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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Death is a cold, blindfolded kiss (Sleeping At Last: Emphasis)
As much as Thranduil might have been hoping for another private conversation with Gandalf, the circumstances did not allow it. Things had come thick and fast after they had presented Thorin with the Arkenstone and it became quite clear that the new King under the Mountain would not be open to any type of bargain. The dwarf was not pleased at all to see the heirloom of his house in the hands of an elf and a human. And much to Thranduil's dismay the hobbit was pushed quite rudely off the dwarves' territory once it was revealed how did the precious jewel find its way into their hands. He should have stayed with them, just like Thranduil had suggested and not put himself at the mercy of this obstinate dwarf that was behaving as unruly as ever.
They had marched up to the barred gate of the Mountain, the blue banner of Lake-town and the green one of the Forest waving side by side in their unified attempt to claim their share in the riches of Erebor. Thranduil still hesitant to open war, but Bard fiercely convinced that no gold would come forth from the mountain unless they took it by force.
It was an impressive sight indeed, the Elvenking towering over everyone else as he sat proudly astride his elk, the majestic animal bridled for battle, antlers swaying slightly as Thranduil reined it in to take its place in the vanguard of his army. A silver circlet crowned the king's impeccable tresses that cascaded over his shoulders, waves of palest gold gleaming bright against the polished black of his armour. His twin swords were safely sheathed in black leather scabbards on either side of his body, deadly and beautiful in their elvish craftsmanship.
And behind him rows upon rows of elvish archers and spearmen, all in perfect formation, a sea of gold beneath the dull wintry sky filling the barren wasteland. Fearless warriors, the paragon of utmost discipline and composure, moving or halting as one at a subtle wave of their king's hand.
But nothing moved until suddenly the earth trembled beneath them and from the eastern spur of the Mountain a cloud of dust rose and heads turned towards the unexpected arrivals, Men and Elves in surprise and Dwarves in delight for it was none other than Dain, son of Nain and his kin from the Iron Hills. Surely those were the allies Thorin had hoped to call to his aid, Thranduil saw his suspicion now confirmed. The dwarves were many and a hardy folk, clad in the strongest steel mail, wielding two-handed mattocks as well as short broad swords and roundshields slung around their backs. More and more streamed down the slope and into the valley, ready to expel the besiegers from their position.
And if he wanted or not, it would come now to a battle at last, a battle which Thranduil was prepared to fight and to win. He would not suffer any more dwarves barring the way to his treasure.
"Ribo i thangail!" His sharp command cut through the cold winter air like the edge of a knife as he brought his archers in position behind the shield-fence to break the first wave of attacks that would surely hit the Elves soon enough. Bows were drawn and spears were lifted as Thranduil's warriors moved in place, their oval shields forming a nearly impenetrable wall of defence in front of their king.
