If you would prefer to read in the order of the timeline, there are two one shots about Thranduil during his time living in Doriath that act as optional prologue material to this. Those can be found in my bio. I'm especially proud of Untested!
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Chapter 1: The Forest Has Eyes
Greenwood the Great, Beginning of the Second Age
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Greenwood the Great was not like the forests of Doriath. They had been spacious and full of birdsong. Long shafts of sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling stretches of ferns or illuminating the waters of clear streams. The animals had been fat and slow, for they had grown in the safety of the Girdle of Melian, untouched by the blight that spread out from Thangorodrim. Thranduil and his friends could walk for hours along well-maintained paths that led to and from Menegroth.
But this wood was different. The air was close – warm and humid like a beast breathing down Thranduil's neck. The thick branches of the trees were crowded with dripping moss and vines. They loomed around him so tightly that in some places the shadows were as deep as falling evening. The forest floor was cluttered with the rotting corpses of fallen trees, thick with fungi and insects.
Thick mats of brambles grew in any empty space. They clung to Thranduil's cape and ankles as he muscled his way through. He took a step and small snakes burst into movement, slithering across his path before disappearing into drifts of dry, brown leaves.
He'd thought a forest would at least be familiar, unlike the strangeness of the havens by the sea. He had grown to hate the havens; the way the waves beat unceasingly like a great heart. As soon as the dawn inched up past the horizon, gulls would begin screaming, which lasted until nightfall.
The ocean had whispered and clutched at Thranduil, trying to drag him into the West against his will. He'd watched from the pier as the ship that carried his elder sister, Eluthel, into the West blinked out of view, his eyes burning and wet. But Thranduil was still young and burning with the fire of life. He'd fought the Call with all his might. He'd welcomed his mother's vision that they should remove to Greenwood the Great to start again, hoping it would feel more like home than that city full of strange elves beside the merciless sea.
But it did not. Nothing felt like home anymore.
His life had become one change after another, each relentlessly requiring him to learn new skills that he needed to be able to use long before he'd mastered them. For the better part of a century now, he'd felt like the rawest beginner. It seemed Greenwood the Great would give him no reprieve.
'Go and look for any signs of them,' Oropher had told him that morning, proudly sending his son on his own, just the way he would with older scouts.
Thranduil ground his teeth, imagining returning empty handed and bedraggled – spit out by this living wood with a bray of laughter at his back. But how was he to find these dark elves, these masters of the dreary glens and tangled canopies of which he knew little? They left no tracks and made no sound – unless the last survivors of Menegroth had not yet traveled deep enough into the forest to encounter them at all.
How much deeper must we go? he thought. A full moon had come and gone since they'd entered Greenwood the Great, and yet, for all their searching, the Nandor were nowhere to be found.
But he had been charged with looking for them, so he looked.
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Concealed behind a screen of foliage, Rauwen watched the tall elf fumble through her territory, as ungainly as a new fawn. He took a step and the earth sank under him, squelching. He wrenched his foot out of the sucking mud and stopped to inspect his boot, glaring at it. He tried moving to the side instead. A curious tree reached out a branch to pull his white-blond hair. He slapped it away, cursing at it under his breath.
He was the one who didn't belong. His sword looked comfortable in his hand – perhaps the only thing about him that looked comfortable at all. His gait belied a nimble fighter, or, he would be if he were on familiar ground. His steps were too large for the close spaces of this old forest. He was a stranger in her land, unbalanced and edgy, searching the shadows when he could manage to look up from his feet.
He looked back over his shoulder towards the distant sound of voices speaking. He sighed, faced forward again, and pressed on. He let the terrain herd him to the left, unheedful of signs that would be clear to anyone who knew what they meant.
Rauwen narrowed her eyes, letting her thoughts sort themselves out as she observed him. What was he doing here, sword drawn against empty air? Whose voices was he listening to when he considered turning back? What stopped him from joining them?
She raised an eyebrow as he walked straight into the trap, stepping into a bed of oak leaves beneath a pine grove without a care. The snare had been set for prey or roaming orcs, not this mincing Sindar boy in his tunic of once-fine cloth that had been reused far past its prime.
The rope didn't know the difference. It snapped tight around him, lifting him off the ground higher than even his own height. The vines that had been trained to follow it performed perfectly, constricting him like a snake.
He yelped and struggled, trying to move his sword arm to cut the rope. The vines gripped him tighter, forcing him to drop his blade. The harder he struggled, the more tightly they gripped him. They wouldn't stop until he could breathe so little that he could no longer move.
Rauwen shook her head. He would not stop, would he? Not despite everything telling him he ought to. She wouldn't care if it was an orc caught in her clan's defenses – she would let them strangle, until they were easy to dispose of.
She glanced back in the direction the boy had been looking. A light, elven voice laughed; another shushed it. It wouldn't do for her clan to have trouble with the Sindar without even speaking with them first, she thought.
The stories about the elves from beyond the mountains had trickled in, rumors carried by birds, then confirmed by scouts she'd sent out to investigate. There had been too much trouble between elves of late. As always, her people preferred not to be involved.
Voices colored with disbelief had passed the tales from one Silvan elf to another, telling them over and over around fires late into the night. The news was so disturbing she'd felt obliged to send messengers to the other clans without delay, watching her ranks thin as they spread out through the Greenwood to speak with the others. She did not like it, but it couldn't have waited. That year they'd spoken of almost nothing else at the leaders' gathering, but there had been nothing to be done. They'd gone home and waited. Years had passed since then.
The boy's growls interrupted her thoughts. Her eyes shifted and she stepped out from her hiding place to look up at him. She would have to release him and return him to his company. Hopefully, they were only passing through.
"Stop struggling, you are only making it worse," she said, trying to speak the Sindarin words crisply, as the grey elves did.
He jerked his head towards her. The vine wrapped itself around his throat.
"The harder you fight, the harder it will grip you. It will strangle you if you let it. Be still and I will release you, Sinda," she said. She didn't like this language. It rolled off her tongue wrong.
He went still, although his eyes followed her as she moved towards the rope that held him aloft. He was still breathing too fast, but he had control over his body. Rauwen had been teaching young elves long enough to know that it would have taken years of practice to be able to shift so quickly.
She stepped around so she faced him, letting him see that she would not come at him from the back. The vine pressed at his throat. He stayed silent.
She lowered him down, whispering the words of release to the vine in her own Silvan tongue. The vine crawled back into place, ready to spring at its next victim. Once they were taught such behavior, it was difficult to make them stop.
Rauwen kicked his sword towards him as he shed the net and stood as swiftly and gracefully as he could from such an ungainly position. Facing him, standing closer, she realized he was not as young as she'd first thought. Not a boy, no, and yet, he was young in his bearing, even if face spoke of greater years. He was even handsome – for a Sinda, she reminded herself. So pale.
He bent to retrieve his blade, keeping his eyes on her. They narrowed as his gaze shifted over her black hair and burnished skin.
"You are Noldo," he said. The muscles of his legs and back were tense, ready to spring forward if she lunged at him.
"I am not a kinslayer, Sinda," she spat. "You call us 'Nandor'" The unflattering name hung between them in the air.
She didn't sheath her sword, but he did. He raised his hands, gesturing 'peace.'
"Then you are the ones we are looking for," he said. "What do you call yourselves?"
"Why would you care what we call ourselves?" she asked. "And why would you be looking for us?"
"My father led us here. He is Oropher, son of Olwë. Do you know of them?"
Rauwen stared at him, blinking in disbelief. He did know that his people and hers were kin, however distant, didn't he? How could she not know who Olwë was? She'd even heard of Oropher – he'd been a youth when the eldest of her people had last seen him, before the split off from Olwë's company on the Great March.
She imagined correcting the Sinda, but she didn't want to antagonize him. She simply nodded instead.
"Will you return with me? My father wishes to speak with your leaders. You could take us to them. Then we can avoid any more unfortunate incidents with your people's traps," he said, his last words coming out with a bite to them.
She walked past him, letting him see her back so he'd know she didn't fear him. She headed toward the distant sounds of the Sindar who had invaded her territory.
"You ought to be able to avoid such traps yourself. I have never seen an elf so poor at woodcraft," she said. "Do you even look at the ground before you tread on it?"
He followed her, voicing a quiet scoff behind her back.
"Do you not wish me to show you where my people are waiting?" he asked, passing her in a few long strides. "Or will you not speak with us? My father will be disappointed."
"I know where your people are," she said. Did he not know how loud they were? Not just their voices, but the silence that surrounded them where the creatures and trees went quiet?
"And I do not answer to your father, son of Oropher," she added, letting just a hint of acid creep into her voice. He was as arrogant as every Sinda she'd ever heard of, demanding things of her when he had just walked into her home uninvited.
He paused, his eyes passing over her, crinkled in momentary confusion, as though it had never occurred to him that she might not bow before this stranger, no matter what 'royal blood' he might think he could claim.
When he began walking again, he caught up to her in two large strides. She could walk faster, but she chose not to. Oropher might be wiser than his son – less free with his words. She wanted to know why they'd come and why they were searching for the Silvans. Apprehension curled in her gut.
"I am called Thranduil," he said, his words no longer clipped but smooth and suspiciously friendly. "May I have your name, my lady? Or should I call you 'soldier'?" He glanced at her clothes, which she'd chosen for practicality, not for show.
"I am Rauwen," she said simply. He didn't need to know who she was.
"A 'Lioness'!" he said. "I did not know I was being stalked by such a fierce creature."
"You did not know you were being stalked at all," she said dryly.
He narrowed his eyes a little, standing up straight and lifting his chin. "Perhaps I did and perhaps I did not. Still, I found you, and that was the task set for me, so I have succeeded."
"A fascinating tactic, using yourself as bait. You could have just said 'hello'," Rauwen said, meeting his banter with her own. All the better for her if it kept him talking.
"What, just walk into the forest and speak greetings to the trees?" he scoffed.
"Why not?" she asked.
He stared at her, then made a noise deep in his throat that could not decide if it was a chuckle or huff. He seemed to have decided that she was joking – but she wasn't.
It was ludicrous to imagine, these elves who were deaf to the green voices, who couldn't tell when a pile of leaves was under the entirely wrong type of tree, settling into Eryn Galen. This forest was wild – beautiful – but wild.
They will never last, she thought. They couldn't possibly.
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Thranduil was still half of the mind that she was making fun of him, trying to get him to believe he should try speaking to trees.
'I have never seen an elf so poor at woodcraft,' she'd said! He was still chewing on that insult, but what could he say to her? He'd walked straight into her hunting trap like a meek little deer. No wonder she mocked him. He kept an eye on the ground in front of him, trying to walk gracefully through the detritus. The last thing he needed was to humiliate himself in front of her again.
Her steps looked effortless. Her soft shoes landed silently on dry leaves; she sprung off slippery looking rocks as though she was on flat ground. This elleth moved like she knew how to use that sword even between the close trees. He shivered looking at her crow's wing hair, a memory passing over him like a shadow of the son of Fëanor he'd fought on the day he lost his home.
She looked at him sideways, her deep brown eyes half-hidden behind dark eyelashes. She frowned slightly and began to open her mouth. A branch hit his forehead, tangling in his hair.
"Are you alright?" Rauwen asked after an awkward pause.
"This forest!" Thranduil muttered as he gripped the branch and pushed it away.
She scowled at him. "It is not the tree's fault – do not hurt it! You ought to look where you are going."
"I cannot look up and down at the same time," Thranduil groused, but he released the branch more gently.
He forced some sort of composure over his face. He could not convince her to come back to the Sindar camp with him if she thought him a complete was better than this. He would be better than this. He would make it so.
She sighed, shaking her head at him. "Where are you from?" she asked. "Is there no forest there?"
"We have just come from the Havens on Sirion, but we were from Doriath," Thranduil said, his stomach sinking for a moment thinking about Menegroth. "There was a very fine forest there, actually. It was more spacious than this one. Less cluttered!"
Rauwen snorted, but she didn't mock him. She gestured that he should follow her and led them through a stand of trees that had less undergrowth beneath them. She seemed to consider her words before she spoke again.
"We have heard stories of Doriath these past through years. They were not… good stories," she said gingerly.
Thranduil paused, frowning slightly in thought. He wasn't sure what to make of that. Was it sympathy, or an accusation? The important thing was that he was supposed to help his father contact the Nandor. Thranduil couldn't afford to be offended and scare off this lone huntress or soldier or whatever she was. He smoothed his face, coming up with words.
"You lost your home, did you not?" Rauwen said quietly.
Thranduil looked at her sharply, then away.
"Yes," he said. "I do not know what you have heard here, but perhaps you might give us the chance to tell our story for ourselves."
Rauwen nodded. Something wary in her eyes cooled a little. "That is the right of every person: to tell their story for themselves," she said.
Their eyes caught for a moment, some understanding passing between them. Rauwen moved forward again, breaking the contact.
He followed her, and she picked their way through a small, marshy hollow, where Rauwen led the way over a series of stepping stones Thranduil might not have noticed on his own.
"Where will your people go now?" She asked when they reached the other side.
"I – well, right now we are here to speak with your leaders. My father remembers King Lenwë fondly. I do not want to speak out of turn. It is my father and my mother who are leading us to our next chapter, not I," Thranduil said, thinking suddenly that he was not sure just how much he should say to this unknown elleth.
Enough to keep her interested in speaking with his father, that was the important thing. This chance meeting was progressing along fairly friendly terms, he thought – he was hopeful she had enough sway with her people to connect them.
"Hmm," she said.
"What were you doing out here?" He asked, suddenly curious.
She frowned at him lightly, looking him up and down with those canny eyes.
"You are in our home, I do not need to explain myself to you," she said calmly.
Thranduil raised his hands in surrender. "I agree, you do not. I was merely curious," he said.
Her features relaxed. She gestured for him to follow her through another stand of uncrowded trees. The voices of his people were getting louder – they were close now.
"I was just checking up on things," she said. She watched him as he took in her vague answer.
The way she kept watching him, hesitating, not speaking too much, keeping out of reach – she was like a cat that was not convinced he was worth its time. She might run off at any moment. To succeed for this father, to put her at ease, Thranduil would bear his own shame, he stood up tall, readying himself to take the hit.
"Checking your traps?" He said neutrally. "Did you catch anything of note?"
Rauwen's cool expression broke. She laughed, her voice clear and free, ringing through the woods like music.
"No, nothing worth telling about," she said, grinning.
Thranduil placed his hand on his chest in mock offense. "You would rather catch a deer than a Prince?"
"I can eat a deer," Rauwen said, still smiling at him. "You should know, though, that those traps are less for game and more for roaming orcs. They have started to come through in packs sometimes, and they are a menace."
"Oh!" Thranduil said, dropping the jest. "I thank you for the warning then. My father will be grateful to hear it from you. You know the terrain very well – as one might expect, as this is your home, as you say. Perhaps you might give us some guidance on where we should and should not go?"
"Perhaps," Rauwen said, thoughtful again. "You speak of your father a great deal. What is he like?"
Thranduil nearly tripped over a log looking up at her too quickly. What was that supposed to mean?
"He has seen much. He is a strong fighter, when it comes to that, although we do not seek it out. He advised the crown in Menegroth on the nobles' council through many of the trials of the First Age. We rely on his experience to guide us."
She looked at him oddly. "Impressive credentials," she said. "But what is he like?"
"I – do not know what you mean, madam," Thranduil said. He tried to think of other answers, but his thoughts about his father ran together. His mind went blank.
"Hmm," she said. She walked up to the end of a stand of thick pines that were all that stood between them and his people. Below them, down a small rise, the Iathrim were gathered in a makeshift camp where they'd been staying for four days.
Looking at them with the eyes of an outsider, Thranduil could see they looked pitiful. Their clothes were makeshift re-workings of court clothing that no longer had any use. Or, in some cases, salvaged guards' uniforms from Menegroth. They had few treasures with them. They had packed only what they needed, walking across the continent and through the Mountains of Mist to reach their destination. They were homeless elves, and it showed. He felt his heart sink.
Thranduil stood beside Rauwen and watched her face as she observed his people. She was silent, but her eyes moved purposefully from one side of the camp to the other. He couldn't read her expression, but she held herself as though she was ready for flight. It occurred to him that she might be difficult to beat in a sparring match – she moved like a nimble fighter. If this was what just a lowly huntress of the Silvans was like, how fierce were the rest of them?
He'd heard they could be savage, but she did not look entirely wild. Although her clothes were green and brown like the leaves around her, they were well made. They even had some simple embroidery on the hems and collar. A clever three-pronged belt held her sword, hunting knife, and quiver of arrows. She had a small leather purse at her had white flowers braided into her hair. He could smell a hint of their sweet perfume when he stood close to her.
She glanced up at him, standing only as high as his shoulders. Looking at her this closely, it occurred to him that she was quite comely, as ellith went. Her dark lashes framed her eyes. her mouth was full and wide, suited more for mirth than for the slight frown she wore looking down on his people's camp. The camouflaged hunting clothing she wore was flattering against the pale gold of her skin. She looked, he thought, like she belonged here. He could feel it, too, in the fëa sense. She made as much sense in this forest as the trees and birds did.
He refocused himself. "Please, come with me. Speak with my father. We would like the opportunity to know your people and to find King Lenwë so we might talk to him."
She waited a moment to speak. She started to walk away from him, then said, over her shoulder, "Not today, I think. I will tell my people about you. I will pass on the message that your leader wishes to speak with ours."
"But – how will we find you again?" Thranduil spluttered, beginning to panic that he was losing her this close to his goal.
She laughed. "You? Find me? You will not find us. We will find you."
"Should we stay where we are and wait?" He asked, calling at her as she began to slink through the trees, moving east.
She waved a hand back at him in dismissal. "No need to wait on our account," she said. "We will find you."
She disappeared into the shadows of the Greenwood just as silently as she'd arrived.
Thranduil considered running after her, but he thought it was no good. She had been annoyingly correct when she'd said that she was far beyond him in her skill at woodcraft. He expected she could evade him in this forest in a heartbeat – and it might antagonize her if he pushed too hard.
The young warrior groaned and looked back down at his father's encampment. Now he just had to go and tell Oropher that he'd found one of the Nandor – and promptly lost her again.
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Big thank yous to my beta readers, I love you and appreciate you so much!
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Terms:
"Iathrim" are the elves who lived in Doriath. They're often called 'Doriathrim" in fanon, but this is JRRT's term.
"Elleth" means a female elf. "Ellon" means a male elf. (Sindarin.)
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Notes:
Hello and welcome! I am really excited for this one! I hope you enjoy it! Reviews are welcome - I always love engaging with readers so much!
Welcome back if you're rejoining me after having read or followed The Forest in Winter or other Green Leaves & Bright Snow fics.! So glad to see you again! This is set in the same AU, but it's so many thousands of years before, and doesn't get into a lot of the 'creative license' extra-canon material that those do. It truly stands alone even though the characters can be found again in later stories.
This should be essentially canon compliant, or at least canon compatible. I do subvert the original notation around the Silvans elves being seen as kind of 'savage' and less-than the Sindar. To that end, Oropher and Thranduil's "kingship" as it will develop slowly over my time with them may not be 100% what you expect, but I think it will still work within what's in the little text there is about these characters.
Basic housekeeping: updates will be biweekly on Saturdays. I've been able to keep up with update schedules for my past long fics so fingers crossed I can keep it up again! I've got a little bit of a backlog so I'm feeling optimistic. I do not know how long this will be yet: long. I will potentially split this up into two stories after the first arc depending on how things are going by the time I get there - I expect that will be novel length by that point anyway.