The years in Gondolin passed as if it were all a beautiful dream; yet even that dream turned into a nightmare. But the next memory that came clearly to Thranduils mind grew into a forest, and the cool dark reaches of Nan Elmoth revisited.

It hadn't been so quiet in a long time. The past few years had been hard for Thranduil and Oropher. Yet; at the end of it all they had survived. Survived the sorrow, the death, the destruction. They had been forced to flee even Gondolin in the end, and sad rumour they heard of poor Sirion. But here in the deeps of Nan Elmoth they were removed from the wars of their world. Soon the roving orcs that now swarmed Beleriand as Morgoth asserted his unquestioned rule learned to avoid the ancient depths of Nan Elmoths forests. Those dark depths where unwary parties would disappear without trace. Some said a 'scorpion' had gotten them, others believed it to be the children of Ungoliant, and as there was nothing of value there the servants of Morgoth were glad to give it up without contest.

Yet; there was now a great stirring in the world. As the long winter began to fade tidings of war began to rumble in the west near the sea; rumour of a great host that had at last reached the eastern shores. And while the two elves lurked in shadows they heard whispers among the dark servants of the Army of Aman turned out, and while the fell-beasts quivered with fear the news was met with trembling excitement by the pair. But in the end Thranduil thought little of it, no longer caring for the politics of the world so long as he could forge and live in peace. Oropher however seemed troubled and often stared into the sunset as if in great longing. And one day he spoke to his son:

"Long have we lingered here. Yet I feel now the shaking of the Powers, for they surely have come back to us now at he end of the age. And I hear the call of their horns which I once heard long ago beyond the sea...and I must answer."

Thranduil was grieved to hear this. He knew that his father had come from across the sea with Galadriel herself as part of her bodyguard, for though he had often hidden it from all who asked he himself was of the Teleri - and the only oath he had swore was one promising to see the lady of the house of Finarfin - for Galadriel was a daughter of the Teleri - to the far shore, and this he had done, at great grief to himself for the crimes that had been committed against his people.

Yet he spoke; "Did I not say that I would not have us parted again? So...if it is that you must answer this call, then I must follow you."

"Thank you my son...and I am sorry." Oropher spoke, for he felt deep in his heart that neither of them would return to the quiet woods of Nan Elmoth. For the last time they closed the stone house and bearing only their armour and what food they could carry they left for the west, toward the sound of marching horns headed north to where the great shadows lie, tracking through ominous forests as silent as wraiths.

And at the rivers shore where the Forest of Brethil and the Forest of Neldoreth met, to the north of the Esgalduin and west of fallen Menegroth; three days into their journey Thranduil and Oropher met the host of the Valar in their march to Anfauglith. And it was wondrous to behold, for Thranduil had never seen the shining silver-white armour decked tightly with silver and jewels and banners of fine dyed and heavily embroidered silk from the Undying Lands. And he beheld upon mighty horses the High Elven Kings; Ingwion - son of Ingwë and King of all Elves. At his side rode Finarfin, High King of the Noldor in Aman and father to Galadriel. Both were golden haired and proud and beautiful to behold, possessed of the easy grace of those who have ruled all of their long lives. They took no notice of the elves from the forest.

Long did Thranduil stand and stare at the host and he was overwhelmed - for he had never felt so lowly, so common before such splendor. But Oropher moved at once as a familiar sight caught his eye - and he called out loudly;

"Oromë, Oromë hunter under starlight! Hear my voice and remember me!"

And a mighty rider on a white horse turned amid the host, golden hooves flashing toward them. The Vala cut swiftly through the crowd on his steed, towering over the smaller race as if they were children to him. His eyes burned with fierce light but his face was kind and lit with the light of Aman that was blinding to behold. Thranduil was aghast at his fathers brazenness - for he had never himself even heard the voice of a Vala, let alone had the gall to call one by name as if he were a close friend. And so he stood petrified by the trees as the holy one approached. Yet Oropher was filled with joy. Oromë spoke with a voice as pure as a light horn.

"I remember all elves whom I have heard but once, and know all their names once they have spoken them. But your face I do not recall; yet are you not Oropher?"

"Yes! I am Oropher who left long ago for the protection of Artanis, noble daughter of Finarfin!"

And Oromë lifted him up with gladness as if the elf were only a small child barely old enough to walk.

"Oropher! You've grown!" He laughed. "Have you come back to join us?"

"I have! And another with me, though I believe you've terrified him already." The elf laughed, and to Thranduils horror pointed him out. "My son is there, Thranduil - whom you have not yet met. His mother is of our Telerian Eastern kin."

Like all Valar Oromë was fond of elves and could not miss an opportunity to meet a new one. For no matter how many he met the experience was always a novel one. And so he dismounted from his fine horse and approached, but with the caution of one who is trying not to be too eager so as to scare away a skittish creature. It was a while before Thranduil could be coaxed out of the comfortable woods and into the open. Of course by this time the sight of a holy Vala attempting to sweetly pry a very skittish and young elf from the forest had gathered quite a bit of attention. The distraction was used as a temporary break ( much to the relief of their worn feet) and in that time Oropher was joined with Finarfin and there related to him tidings of his daughter.

"Come now, we have a war to fight! I cannot sit here all day!" Oromë stated at length. "Or perhaps we should simply leave you until we've finished giving Morgoth his due?"

And Thranduil knew that his father may just leave without him and the thought chilled him. For he did not know deep in his heart if his fathers love would be enough to keep him in Middle Earth for the sake of his son. Furthermore he had his own grudge against the dark lord and would not suffer to be known as a coward who ignored an opportunity to fight against him - especially at Oromë's behest.

Slowly he came from the dark woods and stood before the host. And so, Thranduil and his father joined with the host of the Valar. Yet; for all his wonder. Horror was to join it in his memories.

From afar Thranduil espied his father, the shining helm of Oropher rising above the dark clouds of battle. His sword rang with a piercing sound of humming steel as it clove apart dark iron helms, breaking through the dark spells of malice along with the orcish skulls beneath. And the black blood of the orcs could not dispel the white light around the Elf-Lord in his wrath and among those who fell there were some that glimpsed the kingly stature in their dread foe that the wear of years would bring to fruition.

Yet Thranduil was far from his father and for all Orophers bravery he could never hope to stem the tide alone. And so with sharp strokes of Anguirel the elf cut through the enemy in wide swaths. With each fell stroke his enemy was torn apart before him and where before his armour had been of dull black it now shone as polished stone with the slick blood of those he had slain. A strange tool in the mire caught his eye - a cruel looking weapon of rough but durable steel hooks connected by a thick chain. A weapon to snag and break rather than cut. A break in the battle came and Thranduil saw his chance. There was a massive wolf not far from him, it's bloody teeth gnawing through the throat of a golden haired Vanyar who could do little but clutch desperately at coarse fur until his head at last rolled away into the bloody mire. It was a wild, desperate thought that struck him - but what he needed now most was speed above all else running forward he grabbed up the strange weapon, the greasy blood-soaked grip dripping sickeningly in his hand as he ran towards the snarling beast. As he watched the wolf it turned to snap at yet another elf, deadly hunger in it's eyes. Thranduil struck, landing squarely on the wolfs back. With all of his strength he dug the strange weapon deep into the beasts neck just where it met the body - it's howls of anguish deafening in his ears. It reared with his weight, snapping and snarling with red foam as it sought to throw him, but the cold steel hooks it found twisted into it's back went deep on either side and with a great howl of rage and pain it raced off across the battlefield in a blind panic. Thranduil steered it with all his strength as it ran, the rough links bitting into his hands with every twist of the chain. The towering form of his father was his target, the elf's shining armour a beacon amid the darkness.

But on high a dark shadow swept down upon from on high, and glancing up the young elf knew true horror. For the heavens turned to starless black dripping with poison and malice and lined with sharp scales of iron. The sweep of the mighty wings stretched from one horizon to the other as the greatest dragon ever to live glided over the battle, it's unmoving wings forcing the air before it down with a crushing pressure that caused friend and foe alike to the ground.

Thranduil drove the wolf on harder, yet he had no need for the animal was terrified and fleeing in blind panic, driving hard toward the Black Gate of Angband. There was a blur as something large and dark flew past him but he ignored it and raced on. The wolf crested a mound and below was a deep slope into a trench. With a great lunge it leapt, Thranduil clinging desperately to it's back, face buried in reeking fur. He could only hope it's own sense of self-preservation would save them both.

Yet as they fell through air Thranduil turned his head to his right, eyes wide.

Balrogs were there, their fire leaping towards the black scaled heavens that loomed like a floating fortress above. But much nearer was a dark silhouette in the encircling fire. Taller than any elf, broad of shoulder and strong. Clad in armour of dark black iron of the finest calibre - the likes of which few outside of Aman had ever seen. In that glimpse Thranduil noted; oddly, that despite the chaos the figure stood without helm in the midst of deep fighting and his hair was of true-flame color that shimmered with light like a bon-fire even as the glow of the Balrogs radiance illuminated it. And for just a moment he turned just his head and Thranduil though he caught the faintest glimpse of golden eyes wreathed in flame.

Thranduils world became blurred by sudden pain that blackened his vision, his head pounding with an unbearable agony. Falling to his left he grasped tight onto his only lifeline - the chain in his hands and at the sudden pull the wolf missed it's aim with a horrific screech cut short as the hook embedded in the right side of it's neck sliced through, severing vital arteries. The creature crashed to the earth and both steed and rider rolled along the ground. Thranduil at first didn't realize he had fallen, nor that he lie motionless in the thick of battle, for all that he had ever known or thought or felt had fallen into a dark abyss of agony and despair.

The heel of a steel shod boot jolted him from the blackness of his mind and back into the chaos of the fields before the black gate. In an instant the orc responsible was minus one limb and in another his head.

Thranduil was alive again, wonderfully, mercifully alive. Yet the thrill of realizing he had not woken in Mandos' halls were replaced by a more urgent exultation, he was now a short distance from his father. And seeing his son through the crush of striving steel Oropher let out a cry of fierce triumph. In moments Thranduil was at his side and there they began to wreak vengeance upon their foes - for if one was deadly in anger then two were an unstoppable Maelstrom of sharpened blades. Their dance created a swath around them as they wove around each other, always moving as if their minds were yoked together - two elves acting as one unified foe. The orcs cried out in dismay as the two opened a path back to their own forces. And the elves of Aman who saw hearkened to their cries for aid and swarmed in.

But a harsh wind like a hurricane slammed into the forces, sending dust swirling madly so that all had to close their eyes. There was the heavy sound of hardened scales striking tempered steel and a wave of elves were thrown back by the lash of a long serpentine tail. And Oropher was one of those, his body striking against the rocky wall to their rear. As he lie motionless several yards away a cry went up among the quendi of all houses and they raced in their retreat, Thranduil was jostled in the bodies of the fleeing but he alone looked back and saw those behind him wither in an unseen flame.

Quickly he ducked, covering his head as best he could with his armoured arms. A blast of heat engulfed him in a burning embrace, the smell of charred flesh and hot steel was forced by the hot dry wind into his gasping lungs. He heard the screams so eerily silenced in only moments and fell to his knees with the pressure of the blast. Pain came to him again as his face burned, even as he gave a cry he felt the left half of his face crackle into nothingness.

But the blast was then over, and he choked out gasp of anguish, hands held to the blackened skin.

"Well now...and what is this? A strange thing to have happen."

The voice echoed and thrummed with dark power and the air hung thick with malice and blight, as if they were under a pestilent fog sent only to suffocate and strangle all that breathed. Sulfur reeked in the air and combined with the stench of burned flesh, hair, bone, wood and leather to the point where Thranduil could feel the pang of bile in his throat - but was horrified of what damage it would do on already wounded flesh.

Trembling, he stood on quaking legs that threatened to buckle any moment. He faced his comrades who were ever increasing the distance, their eyes gazing high above his own head. And so he turned then and Thranduil beheld a sight terrible to behold. For a wall of thickly ridged silver scales met his vision, streaked with both the bright red blood of elves and deep black blood of orcs. It was smeared with soot and mud and fouler things from the field of battle. And up the wall crept, arching high above him to a narrow muzzled head set almost delicately on the end of a long swan-like neck. Though this dred-swans mouth was ringed with teeth as long as spears and a menace was in it's moon-white eyes set in dark sockets.

The dragon laughed a thundering rumble, it's mocking lips pulled back to reveal it's fearsome teeth.

"And what is this? An elf? Yet clad in fine armor you bear no insignia of noble mark. No sign of your lineage. The elves whose corpses litter this field are clad in a monotony of mithril and steel...yet you bear an odd armour: sable, un-blazoned, and glittering with a dark light."

This last the dragon purred over, and as it spread it's own malevolent miasma thicker Thranduil felt his armour quake and shiver in resonant response, yet Anguirel shivered and crackled with bloodlust in his hands, for dragonsblood it desired above all others. A throaty chuckled rippled through the air as Thranduil stared down the fell beast with what eye remained to him, for the other was burned shut. And it grinned at him once more.

"Now I am curious, who are you? I do not remember seeing you in the Hells of Iron, yet you are nothing like these naive fools from Aman. Tell me, are you friend or foe?"

Thranduil in his heart knew it was a trick of the enemy, for dragons are full of guile and subtlety. For this dragon knew he was not the same as his Elder kin, yet also knew he was no servant of the Dark Lord.

It means to tempt me. The thought ached suddenly in his chest. For if I say no it will strike and kill me as a foe, but if I say yes I may yet be spared - but disgraced in front of my kin and branded traitor.

For it's part the dragon showed no hurry, no rush. For even the orcs that swarmed around it would not dare deprive a dragon of it's quarry.

"I should not expect this to be a hard question, elf. Whom do you serve?"

And Thranduil stood tall. "No one. I serve none but myself. No Lord of Aman nor Lord of Darkness do I owe allegiance to."

To this the dragon purred. "No one to serve? No master? Such amusing thoughts you elves will entertain. For you are all nothing but slaves in the end, whether in Aman or Angband it makes no difference. You're all the same."

And Thranduil brandished his sword, now screaming for dragonsblood in his furious grip. "I have no Lord, Dragon! And I am no slave!"

At this the dragon turned it's head and with a barking laugh it lowered it to peer closely at the impudent elf.

"I suppose with such bold words you are no slave...not yet at any rate..."

And at this Thranduils mind was swarmed with a darkness so great he felt as though he had been plunged into an eternal night devoid of dawn. His mind ached with the pressure of the dragons dark spell and through his head echoed it's mocking voice, echoing through the confines of his own consciousness. He could feel that sentience probing, prying for knowledge, for any weakness to exploit. And though Thranduil tried to shut his will against it the beast found chinks in the armor and with mockery in it's thoughts pried them wide open. Dredging his deepest and most personal memories for anything it could use to destroy him.

So. Elf. What is your name?

Thranduil tried to close his mind, tried to shield himself from the thoughts that tore through his brain.

"No matter, I'll know in a moment."

There was a shock of pain as the dragons mind delved deeper.

"Thranduil...Elvish names are so...boring. I'll name you something better when I've had time to think. So tell me, Thranduil, where are you from?"

And once again his will strove with the dragons. But each barrier he made was torn down, every defence raised shattered and every bulwark destroyed as the dragons will endlessly, relentlessly searched his mind as easily as if it were it's own.

"Menegroth, thousand-caves. You like subterranean dwellings then?" It purred. "Perfect...I have an arrangement for you. Would you care to see it?"

"No! I will not -"

But his mind suddenly beheld memories of dark volcanic stone polished into twisted and horrible forms, as if the living rock had been bent to some dark will. And though the shapes arched with beauty they were also echoing with despairing cries of the tortured and enslaved. A high domed hall he saw wreathed with chains glinting in pale torchlight from iron braziers. And a dark spiked throne raised above black polished floors in triumph.

"I'll admit it has been a long while since I last saw the Nethermost Hall, I was a mere hatchling there all those centuries ago. Yet I hear it is no less splendid. I think you'll find the architecture quite to your liking."

"I will not go with you!"

The dragon laughed with cruelty echoing in his mind in painful bellowing tones. "I don't think that's up to you. But if courtesy won't avail me in this..."

Thranduil's mind burned with fire, as if his very Fëar had been set alight with black devouring flame. All time seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl, every second an age. He began to lose every memory of light and joy he had ever known in this world of anguish. He could see his father slain, his kin dead. Everyone he loved scattered to the winds. He walked through dark stone halls teeming with orcs for centuries without end. And he knew what horrors awaited him there, burning whips, glinting blades, iron shackles; all wielded with cruelty and malice by a thousand ugly and twisted faces. Thranduil could no longer remember the sound of water, the taste of food, the feeling of wind, for he had always been here in darkness and despair had he not? He had always walked dark halls and obeyed the will of his master. It was so natural, it had always been this way. And he could hear always the voice of his master calling his name.

"Thossë...who do you serve?"

For a moment there was silence, the question confused him. He served who he always had.

"I...serve my master."

The dragon hummed with pleasure. "And who is that? Who is our great master?"

"My master...he is..."

Words failed him then as he strove to remember, who was his master? And a vision appeared to him of a power dark and terrible, and in that vision was a tall form clad in black iron, wearing a black crown upon his raven head, and his eyes burned...

"My master is -"

Sudden pain shocked him and he clutched at his left eye, already wounded from dragon-fire but now inflamed as if pierced with a knife. And as he fell again to his knees he heard a terrible roaring of agony and rage as the dragon spewed fire and black spells and hateful words.

A lance embedded in it's left eye it twisted and turned with echoing screams that rang from the very peaks of the Thangorodrim. And attached to that lance was a proud elf; golden hair flying as a banner in the wind as he drove the pole in deeper even as the beast thrashed. It was terrible to behold as the winged wyrm strove with the proud elf. Deep in the silver dragons chest sprouted a blossom of angry orange that began to glow like the light of an inferno as flames kindled deep in it's heart. Thranduil forgot his pain, forgot his sorrow and instead remembered his total and unabated rage - rage at being torn apart, his mind shredded as if it were no stronger than paper. Above all this was the rage of what this monster had almost made him swear against his own will...

Thranduil lunged forward, black sword flashing with malevolant glee. It practically leapt from his hands, he was merely being pulled along by it's intense will to sink deep into flesh and bone. Above him the dragon reared back, red heat radiating from it's belly as it prepared to loose a deadly blast of flame. Anguirel sparked as it clove through plated scales and hide alike, burrowing deep into the chest of it's foe. The crack of bone sounded loudly in Thranduils ears as he drove the sword in even to it's hilt. The flames erupted around the wound and the elf jumped free, his task completed. Staggering with flailing wings and twisting neck the dragon cried in bitter rage as the organs by which its fire was kindled burst and it began to burn within, flame and stinking poison blood pooling beneath it's stamping feet as it spun wildly. Oropher tried his best to hold fast but suddenly he was thrown with one powerful shake of the head and with it's freedom the dragon with pained roars fled to the sky.

"CURSE YOU MISERABLE ELVES! I WILL SEE YOU ALL BURN! DOWN TO THE LAST! I WILL SHOW YOU THE MEANING OF PAIN!"

Yet even as it cursed them it flew away with all haste to Angbands safety, leaving the field of battle far behind.

Oropher picked himself up from where he had fallen, his body aching and weak. Yet he stumbled over to his son who lie curled on the ground and quickly rolled him over; biting back bitter tears as he looked upon his mangled face. Thranduil shook - his one eye wild and searching, his breath tense and quick with panic. For the dreams of the dragon still held a powerful sway on him and had not yet entirely cleared - his act of valour being pure instinct alone.

"Thranduil...my son." Oropher wept, even as he chanted spells of healing.

The forces of Aman surrounded them. Bright clad warriors raced ahead even as they stood still amid the flood, like a solemn island amid a great river. And before too long the healers at the rear arrived to tend who could yet be saved. And Thranduil they took up with them - so the two were removed from the field of battle. In a haze, his mind still in tatters Thranduil barely recalled a great dark mountain falling from the heavens, the trembling of the earth as it struck. He heard in his ears the proud calls of eagles on the wing and the rallying cries of Elves in the tongue of Aman.

Yet...something was out of place. Amid the healing light was a voice not of the past. Slowly it spoke spells of soothing and peace to him and from the light a vision appeared of an old friend.

Celeborn smiled back at him. "Thranduil my friend...come back."

And Thranduil took his hand, his troubled eyes closed and he passed into a white light and for a moment knew nothing.

Authors Note:

Forever and a day. Holy heck. Work needs to give me more time to write fanfiction. Better yet, they need to pay me for it. ^.^

(will probably go back and re-spell check / edit this when it isn't 12:30 am.)

Authors note note: Yeah, I re-checked it at 01:00 am because I suddenly realized I'd left out something very VERY important to the plot. *facepalm* Now that's fixed.

(and edited once more for the lulls - and to clean up some typos)