to return to the shallow breathing. And then it hit him for the first time: something heavy was lying above him, pinning him down to the ground, making it so hard for him to breath, crushing him. The thing that had hit him must have buried him. He turned his head, trying to see what that thing was, but since he was lying on his right side he could barely see what was above him. He cursed his blind eye and tried to turn his body at least a little bit to the left. Out of the corner of his right eye he saw dark grey fur and it dawned on him that he must have been buried beneath a warg… a dead warg.

"Focus on your current problems!"

"I am focusing on my current problem, Peredhel! I'm buried under a dead warg during an ongoing battle! I'm… trapped."

He was lying literally on a silver platter, being an easy victim to every orc passing by. Maybe this was how it should be… Maybe this was his destiny after all, dying here. Maybe destiny was finally catching up on him. Maybe he should indeed have stayed with his fallen warriors on the battle plain of Dagorlad, maybe he should have died with them and just maybe his nightmares showed him what should have been…

"Thranduil Oropherion, don't you dare giving up right now!"

Thranduil sighed.

"Elrond, maybe –"

"Don't you dare dying there! Not after surviving Dagorlad! Move!"

Thranduil didn't move. He saw no reason for doing so, for fighting anymore. He was tired, so tired of all this.

"Thranduil, think of Legolas! Think of your son! You of all people know how it feels to lose your own father on the battlefield!"

"He won't mind losing his father, I saw to it. He won't break down like I have."

"Are you sure? I saw his future. I saw him broken, in despair, ridden by guilt, crying over your dead body!"

No…

He had seen to it that the feelings Legolas had for him had weakened over the centuries even though it had hurt him deeply to drive away the only person he still loved. But in doing so Legolas wouldn't have to face the same grief over losing his father like he himself had had to endure. And losing his father he would, either because he lost his sanity or because he was killed in one of the battles that were to come, brought upon them by the rising shadows.

Legolas wouldn't break, wouldn't end like his father. He would rise above and be a better king, a better leader than his father ever was.

"You are lying, Peredhel!"

"Thranduil, he never stopped loving you!", the Peredhel said quietly. "He never will!"

No!

This couldn't be true! He had put so much effort in forcing Legolas away. But… but what if the Peredhel was right? He couldn't risk it, couldn't risk Legolas' wellbeing. He wouldn't let the same happen to Legolas that had happened to him.

Without losing another second he began to move, trying to wriggle himself out from beneath the warg, ignoring the stinging pain in his ribcage.

"Make use of the resources you have, however limited they are!"

"Peredhel…", he ground out frustrated, … stop stating the obvious.

Sometimes the Peredhel could be really annoying. But the sudden surge of frustration gave him the strength to pull his left arm out from beneath the warg. Simultaneously he managed to turn fully on his back before the warg lay again on him with its full weight, crushing his already broken ribs and pressing the air out of his lungs once more. He felt bile rising in his throat as a reaction to the increasing pain in his chest and the lack of oxygen. The world around him spun for the blink of a second, alarming him, making him aware of how bad in shape he really was. In a desperate attempt to free himself he tried to push the warg away using his now free hand but it was to no avail.

"In need of help, Elvenking?"

Thranduil halted the attempt upon hearing the snarling voice from above the warg. He didn't need to look up to know that an orc had uttered these words. He had heard these miserable creatures talk often enough. Slowly he raised his head and indeed an orc was leaning on the warg looking down on him and smiling an evil grin, showing his rotten and yellowish teeth. Thranduil didn't lose any time. He knew, he would be dead any second, if he didn't find something to defend himself, anything… He looked around frantically and indeed, not far from his left shoulder lay an abandoned sword.

"Don't you think of it, Elvenking!" the orc hissed, jumping fully on the warg, sending a painful sting through Thranduils chest.

The orc crawled over the broad shoulder of the warg descending to the warg's spine, bringing his face close to Thranduil's. The sickening smell of the creature making his bile rise in his throat again.

"If I bring the beautiful head of yours to my master, he will surely give me a big reward, Elvenking."

The orc reached out with his hand and Thranduil desperately wanted to back away, wanted to avoid the contact with this filthy creature but he hadn't any chance. He felt the hand of the orc in his hair, felt it grabbing his diadem and ripping it out of his hair. Thranduil barely felt the pain the ripping out of some strands of his hair caused because it was negligible compared to the burning pain in his chest. The orc moved away a little, focusing on the diadem in his hand, turning and twisting it and Thranduil decided to use the state of distraction of the orc to his advantage, bringing his hand nearer to where he remembered the abandoned sword had lain, all the while watching the orc in front of him. Suddenly the eyes of the orc moved from the diadem to Thranduil's arm and with a quick movement the orc drove his blade through it, pinning it to the ground. Thranduil couldn't avoid a cry of pain leaving his mouth as he felt the blade driving through his flesh.

"I told you not to think of it, Elvenking!", the orc hissed, spattering his foul saliva on Thranduil's face.

He put the diadem on his head, grinning, while he drew a second blade.

"Now, I'm the king and you are going to die!"

He raised the blade ready to strike and Thranduil's thoughts were racing. He couldn't die, he couldn't leave Legolas alone, not yet!

Make use of the resources you have!

What resources did he have? He had nothing, nothing but himself and a dark and twisted mind… himself…

"I wouldn't do that!", he exclaimed, halting the orc, preventing the orc from burying his blade in his chest.

The orc looked at him doubtfully.

"And why wouldn't you, you scum?"

Thranduil swallowed for he couldn't believe what he was going to do.

"Because I'm like you!"

I'm like you. My soul is as dark and lost as yours and my face is so very similar to yours. Haven't you been created by breeding tortured and mutilated Elves? I am a tortured and mutilated Elf, mutilated by the Great Serpents of the North, tortured by what they had taken from him, the beauty and health that made an Elf an Elf, tortured by memories of past losses and atrocities he had had to witness, by the dull pain in his cheek, consumed by constant self-hatred for what he allowed to happen to his kin and himself, for his incompetence and his psychic weakness. But maybe just this once, his inner and outer ugliness would save his life. Maybe just this once he himself could rise above his self-hatred.

And with that he let go of the illusion that covered his missing cheek and his blind eye. He could see the bewilderment in the orc's eyes as the renowned beauty of the elves vanished from his face making room for the ugliness that was so similar to the disfigured features of these creatures. But in contrast to the orc, Thranduil didn't hesitate, but seized the opportunity. With all the strength he had left, he jerked his left arm free, grabbed the sword and with one swift move beheaded the orc before the miserable creature knew what was happening to him. He watched the head of the orc, crowned with his diadem, rolling down to the ground, away from him and out of his sight. With a sigh he let his head slump to the ground, feeling how exhaustion finally took over.

"Ada!"

Thranduil heard the scream and opened his eyes, only to look directly into his son's blue ones. Legolas was standing on the warg looking down on him, holding his two blades in his hands. They were stained with blood, as were Legolas' clothes, but since his clothes were still intact, he assumed it was the blood of their enemies. He was relieved beyond words. His son was unharmed, at least physically. And then he saw the colour drain from his son's face.

"Ada…", Legolas whispered horror-stricken, letting go of his blades then he jerked his head around.

"I need help! I need a healer!", he screamed.

He jumped down, landing next to his father, falling to his knees.

"Ada… what did they do to you?!"

Thranduil could see the despair in his son's eyes as he slowly reached out to touch his face but never making contact. And then it dawned on him. He never renewed the illusion after letting it down to irritate the orc. He was lying here, bloodied and buried beneath a warg with half of his face missing. What a sickening sight he must be and yet Legolas was sitting beside him, concerned for his wellbeing although he most definitely didn't deserve it, after pushing his son away as far as possible. He could see it in Legolas' eyes that he wasn't repelled by the ugliness of his father. He was afraid of touching him because he feared he would cause further harm. This wasn't going as planned. Legolas shouldn't still have such strong feelings for him, he shouldn't be kneeling beside him, fearing to lose his father. He had thought that by now he had erased all the love a son could feel for his father. He had thought he had been as distant and indifferent as possible, that by now Legolas would be more or less indifferent to losing his father. That Legolas would be able to kill him in case his dark side took over, in case he became insane, became a danger to others. Obviously he had failed miserably and he wanted to be angry at himself but instead it made him proud. Legolas had been able to preserve his love for his father even though he had tried nearly everything to destroy it. Legolas' believe in him had been stronger than his attempts of ruining their relationship. Legolas had been stronger than him. And worst of all, the Peredhel had been right.

"Ada, don't worry! A healer is coming!"

Legolas jumped to his feet again, looking around, looking for the ordered healer.

"Come quickly!", he screamed again, the fear of losing his father evident in his voice.

When he fell back on his knees his eyes wandered from his father's face to the warg and back again.

"Everything is going to be fine, ada!"

"Legolas…" He had to tell him.

"Don't father… save your strength! Everything is going to be fine!"

Thranduil knew that Legolas was saying this more to reassure himself than him. He could feel the panic rising in his son, the panic of losing him here on the battlefield, like he himself had lost his own father.

"Legolas!"

He grabbed his son's arm, forcing him to look at him.

"Legolas, it's an old injury!"

With that he again created an illusion, covering up the scared half of his face, presenting Legolas the face he had known all his life. Legolas looked at him disbelievingly.

"It's an old injury I have had for centuries…"

"Ada… I don't understand… You never told me… Why did yo–"

He was interrupted by a group of elves running around the warg, coming to help their king. And while Legolas backed away, making room for the healer his eyes never left the eyes of his father. And it felt like for the first time in his life he was able to see the true self of his father, the King of the Woodland Realm.