Chapter Text
"...May his rule be as pure and just as his father's before him", the High Elf finished, his words ringing clearly through the wooded halls. Thranduil swallowed hard, trying to shut all thoughts of 'his father before him' from his mind. It was just a few days after the Battle of Dagorlad, and the celebrations of his coronation frankly seemed in poor taste. A feeling of dread settled around his chest until it was all he could do to stand and allow the High Elf to place the crown on his head. It was heavy, with uncomfortable wintery thorns. As the assembled elves cheered, Thranduil looked down on his kingdom with the haughty look which would come to define him. It was all a front, of course. He had never felt more alone.
These were the things Thranduil remembered later that night, curled up in the highest branches of a tree that grew outside his bedroom window. He was exhausted from the effort of appearing civil for an entire day of festivities, and finally allowed himself to cry bitterly. 'Remember how to use that sword?' rang in his head, the final words his father had spoken before he rode off to his death. A taunt. A reflection of the whole relationship, really. Thranduil wasn't a warrior, wasn't the brilliant son King Oropher longed for. He had proved that at the battle. What better proof could there be, than riding home with a third of the original forces, his father slain? His childhood had been a blur of trying to impress the King, failing more spectacularly each time. This time was the worst.
Just as he felt he might drown in his own memories, Thranduil was shocked back to Greenwood by a sharp whistle past his left ear. His head whipped round to see an arrow embedded in the branch behind his head. Would there be more? He was frozen in fear, eyes searching the dark forest. Another two arrows followed, coming to rest in nearby branches.
"Damn, missed one"
It was a soft voice, female. He could see her now, bending to pull the arrows from where they had lodged. Her hair flowed down her back, glowing in the moonlight. She was like Artemis, though he did not know it. With a sharp intake of breath, he made himself invisible behind the tree trunk. He had no wish to encounter anyone on this night. Elves have good hearing, and she glanced round at the sound, but soon moved on, collecting her arrows. She couldn't have been at the battle, then. No one who had witnessed the horrors of Mordor could be as eager to practise the task of fighting. Relieved at his escape, Thranduil slipped back through his bedroom window and lay down, heart pounding. It would be a while before he got to sleep that night.
The next morning, Thranduil was woken by a servant. A convoy had apparently arrived from Rivendell the previous night, and wished to speak with him. Dismissing the servant (he could not bring himself to call them his yet), he sighed and looked around the room. Once so familiar, the beautiful tree-lined walls now gave him an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Everything was different now.