Against all odds

Chapter one: In Which there is Bitter Nostalgia and sweet Reunion

The sound of metal dress boots tapping on wood and stone echoed through the halls of the elven kingdom of Mirkwood. Guards on either side of each passage way stood at attention as the tapping sound got louder, and they did not relax until the owner of the tapping sound passed out of sight.

It was none other than the king himself who these sounds belonged to, and by the usual stoic look on his face you couldn't tell it, but the incessant noise of his own walking was drilling aching holes into his head. Thranduil wished terribly to forget his composure and fling those infernal boots of his off of his feet and into Lord Elrond's face more and more with every corner he rounded.

At the thought of the other elven king, visiting on business from Rivendell, Thranduil almost lost his ancient emotionless resolve. His face nearly reddened in anger, fingers threatening to clench, but he got a hold on himself before he rounded one more corner and a few more guards came into sight. He was now walking, robes billowing behind him, towards the great oaken doors to his throne chamber.

Once the king entered and could see his throne up on its wood platform, he let a quiet breath of relief and ever so subtly quickened his pace until finally, he climbed the stairs past his waiting servants and guards to his seat and greatfully plopped down.

Only once perched upon the familiar security of his throne did the king finally let a sigh of relief escape his lips as he relaxed into the wood of his seat. It had been a terribly long day, full of council meetings with Lord Elrond and planning with his guard, and he had only just gotten the opportunity to retire. The peace and quiet of his royal seating, flanked by servants ready to fulfill his every whim calmed him more than he had been all day.

The sour resent in Thranduil's eyes, however, never faded as he continued to mull over the events of the day. His lips pulled down almost unnoticeably on his face as the only physical trace of the bitterness in his head.

How dare Elrond not help his own kind, his distant kin? How dare he not stand with the Kingdom of the woodland realm to reclaim the jewels owed to them from beneath the mountain, and insure the security of the land from the newly awoken dragon? How dare he forget that the woodland realm had stood with Rivendell so long ago in their time of need, that Mirkwood, then Greenwood, had paid the heaviest price of all in aiding Elrond's accursed kingdom when they lost their Queen-

Thranduil immediately wished he had not gone so far on that train of thought.

He wished he had let his anger simmer down and his mind clear but he hadn't, and now his mind rested on his last memories of her. The day he lost his queen now played in his head like it had so many late nights since, and his eyes filled with bitter nostalgia.

He remembered she'd fought gallantly. She was, in fact, the best warrior any elven kingdom had produced, especially her ancient homeland of Eldamar, a tribal kingdom to the south. She had been fierce, in love and war, an epitome of will and determination, and a beloved queen.

A small smile pulled at the corner of Thranduil's mouth as he remembered the large onslaught of Orcs it had taken to even phase her in the slightest. Yet, at the thought of the magnitude of the ferocity it would have taken to bring her down, to overcome the Queen's true aim and sure sword, that smile faded. What pain it must have caused her.

Following this train of thought still, the all too familiar hollow pain in Thranduil's heart licked his soul once again and he immediately wished that he had maintained his thoughts on other matters. But Thranduil could not help himself as he turned his head and rested his gaze on the vacant area to the left of his throne on the raised platform. The elvenking's eyes grew sad and riddled with heartbreak as he remembered the days when that spot had been filled.