Book II: The Saga of Thranduil

Chapter I: I Am Thranduil

He was tall, with the broad shoulders of the high elves of the Teleri—of the Sindarinwa—with the finest and longest of golden hair. Upon a face that seemed to trace every joy and every pain over many millennia, yet it found upon it the eternal youth of the elven soul through soft grey eyes with specks of blue variants that seemed as minnows in shallow waters whenever something came to disturb them.

With a mouth that formed a perfect distraction beneath a nose that was as delicate as the face upon which they found themselves, this creature stood looking out toward the vast autumn colors of the trees that made up his kingdom. He was waiting for something—it would come to him as requested for he was an elf of immense importance.

Into the room came a figure clad in a grey cloak carrying with him his bow. He kneeled down. The figure did not move nor was it to be expected for all knew he would not think twice to take anyone to task for insolence.

"You come a great distance." The voice was deep and resonant. Whenever it demanded to be heard, it would be for no one ever forgot it once it was heard. "Tell me, what news do you bring to me?"

"It is from Celeborn of Lothlórien, Your Majesty," the messenger said weakly. He had never met this King before. Many rumors whispered across the lands of Middle-Earth put fear in the hearts of elves and men alike. This young elf was not prepared for what he saw as the figure slowly turned around and faced him. The celebrated beauty was true—as was the fear the eyes could bring to all that saw them. The messenger began to shake fiercely as the figure walked with such grace, and seemed to glide rather than walk; stopping before the kneeling messenger.

"Fear not. I know well what news you bring to me from my kin in the West. I know what they say about me and my people in the Woodland Realm, and I do not hold you responsible for things spoken in whispers. Stand before me."

Trembling in mortal fear, the messenger stood, never looking into the face of the one to which he was sent.

"Look at me."

The messenger slowly raised his head and when he saw the face in all its glory he was taken by how far from rumor it truly was.

"Yes, I am the mighty and feared Elvenking. I know well what message you bring to me. Why Celeborn and Galadriel dared to send anyone beyond their borders to tell me what I already know is not my concern. Perhaps they wanted to see what became of us after the war. Now you know. Rest tonight and you will return to Lothlórien and tell them what you have seen."

"What should I say, Your Majesty," he stammered in fear. "What shall I tell those beyond these borders?" A smile came across the face of magnificence as perfect as the rest.

"Tell them I am more than The Elvenking. I have a name as they well know. They may not want to hear it nor say it, but you will tell them that I am Thranduil, The Elvenking of Mirkwood."

I made a gesture and the messenger bowed and two guards escorted him away.

"I am Thranduil," I whispered to myself.

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I began to walk down to my throne room thinking to myself all things that had been and were no more.

Time had always been the enemy I could not defeat, thus I became its unrelenting shadow. Far behind me was the past—painful memories that would remain with me for eternity.

Unspeakable grief that sent many of my kin to their deaths by grief or to the Undying Lands in fear somehow became the very strength that turned me into Mirkwood's greatest king and the last of all elven kings to remain far beyond the time of the elves had ended—or so men thought us all diminished. The sun had yet to set on the Woodland Realm and I would decide when that time would come.