A shadow lies on Thranduil and his forest, and only a power stronger than the darkness of old can save them.
Grief and loss have turned him into a king with a heart of ice, and if he is ever to find redemption, the chains of guilt and remorse holdin...
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Icy gusts brought with them the first flurries of snow, donning the barren wasteland a short-lived beautiful blanket of glittering white. The negotiations with the dwarves had been futile, just as Thranduil had expected and now the Mountain lay under siege, a leaden silence burying the whole valley as everyone waited; waited for something to happen. But the idleness was soon to be replaced by a nascent bustle as the respective sides began their preparations for what might lie ahead.
The dwarves would not yield, but Thranduil was still hesitant about going to war, not wanting to give up hope that there could actually be a peaceful solution to all of this. But the prospects did not look too good he had to admit, Bard's attempt to discuss terms with Thorin Oakenshield only proving once more the obstinate stubbornness the dwarves exhibited. It was exasperating, the dwarves were even worse than the humans when it came to proving that they were right.
So it would most likely boil down to a war, a war in between Elves and Men on one side and Dwarves on the other side. Thranduil did not like the taste of that, not at all. Thorin seemed far too confident, surely he must have something hidden up his sleeve, more likely some dwarvish allies that would come to their aid and give the attackers a hard time. And as if that was not enough to give even an Elvenking a headache there was still the threat of an orcish attack looming overhead, as Mithrandir's words rang loud and clear in his head.
The Elvenking impatiently drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair as he pondered these scenarios, all of them equally depressing and dreadful. With an exasperated sigh he rose from his seat, pushing aside his glass of wine like he wished to whisk away the obstacles barring his way to the treasure he so much desired. His eyes were drawn to the gleaming black armour of his as it rested peacefully on its armour stand. Perfectly polished and impeccably shiny, his servants had made sure of it, he almost could see his own reflection on the smooth surface. Surely soon enough that would no longer be the case, he thought to himself bitterly, the harsh reality of the slaughter that meant war would leave its merciless markings on all of their lives. If they were lucky enough to make it through alive.
The wizard had left Thranduil in a considerable state of unrest, not only had he fuelled his own concerns about the possibility of Sauron arising once more. This was a definite threat that had to be taken seriously, but it had not come as a surprise. He had known that this was bound to happen eventually, since the evil spirit could never really be eradicated, only banished and at best kept in check.
The agitation he felt was more due to the unexpected knowledge Mithrandir had displayed about Anna's existence and the sudden interest, or more likely interference, in his private life. Something he strictly wished to keep exactly that: private. Why on Arda would the wizard even concern himself with this surely insignificant detail? Did he not have more pressing matters to attend to? The way he had simply breached the Elvenking's tightly knitted confines to lay bare the thorns that had tortured his heart for way too long was as remarkable as it was unsettling. It left him vulnerable and exposed, both things he could not afford and therefore needed to be pushed back into their hidden quarters.
