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Was it fate that made him go to the open window? He would wonder. But as he remembered it, it was simpler than that: he could not stand the relentless sound of the ocean, and he’d wanted to shut it out.

Here in the havens it was ever present. Whether out riding or eating a quiet breakfast with family, it breathed down his neck, filling him with a sense of loss and longing — and of dread.

He had not been in the mood for music that night, either. But if he were to try to sit and listen, he could not do it with the ocean sighing in his ear.

Thranduil stood quietly from his seat in the back of the nondescript hall where his household from Menegroth had taken up residence. His mother and sister had secured some tapestries to put on the walls, and ensured they had fresh rushes for the floor, but it was not their home, with their own fine belongings. That had been left behind in Menegroth, now empty and moldering. 

His sister, Eluthel, played them a wordless song on her flute. As with everything she played now, it was steeped in grief.

He padded to the window to close it against the noise and paused to breathe in the bracing, salty night air. He looked up at the stars, hoping to feel the silky touch of their light on his skin, but they blinked in and out of view between clouds that crowded the sky.

But there was another light. There — on the other side of the Sindar settlement, orange-tinted smoke rose into the air.

Fire.

Thranduil turned. The backs of the elves he knew best in all the world faced him, except for Eluthel, who played with her eyes closed.

Thranduil cleared his throat. “Lady Mother,” he said.

Eluthel stopped playing abruptly, her face drawn. Her friend Meldisser turned around from her seat and glared at Thranduil for interrupting. She’d been coaxing her friend back to life for years now, feeding the fragile flame that was left of Eluthel’s grief-stricken soul.

Elraënor, lady of the house, turned towards her son with a questioning look.

“I think there is trouble,” Thranduil said simply.

He did not wish to spin tales before he knew what was happening, but sickness gripped him. Lady Elwing had sent back how many entreaties now to the last of Fëanor’s surviving sons, refusing to hand over the Silmarils?

“Where is father?” He asked as his mother joined him at the window, her eyes growing distant as she resorted to mind-speech with her husband.

“You are right, there is trouble,” she said, her voice tight. “Oropher has joined the fight.”

The household was staring at them now, their eyes huge and anxious.

Elraënor faced them. “The Noldor again, he thinks. They wear the sign of the star.”

Cries of distress filled the hall.

Thranduil looked out the window towards the fire: it was spreading rapidly towards them. He could hear elves screaming now, and the distant, sickening thud of blades in flesh. His heart hammered in his chest. It could not be happening again. It was too cruel. Surely, impossible. Flames leapt from the roof of another house, racing in their direction.

He looked down, towards the ocean, then towards the cliff edge. His thoughts raced.

The two armed gatekeepers his father had left at their door burst into the hall.

“Prince Thranduil! Take up arms, we fly to avenge our people!” Bornagar, the younger of them, cried.

His elder brother, Bregedir, was silent, but Thranduil understood the rage in his eyes all too well. What he would give to cut these villains down — he imagined them with the faces of the two he’d fought in Menegroth: cruel, sneering, a mad light shining in their eyes. He imagined cutting their throats and watching the blood pool on the floor, like the pools of blood they’d left in their wake. Like the blood of his sister’s husband, dripping off the edge of a stage.

He strode to the wall where he kept his sword, snatching it down quickly. The guards shook their fists in triumph, anticipation in their eyes. They were ready for a fight that ended in death.

One of Elraënor’s handmaidens bolted, scurrying up the stairs.

“Wait!” Thranduil cried.

“But – my boy,” she said, hovering on the steps.

Thranduil looked at the worried faces staring at him. His mother, his sister and the friend who was keeping her from fading into her grief, two families of lesser nobles who stayed with them. Servants, craftsmen, musicians who had come to play with Eluthel. He counted quickly – twenty-nine elves, and the four children asleep upstairs. Which of them could wield a blade? Maybe none. They had all lived their lives in a sheltered place where they had not needed to fight.

Until they didn’t. 

“Go and get him,” Thranduil told the young mother. “All of you parents, go and get your children — quickly. Stop for nothing. Take nothing with you but a wool blanket or cloak if you can grab it on your way out. We need to leave.”

Elraënor looked at her son, eyes sharp. “We should fortify the hall, as we did in Menegroth.”

“We cannot fortify against fire,” Thranduil said.

“Prince Thranduil, we must fly to the fight!” Bornagar cried.

“No, we are staying,” Thranduil replied.

“What!” Bornagar shouted, outraged. “We cannot — “

“Be silent!” Thranduil roared. “All of you, hold your tongues. Do not make noise. Take your cloaks if they are close and your weapons if you wield them. Waste no time.”

“Thranduil, what are you thinking?” His mother asked, her voice low.

“The stairway down the cliffs to the beach is close. The tide is on its way in. There is a sandbar close to us… when the tide is out the children like to search it for shells. But when the tide is in, the great stones on the other side are unreachable by foot or by ship — the Noldor cannot get to us there. There should be time to make it before the tide comes in if we hurry.”

Elraënor turned her face towards the crowd, who seemed frozen in place, unsure of who to follow.

“Do as my son says,” she said. “We follow Prince Thranduil. It will be cold. Take no treasures. We must go – now.”

“You do not need us to run away,” Bornagar said, gripping his brother’s arm. “I will not flee from this fight. the Noldor deserve death!”

“You will do as you are told,” Thranduil said. “Guarding these people is your charge. You are not free to abandon your post. We evacuate the hall and head for the beach.”

The young guard growled, but Bregedir elbowed him. Sullenly, they waited by the door. Behind them, the household gathered. A few wore cloaks, a few more held knives, but for the most part, they were as they had been: dressed for an unremarkable evening at home, wearing only their lesser jewels and decent linen robes or tunics.

When the last harried parents appeared with their fussing toddler pressed against her mother, Thranduil ushered them all out the door.

The fire was spreading, bright flames licking the dark sky. A few elves coughed at the smoke that billowed in the stiff sea breeze that buffeted their clothes and hair. Thranduil shushed them and hurried towards the cliff edge, where a steep, unforgiving staircase had been cut into the rock.

“Go ahead of them,” he instructed Bornagar and Bregedir. He scowled when Bornagar opened his mouth to speak. “There could be more on the beach, we do not know. If anyone is there waiting, you will meet them with steel. I will take up the rear, in case we are followed.”

Thranduil pushed the frustrated young guardsmen down the steps. “Mother, follow them. Do not let them falter,” he murmured to Elraënor.

She nodded and made her way down the narrow stairs. He swallowed when she disappeared from sight, but made himself keep going, sending his charges ahead, down towards the beach. He eyed the flames warily as they went, scanning the edges of the buildings in case someone emerged and came for them. He wondered how long he could hold the staircase by himself. At least it was not wide enough that anyone could pass him until they cut him down. Perhaps that would be enough for the others to escape.

He startled when a hand touched his arm, gripping his wrist for a moment. He looked up to see his sister, already passing him by, her face hidden in shadow as she descended the stairs.

Their luck held. No one had yet come towards the cliff’s edge by the time the last of the group passed him. He made himself breathe and slipped behind the others. As he descended he looked back one more time to see flames leap to the roof of the building beside the hall where he’d lived since he’d lost his real home.

The wind off the ocean whipped at him, more than once pushing him against the side of the cliff as he went. Far below, he could see his mother’s pale hair shine in the occasional wink of starlight through the clouds. His people stumbled after her, clinging to each other and the bare stone. If they made any noise, it was lost to the wind and waves. For once, he prayed the sea noise did not calm.

He had two more turns to go when Elraënor reached the bottom. He watched her motion to those behind her, waiting until enough of them had gathered, then she led them, flying across the beach towards the ocean.

He stumbled when he stepped onto the beach at first, adjusting from hard stone to soft sand that shifted and sunk beneath him. He ran after the others, looking up the stairs behind them as he did. Still no one. They were undiscovered. He felt sick with hope.

A gust of wind rushed down the cliff side, blowing the screams of his people from above into his face. He stopped where he stood, staring up at the flames that now blazed where a town had once been.

Father.

Thranduil’s head whipped around to look at his mother. She was still going. She hadn’t fallen, gasping or stunned from the sudden pain of a bondmate’s injury or death. She’d found the sandbar and was ushering the first elves into the waves, out towards the rocks.

Thranduil’s mind churned. Lady Elwing was above still with her children, and they were being hunted. Hundreds of innocent Sindar remained, running to escape flames and swords, chased by elves with burning eyes. He should be there, defending them. 

Something moved in the corner of his vision. He looked back at his mother, forging ahead through waves that battered her. All was not well, right here, with those who were in his care.

The water was higher than he’d hoped. Elraënor was not a short lady by any means, but she was out on the sandbar now, halfway to the stones, and the waves broke as high as her waist. When they retreated, he could see her wavering as the water sucked at her legs. Eluthel bolted forward to walk arm in arm with her mother, gesturing to those behind her frantically.

Thranduil ran across the sand to join them. He reached the sandbar to find Bornagar and Bregedir helping each person into the water, urging them along without joining them. They lifted a girl onto her father’s back, tying her there with a cloak. The mother followed anxiously, trying to keep her husband steady as he met each wave square in the chest.

A line of stumbling elves stretched from the beach to a cluster of huge stones – perhaps it could fairly be called a small island, if one was being generous. Thranduil watched his mother push his sister up onto the rocks, then turn to begin helping others up. His father’s manservant urged her upwards and took her place. The noble ladies leaned down instead, pulling others up behind them.

The couple with the young son was all that remained. Them and the two guards.

“What are you doing?” Thranduil shouted at the guards.

Bornagar’s jaw jutted forward. “You do not need us now, we will go back.”

Thranduil grabbed the young elf by his tunic and shoved him into the water. “Go!” he screamed.

He growled at Bregedir. “Help them, fool!”

A wave hit Bornagar, making him stumble.

“The water is too high, our son will drown!” the young mother screamed.

Thranduil looked down at her and her husband. Even Bregedir stood a full head shorter than him.

“Give the boy to me,” Thranduil said. He sheathed his sword and opened his arms. The mother hesitated, but the boy’s father grabbed his son and heaved him against Thranduil.

“Hold on to me. I will need my hands,” Thranduil the child, relieved that he was not over-young. “You understand?” Thranduil asked.

The boy nodded, wrapping his legs around Thranduil’s waist and his arms around his neck. The mother took off her shawl and tied it tightly around them.

“Go, now,” Thranduil ordered. “Bregedir, assist them. Now.”

He did not wait to be obeyed, but forged his way into the cold water. Wet sand shifted under his feet with every step, sucking at his sodden boots with each retreating wave. Moments later, a wall of water would smash against his chest, sending salt spray up into his eyes. The boy clung to him.

“Naneth!” he heard the child scream. He turned and saw she had fallen in the water. Her husband and Bregedir dragged her up, gasping.

“Hold on,” Thranduil reminded his charge. Step by treacherous step, they crossed the sandbar to the rocks, where Thranduil heaved the boy up into the waiting arms of the elves above. His father’s manservant pushed the mother after him. Behind the others, Thranduil began to climb up the stones.

At the first soaked landing, Bornagar was waiting. “We should go back!” he screamed against the boom of the waves.

Thranduil shook his head. “No! By morning they will be able to reach us again. We do not know how long this will last. If there are Noldor waiting for us on the beach by then I will need you to help me hold the sandbar.”

“Our people are dying now!” Bornagar cried.

“I have given my orders,” Thranduil shouted at him. Bornagar pushed him, his face contorted in rage. Thranduil slipped on the wet stone, catching himself before he could fall back into the water, which pounded against the rock.

Bregedir grabbed Bornagar by his shoulders, pulling his brother back to pin him against the stone before he tried to fight Thranduil outright.

“It is too late,” Bregedir said. “The tide is too high. We barely made it here.”

Thranduil picked himself up, preparing to climb higher up the stone. He could see orange reflected Bornagar’s eyes. He turned and looked up the cliff, where flames roared. The Havens were burning to ash. 

He tried to think of something to say.

You must protect those you can, he thought. The image of his law-brother’s dead eyes staring at him, surrounded by his own blood, flashed across Thranduil’s mind. He hadn’t succeeded then. He would regret it forever.

He turned to the younger fighters to explain.

Bornagar’s eyes shone with tears. “Coward,” he said, and scrambled up the rocks. Bregedir followed him, avoiding Thranduil’s eyes.

That was right, wasn’t it? You have to protect those you can. Thranduil’s heart pounded in his chest. He climbed the stones, joining the elves who stood together, watching the flames whip in the wind on the cliffs above.

Thranduil stepped beside his mother and sister. “Father?” he said quietly.

“He lives,” Elraënor said. “I dare not distract him to ask more. He fights on.”

Thranduil nodded, as transfixed by the fire as the others. But this was pointless if they were seen, he realized.

“We should shelter there,” he said, pointing at a flat surface on the rock, tucked behind a high lip of stone that would hide them. “We cannot be discovered before this has ended.”

Elraënor nodded. She began moving towards the hiding spot, leaning to speak to people over the sound of the ocean as she passed. Eluthel followed her lead, then Thranduil. Slowly, the elves congregated, huddling together for warmth as the sea crashed around them, spewing mist and foam everywhere. Those who had grabbed cloaks or blankets shared them.

Hours passed while they waited, crying, then in stunned silence, soaked and sticky with salt. Occasionally someone would sneak out to peek up at the cliff side, but the din around them made it impossible to hear. They only watched bright flames fade to a smoldering ruin. Black smoke streaked the sky as the first hint of light touched the horizon.

Eluthel had stood to watch when Thranduil saw her stiffen, her mouth gaping. He rose swiftly to look with her. Others tried to follow but he motioned them back.

There, a tussle at the cliff’s edge. The unmistakable bright light of the Silmaril shone through the smoke and sea spray, coming closer and closer to the edge of the cliff. Their Lady Elwing, jewel hanging from a chain on her throat, leapt from the edge, plummeting down towards the beach.

Eluthel screamed, running out from the cover of the high stone. Someone was coming behind Elwing. Thranduil tackled his sister, pulling her down where they could not see her. He looked up from where he lay on his stomach, adrenaline surging through his limbs as he searched the beach for Elwing’s body. Bornagar and Bregedir had broken cover after Eluthel. They stood, swords drawn, staring up at the place where Elwing had jumped.

She was not there, but there was a great, white bird flying away, out over the ocean. On its breast, the Silmaril glowed, wearing Elwing’s silver chain.

A very tall elf stood at the edge of the cliff, staring at her. His red hair blew wildly in the wind. His eyes burned with the strange light Thranduil had seen in the eyes of the sons of Fëanor he’d once fought. Another joined him, black haired and just as wild-eyed. Something small struggled in his grip.

The red-haired elf’s eyes shifted and caught on Thranduil and his sister, lying unprotected on the stone, surrounded by the sea. He stared at them, expressionless. Thranduil snarled.

A small form kicked at the black-haired brother, breaking away for a moment before the warrior caught the child and held him fast against his blood-soaked tunic. As they turned, Thranduil saw the boy’s face. They had Elwing’s son!

Thranduil leaped to his feet and drew his sword, brandishing it uselessly at the distant Noldor, roaring in fury.

The red-haired elf looked at him, his face empty, that cold gleam burning in his eyes. He turned, and his brother followed, towing Elros with him, arms flailing.

Bornagar and Bregedir were screaming at each other, something he could not hear. Before he could stop them, Bornagar had flung himself into the sea at the sandbar. He struggled, swimming against the hard waves, until he was halfway in to the shore and he stood, taking great strides against the water while his brother followed him.

Thranduil looked back at the frightened elves peering at him from behind the stone. His hand rested on his sister’s back, heaving with sobs.

He picked her up and brought her back to the others. He waited with them until the sun rose and Elraënor tearfully told him that they could safely return. She led them back while the tide was out, Thranduil walking beside her, clean sword sheathed.

(*)

“I am glad it worked,” Oropher said, looking absentmindedly at the sky outside the burned out shell of stone where they’d gathered. A healer wound a bandage around his leg as Elraënor finished explaining where they’d been.

Thranduil squeezed his eyes shut. He stood among his fellow Sindar warriors, who were battered and bruised, soaked in blood, their clothes singed. He was soaked in nothing but water. Salt was already drying in his hair, on his skin, staining his clothes. His sword would rust if he did not oil it today. He felt like he was swallowing dry bread.

He made himself face it. He’d protected the people in his charge, and succeeded. Surely that counted for something?

“Are we not going after them?” he asked. “I saw them take Elros. Can the twins not be saved?”

“We tried to follow them, but they are long gone, and who knows where?” Gilroch, a captain of Elwing’s guards, said. His voice sounded worn. “Who of us can track them now, battered as we are? You said Elwing flew away, perhaps she can return for them? We must look to our own before we can do aught else. Where will we go now? We have nothing left but our lives.”

“I will go,” Thranduil said. His father would never let him do it.

“Now he is ready for action, when it is safe,” Bornagar sneered. His lip had been split sometime between his leap from the rocks and now.

“Silence, deserter!” Oropher growled.

Bornagar gasped with indignation. Bregedir grabbed him, glaring at his brother in warning. Oropher was the Lord of the Sindar now: the last son of Olwë in Middle-earth. The only one left who could fairly call himself King.

“You abandoned your post, defying the orders of your superiors,” Oropher said. “You are lucky I do not banish you.”

Elraënor crouched beside her husband, placing a gentle hand on his forearm.

Oropher huffed. He grimaced and looked out the window again. “Go, all of you who are able: look for survivors and anything that can be salvaged. Dismissed.”

Thranduil turned on his heel and strode out of the hall to do as he was bid. He dreaded to look any of his fellow guards in the eye, but when he noticed Gilroch looking at him, it was without rancor. The Captain nodded at Thranduil from where he rested against the wall. Thranduil could see nothing in his eyes but weariness. Whether Gilroch condemned him or approved of his actions, Thranduil could not tell.

Further into the crowd, Meldisser caught his eye and bowed her head towards him. Eluthel smiled at him weakly from where she stood, her head against Meldisser’s shoulder. Her eyes were red-rimmed and huge in her pale face. She leaned her full weight against Meldisser, who propped her up. She was so diminished from who she’d been before the Sack of Menegroth that Thranduil could barely stand to look at her. That, he knew, was his weight to bear, the consequence of his youthful failure, which he would never live down.

Just before he left the hall the little boy he’d carried into the waves broke away from his parents and ran to Thranduil, embracing the older elf’s leg fiercely. Thranduil leaned down and was rewarded with those familiar small arms wrapped around his neck.

“Will you protect us, Prince, whatever happens next?” the child whispered.

“I will do everything I can,” Thranduil whispered back.

“Then we will be safe,” the boy said.

Thranduil ached at the certainty of youth in the small voice. Whether Oropher approved of his actions or not, Thranduil resolved in his own heart to live up to the trust the child offered him. However he could, whenever he could, he would protect these people as best he knew how – whether it brought him glory or shame.

This work is one in a collection of young Thranduil stories. If you enjoyed this, here they are in order:

The Newcomers in Doriath (child Thranduil in Menegroth): Ao3 Link

Untested (Sack of Menegroth/2nd kinslaying): Ao3 Link

[this fic, "In the Arms of Ossë "]

The Pride of the Greenwood (2nd age as the Sindar survivors settle in the Greenwood with the Silvan elves): Ao3 Link