~King Thingol acquires a valuable dwarf necklace, and as the doom of Doriath draws near, Oropher's plans for the succession are thwarted.~

oOo

The Battle of the Thousand Caves

Near the Doriath border, First Age 500

Sitting in his comfortable spot in a tree fork, Thranduil had a good view of the border and the river Sirion. His eyelids felt heavy, but he was used to that; nowadays they always did. The long watches he and the few remaining march-wardens had to do meant little to no sleep most nights. It was a bit easier now that it was summer and the nights less dark, but only marginally.

There was a sudden movement at the other side of the river. He pricked up his ears, reaching for his bow.

Then a man emerged from the greenery, and Thranduil relaxed again. It was an old human, bent and worn, with a bushy, iron grey beard covering most of his weatherbeaten face. He looked harmless.

For some reason, the human went out into the river and began to wade across. He would be stopped by Melian's Girdle at the other side, of course, but just in case Thranduil whistled in the imitation of a bird, alerting the guards in nearby trees north and south of him.

The man was up to his neck in water now and began to swim with even strokes. Then to Thranduil's surprise, he walked ashore, unstopped. Why had the Girdle let him through?

Drawing one of his swords, Thranduil quickly dropped from the tree. "Halt! Who goes there?"

From either side came two of his fellow march-wardens; Faraion and Maeldir, drawing swords of their own and flanking him.

The stranger gave the trio a tired look, and then his eyes widened slightly in recognition. "Lord Thranduil," he said, bowing slightly. "You haven't changed at all."

"You know me?"

"I used to be in your unit when I was a boy."

"My unit?" Thranduil squinted, trying to figure out who this strange person was.

"I am Húrin, son of Galdor."

Thranduil's breath hitched when he heard the familiar name. Húrin, Túrin's father! He who went missing together with his brother during Thranduil's first battle several decades ago. It was impossible to recognise the boy he had been in this old, haggard face.

Túrin had always believed his father was alive, against all odds. But why had the old man not sought out his son before?

Húrin apparently thought the interview was over, for he began walking again.

"Stop. I have not granted you permission to enter our realm." Thranduil barred his path with his sword.

"So kill me."

Baffled, Thranduil stared at him, not knowing what to reply.

"Or, take me to your king, and then kill me." Húrin pulled out a sparkling necklace from his pocket. "This is for him."

Bending closer, Thranduil examined the object. It was exquisite, wrought with mithril and gold and covered in the most brilliant gems he had ever seen.

"Where did you find that?"

"In Nargothrond, where I took it from the traitor Mîm before I killed him." Meeting Thranduil's shocked gaze, he added: "I know that you know that dwarf as well; I saw you with Túrin and the Outlaws."

"Mîm," Thranduil hissed. "But how do you know about the Outlaws? Were you spying on us?"

"The Dark Lord had me chained to the top of his fortress, and showed me visions of my family. I saw everything. Everything!" The haggard face became anguished and his eyes glistened with a sheen of tears. "All these years I was forced to watch as Morgoth's curse brought doom over my son and daughter. I was released right in time to witness the death of my wife, and to bury her with our son."

Thranduil's chest constricted into a painful knot at the mention of Túrin and his grave. He remembered the young man's manic laughter when he realised he had married his own sister, and his bleeding body beside the broken sword he had killed himself with.

With an effort he managed to keep his face and voice neutral. "We shall escort you to King Thingol as you requested. Come this way."

Not long afterwards the poor man told King Thingol the same tale he had told Thranduil, ending it by throwing the necklace on the floor with a loud clatter. "Receive now, lord, the necklace of the dwarves, as a gift from one who has nothing, and as a memorial of Húrin of Dor-lómin. For now my fate is fulfilled, and the purpose of Morgoth achieved, but I am his thrall no longer."

Húrin turned his back on the king and strode out of Menegroth. And then he left Doriath, never to return, for after the fashion of mortals he would soon meet his death, alone and broken; the last survivor of his family.

oOo

In the months that followed, King Thingol's obsession with the Silmaril escalated fast. He talked about combining the gem with the necklace he had received, to create a both powerful and beautiful piece of jewellery that could be worn around the neck. It became known that he had sent for a group of craftsmen to do the work, and not much later a whole band of dwarves from the Blue Mountains moved into the city.

This in itself was not unusual. Thingol had employed dwarves many times in the past – not the least when Menegroth was first built – but this time Thranduil felt a strange anger about the whole thing. If Mîm was anything to go by, those stocky creatures were untrustworthy and sly, caring only for their own kin. He did not want them to touch the Silmaril.

Thranduil had not cared much about the gem when the king first achieved it, but now he realised it had grown dear to him over the years; it belonged to his people, and the dwarves had no business with it. In addition, Queen Melian had seen in Galadriel's mirror that her husband would be killed by a dwarf over the Silmaril – carried in a necklace. It could not be a coincidence. Clearly, the final of those visions was coming to pass, and the thought scared him more than he wanted to admit.

Despite his apprehension, Thranduil tried not to brood over it. What good would it do? He was stuck here, and would have to endure whatever was coming for his realm. Not that he had much time to worry anyway; his endless days at the border were tolling on his strength, and most of the time he was too tired even to think.

oOo

Menegroth, Doriath, First Age 502

About two years after Húrin's visit in Menegroth, Thranduil was returning to the city in one of those rare instances where he had gotten a few days leave. As usual, he went to the palace to report before he did anything else.

Entering the spacious hall, he saw that the throne was empty again, and the room was dim without the illumination of the Silmaril. Only its cask remained next to the throne.

The king was probably down in the smithies, overlooking the work with the necklace as usual. With the dwarves.

Hiding his disgust behind a smooth face, Thranduil crossed the polished granite floor and halted in front of a smaller chair that had been placed below the steps to the throne. "I have returned from the western border and am ready to report, my lord. Shall I wait until the king is present?"

Oropher looked up from a stack of parchment he had been sorting through, and smiled. "When we are alone, you don't have to be that formal. And to answer your question, you can report to me. Thingol can hardly tell day from night nowadays; he only cares about his necklace."

"It is getting worse, then?"

"Much worse." Oropher smirked somewhat smugly. "But it is better this way. Under my lead, the kingdom will soon rise to its former glory." He steepled his fingers. "Proceed. What news from the border?"

oOo

After finishing his reports, Thranduil hurried home on weary legs. He only returned to the city a few times a year now, and wanted to make the most of his short stay. A hot bath, change of clothes, a warm meal and lots of wine were topping his list for the evening.

He had just emptied his first goblet of cherry wine when an insistent knocking at the door obliged him to leave the comfortable chair he had been reclining in.

Outside was one of the palace maids, looking very pale. "The king is dead, Captain." She sounded like she could not quite believe it herself. "I was going down with his supper, when... I found him."

"Dead," Thranduil repeated, already picking up his weapons from a stand by the door. "A dwarf did this."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

"What should I do? I came to you first."

"Alert Lord Oropher. I will take care of the dwarves," growled Thranduil, suddenly furious.

A quick search showed him that the dwarves had not stayed in Menegroth to wait for retribution; the smithies in the deepest caves were all deserted, and – as he had feared – the necklace gone as well. How dared those long-fingered little bastards take it? Did they think they could get away with such a crime unpunished?

The king still lay where he had fallen, splayed out on his back with a deep cut in his forehead. His vacant eyes had a surprised look.

Thranduil forced down a wave of nausea at the sticky mess of blood and gore surrounding the once fair head like a crimson halo.

Covering Thingol's face with a corner of the ellon's cloak, Thranduil ran back up to organise a pursuit of the offenders. A great urgency had come over him. Even if he had felt any grief, there was no time to mourn his king's passing; they must hurry if they wanted to recover the Silmaril.

It did not take long until Thranduil was on his way together with five guards, which was all he could muster on such a short notice. Most of the march-wardens were with Captain Mablung at the border outposts. The dwarves therefore would outnumber them at least two to one, but he did not really worry; they were only craftsmen after all. It was not likely that experienced elvish warriors would lose against a bunch of smiths and jewelers.

It was not hard to track the prey. The dwarves' heavy feet had left clear prints in the soft forest loam, and not surprisingly they were running east towards the Blue Mountains where their cities were located. At the river Aros, the elves caught up with them just as they were about to cross.

On Thranduil's signal, each released an arrow before the dwarves even noticed they were followed, and in the moment it took the survivors to regroup and turn to meet the assault, six more arrows had hit their targets.

A handful were still standing. Undaunted, they grimly hefted axes almost as tall as themselves and charged against their pursuers with an inarticulate warcry.

"For Doriath!" yelled Thranduil, dropping the bow and drawing his two swords.

"For Doriath!" his comrades fell in, drawing their swords as well.

Then battle was upon them, and everything turned into the normal chaos of struggling combatants, growls, curses, yelps of pain and bleeding corpses on the ground.

The first dwarf Thranduil sparred with reminded him so much of Mîm, it almost felt like it was him. White-hot rage filled him at the memory of Mîm's betrayal and his cruelty to Beleg when he tortured the ellon on top of Amon Rûdh. The anger fueled him, feeding energy and strength into his limbs, and under his dreadful onslaught the dwarf fell back. A well-aimed slice of Thranduil's left sword cut off the dwarf's hand, still gripping the axe, and with his right sword he severed the ugly head from its body.

Thranduil ducked another axe before it could take his head off, and turned to meet the new foe. This dwarf was stronger than the first one, and wielded his huge axe with surprising skill for an artisan. He fought viciously, not hesitating to use foul tricks. More than once the fellow tried to bite Thranduil, and even headbutted him in the belly at one point. Still, against the agility and speed of an elf armed with two swords he could not really compete.

With his second dwarf down, Thranduil turned around for another, but they were all dead.

"I hope I shall never see another dwarf," he said with feeling. "Anyone hurt?"

Apart from minor blemishes, nobody was. It had almost been too easy; the dwarves were fewer than they had anticipated.

They searched the corpses thoroughly, until at last they found a promising-looking sack. When it was emptied, everyone took a step backwards and covered their eyes; the radiance from the object within was so brilliant it hurt, and its beauty dazzling.

A flood of relief filled Thranduil at the sight. "It is the necklace," he said needlessly. "Put it back in the sack for now. Let us return."

They were almost back home when Faraion, who had been stopping to drink from a small stream, suddenly called out: "There are more tracks on the other side of the creek."

Thranduil studied the muddy ground. "The accursed axe lovers must have split up," he growled. How negligent of him to have missed it on their way out of the city! By now, those tracks would have become old.

He hated to divide his already small team when they carried something so valuable, but there was nothing for it. While the other four hurried on to Menegroth with the treasure, Faraion and Thranduil stayed behind to follow the new track.

There were only two sets of footsteps, and why these two dwarves had decided on another route Thranduil could not say. Their tracks led to the river Aros just like the others had, but a bit upstream from where the short battle had been, and there they ended.

At the other side of the river the ground was rocky, and despite a thorough search they could not find any trace of the two dwarves or where they had gone. Thanks to their detour, the fellows had managed to escape.

Annoyed, Thranduil decided they had to give up for now. It was getting late, and they were probably needed in the city.

"At least we got the Silmaril back," said Faraion.

"Aye." Thranduil sighed wearily. "I just don't like rumours to spread about that stone – and the necklace, which is dwarven made. Knowing their kind, the dwarves will probably rally up their people and return with real warriors, and I worry whether we can resist such an attack now that the march-wardens are so few."

"Even if they come, they cannot pass the Girdle," said Faraion soothingly.

Thranduil did not reply. He thought of the visions in the mirror; Doriath would fall, and it would be soon. Somehow the Girdle would break.

oOo

A few weeks after the king's death, Captain Mablung returned to the city with the brunt of the march-wardens, having left only a handful behind at the western and northern borders – scouts rather than actual guards. He had decided they needed their strength where the Silmaril was.

The lack of border guards made Thranduil feel exposed and vulnerable. What would they do if the dwarves came back for the necklace? This time they would not send untrained craftsmen but seasoned warriors. Still, he knew the march-wardens were much too few to cover the length of the river Aros, which was where the attack was likely to come, so Mablung was probably right. They had to protect the city, and staying together would make them stronger.

Not long after his return, Mablung summoned Thranduil to a meeting outside the city, just the two of them. Thranduil felt a knot of worry building within as he walked there. He really did not need more bad news, but when he entered the training grounds and saw the other captain's serious face, he knew he would get them anyway.

It was raining; a chilling summer rain that made it feel like autumn had come early, and Mablung was waiting under the cover of an oak just by the archery range.

"I haven't been here since he died," he said.

For a fleeting moment, Thranduil thought he meant Thingol, but then he understood. Mablung was talking of Beleg Strongbow, of course. 

"I often watched him practice with his bow here – as if he needed practicing." Mablung smiled. "I think I shall join him in Aman soon."

"Why?" Thranduil repressed a twinge of unease at his ominous tone of voice.

Mablung's smile waned. "Melian misses her husband too much, and she has decided to follow him to Aman. She will leave us."

"Leave us? But then the Girdle will–"

"It will go as well, aye."

"This is dire news." Thranduil clenched his fists and forbade his face to betray any fear. So this was what the queen had been planning! She had stayed in her rooms since her husband's demise, and refused to speak to anyone. Except for Mablung, it would seem.

"Indeed. And there is more." Mablung suddenly looked very uncomfortable, averting his gaze. "She bade me to send word to Ossiriand, to her daughter and Beren. At thirty years old, their son is already an adult – being mortal, you know – and Melian wants him to take the throne." Mablung glanced at Thranduil. "I know you had hoped your adar would be king, and truly, I think he would be an excellent choice. But the queen is very firm about this, and young Dior does have a claim as her grandson..." He broke off. "Sorry. But I have to pass on her message."

An awkward silence ensued, while Thranduil digested the unwelcome information. His father would be furious. That a mere mortal would take leadership from him!

"Thank you for telling me this," he said at last. "It gives him time to prepare – for his successor, I mean."

Mablung nodded. "Young Dior will need a mentor, I am sure, and Oropher will keep his position as trusted advisor."

He left shortly afterwards, but Thranduil remained behind. He did not feel ready to meet his father yet, not when he was so agitated. The imminent loss of the Girdle terrified him. To have the borders wide-open for any orc, dragon, balrog or dwarf wanting to enter! How soon would it take Morgoth to find out that the Silmaril was unprotected?

He realised this was how the mirror visions would come to pass. Without Melian's magic, Doriath could – and would – fall. Should he try to convince his father it was time to flee before it was too late? Especially since it looked like Oropher would fail his attempt at becoming king.

But then what would happen with the Silmaril? The thought of letting the dwarves have it made Thranduil nearly choke with disgust. No, the necklace would be safest hidden deep in Menegroth's many vaults, and he had to stay and protect it as best he could.

oOo

The dwarves returned on a dark, clouded night, only days after Melian had left; much sooner than anyone had thought possible. No scouts discovered the threat until it was too late, for they stealthily circumvented the Aros and came from the north where they were least expected.

They were many. Like a colony of ants the dwarves swarmed the forest, scattering the few elves that lived outside Menegroth, and too late did word of their arrival reach the city.

Thranduil had been sleeping, and bleary-eyed jumped out of bed when the alarm sounded.

No! It was too soon! The carpenters had not yet finished strengthening the city gate, and Mablung had planned to have the bridge over the Esgalduin taken down before the enemy came.

Pushing down his panic, Thranduil hurriedly got dressed. They could still do this. All the march-wardens were in the city, and the guards at the gate would have closed them before they rang the bells.

Outside his door, he bumped into his father, still only in his shirt.

"What is happening?" Oropher asked hoarsely.

"The dwarves have come," Thranduil barked. "Quick, get your weapons. This time we shall need every elf in the city."

At the entrance to Menegroth, Thranduil found a tight throng of guards already gathered, and more arriving continually. Before them, the huge doors rattled and boomed with the sound of hammers and axes pounding mercilessly into them. They would not last long.

Captain Mablung stood on a silver deer to make himself seen and heard by everybody as he yelled orders and assigned tasks. For his own part, he would take a group down to the vaults and barricade the one that contained the Silmaril. Others were assigned to round up the last civilians and equip them with what weapons could be scraped together at such a short notice, while Thranduil would lead the brunt of the guards at the gate and try to delay the enemy for as long as possible.

Before they parted, Mablung squeezed Thranduil's arm. "Let us not sell our treasure cheaply! Best of luck, my friend. And if we do not meet again in this life, I shall see you in Aman."

Thranduil nodded, at loss for words. In Mablung's eyes he saw the truth; his friend did not expect to survive this day. And to be honest, Thranduil did not think he himself would either.

Oropher came to stand on his son's side, carrying his old shield in one hand, and a long sword in the other. When was the last time he had used them? It must be many decades.

"Stay back, Adar," he hissed. "Let the trained warriors be in the front line."

"I'm staying." Oropher frowned. "If you are slain, I may as well go too."

Thranduil wanted to protest, and force his father to obey orders, but there was no time. Ahead of him the doors finally broke in a rain of splintered wood.

"Loose!" he yelled, releasing the arrow he had kept ready. It joined the other archers' in a deadly hail.

Despite repeated showers of arrows, however, the dwarves welled in through the remnants of the gate in a never-ending wave. They wore some sort of plate metal armour that Thranduil had never seen before, which covered them from head to toe, and most arrows harmlessly bounced off the shiny surface.

"Draw your swords!" he cried, swiftly unsheathing his own twin swords as well. "And... Charge!"

"For Doriath!"

The two armies met just inside the gate, and a crowded, chaotic melee followed. There was no space to move, and soon the floor was littered with corpses and sticky with blood, making it hard to remain on one's feet. Yet, more dwarves kept coming, climbing over their fallen comrades and jumping down on the defenders.

Increasingly more desperate, the elves tried to hold their ground, but despite their greater agility, endurance and height, the dwarves pushed them back. The enemies were simply too many, and too well equipped with their stout armour and heavy weapons.

When the defenders had been forced to retreat all the way to the wide commercial halls, the attackers spread out and surrounded them. Still the elves kept fighting zealously, forming a circle with their backs against each other, but to their dismay they could do nothing about the many dwarves who continued past them, storming down to the deep caves and treasuries.

More time passed; impossible to measure. It could be hours or minutes, Thranduil had no way to tell. His body was covered in sweat and nameless fluids, and every part of him ached. He had injured his left hand, and lost one of his swords, and blood from a cut on his forehead kept coming into his eye. At the moment he was sparring with an impossibly strong dwarf, whose large, bucket shaped helmet covered everything but two dark eyes and a long, iron grey beard.

Thranduil was beginning to feel alone, despite the crowd. Were there any more elves still standing? His father, who had kept at his side at first, was gone now. Dead or alive? He did not know.

Another dwarf joined Thranduil's opponent, this one equipped with a massive, pointed war hammer. With just one sword, Thranduil did not know who to focus on. He tried to kick the newcomer away, but he easily parried his leg with a bone-cracking swipe of his hammer.

Gasping with pain, Thranduil sank to his knees, inadvertently dropping his sword.

"Baruk Khazâd!" rumbled the dwarf, raising his hammer high.

Trying not to wince, Thranduil anticipated the killing stroke, helplessly meeting the dwarfs' black gaze through his helmet slits.

Unexpectedly, the dwarf let his hammer sink. "You're not worth it, No-beard," he growled in broken Sindarin. With that, he spat straight in Thranduil's face and left.

Not knowing whether he should be humiliated or relieved, Thranduil collapsed on the ground, defeated.

It was over.

oOo

The surviving elves were stripped of anything of value and left where they had fallen. All that day they had to lie there, listening to the sounds of their home being ransacked, while wondering who of their friends and family members had died that night.

When the attackers had left with their plunder it was late evening, and Thranduil felt weak from blood loss and pain. He rose on his good leg, taking a piece of the splintered city gate as a crutch while he slowly walked around to examine the corpses and pay them his last respect.

One by one, he closed their eyes and covered their pale faces, many of them familiar; friends, colleagues, and neighbours, looking serene and peaceful in death. When he came to Faraion, Thranduil had to force himself not to turn away and throw up. His friend's face had been cloven in half with an axe.

A young ellon with a gritty, tear-streaked face came over, and gently touched his shoulder. "I have found Captain Mablung. D-d-dead."

Thranduil nodded mutely.

"And the necklace is gone."

He nodded again. "Of course. That was what they came for." Somehow he felt calm, and he knew his face betrayed no emotions as he continued his interrupted search.

"Thranduil..." A weak voice was coming from under a heap of dead march-wardens, and Thranduil instantly recognised it. Oropher!

He fell on his knees, ignoring the pain shooting out from his broken leg, and began to move the corpses aside. When he had freed his father, seemingly intact and not too badly injured, Thranduil breathed out a sigh of relief.

Oropher's eyes became moist. "I am so glad you made it too. I could not live without you."

oOo

Much later, Thranduil sat in his room, on his broken bed – the one he had once ordered to his wife from the furniture makers, and spent so many pleasant nights in. His clothes chest was smashed open, with its ruined contents spread across the floor, and beneath the window lay the remains of the clay seal Aerneth's mother had once given the newlyweds.

There was nothing of value left in his house, or in the whole city. Nothing. The dwarves had thoroughly sacked every cave, and what they could not carry back with them, they had defiled and destroyed in petty glee.

Leaning his aching body back on the bed, Thranduil stared at the ceiling with dry eyes, rubbing the empty spot on his finger where his wedding ring had been. A strange apathy had come over him; a mix of resignation and anger.

He hated dwarves. Really hated them! And he would make them pay for this one day – that, he promised himself.

A sudden sparkle drew his gaze, and another one. The stars! They were still there! Somehow the plunderers had missed the white gems he had put in the ceiling as stars for Aerneth.

The calmness instantly left him, and he could not hold back his tears as he reached up to pick out each gem with trembling fingers. Aerneth... Oh, why had he not gone with her?

He took his wash bowl, which miraculously was still whole, and looked into it with streaming eyes. Aerneth. Are you there?

The surface remained still, reflecting the now empty ceiling.

Aerneth!

But there was no answer. For once, his wife would not reply.

Thranduil sat for a long time with the bowl in his lap, weeping like an elfling at the friends he had lost, and the Silmaril, and all his belongings. And now it seemed he had lost his wife as well.

❈ ❦ ❈

A/N:

Ahhh for a while longer, things are going downhill, before we can start seeing the light... Sorry about that.

Image Credits:

Screenshot from the Hobbit movies