To Live Again: The Road to War {Lord of the Rings Fanfiction}|

Seven Year Siege

Seven years later - In the final days of the Siege
Battle Encampment of the Alliance, Mordor - SA 3441

The busy, dusty, and extremely cramped encampment was hiving with activity in the late afternoon. The constant slew of warriors rushing backwards and forwards with their commanders never ceased, it was always one battle after another. Just days and days of endless battles, Thranduil had lost count of how many times he had crossed the threshold of the strongly fortified camp with his warriors and participated in yet another bloody and fierce fight. The years had blurred together, and the only way the Prince could distinguish time was by grouping together stages of victory and defeat. For the first few years of the siege the wars were gruesome and bloody affairs, many of his kin were lost simply by just not being prepared enough to deal with the cesspit of evil monsters that crawled out of Mordor. Those that survived had grown hardier and resistant, almost numb to the death and darkness surrounding them. One had to if one was going to survive out in the darkness of Mordor. Then, there were a few years of horrid and bitter defeats, and at one point Thranduil was certain they had lost their footing against the enemy, but somehow and always in the nick of time hope prevailed in one form or another.

Now, as the war crept into what he hoped was its final years, Thranduil felt a sense of great weariness and longing to be done with all of the bloodshed. He missed his home; he missed his forests, and the great wild vibrancy of the Greenwood. He sorely missed his children and his wife, and often found himself unable to call to mind their young voices or Clara's soft and gentle songs, for his ears had become so accustomed to the wails and growls of battle, and the nightmarish creatures that came with it. There was a deep hole in the pit of his chest, and a hallow emptiness that no amount of encouragement or memories would fill. The deep sense of missing a part of oneself would not disappear, not until he would be able to hold his family again. Until he could see them with his own eyes, and hear their musical laughter with his own ears, yet Thranduil knew that if he abandoned his cause in this war he put their very lives at risk. It was the only reason he dragged himself out onto the battlefield each day, and the only reason he nursed wounds and burns without complaint. His family's safety was his priority, it always was, and secondary to that was his desire to protect his father and his people. After that, Thranduil could care less about the fortunes of others; he had not the slightest interest in sacrificing any more than was necessary for the wellbeing of his people. Enough had been given in the pursuit of victory, and yet no victory seemed at hand.

Still, Thranduil worked hard to keep these thoughts hidden. Whilst in the presence of his warriors, and the other brave men and beings that fought under the same banner of freedom as he, Thranduil remained professional and without fear. His spirit never appeared dampened to those who served under him, and his manner remained hopeful and full of good faith. He took decisive action on all aspects of warfare, those under his command never feared that he acted recklessly or without careful consideration for the costs. To those around him he had become a trustworthy leader, a companion, and comforter to those who needed a kind or encouraging word the most. It was well understood that if you had the fortune of being stationed with the Prince then you would likely make it back alive, for he fought twice as hard as any in battle, and was never known to leave a solider behind.

But, behind the fabric of his weather beaten tent, Thranduil often succumbed to the grief and harsh reality of war. Each time he received a list of the names of his kin that had fallen; he felt his heart grow heavier. In his spare moments he would visit any of his wounded, and offer them some kind of comfort or praise for their sacrifice. His father offered counsel as best he could for his son, but it was apparent that the long years of violence and horror weighed heavily on Thranduil. The lack of nature and the comforting tones of his wild wood, that soothed his fea, left the Prince feeling empty and lonely. There was nothing Oropher could do, but remind him that this war was only a fleeting thing and that the scars would fade when they returned victorious to Greenwood. Thranduil agreed with this logic, but that did not make the separation any easier to bear. The only thing that brought him any joy was the periodic letters he received from Clara. Just to read her words, and see her messy scrawls on parchment was enough to brighten his whole countenance. Sometimes she sent sketches of his children, or little paintings of what the woodland looked like at that particularly season. Those little treats kept him going, kept him sane, and allowed him to daydream of home in his moments of rest. Although such times of rest were getting harder and harder to come by the closer the Alliance got to claiming Barad-dur, but still he managed to snatch some peace in the endless drone of destruction.