To Live Again: Waiting Between Worlds {Lord of the Rings Fanfiction}

5. Brave

Mordor 3441 S.A. - Field Infirmary, The Battle Encampment
of the Alliance

If Thranduil could scream he would.

Not that it would do him any good, for he had learnt some time ago that he was incapable of making noise, for he couldn't find his lips.

He found time passed in two distinctive categories; the first was searing pain and the second was delirious dream states. His quick mind concluded that pain meant he was not dying, and that his body was healing. He found he looked forward to these times, for in a strange masochistic way it meant he was one step closer to consciousness. It was the delirious states of dreams and fragmented memories that worried him, for he lost track of time there. He got lost in them and forgot things...important things...things that reminded him to hold onto the pain.

There was a thread of darkness that ran through his spirit. He felt it, and it always waited until he was in these weakened states to throw at him horrendous images of memories he'd rather forget.

There was fire, and smoke, and death, and ruby lines...ruby lines of blood. There was so much blood. Sometimes he felt he was choking on it! There were contorted faces, there were sharp fangs, and jagged rocks...jagged rocks with rotting flesh.

There were dead eyes, soulless eyes, evil spirits...dark curses with bone chilling voices.

There was crying and wailing, shrieking and clashing of steal, unholy noises that filled his soul with dread. There was his Adar...but not his Naneth...his Nana?

He would have cried for her if he could. She could have put an end to his torment; she would have chased away these nightmares and shielded him from this. He felt like an infant in these moments, a small and vulnerable child that had no strength to overcome his fear on his own accord. He wanted his Naneth to come and comfort him...

...And so she came...

Not in spirit or in dream, but in the form of a memory from long ago. The clarity of it was unnerving, for Thranduil did not often consciously attempt to remember his mother. He missed her too dearly to call her face to mind, but now his mind was not his own to control and the doors of his past, that he liked to keep closed, opened without consent.

She was dressed in rich green silk...she liked silk...she liked how it felt and how it gleamed. The platinum sleek lengths of her hair barely moved an inch out of place, her silvery blue eyes shining proudly through the mirrored glass, as she ran her elegant fingers over the circlet on his brow. She wore a sheer cloak of the same forest green, and he remembered how it matched the precise shade of the King's banner.

This was an evening of great celebration, because he had become a worthy and mature ellon. He had won a great battle for the woodland folk, and had proven himself worthy of the position of his King's Regent. He was just shy of his hundredth year, and although by elven standards he was long into his years of adulthood, he was still incredibly young to have gained such prestige. His Naneth was proud of him, she had told him so repeatedly, and she had insisted upon this celebration.

Thranduil remembered feeling anxious at being presented to court; he did not feel ready to subject himself to the politics of the wider elven world. He preferred his freedom, he preferred to fight and run free and wild, to lead without restriction. It was not his nature to be contained, or to have excessive expectation and demands laid at his restless feet. In his memory, Thranduil heard himself express these concerns to his Naneth, who listened patiently and sympathetically to each one of his immature rantings. Eventually she had knelt down before him and cupped his face in her slender hand, piercing him with her intense and emotive gaze;