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Mirkwood was burning. The flames reflected in Thranduil’s eyes, climbing high into the night. Perhaps he had started the fire, unfazed by the world dying around him.
But a bird shrieked in pain, a deer snapped a branch underfoot, the wood-elves cried in anger. Immense sorrow appeared in his face, a reluctant knowing that Legolas too might die in front of the Black Gate, that the kingdom might crumble into nothing. He had experienced it all before.
He grinned wickedly at you for a brief instant - seductive, chilling, “We fight.” The end was soon.
And his sword raised, flashing through the air, as if the silver was merely another part of his effortless movements. Grief lingered in his words, the memories of a young prince weeping over his father’s body, clutching desperately at the pale bloodstained hands, final breaths scorching the battered armour. And you saw he thought now of Aragorn and Legolas, out of reach and out of sight, and how his grief had prevented him from saving the Dunedain, their bodies already scattered on the battlefield.
A king too young to lead now stood wisened and wearied by the trials of time at your side.
A song murmured through the ground speaking of the sweet summer breeze, the scent of raindrops caught on the leaves, spring meadows shining with dew and moss underfoot. Thranduil. The world was ending in flames but you would die defending the Elvenking, watch your love seep into the barren earth and the coarse ash.
You barred your teeth cruelly, your blades in your hands - snarling if you too were another animal in the forest, ready to defend and die for the man you loved. Thranduil was at your side as the thunder rumbled and the rain began to lash your skin but the forest still burnt. Excitement flooded your veins, the fire and Thranduil’s presence warming your soul.
Magnificent, deadly, feral - his sword soared through the destruction and the smoke. Perhaps you were part of the destruction too, your armour glinting slightly in the flames. But Thranduil was uncontrollable and unyielding, a blizzard raging from the mountains, ravaging the forlorn grass and weeping trees - unstoppable.
The woodland elves are more dangerous and less wise than their kin.
A Silvan accent now tainted his voice, lilted with the breeze of the woodland and the taint of the Anduin. Lines sprawled across his shoulders, covering his body - Silvan marks of life, their ink cleansing the ruins of Beleriand from his soul.
But his name was still Sindarin and he stood watching again as the place he called home was burnt by wrath and evil. Perhaps his heart and soul belonged to the woodelves, his burning kingdom or the ruins of his first home. But the rest of him: every loose strand of flaxen hair, each wicked smile, any murmur of love belonged only to you.
“Whispers of sadness echo through these woods as if Nienna lovingly breathed on them herself,” he had paused briefly, arrows glancing off his sword - distant, desirable. “But she weeps for the endurance of the soul, your love scorches the hardship into soft summer rain.”
The dance of battle consumed you once more. His hair was braided with snow and platinum, his eyes made of the cool steel and the relentless flames, his face was every crevice and every path of Mirkwood. Smoke clouded your vision as silhouettes leapt through burning shadows with their swords drawn. Thranduil’s sword plunged deep into their hearts, sheltering you from their wrath as you fell backwards.
Perhaps you would see the starlight once more, feel the rain swirl gently down the patterns of Thranduil’s shoulder, as hands were raised into the night air palm up and wild, joyful yelps rang through the forest in celebration. Wine would trickle smoothly down your throat, poisonous and crimson, and you would take Thranduil in your arms and kiss him until the sea rose to meet your forever awaiting bodies - the waves would carry you gently across the sea.
Flames continued to rise, you choked on the black smoke that shrouded the sky. Your final breath as you watched the end of the world. The age of elves collapsed into the precipice of the awaiting void, the age of man would never rise.
A lone blackthorn tree stood untouched, untarnished by the devastation. You thought of Thranduil, alone, a forgotten warrior you once knew, on the battlefield. The branches whispered of bleeding wounds, constant warfare and merciless death. You would fell it with one clean stroke, perhaps you would fell Thranduil too. And you would hold him in your arms, every murmur of love in the spring, every ghost of admiration in the autumn would quench the scorched earth underneath his broken body. The bodies of his enemies would burn with the blackthorn tree and you would weep and look to the sky in grief. Perhaps he would be there by your side, his head resting on your shoulder, laughing together as the funeral pyres burnt.
Screams of agony flooded your senses - immortality slipped through bloody fingers into the endless sands of time. But Thranduil fought fiercely, a lone figure silhouetted by smoke and fire. Battlelust gleamed brightly in his eyes, the desire to kill and to protect lingering. He turned once more grinning at you, his face radiating with love and admiration. But then the facade returned - callous and calculating and untameable.
When you had first seen him, distant on some towering throne, he was cold. Ice chilled his features - sharp and deadly. His hair fell like snowflakes around his shoulders and his eyes gleamed like sunlight on ice. Magnificent, ethereal, poisonous. But he smiled, malicious shadows in his face, and you saw he too was more dangerous than his kin.
Legolas had fled and Thranduil had wept in your arms. Each teardrop was a crystal of regret shattering on the ground, memories of a lost land, a lost love, and now a lost son. In your embrace he was sheltered from the relentless howl of the wind, the constant sorrow and pain. And once more he had smiled, revealing every secret as the facade smashed. He loved you and that was enough.
Once more you had stood safely in his arms, watching a silhouette ride into the shadow of the Misty Mountains. Tears stained your shirt, marked your soul, his defences crumbling into dust. And together you had turned, looking south where ancient death returned vividly in Thranduil’s mind.
He had bowed his head, “War is coming once more, I cannot bear to lose you either.”
And as you braided his hair, watching as he placed the heavy burden of the crown aside, the shadow on his soul briefly lifted. He would wear the warrior’s braids alongside you once more. His tattoos, dark blue in the moonlight, murmured every tale of his life and revealed every secret he had ever hidden. They trailed across the scars of his chest, across his shoulders, stopping harshly on his lower back. If you both survived the battle then perhaps one day there would be a new pattern to trace gently as he bared his soul in front of you.
Slowly, he had stood up, weary heavy in his eyes. But he had kissed you softly, sweetly, deadly. He had kissed you as if your souls would never meet again in death, as if he would be cursed to roam forever in search of you - an unattainable beauty lost in the mist.
You smelled the pines, the moss, the cold frost. You smelled the sunrises, the cool breeze, the roaring stream. Thranduil. A bird cried a summer song in the distance and he drew away smiling.
“You are mine, you are home and I will protect you until the ends of the earth,” his voice was quiet, another melody in the gentle lull of the earth.
You blinked and the lost moments fled. Perhaps in a thousand years you would never remember these fleeting memories at the end of the world. Silver flashed through the air once more, Thranduil fought at your side, his silent promise dancing in between your blades. Ruthless and vicious and tender. Entirely him, he was all consuming, every gasping breath you drew was him, every fierce word you spat was him, every flash of your daggers was him.
Once more you heard the song of the sweet summer breeze, the scent of raindrops caught on the leaves, the spring meadows shining with dew. Thranduil would love you endlessly even when eternity ceased to existed.
Mirkwood continued to burn, the shadows of the darkening flames dancing in Thranduil’s soul. The world was ending and you were by his side.
And he was an unstoppable movement of nature - a great wave crashing relentlessly on the battered shore. Nothing fazed him, stoic and unyielding, battlelust was in his veins. He turned, briefly stopping. In his eyes shone an emotion reserved only for you, love or perhaps desire. You thought once more of starlit nights, his hair soft in your hands, ink intertwined with his hidden soul.
In the ash and the devastation, he stood a proud king once more, a murmur of his love for you echoing in the silence.