I do not own any of the characters or The Hobbit (Just the AU storyline and my OC). Those are the work of the esteemed and brilliant John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, and without his genius, this and many other fanfics would not be in existence.

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King Thranduil slowly paced along the underground shore of the Forest River, his mind deep in thought. His silver-booted feet passed silently across the soft, moss-covered bank. The soothing sound of rippling water just managed to dim the cacophonous noise emanating from the other side of the great cavern, where thousands of elves were passing through the tall elven gates.

People often thought that he crossed his arms over his chest to look imposing and intimidating. In reality, it was a defensive stance, a reflection of the intrusion he felt whenever someone got too close to him and his personal sanctuary. His arms were in such a stance now, as he strongly felt his home was being invaded. Indeed, it was…only he was the one who ordered it in the first place! He had no choice- the spiders coming up from the south were killing his people. As the noise once again reached his ears, he groaned.

Is this really necessary? He thought to himself grumpily. These halls are not big enough for the amount of people coming in. There are so many now. Not like before…

His mind suddenly went back to a time long ago. A time…when he had to lead a limping, decimated and discouraged army back home. A time…before he was a king.

He had tried to warn him, tried desperately to reason with him. But Oropher wouldn't listen. His hatred of the Noldor was matched by his son, and for good reason. The Sons of Feanor had destroyed their home. Their armies had slain their people, raped their lands, killed their king…and killed Oropher's wife and daughter in cold blood. Thranduil's mother and sister. Dead, slain in the back as they fled…and all because of the cursed silmaril Beren the Adan had given Thingol as a bride-price for the hand of Lady Luthien.

But Thranduil knew that High King Gil-galad wasn't responsible for their deaths, or the Kinslaying at Doriath. He had come to stop the Feanoreans at the Havens of Sirion, and defend the survivors of Doriath, but he was too late. He also knew that the hordes of Mordor were so great, and the Dark Lord so powerful, that the Last Alliance army would need to remain united under one banner at all costs, or else face ruinous destruction. He hated the Noldor, too, but he wasn't foolish enough to think that their ill-equipped Silvan army could take on the hordes of hell by themselves, and survive. Boiled leather could not withstand the onslaught of iron-forged armor.

He had tried to warn him, but to no avail. Oropher's hatred was too great, his fury too hot, his pride too strong, to yield to the authority of Gil-galad the Noldo King. He rushed headlong into the fray, refusing to await Gil-galad's signal, and his loyal army followed him. Death was their reward, the recompense for their loyalty, and it was disbursed with relish. Thranduil had followed, too, not out of loyalty to a king, but rather, loyalty to his beloved, if foolish, father.

Many thousands of elves perished in those seven years of war. Oropher was killed on the first day, the first of many to fall. Thranduil suddenly found himself thrust into the role of commander, and he did everything he could to help them survive, short of walking away from the battle entirely. He should have. He should have walked away, and spared what was left of his people. But he did not. The threat of Sauron was too great, the risk of losing everything else too high. One-third of their army was lost that first day. Another third were lost over the next seven years of darkness and despair.

One third of their army survived. One third came home. One third…of ten thousand.

The young king did not have time to grieve. He could not sail. He had no heir, no one to claim the throne. His father's actions decimated their people. He could not leave them alone to pick up the pieces of their ruined lives, after his own kin's actions had destroyed them. He could not find solace from the horrors he had seen. He had to take the throne, as his birthright. There was no one left who was competent enough to do so. No one left who was skilled enough to protect what was left of their kin. No one else…who could keep them safe.

He had to keep them safe.

Thranduil looked toward the south, and the cavern before him grew dimmer. He had seen the horrors of Mordor, and could not forget it. His arms tightened around his chest, his grip strengthened. News of the spiders had filled him with far more unease than he let on. Even his own son wasn't fully aware of just how much the news of the foul beasts worried him. Dark things stayed in the shadows, lurked within them, fearful of entering the light. When they grew bolder, it meant something else whispered in the shadows, beckoning them.

He had seen darkness in Mordor, and he could not forget it. Fear spoke in his heart, fear that it was not forever conquered, that it would return. Some said it would not. They seemed sure of it. Even Saruman the White, an emissary of the Valar themselves, was convinced that it would not. But Thranduil could not stop the unease he felt. Somehow, defying all logic, he just knew…he would be back. The spiders were a sign, a sign of unrest. It could be nothing. But he feared it was not so.

He would do what his father did not, no matter how much it discomfited him. He would keep his people safe, even if it meant opening his halls to twelve thousand people. Even if it meant setting stonemasons to work day and night to carve out new homes for them out of living rock. Even if it meant noise where there was formerly sweet, blissful silence. His Halls were a fortress, a refuge. Built with strong gates that could be sealed by magic, thick stone walls, a clear river that ran through bearing barrels of goods and cool water, and no vulnerabilities to the outside world. Plenty of fresh air, light, out of vents that spiders and dragons could not fit through. It did not match the splendor of Menegroth, for nothing could surpass the wonderous beauty of the kingdom of a thousand caves. But it was safe.

No one could enter, and no one could leave without his blessing. His fortress was impenetrable, the only entrance heavily guarded by the most skilled soldiers his army had, save for those of his royal guard. It was safe, secure, well-aired, well-lit, with running water and food aplenty, courtesy of their fruitful and mutually-profitable relations with the Master of Esgaroth. The world outside could fall into darkness for a time once more, and he and his people would survive it, just as they have survived everything else through the ages. Even if the world of Men fell, the elves had their forest, and the cavern would protect them all.

They were elves, immortal, fair, and wisest of all beings. And they would outlast the darkness, in the safety of the Elvenking's Halls. A loud crash and some angry shouts reached his ears, and he winced.

They would outlast it. Even if it was absurdly loud in the meantime.

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Ori groaned as the branch dug into his shoulder. The dwarves had been carrying the sleeping Bombur for two days, and they were all praying to every Valar they could think of that he would awaken soon, and walk on his own two feet!

It took no less than six of them to carry the corpulescent dwarf on a makeshift cot, and Cira and Bilbo were not strong enough to help. They were by no means shirking, either. Because half the dwarves had to carry Bombur at a time, the other half, including the young woman and hobbit, had to carry the rest of their supplies. At the midday break, they would eat, then switch things around so that the other half of the dwarves carried the unconscious dwarf, and they carried the supplies. Overall, they were all quite tired of the whole affair.

"Oi, Bofur!" Nori grunted behind him. "When he finally wakes up, do you think you can get him to stop eatin' so blasted much?"

"Aye!" Gloin heartily agreed, shifting the weight on his shoulder. "He weighs as much as a fat pony!"

"It's not my fault he fell into the water!" Bofur responded angrily, his hat bobbing to one side as he shifted the cot on his own shoulder. Bifur glared at them from ahead, where he was carrying both his cousin's, and his brother's packs, in addition to his own.

"We don't know if he's even going to wake up," he growled angrily in Khuzdul.

"He'll wake up," Balin interjected, his voice a little less grumpy than the others. He alone maintained a little bit of optimism. "I've heard of this stream before. It makes people sleep, but it doesn't kill them." Dwalin nodded in agreement.

"Aye, he's right," he affirmed. "I heard that, too, when we lived in Erebor." Ori gingerly stepped over a loose cobblestone.

"How long is he going to sleep?" he asked Balin. The elder shrugged, though it was hardly visible under the extra packs he was carrying.

"Days, probably," he replied as he stepped over a fallen branch. "Maybe even weeks." A loud squeak sounded behind him.

"Weeks?!" Fili exclaimed, the blonde prince also helping carry the sleeping dwarf.

"You mean we're gonna have to carry this fat sod for weeks?!" Dori sounded beside him. "I say we leave him here!" Bofur glared at him.

"You are not going to leave my brother in this Mahal-forsaken—" he began, his voice growing louder.

"Enough!" Thorin growled from the front. The dwarf king rubbed his hand over his face wearily. Ori noticed that even he had taken a turn carrying the cumbersome cot. "We're not leaving anyone behind, especially in this forest." The young scribe wasn't certain, but he was almost sure he heard a few select curses muttered under the king's breath as he turned away, including one very unflattering comment about Bombur's ample girth.

That was all he had heard for the past two days, and it was almost as wearying as carrying, as his elder brother put it, the 'fat sod'. He thought back to Bofur's comment by the river, when he said that he didn't think their luck could get any worse. He heartily disagreed at this point. The young scribe could not imagine their luck growing any worse than it already had. What could be unluckier than carrying a dwarf who weighed as much as three dwarves?

"Missing that stag." Ori didn't realize he'd been muttering out loud, until Nori spoke up behind him.

"Aye," he lamented as his stomach growled. "Just imagine! Eating roast stag again, straight off the bone, with the fat dripping down your fingers." The trees rang with the groans of the entire company.

"If only Kili and Thorin hadn't missed it," Gloin grumbled. "Even if we were stuck carrying Bombur, at least we would have had meat in our bellies again!" Kili's head whipped around indignantly.

"I didn't miss it on purpose!" he snapped. "And I'm sure Thorin didn't, either!" Gloin rolled his eyes.

"Well, you didn't try very hard now, did you?" he snapped back. Ori's eyes widened in shock. Only a fool questioned Kili's skill with a bow, and they all knew it.

"Don't you dare—" Kili began, but his brother cut him off.

"Leave it, Kee," Fili warned, grunting under the weight of the cot. Fortunately for the merchant, Gloin was Thorin's cousin, else there would be more than daggers being shot his way from the young dwarf's furious brown eyes. Silent, the young dwarf turned and continued on without any further comments.

The scribe signed in frustration. His book bumped against his hip, where it lay safely tucked into a satchel, along with his ink and quill. When they had set out from Ered Luin on this quest, he, like the others, had envisioned a great journey to reclaim their homeland, filled with acts of bravery and renown. He had hoped his book would contain grand stories and great feats, not filled with tales of pouring rain, nearly being eaten by trolls, captured by orcs, nearly losing several members of their company, blizzards, near-drownings, sleeping in an ice house, shapeshifting bears, foul, festering, stinking forests, and carrying fat, sleeping dwarves.

Is this quest even something worth writing about? He thought to himself as his shoulder ached, and the others fought around him. Are we even going to get to Erebor? And, if we do, are we going to even be able to defeat the dragon?

He looked around, seeing nothing but fourteen miserable, wretched-looking, weary and grumpy people. And trees…so many trees. As far as the eye could see…nothing but trees, grumpy dwarves, a filthy hobbit with a ripped waistcoat that was missing buttons, a skittish young woman who looked like she was about to jump out of her skin at the slightest movement in the trees, and one blissfully oblivious, fat dwarf happily asleep and snoring extremely loudly.

We're doomed, aren't we?

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Thank you all for reading! Please review, favorite, and follow! Also check out my published historical fiction novel, Amazing Grace by Amanda Longpre' on Amazon! Happy reading! : D : D : D