Chapter Text
The summer of that year was exceptionally hot. The days stretched on in the golden glow of the sun, and the young elves happily enjoyed the weather, spending time outdoors—by the river, among the treetops, laughing and singing.
Meanwhile, Thranduil sat in a small, stuffy room. The curtain at the window moved lazily, dancing to the rhythm of the warm wind. Joyful sounds drifted from outside—laughter, music, calls. The elf gazed silently in their direction, as if trying to grasp something beyond his grasp.
Haldir, his teacher, guardian, and guardian, tore his gaze from the book he was reading. It was one of the ancient histories of Arda, but today it seemed particularly empty. Haldir looked at the boy with quiet regret. Thranduil was still so young. He should have friends, adventures, dreams. But his days were filled with duty, study, training—a life subordinated to the will of King Oropher.
His father never allowed anyone near his son. He kept him under tight control, with iron discipline, almost coldly. For years, Thranduil had believed his father hated him—perhaps because his mother had died shortly after giving birth. But the truth was more complex. And more distant.
"Would you like to be like them?" Haldir asked quietly, with a faint smile filled with sadness.
Thranduil flinched, caught in his thoughts.
"No… I don't envy you. I am a prince. It is my destiny," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady and mature.
But he knew it was a lie.
He longed for simplicity, for normalcy, for laughter. But he never dared to go against his father's will. Perhaps out of guilt. Perhaps out of fear.
Or perhaps… out of something he himself didn't yet understand.
For Thorin, fun and laughter were the foundation of life.
He couldn't sit still for long, and any occasion for celebration was sacred to him. Always surrounded by friends, with a mug in hand and a broad smile, he brought life wherever he appeared, even for a moment.
That evening, the feast hall in Erebor reverberated with music and laughter. The stone walls reflected the sounds, creating a cozy, almost magical space. Thorin had just finished dancing with a red-haired dwarf when Bofur approached him with a mug of ale in hand.
"That barmaid almost ate you up," he laughed, nudging him with his elbow.
Thorin laughed heartily, leaning against the wooden table.
"I'm too drunk to use it tonight... but next time..." he winked, reaching for the waterskin.
"The reputation of a playboy has already stuck with you," Balin muttered, sitting down with a heavy sigh. "Maybe it's time to find someone permanent, eh?"
Thorin raised an eyebrow and laughed again, this time a little more brashly.
"Balin, I'm too young for serious relationships and routine.
I'll enjoy life a little longer before I give my heart to someone."
Balin shook his head in resignation, but there was a softness in his eyes.
"May you grow into this someday, boy... before it's too late."
Thorin didn't answer. He reached for the drink again, as if to drown not only the laughter but also the shadow that flickered across Balin's gaze.
That night, Thranduil couldn't sleep for a long time.
He stood on the terrace of his room, gazing at the stars—the only place that gave him solace, the only window to the outside world he didn't know and longed for.
Suddenly, among the trees of Mirkwood, he saw light.
It wasn't the usual light of a lamp or torch. It was bright, even penetrating, as if it didn't belong to this world. Thranduil narrowed his eyes in surprise. An inner voice, quiet but clear, seemed to be calling him. Tempting him.
He never left the palace without permission.
He had always obeyed.
But this time... something had changed.
Silently, like a shadow, he slipped from the chambers. He slipped through the cloisters, crossed the gardens, and entered the trees. From afar, he saw the light shifting among the branches, leading him deeper and deeper, until it finally stopped amidst the thicket.
He carefully parted the bushes.
And then he saw him.
He stood there—a tall, beautiful Elf with honey-colored hair and pale skin. A strange aura emanated from him, unsettling and almost hypnotizing. He seemed unreal.
"You don't have to hide," the stranger said in a calm, melodic voice.
Thranduil emerged from hiding, cautiously, as if enchanted. The stranger regarded him with intense concentration.
"You are very beautiful," he added quietly.
Thranduil felt his heart skip a beat. Those eyes… those blue, yet deeply dark. Something about them seemed out of place for a creature of his own kind.
He took a step back. Then another.
The stranger followed him.
"I sensed you," he said, his voice suddenly lower, heavier, as if flowing directly into his soul. "You are no ordinary Elf, beautiful young man..."
The figure began to change. His body trembled, as if dissolving into thin air. The radiant Elf was reduced to a shadow—dark, cold, full of something… evil.
Thranduil turned and fled. He ran, terrified, feeling the shadow nipping at his heels. The forest swirled before his eyes. The palace was close now.
And then—he fell.
A cold hand almost touched him. Thranduil screamed—loud, with despair and fear.
And then light appeared.
The shadow hissed and vanished into the darkness.
Haldir ran up to the Elf, sword in hand, his face tense.
"Thranduil! What happened?!" he cried, kneeling beside him.
The young prince trembled with fear, staring at the place where a shadow had been moments before. His lips trembled, and his voice choked.
Oropher was furious.
But even more so—troubled.
Thranduil, his only son, had broken the rules. And yet, instead of punishment, something far worse befell him. The king immediately called a council, sending messengers to his most important allies. Elrond of Imladris, Galadriel of Lothlórien, Radagast the Brown, and Gandalf the Grey answered the call.
Meanwhile, Thranduil was forbidden to leave his chambers. Oropher was not ready for the boy to learn the truth—neither about the world nor about himself.
The council took place in a great hall, crowned by a vault of leaves and roots. The air was heavy, and the light was cloudy. All the arrivals were already waiting when Oropher entered with a solemn expression.
"For some time now, I've noticed the forest is sickening," Radagast said first, placing some withered leaves on the table. "The leaves are withering despite the dampness. The birds are silent. The animals are abandoning their nests."
Elrond took the leaf in his hand, examining it anxiously.
"I, too, feel the changes. There's a shadow in the forest… something that shouldn't be here."
"I noticed the same," Oropher replied. "But I'm more concerned about what happened to my son. This creature… sensed something. Something within him."
"We don't yet know what this creature was," Elrond said calmly, "but I have no doubt that the young prince should not remain here. He is too valuable to the fate of Middle-earth."
Oropher looked at him sharply, as if he wanted to deny it, but couldn't.
"He will go to you, Elrond. You and his future, promised husband will keep an eye on him," he finally said coldly, as if the decision were already final.
Galadriel lifted her head slightly and looked at Gandalf.
No word was spoken, but the wizard heard her voice in his mind:
"It won't be safe. He won't find protection among the Elves. Evil will find him there too."
Gandalf frowned.
"Then, Fair Lady... where?"
"Among the sons of Durin," Galadriel replied, a mysterious smile playing on her lips.
Gandalf cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had fallen.
"If he stays in one of the Elven kingdoms, it will be too obvious a place for those who seek him. The Shadow will find him sooner than you expect."
"Then where should I send him?!" Oropher growled, impatient.
Gandalf leaned on his staff, glancing at everyone present with that mischievous, mysterious smile of his.
"To Erebor."