Chapter Text
Prince Thranduil wasn’t pleased. His beautiful face, delicate and fair as a lily's petal, was calm, but troubled thoughts swirled beneath the impassive façade and manifested themselves in the icy look of his pale eyes. The cause of his displeasure was a sight before him. He stood on the rocky edge of the hills of Emyn Muil looking down at the plain of Dagorlad. Across Dagorlad lay Mordor defended by mountain ranges, the only way in was through the sealed Black Gate in the pass of Cirith Gorgor. Tomorrow the armies of Elves and Men would attack the Black Gate, but it wasn’t the ominous entrance to Mordor that troubled Thranduil. He disliked what was spread out at his feet - the camp of the Wood Elves, whose prince he was.
The faint scent of green leaves brought by a gentle breeze reminded Thranduil that he wasn’t alone on the hill. He quietly commanded, not bothering to turn around, “Come here.”
The young Captain of the Prince's Guard approached silently and stood respectfully a step behind and to the prince’s right.
“What do you see?” Thranduil asked.
“Mordor. The plain. The camp of the Men, the camp of the Elves…”
Thranduil raised his gloved hand, stopping him. “Two camps of the Elves. There is the camp of the Noldor.” He pointed with his slender finger, then his finger moved to the camp lying at their feet. “Here is our camp – the Silvan under command of the Sindar. Compare them, Feren.”
Feren complied. “The Noldor camp is laid out perfectly with meticulous precision, all movements within the camp are controlled and orderly. Our camp is chaotic in comparison.”
“Exactly. We have no military bearing.”
“But, my lord, the Silvan are good warriors, we have been protecting Greenwood from all kind of foul creatures for many millennia. We may not be as impressive as the Noldor, but we know how to fight.”
“You know how to fight from ambush in the woods where the keenest eye cannot discern you among the foliage. Our army is lightly armed and untrained in fight pitched battles in the open. I had heard that the Noldor armies were training near Imladris for a few years. But we just took our bows and marched south. The Silvan don’t even have real armor.”
Against his will Feren’s gaze fell on Prince Thranduil's shining new armor. He had heard gossip from the Sindarin nobles at the king's court that this armor was another of the prince's fancies and the king had paid the Dwarves with pure gold for it, but it was worth every grain of gold and every evil word. Shining silver armor exquisitely decorated with mithril was tight-fitting, it hugged the prince's tall, slender frame; the folds of a gray velvet cape with a wine-red lining attached to armor interspersed with long silver-blond hair. Feren himself, like all the Silvan warriors, had leather armor with modest silver embroidery, his typical Silvan chestnut hair blending with the brown tanned skin.
“So be it, my lord. But when tomorrow the King leads us into battle, we will follow him and fight so that the songs of our battle will stay forever in the hearts of the Elves.”
“I know, Feren,” Thranduil's voice softened. “I have never doubted the bravery of the Silvan. It is my father I am angry with. He should have prepared you, taught you, but instead he throws you blindly into a fight like you have never seen before. Let’s go back to the camp, I have seen enough.”
At the camp, Thranduil headed straight to the royal tent. Made of heavy green silk and adorned with the royal banner, it dominated all other structures in the haphazard camp. At the entrance to the tent were the king's guards distinguished from the other warriors by the richer embroidery on their tunics. The guards respectfully stepped aside and bowed their heads as the prince approached. Thranduil ignored them and entered the tent. There he saw not only his father and his advisors, but also King Amdir, Lord of Lorien, and his captains. Everyone in the tent had blond hair of various shades – they were all Sindar, not a single Silvan was here.
“Son.” King Oropher greeted Thranduil with a nod of his head.
“Father.” Thranduil placed his hand over his heart respectfully.
A father and a son had a strong family resemblance: silver-blond hair, dark upward-curved eyebrows, pale blue-gray eyes, a tall stature, even by Elven standards. They were so alike, but they weren’t to be mistaken for one another. Thranduil was changeable as mercury, bright and alive. Oropher was an echo of the ancient world that had disappeared forever along with the sunken lands of Beleriand. The forests of Doriath were gone, but their spirit lived on in Oropher. Two and a half thousand years ago, Oropher with his son and the Sindarin company came to Greenwood the Great beyond the Misty Mountains. The Silvan who lived there sensed the wood spirit in Oropher, saw him as the protector of their forest, and named Oropher their king. The forest magic mixed with the Elven magic had soaked the land, seeping into streams and green saplings. Greenwood flourished - until the shadow of Sauron covered the land. Oropher had answered the call of Gil-galad, the High King of the Noldor, to join the Alliance of Elves and Men, and now the army of the Wood Elves of Greenwood, joined by the army of the Wood Elves of Lorien, was preparing for the upcoming battle on the plain of Dagorlad.
“King Amdir and I have held council and decided that the Noldor will never command the Sindar. Tomorrow we will go to battle before Gil-galad,” Oropher told his son.
“What?!” Thranduil stared at his father in shock.
“We will not stand behind the Noldor, we will be the first to attack,” Amdir added.
“This is madness.” All of Thranduil's worries came back to life. Ignoring the King of Lorien, he turned to his father. “Father, don’t do this. Our people are not trained, they wouldn’t survive this battle without the strength of the Noldor.”
“The strength of the Noldor is in killing their kin.”
“Father, please forget about the past for a moment and look at our reality.”
“Forget? Never. Elves live by their memory. Elves live as long as memory lives.”
“Yes, I know, but you are condemning to death the innocent Silvan who have nothing to do with the feud between the Sindar and the Noldor.”
“Since when is Prince Thranduil an expert in military matters?” Amdir interjected. “We would listen to Prince Thranduil's opinion if it were about the new attire for the Solstice Feast, but here, Elfling, you have nothing to tell us.”
“Really, Amdir…” Oropher tried to soften the harshness.
Thranduil glanced around at the Sindar in the tent: some of them were excited with anticipation of Prince Thranduil's next scandalous outburst, others were feeling discomfort at the scene before them. Not a single face expressed support. It wasn’t that Prince Thranduil was unpopular among the Sindar - oh no, he was valued for his refined taste and sharp mind - but it was true that his authority was strongest at the court feast, not on the battlefield.
“Fine. Tomorrow I will follow my king into battle and fight at his side.”
Thranduil turned abruptly and left the royal tent.
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The battle turned into a nightmare far beyond Thranduil's fears. A nightmare that lasted forever. Time had no meaning here: the gray ash blown by the wind from Mordor covered the world with a gray, suffocating shroud. Thranduil didn’t know whether the sun was high in the sky or setting, he wasn’t even sure the sun was still existing. Thranduil's world consisted of the roar of battle, the cries of the dying, the smell of blood, the mingling of bodies. Sitting astride a white horse, Thranduil cut through the ranks of the Orcs with his sword. There were too many Orcs. The Wood Elves were doomed, the disobedience of Oropher and Amdir had led to disaster. Oropher and Amdir led their armies into the battle before Gil-galad’s command. Rushing forward, the Wood Elves were the first to attack Mordor – and they were swept away by the hordes of Orcs. Thus began the endless nightmare. No, not endless, Thranduil corrected himself, it would end when the last Wood Elf fell on this plain, and that moment was near. Over the heads of the fighters, Thranduil saw that the Galadhrim, the Wood Elves of Lorien, were driven back to the marshes on the southwestern edge of the plain. They had no chance of escape: there was the rotten swamp on one side and the unstoppable horde of Orcs on the other. Thranduil and his warriors couldn’t break through to them. Oropher's army had attacked further east, aiming directly for the Black Gate, and now they were completely surrounded. The Noldor held their line, Thranduil saw their perfect ranks far away, he heard the commands of Elrond, Gil-galad's herald, but the Noldor could do nothing to help the Wood Elves. Thranduil charged the Orcs with redoubled zeal, and when he raised his head and looked toward the marshes again, Amdir's banner was no longer there.
The Orc's heavy sword shattered Thranduil's horse's leg, causing the horse to stagger and fall. Thranduil was thrown from the saddle, but he never lost control over his body and landed smoothly on one knee, still clutching his sword. In that vulnerable moment, Thranduil expected to be hit, but instead the Elven sword flashed before his face, protecting him. Thranduil glanced up quickly: Feren. Of course. Upon seen his fall, the loyal captain of his guard had dismounted himself and was now covering him with his body. Thranduil sprang up and continued to fight. The prince and the captain stood back to back among the Orcs, their gleaming swords mercilessly cutting through the stinking bodies. More Elves joined them, and they stood fast, breaking Orc’s attacks.
A new cry joined the roar of battle, an Elven cry of grief. Thranduil's heart sank. “Father.”
Thranduil charged the Orcs, cutting through them, and his warriors followed. Together they managed to get where the cry of grief had come from. In the midst of the battle, the Elves of Greenwood held a small opening, King Oropher was lying there on the ground. The silver tiara was shining on his head, but his silver-blond hair was red with blood. The sword fell from Thranduil's numb fingers. He staggered to his father and dropped to his knees beside him.
“Father.”
The king's beautiful face was motionless, life already left him. Oropher’s spirit passed to the Halls of Mandos, here on the field of Dagorlad only his empty shell remained. Thranduil took his father's hand and raised it to his lips. “Father.”
Tears filled Thranduil's eyes, an unbearable pain squeezed his heart. His life had always been tied to his father's, he had followed his father from Doriath to Lindon and then to Greenwood. Thranduil had never even considered the possibility of going with his mother to the immortal lands of Valinor, he had always wanted to be with his father and live in their Woodland Realm. Now he was alone.
No, not alone. He had Legolas. Thranduil's infant son would never know his grandfather, but he had his blood. Thranduil would share with his son all his memories of his father, and Oropher would live on in their hearts.
The thought of Legolas, his wife, his home helped Thranduil to control the pain. He whispered a farewell, kissed his father's forehead, and rose to his feet. The time to mourn the fallen would come later; now they needed to survive the battle. And the responsibility for the survival of the Wood Elves now lay with Thranduil. He picked up his father's sword that lay beside the body, having fallen from the king's dead hand.
“Call all companies,” Thranduil said to his father's lieutenant. “Get all our people here. Together we will break through the encirclement and reach the Noldor.”
There were the Sindar in Oropher's retinue who had fought in the ancient battles, but none challenged the young prince's right to command. Oropher's only son, he was rightfully his father's heir.
Afterwards, Thranduil didn’t remember how he had managed to lead his warriors out of the encirclement. Grief and fatigue clouded his mind, and only one thought drove him forward: he was responsible for his people, he must save them. In his right hand, Thranduil held his sword, in his left hand he clutched his father's sword, and with both blades he cut a path through the stinking mass of Orcs.
Elrond approached Gil-galad, who was surveying the battlefield.
“Oropher and Amdir perished,” Gil-galad said. “Their pride was their undoing. We have lost the Wood Elves.”
Elrond peered into the distance at the strange movement in the midst of Orcs.
“No, my lord, look - a host of Greenwood Elves is trying to break out of the encirclement. Someone is leading them... Long white hair, a silver tiara – it’s Prince Thranduil! He is alive and leading his people.”
“Thranduil? It’s impossible! Oropher's mightiest warriors perished in their futile charge, how could this fancy princeling survive?”
“I don’t know. But he is alive and he doesn’t intend to surrender. I will send out troops to help.”